Page 9 of One Dangerous Desire
“WAS THAT YOURfather?” May swiveled on the settee to glance toward the howling noise she’d heard echoing down the Ashworth’s main hallway.
“Never mind him. Papa makes strange noises when he’s riled. Or happy. Or can’t contain any emotion beyond the usual bland niceties.”
“What has him riled today?” May had visited Ashworth House often and never heard the kind of high-pitched sound that still rang in her ears. She’d come to think of Emily’s father as an eccentric. Seeing as it was how many described her own father, she wasn’t surprised by the duke’s unusual behavior.
“I suspect it’s the interesting man he’s meeting with in his office. An American.” Emily lifted her teacup for a sip and shot May a mischievous grin before pressing the porcelain to her lips.
There had to be hundreds of Americans in London. Perhaps thousands. But Emily’s mention of an American brought one man to May’s mind, a dark-haired rogue with kaleidoscope eyes, as changeable in color as his heart was in its allegiance. A man she tried to keep hidden, locked away in the back of her mind. Memories of him were still too sharp six years on. Sharp enough to bring her as much pain as they did pleasure. Better to keep those bittersweet reminiscences at bay.
“I met him at the National Gallery when you ran off with Mr. Graves.” Em seemed to want her to ask about him. After sipping her tea, the grin returned. It spoke of secrets, but not the kind to be kept. The sort to be whispered between friends. May sometimes thought there wasn’t a nobleman in England Emily didn’t know, yet none seemed to draw her particular notice. Perhaps it wasn’t a nobleman who’d win her heart after all.
“Tell me about the American man.” May settled back against the plush couch and curled her hands around her steaming teacup.
“First, tell me about your father. You said he hasn’t returned to the townhouse in several days.”
“After my meeting with Mr. Graves, I found a note from father indicating he would be away on business until the end of the week.” May couldn’t bring herself to tell her friend the rest. She needed to hear the facts from her father. It was long past time he told her the truth.
“Then you must stay with us. Don’t remain there on your own.”
Hardly on her own. There were twelve staff members at their rented home in Mayfair. Still, May preferred a few days with Emily and the colorful duke over spending nights in the townhouse without her father in residence.
“I would love to.”
“Then it’s settled.” After setting her teacup down, Em rubbed her hands together. “You can take the Rose Room. I’ve always considered it the prettiest in the house, though I suspect you’ll think of some clever way to improve upon the current decor.”
Emily stood and approached the writing desk in the corner of her sitting room. She lifted May’s folio of designs from the top drawer. “And it will give you the perfect opportunity to show these to my father.”
“Perhaps.” What had been such an exciting, hopeful prospect three days ago seemed frivolous now. “But wouldn’t you rather I help with preparations for the soiree your father is hosting next week?”
A party that half a dozen eligible noblemen would attend, including the Earl of Devenham. Marriage to such a man would have to be her hopeful prospect now.
“Your assistance will be a godsend, but don’t give up on your ideas about redecorating Ashworth House. Father and I need a lift.” The pleading quality in Emily’s tone was out of character, but May had an inkling about the cause. She’d known Emily’s mother only briefly before her death, and none of them—Em, her father, sisters, or brothers-in-law—had been the same since the duchess’s passing.
“We can at least show him the designs,” May agreed. Giving upeveryinterest beyond marriage would make her a supremely boring bride. And helping to spruce up Ashworth House might lead to introductions to more of the many noblemen in the family’s wide circle of friends.
Male voices filtered in through the open sitting room door, and May once again turned her head to listen. The duke was no longer making strange noises, but he did he sound extremely pleased with his American visitor.
“Excellent, Mr. Leighton. I shall see you next week? If I can’t convince you, surely my daughter will insist.”
“He’s asked him to the party!” Emily gushed in a voice between a whisper and a squeal. Her excitement was infectious, and May stood to have a peek at the gentlemen who’d made such a favorable first impression on her friend.
Both women approached the doorway and then dashed back inside the room when they heard the men’s footsteps approaching.
The duke strode into the sitting room first, stopping and gesturing toward the American.
“My dear, you must help me convince Mr. Leighton to join us next week. And see here, sir, we can even supply a fellow countrywoman to encourage you. Miss Sedgwick, may I present Mr. Rex Leighton.”
The duke was speaking, making introductions. The minuscule part of May’s mind still capable of processing words and considering polite etiquette told her to curtsy or extend her hand, but she couldn’t manage any of it.
A man she’d relegated to her dreams had crashed in and collided with her Thursday afternoon. Impossibly,hestood before her. The man she kept confined in her heart and mind. The same man, and yet so changed. He was no longer the poor shop clerk she’d pined for, impossibly yearned for year after year until she’d almost forgotten how to yearn for anything else. The eyes were the same mercurial brew of gold and azure, and all the angles of his face still aligned with irritating perfection, set off by a divot in the center of his chin. That gleaming dark hair she’d once sifted through her fingers shone like rich mahogany in the afternoon light.
But his gaze was remote, impassive, as if a pane of murky glass separated them. She was the one stuck on a curio cabinet shelf, and he was coolly examining her from the other side. His clothes were those of a prosperous gentleman, not the outdated and oft-mended single suit owned by Reginald Cross. Worst was the arrogant tilt of his chin. The Reg of her memories had only ever looked at her with admiration and pleasure, what she imagined in her silly youthful way was love. No one had ever made her feel as important with a single glance.
He wasn’t the same man. Couldn’t be. The duke called him Leighton, not Cross. A striking resemblance. Nothing more.
May reminded herself to breathe and stepped forward to be introduced to the polished gentleman who could not be the shop boy who’d broken her heart in New York City.
Mr. Leighton took two steps forward, and her momentary grasp on composure faltered.Reg.His scent, the firm line of his mouth, the large, elegant hand extended toward her—they belonged to Reginald Cross. Smarter, wealthier, older, and with an abundance of confidence his younger self had lacked, but still a man she’d once known. The only man she’d ever loved.
