Page 20 of A Duke's Temptation Poetess
She was the sort who was eager for her daughter to wed before she became a spinster and a burden. He would not think it impossible that the woman’s sudden decision to visit Bath had more to do withhispresence than with a desire to see her relatives in Bath.
“We were just about to have dinner,” Lady Bentley said.
“As were we,” Aunt Matilda said. “Perhaps you ought to join us. I believe that my thoughtful nephew has rented a private parlour for us. Would it not be lovely to have more company?”
Colin reluctantly nodded. He would not be troubled by Lady Clarissa’s presence, but Lady Bentley was another matter. Of course, he could hardly invite one and not the other, though.
“Wonderful,” Aunt Matilda said, gripping Colin’s arm a little more tightly in her enthusiasm. “Shall we, then?”
“We shall,” Colin replied.
The four of them crossed the dining hall and entered the attached parlour. Colin thought about “the waltz” and glanced again at Lady Clarissa. The urge to ask about how the dance affected her rose in him with a sudden ferocity. Colin knew that he must quell the urge to ask Lady Clarissa what she thought, though. Men were not supposed to be so blunt with ladies, and that was a great pity.
They took their positions around the table, and the inn’s staff hastened about them, placing their dishes and food on the table with ease. “How long do you intend to stay in Bath?” Aunt Matilda asked.
“We are unsure,” Lady Bentley said.
Colin could not decide if the answer pleased him or not. On the one hand, he should like to spend more time with Lady Clarissa. However, he knew that was likely a bad idea. He found that he could not keep his eyes off her lovely face for even the smallest of moments.
***
Perceval Cranfield, the Earl of Creshire, sat at a table in the corner, half-hidden in the shadows. He was a handsome man with features as regal as his title. His eyes were an uncommon shade of green, the same hue as the loveliest emerald, and his hair was blonder than hay.
Perceval dressed well, even when he was travelling. The Earl’s face twisted into a harsh scowl as he spied his nemesis, the man who had ruined his life; Colin Hemsworth, the Duke of Hartingdale.
Colin to Perceval because he would not deign to even think of the man with his title—looked infuriatingly well. Worse, three ladies accompanied him. One was Lady Matilda, Colin’s aunt.
Perceval had never detested a woman as much as he did her, and because she was precious to Colin, Perceval loathed her all the more. He was uncertain as to the identities of the other women, but the younger one looked especially fetching in her pink silk gown.
“Fetch me another drink,” Perceval said, waving his glass at the barmaid who walked past.
“Of course, my Lord.”
Perceval dug his nails into the palms of his hands. Had it really been six years since the whole affair? His face heated. It felt like it was only yesterday when Colin ruined his life.
Colin’s sister was the Countess of Brookshire, but six years ago, she had simply been Lady Deborah, the sister of the Duke of Hartingdale. She was a beautiful woman, even at four-and-twenty years and pushing the very edge of spinsterhood.
Her hair was black and shined like polished onyx, and her eyes were a piercing green, which seemed intense enough to stare into a man’s own soul and strip him bare.
He had loved her and sought her out at every opportunity. Sometimes, he even paid the servants at her brother’s estate to learn of Lady Deborah’s whereabouts. Perceval had made it his business to be everywhere she was. He had been charming and chivalrous, and Lady Deborah had always received his affections with gentle laughter and smiles. It was obvious that she loved him as much as he adored her.
“Your drink, my Lord.”
It was the barmaid again. He glanced at her. She was slight with thick, red hair that framed her face in clumps of unruly curls. The girl was not pretty enough to draw his attention.
“What do you know about that gentleman in the parlour?” he asked. “He resembles someone I once knew.”
The girl looked towards the parlour as if she expected Colin to still be standing there, but Colin had disappeared into the private parlour with the ladies. “I saw him when he arrived,” she said. “I believe he is a Duke. He came from London.”
“He is going to Bath, I imagine?’
The barmaid narrowed her eyes.
“My friend was always fond of Bath,” Perceval said, forcing a benign smile.
“It is Bath,” she said, “as far as I know. He arrived with his mother.”
Of course he had. The lady and her mother had arrived separately, so as not to arouse suspicion.
