She stared up into a pair of deep blue eyes that looked down at her with humor and a proprietary glint that she might have found disturbing under different circumstances. Right this moment she felt too much relief to care about that. His hair had been displaced in the fight and hung down heavy over his brow and on each side of his face. It should have softened him up a bit, but instead it made the angles and planes stand out, making his handsome looks even more striking as a drop of blood trailed down the side of his face from his brow.
“Thank you.” To her utter shame, her voice came out soft and barely discernible.
He grinned, revealing even white teeth and a smile that could have only been born from sin. “I hope you won.” His voice was smooth and deep with a cultured inflection.
She smiled, strangely quite willing to stand here with him. His scent surrounded them, sweat, certainly, but mixed with a faint cologne so that it wasn’t pungent. Her heart pounded in her chest. He was holding her so tightly she wondered if he could feel it. No man had ever made her heart pound before.
“I’m afraid I did not wager.” Her voice rose slightly so that he would be sure to hear her.
“A pity. I assumed you were the gambling sort.”
“Why would you assume that?”
His sensually formed lips made a perfect bow as he smiled. His eyeteeth were pointed, lending his smile a particular wickedness. “Because you’re here, Miss Crenshaw.”
An icy heat prickled down her spine. How did he know who she was? Was it so obvious? She glanced at the crowd above them on the riser, but no one seemed to be watching them; they were too busy either congratulating one another or yelling at the downed fighter to get up.
“You Americans are said to be risk-takers. Is it true?” he asked.
She could only nod as movement behind him caught her eye. “Behind you,” she warned as his opponent began to get to his feet. He didn’t loosen his grip, only glanced over his shoulder to watch the big man swaying on his knees.
“Kiss me for luck,” he said as he met her gaze again.
Her eyes widened. How could he demand a kiss now, when his very large and very angry opponent was coming to his feet at this very moment? “He’s almost on his feet.” Fear for him made her voice rise.
“Then hurry.” He spoke the words very near her mouth. His breath—smelling of brandy and peppermint—warmed her skin, bringing nerve endings to life. His hands had loosened at some point, settling on her waist in a casual way that branded her through the layers of her clothing far more effectively than if he still held her tight against him.
“You don’t need luck,” she said through the thickened air between them. He half bent his head over her. When he shook his head, the tip of his nose brushed hers, making the air catch in her lungs.
“No, but I want it, Miss Crenshaw.”
One glance showed the larger man coming toward them. Her heart pounded against her chest like a crazed bird flinging itself against a window. She wanted to push him away and tell him how ridiculous he was being, demanding a kiss right now, but most of all . . . she wanted to kiss him. She closed the short gap between them and pressed her mouth to his. His lips were warm and surprisingly soft against hers. A groan vibrated from deep in his throat, moving from him to settle deep in her own chest.
She moved her lips in response to the gentle pressure of his and felt the slightest moisture trace along her bottom lip. She gasped, but instead of leaning into the kiss, he pulled back and released her. His eyes were bright with satisfaction at the success of the game he’d been playing with her, but it was mingled with something else. Some new awareness that hadn’t been there before. Something that cut through the teasing, hinting at more to come, except there was no time. The opponent’s large chest loomed right behind him.
“Go!” he yelled, and she wasted no time in scurrying away as he turned to spar with the man.
Back against the riser, she watched his opponent plant a boot into his muscled thigh. The Hellion grunted in pain. When the man pulled it away, the thigh of the Hellion’s breeches was dark red with blood. August brought her hands to her mouth to stifle a cry of dismay. The last thing she wanted to do was cause another distraction. A flash of light glinted on a metal spike embedded in the sole of the opponent’s boot.
“No!” she yelled along with many others in the crowd. That had to be against the rules.
The sharp metallic sound of the whistle came again, only this time it was much closer and accompanied by panicked shouts.
“Bloody hell!” Henry yelled near her ear. He must have jumped down from the platform when she’d fallen. “Someone’s called the bobbies.”
“Come on!” Camille pulled on August’s arm, tugging her to the wall and toward the side door.
“What is happening?” August asked, reluctant to leave the man hurt.
“The police are coming!”
“He’s hurt!” August cried.
“We have to go. We cannot be caught here. He has people to help him.” Camille continued to pull her along.
She was right. Already the men in suits who had accompanied the fighter had gathered around him, and even Leigh had jumped down to attend to him. Knowing there was nothing she could do, and very aware of the need to protect their reputations—if that was even possible at this point—she followed Henry and Camille out the side door and down the dark alleyway, hoping they knew where they were going.
Chapter 2
The time for levity, insincerity, and idle babble and play-acting, in all kinds, is gone by; it is a serious, grave time.
Thomas Carlyle
If he made it through the next hour, Evan Sterling, Duke of Rothschild, planned to reward himself with a bottle of Lochnagar and an evening in bed with a woman. The festivities would have to commence in that order, unfortunately, because his thigh was on fire after climbing that flight of stairs. He would need the whisky to dull the pain from the injury he had sustained last night before enjoying any other entertainment. Clenching his jaw against the agony, he tightened his grip on the silver hawk’s head of his walking stick and made his way to the study on the second floor of Sterling House, his mother’s London residence.
Decades of stale cigar smoke mixed with bay rum assaulted him as soon as he stepped into his father’s antiquated lair. The man had been dead for over a year, and yet the smells lingered, soaked up by the wood paneling and Persian rugs. Habit, born over a lifetime of disappointing his father, caused Evan’s stomach to churn uncomfortably as soon as he entered the room.
“Apologies for my tardiness.”
His solicitor, Andrew Clark, came to his feet with almost military precision. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. No apologies necessary.” The apology had been for his mother, but Evan inclined his head to Clark anyway. The man was young as solicitors went, but he’d come highly recommended. Evan had let his father’s longtime solicitor go shortly after he’d come to understand the full scope of the debts the estate had amassed. Much to his chagrin, the situation had not improved since he’d inherited.
“Morning, Mother.” Evan leaned down to place a kiss on his mother’s cheek, grimacing as he transferred weight onto his leg. She cast a quick look at his cane; that look was equal parts disapproval and concern as she murmured a greeting.
“Don’t say one of the stallions got the better of you again, Your Grace.” Clark smiled, causing his lips to twitch with nerves.
Evan cursed inwardly. Clark had overcome his nerves when dealing with Evan and his mother months ago; the fact that they had made a reappearance indicated that this meeting would go even worse than Evan had previously feared.
“That is precisely what happened.” The lie fell stiffly from his lips. Apparently, Evan had used the errant horse excuse to explain away an injury too many times. One of many he had been forced to utter over the past year to explain his unusual ailment
s. “The heathen threw me in a turn, but I will tame him yet.”
Wilkes had disappeared in the chaos of the police arriving, but Evan had vowed to find him. Not only to answer for the damned spikes on the soles of his boots, but he owed Evan for not finishing the fight.
“If you don’t mind me saying, perhaps you should stick with betting on horses at the track. You seem to have the devil’s own luck when it comes to the races.”
Evan gave a slow nod as he took his seat behind his father’s desk, indicating that Clark should sit. A lance of pain seized his thigh, and he briefly debated starting the whisky early. “Sage advice.”
“Indeed,” said his mother, reaching for the teapot to offer him a cup. He shook his head, and she grasped her own cup and saucer.
Evan suspected her tea had been heavily laced with brandy. She despised these meetings almost as much as he did. He resented that she had to endure them, but she insisted. If his father hadn’t spent the two years previous to his own death locked away while mourning William’s premature death, perhaps the family might not be in this mess now. Or even if he had listened to his sons and invested in manufacturing, they might have something left to sustain them.
“Go on, Clark. Let us have the monthly report of our accounts.” He could not help the acerbic turn of his tone any more than he could stop the constant hemorrhage of their coffers.
“Of course, Your Grace.” Clark spread open the leather-bound account book and in a strong, precise voice began to read out where they stood.
The numbers changed by the month, a little up, a little down, but the end result was always the same. Foreign grain could be imported cheaper than their farms could produce it. Drought had only worsened the predicament. His mother had cut back her expenses as much as she was reasonably able to without appearing a beggar to her friends. Evan had given up his London terrace and had a small suite of rooms at Montague Club. Residing here with so many memories of his father lurking about wasn’t an option.
They had no funds. The little he was able to bring in with fighting, gambling, and investments only went out again to keep the creditors at bay. To make matters worse, his sisters—twins!—would have to make their debut next year. He hadn’t a clue how he would afford the gowns and accoutrement necessary for the occasion, not to mention the eventual trousseau that would follow for each of them.
Evan rubbed the ache that was starting to build between his temples. Their circumstances were impossible. Bankruptcy for him and social ruin for his family lurked on the horizon. Evan had not a damned thing to do with its cause, but he would be the one to shoulder the burden and shame. He could almost feel the weight of his father’s self-righteous glare from the other side. Of course, Evan would be the downfall of their family’s honor. It stood to reason that he would be the one to fall in disgrace.
“I am deeply sorry the numbers are not better, Your Grace.” Clark kept his eyes lowered as he closed the ledger.
“You have done what you can.” Which amounted to borrowing from Peter to pay Paul. There was no creating coin out of thin air.
“Have you had no luck in finding Lichfield?” His father’s solicitor had promptly disappeared after Evan had begun asking tough questions, leaving more questions than answers behind.
“Not yet, no,” said Clark.
After a moment, Clark cleared his throat and seemed to finally summon the nerve to meet his employer’s gaze. “There are options.” His voice came out a nervous squeak.
Yes. Options. Evan was afraid of those.
His mother set down her cup and saucer on the spindly table next to her with finality. “It is past time that we consider our options seriously.”
“Our options?” Everyone knew bloody well that he was the one who would be called on to make the noble sacrifice.
“Very well.” Her blue eyes focused on his intently in that way that had always let him know that the time for arguing had come to an end. “We have tried things your way for a year now. Elizabeth and Louisa must have a coming-out next Season. Their futures depend upon it.”
The fact that she was willing to speak this way with Clark present let him know just how concerned she truly was.
“If I may add, Your Grace, the situation has become even direr than it was a year past. With no signs of the agricultural market improving, Crandall and Mercer are threatening to call their loan if we are not caught up.”
Evan ground his molars together. His father had been a fool to fall in debt to those vultures. “How long?”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed before he said, “If a marriage were announced within a fortnight,” and at Evan’s expression, he hurried to add, “possibly a week more, it might hold them off.”
“A fortnight!” Evan’s voice burst out of him, thundering through the room.
“Come now, Evan, we have spoken of this possibility for months,” his mother said. “ ’Tis hardly a surprise.”
The idea of marriage was no shock, but the haste with which it needed to be accomplished was. The need to pace brought him to his feet, but pain like darts of fire spread through his thigh. Moaning aloud, he fell heavily back into his chair, which groaned in protest.
“Oh, for the love of—” His mother bit off the unladylike curse and forced a smile for the solicitor. Evan had always admired how easily she was able to retain control of her composure. “That will be all for the day, Mr. Clark. We will send word to you tomorrow. I’ll have Hastings show you out.” She rang for the butler, giving Evan time to stew as Clark gathered his things and said his goodbyes.
Once Hastings had wisely pulled the door closed as he led Clark out, Evan’s mother gave him a stern once-over. “What in heavens have you done to your leg? And do not tell me it was a riding accident. You were riding before you could walk.”
Evan stared at her, torn between furthering the lie and telling her the complete truth. As it turned out, he did not have to decide. Her astute gaze took in the cut on his brow line and then dropped to his bruised knuckles. The temptation to hide them like a child caught doing something wrong was strong, but he managed to fight it back.
“You are engaging in fisticuffs again? For money?”
Fisticuffs. The understatement of the word made him smile. He let out the breath he had been holding and flexed his fingers, enjoying the ache that throbbed in his knuckles. Ice had worked wonders for the swelling, but experience had taught him that they would be sore for days. Not that the pain mattered. He deserved the small discomforts. It had been over a year since his father had died. Surely, that was long enough to change their fortunes, and yet no matter what Evan did, the family only sank deeper into debt. Evan might not have been the sole reason that worried crease had appeared on his mother’s brow, but he had done nothing to take it away.
“I do instruct on the skill at Montague Club, yes.” He hedged.
“I meant prizefighting. Do not lie to me.”
“The earnings keep us afloat in a sea of debt.”
She winced as if he had wounded her, and he sucked in a sharp breath to hold back the apology on his lips. He was sorry. Sorry that he was not the son she deserved, that he was not William. When Evan had played pranks on his tutors, William had excelled in every subject. He had been the heir, the one suited to this role, not Evan. The family would have been better off if Evan had been the one to die. An ache swelled like a balloon in his chest, squeezing his lungs and making it momentarily difficult to breathe.
She shook her head, her hands falling to disappear into the black skirts of her mourning gown. “Do you think I want to see another of my children die before his time?”
The question, coupled with the red rim of her eyes, moved him to kneel at her side, heedless of the pull on his thigh injury and the immediate agony. Finding her hand amid the plethora of skirts, he said, “That will not happen. I may get bruised, but I will not die.”
> One finely plucked eyebrow shot upward. “Do not patronize me, Evan. I have heard of the dangers. A man could bring a knife in, and there are instances of men being so concussed they never recover. Men have died.”
“What men?”
“Simon Byrne. William Phelps.”
“Someone spoke to you of Byrne and Phelps? They both died decades ago.” Evan could hardly imagine any of her society matron friends knowing their names.
She blinked and procured a sudden interest in the chair he had vacated as she refused to meet his gaze. “The point is that deaths happen.”
It would be a lie to claim otherwise. Though it was not a prominent worry in his mind, there was always the risk that someone like Wilkes could take losing badly and retaliate outside of the match. Instead of addressing it, he asked with a smile, “Did Lady Dragonbottom tell you about them?” He used the name he had invented for the surly matron in his youth. The lady in question was one of the most straitlaced and boring of his mother’s generation. While only in her mid-fifties, she could easily pass for a woman bordering on seventy-five, primarily due to her expression of perpetual disappointment. “Does she have a secret gambling habit that she confessed to you?”
The corner of his mother’s mouth tipped up in a reluctant grin, which is exactly what he had hoped would happen. “Her name is Lady Diginbotham, as you well know, and no, it was not her, more’s the pity.” She sobered as she continued, “If you must know, I had a footman explain the rules to me and, when pressed, he admitted that death was not out of the question.”
Evan resisted finding out which footman had told her that. It was not the servant’s fault. His mother could be quite forceful when it was called for. “You needn’t have worried yourself. Rules have changed since their day. Besides, I have men who go with me for protection. They make certain things do not progress so far.”
The Heiress Gets a Duke Page 3