Hereford turned toward the couple. “May I present Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw of New York City.”
“Your Grace, it is an honor,” said Crenshaw, a handsome man of medium build who happened to be his future father-in-law.
Evan managed to breathe out and offer a cursory greeting. His mother mumbled something, but Evan barely registered the conversation. Taking Mrs. Crenshaw’s hand out of rote protocol rather than conscious thought, he bent over it. “Madame, it is my sincere pleasure to meet you.”
The woman had dark hair that was only starting to show strands of gray. She was pleasing enough to the eye, but her manner was more forward than his own mother would have found appropriate. She did not lower her gaze as was proper when he greeted her. Instead, she gave him a smile and stared at him as if she might be gazing upon the second coming of her savior.
“You are even more handsome than your mother suggested, Your Grace,” she said.
He offered her a benign smile and caught a flash of disapproval in his mother’s eye before she managed to hide it. “I am shocked. Typically, there’s no end to her exaggeration.”
The disapproval in his mother’s gaze was back, but this time it was directed at him. Her smile firmly in place, she said to Mrs. Crenshaw, “I am pleased to see you again.”
“This is our Violet.” The woman turned to present the young woman standing beside her.
It took a moment for his brain to catch up with his eyes and ears. This was Violet, but this was indeed not the woman he had kissed. His heart moved into his stomach where it settled with a nausea-inducing plummet.
Like her mother, she met his gaze without flinching. However, she did not seem quite as enchanted as the older woman. Raising her chin a notch, she appeared to be fighting to keep a hard glint from her eyes.
“Hello, dear,” said his mother. “It is lovely to meet you. Miss Violet, may I present my son, the Duke of Rothschild.”
Evan’s good manners had deserted him in the face of this turn of events. He had been well and truly prepared to meet the woman from the fight, the one who’d challenged him and kissed him. This was not her. This woman was her sister and had been sitting beside her that night at the theater.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He forced the words out. “How are you enjoying your time in London?”
For the barest fraction of a second, her eyes flashed fire, and he found himself expecting—hoping?—that she would dare to lash out. It was clear to him and probably everyone else that she had been informed of his intention and she was not as flattered as another young woman in her position might have been. He was too disappointed still to take offense. Why the devil were they offering the younger sister to him? Everyone knew that the older daughters were married off first.
With the fire successfully banked, she discreetly withdrew her hand and said, “I am enjoying it very much, thank you. You have a lovely city.”
Before he could respond, Mrs. Crenshaw launched into a lively discussion detailing their time in the city. From the exhibits at the British Museum to the opera to the shops on Bond Street, she made certain to drop the names of at least a handful of the aristocracy she had met along the way. To her credit, Violet did not join in; she simply muttered an agreement when necessary all while staring at him in disapproval.
Bloody hell, this was to be his mother-in-law. Visions of endless holidays filled with her constant boasting stretched out before him. Perhaps bankruptcy would be worth it to avoid that fate. Another glance at his mother disabused him of that notion before it could take root. She still wore a deep mourning gown trimmed with crape as was customary, but she had refused to have new ones made this year. He had noticed as they disembarked the carriage that the lace along the hem in the back had frayed. The expense was the true reason for her refusal. What right did he have to not perform his duty?
An ache developed in his jaw, and he realized that he had been gritting his teeth. He forced himself to relax and noticed Violet watching him with curiosity, her head tilted slightly to the side. Perhaps marriage to her would not be so terribly unbearable. She was very pretty. With her slight frame, her rich dark hair pulled up in an elaborate twist, and a stylish, rose-hued gown, she was the image of a lady. The flashes of fire in her eyes gave him hope that she had more in her head than visions of a title.
Still, when he opened his mouth to speak to her, he asked, “Is your sister joining us this evening?”
Violet brightened for the first time that evening. “My sister is here. She’s stepped into the garden with Her Grace.” Her voice was soft with just the right amount of husk to be pleasing. It should have enchanted him. Instead, his pulse pounded with the anticipation of seeing the elder Miss Crenshaw again. Her gaze went past his shoulder, lighting up pleasantly as it rested on whom he assumed would be her sister.
He whipped his head around to look for her before he could think better of what it might reveal about his eagerness. The woman he had kissed stood framed in the doorway, her eyes wide in shock as they roamed from her sister to him. She was as striking as she had been that night, except instead of a cloak, she wore a sapphire blue gown that revealed the right amount of bosom. In the light of the lamp overhead, he could make out the striking shape of her cheekbones and the tilt of her chin. Even across the room, he could see that her eyes had hardened in determination.
He did not think she would recognize him. The pomade he wore in his hair when he fought darkened it from blond to brown. He also made certain to have a few days’ growth of beard for each match, and now he was clean-shaven. The anger alighting her eyes as she made her way into the room was most certainly from the position they found themselves in and not recognition. Apparently, neither of the women welcomed his suit.
Instead of waiting for him to approach her, as any proper English girl was raised to do, she strode across the room with her shoulders back, her gaze never wavering from his. She walked with purpose and a confidence that was very attractive. Upon reaching him, she did not bother to wait for a proper introduction; instead she held her hand out to him.
“I am August Crenshaw,” she said, as if she were not causing a scene before the entire room.
Momentarily startled, he stood for a moment, staring at her glove-clad fingers. Her hand was offered to him with her fingers stacked in a line, thumb on top. She was not holding it out, palm down, for him to kiss or bow over but offering it in a handshake. Yes, she truly meant for him to shake her hand.
Deciding to take up her challenge, he recognized it for what it was, and he took her hand, savoring the heat of her palm against his own. Obliged to answer her direct manner, he said, “I am Evan Sterling, Duke of Rothschild.” Then, with wicked amusement, he added, “Marquess of Langston, Earl of Haverford, Viscount Blackwell, Baron Clifford.”
Without missing a beat, she said, “That’s quite a mouthful.” Her tone was dry, but her lips quirked upward in the most fascinating way.
Someone coughed. Someone else made an odd choking sound. Evan genuinely smiled for the first time since the meeting with Clark when the question of marriage had been finalized.
Mrs. Crenshaw rushed forward to her eldest daughter and took up a position beside her as if to somehow guard him from her brazenness. “This is . . .” Her mouth opened and closed again as if at a loss to explain the creature standing so proudly next to her. Color had risen to her powdery cheeks. “This is August, our eldest daughter.”
“Yes, so she has said.” His gaze drifted back to her.
August. The name floated in his head, uncertain where it should land. It was unusual for a woman, but somehow it suited her. There were sun-kissed highlights in her hair, and the hazel of her eyes was swirled with grass green. Her creamy skin had a glow that showed a defiance of parasols. From now on when he thought of summer, he would think of her.
“It is a pleasure, Miss Crenshaw.”
There
was the barest hint of a moment when he thought she might actually give him a set-down. The words were there, flickering behind her eyes, which very clearly said she did not appreciate his intention. However, she finally lowered them, no doubt in response to her mother’s clasp on her arm. When she raised them, the fire had been momentarily banked, but they were no less livid in their intensity.
Would she dare confront him here? He found himself leaning forward with anticipation when she parted her lips. Unfortunately, he did not get a chance to find out, because the butler announced that dinner would be served.
“Your Grace?” Lady Ashcroft’s voice floated into his consciousness, making him realize that he was still staring at the impertinent Miss Crenshaw.
“Yes?” he asked, struggling to remember that they were in the middle of a drawing room and not somewhere private. What he would not give to have Miss Crenshaw to himself in the garden for five minutes. He wanted to hear the storm she obviously longed to unleash on him.
Lady Ashcroft gestured politely to where the butler stood in the doorway. As the duke with precedent, Evan would lead the party to the dining room. No one could leave until he did. He wanted to offer the elder Miss Crenshaw his arm simply to watch the fireworks in her eyes. However, etiquette demanded that the lady of the house go in on his arm.
“Shall we?”
Inclining her head, Lady Ashcroft took his arm and he led the way.
* * *
* * *
The duke was not an ogre. He was arrogant, entitled, and overconfident, but he wasn’t an ogre. In fact, he was at least twenty years younger than August had been expecting, and even with her immense aversion for him and the situation in which he had placed them, she could admit that he was handsome. Handsome if one liked the proud, aristocratic type, which she did not. Unfortunately, that dislike did nothing to stop her from appreciating his good looks.
It was annoying, and she had spent the entire meal trying not to look at him. Not an easy feat since the meal had seemed to drag on for hours with at least ten courses. She had lost count somewhere between the lark pie and the chaudfroid of chicken. To complicate things, Violet had been given the seat on his far side. August kept checking on her sister to make certain that she wasn’t too upset. So far, Violet had kept her composure and carried on a constant, if subdued, conversation with both the duke and the gentleman on her other side. However, since they were both opposite August and down a bit, she had to look past him to see her sister, so she couldn’t help catching glimpses of him.
Also, there was something about the duke that kept drawing her attention. Something about the shape of his face that looked familiar. She had caught him smiling once at a comment, and it, too, had seemed familiar. Though she was certain that she had never met the Duke of Rothschild before, she felt as if she had seen his smile. And then there was the particular way he said her name that threatened to jar some unknown memory.
“Miss Crenshaw?”
She blinked, realized that she had been staring at the duke again, and glanced down to see that a new course had been set before her. Blancmange. Please let this mean that this meal is coming to an end.
“Miss Crenshaw?” The gentleman next to her raised an eyebrow expectantly. “Do you enjoy sweets? I confess I can hardly abide them.”
“I do enjoy them, yes.” She took a small bite of the dessert and let the mild almond flavor melt in her mouth.
The gentleman next to her was a perfectly presentable young man whose name she kept forgetting. He was a viscount, or perhaps an earl, which made her assume her mother had had a hand in the seating arrangement. All she knew was that he had more than a passing interest in her bosom, and he slurped his soup. He tended to gesture as he spoke, so her gaze kept catching on his hands. They were so pale that she could easily trace the blue veins on the backs of them. Not that there was anything wrong with pale hands; it was more that she kept imagining how little of the outdoors he must have seen. How little work those hands had accomplished.
On her other side sat the Duke of Hereford. His hands, while neat and tidy, were not nearly so pristine. The backs were peppered with liver spots and wiry gray hair. She knew from Camille that he rode daily, but she very much doubted those hands had seen a day of work in his life.
Before she realized her intention, she found herself looking at Rothschild’s hands across the table. From this distance and between the artfully placed candelabras, it was difficult to tell much, but they seemed lightly tanned and well-formed. They were broad, but not boorish, and appeared strong. Of course he would have handsome hands to go with his handsome face. The long, graceful fingers elegantly held his spoon as he brought a bit of dessert to his lips. Candlelight flickered across his knuckles, turning them gold and highlighting a healing gash that spanned across the middle two. Interesting. Those were not the hands of the typical nobleman.
“Have you visited the Royal Botanic Gardens yet, Miss Crenshaw?” Lord Earl-or-Viscount said to her as he found a way to slurp the pudding. “It is still early in the season yet, but I find that to be the best time to tour them. The buds are only starting to show their promise. It is when you can truly see the beauty that Mother Nature has in store.”
His eager gaze had hardly left her. She wanted to gently let the man down, but dinner did not seem to be the proper place for such a discussion. Instead, she murmured that she had not and turned her attention to the Duke of Hereford. Thankfully, he was engrossed in conversation with the woman beside him.
Camille snickered and decided to save her. “Lord Ware, you must tell me the places you believe Miss Crenshaw should visit before she returns home. I will personally make certain that she sees them all.”
Lord Ware, that was his name, though August still couldn’t remember if he was an earl or viscount. She caught Camille’s eye and gave a brief nod of thanks.
“Your Grace, you must deign to visit our fair city sometime soon.” Her father’s voice rose over the conversations at the table. “I am certain a man with your enthusiasm for entertainment will find much to enjoy in New York.”
“Perhaps I will,” Rothschild answered. “I have heard it said that you Americans are quite bold. I am sure to find your city entertaining.”
There was that voice followed by his distinct smile and a tilt of his head. Combined, they made her think of the fighter. She hadn’t let herself think about that man very much. He had hovered there in her memory because of the kiss, but she tried to move her thoughts along when they would have lingered. She would rather forget that she had kissed a stranger, not that Camille would ever let her forget. But now that the memory had been evoked, every second of her time with him came back to her.
Her father responded, but it was lost on her as she remembered the stranger’s hands on her waist, and his smile as he looked down at her. The duke laughed, raising his wineglass in a mock toast to Papa. That smile. It was the eyeteeth that were so similar. Again, the distance worked against her, but she thought they were pointed, like the fighter’s. Before he drank, Rothschild made eye contact with her, inclining his head a little and smiling again. This time for her, as his lips made a perfect bow.
“Would you agree, Miss Crenshaw?” he asked.
That voice. Her name with that same inflection that she couldn’t articulate. The fighter had said it just that way. She hadn’t followed the rest of the conversation, so she said, “That we are bold? Yes. But I am afraid you would find our city terribly boring. There aren’t very many amusements for a man of leisure.”
August did not have to look at her mother to know that she would be displeased with her. The duke, however, only widened his grin. “Then I will endeavor to find amusements where I can.” With that, he drank, never taking his eyes from hers. Something about that—him slaking his thirst while focusing his attention on her—seemed too intimate for the dining room table. Her face burned in a response that she couldn�
�t control, and a thrill of interest tightened low in her belly. Despite her intention to meet him head-on, she looked away first. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at her barely touched dessert.
When she looked up again, he was back in conversation with her father, who was busy assuring him that he would be well amused in New York. A small strand of hair had fallen to his temple, and he absently brushed it back. The movement drew her gaze to his knuckles, which were indeed bruised, and a minor abrasion sitting along his hairline.
She gasped aloud as she remembered the older fighter, Wilkes, landing a particularly brutal blow there. The fighter’s head had flung to the side, making her grit her teeth as she waited to see if he had been very badly injured. He had responded by doubling up his attack, coming at Wilkes in a fury.
Could it be him? He smiled again, and again she noted it. The perfect bow of his lips. The divot below the center of his bottom lip. The devilish pointy teeth. It was him! That smile was familiar because she had seen it before. Had kissed the lips that framed it.
No, it couldn’t be. A duke couldn’t participate in prizefighting. Even as the denial pulsed through her, she could not take her eyes from him. Rothschild’s gaze dashed back to her. Something in her face must have told him that she suspected. He took a long, lingering look from her eyes to her mouth, perhaps remembering their kiss, and back again. Finally, he raised his glass and said, “A toast to risk-takers.” He gave her a wink before taking another sip of the dark liquid.
It was him! Against all odds, the man known as the Hellion was here in the Ashcrofts’ dining room, and her parents were offering Violet up to him on a silver platter.
Perhaps just as bad—worse—she had kissed him!
Chapter 5
The secret of success in life is for a man to be ready for his opportunity when it comes.
The Heiress Gets a Duke Page 6