Benjamin Disraeli
August Crenshaw had finally recognized him. There was no mistaking that gasp, or the blush that had accompanied it as she remembered their kiss. A kiss he had never believed would happen when he had taunted her. She had surprised him then, just as she had surprised him tonight.
Dinner had ended, and he sat forced to endure smoking and cognac at the table with the men. He despised the cloying smell of tobacco, as it always reminded him of his father’s disappointment. The cognac was excellent, so he endeavored to savor it, while Mr. Crenshaw did his best to court him from behind a wall of smoke. The man had boasted about the family’s extraordinary success in the years since the American Civil War, all but divulging the figures on their balance sheets. Now he was lauding his ambition in expanding their operations to the European market.
Evan wanted to tell the man that a marriage was very nearly a foregone conclusion, so there was no need to come on so strong. His lack of wealth and the Crenshaws’ excess of it having sealed the deal. Mr. Crenshaw’s constant attention and deference was making Evan feel like he was the wealthy heiress being courted by a titled aristocrat. Is this what peeresses had gone through all these centuries? It was a wonder they had not broken ranks and started their own colony, free of needy men.
Evan’s gaze kept going toward the door, remembering how August had looked back at him before she had disappeared through it. Her gaze had been full of contempt with the slightest hint of confusion. He wanted to ask her father if he would be willing to switch the daughters, August instead of Violet, but the idea sounded crass even to Evan. Before he even thought of requesting something so outlandish, he needed to talk to her. He needed to see if she truly was as he remembered her.
Before he could stop himself, he rose to his feet. The men all stood in response, looking startled with their half-finished cigars and drinks in their hands.
“Stay and finish. I need to . . .” Not accustomed to explaining himself, he floundered for an excuse for his sudden departure. He stopped himself before he could say “go speak to Miss Crenshaw” but only barely. That would have been disastrous.
“Are you feeling well, Your Grace?” asked Lord Ashcroft as Evan hurried from the room.
Ignoring the footman outside the door, Evan walked to the back of the house, turning a corner that would lead to the garden. He did not want to go directly to the drawing room, as that would invite comments and conversation, when he simply wanted to see her alone. Perhaps if he made his presence known in the garden, she would come out to him. It was not the least bit proper, but she had already proven she did not care a whit for propriety, and she was itching to speak with him. That look of recognition had told him as much.
Opening a door he thought bordered the garden, he found a little-used sitting room that had a narrow window facing out. As quiet as an intruder, he made his way across the darkened room, and his heart gave a start of satisfaction when he saw the window was actually a door with a latch. Turning his body to the side to slip through, he stepped outside to find that he was on the opposite end of the garden from the drawing room. Feminine conversations wafted out a partially open door, and one of the violins in the drawing room played a haunting tune that floated in the cool night air.
Quietly, he made his way toward the bright lights of the drawing room along a gravel path that meandered among the rosebushes and hedges. The last thing he wanted was to get cornered by Mrs. Crenshaw; her husband had been bad enough. No doubt she would demand a proposal and a wedding date that very night. He peered around a corner and saw the slim figure of a woman standing beneath a gas lamp. It seemed too easy to assume it was the appropriate Miss Crenshaw. She wore a shawl covering her shoulders, but the light caught the blue skirt of her gown.
August.
His heart kicked against his ribs. She was stunning in the low lighting. She stood in profile, gazing at something he could not see in a rosebush. The light caught the soft curve of her cheekbone, highlighting the graceful contour up to her hairline. She was a brunette, but the same sun that had delicately burnished her skin had lightened portions of her hair so that some strands shone gold. Her lips were full enough to be enticing, but not enough to take away from the rest of her. When her breasts rose on a sigh, he could not help but take them in. They were fuller than her frame suggested they should be, and he found that he very much liked that.
“Good evening, Miss Crenshaw.”
She turned toward him as if he were a burglar intent on stealing from her. Perhaps that is exactly what he was.
“Your Grace,” she said, lifting her chin a notch and crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m glad you’re here,” she continued. “I believe you and I should talk.”
He loved how direct she was. No one in his entire life had ever said what they meant. His father had never called him a disappointment, but the sentiment had been implied. No one had ever said that he was less capable than his brother, William, but everyone had believed it to be true.
She was honest, and honest was refreshing. He was ready for the fury she was only barely holding back from releasing on him. Was it so wrong to want to bask in the blaze of her righteous wrath? Probably, but he was going to do it anyway.
He approached her slowly to stand outside the circle of light cast by the lamp. Trying to appear at ease, he pretended to be intrigued by the flames flickering behind the glass as he said, “I thought you might feel that way. What shall we discuss?”
“I believe you know.” Her gaze bore into the side of his head harder than Wilkes could have ever hoped to land a punch. She was not retreating. Almost everyone retreated from him in one way or another.
Before he had realized it, he was moving closer to her, drawn by her intensity. “Come now, Miss Crenshaw. You have been refreshingly direct all night. Why stop now?”
“All right. I want you to give up your pursuit of my sister. She does not want to marry you.”
The words, the tone, they were all angry and harsh, so why did they feel like a balm to the ragged ache in his chest? This was madness. He was mad. It was the only explanation for why he continued to taunt her. “She has only met me tonight. Are these the types of conversations that go on between ladies in drawing rooms after dinner?”
“She didn’t have to meet you to know. Contrary to almost everything else in your life, this isn’t about you. We have a very nice life back in New York, and we intend to return there after this visit. As a family,” she added for extra emphasis.
Anger and the chill in the night air had added spots of color to her cheeks. She was beautiful. “One of you is bound to marry eventually. What then?”
She shook her head, annoyed with him. “Of course Violet will marry eventually, to a man of her own choosing. Not an aristocrat or even an Englishman.”
Biting back a smile, he said, “I believe I am beginning to see the problem. Do you have an issue with Englishmen specifically, or is it more anyone who is not American?”
He had said it to fan the flames of her anger, and he was not disappointed when she burned hotter. “How dare you? This has nothing to do with your nationality and everything to do with your entitled way of gaining a wife. You think every woman should bow down to your title and offer herself up for you. Well, that is not how the world works.” She frowned and seemed to think better of it, because it was most definitely how his world worked.
Until now. Until her.
“Not my world, at any rate,” she added. “Violet has a perfectly respectable fiancé back home. She has no use for you or your suit. If you would leave off and find yourself another heiress, then I would be most appreciative.”
If Evan had been expecting her to hold back even a tiny bit, he would have been disappointed. Fortunately, he had been expecting a set-down, and she more than delivered. She was magnificent. And if Violet did indeed have a fiancé back home, then his problem would be solved
. Too bad she was lying.
“You have my apologies, Miss Crenshaw. No one told me that Miss Violet was already betrothed. It is an oversight by your parents that I will take up with them right away. Obviously, she is not free to wed.”
She had not been expecting him to be reasonable. Her lips stayed parted for a few seconds before she managed to bring them together again. Her hand made a loose fist against her chest as if she were very literally trying to still her beating heart.
“I . . . Thank you. I expected more of a—”
“If you will excuse me, Miss Crenshaw, I am off to speak with your father now.” He gave a polite bow of his head and turned, but he only took one step before she stopped him.
“Wait, Your Grace.”
He smiled. In the days since he had decided to pursue this plan of his mother’s, Clark had investigated the Crenshaws to determine if the suit was worthwhile. It was, and the investigation had thus far turned up no mention of a fiancé. He need not have asked, but he did because he could not walk away from this sparring session with her. “Yes, Miss Crenshaw?”
She nibbled her bottom lip and then seemed to come to some decision. “I’m afraid it’s your nature as a gentleman that I must call upon.”
“The very nature that you abhor?” He scoffed.
Her lips pursed together so hard that a tiny pale line appeared around the edges. “Violet is expecting to marry a family friend. Nothing has been announced yet, but an engagement will be forthcoming.”
“And your parents have agreed to this match?”
“Not yet.” She said the words like they had hurt her on the way out.
“Ah . . . then your sister is indeed free to marry me.”
“I suppose that depends on your definition of free. If you can live with yourself knowing that the woman you are wed to wants someone else, then yes.”
He laughed at that. “Miss Crenshaw, I am the twelfth Duke of Rothschild. My family line can be traced back to the Norman Conquest. In the countless unions between then and now, I am unaware of a single one where the parties involved desired the marriage for reasons that were not mercenary. Historically, it is very low on the list of requirements in a suitable match.”
“You mean you never actually intended to look for a woman you want to marry?”
He shrugged. “Hundreds of families are depending on me to save my estates. I have four houses that are threatening to crumble down around me. I have two sisters who must be launched into society next year, and a mother who must be cared for. Finding a woman I want to marry is a luxury I do not possess.”
She seemed a bit stunned by that admission. Her eyes widened the slightest bit, and she sat back on her heels. Her thoughts were nearly visible as they spun in her head. Had she believed that he was wife hunting because he was simply inconvenienced by his lack of funds and needed a new suit of clothes? God, if only things were that simple.
“All right.” She took in a breath. “I can see things are direr than I anticipated.”
He nodded, remembering when he had had that same realization, though his had involved considerably more alcohol.
Her color receded, and she blinked up at him. “With that in mind, I am very sorry to say this.” She paused, and a hint of pity passed across her eyes before she stomped it out. “But I know who you really are.”
He could not help but grin as his gaze automatically fell to her lips and that kiss played across his mind. “The Duke of Rothschild?” he teased.
She took another breath, and the words rushed out of her. “I know that you are the prizefighter they call the Hellion.”
Her eyes had gone fierce again, though she kept the fire contained. He wanted to see what would happen when she let it loose, so he said, “Why do you think that?” A coil of anticipation tightened low in his gut.
“Do you have the audacity to deny it?”
“That is a strong accusation. How would you know such a thing?” Did she think of that kiss like he did? His gaze dropped to her lips, wanting to taste them again and be allowed to take his time. His blood heated and thickened just imagining it.
“Do not tease me.” Her voice shook, but it had lowered an octave. She was not quite bold enough to have the entire dinner party know of her attendance at that fight, it seemed. “Your hair is lighter, but you have the same strong nose, the same smile. The way you speak is the same. And your hands.” She gestured to his right hand, which had yet to heal completely from the last fight.
His thigh still pained him, as well, but he could walk without a limp when he needed to. Oddly moved that out of all of that she would find his smile noteworthy, he asked, “Not that I am admitting to anything, but why are you accusing me of this?”
She crossed her arms over her chest again and glanced toward the drawing room. They were around a hedge, but it was not so far away that someone could not easily come upon them. Satisfied that they were still alone, she met his gaze with the solemnity of someone condemning a soul to the gallows and said, “Because if you continue in this pursuit, then I will be forced to explain your true nature to my parents and anyone else who will listen. You will only have yourself to blame for pushing me to it. Leave Violet alone, and I am willing to keep your secret.”
“I ask you again, how would you even know about this fighter?”
She sighed in exasperation. “I was there, you dolt. I nearly fell into the fighting ring, and you caught me, and then you . . . then we . . . well, you know.”
Never in his life had anyone called him a dolt. They might have thought it a time or two, but even at Eton, being the son of a duke came with a few privileges. Her honest rage soothed away any anger that her words might have evoked. He instinctively knew that he would always get the truth with her. His palms itched with the desire to hold her again, so he fisted his hands to stifle the impulse.
“And you would tell your parents this?” A crease formed between her eyebrows. Ah, she had not considered how she would explain her knowledge of him. “You would tell them that you attended this dangerous fight, nearly injured yourself in the process, and this prizefighter came to your aid, after which you . . .” He allowed his voice to trail off as she began to understand what he meant. A flush worked its way up her chest to her face. Perhaps he should be smiling in victory, but pressure tightened his chest instead as she came to her realization.
She could not out him without implicating herself. Some in society already suspected his prizefighting. Those close to him already knew it. There had been whispers in broader circles, but nothing was confirmed. The truth was that they did not care. At most it was a minor scandal. At worst, it would close a few doors to him. Unfortunately for her, the people who would care about his prizefighting were the same people who would look down on her even more for attending such an event.
He knew the exact moment she came to that same conclusion, because she stepped back and turned as if in revulsion. Whether that distaste was reserved for society or if he was included, he did not know. He only knew that he did not want to be included. He wanted the woman who had seen him at the fight and kissed him. Her truth and her fury.
Bloody hell. He was making a mess of this conversation. He had meant to let her know that her plan to blackmail would come to naught. Instead, he had very nearly crushed her with the awful truth of the world in which they lived. Reaching out to touch her shoulder, he let his fingers close into a fist and fall back at his side. There was no way in hell she would welcome his touch.
“Miss Crenshaw . . . understand that I am not—”
She whirled to face him, but instead of tears as he had expected, her face was livid. “You will not force my sister into marriage. I do not care if I have to risk my reputation to see it done.” With those words, she turned away from him in a whirl of skirts and stormed off toward the drawing room. A soft orange blossom–scented cloud floated behind her, prickl
ing his skin as it settled over him.
His heart pounded with the aftermath of her fury, and he could only watch her go. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, raking his fingers through his once-perfect hair and leaving it mussed.
No one had ever spoken to him that way outside the fighting ring in his entire life. Why did he find it so appealing coming from her? He was not . . . He had heard that some men liked to be bound and dominated by their lovers. There were whispers that a couple of high-ranking members of Parliament kept women specifically for that purpose. It had sounded ludicrous to him. He was not one of those men.
But her fire was something special. Instead of burning him, it warmed him deep down in a way that he had not words to explain. It soothed him. He wanted it. He wanted her.
A rustle of fabric behind him had him whirling to see a woman in a rose-colored gown standing at the corner of the hedge, watching him. How much of that had she heard?
“Miss Violet.”
“August can be strongheaded at times, Your Grace.” Her voice was soft but firm, and she held his gaze as she stepped toward him. “I would apologize for her, but it seems you knew what you were getting into.”
He liked her at least ten times more in that moment. There was a softness about her, but he now saw the strength he had not bothered to notice before. Her chin was held firm like her sister’s, but her eyes held a mischievous spark.
“Indeed. There is no need for you to apologize. I admit I provoked her needlessly.” He would have done almost anything to be singed by the fire burning in August.
Her lips tightened into a line as she seemed to accept that. Finding her courage, she opened her mouth, and her words came out in a rush. “Was it true?”
Dear God, she had heard the whole thing. Sweat broke out on his brow as he thought of a way to explain it to her. He did not believe the fighting would break the deal, but he had hoped to have a betrothal contract in place before confronting that.
“Do you really have hundreds of families depending on you?” she continued.
The Heiress Gets a Duke Page 7