The Heiress Gets a Duke

by Harper St. George

  He broke off, his breath coming in harsh gasps. She stared up at him bewildered, but then she heard it, too.

  “. . . believe I left it here. I read it again only last week.” This was followed by a laugh that was much closer. Right outside the door.

  Her eyes grew wide before narrowing on him almost immediately in suspicion. Crushing hurt and betrayal took over as she hurried to put distance between them and pull up her bodice. The door handle rattled, and both looked at it as if it had suddenly come alive.

  If he let them be discovered, then the question of marriage would be settled. But she would hate him, and he doubted she would give herself over to him as sweetly as she just had ever again. Without thinking it out further, he grabbed the knob, releasing her to hold tight with both hands when whomever was attempting to open it tried more force.

  “It seems quite jammed.” Hereford knocked on the door. Evan was certain Leigh must be with him. “Hello? Is anyone inside?”

  “Let me give it a try.” Leigh’s voice confirmed his suspicion. Bloody hell. There was a shuffle of bodies outside before a renewed attempt to open the door.

  Evan held his jaw taut as he kept the handle from turning and set his shoulder against the doorframe. What had been a half-thought-out plan at best had become a nightmare. It was one thing to conceive of forcing her hand; it was another to see the terrible accusation cross her lovely features. He could not live the rest of his life knowing that he had taken her hard-won trust and hurt her so irreparably. He wanted to win her on his own merit.

  “The handle is broken,” said Leigh. “It will not turn.”

  “Come on, then. I . . .” The words faded away as suddenly as they had appeared.

  Evan waited a moment more to make certain they did not return before he let go of the knob. He turned slowly, uncertain of her reaction. She had a chair between them again, and her gaze was on the front of his trousers. He glanced down to see that the drama had done nothing to ease his desire for her. It was clearly outlined against his trousers.

  “August,” he said. Meaning to go make certain she was all right, he took a step in her direction.

  “Oh no,” she said, her eyes wide again as she backed up. “We are finished with kissing.”

  Drawing several gulping breaths, he turned toward the bookcase wall and counted backward from twenty in his head as he forced his need for her to go away. It was not in the least bit easy. He could still smell her on him, and her sweet taste lingered on his tongue. Cursing softly, he watched her watching him with wariness as she adjusted the pins in her hair. She did not look nearly as disheveled as he felt.

  “That was a mistake,” she said, smoothing her palms over her skirts.

  “Was it?” It had not felt like a mistake to him. Perhaps the venue had been ill-advised, but not the kissing.

  “We were lucky. I have to go before someone comes back to repair that door.”

  He did not think Leigh would allow that to happen, but he did not dare mention it. Instead, he nodded and stepped aside so she had free access to the door. He thought she might walk right out, but she paused next to him with her hand on the knob.

  “Mistake or not, thank you for that.”

  Inclining his head, he said, “I will pay you a call soon, so we can discuss how to proceed.”

  “This changes nothing. I will not marry you, no matter how skillful your kisses.”

  “You admit that I am skillful?” he asked, grinning like an idiot.

  “I am leaving, Rothschild. If you intend to pursue this ridiculous betrothal, then I’m afraid you’re declaring war.”

  He took her arm before she could disappear. She stared at his hand, and then her fierce gaze held his. “Then why kiss me?”

  The slightest grin tilted her lips. “Because I knew it would be my last chance.” With that, she was gone.

  Chapter 10

  I shall not change my course because those who assume to be better than I desire it.

  Victoria Claflin Woodhull

  August did not dare stop outside the library door in case Hereford and the other man came back. Even though her knees were trembling, she hurried through a series of rooms that would take her to the ladies’ dressing room. She forced measured steps and did not stop until she slipped inside the door.

  The room was vacant of guests, and the strains of a waltz coming from the ballroom assured her that it would stay that way for the next several moments. The walls were covered in pale green watered silk, with clusters of settees and spindly chairs upholstered in a darker jade. A maid in the corner of the room came to attention, but August smiled and waved her away. She needed to think, and she did that best alone. She darted to the safety of one of several dressing screens scattered about. Delicate, hand-painted silk stretched across four panels to complete an elaborate scene of lotus blossoms floating on a lake. August could not help but wonder at the expense of the obviously extravagant item when Camille’s own sitting room languished in faded disrepair.

  Sinking onto a padded stool, she touched her swollen lips. Her other hand went to her bodice, making absolutely certain that she was covered. What had she been thinking? Following him into the library had been completely foolish. Kissing him might have been the most irrational thing she had ever done. If anyone had discovered them alone together, it would have been devastating. Worse! The entire course of her life would be altered.

  Dropping her head into her hands, she contemplated the sheer foolishness of her actions. Max had always teased her that her boldness would get her into trouble someday. He had meant it playfully, not like this. Neither of them would have suspected she would do something so foolish. When faced with the prospect of never having the opportunity again, August had decided to kiss Rothschild. Her spur-of-the-moment reasoning had been that it would be a quick test to prove to herself that it wouldn’t be as notable as she remembered. She had half convinced herself that their first kiss had been so exhilarating because it had been at the fight. The night had been alive with drama and violence. It was that, and not the duke, that had made it so exciting.

  How could she have known that it would get so out of hand, or that she would be so completely naive and unprepared to deal with the feelings he ignited in her? That he possessed an uncanny power over her? That she would still feel alive with sensation even after leaving him? Her pulse still seemed to throb throughout her entire body.

  A soft and unwilling laugh escaped her. Who would have known that Rothschild was the one who could unravel her so easily? No amount of analysis would have made her accept that finding had she not experienced it for herself. Now that she knew, what did she plan to do with that information? She shook her head at her own foolishness. The most important thing was that she now knew to be very careful to avoid being alone with him in the future.

  Catching sight of herself in the small oval mirror on the wall, she set about pinning the strands of hair that had become mussed with their kisses. If one good thing had come of it, it was the knowledge that such kisses were possible, so when she decided to find a husband, perhaps she could find one who would kiss her like that.

  “I, for one, was surprised she knew how to waltz,” said a voice as a pair of women rushed into the dressing room, completely disrupting August’s solitude. Thank goodness for dressing screens. “I thought dancing was forbidden to Puritans.” The proclamation was punctuated by giggles and the rustle of skirts.

  August paused. While the woman might have been talking about Camille or even Violet, August knew she was speaking of her and the waltz with Rothschild. A lump settled in the pit of her stomach.

  “Now, Cecilia,” came the voice of her friend. “You know her grandmother was a stage dancer. It runs in her blood.” Both women let out peals of laughter as the muted click of their heels led them across the room to a seating area.

  While many of the women she had
met in London had been kind and accepting, there were a few who openly disliked the Crenshaw sisters, like Lady Cecelia. The daughter of an earl, she had snubbed both August and Violet from the beginning. Whether she felt her marriage prospects were threatened, or if the aversion ran deeper than that, August hadn’t been able to tell. She had been too busy with Crenshaw Iron Works business and social engagements to allow it to concern her.

  “Indeed. Did you know that her mother is called Millie, like a chambermaid?” Another giggle.

  “I heard that her mother was a maid.”

  Lady Cecilia tittered before adding, “Then the duke should not be too surprised when his children prefer polishing the furniture to learning Latin. Blood will tell.”

  Blood will tell. It was a phrase that had haunted August most of her life. The first time she had heard it had been as a child in a Broadway department store happily enjoying a piece of stick candy while her mother shopped. An elderly, refined woman had taken one look at August and murmured the phrase to her friend with a nod. Then they had both given her mother a scathing look. Lady Cecilia and her unknown companion were exactly like the old New Yorkers who thought that because their money had been earned a century or two earlier than the Crenshaw fortune, it somehow made them better. Impotent anger burned through her veins. Confronting them would not change their minds; she had learned that lesson the hard way.

  The rustle of skirts told her that another woman had entered the dressing room. As if someone had closed the lid on a music box, the giggling stopped. She peeked around the screen to see the yellow-gold of her sister’s skirts and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Violet caught sight of her and hurried over. “I am so sorry it took me so long to come find you. I was on my way, but Lord Leigh detained me.” She whispered so that no one would overhear.

  “Lord Leigh?” August had seen him talking to Rothschild earlier and knew they were friends. Rumors claimed that he was a part owner of Montague Club, but that wasn’t what disturbed her. He was a known cad, and all self-respecting unmarried women knew to stay away from him. “What did he want? You haven’t been properly introduced.”

  Violet gave a mirthless laugh. “You know he cares nothing for propriety. He merely said hello, and then Lady Helena offered the introductions. It was a bit odd, because we had only begun to exchange pleasantries before he remembered an engagement and hurried off.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s fine.” Though August preferred that he stay away from Violet altogether. “Don’t worry, I only just arrived myself.”

  “Did you talk to Rothschild, then?”

  August bit back a smile. Of course Violet would assume she had talked to him. “I did. He needs an heiress, and it appears he has chosen me.” She made certain to gauge Violet’s expression for any hint of regret, but there was none.

  “Oh dear.” Violet’s dark eyes widened. “Tell me what happened.”

  August gave her an abbreviated account of the conversation minus the kissing. At the end her sister merely nodded and asked, “And you are certain that you do not wish to marry him?”

  Of all the questions Violet might have asked, that was not one August had considered. “Of course!”

  Violet gave her a half smile, the mischievous one that seemed to say she saw more than she let on. “I only wanted to make sure. He is handsome. Perhaps he wouldn’t be the worst choice for a husband if you wanted one.” At August’s incredulous look, the smile dropped and she became serious again. “What will we do? You know that Mother and Papa will want this match.”

  “I don’t know.” August didn’t know, but she was not planning to simply go along with a fortune hunter, no matter how skillfully he kissed her. “Do you think you could make my apologies to Mother and Camille? I cannot return to dancing any more tonight. I have to go home.” She had to think her way out of this.

  “Of course,” Violet said as they rose. She reached out and carefully arranged August’s skirts, before tucking a stray lock of hair that August had missed back into a pin. Her eyebrow rose in pointed curiosity that it would have come loose, and for one horrifying moment August was certain she would know that Rothschild’s hands had been in her hair as he had kissed her. But Violet simply said, “Go home and rest. You’ve had a terrible shock.”

  “I’ll send the carriage back.”

  August hugged Violet and made her way to the front of the house. She was sure that Rothschild must have left by now, but that did not stop her head from being on a constant swivel. Whether she was hoping to catch sight of him or was dreading the prospect, she did not care to examine. What she did observe were the countless eyes that turned toward her as she passed. People had noticed the Crenshaws ever since they had arrived in London. Their attention wasn’t anything new. What was new were the questions lurking on their faces now.

  Why did he choose you when everyone knows your sister is the one being offered to him? Or, How much does it cost, precisely, to purchase a duke for a husband? There were also a few sneers among them. They were easy to interpret. You might buy yourself a title, but you’ll never be one of us.

  Had August been in the market for a noble husband, she wasn’t at all certain that she would be up to the task of handling his peers. No, it would be best to return home to New York as planned and put this all behind them.

  * * *

  * * *

  Evan had almost had her. If he had simply allowed the door to open, Hereford would have discovered them, and Evan would now be ensconced in a room, perhaps in the Crenshaws’ townhome, discussing the particulars of a marriage contract with her father. Instead he was at the gymnasium in Montague Club hours after the kiss, punching a sand-stuffed burlap sack.

  Still without an heiress.

  The fine moldings and paper that plastered the wall, along with the grand chandelier hung with hundreds of crystals, marked the room as a ballroom. It had not seen any dancing in years and had been refitted with gymnasium equipment: an incline with cables and pulleys to exercise the abdominal area, a standing machine with straps for pulling that exercised the arms, several machines intended for leg repetitions, and a wall hung with slats and bars for climbing. Perhaps he would get to them all before the night was done. Physical exhaustion seemed to be the only way to calm his frustrations lately.

  As his fist made solid contact with the sack, a welcome pain vibrated through his knuckles, reminding him that he should have had someone bind his hands for him. The batting strips he had hastily wrapped around his fists were too loose and already slipping. Another blow thudded dully, sending the bag reeling backward on its tether and twitching as if alive with electric current. A left hook checked its progress so that it flinched and trembled. None of the punches brought the satisfaction he sought.

  Again, he asked himself why he had done it. The worst that could have happened was that August would be furious with him. Fine, it was a certainty that being caught with him in the library and forced to marry would have sent her into state of fury so intense she might have tried to kill him. He was confident in his ability to handle that. He handled two lively younger sisters all the time. While August was a different type of woman altogether, he would have survived. Given time, she would have adjusted to life as a duchess. Their marrying was inevitable; he had no doubt about that. So why had he blocked Hereford’s entry?

  The only answer he could settle on was that the kiss had thrown him off. What had started as a very straightforward attempt at seduction had gone off the tracks. How had kissing her so overwhelmed him? One moment he had been in control, and the next he had had her up against a bookcase with his hands under her skirts. He never lost his restraint like that. Certainly not in a library at a ball.

  Growling, he unleashed a fury of blows on the battered burlap until a pleasant burn developed in his arms. The only thing he could command in his life was his training. It was the one thing he did daily, and it grounded
him as nothing else could. Unfortunately, it was doing nothing to ease the fury coursing through him. Fury with himself. With her. With his father and the situation that had made her so necessary to him. He had lived his life until now with no restraints, and now that was all he seemed to have.

  Bloody hell. When his lungs desperately needed more air than he could pull in, he let his hands fall. His fists pressed into his knees as he leaned over and tried to draw air into his lungs. A telltale hint of red bonded a strip of batting to his knuckle. Despite the pain and discomfort of his body, her expression still haunted him. The mild confusion that had turned to emotional pain when Hereford had come to the door. Lips swollen, she had been as lost in the kiss as him, but when the voices had penetrated the fog of passion, she had believed that he had betrayed her. Not only had she believed it, but she had been hurt by it.

  Up until that moment, or that kiss to be more precise, Evan had viewed his extraordinary courtship of her as a game. Winning her hand would be the prize at the end. Knowing that the future of so many lay on his shoulders had helped convince him that winning by any means was not as unconscionable as it might have been. Yet, a bizarre mix of her expression of painful betrayal and his own conscience rearing its head at the very last moment had made him put his hands on the latch. As he had held it tight, something had become clear to him. He wanted to win her on his own merit. He wanted her to choose him. And, more importantly, he did not want to hurt her.

  Letting loose a roar of frustration, he attacked the sandbag again, wishing it was the long-buried sense of honor that had reared its ugly head at the wrong time.

  “Ha!”

  Honor had nothing to do with it. His conscience would not allow him to hide behind such a noble lie. It had been pure selfishness. Wanting her to choose him would be a way of proving to himself and everyone else that he had won. That he was capable of holding her esteem on his own merit. It was most definitely not rooted in any sense of honor. That particular sentiment had not been present in his decisions for a long time.