Thinking about Kenneworth plying his trade on that innocent Yank had Stephen grinding his teeth, and not just because he knew what an absolute reprobate the duke was.
It was whom he was planning to ply his trade on, actually, that set Stephen’s teeth on edge.
He looked away before he said or did something he would regret. Unfortunately, the next most interesting thing in the room happened to be his trio of on-again-off-again girlfriends who had apparently banded together to make his life hell. He attempted a polite smile and had hard stares in return.
Well, he perhaps had no one but himself to blame there. He’d brushed off the suggestions for walks, strolls, and ambles through either deserted hallways or wintery gardens with excuses he couldn’t quite remember but was sure amounted to, “have a bit of a headache, sorry.”
He jumped a little when he realized Raphaela Preston had sidled up to him. Actually, the woman didn’t sidle, she glided. The material point was, she was wearing an expression of serenity that he was sure boded very ill for his peace of mind.
“What?” he muttered grimly.
“Why, Haulton, your temper is ferocious tonight.”
“Bad eggs for breakfast.”
She laughed and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I have a few—how is it you would put it?—ah, yes, a few tidings for you, darling.”
He could hardly wait.
“Your harem is plotting your demise,” Raphaela said with the smirk of a cat who had just polished off an entire pitcher of cream and wouldn’t be suffering injuries to its tum anytime soon. “They’ve been huddled together all day discussing their plans.”
“Cut brake lines or ptomaine poisoning?” Stephen asked sourly.
“I believe they would prefer to see you drawn and quartered, but rumor has it they feared retribution from the authorities. I understand they’ve limited themselves to seeing you eviscerated in the press.”
“A pity I never do anything controversial.”
“They’re planning on lying.”
Stephen pursed his lips. “I hope they enjoy it.”
She looked up at him in surprise, then laughed. “Yes, well, I’m sure they shall. Shall I tell you what else I know?”
“Is it possible to tell you to stop politely?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, politely. “Our sweet American was rather curious at the breakfast you couldn’t seem to find your way to this morning about some additions to her bedroom. I told her I thought they might have been sent by my son.” She blinked innocently. “What do you think?”
“That you are far too lovely and discreet to be called meddlesome,” Stephen said, putting his hand over hers. “Unfortunately.”
Raphaela looked at that son prowling around the room, looking particularly loathsome in his perfect evening wear. She studied him for quite some time in silence, then shook her head slowly.
“He should marry.”
“He should,” Stephen agreed. “The sooner, the better.”
Raphaela looked up at him. “Does your mother say the same thing to you?”
“Often.”
Raphaela studied him with the same searching look—he shifted in spite of himself—then went back to her contemplation of her son. “Miss Alexander is not for him.”
“Because she doesn’t have a title, or money, or pedigree?” Stephen asked lightly. “And haven’t we had this conversation before?”
“If we haven’t, we should have, and no, that isn’t the reason. And I phrased it badly. I should have said, he is not for her.”
Stephen remained silent—and to his mind it was wisely done.
“He will break her heart.” Raphaela looked up at him. “But you wouldn’t, would you?”
Stephen started to speak, then shut his mouth because there was nothing to be said. He took a deep breath. “Why do you like her?”
“Because she is charming and honest and laughs at an old woman’s attempts at humor. And she speaks French very well. You should have her examine yours for flaws.”
“That might take a while.”
Raphaela smiled. “And so it might, which I doubt would trouble you. You’re very welcome, Stephen darling, for the idea. Since you seem to be running short of ways to have her to yourself.”
“She doesn’t like me,” he said with a sigh.
“What did you do?”
He laughed a little. “Why would you assume it’s my fault?”
“Because,
cher
, you are a man,” Raphaela said simply.
“I’m insulted.”
“Not inspired?”
“I was taught from an early age to bite my tongue when so inspired.”
“Your mother is my good friend, in spite of my late husband and hers who has no love for my son. I don’t see enough of her. But I believe you and I were talking about something else entirely. What did you do to my darling Peaches to anger her so?”
Stephen sighed. “I draw breath in and let it out. Unfortunately, that letting out seems to be occasionally accompanied by words.”
“Made an arse of yourself, did you?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.
“Repeatedly.”
“Well, then why don’t you apologize?” She shrugged. “That seems simple enough to me.”
“For what purpose?” he asked very quietly. “There can be nothing between us.”
She made a noise of impatience. “Stephen, you have spent too much time with your head buried in medieval texts. This is the twenty-first century and many things are allowed.”
“You don’t know my grandmother—”
“Do you worry she’ll cut off your allowance if you wed where you prefer?” Raphaela asked lightly. “And yes, I know her very well, the old witch. She terrifies me, and I am not seeking her approval on my choice of spouse. I’m a little surprised you’re allowing her to have an opinion on yours.”
Stephen started to speak, but Raphaela shook her head.
“I understand what you face, for it is a part of my life I would rather do without. But we have our duties, don’t we?” She turned back to her contemplation of her son. “His father indulged him too much and I wasn’t strong enough to counter it. His elder brother would have made a better heir, of course, if he had lived …” She took a deep breath and smiled. “All behind us now, isn’t it? The future beckons and David must wed. Not your lady, though. If Kenneworth is to be saved, it will take a very strong woman to manage him and the house, too. Money would help, of course, but I would prefer someone sensible to manage what we already have.” She pulled her hand away and smiled. “I believe I’ll put a stop to the champagne. It is much too early for that sort of thing.”
Stephen watched her go and almost wished he hadn’t heard that last bit. Perhaps his family wasn’t perfect, but they worked hard and appreciated what they had. He had wondered, when he hadn’t had anything better to do, about David Preston’s lavish lifestyle and how he managed to afford it. He lived like a man who thought his ship was about to come in, a ship he had already seen out in the harbor and knew was near to docking.
And now to be faced with an evening spent watching that fool slobbering all over a girl without a penny to her name. Well, she might have had a bit, but Tess had intimated that morning when Stephen had called her to double-check sizes that Peaches had spent a decent amount of her savings on the gown that had been ruined.
He rubbed his hands over his face because it broke his train of thought. He wished he didn’t know anything about David Preston, and wished he hadn’t called Tess to find out details about Peaches that weren’t any of his business.
Really, he was going to have to keep his mouth shut more often.
He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms over his chest. It kept his hands from reaching out and carrying him along with them as they made their way across the floor to strangle the current Duke of Kenneworth.
He could see why the man was attracted to Peaches. Who wouldn’t be? But the truth of it was, David had absolutely no bloody idea who Peaches truly was. Her name, yes, and where she was from, but that was the extent of it.
For example, Kenneworth had no idea how profoundly kind Peaches could be. But Stephen did. She had had that kindness on display for him—before he made that stupid remark about organic earth. She had been gloriously wonderful with his uncle Kendrick’s children and his brother Gideon’s daughter. She had been lovely to his parents. And when Tess had gone on her little vacation to points unknown with John de Piaget, Peaches had stepped into her sister’s shoes without hesitation and done what was necessary with grace and skill, and without complaint.
What wasn’t to like about her?
The sticking point was, as he’d told Raphaela, that she didn’t like him. Perhaps that was putting it mildly. She loathed him. It was a rather novel sensation, that. He’d never been shunned by a woman before. He had always done the “oh, so sorry, but I’ve an engagement” kind of thing to let them down easily. Peaches hadn’t let him down; she’d given him the boot.
It was very unpleasant. After all, he was relatively rich, relatively young, and had a pair of titles. His father wasn’t ancient, but Stephen had found himself taking on more and more of his father’s public duties, which left him relatively responsible. His ancestral home had been used half a dozen times as a movie set and was just a minor slog over the dunes from the sea.
If that wasn’t enough to impress a feisty, argumentative, impossible Yank, what would be?
He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“Don’t suppose you’d want to go for a walk in a wintry garden, would you?”
Stephen looked to his right to find Andrea Preston standing there, smiling an amused smile at him.
“Do I look like I need it?” he asked.
“You do look a little peaked,” she agreed. “And so I thought a walk might be just the thing to bring the color back to your cheeks.”
“You’re too kind.”
“My worst fault.”
Stephen would have taken her up on her offer, but he made the mistake of turning and looking at the door.
He caught his breath.
Then he smiled.
White had been the right color. The woman standing there in the doorway looked like a princess. It helped, perhaps, that she was by far the most beautiful in the room, but he could honestly say that that wasn’t it. It wasn’t the dress, or her hair swept up off her shoulders, or her perfect face.
It was just Peaches Alexander, with her beauty shining through where all could see it.
Not even the sight of the Duke of Kenneworth trotting over to monopolize her was enough to sour his pleasure at just watching her.
She was escorted into the ballroom as if she had been royalty. Stephen was fairly certain he heard the grinding of teeth coming from various quarters, but he ignored it. He wasn’t sure, but he suspected that even Andrea had deserted him for points unknown.
He wondered how it was he would ever get Peaches away from David to have even a single dance.
He imagined the evening would drag on endlessly. He would have been happy for that at another time, for it would have given him the chance to simply stand to the side and watch the absolute perfection that was Peaches Alexander, but at the moment he was too overcome by the desire to help David Preston meet with a crippling accident to concentrate on much else.
He tried to convince himself that he just wanted Peaches to be happy, but it occurred to him as he watched David signal the orchestra, then sweep Peaches into his arms, that he didn’t want her just to be happy.
He wanted her to be his.
He’d suspected that all along, of course, but there was something about seeing her in another man’s arms with her face aglow with happiness that forced him to face the truth. Indeed, it was almost enough to leave him looking for a place to sit down.
Instead, he simply found himself a handy sideboard topped with a few sturdy keepsakes and leaned against it. He put on his usual mask to hide his thoughts and gave himself over to deep thoughts.
He didn’t know if she could learn to love him. He wasn’t sure if she would be willing to take on the duties that would be required of her as the Countess of Artane when the time came. He wasn’t even convinced she could live the rest of her life in England.
All he knew was that he wanted her, for scores of reasons he didn’t dare consider at the moment.
He had another deep breath, then began to plan his strategy. He hadn’t spent all that time in the bowels of various libraries across the world without having learned something about preparing a battle. He also hadn’t endured innumerable defeats at Ian MacLeod’s hands without finally learning a few less-than-gentlemanly tactics.
It was obvious the first step was to see if he couldn’t convince her to set aside her animosity toward him. He would have preferred to have taken a bit more time to contemplate how that might best be accomplished, but the truth was, the battle was upon him and his foe was engaged in a waltzing offensive.
He would have to commandeer her dance card and cross out David’s name at least once.
The night was young.
P
eaches
looked at the grandfather clock standing against the wall and wondered, absently, if it were bolted to that wall or not. If not, she was slightly surprised to find it hadn’t fallen over with all the dancing that had gone on that night.
It was eleven thirty.
All right, so she was used to all kinds of otherworldly sensations—and those weren’t just the ones caused by whatever her parents had been smoking. She’d seen ghosts, had waves of history sweep over her at particular historical sites, known ahead of time things she shouldn’t have been able to. But there was something else going on at present, something magical.
Something that felt a great deal like destiny.
“May I have this dance, Miss Alexander?”
Peaches was certain she had almost jumped out of her very lovely and surprisingly comfortable shoes. That was followed by the immediate desire to curse, which she suppressed because Aunt Edna had never sent her out the door without telling her to be a lady. She took a deep breath, silently told destiny to keep itself on ice, and decided she would get the polite thing to do
over with and dance with that damned Viscount Haulton. She turned around and smiled. Politely.