Page 69 of The Defiant One
And there, yet a third brother, tawny-haired and laughing, his arm wrapped casually around the waist of his dark-haired wife. Ah yes, he was a Member of Parliament, wasn't he? She thought he looked familiar. Possibly a problem, if he had a serious bone in his body, but he looked more concerned with making merry, and ensuring that everyone else around him did as well, than he did anything else.
Eva yawned. This was going to be an easy task, after all.
And finally, his sister on his arm, the last, the oldest, and without doubt, the most formidable of all the de Montforte brothers — His Grace the duke of Blackheath himself. Eva's eyes narrowed and a satisfied, completely feline smile curled her mouth. She recognized a worthy adversary the moment that omniscient black stare met hers.
The duke paused just before them and regarded the earl with flat dislike. "Really, Somerfield, if you're trying to make a point by skulking back here in the shadows, I daresay you'd have succeeded far better had you simply stayed home." As Somerfield bristled, the duke turned his head and regarded Eva down the length of his nose with arrogant disdain and a certain unmistakable gleam in his eye that she immediately recognized as something more than just curiosity.
Carnal interest.
And there was nothing subtle about it, either.
"And you, I suppose, must be the heiress who is destined to bail our dear Somerfield out of debt?"
"On the contrary, Your Grace," she purred, offering her small, gloved hand and never letting her cat-like smile waver as he bowed deeply over it. "I am Lady Eva de la Mouriére, a distant cousin of the man you just insulted."
"Charmed," he drawled.
"She's also friends with the French-based ambassador of the United States of America," the annoying, all-too-revealing Somerfield crowed.
The duke raised an unimpressed brow. "Ah, yes. Those infernal colonies."
Eva's smile became downright poisonous. "Colonies? I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that it has taken well over a year for news of the outside world to reach you aristocrats up here in the country." She pointedly withdrew her hand. "I'm sorry to correct you, sir, but those infernal colonies to which you refer are no longer the possessions of Britain, but an emerging young nation in their own right."
The duke stared at her, his smile going cold, his eyes the hard, dangerous color of black ice.
Eva, still smiling, dropped in a deep, mocking curtsy. "Now, if you will excuse me, Your Grace? I really must offer my felicitations to the bride and groom."
And then, head high, she took Gerald's arm and walked past the duke, leaving him staring after her — just like that.
Eva de la Mouriére was well used to dealing with men. Jacques had been ill from the day she'd married him, a political figurehead behind which she was the brains and cunning for which he took credit. She had handled the most corrupt power players in the civilized world. She'd had kings and emissaries and foreign ambassadors on their knees to do her bidding.
A wasp alighted on her sleeve, and she smiled as she casually flicked it away.
Really, now.
She could handle one arrogant English duke.
Chapter 21
By noon most of the villagers were as drunk as lords.
By one o'clock Andrew was bored, restless, and eager to get on the road to Rosebriar Park.
And by two he finally deserted the celebration, bade farewell to the departing Gareth and Juliet, and asked Celsie if she might change her clothes and help him finish packing up his laboratory.
Celsie was all too happy to agree. In the secluded west wing, there was peace, quiet, and solitude. Working together, they wrapped bottles, jars, and vials in cloth and placed them in wooden boxes. They packed up Andrew's hopelessly disorganized notes, and asked three servants who could still walk to bring the crates of books, texts, and tomes downstairs, where everything was to be piled into a wagon that would bring the laboratory's contents to Rosebriar in the morning.
Andrew was just taking the precious vial of aphrodisiac that he'd kept out for testing from its cabinet when Lucien and Charles walked in. The duke was back in his country clothes: leather breeches, boots, and a dark coat of fine broadcloth. Charles was still in his scarlet regimentals, and looked as restless as Andrew had felt at the villagers' celebration.
"Place seems rather empty," Lucien mused, his voice echoing through the nearly bare room. He bent to retrieve a forlorn scrap of paper covered with Andrew's scribblings from the floor. "I'll miss you, little brother."
"Yes, well, you can't be missing me too much, otherwise you wouldn't have moved hell and high water to get me married and out of here," Andrew snapped, shutting the cabinet. "I'm sure your triumph would be complete if only I'd admit that I expect Celsie and me to be perfectly miserable together, but that's not going to happen. Your machinations have gone awry, Lucien, because I realize now that I would have been far more miserable staying here under your roof than I'll ever be under hers."
Charles winced. Celsie's hand flew to her mouth. But Lucien never moved. He just stood there holding the scrap of paper, looking, for once, as if he had nothing to say.
Andrew brushed past him, indignantly snatching the piece of paper from his hand and stuffing it into his own pocket.
"Really now, Andrew," said Lucien, recovering. "I never had any wish to make you miserable."
