Page 5 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
Feeling his defeat to the very roots of his hair, Havencrest backed up until his too-broad shoulder hit the wall. “Perhaps another time. I bid you good evening.”
“Your lordship.” Miss Lowry rose from the settee and executed a curtsey fit for the King’s court. When she rose, her dark eyes laughed at him. A deep fury boiled in his chest. There was nothing more wounding to a man’s pride than a woman’s mockery.
Unless it was two women sharing a laugh at his expense.
Margaret’s bow lips pulled up into a smile at the corners. It faded the instant he glared in her supine direction. The girl blinked nervously.
“My lady,” he bowed, stiff with indignation. “Miss Lowry.”
What a disaster. He had run his quarry to ground only to discover that Miss Lowry retained complete control. Even here, where his rank ought to open every door, Miss Lowry remained beyond his influence. Havencrest jammed his hat over his ears and clambered into his coach without waiting for the footman’s assistance.
He would have Miss Lowry’s help, one way or another. Next time, he’d catch her alone.
* * *
“What on earth was that about?”Margaret asked the instant their guest had departed. She giggled breathlessly.
“Apparently, his lordship wished to take me for a carriage ride. In the dark, during a sleet storm. In January.” Antonia let herself enjoy a chuckle. The Duke of Havencrest had been no true threat after all. “The poor man, so overcome with love for me that my reasonable refusal of hisgenerousoffer” —Margaret hooted with laughter at this— “sent him packing with his tail between his legs.”
“Like a stray dog kicked in the street. I almost felt sorry for him!” exclaimed Margaret.
“I find it difficult to pity a man who owns half of Hertfordshire,” Antonia remarked darkly. “A rich duke can purchase all the sympathy he wants.”
“Toni. Are you implying a…a mistress?” Margaret chided with genuine surprise. The ignorance expected of well-bred young women always took Antonia off-guard. They were not supposed to know about men who hired ladies’ services for pleasure, though clearly her friend had heard whispers of such matters. Antonia had had a rude introduction to the concept not long after her mother had moved them to New Jersey. By age twelve, she knew what sex was, how it was done, and that men usually enjoyed it while women frequently did not. Innocent Margaret picked at a lint on her blanket. “I thought us Englishmen were the only ones who paid attention to a man’s property. Not that we are supposed to discuss it.”
In moments like this one, Antonia felt a strange softening within her breast as if an ice floe had cleaved from her heart. Margaret might be silly and far too trusting, but she had also been unexpectedly loyal. Margaret would give anything to escape the shadow of her brother’s guardianship. Likely, within a few months she would be engaged. Marriage and babies couldn’t be far distant in Margaret’s future. It made Antonia a little sad to think Margaret would never have the chance to experience life lived under one’s own direction. No choices made for you, no one to stop you from reaching for your dreams. Antonia didn’t know what to do with that much goodwill, freely given, without expectation of reciprocity. The Duke of Havencrest wasn’t the only kicked puppy cringing his way through the world.
Hardly, Antonia checked herself. Havencrest was rich and powerful, and he could crush her with what he knew about her light-fingered tendencies. If she didn’t find a way to get rid of him, undoubtedly, he would. Antonia had decided, long ago and several names before she had settled upon her current moniker, never to cede her wishes to another’s will. She would die free before she’s permit herself to be imprisoned or hanged. Both were consequences the law said in plain black and white that she deserved. On two continents, no less.
“It behooves every unmarried woman to acknowledge the size of a man’s—” Antonia winked, “—property.”
Margaret’s blue eyes widened. She shifted on the little couch and laughed. “You are so naughty, Antonia. If you weren’t so proper around my brother and my sister-in-law, they would turn you out of the house in a trice.”
“I aim to delight you, Maggie dear.”
It was dangerous to give Margaret a nickname. Antonia’s mother had never let her keep pets in the few short years they had lived together. If you gave a pet a moniker, you had to keep the beast. She had never been permitted to keep a favorite amongst the cats that swarmed the scrap dish Antonia left out each night back in New York. Not that it had stopped her from falling for a sassy orange tabby, or later, a shy gray kitten. But she knew better than to name creatures that crossed her path. Despite Margaret’s attachment, Havencrest’s visit today had been proof that Antonia needed to move on.
After supper they retreated to Margaret’s bedroom. While her maid bathed her in a copper hip bath behind a modesty screen, Antonia sat at her friend’s dressing table trying on baubles.
“Do you suppose he intends to offer for you?” asked Margaret from behind the painted barrier.
“Who? The Duke of Havencrest?” Antonia lifted a paste necklace to her throat. Glass and colored foil interspersed with clusters of seed pearls, cheap and plentiful, made for a charming display. Pretty as it was, the value was nothing. The jeweler where she fenced her ill-gotten valuables would give her nothing for imitation jewels. She had learned the hard way to identify paste from real gems.
“No, the Prince of Wales,” joked Margaret. Water splashed in the background. “Of course, the Duke of Havencrest. I have never seen a man so anxious in the presence of a woman before. I swear I saw sweat bead on his brow.”
“I am shocked you can see so far up,” remarked Antonia. “His head is so far up from the ground, I wonder he can breathe in such thin air.”
Margaret snorted. “He is a remarkably tall one.” A long pause. “I didn’t remember him being so handsome, either.”
Antonia froze. Her fingertips lingered over the clasp of an enamel and diamond bracelet. She had practiced flicking the catch with one hand in a quick, deft movement. Now, she went still as stone as an unfamiliar heat streaked through her body.
“I thought him rather terrifying.” Antonia spoke after the wave of strange feeling had passed. “His height is excessive to the point of intimidation. His lordship relies upon it, and his title, to get what he wants.”
“What if that means you, Toni?” There was more splashing. “Wouldn’t you like to be a duchess? I think I would. Especially since the Havencrest line isn’t royal.”
“I don’t know the first thing about it.” Antonia rolled a string of pearls between her fingertips. Real. Large and graded, this collar held value without bearing any distinctive elements. It was an ideal choice for theft. Ought she to take it?
Her hand bunched the necklace into her palm.
Antonia wouldn’t have made it this far without a quick wit and observance of small details that most found beneath their notice. But becoming a duchess was far beyond her wildest ambitions, even if such a role had been offered. No. Havencrest wanted her for another purpose than a wife to dangle off his arm. Antonia didn’t need to know what it was to know she wanted no part in it.
He knew what she was. She had been exposed, and that meant she had to go before it cost her her life. She was rather fond of being alive. Even with all the warts and imperfections of the world, Antonia wanted to remain in it for as long as possible.
The mirror before her reflected a flicker of movement. Antonia’s fingers relaxed. The necklace coiled back into the velvet tray where she had found it.
“Royal dukes are related by blood to the King. As for becoming a duchess, once you’ve married a duke, you are one. That’s all there is to it,” Margaret assured her as she emerged from behind the modesty screen in a wrapper that covered her small body from neck to ankle. “No training necessary, even for an American.”
Margaret sat at the chair next to her dressing table. Her maid stroked a comb through her long hair turned dark gold with dampness. Antonia tried to catch the woman’s eye, but she was focused on her task and didn’t acknowledge her. Antonia had been this maid. She had been the girls who cleared the chamber pots and scrubbed the floors and wrung the linens before hanging them to dry on washing day. She had resented the hard work after her mother had pulled her away from the comparatively gentle task of keeping Mrs. Beckwith company. Her hands had grown soft as she learned to insert herself among the upper-class, always climbing upward and away from servitude. She never forgot her origins, though.
“Even if I were disposed to covet the position of duchess, Maggie,” Antonia mused. “I do not agree that an offer of marriage is forthcoming. Given what little I know of the man, I suspect his interest is puerile and not honorable in the least.”
