Page 24 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
“Quite,” Antonia said in her best imitation of her newly adopted home country. It wasn’t as though she ever intended to return to America—not that she was yet convinced to make her home here. There was the pesky matter of her light-fingered means of self-support.
“I cannot believe that he, of all people, obtained a voucher,” Margaret marveled.
“Why shouldn’t he?” Antonia asked. It was a question she had wanted to ask for ages. What made this man such an anathema to society?
“Oh, his family is the blackest branch of dukes in all England,” Margaret muttered from behind her fan. Havencrest spotted them and made his way through the crowd like a bull. Ladies in fine gowns darted aside like bowling pins, until a sprightly woman in violet taffeta with brown curls dangling against her bright cheeks interceded. Margaret continued breathlessly, “The Havencrest dukedom was created after supposedly killing a sworn enemy of King George I’s, although it is rumored that the first Havencrest son was actually the king’s own bastard.”
“I had heard whispers of his connection to Queen Charlotte.” Antonia interjected.
Margaret shrugged, checked their pursuer’s progress and continued her tale sotto voce. “I believe that one is false, but the entire Havencrest line is made up of thorough rakes. The house’s fate was sealed when the late Duchess of Havencrest died by her own hand.” Margaret’s eyes shone with excitement as she whispered. Antonia was reminded of her companion’s comparative youth—nearly a decade younger than herself—in that blazing moment.
“Promise me something, Maggie,” Antonia drawled as Havencrest disentangled himself from Princess Esterhazy’s grasp. “Do not fall in love with Havencrest.”
Margaret laughed. “I don’t believe there is any risk of that happening.”
Antonia didn’t feel quite so certain. An unfamiliar sensation hollowed out her stomach.
The sound of his Hessian boots rang on the scarred wood dance floor. Margaret glanced at him, then up at Antonia, and giggled. Antonia patted her hand where it was still curled around her forearm and grinned.
Havencrest came to an abrupt stop at several feet distance. Antonia half-expected him to paw the floor with one boot like an angry bull. She smothered a laugh, but it bubbled out in a brief guffaw. They were laughing at him, and Havencrest knew it.
Their shared humor at his expense brought a dark shadow into his eyes. Antonia’s laughter evaporated. The hurt she carried with her recognized the pain in him and snuffed out her amusement in an instant. Only Margaret was left giggling to herself, as the poor innocent girl failed to pick up on the quick change in atmosphere. A beat too late, she mastered herself and dropped a curtsey.
“Your Grace,” she mumbled.
Antonia bobbed as well—too quickly. Her knees nearly buckled, then locked when she came up. The volume of the room fell to a hush. A thousand eyes regarded them. Her pulse as she forced herself to look up. The searing heat in his eyes nearly felled her. Antonia’s breath caught and her vision hazed at the edges.
Havencrest pulled his gaze from hers, and stuffy air filled her lungs. Her range of vision expanded. Antonia applied her fan and glanced around, quirking one eyebrow at the cluster of ladies who looked on with a mixture of curiosity and menace. Now that she could breathe again, Margaret had things well in hand.
“I am honored,” Margaret accepted the duke’s outstretched hand and, with a backward glance at Antonia, abandoned her for the dance floor. She remained rooted in place, bereft.
Antonia ought to take her own advice. Don’t fall in love with Havencrest. Though, if this was love, Antonia wanted nothing further to do with it. Fortunately for her, her heart, if she had one, was not susceptible to the attentions of large, lying, wealthy men. No matter how handsome they were.
A shimmer of silver caught her eye and Antonia snapped her fan closed. Her rose pink gown fluttered behind her as she turned on her heel to follow the Dowager Duchess of Summervale into the card room. Here was a chance to observe the old bat in her chosen environment. Antonia settled herself at an empty table just out of view of the duchess. Idly she flipped through the cards, shuffling them, laying them out, then scooping them up again. Feeling how the stock shifted in her lambskin gloves gave Antonia ideas. So did the way the duchess dealt out hands of whist. Tin tokens flashed as the old woman’s hands moved over the printed rectangles. Her eyes reflected the chips’ flinty gleam.
The duchess was not a happy woman, Antonia observed.
A woman in a turban hat and flowing robes settled into place opposite the table. Fine lines creased the corners of her mouth and eyes. The two women squared off, outwardly pleasant, but with beady eyes and sharp talons, they reminded Antonia of two roosters fluffing their feathers up before a fight. Cards flicked and snapped. Tokens slid across inlaid wood. She lost count of the cards as the women rapidly scooped up tricks. All of Antonia’s experience at cards came from street corners in cities where fair play was a figment of imagination. This was akin to viewing sword fight after witnessing a knife brawl. Had she known how to play cards she could have spent the past several months fleecing the ton legitimately instead of risking her neck at theft.
“I see you have found my grandmother.” Havencrest spoke in her ear. Lighting jolted her innards, though Antonia took care to mask her reaction. Frozen to her seat, it required several seconds for her to regain her composure.
“It is best if we are not seen together, Your Grace,” Antonia mumbled out of the side of her mouth. Margaret dropped into the seat beside her.
“My eternal gratitude for helping me find her, Lord Havencrest, I had no idea Miss Lowry would be here in the card room. I thought you hardly knew how to play?” Margaret speared her with a speaking glare, then simpered up at Havencrest with a gleeful spark in her eye. This was the sort of habitual effusiveness that made wittier ladies of the ton roll their eyes at Margaret.
“I don’t,” snapped Antonia.
The duchess glanced over and dismissed them with a turn of her head. Her gaze snagged on the large man hovering between Antonia and Margaret. Antonia tried to ignore him as she tucked her knees and elbows against her body in an attempt to appear smaller and unnoticeable. Antonia wished she could disappear into the floor. Did the man have any idea of subtlety? Of observation? If not…how the devil had he caught her? Lady Summervale studied Antonia for what felt like an eternity, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. Then, the old lady raised her chin, leveraged herself out of her chair with scant elegance but great dignity, and thumped out of the room.
“Good evening, Lord Havencrest,” said the turbaned woman. “I see you’ve made good of your voucher. I confess myself astonished to see you here.”
“Lady Jersey.” He bent over her wrist. “I would not miss an evening of gaiety to save my life.”
For a moment, Lady Jersey looked as though she had swallowed a hive full of bees. Her laughter burst forward in gusts. “Hahahaha.” She clasped both hands over her bosom as if to physically restrain herself. “You cannot mean it. Not after the last time you set foot in this room.”
Last time?
“I find myself again of a mind to take a wife, my lady.” Havencrest’s mouth quirked up in a sardonic smirk. Antonia found herself riveted on that tiny gesture. Had she ever seen him smile?
