Page 48 of The Duke's Stolen Heart
Over his dance partner’s shoulder, Malcolm spied his grandmother in a fawn gown with gold accents. A younger woman whispered in her ear. The Dowager Duchess of Summervale glanced his way. Her nose wrinkled as if she had stepped in a pile of offal in the street. She swept onward. A ripple of voices around the room told him that his behavior had started yet another round of Awful Havencrest rumors. He wanted not to care. Defiance would come so much easier if he didn’t care what a lot of silver-haired women and their fancy, turbaned friends thought of him.
Malcolm had always tried to please, and it cut him to the quick when he couldn’t. He was too much like his mother. Forever wishing for more love than he could get. Here he was, angling for the approval of his grandmother, Princess Esterhazy and Lady Jersey, for something as ridiculous as access to a fusty dance hall with mediocre refreshments and a lot of rules that served no purpose other than to impress upon others their failures.
Antonia played along enough to get what she wanted and thumbed her nose their approval. Malcolm admiredher sheer bravado. He envied her self-reliance even more. All it would take for him to bring her around to his side was for him to let her go.
* * *
Antonia strode awayfrom the dance floor, feeling very much like the fraud she was. No pot-scrubbing of her youth had ever scalded as badly as her poor performance this evening.
She had overreacted, and she knew it.
Antonia was not opposed to kissing as a general concept. She quite liked the idea of kissing Malcolm—Havencrest—again. But not if he held her to the standard of protected young ladies like Margaret. That was simply ridiculous. He had no right to expect that from her.
I was asking about you.
Her few relationships had been undermined by the lies Antonia habitually told. Were she possessed of a more biddable temperament, she might be married by now, with children clinging to her legs. If not content, she’d have at least been too tired to complain about her lot in life. But no, when she had sought pleasure in a man’s arms, there had been a lambskin barrier to prevent closer ties than she wanted. Antonia was not ashamed. She also did not appreciate being asked directly about it. Not even by Malcolm. If she wanted to tell him, she would.
“Young lady.”
Antonia stopped short. Her skirts swung forward and settled around her knees in a swish of fabric so soft and delicate that a sigh settled in her chest. She adored that sensation. The feeling of judgmental eyes pinning her in place, however, was far less enjoyable.
“Your Grace.” Antonia dropped into a neat curtsey.
“Impertinent,” the Dowager Duchess of Summervale scowled. “I must ask—no, Iinsist—that any lady who deigns to dance with my grandson do him the honor of not abandoning him in the middle of the song.”
“You hardly speak with the man. What does it matter to you?” It was not the right tone, not by a long shot. Antonia cringed inwardly.
“He is still a duke and representative of the Havencrest family name. Despite his many flaws, the Duke of Havencrest deserves your respect and admiration.” The duchess struck her silver-headed cane against the scarred wooden floor. “Even an upstart American must understand and observe our customs.”
Her gown had done its work. In choosing it, she had declared herself a force of change that threatened the old guard. Lady Summervale understood her silent challenge and responded exactly as Antonia had hoped. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. Antonia’s unyielding attitude had probably helped, too. “Why, I do regret having given offense, my lady.”
There was not a trace of regret in her posture. Antonia made certain of it.
“We upstart Americans have our own customs. Primarily the belief that all men are created equal.” Gauntlet thrown.
Lady Summervale’s forehead wrinkled deeply in surprise as she reassessed the intruder in their midst. Antonia held herself regally, willing this woman to see her as a challenge. Young. Rich. Unburdened by the formalities of the past. “Youth and their newfangled ideas. As though change ever brings anyone happiness,” Lady Summervale chided after a long moment.
Antonia laughed. “Do I seem unhappy to you, Lady Summervale?”
The old woman’s rheumy eyes went wide. Her nostrils flared like a bull ready to charge a matador.
Perfect,thought Antonia with satisfaction. Her mark had taken the bait. This was the biggest gamble she had ever taken, and it felt immensely gratifying to know she had figured out precisely which velvet rope to pull to summon Lady Summervale’s ruthless competitiveness. She would have no choice but to accept Antonia’s challenge once she issued it.
“You seem unmarried.” The woman sniffed. “It is the same thing.”
Antonia’s jaw slackened. “I cannot see much opportunity for happiness in a loveless marriage,” she shot back pointedly. Two seconds before, she had been certain she’d set the duchess on her back foot.
“You should see how the loving ones turn out. Nothing but hard feelings, in the end.” She banged her cane upon the floor again and shuffled off in the direction of the card room.
“Did you imagine you could best my grandmother so easily?” a voice rumbled in her ear.
Warmth liquefied Antonia’s innards. “I see where you get your arrogance,” Antonia replied ruefully. She had not forgiven him for his earlier effrontery. “It must be a family trait.”
He was silent. Margaret, beside him, was not. “You speak as if to insult my poor Havencrest.” She giggled and patted his arm. Missing the subtext, as usual. Antonia let her friend take her by the arm.
“Your beau is capable of managing himself,” she commented acidly. Yet meeting his gaze felt like swords clashing. Perhaps he could manage himself, but she was having a devil of a time controlling her temper around him. Antonia liked cold, hard objects, not the soft and deceptive landscape of emotional attachments.
How would Margaret feel if she knew Antonia and Malcolm had kissed?
