Page 21 of The Duke's Bride in Disguise
Kilbride's blue eyes held hers steadily and his hand reached out to hers, drawing her toward him, as dozens of people filed past.
"I am not an easy man," he said, hesitantly, his brow creased in a frown; "But I can try."
Gracious; as apologies went, it was rather short, but what Kilbride lacked in verbosity, he made up for in sincerity. Never, in all her years, had Ava seen a man look so fiercely determined, yet lost at the same time.
The urge to stroke his brow and comfort him, overcame her once again. The man standing before her was not a boor, nor a cold-hearted brute, but a human, who was aching and broken, just like she.
Still, she reminded herself, the man standing before her was not hers—he was promised to her sister. And Ava was not pretending to be Emily in order to invite confidences and searing looks from the duke, she was there to scare him away.
"No apology needed," she replied tightly, attempting to break the intense, heated spell between them, "Now—where has my father got to?"
Gently, she tugged her hand away from his and turned to follow the shifting crowd. That she would have liked to stay, holding Kilbride's hand was undeniable—but neither was the fact that the duke's sincere apology had been directed toward Lady Emily, and not a poor commoner like she.
Sensing, rather than seeing, that Kilbride was behind her, Ava tripped down the stairs in her satin slippers, to the thronged foyer. When people smiled, or waved at her, she acknowledged them with a smile of her own, but did not stop to talk. Her head was far too fuddled by the duke to even attempt to play the part of her charming, gregarious sister.
"It's McCasey himself," Kilbride whispered, as he spotted the dark-haired thespian holding court near the doors.
Despite her reservations, Ava found herself following the duke, as he elbowed his way through the crowd, toward the actor.
"Paris was a delight," Ava heard McCasey say in a booming, theatrical voice, "But nothing compares to a London audience."
The crowd gathered around him simpered with delight; McCasey certainly knew how to please, Ava thought wryly. The thespian looked up as the duke approached, his face wreathed in a smile, but then he caught sight of Ava behind him, and his face turned pale.
"Good show McCasey," Kilbride called, "London is glad to have you back."
"My thanks, Your Grace," McCasey replied, his voice less confident and booming than before. McCasey hesitated a moment, before stealing a glance at Ava.
"My bride to be," Kilbride said, cheerfully introducing the pair, "Lady Emily Fairfax."
"Enchanted," McCasey gave an elaborate bow, "Forgive me for staring, but you reminded me of a girl I once knew..."
"Well, you won't get to know this one, McCasey," a rather drunk man said with a roar of laughter, "Lest you want His Grace to run you through with a sword."
The crowd giggled and tittered with amusement, and McCasey seemed to remember himself, theatrically pretending that he had been stabbed in the stomach, much to his audience's delight.
"Forgive me, I should not have brought you over," Kilbride murmured, as he took in the raucous scene before them. With a stiff nod to the actor, Kilbride placed his hand on the small of Ava's back and steered her in the direction of Lord Fairfax, who stood waiting with the others on the far side of the room. Though, before she turned, Ava once again caught McCasey staring at her queerly, and as his green eyes met hers, she too felt a jolt of familiarity.
Stop that, she admonished herself as her mind began to wander, not everyone you meet is a long lost relative. And with that thought, she bade the duke, the dowager duchess and Lady Georgiana goodnight, before following Lord Fairfax to their carriage.
