Page 24 of The Design of Dukes
“Your Grace.” He bowed.
Foxwood was a trim, neat gentleman clothed in a coat of walnut brown. His lean features and narrow nose spoke of centuries of refinement. The air of superiority hovering about his compact form had been honed from inheriting a title which was one of the oldest and most prestigious in England. Though close in age to David’s late father, Foxwood appeared years younger.
Horace and Foxwood had been close acquaintances, sharing many of the same interests. It had seemed logical to seek him out when David determined he was ready to wed. But it didn’t mean he and David were friends. They weren’t.
“Lord Foxwood, welcome to The Barrow. I trust your journey was without incident.”
“Indeed, Your Grace. And informative. I can see why your father sought the small parcel of land just to the south of your estate. It would be much easier to build a bridge spanning the river at its narrowest point than to go around and build an entire stretch of road.”
How like Foxwood. David did not need to be reminded of every benefit to wedding Beatrice, as he’d already decided to offer for her; he just hadn’t done so yet. He found it amusing to watch Foxwood and his wife twist in the wind, breathlessly awaiting the announcement. David felt no need to reassure Foxwood nor explain that he meant to build a bridge suitable for a locomotive, with a great deal of rail, complete with a station. The idea had been Estwood’s, and it was a good one. Estwood was rarely wrong when it came to investing in industry. The parcel of land which was part of Beatrice’s dowry included the area where the river narrowed.
“A bridge is preferred.” David decided to toy with Foxwood. The man was far too sure of himself and his daughter’s charms. “But not necessary.”
Foxwood’s perfect little mustache quivered at David’s noncommittal response. “Of course, Your Grace.” A charming smile, one patently false, broke across Foxwood’s lips. “I quite agree.”
“Your Grace.” Lady Foxwood floated to them in a cloud of luxurious silk and floral perfume. “I see Foxwood has found you.” Her hand slid easily down her husband’s arm with practiced affection. The silvery-blonde hair twisted atop her head was a shade lighter than her daughter’s, but otherwise Lady Foxwood could easily be mistaken for Beatrice’s older sister. Her sophisticated golden beauty was a perfect foil for her husband. The two reminded David of a matched pair of Pomeranians, carefully styled and coiffed to hide their calculating nature.
David detested small dogs.
“I must thank you again, Your Grace, for your escort as Beatrice and I perused the shops the other day.”
“It was my pleasure, Lady Foxwood.” The ‘other day’ had been a month or so ago, and Lady Foxwood had already thanked him numerous times. Her intention was to remind David he’d since neglected to call on Beatrice. In his estimation, calling on Beatrice would not only be unnecessary but a test of his patience. An entire afternoon with Lady Foxwood and her daughter had been an incredible waste of time.
Except for seeing Andromeda Barrington.
His eyes drifted from Lady Foxwood to the less-than-graceful young lady he’d noticed earlier. She was still conversing with his aunt, hands clasped politely. There was something about her that reminded David of Andromeda. The young lady’s hair was a shade darker, her bosom more generous. And Andromeda didn’t stumble like a blind man while hurling insults at dukes, but still—
Beatrice was suddenly thrust before David by her mother, demanding his attention.
She dipped into a graceful curtsy, moving her shoulders forward so the valley between her ample breasts deepened. A practiced move meant to draw a gentleman’s gaze to her bosom.
While David could only see the tops of her breasts rising above her neckline, he assumed her bosom to be as perfect as the rest of Beatrice. The sun hit the golden strands of her hair, giving the appearance of a halo around her stunning features.
Her lashes fluttered gently against her cheeks, like the wings of a tiny bird, as she straightened. Pink rose petal lips held just a hint of a pout. He’d spoken to her exactly three times before her arrival yesterday, most of which had been during their conversation at Madame Dupree’s.
“Lady Beatrice, you look lovely.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” She cast her eyes down in a demure fashion.
Blythe appeared, sidling up next to David with little warning, shining like a brilliant gold guinea. Teeth, even and blindingly white, showed as he smiled broadly at David and the Foxwoods.
Blythe always knew how to make an entrance.
“How nice to see you again, Lord Foxwood, Lady Foxwood.” His voice lowered just a shade. “Lady Beatrice.”
“Lord Blythe.” Foxwood gave a sharp jerk of his chin to Blythe.
Lady Foxwood’s tiny mouth puckered instantly. “My lord.”
Beatrice, apparently immune to the charms of Blythe, moved back a pace, away from his golden form, deliberately pulling back her skirts. “Lord Blythe.” Her greeting was coldly polite.
“I didn’t realize you were acquainted.” David glanced at all four of them. Clearly Blythe knew the Foxwoods, although it didn’t appear to be a friendly association.
Foxwood’s lip curled, not bothering to hide his displeasure at having to converse with Blythe. “I didn’t realize you’d be attending, Lord Blythe.”
How odd.Everyoneliked Blythe. Even Haven, at times.
“The duke and I are old friends.”
