“But she is your sister. And two years are long enough to nurse a grudge.”
Evelyn bent slowly, retrieving her embroidery with steady fingers. She smoothed the fabric with delicate care, like a woman preparing to leave a wake.
“I see,” her mother said. “You will regret this, you know. Now, you have your youth, your beauty and your virtue.”
“Oh, but that is exactly the point, Mama. I don’t.” She paused just for a moment, relishing the look of surprise on her mother’sface. “I have already been ruined by the Duke of Aberon. And if you continue to force my hand, I shall inform every man in thetonthat a dead man, who will never be able to make it right, stole my virtue. So, I shall remain forever ruined.”
Chapter Two
“God save me from ribbons and fools,” muttered Robert Firming, the Duke of Aberon.
He was just reining in his black stallion at the top of the gravel path with his boots speckled with mud and his coat collar turned high against the wind. He sat astride the beast like a storm on the verge of breaking, broad-shouldered, black-clad, and glaring murderously down the drive at the source of his sudden, specific loathing.
A carriage.
A very pink carriage.
No… worse. A confection of a thing. Gilded trim, white lacquered wheels, a flourish of swan-feather plumes rising absurdly from the crest, and more lace stuffed in the windows than belonged in a respectable linen press. It was the sort of vehicle that lookedless like it belonged on the road and more like it ought to be served at tea with a sugar spoon and lemon.
It sat there, all smug and floral at the front ofhisestate, sullying the drive like a stray bonnet left on a hunting field.
Robert narrowed his eyes. He had been out riding since dawn, inspecting the fences in the south fields, noting a patch of rot in the mill shed. His morning had been quiet. More importantly, it was peaceful. He had spoken to no one but his horse, and his horse, blessedly, never answered back.
And nowthis.
He clicked his tongue and urged the stallion forward, gravel crunching beneath hooves, wind stirring the black edges of his coat. His jaw clenched tighter with every yard he drew closer to the offending monstrosity.
There was a crest on the door. It was horrifyingly dainty, overwrought, floral, and as the horse passed beside it, he caught a glimpse of lace-gloved fingers adjusting the curtains from within.
“Hellfire and hens’ teeth,” Robert growled under his breath.
Alady. Of course.
He had just handed the reins of his horse to a stable boy when the carriage door burst open. What stepped down was not a lace-swaddled debutante or a breathless socialite… No. It was a fire storm.
A woman in her middle years, richly dressed in violet silk and diamonds far too fine for a country confrontation, hit the gravel with the fury of divine reckoning. Her feathers bobbed, her curls trembled with indignation, and her mouth opened with all the righteous rage of a theatre tragedy.
“How dare you!” she cried loudly, as though she had just caught him personally setting fire to Westminster Abbey. “Howdareyou!”
Robert blinked once.
She advanced like a frigate in full sail, lace flying, parasol clutched in one white-gloved hand like a sabre. “You think you can do as you please because of your title? Because you live in this grim fortress with your sullen horse and your even sulkier disposition?”
His brow arched slightly. He had not spoken a word. What’s more, he had absolutely no idea what she was ranting about. Yet, she was not done. In fact, she was far from it.
“My daughter isruined—ruined! And do you think we’ve not heard of you hiding away here, making everyone believe you have long departed? Do you think the world is so very blind to your brooding silences and your midnight habits and your—your disregard for common decency?”
Robert stared at her.
“I ought to call down every decent father and brother in Christendom to beat your wretched hide bloody for what you’ve done,” she went on, pacing and utterly incensed. “To have taken everything from her, her reputation, her very future! For shame!”
He felt the corner of his eye twitch in reaction to the woman waving her parasol like a judge’s gavel as her voice reached its full operatic peak.
“Do you think your name protects you? That your mourning cloak excuses your behavior? You may be a duke, sir, but you are not above honor!”
He had been rooted, stunned even, and completely too taken aback by the whirlwind of silks and rage to interrupt. But now, finally, comprehension dawned.
That was when a shadow passed across his face. It was not confusion, nor guilt. It was mere annoyance.
