Edward.
Duke Valhaven
Alice felt her heart thudding a tremulous beat. He wanted her in his home, yes, but she felt, very conflictingly, that he was not inviting her to see Benedict.
It could be the only safe way to relay what intelligence he has found out about Rutledge…
With her panic easing a little, she stowed the invitation and note into her reticule before Penelope returned with glasses of waterin hand. Taking one, she teasingly asked, “The champagne is not to your liking this evening?”
Her sister returned a weak smile, “My stomach is not feeling very well tonight, so nothing strong will be good for me.”
“Ah, I understand,” Alice nodded as she sipped her cool drink. There were a million things that could turn her sister’s stomach; matter of fact, if she were honest with herself, she did not feel settled either.
The stares and gossip were one thing; the jealousy and treachery by Eliza were another—but the worst thing was her indecisiveness about Benedict.
Was she ready to go to Edward’s ball, though?
At that moment, the orchestra reached a crescendo, the invitation in her reticule felt as if it were burning a hole through the cloth, and a volley of emotions rioted through her head.
Calm down, Alice. Don’t be a ninny, it is going to be purely business. There won't be anything beyond the pale. And if it strays away from the matter at hand… I’d best put it right back on track.
Nothing untoward could or would come from this meeting. It was best if she kept it that way.
Seated in the cloaking darkness of his study at Valhaven Estate, Edward shifted the silk lapel of his black silk robe from his cooled skin and swirled his glass of rich Spanish wine.
Perched on the marble mantle above the flicking fire, a gold ormolu clock chimed the hour as eleven, the small sound distinctive in the silence, but it was not so silent that he did not hear the pads of his Irish Wolfhound,Atticus, as he came closer.
The dog sat on his haunches and was still taller than Edward's sternum. Smiling, he reached out to rub the hound's greying muzzle. “All right, old boy?”
Resting his head on Edward’s knees, the dog gave him a small sound rumbling up from his throat. “I know, boy,” Edward said, petting his ears. “It’s been troubling for me too.”
Another sound, a funny one, scarily resembling a human scoff came from Atticus and Edward narrowed his eyes. “Do I get a hint of judgment from you? Tell me then, was some female temptress that had slid under your skin also almost tempting you away from your good senses? Hm?
“The last time I checked, when I rescued you from that ditch so many years ago, there was no brother dog near you whose trust you were on the verge of shattering.”
Snuffling, Atticus moved to the rug near the hearth, did two circles before he laid on his belly before the fire; the red-gold light glimmered over his spotted grey coat.
He wouldn’t be moving for a while, Edward knew that.
Sipping a strong mouth, Edward knew it was time to take off to bed, but he knew he would not sleep a wink.
Pressing the cold glass to his temple, he sighed, “What in god’s name am I doing inviting her?”
Edward prided himself on strategic thinking, it was how he won chess games and outmaneuvered sly businessmen who thought they’d had him over a barrel. As far as he saw it, everyone and every situation was like a chess match, he had to move the pieces to his advantage.
However, he had no idea why he had shifted Alice closer to him when the logical thing to do was to keep her away from him.
Alice’s contradictions intrigued Edward. She exuded both girlish innocence and womanly allure… not to mention a strong-minded spirit. Recalling the way she’d nearly walked into the den of the devil without a single care made his lips twitch.
“She is a brave one,” he sipped his drink. “That is for sure.”
Despite his inexplicable attraction to Alice, he couldn’t deny she represented the sort of woman he’d once said he would rather be with than one of the milk-fed ladies of the ton.
She was headstrong, brave, and smart—no, if she had tracked Rutledge down to his club when most people had no idea he owned it, she wasmorethan smart—and from that one kiss, he reckoned she had some passion slumbering under her skin. Even so, she carried herself as if she were a proper young lady.
“Certainly not a featherbrained twit like the rest of them…” he agreed. “I guess Benedict would appreciate my thoughtfulness of beating him to the punch in inviting her…”
Stop lying to yourself, Edward. You want her. Not as far as marriage goes, but something tells me she won't be the sort to be a mistress, a plaything until your intrigue and amusement wanes. Where is the in-between?
