Chapter One
The Duke of Ashbey’s mistress sent her goblet sailing past Ash’s cheek, lifting a lock of his hair. The fine flint glass shattered against the wall behind him.
The servants were going to have a devil of a time picking the shards out of the carpet.
“My dear, is that any way to treat a gift?”
The delicate features of Miss Eliza White—Madame Elisabetta Bianci to her legion of admirers—splotched. “Name the occasion upon which you presented them to me, and I will spare the rest.”
Ash hadn’t the faintest. Although if he properly recalled, his secretary had traveled all the way to Waterford for those glasses. Pity. He steepled his fingers and tapped them against his lips.
Had he gifted them to her on her birthday? Unlikely. He’d never asked theexactdate of her birth. Anniversary? Doubtful as well. Their first coupling had taken place on an indeterminate evening sometime around Michaelmas…or had it been the feast of St. Stephen?
The air had been cold, anyway.
He snapped his fingers. “The night you opened inThe Tempest.” Ah, well. A glass soared over his head. Now they were down to three. “Liza, must you punctuate with Penrose glass?” Alas, only two remained. He rubbed his forehead. “Despite what you may believe, I would hate to see you hurt.”
“Hurt?” She lifted the penultimate goblet in a bitter mock toast. “How dareyouspeak to me of hurt?” She emphasizedyouwith repugnance appropriate to rotting excrement. Undeserved repugnance, really. He’d been referring to injured flesh, not injured sentiment.
Gently, very gently, he posed a question. “Have I ever lied to you?”
The goblet careened past his ear. Five glasses had not improved her aim, thank goodness.
“You lie by existing.” Her chest heaved. “A man without feeling is no man at all.”
Many might agree. Regrettably, he could not provide the satisfaction of a reaction.
Poor Liza.
His gaze caressed her figure.
She deserved something more particular to her person than carnal indulgence. She’d been obliging, and until tonight, seemingly unconcerned with his lack of sentiment.
“Can you think of nothing to say?” She blinked, goblet aloft.
She had such pretty eyes, with sickle-curved lashes black as coal. When she’d been introduced to Ash, her eyes had been windows to an exuberant soul. Now they glowed like Hades, the delight within them having vanished.
“Nothing at all?!” Her voice rose to a fevered pitch. She fisted her goblet-free hand against her hip.
Rather, the vicinity of her hip.
Tightly laced stays may have enhanced her bosom, but they ruined her intended effect.
“You are the one ending our arrangement,” he pointed out, ever aware of the final glass. “Can you blame me for assuming you were not interested in my say?”
She gasped. “For eighteen months—”
Thatlong?
“—you have been coddled—”
True.
“—diverted—”
Somewhat.
“—satisfied.”
