That shocked a laugh out of him, but it had a heavy, thick note. “Is there... You have… someone?”
“I thought so, but I was very wrong.”
His blue-green gaze narrowed shrewdly. “Ah. Hasket siblings… They’re infuriating, and impossible to forget.”
“I didn’t say that,” I insisted. I wouldn’t have Davina—not that way, not forced to wed me with dread in her eyes.
“I won’t say anything,” he assured me and shifted his weight to one hip.
“There’s nothing to say.”
“All right.” His smirk chafed my pride.
“Does your brother know where you are?” I retorted, shifting the focus back to him.
“Yes, actually.”
“Which one?”
“Both, though one is still somewhat confused by the entire concept.” His lips tipped down in his backward, sheepish version of a smile.
“Really? The mutton-headed ignoramus isn’t having a snit?”
“You really shouldn’t speak about Hugh like that.”
“Ah, but you knew who I meant. And besides, I outrank him now.” It was a cheerful realization. I wondered if his title-hungry mother would die of shock when she learned of it.
“Accepted the inevitable then?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Best of luck to you. I’ll leave you to settle in. Will you join us for supper?”
“Yes, thank you.”
The door rattled in the frame after he shut it. I collapsed onto the bed, elbows to knees as I dragged a hand through my mussed curls.
Rosehill hadn’t called me out the moment he saw us. It was a better fate than I deserved.
The instinctive disappointment that he hadn’t ordered Davina and I to wed that instant wasn’t something I was proud of. Objectively, I knew I only wanted to marry Davina if she wanted it too, as desperately as I did. But the convenience of having the decision taken from both of us…
Was it so shameful that I wished it? Just for a second?
No, I decided. I was only a man. A man faced with the temptation presented by Davina Hasket.
The dining table,once fine, had clearly been inadvertently sawed into. I couldn’t fathom having so much money that one used a fine mahogany table as a sawhorse, but I was only an earl—and a new one at that, not a duke.
I was the second to arrive to supper, preceded by a young lady thoroughly in transition from girl to woman. Her nearly black hair was wild and free, and her brow was the unmistakable dark shock that marked her a Hasket.
There wasn’t a single doubt in my mind that she was Gabriel’s daughter.
“Ye must be the solicitor,” she said with a curious look.
“Mr. Summers,” I said, gesturing to my person.
“Sorcha McAllen.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss McAllen.” She surveyed me up and down, unimpressed. A Hasket through and through.
