“Can’t a man get a decent bite after a day’s work?” he bellowed. “Where’re Fancy’s tarts?”
“You and your tarts,” Oliver’s voice retorted. This was a sly reference to the fact that Godfrey, who was a year older than Fancy, was the skirt-chaser of the family.
“Liam ate all the tarts!” Tommy shouted.
“Bleedin’ tattler,” Liam returned.
More thudding and swearing ensued.
Da patted her on the cheek. “All right, me girl. I’d best go settle the lads and let you get dressed.” He unpinned the gardenia from his lapel, pressing it into her palm. “To go with your pink frock.”
“You think I should wear the dress?” Fancy said in surprise.
“Ain’t no reason to waste something so pretty. But wear it for yourself, me Fancy. Wear it knowing that you made that dress with your own two ’ands, that you’re as grand as anyone at that supper table tonight, which is to say…wear it with pride.”
Bemused, Fancy watched her father leave. She raised the gardenia to her nose, its sweet perfume stirring the romantic notions of her heart.
Notions, she told herself firmly, that she would be wise to keep under wraps.
3
Things were not going as planned,Severin brooded that evening.
He was the first to arrive and sipping on an aperitif in Lady Beatrice Wodehouse’s well-appointed drawing room. As he waited for his hostess to make an entrance, he contemplated abandoning his plan. Not because he didn’t find his duchess candidate pleasing: Lady Beatrice was all that her brother had claimed her to be. During his brief meeting with the lady as she’d managed the aftermath of the fire, Severin had found her competent and sensible. She was lovely too, her scar adding to the uniqueness of her pale blonde hair and violet eyes.
In fact, Lady Beatrice was fashioned from a similar mold as Imogen, being tall, willowy, and fair. Women like that never lacked for male attention, so Severin ought not to have been surprised to find another suitor sniffing after Lady Beatrice. The fact that his competition was Wickham Murray, however, was irksome.
Severin knew Murray, both being self-made industrialists who had deep roots in the London underworld. Murray’s moniker was The Iron Duke since he was a partner in Great London National Railway, along with Adam Garrity and Harry Kent, two other powerful underclass men with whom Severin was acquainted.
In general, Severin respected Murray and his partners. At least, he wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating any of them when it came to negotiating a deal. He’d heard through the grapevine that Great London National Railway was in trouble, shareholders starting to revolt because of some delay in laying down track…as it happened, in Staffordshire.
It couldn’t be a coincidence that Murray was here now. If Severin had to guess, the Scot was after Lady Beatrice’s land. He took a sip of the bitter liqueur, wondering if she and Murray were lovers.
Murray was a rake whose prowess with females was the stuff of legend. Severin wouldn’t put it past the too-charming Scot to use seduction to get what he wanted. After all, he’d seen the bastard in action before. He’d once faced Murray over a table at an exclusive gaming hell and lightened the other’s pockets by a thousand pounds. Murray had retaliated by luring Sally, Severin’s then-mistress, into his own bed.
Severin had enjoyed a mutually beneficial arrangement with Sally, an obliging female who never confused sexual pleasure with intimacy. All she had wanted was a generous stipend and the lease on a cottage, which he’d been glad to provide in exchange for her professional services. It had been damned inconvenient to find her replacement. More to the point, Murray’s past actions showed that he had no compunction about using a female as a pawn in his games. Severin wondered how much Lady Beatrice knew of Murray’s past dealings…and his present motives.
Regardless, Murray was an unforeseen obstacle, and Severin wasn’t looking for complications. That was why he’d come to Staffordshire: to find an aristocratic spinster who would jump at his offer of a marriage of convenience. Now that he’d met Lady Beatrice, he didn’t think she had any interest in jumping for him or anyone.
Did he want to go through with his plan to offer for her? After their brief exchange, he wasn’t sure of his odds, and he wasn’t keen on taking on a losing proposition. On the other hand, he had an ace up his sleeve: he had not revealed his title. Murray had greeted him as Severin Knight—the news of his inheritance was only now spreading through London—and Severin hadn’t corrected him…yet.
As a businessman, Severin knew how to bide his time, play to his advantage. Surely his title would make Lady Beatrice look favorably upon his suit. He didn’t have time for an extended courtship. By now, his siblings had probably torn apart his new Mayfair mansion brick by brick, sending Aunt Esther running for the hills.
As he contemplated his conundrum, awareness stirred his nape. He turned and saw Fancy Sheridan entering on her papa’s arm. Her eyes met his across the room; she smiled shyly.
His blood heated with startling swiftness, probably because it had been simmering since their meeting earlier today. He didn’t know what it was about the chit that made him itch with lust. Although pretty, she was not his usual preference. In truth, Lady Beatrice was more his feminine ideal, yet he felt no physical pull, no crazed desire to get to know his potential duchess between the sheets.
Fancy Sheridan, however? He burned to know her in the biblical sense.
Get your mind out of the gutter,he told himself in disgust.You need a duchess, not some toothsome tinker’s daughter.
He steeled himself as the Sheridans approached. Fancy—Miss Sheridan, he corrected himself—looked the part of a genteel young lady this eve. Instead of plaits, her glossy brown tresses were bound in a topknot, baring the slender curve of her neck. She wore a simple pink gown that flattered her petite and curvy form. The off-the-shoulder cut displayed her smooth, sun-kissed skin and the rounded tops of her bosom. She had a gardenia pinned to her bodice, right between her breasts, and he had an urge to bury his nose in that fragrant, shadowed crevice—
Bloody hell, man. Rein it in.
“Good evening, Mr. Knight,” Milton Sheridan said.
“Sir.” Severin inclined his head. “Miss Sheridan, may I say how lovely you look?”
