It had been an exercise in self-control not to march straight to his sire’s opulent town residence, break down the door, wrap his hands around Denbigh’s throat, and squeeze until saliva dribbled down the earl’s chin. But what was a moment of physical discomfort compared to the pain, embarrassment, and hardship that Adam’s mother had suffered?
He didn’t want to kill Denbigh.
Well, hedid.
But that would come later.
First, however, he wanted to publicly humiliate him as his mother had been humiliated. He wanted Denbigh to publicly acknowledge the son he had cast aside like refuse…and burn red with shame when he realized that his bastard son had surpassed in every possible way.
Adam could already buy the earl thrice over if he wanted to.
He had the carriages, the clothes, the art and furniture.
He yielded more political power in his pinky finger than Denbigh had in his entire body.
He had dined with senators, governors, even President Grant.
A title was beyond his reach, but then he didn’t desire anything that bound him to the British aristocracy. He was, after all, an American. Maybe not in his blood, but in the bone, where it counted, he was a Bostonian through and through. When this was finished, he’d turn his back on the country that had born his parents and never step foot on British soil again. But in the meantime, there wasonemore thing that he required. One more thing that would push him past his father’s accomplishments.
A wife.
Not just any wife, but aladywife.
The kind that far surpassed Lady Denbigh in both lineage and appearance.
He didn’t want a Great Beauty.
He wanted the Greatest Fucking Beauty that thetonhad to offer. And he wanted to snatch her right out from under the noses of the sniveling, preening aristocrats who wouldn’t recognize a day’s hard work if it kneed them in their tiny bollocks.
All he had to do was find her…at the Edgemont Ball.
By the time dinnerwas served, Eloise had collected herself and hidden the evidence of her tears with thinly sliced cucumbers laid flat across her eyes–a trick she’d learned courtesy of Annabel who could not abide any type of discoloration or blotchiness that might detract from her flawless complexion.
Downstairs, the table in the dining room was full.
Lenora, as the Duchess of Monmouth, sat at one end while Perth, as the Duke of Monmouth, presided over the other. His mother, the Dowager Duchess, sat to his right, and Bridget, snuggled up close to Graham–gag–sat to his left.
Annabel, perfect as usual in a flowing pink dress that complimented her crown of golden curls, was in the center of the long table while Ezra, the highwayman who wasn’treallya highwayman, was seated directly across from her.
Smiling, laughing, and engaging in light conversation, they sipped from bubbling flutes of champagne as servants marched about delivering the first course, a white soup with flecks of green on the top. Tiptoeing silently into the room and sliding along the wall towards her chair (she did not want to bring attention to her belated arrival), Eloise caught every other sentence.
“…am excited for the Edgemont Ball,” Annabel was saying. “I have the mostdivinegown.”
“…for one cannot wait to return to Clarenmore Park,” Lenora replied. “Are you sure the renovations are finished, Perth? Everything has to be spotless for the wedding.”
The wedding.
Eloise suppressed a visible wince as she gingerly lowered herself into her chair, then quickly spread her napkin across her lap and lifted her champagne as if she’d been present the entire time.
She’d nearly forgotten about Annabel and Ezra’s upcoming nuptials, scheduled to take place directly after the house party. She didn’t knowhow, as it was all the Annabel had been talking about. It was probably some measure of unconscious self-preservation. After nearly an entire Season of balls, tea parties, and luncheons, thelastthing she wanted to do was spend her summer preparing to be abridesmaid. Why couldn’t Annabel have a small ceremony in the village church and a reception at the local tavern, as Bridget had done? No muss, no fuss. No arguing over dress fittings (she wasnotwearing anything with ruffled lace) or listening to her sister wail on about chrysanthemums being out of season.
When Eloise got married–ifshe ever did–she already planned to elope. There would be no slow walk down the aisle to the wailing sounds of a harp. No doe-eyed bridesmaids sniffling back tears. No loud, crowded reception where guests expected speeches and shrimp towers. No, her wedding would be quick and uneventful. Most likely spontaneous, as all important decisions should be. She’d wear a green dress, and comfortable shoes, and leave her hair long, the way that she liked it. Her gray-eyed groom would be in simple black with–
Wait.
Gray-eyed?
Scowling when she realized that she had inadvertently given her groom a face, and that face belonged to none other than Adam St. Clair, Eloise threw back her champagne and tucked into her soup, as she would far rather eat her emotions than feel them.
