“And you’re not blind.”
“I am not,” he confirmed.
“Just rude, then, for asking me to introduce myself to you when it is a gentleman’s duty to introduce himself to the lady.”
Unbidden, a roguish grin claimed his lips. “I never said I was a gentleman.”
“That’s fine, as I never claimed to be a lady.”
They gazed at each other.
The music swelled, a final crescendo, and then stopped.
Sliding his hand to the end of her fingertips and taking a step backwards, he lowered himself into a deep bow. “Lord Weston Weston, Earl of Hawkridge.”
“You’ve the same name twice,” she said as he straightened.
“So I have been told.”
“Why would your parents—my goodness,” she gasped, her blue eyes widening. “You’re the Earl of Hawkridge!”
“Does my reputation precede me?” he said dryly. “Unfortunately, it’s most likely worse than what you have heard.”
She tugged her hand free of his grip. “No, it’s not that.”
“Then what is it?” he asked.
“You—you have my mother’s ring.”
Weston stiffened. “You’re not Joanna Thorncroft.”
“Of course not.” Her chin lifted a notch. “I am her sister, Evelyn.”
All at once, he remembered what it felt like when he’d lost his balance and that pitcher of icy water had rained down on him. “That is why you are here, then.” His voice dropped several degrees. “For the ring.”
She lifted her slender shoulder in a shrug. “And for the dukes, but it seems they’re in alarmingly short supply. This is rather fortuitous that our paths have crossed. Do you have the ring on you? May I have it? It means a great deal to me and my sisters, and I—”
“No,” he said flatly.
She blinked at him. “No, you don’t have the ring on you, or no I cannot have it?”
“Both.” His countenance hardened. “I don’t know what you possibly hoped to accomplish by coming to London, but you and your sister can sod off all the way back to Boston because you’re not getting your greedy hands on my family’s ring ever again.”
With that, he stalked away.
*
Kincaid helped Joannaback into her gown.
It was surprisingly heavy, and he marveled at her ability to wear it all night. But then, everything she did was a marvel to him.
Including what they’d just done on a pink sofa in the Countess of Beresford’s library.
He knew he should have felt guilty, but he didn’t. He could he?
A sunset did not feel guilt for painting the sky in reds and oranges so bright and beautiful it sometimes hurt to look at. A flower did not feel guilt for growing where it shouldn’t and spreading its beauty far and wide. A poet did not feel guilt for writing a sonnet so wrenchingly poignant that it made the reader cry.
And thus neither would Kincaid feel guilt for loving the woman he was in love with.
