Page 41

On their way to the corner, they passed three harried footmen and a tiger checking the back of his employer’s carriage. When a pink-cheeked milkmaid carrying a wide, heavily laden yoke approached, Asquith stood aside. Preston followed his lead.

The young woman’s cheeks went from pink to red as Preston tipped his hat. She stopped and offered him a sample of her wares. Winking, he asked if the price included a treat.

She stiffened and mentioned her husband. Oblivious to her distress, Preston chuckled as he palmed her a coin. She walked on, and Preston’s gaze followed.

Pursing his lips, Asquith paid the street sweeper so that they could cross.

“Appreciated,” Preston caught up with Asquith.

“Tell me,” Asquith said, “don’t you think that young woman tires of wealthy young bucks making propositions?”

“She must hear such things frequently. All in good fun.”

“Whose good fun?”

Asquith said no more but left his subtle criticism to do its quiet work. Young men rarely responded to a heavy hand.

Besides, if he was too hard on Preston, and the boy complained to his father, Asquith might never be in the running for Eclipse’s descendant—if, indeed, Hampton was going to sell.

Preston glanced over his shoulder. Slowly, his smile disappeared. He thoughtfully cocked his head and frowned. But, to his credit, he said nothing further. He didn’t argue, didn’t make excuses, didn’t perform contrition. Instead, he went silent.

Asquith would wager Preston had never put himself in anyone else’s shoes, let alone those of a milkmaid. Now, he had.

Asquith had known men twice Preston’s age who couldn’t manage that much.

“Careful.” Asquith guided a distracted Preston around a fresh pile of manure.

“Again, thank you,” Preston side-stepped. “Where we’re going, I imagine no one would notice a little shoe stench.” His smile, though hesitant, returned. “Exeter Exchange,” he mused. “Thought that had gone out of fashion years ago.”

“Not with my mother.” Asquith flashed him a glance. “This is her idea, of course.”

“Your mother’s idea, huh?” Preston studied Asquith. “Does that mean you don’t have designs on my sister?”

“Lady Amelia?! Lovely as your sister is,”—he cleared his throat—“I am not seeking a wife at present.” He was, in fact, trying to avoid exactly that.

“Shame,” Preston said with a shrug. “Would have liked you for a brother-in-law. Can’t say I blame you, though. Willard calls her the ice queen.”

Willard? Asquith stopped short.

He’d been unaware Preston was acquainted with the bully. Rowdy crowd, indeed. If Preston had fallen under Willard’s spell, that would account for the vulgar language.

He glanced away, masking his unease.

Asquith’s brutal beating had put an end to Willard’s overtly abusive behavior in school. In subsequent years, Willard’s reputation had undergone complete rehabilitation. More recently he had collected a coterie of young men who hung on his every word.

But Asquith knew Willard hadn’t changed. Beneath his polish, he was the same dormitory demon he’d been when they were young. Only now, Willard was more subtle in his manipulation.

Should he drop a hint about Willard’s character?

He’d never done so before. By mutual agreement, Asquith and Willard maintained a “cordial” distance. Meaning they stayed the hell out of one another’s way.

Asquith had to live with the knowledge he’d already almost killed Willard. He feared engaging with the man might push him past the point of reason a second time.

He chose to remain silent.

“So,” Preston said, “if your mother is not matching you, then I must be her target.”

Asquith masked his serious thoughts with a smile. “I said I had no designs on Lady Amelia; I cannot speak for my mother’s intentions.”