Page 16
Astride a magnificent bay roan, Stanford Bancroft, the handsome, extremely tall, and severe Duke of Asherford, greeted their little troupe with a polite tip of his black felt hat.
“Asherford,” Everleigh greeted warmly. “Your business with my husband must’ve concluded earlier than anticipated.”
Was everyone conducting business with Griffin these days?
Something to do with shipping and imports and exports, and of course textiles, although no one had ever bothered informing Rayne exactly what that was. She supposed it wasn’t really any of her business, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t curious.
At one time, members of the peerage would’ve balked at any involvement in commerce. And if they did dabble in trade, it was done secretly, lest they be accused of smelling of the shop. Times were changing, however. Wise aristocrats knew that if they didn’t invest in business endeavors, all they might have left in a few years was a title and a bankrupt estate.
“Indeed.” Asherford’s gaze lingered on Ophelia a fraction too long to be completely acceptable.
Well, now…
Mayhap Ophelia would indeed be the next of their circle to wed, despite her protestations.
From beneath her bonnet’s wide brim, Rayne slid her friend a surreptitious glance.
Was she aware of the duke’s interest?
Ophelia had released Rayne's elbow and, absorbed in a loose thread on the braid of her periwinkle cuff, she seemed unaware of his perusal.
Flicking his black-gloved hand, Asherford casually gestured to the two men flanking him.
Rayne’s heart took on a frantic cadence when she swept her gaze over them.
It was him: Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade.
He was here. In Hyde Park. Just a few feet away in all of his glorious, male splendor.
Her stomach quivered with equal parts giddiness and trepidation.
Oh, my God.
Surely he wouldn’t be so bold as to request an introduction in front of her closest friends and aunt. To do so would imply a genuine interest in her.
Rayne barely resisted the impulse to let her eyelids drift shut and groan aloud.
Had she been foolish enough to do so, the moment their graces departed, the ladies would be upon her like flies on sweets, demanding to know why he’d made such a direct entreaty and why she’d reacted the way she had. Naturally, they’d read all sorts of misconceptions into his request as well as her response. And then Rayne, quite naturally, would be obliged to lie to cover the truth.
And she was a horrid—simply horrid—liar.
“I believe you are all acquainted with Baxter Bathhurst, Duke of San Sebastian, and Fletcher McQuinton, Duke of Kincade,” Asherford said offhandedly.
Oh, now that wrong assumption was most, most fortuitous indeed. The gloriously, wonderfully, wholly incorrect supposition let both Rayne and the Duke of Kincade off the proverbial hook.
Before anyone could respond, the Duke of Kincade shook his head, that unusual gold hoop in his ear glinting in the sunlight. “I’m acquainted with almost everyone,” he said, flashing that bone-melting smile. “However, I’ve never had the pleasure of a formal introduction to Miss Wellbrook.”
Drat, the disarming man.
Drat, her wobbly legs and even wobblier tummy.
He was, indeed, going to take advantage of the opening Asherford had unwittingly created.
“Surely that cannot be.” Eveleigh’s fair brows arched high on her smooth forehead as she looked between the duke and Rayne. “Why, you were at our ball four nights hence.”
“I was,” Kincade agreed amiably. “And I’m now yer neighbor as well. I’ve let the vacant house to your right.”
“That’s wonderful news,” Everleigh declared with her usual genial warmth. “Most convenient for all of those meetings between you and Griffin. Why now, you can simply chat across the fence.”
