When the gentlemen had joined the ladies in the drawing room, she had drawn his gaze immediately. No one else existed for him. The roof could have come tumbling down or the house caught on fire. Not even the strange gyrations of Lady Mildred merited his attention.
David told himself it was because Andromeda was beautiful, nothing more. He liked pretty things. But when she turned to face him, challenge and obstinance in her eyes, lust for Andromeda bled deep into his core. He wanted her. All of her.
The wisest course of action would be to send her and her sister back to London before the situation spiraled out of control. Had Haven’s very timely curse not interrupted them, David wasn’t certain his friend’s coat would have been the only thing ruined.
Andromeda stood with a nod to her sister and silently floated from the drawing room, lavender skirts teasing at her ankles.
The mere thought of her ankles inflamed him.
His father would have said that Andromeda’s bold behavior was consistent with other persons of low breeding. The Duchess of Averell, Horace had insisted, was little better than a harlot.
Your mother was poorly bred as well, but at least she wasn’t a paid companion of dubious, unknown origin.
As the sound of Andromeda’s skirts faded, David turned his attention to the woman meant to become the Duchess of Granby. Beatrice held court in the middle of the drawing room, reminding him of a well-dressed porcelain doll.
She caught David’s eye on her and blushed prettily, giving him a modest, ladylike smile of acknowledgement.
Lord Foxwood, seated behind her with a glass of David’s scotch in his hand, nodded in approval of his daughter’s behavior.
Christ, she’s like a trained lapdog.
A very well-bred, well-pedigreed one.
11
“Lady Andromeda, you’re looking lovely.”
“Good morning, Mr. Estwood,” Romy said to the attractive gentleman watching her from the bottom of the stairs. “I overslept, I’m afraid.”
She’d slept terribly, largely due to her host. How like Granby to wedge his enormous, arrogant form into the privacy of her bed, invading her thoughts with a host of improper ideas. Romy already possessed a vivid imagination and needed no assistance on that score. Curiosity about such things was fed by her knowledge of Elysium and what went on behind the confines of the velvet covered walls.
“You came down just in time, my lady,” Estwood assured her. “I slept late myself. Have you had breakfast?”
“A tray in my room.”
Estwood stood waiting. “Then shall I escort you out to the lawn? The first game of bowls has already begun.”
“I would be happy for your escort.” Romy liked Mr. Estwood, as did several of the other ladies in attendance. Only the Foxwoods seemed dismayed at his presence.
“Splendid.” He held out his arm with a grin.
Lord Foxwood, in particular, had been rude to Estwood. The earl had gone out of his way to exclude Estwood from the conversation flowing about the dinner table the night before, intentionally making comments to rile him. Through it all, Estwood had maintained a determined politeness, refusing to allow Foxwood to goad him into losing his temper and perhaps prove Foxwood’s point that Estwood wasn’t a gentleman.
“Are you a player of bowls, Lady Andromeda?” Estwood had lovely eyes, like pale gray mist on a spring morning, except for the ruthlessness gleaming about the edges. But Romy would ignore that for now. She often saw the same look in her brother Leo’s eyes. A determination to succeed at all costs despite the Foxwoods of the world.
“I do,” she replied. “My father taught me when I was no more than a child. It was a favorite pastime of his. We even had teams composed of the staff of Cherry Hill, our estate in the country, though it was against the rules.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Don’t tell on me, Mr. Estwood.”
“I would never, my lady,” he assured her, patting the hand tucked securely in his arm.
“I found it all perfectly normal when I was a child. We Barringtons are a bit eccentric. Do you play bowls, Mr. Estwood?”
“Marginally. It isn’t a game I played as a child. I’d no time for such things.”
Romy had overheard Lady Foxwood whispering to Mildred after the ladies left the table for the drawing room. Estwood’s father had been a village blacksmith. Lady Foxwood, in a horrified voice, could not countenance why a duke would invite such a person to dine at The Barrow. If he were ever to approach her, Lady Foxwood cautioned, she must cut him directly, no matter how rude it might seem.
Romy thought Lady Mildred, quickly approaching thirty and plain of face, would be fortunate to snag Estwood.
“Perhaps you can offer suggestions on improvement, should I choose to play, Lady Andromeda? I promise to be a good student.” His voice lowered flirtatiously, his pale eyes gleaming back at her like the surface of a mirror.
