whether to kill him or crawl under the nearest rock. She settled for a fierce scowl. "I thought you left."
"Your father has graciously invited me to stay a few more days."
She'd been right, then. He was just another suitor, titled and probably broke, who wanted a rich American heiress to save his precious estates. But when she looked into the amused blue eyes watching her, she felt a momentary doubt. If that was his intention, he wasn't playing his part very well. Suitors in search of a rich wife were gracious and scrupulously polite, and this man was not. But Margaret trusted her own instincts. Perhaps his approach was simply unique, his manner bolder than that of his predecessors. Still, she'd always found cool disdain to be the best defense against fortune hunters.
"I hope you enjoy your stay," she said with frigid politeness, then held out her hand imperiously. "Now, I'm sure it's nearly tea time and I really must be going. I would appreciate it if you would return my property."
"Certainly." But instead of handing the book to her, he reached inside his jacket and pulled her gold hair comb from the pocket. "I came looking for you in order to return this. You dropped it last night."
That reference to the embarrassing incident in the garden set her cheeks burning again, and she felt certain he enjoyed watching her squirm like a butterfly on a pin. She snatched the comb from him and dropped it into her basket. "I meant," she said through clenched teeth, "my book."
"Ah, yes. The book." He leaned forward and handed the book to her. "I found it interesting reading," he said, "but rather too fanciful."
She did not want to engage in a literary discussion with this man, particularly about this book. But she thought of the passages she had read and couldn't help being curious about his odd description. "Fanciful?" she asked, trying to sound completely uninterested in his opinion.
He shrugged. "Although it seems quite erotic when you read it in a novel, the truth is that making love in a carriage is quite uncomfortable."
"Really?" she asked, her resolution to be coldly indifferent momentarily diverted by that interesting piece of information. "How would you-—" She caught herself, noticing a teasing glimmer in his eyes. She dropped the book into her basket, then glared at him. "Do you enjoy embarrassing me?"
"Why are you embarrassed? Because I've caught you reading an erotic novel? I don't tell tales out of school, so it's our secret. And you don't really care what I think, do you?"
"No, I don't."
"Good. Then perhaps we can be friends."
Friends? So that was to be his technique, was it? She smiled, pleased that she had finally figured him out. She put the lid back on her box of candy, dropped the box into her basket, and rose to her feet. "That certainly is a unique approach, Lord Ashton, but I'm afraid you are wasting your time."
He stood up, giving her a puzzled look. "Wasting my time?"
He was good at dissembling. Very good, indeed. "I'm sure there are many heiresses who would fall for such a gambit," she said, "but I am not one of them. So if you are looking to marry a fortune, you will need to look farther afield. I have no interest in marrying you."
"Thank you for telling me," he said gravely, but the teasing gleam in his eyes remained. "When I am forced to chain myself to the married state, I'll bear that in mind. But all I suggested was friendship."
"After the discourteous way you have behaved toward me, you expect us to be friends?" She stared at him in disbelief. "Why?"
"I like you."
"Indeed? That is a pity." She looked him squarely in the eye. "I don't like you."
She stepped around him. His amused laughter followed her as she walked away, and Margaret had the uneasy feeling that she was not going to be rid of him so easily.
Edward handed Trevor a brandy and they settled into two of the comfortable leather chairs in the card room. They were awaiting Henry, who was in his study dictating correspondence to
"Your father has graciously invited me to stay a few more days."
She'd been right, then. He was just another suitor, titled and probably broke, who wanted a rich American heiress to save his precious estates. But when she looked into the amused blue eyes watching her, she felt a momentary doubt. If that was his intention, he wasn't playing his part very well. Suitors in search of a rich wife were gracious and scrupulously polite, and this man was not. But Margaret trusted her own instincts. Perhaps his approach was simply unique, his manner bolder than that of his predecessors. Still, she'd always found cool disdain to be the best defense against fortune hunters.
"I hope you enjoy your stay," she said with frigid politeness, then held out her hand imperiously. "Now, I'm sure it's nearly tea time and I really must be going. I would appreciate it if you would return my property."
"Certainly." But instead of handing the book to her, he reached inside his jacket and pulled her gold hair comb from the pocket. "I came looking for you in order to return this. You dropped it last night."
That reference to the embarrassing incident in the garden set her cheeks burning again, and she felt certain he enjoyed watching her squirm like a butterfly on a pin. She snatched the comb from him and dropped it into her basket. "I meant," she said through clenched teeth, "my book."
"Ah, yes. The book." He leaned forward and handed the book to her. "I found it interesting reading," he said, "but rather too fanciful."
She did not want to engage in a literary discussion with this man, particularly about this book. But she thought of the passages she had read and couldn't help being curious about his odd description. "Fanciful?" she asked, trying to sound completely uninterested in his opinion.
He shrugged. "Although it seems quite erotic when you read it in a novel, the truth is that making love in a carriage is quite uncomfortable."
"Really?" she asked, her resolution to be coldly indifferent momentarily diverted by that interesting piece of information. "How would you-—" She caught herself, noticing a teasing glimmer in his eyes. She dropped the book into her basket, then glared at him. "Do you enjoy embarrassing me?"
"Why are you embarrassed? Because I've caught you reading an erotic novel? I don't tell tales out of school, so it's our secret. And you don't really care what I think, do you?"
"No, I don't."
"Good. Then perhaps we can be friends."
Friends? So that was to be his technique, was it? She smiled, pleased that she had finally figured him out. She put the lid back on her box of candy, dropped the box into her basket, and rose to her feet. "That certainly is a unique approach, Lord Ashton, but I'm afraid you are wasting your time."
He stood up, giving her a puzzled look. "Wasting my time?"
He was good at dissembling. Very good, indeed. "I'm sure there are many heiresses who would fall for such a gambit," she said, "but I am not one of them. So if you are looking to marry a fortune, you will need to look farther afield. I have no interest in marrying you."
"Thank you for telling me," he said gravely, but the teasing gleam in his eyes remained. "When I am forced to chain myself to the married state, I'll bear that in mind. But all I suggested was friendship."
"After the discourteous way you have behaved toward me, you expect us to be friends?" She stared at him in disbelief. "Why?"
"I like you."
"Indeed? That is a pity." She looked him squarely in the eye. "I don't like you."
She stepped around him. His amused laughter followed her as she walked away, and Margaret had the uneasy feeling that she was not going to be rid of him so easily.
Edward handed Trevor a brandy and they settled into two of the comfortable leather chairs in the card room. They were awaiting Henry, who was in his study dictating correspondence to
Similar Books
