Love and the Single Heiress

Of course, the part of her that demanded fairness had to admit that the Guide could be described as scandalous. While she firmly believed that the information provided in the Guide was necessary and valuable to women, part of her had been delighted at the brow-raising aspect of the book and had been the deciding element for her to embark on the endeavor. It gave her untold pleasure and a wickedly secret thrill to tweak the hypocritical members of Society whose ranks she’d turned her back on after their hurtful treatment of her son. That desire, that need for some bit of revenge, was clearly a flaw in her character, but there you had it. And she’d enjoyed every minute of the stir she’d created-until last night. Until she’d realized that the Guide had swelled into a scandal of gargantuan proportions. She shuddered to think of the horrific scandal that would ensue if Charles Brightmore’s identity were to be discovered. She’d be ruined. And she wouldn’t be the only one. There was Spencer to think about. And Genevieve… dear God, Genevieve stood to lose as much as, if not more than, Catherine if the truth came out.

Yet last evening’s events suggested that more than her reputation might be at stake. Her very life could be in danger. Of course it was possible that she’d been the victim of an accident-she prayed that was the case-but the timing seemed eerily coincidental. And she was not a firm believer in coincidence…

He cleared his throat, yanking her from her brown study. “What would you say if I told you that I was perhaps considering the possibility of accepting your challenge to read Brightmore’s book?”

Catherine stared at him for several seconds, then burst into laughter. A combination of annoyance and confusion flickered in his eyes.

“What on earth is so amusing?”

“You. You are perhaps considering the possibility… if you’d given committing to read the book any wider berth, you’d find yourself afloat in the middle of the Atlantic on your way back to America.” Some inner devil made her add, “Not that I’m surprised however. As Today’s Modern Woman knows, most men will go to great lengths to avoid committing to anything-unless it is for their own pleasure, of course. As for you perhaps considering reading the book, I certainly encourage you to do so, Mr. Stanton. Not for my benefit, but for your own. Now, before another argument ensues, I suggest we discuss something else, as it is clear we are in complete disagreement on the subject of the Guide!” She held out her gloved hand. “Truce?”

He studied her for several seconds, then reached out to clasp her hand. His hand was large and strong, and she felt the warmth of his palm even through her gloves.

“A truce,” he agreed softly. His lips twitched as his fingers gently squeezed hers. “Although I suspect you’re really angling for my unconditional surrender, in which case, I must warn you”-he leaned forward and flashed a smile-“I don’t surrender easily.”

Was it the deep, soft timbre of his voice, or the compelling yet somehow mischievous glitter in his dark eyes, or the warmth radiating up her arm from where his palm pressed against hers-or perhaps a combination of all three- that suddenly made it seem as if there was a dearth of oxygen in the carriage? She slowly extricated her hand from his. Was it just fancy that he seemed reluctant to let go?

“Your warning is duly noted.” Heavens, she sounded positively… breathless.

“It was not my intention to argue with you-not now, or last evening, Lady Catherine.”

“Indeed? What was your intention?”

“I’d intended to ask you to dance.”

An image instantly filled her mind, of swirling across the dance floor to the lilting sounds of a waltz, her hand once again clasped in his, his strong arm around her waist.

“I haven’t danced in over a year,” she murmured. “I very much miss it.”

“Perhaps we shall have the opportunity to enjoy a waltz in Little Longstone.”

“I’m afraid not. Elaborate soirees are not usual there.” Determined to erase the disturbing image of them dancing together from her mind, she asked, “Tell me more about how things are progressing at the museum.”

“We’ve fallen a bit behind schedule with Philip’s recent absence, but the building should be completed by year’s end.”

A frisson of guilt tickled her. “And your taking the time to accompany me to Little Longstone shall set you back even more.” She swallowed the remnants of her annoyance and smiled. After all, he couldn’t help but be irritating- he was a man. “You’re a true friend-to me and my entire family-and I’m grateful.” Pain throbbed in her shoulder, a physical reminder that someone might truly mean her harm. More grateful than you know.

“The pleasure is all mine.”

He fell silent, and she once again turned her attention to the hated embroidery. With her head lowered, she peeked at him through her lashes and, noting that his attention was focused out the window, she allowed her gaze to drift over him. Thick, midnight hair, with one unruly strand falling over his forehead. Dark lashes surrounding ebony eyes that somehow managed to be compelling and composed at the same time. She liked his eyes. They were calm. Patient and steady, although often vexingly unreadable. High cheekbones, strong jaw, and a well-shaped mouth given to teasing grins and blessed with twin dimples that creased his smooth-shaven cheeks when he smiled. While he wasn’t classically handsome, there was no denying Mr. Stanton was a very attractive man, and she suddenly wondered if there was a woman in his life.

“What are you thinking?”

At his softly spoken question, her head jerked upward. Their gazes met, and her heart skipped a beat at the intensity burning in those normally calm, steady dark eyes. The temperature in the carriage suddenly seemed far too warm, and she resisted the urge to snap open her fan. After a quick inner debate, she opted to tell him the unvarnished truth… almost.

“I was wondering if there was a special lady in London who would miss you during your stay in Little Longstone.”

He appeared so nonplussed by her question, she had to laugh. “I know Meredith has attempted to introduce you to some suitable young ladies, Mr. Stanton. She is the Matchmaker of Mayfair, you know.”

He shrugged. “She’s tried on several occasions, but I’ve thus far managed to avoid being snared in her net.”

“Ah. Studiously avoiding the altar. How very… manlike of you.”

“On the contrary, I would very much like to have a wife. And family.”

She raised her brows. “I see. You are aware that the chances of that happening would increase dramatically were you to cease avoiding being snared in Meredith’s matchmaking net.”

“Hmmmm. You make me sound like a fish.”

“A slippery fish,” she agreed with a laugh. “Well, as your friend, I feel it only fair to warn you that Meredith has told me that once she is fully recovered from childbirth, you are her next project.”

He inclined his head. “As your friend, I appreciate the warning, however I’m not overly concerned. I know exactly the sort of woman I want-I do not require any help.”

Curiosity pricked Catherine. “And what sort of woman do you want?”

“What sort of woman do you think I want?”

“Beautiful, young, amenable, nubile, soft-spoken, and demure. Worshiping the ground you tread upon would be an added plus.”

He threw back his head and laughed, the rich sound filling the coach. “Do I sense a bit of cynicism, Lady Catherine?”

“Are you saying I’m wrong?”

“ ‘Wrong’ is perhaps the incorrect term. The correct phrase would be ‘utterly, completely inaccurate.’ ”

She didn’t even attempt to hide her doubt. “Surely you don’t expect me to believe you long for a hideous, butter-toothed harpy?”

“Noooo. That doesn’t describe her either.”

“Pray, do not keep me in suspense.”

He leaned back against the squabs, his Devonshire brown coat in dark contrast to the pale gray velvet. His merriment faded, turning his expression into an unreadable mask.

“She is kind,” he said quietly, his eyes serious. “Loving. Loyal. And she possesses an inexplicable something