The Earl
Devil’s Duke #2
Katharine Ashe
Publication Date: October
25, 2016
Genres: Adult,
Historical Romance, Avon, Harper Collins
Opposites…
Handsome, wealthy, and sublimely confident, Colin Gray, the new Earl of Egremoor, has vowed to unmask the rabble-rousing pamphleteer, Lady Justice, the thorn in England’s paw. And he’ll stop at nothing.
Attract.
Smart, big-hearted, and passionately dedicated to her work, Lady Justice longs to teach her nemesis a lesson in humility. But her sister is missing, and a perilous journey with her archrival into unknown territory just might turn fierce enemies into lovers.
Zenobia
was at her writing desk, quill between fingers more accustomed to pen than
sewing needle, spectacles perched on
the bridge of her nose, and head bent to her latest pamphlet when, in an
ominous voice, Franklin announced, “The
Earl of Egremoor.”
Twitching
a blank sheet over her work, she arose.
There in
her parlor doorway he stood, dwarfing her footman. Color from the brisk day
without dusted his cheekbones, but otherwise he was exactly as he had been in
Edinburgh months earlier: elegant, understated, and utterly perfect. From his
cravat carved of Italian marble to his boots that shone like the blade of a
sword, there was no hue that jarred or angle that displeased. Motionless and
severe and entirely focused on her, he was a strong, magnificent creature of
impeccable noble blood surveying her like a hawk hunting from far above and
judging her paltry prey.
An
unnerving silence stretched across the room. That he did not speak at once
buoyed her courage; he must be at least as unhappy as she with this meeting.
“You
needn’t have come,” she finally said. “I would have been content with a letter
from your secretary.”
It could
not be a smile causing the slight shadow about his mouth. This man did not
smile. He bowed gorgeously, however, without excess or flourish but with
glorious control. The hat and riding crop still in his grasp were props to
reveal the sinews and long fingers of his hands, and they made it clear that he
did not intend a lengthy call.
“Good
day, my lady.” His voice was as smooth and deep as it had been in Scotland in
the spring when he had barely spoken to her despite their attendance at the
same wedding. “I trust you are well?”
“Oh,
please,” she said crisply. “You don’t care if I am well or not. And I don’t
care for empty social conventions, so let us dispense with small talk. I have
heard about your father’s death and I am very sorry. You have my sincere
sympathy.”
“Do I?”
He moved into the parlor and she had the most disturbing impulse to seize a
fireplace poker and brandish it. But he halted in the middle of the room.
“Yes, you
do,” she said. “So now you may go.”
Something
sharp flashed in his eyes and she felt it in her stomach like a little shock.
“I have
only just arrived,” he said.
“And that
is really about all of this call I can bear,” she said. “Good day, my lord.”
“Emily.”
He said
it unremarkably. But the sound of her name upon his tongue did something
horrible to her insides: it twisted them into a knot of very old and unwanted
pain.
“I go by
Zenobia,” she said before he could continue. “For several months now.”
“I see.”
He advanced another step.
“Halt.”
She thrust out her palm. His eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue, so
dark, and so familiar. At one time she had thought that the warmest smile in
the world rested in those eyes. “I have offered my sympathies and said
good-day, and truly I meant both.” She was not, after all, a woman to fall to
pieces over a pair of dark eyes. “Please go.”
“I cannot
yet.” His jaw was just as Clarice and Shauna rhapsodized: taut and handsome and
at this moment engaged in an intriguing little dance of muscular tension. “I
must say something first.”
She
frowned and tried not to stare at the flexing muscle. “Say it, and then leave.”
His
shoulders seemed to set even more firmly in place. “My lady,” he said in quite
a fearsome voice, “will you do me the honor of becoming my bride?”
For all
of his experience in cowing people he wished to cow, Colin had never actually
seen the color drain from a person’s face as swiftly and entirely as it now did
from Emily’s. If he needed confirmation that she had dreaded this moment, here
it was in the parchment white of her cheeks and brow. Even her lips
paled—admirable lips, pink and shapely and formed to suggest laughter rather
than the astonishment that parted them now. Her eyes widened too, brilliant
emerald behind lenses of gold-rimmed spectacles. Her chin was a pixie’s, not
soft and rounded but slightly sharp, and her features fine. Her hair had not
changed in twenty years, except that now the pale wisps were confined in a
simple queue rather than tangled with pine needles and mismatched ribbons.
Dressed soberly in muted blue, she was the portrait of a reclusive maiden and
clearly astonished, and he had never so powerfully wanted an interview to end
quickly.
“You have
got to be jesting,” she said into the thick silence.
“I do not
jest.”
“Well
then, you have gone mad.”
“On the
contrary.”
“Oh.” A
delicate V darted the bridge of her nose above the gold wire. “You are required
to offer for me, aren’t you? By the terms of your father’s will.”
She was
intelligent and perceptive, and forthright in a manner that would embarrass
most other women. She hadn’t a care for what others thought of her. She never
had.
“I am,”
he said because he had always been honest with her. Except once.
“You
needn’t have come here. You might have written to my father at Willows Hall.”
“The will
specified the manner in which I was to make the offer.”
“Did it?
How loathsome of your father.”
“I am—”
He found
the unprecedented need to clear his throat. “I am also required to await your
response.”
“This
could not be more idiotic, could it? No, I won’t marry you. Now you can leave.”
She turned to her desk, then looked over her shoulder, her lashes spread wide.
“You are not actually required to marry me in order to inherit Maryport Court,
are you? That could not possibly be legal. The estate is entailed.”
He
actually felt his spine stiffen, the vertebrae
aligning in a perfect column.
“Why?” He
should leave. Immediately. Before he said something he would regret. “If I
were, would your answer differ?”
“Of
course not.” She paused and alarm sparked in the candid emeralds. “Is it the
case?”
“No.” But
the requirement that he marry her in order to maintain control of extensive
unentailed properties in the West Country, as well as his mother’s jewels, was.
“You are correct. The estate is bound to the title.”
“That
must be a relief for you,” she said, turning her back to him again and sitting
before a small writing table. “I would not have wished you to be separated from
all you hold dear.” She reached for a pen. “I imagine the stipulation, even as
it is, could not be held up to law. You might have contested it.”
“I chose
not to.” To protect the privacy of their parents’ agreement. To protect his
privacy. And hers.
“Well,
now your devotion to duty is satisfied.” She dipped the pen in ink. “Good day.”
A hard,
hot discomfort settled between his ribs. He was unaccustomed to being
dismissed. And, for all that he had not looked forward to this meeting, he had
not wanted it to go quite like this.
“Good-bye,
Emily,” he said to her straight shoulders and glossy hair.
She did
not reply or even lift her head. He turned to the door and for the last time
walked away from the girl who had once been his best—his only—friend.
Don't miss book one!
Evan Saint-André Sterling is rich, scarred, and finished with women—forever. He’s not about to lose his head over the bewitching beauty who once turned his life upside down.
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