She swept through, head high. How dare he treat her as though she were of no consequence? Although, she had to admit it was humiliation that spurred her rage. Undoubtedly, to a duke’s son, she was inconsequential. He followed her inside the elegantly furnished room with its vermilion-painted walls above white-painted wainscoting, its high ceiling with elaborately moulded cornice and three tall windows dressed with delicately sprigged floor-length curtains.
‘You are suffering under a misapprehension.’
She started at the voice behind her. She halted her inspection of the room and turned to find him closer than she anticipated. Nerves fluttered deep in her belly as she got her first good look at his pale silvery-grey eyes and the utter confidence they conveyed. And why should they not? Not only was he the son of one of the most powerful Dukes in the land but he was sinfully, classically handsome with a straight nose, sharp cheekbones and a beautifully sculpted mouth above a determined chin. Those silvery eyes of his seemed to penetrate deep inside her and yet they were as opaque as a silver coin, revealing no hint of his thoughts.
She stepped back, dragging her gaze from his. His beautifully tied cravat—how Gideon would appreciate such skill in his valet!—sported a simple gold pin in the shape of a whip and his olive-green superfine coat hugged wide shoulders and well-muscled arms. Beneath that form-fitting coat he sported a grey-and-white-striped waistcoat that did nothing to hide the heavy muscles of his chest. Her eyes travelled further, skimming the powerful thighs encased in cream breeches. He had the look of a Corinthian...the name given to gentlemen who enjoyed and excelled at physical sports such as riding, boxing and fencing, according to Gideon.
The face of a Greek God, the body of a warrior and a duke’s son. How could one man have so many advantages in life? Her gaze snapped back to his face, the sight of those powerful thighs imprinted on her brain. He was watching her. By the quirk of his lips, her perusal of his person amused him. Mortified at being caught studying him as a sculptor might study his subject, Liberty swallowed and then sucked in a deep breath. That did nothing to calm her nerves. Male and spicy, his scent filled her and those butterflies in her belly fluttered even more.
She forced a scowl to her face. This was Lord Alexander Beauchamp: the devil who was leading Gideon astray. She tilted her chin and looked down her nose at him, but the look that satisfactorily quelled the most persistent of tradesmen dunning for payment made no impression on His Lordship, judging by the arrogant lift of his eyebrows.
‘Misapprehension, my lord?’
‘Indeed.’
His deep cultured tones penetrated all the way inside her, stirring yet more fluttery sensations as she felt the full force of his attention.
‘Allow me to introduce myself.’ He bowed, the action somehow mocking. ‘Avon, at your service. Miss...?’
His words jerked her from her irritation. ‘What did you say? Who is Avon?’
‘Alexander is my brother. My younger brother. I am the Marquess of Avon, hence Lord Avon.’ His head tilted. ‘Do you require an explanation of courtesy titles? I understand you and your brother were not raised in aristocratic circles.’
Liberty’s face burned. Mrs Mount had warned them that their background would swiftly become common knowledge in the ton. No doubt His Lordship also knew her grandfather was a coal merchant. Without volition, her chin rose even higher than before.
‘I am not ignorant of such matters, sir. If Gideon ever has a son, he will take Gideon’s next highest title, Viscount Haxby, as a courtesy title to use as his own until Gideon’s death, when he will become the Earl of Wendover.’
‘I am relieved you have learned something since your brother was elevated to the peerage. The fundamental etiquette of introductions appears to have passed you by, however. It is customary to introduce oneself in return.’
Infuriated that he was right, her face scorched even hotter. Lord Avon might resemble one of the marble statues she had admired at the British Museum last week, but he was as patronising and pompous as any man she had ever had the misfortune to meet.
She stiffened her spine and again looked down her nose. ‘I am Miss Liberty Lovejoy.’
Dominic bit back the sudden urge to laugh. Liberty Lovejoy? What parent would saddle their daughter with such a name? They had no choice over surname, to be sure—he was well aware Lovejoy was the family name of the Earls of Wendover—but what was wrong with naming their daughter Jane or Mary? Liberty Lovejoy—she sounded like some kind of actress. Or worse.
Still...he controlled his amusement and bowed. ‘And to what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Miss Lovejoy?’
He found himself scrutinised by a pair of intelligent, almond-shaped eyes. They were extraordinary and he found himself being drawn into their depths. They were the dark blue of the summer sky at midnight, with golden flecks in the irises and fringed with thick golden-brown lashes. Tawny brows drew together in a frown and her lips, soft pink and lush, compressed. He waited for her reply, controlling his visceral reaction to Miss Liberty Lovejoy. He was well practised in that art—his position as heir to a wealthy dukedom as well as his honour as a gentleman meant he simply did not indulge in idle flirtations.
‘Your brother is tempting my brother into entirely inappropriate and wild behaviour and I came here to dem—beg your father to stop your brother from leading Gideon astray.’
Her velvety eyes glowed with fervour and he didn’t doubt her genuine concern. His heart sank at the news that Alex might be falling back into his old, wild ways. He had already heard tales circulating about the newly ennobled Lord Wendover and his readiness to sample every entertainment available to a young, wealthy man about town, but Alex’s name hadn’t arisen in connection with them. The last he had heard, Alex was living at Foxbourne Manor in Berkshire and making a success of his horse breeding and training establishment—gaining a reputation for providing high-quality riding and carriage horses.
‘Please be seated, Miss Lovejoy.’ Dominic indicated a chair by the fireplace.
With a swish of her skirts, she settled on the sofa. Mentally, he shrugged. He would allow her that small victory. He studied his visitor as he strolled across to sit by her side—his scrutiny, his pace and his choice of seat specifically intended to ruffle her feathers. A man had to have some fun, after all.
Her gown looked new, but was outmoded by a few years, with its high neck and ruff of triple lace, and he couldn’t help but notice how beautifully it clung to her curves. His pulse kicked, but Dominic controlled his surge of desire for this voluptuous woman. He prided himself on his self-control. In every area of his life. He sat, half-facing her, noting the crease of a frown between her tawny eyebrows and the tension in the lines around her mouth.
‘I trust you have no objection to my sitting next to you?’
He allowed one corner of his mouth to quirk up and was rewarded by Liberty’s subtle but unmistakable shift along the sofa, increasing the distance between them. The faint scent of roses drifted into his awareness—the scent of his late mother, remembered from his childhood—and all thought of teasing Miss Liberty Lovejoy vanished, swamped by a swirl of memories.
His mother had been on his mind more and more lately—ever since he had decided that this was the Season he would choose a wife. It was time to marry. Time to produce an heir. Time to fulfil the vow he had made all those years ago after his mother had died. He straightened, rolling his shoulders back. The sooner he addressed Miss Lovejoy’s concerns, the sooner he could get on with compiling a list of candidates suitable for his bride.
‘Tell me why you believe Alexander to be in any way responsible for your own brother’s behaviour,’