She glared at him, about to unleash another retort, but their host, Lord Ashworth, approached them, his smile genial. “Ah,Your Grace! And who is this charming young lady by your side? Please do not tell me love has got the better of you!”
“Oh my,” Lady Ashworth said as she joined her husband’s side. “You are a delight, my dear. Have you somehow captured His Grace’s heart?”
“Lord Ashworth, Lady Ashworth,” Hugo greeted smoothly, bowing slightly. “May I present the Dowager Marchioness of Inverhall. I have brought her to London to ensure she settles comfortably into Society, as I have recently inherited her late husband’s title and estates. I feel it is my responsibility to secure her future.”
“How absolutely kind of you, Your Grace,” Lord Ashworth complimented as he plucked two flutes of champagne off a passing tray. “Please, enjoy yourselves this evening. There are many people to see, and who would love to see such a Scottish lady.”
“Indeed,” Lady Ashworth agreed with a wry smile. “I love your gown, Lady Inverhall. That shade of lavender makes you absolutely radiant.”
“Thank ye, Lady Ashworth,” Lady Inverhall offered with a small curtsey and a smile.
“Let us be off, then,” Lord Ashworth said with a flick of his hand. “Please see me again before you leave, Your Grace. I do have a question—something I read in the papers, about a new trade route. I want your expert opinion on the matter!”
“And you will have it, My Lord,” Hugo said with a smile. “Thank you again for the invitation.”
He watched Lord and Lady Ashworth walk away before turning his gaze back to Lady Inverhall.
“Ye are an expert on trade routes, Yer Grace?” she asked, sipping on champagne.
Hugo could not help himself—his gaze was drawn to the soft curve of her lips as they touched the rim of her glass. They were full, undeniably so, flushed a natural pink that needed no paint.
For one absurd moment, he imagined what it might feel like to kiss her, to taste whatever lingered on her lips.
He blinked sharply.
Fool.
This wasn’t the time for such thoughts. He looked away, schooling his features into polite indifference, even as his pulse betrayed him.
“I am well-versed in all matters of commerce,” he replied. “And yes, I know the trade routes intimately. The responsibilities of a duke are no light burden, but they suit a man of the proper constitution.”
“Ah, and ye are the right man for such a position, then?”
“No one better,” he affirmed, taking a sip of champagne. “And much as you claim to scorn comforts, even you must admit that the champagne is excellent.”
“I never claimed I do, Yer Grace. Merely that ye do, in excess. But it is delicious, aye,” she said, taking another delicate sip. “So, if business is yer pleasure, what do ye do for fun?”
“I read the newspapers from surrounding areas, enjoy a bit of exercise, and?—”
“None of that sounds divertin’ to me.”
“To each their own,” he said. “Shall we do the rounds?”
The guests murmured their greetings with practiced civility as Hugo and Lady Inverhall made their way through the drawing room, a dozen polite smiles concealing twice as many opinions.
He could feel the weight of their scrutiny on her. The Scottish widow he’d brought down from the north was the subject of no small curiosity and more than a few thinly veiled appraisals.
He caught one older gentleman—Lord Everly, damn the man—letting his gaze drift far too boldly down the line of her décolletage.
Hugo’s jaw tightened. Beside him, Lady Inverhall only tilted her chin in that unconcerned way of hers, gliding forward with effortless poise, entirely unbothered.
Others watched her with a different sort of interest, the quiet, speculative sort, as though they expected her to stumble, to offer up some provincial absurdity that would earn her a column in a gossip sheet by morning.
Hugo found himself increasingly irritated by the attention she drew—from all sides.
He reminded himself, again, that he meant to marry her off. Quickly, advantageously, and without complications.
Then, a familiar, rakish face appeared beside them.
