Still, he wondered a bit of his own disinterest. After all, Miss Marks’s dowry was rumored to be even larger than Natalia’s. And he would have to find a wife of his own, once he’d won the bet with Jonathan and secured the funds he needed for a courtship.
It would be so easy to dupe the lovely little American into believing his social status was higher than it actually was. He could play up the V.C, imply a knighthood might be forthcoming.
He stole a quick glance in Miss Marks’s direction and knew he could do much worse. She was breathtaking.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t Natalia Sinclair.
That thought brought him up short. And he realized with dazzling clarity that he’d let himself get far too involved with the duke’s daughter.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” Miss Marks gave him an apologetic little smile. Despite her apparent polish, she didn’t seem comfortable in Society.
He felt sorry for her and wondered whether she title hunted of her own accord or if her parents pressured her. He’d heard stories about her ruthless and vicious father. Had Black Jack Marks sent his daughter here to obtain the social cache all his gold mines and railroads couldn’t buy him back in New York City?
Did they realize when she succeeded her millions would be spent to replace the roof of some moldering family pile instead of on expensive gowns and jewels? Far better to keep her money in America, where one’s potential wasn’t based upon the order of his birth.
At last, Emma allowed herself to be drawn into conversation with Sinclair, and Dylan concentrated his attention on the head of the table. His brother and Lady Natalia sat near the duke and duchess. Dylan had been relegated toward the very bottom with others of no particular social significance.
He supposed he should have felt privileged to have received an invitation at all. Luckily, the Duchess of Clayton was almost as easy to charm as his landlady.
Natalia and Michael seemed to be getting along quite well, although from time to time, Michael sent Dylan a calculating glance. Clearly, Michael understood he wasn’t the only Blake interested in the fair Natalia.
With a moody sigh, Dylan quit watching them. He couldn’t thwart Michael’s success from this end of the table. Unfortunately, his gaze rested upon Jonathan Taylor, who held up two fingers and gave him an arrogant smirk.
Two more days.
If Dylan didn’t get Natalia to agree to dance with him tonight, he’d lose the bet; he wouldn’t attend another social event with her until after Jonathan’s deadline passed. Dylan gave his old schoolmate a simmering glare, and Jonathan had the good sense to look away. Dylan glanced back at Natalia, feeling guilty for his deception but more resolved than ever.
The dancing couldn’t possibly start soon enough.
Chapter Eight
After dinner, the small party adjourned to the ballroom, where a string quartet was tuning up behind a screen of potted palms. Dylan headed toward Natalia with single-minded determination, but Michael intercepted him.
“I need to talk to you.” With a frown, Michael steered Dylan back the way he had come.
“What is it this time? Has Father sent you?” Dylan feigned ignorance, wanting to postpone the imminent lecture for as long as possible.
Michael shook his head and led Dylan down a long hallway. He stopped at the first open door, peered inside, and then beckoned Dylan to follow.
Dylan found himself in a small feminine sitting room, dimly lit by one small gas light in the corner. A dainty piece of embroidery laid over the arm of an upholstered chair. He traced the delicate leaves and vines with his fingertip, wondering if Natalia had been the one to leave it there.
“I never should have told you I was pursuing Lady Natalia.” Closing the door, Michael leaned against the wall and fixed Dylan with a glare. “Do you find this amusing? Scheming to steal away her affection? Risking her reputation by whispering lewd suggestions across a crowded room?”
“I asked her to dance. I’d hardly call that a lewd suggestion.”
Michael speared one hand through his perfectly arranged hair. Dylan had never seen him so agitated. “Why are you doing this? Does everything between us have to be a competition?”
Michael’s barb stung, as he’d no doubt known it would. Dylan wondered if his brother regarded him the way he had Jonathan all these years. A pathetic little sod, always nipping unsuccessfully at his heels.
He hated the image but realized it was probably accurate. Still, he wasn’t about to give up. Not now, not while there was still a chance he might win the wager. “Our father has been pitting us against each other since the day I was born. It is a miracle we haven’t gone after the same girl before.”
Michael shook his head in apparent disbelief. “Listen to yourself. Surely, you don’t think you stand a chance at winning her hand? She’s the Duke of Clayton’s daughter, for Christ’s sake!”
“Don’t you think I know that?” Dylan glared at his brother, hating Michael’s smug assurance. “I know the limitations of my position better than anyone. How could a penniless younger son possibly win against you, the future earl?”
“Is that what this is all about?” Michael lowered his voice, obviously ashamed of his earlier outburst. This rigid adherence to Society’s rules, even in private, was what Dylan disliked the most about his brother. “I can’t help being what I am any more than you can.”
Dylan decided to bluff his way through this with single-minded bullheadedness. “I want this girl. I’m not going to give her up, just because you want her, too. She and I have gotten to know each other quite well during the last few weeks. I’m sure she’d choose me if she had any choice in the matter.”
