The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(11)

And then there had been the woman with whom the duke had been saddled. Haven’s mother. Born without title or fortune, climbed to the highest rank in the land. Duchess. And the way she looked at her son, cool and aloof, with a hint of pride—not for the child she’d borne or the way he’d grown, but for her great deception, her legendary triumph. The title she’d thieved.

So, no. Haven knew his own life too well to believe that others might have it differently. And he faced his future knowing that if one expected disappointment, one could not be disappointed.

He approached his friend, putting his back to the balustrade and watching the golden light in the building beyond. “I’m simply saying that love is a great fallacy,” he said. “Women are after certainty and comfort and nothing else. And if one is chasing after you, she is after your title, friend. Do not doubt it.”

Mayweather turned to look at him. “It’s true what they say about you, you know.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re a coldhearted bastard.”

Haven nodded and drank deep. “It doesn’t make me wrong.”

“No, but it does make you an ass.” The words came from the dark stone staircase leading down to the gardens, clear and certain, as though the woman who spoke them made a practice of lying in wait for aristocratic men to say something for which she might chastise them.

Mayweather couldn’t contain his surprised laugh. “From darkness, truth.”

She replied to the Marquess. “If one of my friends said such things to me, my lord, I should make myself another friend. One with better manners.”

Mayweather smirked at Haven. “It’s not a terrible idea.”

Haven squinted into the shadows, barely able to make out the female form there, paused halfway up the stairs, leaning against the exterior of the house. How long had she been listening? “Considering you’re skulking about and eavesdropping on conversations to which you are not invited, I’m not sure your assessment of the state of my manners can be trusted.”

“I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

“No?”

“No. I was listening. And I wasn’t skulking. I was standing. The fact that you selected this precise moment to take refuge and deliver your—unsolicited, I might add—lecture on the wickedness of woman is a matter of my own terrible luck. I assure you, sir, I am witness to enough maligning of the female half of the population by virtue of being a living human. I did not need to eavesdrop for it.”

Haven had to work to keep his jaw from dropping. When was the last time a woman had spoken to him like this? When was the last time anyone had spoken to him like this?

Mayweather laughed. “Whoever you are, you’ve rendered him speechless. And I’ll be the first to say I thought that was an impossibility.”

“A pity,” she drawled from the shadows. “I had hoped he would continue his edifying dissertation: Mercenary Manipulators, A Meditation on the Role of Women in the World. It’s positively Wollstonecraftian.”

Finally, Haven found his tongue. “The men of London would be better off if they paid closer attention to my views on this particular issue.”

“No doubt that’s true,” she teased, and he found he liked the warmth that flooded him at her words. “Do tell, good sir, how is it that you are such an expert on women’s—what did you call them—pretty hooks?”

For a moment, he considered the idea of this woman’s pretty hooks . . . of nails on skin. Teeth on lips. He pushed the thoughts away. He had not even seen her. He had no need of fantasy for a woman in the darkness. He shot his most disdainful look in her direction. “Experience.”

She laughed, the sound licking over him like sin. He straightened. Who was she? “You are so very desired, are you? That you can spot a title thief at thirty paces?”

She moved as she spoke, ascending the steps. Coming closer. She wasn’t near thirty paces away. She was ten paces away at best. Five, if he lengthened his stride.

His heart raced.

And that was before she stepped into the light, gleaming like a damn goddess.

He came off the balustrade without thinking, like a slavering dog on a lead. He did not recognize her, which seemed impossible, as she was dark-haired and pale-skinned, with eyes like sapphires. It was difficult to believe a woman this perfect—and this smart-mouthed—would go beneath Society’s notice.

The mystery female hovered there, in the golden pool of candlelight, her gaze falling on Mayweather, making Haven wish his friend gone.

Making him jealous as hell.

“My lord, if I may, you should not listen to your callous friend. If the lady says she cares for you, believe her.”

Mayweather forgot his brandy on the edge of the balcony and moved toward her. “She does say so.”

“And do you care for her?”

“I do,” he said, so earnestly, Haven wondered if his friend had ingested something poisonous.

She nodded with conviction. “Well then. Love is all that is required.” And then she smiled, and Haven had trouble breathing.

Mayweather did not seem to have the same trouble with breath. Instead, he exhaled, long and dramatic and ridiculous. “That’s what they say.”

“Not everyone. Your friend believes that all women are in the market to steal a title.”