it?’ Hart replied, adjusting his cuff. ‘I can’t help if she finds me irresistible, and he is positively unlucky tonight. It was impossible not to win his money.’
‘One day some husband is going to challenge you, and I have no desire to be your second.’
‘I am aware that you believe widows are preferable, but I’m not you. Married ladies are infinitely preferable to unmarried ones. At least they aren’t fishing for a title. Honestly, you worry for nothing. My coach is always at the ready, and I’m very competent with pistols and swords.’ He pushed himself off the balustrade. ‘I’m bored—let’s go to White’s. Stop scowling. You look like my old tutor.’
Julian shook his head. There was no reason to stay. He would have enjoyed spending more time with the American woman. Had she been a member of the ton he would have re-entered the Ambassador’s townhouse and immediately sought an introduction. Unfortunately, with the responsibility of his title, a relationship with an American was not possible.
When he married again it would be to an Englishwoman of prominent lineage—just as his ancestors before him and just as he had done before. Respectable English noblemen did not marry American women.
Why was he even thinking of marriage? Hart was right. It was time to leave.
Reading the Morning Chronicle should not be so difficult. Katrina had done it every morning since she and her father had arrived in London a few weeks ago. However, today she was finding it impossible to read even one article—and it was all because of that English gentleman she had talked with out on the terrace the previous evening.
The dining room in the house her father had leased in Mayfair was quiet except for the occasional tinkling of a Wedgwood cup hitting a saucer and the crinkling of paper as her father turned a page of the document the American Minister had sent over.
Feeling frustrated by her lack of concentration, Katrina pushed the newspaper aside and reached for a piece of toast from the silver rack in front of her. As she began spreading honey on the bread she couldn’t help but smile recalling their conversation for the hundredth time since last night.
Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? She was not attracted to Englishmen—at least she hadn’t been until last night. Most of those she had met since arriving in London had been proud, patronising and too self-possessed for her taste. But this gentleman had appeared to be none of those things. He hadn’t even made any foolish comments about her being American. On a night that had begun so poorly he had managed to make her laugh and forget about the pain in her foot. And she couldn’t deny that being close to him had made her heart race.
Honey began to drip through her fingers, and Katrina shook her head as she licked away the sticky sweetness. How long would it be until she saw him again? Once he obtained a proper introduction they’d be able to speak openly, and she would finally know his name. He might even ask her to waltz.
While she had no desire to tie herself to an English gentleman, spending time in that man’s company during the various social engagements she was obligated to attend while she was in London would be an excellent diversion.
Smiling to herself, Katrina returned her attention to the newspaper and tried to concentrate on reading it one last time.
* * *
In another part of Mayfair, in a much larger house, Julian walked out of his suite of rooms and rubbed his pounding forehead. He needed more sleep. Several times during the night he had awoken from vivid dreams about the American woman. Now this lack of sleep left him very irritable—and very frustrated. What he needed was a quiet, peaceful morning.
From the sounds drifting out through the doorway of his breakfast room, there was little hope of that happening.
Crossing the threshold, he noted his mother and grandmother were deep in conversation at the elegantly set table. Grasping at his last few moments of peace, Julian passed the livery-clad footmen on his way to the mahogany Sheraton sideboard and filled his plate. The smell of ham made his stomach growl, making him realise how hungry he was. The moment he sat down coffee was poured into a porcelain cup.
Just as he was about to bring the aromatic liquid to his lips, the chatter around him stopped. His mother’s sharp eyes were focused on him, and Julian cursed himself for not taking breakfast in his study.
‘Good morning, Lyonsdale,’ she said, while refolding a note that had been lying open next to her plate. ‘How was the Ambassador’s ball?’
‘It was a crush, as usual, but surprisingly tolerable.’
‘And Lady Wentworth? Did she enjoy the evening?’
Julian had been trying to keep his association with the widow discreet. Obviously he needed to try harder. He blew into his cup and decided to be evasive.
‘She was not there.’
‘Then who held your attention for so long on the terrace?’
Julian’s fingers clenched the handle of his cup before he carefully placed it down on the saucer. He was one and thirty. Was it too much to ask for some privacy? He needed to speak to his secretary about seeing what could be done to hasten the renovations of his mother’s townhouse.
‘Pray tell, how is it possible that you possess such information?’
His grandmother Eleanor, the Dowager Duchess of Lyonsdale, paused in spreading butter on her toast. ‘Your mother has already received a note this morning from Lady Morley. Isn’t that correct, Beatrice?’
‘Your friend has written to you about what I did last night?’ Julian asked indignantly.
‘She has only commented on your actions because she says you left rather abruptly and she had thought you were about to speak with her husband regarding their daughter.’
‘Why would she assume I intended to approach Morley about her?’
His mother trailed her slender finger around the gold rim of her cup and raised her pointed chin. ‘She, and every other member of the ton, is aware that you are in need of an heir. It is obvious that Lady Mary is a suitable choice. Her father is an earl, and she is the niece of a duke. And you have spoken with her. Your conversation confers distinction upon any gel you single out.’
‘I have not spoken with her.’
‘You must have. You’ve danced with her. Surely you had some manner of discussion on that occasion.’
Had he? Julian tried to recall any remnant of conversation, but he could not. Nothing about Lady Mary set her apart. All the chits who had recently entered Society resembled one another, twittering behind their fans and taking measure of him when they thought he wasn’t looking. They were all so young. He must have spoken to her, but he honestly could not recall doing so.
‘I may have also mentioned to Lady Morley that you might consider their daughter.’
Julian had stopped listening to his mother moments before, but that declaration caught his attention. The pounding in his head increased. He would not let her dictate which woman he would marry—not this time.
‘It
