Chapter Four
Canterbury cornered Lucas the next morning, as the sun ratcheted higher in the sky and the ladies were engaged in sketching the view down at the lake.
“Enough is enough,” Canterbury said. “Do you suppose this is what your sister would want?”
Lucas slipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket, withdrawing his watch and glancing at the time. Almost midday. “You are hardly the authority on what my sister might want, given you never once took it into consideration.”
“Lucas.” Canterbury sucked on his teeth, that flatness back in his eyes. “I’m not the only one.”
No, he wasn’t. Lucas had become quite the bank, lending out large sums to fools gambling away their inheritances. Thus, he had strings directly to half of England’s nobility, and he could tug at them whenever he pleased.
He put his watch away. “Leave Miss Summers alone.”
“What?”
“Miss Summers. You have no intention of marrying her, so leave her be. In fact, I’d recommend you leave them all be.”
“Miss Summers, hmm?” Canterbury gave a crafty smile. “Finally found one to catch your eye, have you, Lucas? It’s about time.”
She had caught his eye, and even though she had very deliberately kept her distance from him that morning—distance he had been at pains to maintain—he couldn’t help noticing the way she looked at him.
Understandable, given the way he was constantly peering at her. Like an infatuated schoolboy.
He didn’t know precisely what about her he liked so much, save that he enjoyed her defiance. Once she’d learned he was a duke, she hadn’t gone out of her way to appeal to him, even though she must have known that he owned half of England.
No, instead she had talked back to him. He liked her spirit, and the spark in her eyes she had when she was defiant. And he liked that she understood precisely what position she was in, even if she was powerless to change it.
“What I do, and with whom, is none of your business,” Lucas said, his voice mild. His temper rarely came out in a display of violence or raised voice; he likened it to a snake, readying itself for the strike. Patient and lethal. “I recommend you think on what I have to say carefully, Canterbury.”
The older man waved his hand. “You can take Miss Summers if you please. My interest lies with Miss Jameson, anyway. Pretty girl, and with her dowry, I can pay you. And then you’ll be out of my hair,” he spat with sudden viciousness.
Lucas would be the first to admit he was not a sterling example of what a man should be.
He enjoyed life—and liked to enjoy life.
But when he did so, he never forgot his responsibilities.
The women with whom he lay were never with child; he kept his estate running with the help of his stewards; he attended the House of Lords on occasion; he always paid his debts.
And he always, always collected.
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that,” was all Lucas said as he strolled away, back toward the patio where the ladies gathered at their easels.
Miss Summers sat on the end, looking exhausted as her aunt lectured behind her.
That red hair of hers, silken and smooth, gleamed in the light.
What color. He’d rarely seen such a shade before, and never paired with such deep-brown eyes.
He ought to stay away. A woman had never caught his interest like this before, in so short a space of time. Nothing good could come of the association, and he would be foolish to give Canterbury any further reason to target her.
But she was too clever to involve herself with Canterbury. And by the time the week was out, he would be in no position to ruin anyone.
Lady Windermere caught his eye and beckoned him closer in that languid way of hers.
When she’d first married and had discovered her husband’s infallibilities, she had encouraged Lucas’s advances.
Never one to turn down a willing lady if she were pretty and detached enough, Lucas had agreed.
But that had been a mistake—she was not as detached as he had hoped, and she wanted far more of his time and energy than he had any desire to give, so he had cut her loose.
She was the only married lady among the assembled, and Lucas would have bet any amount of money that Canterbury had invited her thinking she might be a distraction for him.
Unfortunately for his brother-in-law and the viscountess both, he was not so easily bought.
And so he sauntered past the schemers to stand behind Miss Summers, looking at her painting. She had captured both him and Canterbury as they’d talked—two small figures sketched in quick, efficient lines. Whatever else she may be, she was certainly adept at drawing.
“How charming,” he said, nodding to the depiction of himself. “Though too small for me to show to advantage.”
Her brows rose. “You think that rendering you larger will improve matters?”
“I am always more handsome close by,” he said.
“You certainly think highly of yourself.”
Behind him, her aunt gave a squawk of disapproval, and Lucas grinned to himself, tucking his hands behind his back as he leaned closer. “I think your aunt would prefer it if you bowed at my feet and addressed me as ‘Your Grace’ at every opportunity.”
“My aunt would no doubt like me to marry you.” She kept her gaze on the canvas, but tension stiffened her shoulders. “Although she thinks I have a better chance with Lord Canterbury.”
“After making his acquaintance, she still thinks that you would better off marrying him?”
“If I marry well, my sisters have a better chance of making an advantageous marriage.”
“I see.” Curious despite himself, he pulled up a stool. “And do you have many sisters?”
“Three. And two brothers.”
“How prolific,” he said, and he was rewarded by the tug of her lips into a reluctant smile. “Are they close to you in age?”
“One sister is two years my junior; she is the closest. The youngest is five.”
“Only five? She has some time before she marries, then, one hopes.”
“Indeed one does.” Finally, the reservation on her face cracked, and she looked at him with laughing amusement. “What about you?”
“Just the one sister, and now no siblings at all.” He watched as she reached for the watercolors, dipping her brush in the water before mixing the colors. A wash for the sky. She applied it with a quick, sure hand. “Tell me, what was your life like in—where did you grow up?”
She laughed a little. “My family is from Tarvin, a small village near Chester. But why do you care?”
“Perhaps I’m curious about your origins, Miss Summers.”
“There’s no need. As you made perfectly plain, my family holds very little weight or influence in the world.”
He leaned forward, taking hold of her wrist before she could get more paint. “I’m sorry,” he said intently, looking at her until she finally met his gaze and realized he was telling her the truth. “I didn’t mean to offend or imply anything unworthy about your family.”
Her soft, brown eyes held his, and he wondered briefly if all eyes held such rioting emotions within, or if hers were different. He would not have been surprised to discover hers were particular in that sense. “You are not mistaken about them,” she said. “They are not rich.”
“Even so. I’m sure your father is an excellent man.”
“I believe so. My mother has always been…” She frowned as she searched for the right words, and Lucas reluctantly released her, aware that others were watching. “She has always been eager for me to make a good match. I am the eldest, you see.”
He did see. As the eldest, the expectation lay on her to make an advantageous marriage and thrust her sisters in the path of other rich men.
Such as him.
“I’m not entirely sure how Mama orchestrated this visit,” she said, a line appearing between her brows. “As far as I’m aware, we have no connection to Lord Canterbury, and you are right that I am not a target for his matchmaking plans. My dowry is not large enough.”
Lucas imagined that was rather the point: she was an insignificant miss he could dazzle with his house and his title—and dally with—while he wooed Miss Jameson and eventually proposed marriage to her.
The other young ladies were never contenders to his hand, but they were just rich and influential enough—with rich family members—that Canterbury could not have hoped to trifle with them.
But to confess to Miss Summers that she was, in fact, the sacrificial lamb seemed a cruelty to which Lucas could not aspire.
He was losing his touch.
Still, he had warned her away from Canterbury, if that were a warning she’d even needed. There was nothing more he could do, save keep an eye on her and endeavor not to get caught too fast in her web.
That might already be more difficult than he had hoped.
“You are an adept painter, Miss Summers,” he said, leaning back and ignoring the inconvenient pulse of lust that moved through him at the way her small, elegant hand held the paintbrush. “Your tutor taught you well.”
“It was my mother,” she said. “She had an extensive education, and she passed it down to me.”
“Then I ought to offer your mother my congratulations.”
Miss Summers made a small sound of derision, the hand holding the paintbrush tightening ever so slightly. “I doubt you will ever meet her,” she said, the lightness of her voice at odds with her earlier sound of derision.
He did his best to make sense of her response. Why might she have such a reaction to his offhand comment? He had meant for it to be a compliment.
Was this again attached to her perceived familial inferiority?
Or was this because she had a concern that when she entered London, she would not be seen as marriage material? Lucas could say for certain that regardless of her dowry, she was pretty enough, accomplished enough, and desirable enough that plenty of gentlemen would want her.
Hell, he wanted her, and he had no intention of marriage.
He opened his mouth to say so, then closed it again.
“Keep up the good work,” he said abruptly, then he rose and strode away before he could say something that would entirely upset his plan for the week.
He had come here to destroy Canterbury’s life in as satisfying a way as he could and prevent him from ruining another lady. He would not be turned from his task.
Not even for a beautiful woman.
Not even for Miss Summers.