Silver Splendor Read Online Free PDF Page A

flitted over his features; his face hardened and his hands clenched. “I made you a sincere offer. You’re not likely to get a better one.”
    “I would term your proposal selfish, not sincere, Mr. Ware.”
    “Lord Hawkesford.”
    His terse insistence on the title incensed her. “Oh, but you’re not my lord. In America, terms of respect are for those who earn them.”
    His jaw tautened. “You’re being rather judgmental, Miss Hastings. You hardly know me.”
    “I know hypocrisy. You’d keep a mistress tucked away while you waltz into society with your oh-so-proper wife and pretend to be a respectable, God-fearing man.”
    “I have no wife.”
    For some unfathomable reason her heart sang at his curt disclosure. “Regardless,” Elizabeth stated, her fingers molding the clay, “the fact that I was not born into your British aristocracy makes me no less a lady. And the fact that you were doesn’t make you a gentleman.” She paused, disillusionment underlying her anger. “The best I can say of you, Lord Hawkesford, is that you have a pleasing face. Beyond that, nothing about you interests me.”
    He stood as stiff and cold as a marble statue. “That’s quite enough, Miss Hastings. There’s no need to belabor your rejection of my offer.”
    Abruptly he strode toward her. Fear leapt inside Elizabeth; he looked furious enough to kill. Her hand covered her bruised throat as she retreated a step.
    He stopped in front of her. His eyes were as gray and unfathomable as a London fog. Her heart tripped wildly, though somehow she could not believe he meant her harm.
    “My coat, miss,” he said, sending a pointed glance at the garment lying on the chair directly behind her. The alarm drained away, leaving Elizabeth feeling slightly foolish.
    “Of course.”
    Reasoning that the garment was already ruined, she reached for it without regard for her clay smudged fingers. The fabric felt smooth and expensive to the touch, as polished and elegant as Lord Nicholas himself. Awkwardly she presented the coat to him.
    He draped it over his arm, but made no move to depart. His eyes studied her intently and fascination kept her rooted. He stood so close she could see the individual strands of dark hair at his temples, the chiseled line of his cheekbones, the sleek strength of his jaw. To her delight she could not detect a single physical flaw. Even his faint, tangy scent held an uncommon appeal. The finely drawn grooves bracketing his mouth warmed the stern beauty of his face. The sudden disconcerting desire to press her lips there swept over her. How could she let this Adonis walk out of her life?
    “Forgive me for having offended you, Miss Hastings. You may rest assured that I shall not trouble you again.”
    Stunned by the quiet apology, Elizabeth could only gape. Surely the regret on his face was impossible to trust. Lord Nicholas Ware might be handsome on the surface, but he lacked substance beneath.
    Yet somehow she wanted to believe him.
    Footsteps sounded outside; the doorknob rattled. The tap of a walking stick and the low whistling of a hymn preceded her father’s entrance.
    Her heart jolted. His shoulders were slumped beneath his Inverness cape, his billycock hat tilted back on his gray hair. She knew the instant Owen Hastings saw them; the mournful melody ceased in mid note. His hazel eyes widened, focusing first on Elizabeth, then on Lord Nicholas.
    Her father’s back went rigid. “What’s going on here? What are you doing alone with this stranger, Libby?”
    Pocketing the ball of clay, Elizabeth hastened to his side. “Everything’s fine, Papa. I’d like you to meet Lord Nicholas Ware, Cicely’s brother. Lord Hawkesford, may I present my father, Owen Hastings.”
    Lord Nicholas inclined his head in a regal nod. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Hastings.”
    Her father glared. “I don’t care if you’re the Prince of Wales.” Grasping Elizabeth’s shoulder, he scrutinized her face. “Are you all right? Has he