Somerhart—an icy, intelligent man with a razor-sharp wit. Who would have thought the duke such a soft touch for an orphaned child?
The real Alexandra Huntington made her debut in the formal dining room. Here was the confident woman who'd enchanted the ton; the sparkling, dark beauty the men spoke of, some with wistful looks, some with lust. Collin had not fully understood their admiration, not until this night.
She flushed a little as they greeted each other, but with each course that passed over their plates, Alexandra relaxed a fraction more. She did not seem selfish or thoughtless. She did not even seem particularly spoiled. And she had freckles on her nose.
Ridiculous, of course, but as Collin sat there in the yellow-walled dining room, eating goose and salmon and Yorkshire pudding, he stared at her—at her wild, dark curls and big eyes and those nearly invisible freckles sprinkled across her nose—and he realized: This woman is no whore.
And more surprising than that? He wanted her.
Impossible. She was only nineteen. She was English. And the sister of a duke. Practically a damned English princess, for God's sake. Regardless of her past, she was not a woman to have a tryst with. She was royalty.
His torturous thoughts were interrupted by George's sigh. "Women and their money talk. It quite makes my head spin."
Alexandra stopped her chatter about expenses and grinned at them, wrinkling her nose at her cousin before she turned back to Lucy. "And Hart has given permission to expand his stables, so I'll no doubt spend some time at the horse fairs this summer."
"Perhaps Collin can assist you."
Collin caught the confused glance she threw in his direction.
"He breeds horses," Lucy added helpfully.
"Oh, I didn't realize. Blackburn?" Brow furrowed in thought, she looked again to Collin. "I don't think I've heard of you."
George chuckled, obviously enjoying Collin's anonymity. "Collin does not use his title. He is Baron Westmore."
"Oh? Oh, of course!" Her face brightened. "The West-more stables. Your horses are coveted."
He smiled at the sheer regard in her voice. "They are fine animals."
She nodded at that, but her grin faded, the frown returned. Collin could almost hear the click of her mind turning over some troubling detail. "Your surname is different than John's . . . I'd assumed you had a different father, but you said something—"
"I'm a bastard."
Her eyes widened at the blunt words, and Collin caught George's cringe at the edge of his vision. He waited to see what the duke's daughter would think of dining with a bastard. Blue eyes narrowed and Collin felt his eyes narrow in turn, but then she smiled—a smile that widened as the seconds ticked past.
"Oh, my. A bastard. However did you become a baron?"
"My father purchased a Scottish barony in a fit of guilt. I'm not the least bit respectable."
"Well, you are in good company then. A bastard, a harlot, and a witch. I'm afraid that George is the only truly respectable one at the table."
Lucy tried to smother a laugh and snorted instead.
Collin raised an eyebrow at the indiscreet sound. "Cousin, I had no idea you were a witch." Lucy's eyes flew wide and her husband's chuckle ended on an alarmingly choked cough. Collin's brow tightened at the feeling he'd misstepped.
Dessert arrived in the form of glazed berries and cream. The servants retreated. Silence hung heavy over the room.
Then Alexandra smiled sweetly across the table, adding to Collin's unease. "Now, my dear Lord Westmore," she said, hands spreading to gesture around the table, "whoever said that I was the harlot?"
The air grew stifling and drew heat that spread in a tingling burn over his cheeks. Christ, he'd just called the woman a whore at the supper table. His mouth fell open of its own accord; nothing emerged. He closed it, tried to think of something—anything—to say. Alexandra's mask of innocence suddenly dissolved into a fit of laughter.
Lucy snorted again. "Really, Alex,
The real Alexandra Huntington made her debut in the formal dining room. Here was the confident woman who'd enchanted the ton; the sparkling, dark beauty the men spoke of, some with wistful looks, some with lust. Collin had not fully understood their admiration, not until this night.
She flushed a little as they greeted each other, but with each course that passed over their plates, Alexandra relaxed a fraction more. She did not seem selfish or thoughtless. She did not even seem particularly spoiled. And she had freckles on her nose.
Ridiculous, of course, but as Collin sat there in the yellow-walled dining room, eating goose and salmon and Yorkshire pudding, he stared at her—at her wild, dark curls and big eyes and those nearly invisible freckles sprinkled across her nose—and he realized: This woman is no whore.
And more surprising than that? He wanted her.
Impossible. She was only nineteen. She was English. And the sister of a duke. Practically a damned English princess, for God's sake. Regardless of her past, she was not a woman to have a tryst with. She was royalty.
His torturous thoughts were interrupted by George's sigh. "Women and their money talk. It quite makes my head spin."
Alexandra stopped her chatter about expenses and grinned at them, wrinkling her nose at her cousin before she turned back to Lucy. "And Hart has given permission to expand his stables, so I'll no doubt spend some time at the horse fairs this summer."
"Perhaps Collin can assist you."
Collin caught the confused glance she threw in his direction.
"He breeds horses," Lucy added helpfully.
"Oh, I didn't realize. Blackburn?" Brow furrowed in thought, she looked again to Collin. "I don't think I've heard of you."
George chuckled, obviously enjoying Collin's anonymity. "Collin does not use his title. He is Baron Westmore."
"Oh? Oh, of course!" Her face brightened. "The West-more stables. Your horses are coveted."
He smiled at the sheer regard in her voice. "They are fine animals."
She nodded at that, but her grin faded, the frown returned. Collin could almost hear the click of her mind turning over some troubling detail. "Your surname is different than John's . . . I'd assumed you had a different father, but you said something—"
"I'm a bastard."
Her eyes widened at the blunt words, and Collin caught George's cringe at the edge of his vision. He waited to see what the duke's daughter would think of dining with a bastard. Blue eyes narrowed and Collin felt his eyes narrow in turn, but then she smiled—a smile that widened as the seconds ticked past.
"Oh, my. A bastard. However did you become a baron?"
"My father purchased a Scottish barony in a fit of guilt. I'm not the least bit respectable."
"Well, you are in good company then. A bastard, a harlot, and a witch. I'm afraid that George is the only truly respectable one at the table."
Lucy tried to smother a laugh and snorted instead.
Collin raised an eyebrow at the indiscreet sound. "Cousin, I had no idea you were a witch." Lucy's eyes flew wide and her husband's chuckle ended on an alarmingly choked cough. Collin's brow tightened at the feeling he'd misstepped.
Dessert arrived in the form of glazed berries and cream. The servants retreated. Silence hung heavy over the room.
Then Alexandra smiled sweetly across the table, adding to Collin's unease. "Now, my dear Lord Westmore," she said, hands spreading to gesture around the table, "whoever said that I was the harlot?"
The air grew stifling and drew heat that spread in a tingling burn over his cheeks. Christ, he'd just called the woman a whore at the supper table. His mouth fell open of its own accord; nothing emerged. He closed it, tried to think of something—anything—to say. Alexandra's mask of innocence suddenly dissolved into a fit of laughter.
Lucy snorted again. "Really, Alex,
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