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.”
Mayweather smirked. “He does have a particularly desirable title.”
That cerulean gaze fell to Haven, curious and lacking in recognition, and so honest that it seemed as though he had been seen for the first time. “Does he? Well, then it shall be a lucky young fisherwoman who hooks him so prettily.”
With that, she turned her back on him, as though he did not exist, and made her way for the door, as though she did not care a bit about him. As though she did not recognize him.
It was impossible, of course. It was some kind of game that she was playing, to tempt him. And despite knowing it, he found himself tempted nonetheless. “I’m to believe you don’t know me?”
She stilled and turned back, humor underscoring her words, setting him off-balance. “At the risk of sounding rude, my lord, I don’t particularly care what you believe. As we’ve never met, I don’t know how I would know you.”
Mayweather barked a laugh, and Haven had the distinct urge to push his friend right over the balcony into the hedge below. “She has you there.”
She did not have him. He was not to be had. “Your Grace,” he said.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You called me ‘my lord.’ It’s ‘Your Grace.’”
She smirked. “How did you know how thoroughly women adore being corrected by men? And over forms of address, especially. It is a great wonder that none of us have ever fallen in love with you.” She dropped a little curtsy, the movement making him feel like a horse’s ass. “Farewell, gentlemen.”
And still, he could not stop himself. “Wait.”
She turned back, beautiful and poised. “Be careful, Duke; I’ll begin to think you’re the one trying to get your pretty hooks in me.”
The idea was preposterous. Wasn’t it? “Your friends.”
She raised her brows. “What of them?”
“You’ve never discussed me with them?” Was it honestly possible she had no idea who he was?
Her lips twitched with amusement. She was making a fool of him. No, he was making one of himself. For her. Like an imbecile. “I don’t have friends; I have sisters. And I remain unclear on why they should know or care about you?”
Mayweather snorted at that, clearly enjoying watching him make a fool of himself. And still, Haven couldn’t seem to stop it. He spread his arms wide. “I’m Haven.”
She did laugh then. “Well, you certainly have a high opinion of yourself, Heaven.”
Mayweather laughed and Malcolm became annoyed. “Haven. As in, Duke of.”
There wasn’t an ounce of recognition in her reply. “Fair enough. Then I take it all back. No doubt as a young and fairly handsome male specimen who happens to hold what sounds a proper title, you must be careful. The women, they must positively flock.”
There. She finally understood. Wait. He blinked. Fairly handsome?
Who was she? Aside from being the single most maddening woman in all of Christendom, that was. She had turned her attention to Mayweather once more, dismissing Malcolm. “Good night, my lord. And may I say good luck?”
The marquess bowed low. “Thank you, Miss . . .” He trailed off, and it occurred to Haven that Mayweather was not so bad after all—if he discovered the girl’s name, that was.
A grin spread wide and welcome across her face, and Malcolm felt the heat of it like the sun. “What a shock. It seems that you don’t know who I am, either.”