“You rely on instinct all the time,” Hunt chided.

“Not when it comes to decisions that have lifelong consequences. And in spite of my attraction to Miss Bowman, the differences between us would eventually result in misery for us both.”

“I understand the differences between you,” Hunt said quietly. As their gazes met, something in his eyes reminded Marcus that Hunt was a butcher’s son who had climbed out of the middle class and made a fortune from nothing. “Believe me, I understand the challenges that Miss Bowman would face in such a position. But what if she is willing to accept them? What if she is willing to change herself sufficiently?”

“She can’t.”

“You do her an injustice by assuming that she could not adapt. Shouldn’t she be allowed the chance to try?”

“Blast it, Hunt, I have no need of a devil’s advocate.”

“You were hoping for blind agreement?” Hunt asked mockingly. “Perhaps you should have sought someone of your own class for counsel.”

“This has nothing to do with class,” Marcus snapped, resenting the implication that his objections to Lillian stemmed from simple snobbery.

“No,” Hunt agreed calmly, standing from the desk. “It’s an empty argument. I think there is another reason you’ve decided not to pursue her. Something you won’t admit to me, or possibly even to yourself.” He went to the doorway and paused to give Marcus an astute glance. “As you contemplate the matter, however, you should be made aware that St. Vincent’s interest in her is more than a passing fancy.”

Marcus’s attention was instantly captured by the statement. “Nonsense. St. Vincent has never had an interest in a woman beyond the limits of a bedroom.”

“Be that as it may, I was recently informed by a reliable source that his father is selling off everything that isn’t entailed. Years of indiscriminate spending and foolish investments have drained the family coffers—and St. Vincent will soon be deprived of his yearly allotment. He needs money. And the Bowmans’ obvious desire for a titled son-in-law has hardly escaped him.” Hunt allowed a skillfully timed pause before adding, “Whether or not Miss Bowman is suited to be the wife of a peer, she may very well marry St. Vincent. And if so, then he’ll eventually come into his title and she will become a duchess. Fortunately for her, St. Vincent seems to have no qualms about her suitability for the position.”

Marcus stared at him with furious astonishment. “I’ll speak to Bowman,” he growled. “Once I make him aware of St. Vincent’s past, he’ll put a stop to the courtship.”

“By all means…if you think he’ll listen. My guess is that he won’t. A duke for a son-in-law, even a penniless one, is not a bad catch for a soap manufacturer from New York.”

CHAPTER 16

To anyone who cared to notice, it was obvious during the last two weeks of the house party at Stony Cross Park that Lord Westcliff and Miss Lillian Bowman made a mutual effort to avoid each other’s company as much as possible. It was equally obvious that Lord St. Vincent was partnering her with increasing frequency at the dances, picnics, and water parties that enlivened the pleasant autumn days in Hampshire.

Lillian and Daisy spent several mornings in the company of the Countess of Westcliff, who lectured, instructed, and tried in vain to instill them with an aristocratic perspective. Aristocrats never displayed enthusiasm, but rather detached interest. Aristocrats relied on subtle inflections of the voice to convey meaning. Aristocrats would say “relation” or “kinsman,” rather than “relative.” And they used the phrase “do be good enough” rather than ask “would you.” Furthermore, it was mandatory that an aristocratic lady should never express herself directly, but instead hint gracefully at her meaning.

If the countess preferred one sister over the other, it was certainly Daisy, who proved far more receptive to the archaic code of aristocratic behavior. Lillian, on the other hand, made little effort to hide her scorn at social rules that were, in her opinion, completely pointless. Why did it matter if one slid the bottle of port across the table or simply handed it over, as long as the port reached its destination? Why were so many subjects forbidden to discuss, whereas others that held no interest for her must be visited in tedious repetition? Why was it better to walk slowly than at a brisk pace, and why must a lady try to echo a gentleman’s opinions rather than offer her own?

She found a measure of relief in the company of Lord St. Vincent, who seemed not to give a damn about her mannerisms or what words she used. He was entertained by her frankness, and he was decidedly irreverent. Even his own father, the Duke of Kingston, was not exempt from St. Vincent’s derision. The duke, it seemed, had no idea how to apply tooth powder to his toothbrush, or put on his stocking garters, as such tasks had always been done for him by his valet. Lillian could not help but laugh at the idea of such a pampered existence, leading St. Vincent to speculate in mock horror at the primitive life she must have led in America, having to live in a mansion that was identified with a dreaded number over the door, or having to comb one’s own hair or tie one’s own shoes.

St. Vincent was the most engaging man that Lillian had ever met. Beneath the layers of silken gentility, however, there was a hardness, an impenetrability, that could only have belonged to a very cold man. Or perhaps an extremely guarded one. Either way, Lillian knew intuitively that whatever kind of soul lurked inside this elegant creature, she would never find out. He was as beautiful and inscrutable as a sphinx.