Duel of Hearts by Anita Mills

in silence, each viewing the approaching party with misgivings. Twice Tony attempted to make polite conversation to alleviate the tension, only to be rebuffed by her terse answers. Finally his patience snapped.
    â€œI sincerely hope you are more animated at your betrothal party, else everyone will think I have contracted myself to a peagoose,” he muttered after her last monosyllabic reply.
    â€œA rich peagoose,” she corrected.
    â€œAnd that rankles you, doesn’t it? Your sex is to be congratulated when you ensnare rich men, but mine is to be condemned for fortune-hunting when we marry well.”
    â€œThey’ll not congratulate you for wedding a merchant’s daughter.”
    â€œWith a title and money, one can be forgiven almost anything, Miss Cole,” he retorted. “When you are a viscountess with heirs in your nursery, there will be few to remember you were ever anything else.”
    She gave him a pained look in the dimness of the carriage interior. “I thought I had made myself plain on that subject. And not even the promise that I shall be accepted by a group of selfish nobs could tempt me otherwise.”
    â€œYou know, Miss Cole, for someone who’s never been amongst the ton at all, you have deuced queer notions about how wellborn ladies behave.” He saw then that she was nervously twisting the folds of her gown in her lap, and his irritation faded to sympathy. Reaching across to still her hands, he smiled wryly. “Come—am I truly that difficult to take?”
    â€œYes, but I cannot expect you to understand it, I suppose,” she sighed. “You at least are gaining something for your sacrifice.”
    â€œHave it your way.” He nodded, releasing her hands. “I am some ogre come to carry off your gold.”
    When she did not answer, they lapsed into silence again until the coach drew up to the portals of Davenham House. He could sense her body tensing and he heard her exhale sharply as the coach halted. He jumped down and reached up to assist her to the ground, where he turned her around expertly and twitched her skirt into place.
    â€œYou seem to have much experience with women’s gowns,” she commented dryly while stepping back. “No doubt it comes from a long association with opera dancers.”
    â€œAn extremely improper comment from a lady, Miss Cole. It is indelicate for you to acknowledge the existence of such creatures—I trust you will remember that when we are inside.”
    Another carriage rolled to a halt behind them, prompting Tony to offer his arm quickly. “For your papa’s sake, Miss Cole, remember that this is a love match,” he hissed. “Now, buck up, and call me Tony.”

Chapter 11
11
    C uriosity replaced Leah’s fears the moment J Stodgill admitted them to Davenham House itself. The place was grand—grander than her own home, in fact—and the atmosphere was decidedly aristocratic, from the tall portraits of Havinghurst and Barsett ancestors to the austere, museumlike character of the cavernous entry hall. Even the chandelier, suspended on a heavy brass- plated chain, hung a full two stories above them.
    Directed to the ballroom at the rear of the house, Tony tucked her fingers in the crook of his arm and prepared for their grand entrance. Despite their leaving Jeptha Cole’s house early, they’d been stalled in streets clogged with carriages, making them late for their own betrothal party, and a number of guests already stood waiting to see Tony’s Cit. Conversations stopped in mid-sentence while the curious watched him present her to that grande dame of the ton, the dowager duchess herself, and then they queued up to meet the merchant’s daughter.
    The frail dowager, rouged like an aging madam, pulled him down to plant a kiss on her wrinkled cheek before she acknowledged Leah. Leah, on the other hand, took in her hostess’s plumed turban and had to