The English Witch by Loretta Chase

deeply meaningful glance upon her, but she only appeared thoughtful as she added, "And thereby contribute to the greater prosperity of the British nation. What a novel idea, my lord. It does you credit, I am sure."
    The prosperity of the nation was the very last thing on his mind, but he did not object to taking credit where it was not due. It was his aim, was it not, to win her admiration or respect or affection or whatever it might take to install her as quickly as possible as his marchioness. Therefore, despite the unexpected check to his impatient aspirations, his lordship passed the remainder of his time with her in remarkably good humour.
    Mr. Trevelyan, lounging at his club, was not in good humour. He had a glass of very old brandy in his hand, and he glowered at it. His severe, black and white evening attire was perfect in every deceptively simple detail, and he scowled precisely as though these were the same filmy rags he'd worn in Gjirokastra. He had an appointment for dinner with a lovely blond barque of frailty, and he looked forward to it with the same cold composure with which he would, in earlier days, have awaited an interview with one of his creditors. Mr. Trevelyan, in short, was very cross.
    Miss Ashmore had not, as any right-minded woman would—considering the trouble he'd taken on her account—greeted him with anything like enthusiasm. She'd turned rather pink, then rather white, and then had stared at him for an instant as though he were some great hulking monster. Then she'd turned to that snake beside her and let him do the talking for her, as though she belonged to him already. Clearly, Will seemed to think so. He had that proprietary air and that obnoxious, self-satisfied smirk on his arrogant face, and had even found it necessary—the great coxcomb—to lean close to speak to her as though the girl were quite deaf.
    It was disgusting...and pathetic. The ridiculous chit had gone and put herself into the hands of one of the most—if not the most—untrustworthy, fickle, careless, selfish, and depraved men in England. Oh, yes, Will meant to marry her, but marriage meant nothing to him. He'd get his precious heirs on her and then be off about his usual lecheries.
    Whatever was Aunt Clem thinking, to countenance the man? Surely she knew what he was. Aunt Clem sees all, knows all. Had she simply balanced off the brute's character against his material assets? It would, after all, be a great thing to marry off her goddaughter to a future duke. Single, good-looking dukes were rare, and single, good-looking dukes with vast fortunes were scarcer than hen's teeth. No, she could hardly do better than Will.
    Still, Aunt Clem might have found an eligible parti with a better character. But then, what was it to him? Certainly he wasn't about to look out for a better husband for Miss Ashmore, and he most definitely was not about to go haring off to Hartleigh Hall just to make certain she didn't get into any trouble. Let her get herself out of trouble this time, the ungrateful wench.
    He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the letter he'd already read some five or six dozen times, and crumpled it angrily in his hand. Then, in the next moment, he just as angrily smoothed it out again, folded it, and tucked it back into his pocket. She might at least have smiled.

Chapter Eight
    Alexandra sighed as she approached the breakfast room. She'd thought that the fresh country air would cure her sleeplessness, but the past five nights at Hartleigh Hall had been exactly like those preceding. When finally she did fall asleep, she had very troubling dreams. His gallant knights who rescued her from dragons that looked like the Burnham sisters kept turning out to have deceitful, amber eyes instead of adoring, grey ones.
    Because she hadn't slept properly since she'd come to England, she was prey to headaches, one of which was now shooting sharp blasts of pain behind her dark eyebrows. The great racket