The Heir and the Spare by Maya Rodale Page B

ungentlemanly to say such a thing.
    Why couldn’t she have fallen half in love with Lord Knightly? Or Roxbury, even?
    “Emilia, dear, we do not scowl in public,” Lady Palmerston said, cutting into her thoughts.
    “Unless, of course, it is to chastise a gentleman when he behaves inappropriately,” Lady Stillmore added.
    “Naturally,” her aunt continued. “Perhaps, Emilia, you would like to scowl in the privacy of the ladies’ retiring room.”
    “I think I would. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I think I should like to retire for the evening.”
    She walked briskly into the great hall, finding the paneled mahogany walls overbearingly masculine. She had tried to rationalize his behavior and had come up empty. Perhaps he did care for her, and perhaps he liked her in spite of her supposed flaws. Perhaps he did not. Emilia was quite certain she was beyond caring.
    Love at first sight was a curse, of that she was now certain. One surrendered into the moment just once, and then spent the subsequent months trying to rationalize oneself out of the turmoil of the heart. It was humiliating to have fallen in love with someone who most likely did not return the sentiment. Someone who did not share the same interests and who disapproved of hers. Who disapproved of the very things that made her who she was. It was tantamount to disapproving of her. Why, then, was he courting her so? Perhaps he was nothing more than a fortune-hunting scoundrel. Perhaps she, blinded by love, had not seen it sooner.
    The stairs were just ahead, but Emilia also noticed the library on her left. The door was open. There was a fire going, and, after peeking in, Emilia saw the room was empty. She went inside, intending to select a book and take it to her room.
    Her fingers traced along the leather spines, collections of histories, an entire shelf of agriculture treatises, books on hunting and fishing, and the collected works of Shakespeare. She pulled a volume of sonnets off the shelf and cracked it open, obviously the first time anyone had ever done so. She inhaled the scent of the book: of paper and promise and dust. She thought that she wasn’t very tired after all, and she did not fancy the idea of lying alone in her room angry and unable to sleep. She put the book of poems back on the shelf, for she did not wish to read about love at the moment, selected another volume at random, and curled up on a chair beside the fire.
    Devon had traveled to London that morning. He spent the better part of his day at the docks inspecting one of his ships that had arrived the previous day. After a quick lunch at a tavern, he went to call on Harold’s daughter.
    A stone-faced butler opened the door and stood in silence, waiting for Devon to speak.
    “I’m here to see Miss Highhart. Her father requested I call on her.” He thought he saw the corners of the butler’s mouth twitch. So he had cracked the butler’s reserve! And yet, what was so amusing about that?
    “She is not at home at the moment,” the butler answered briskly.
    “Is she really not at home, or is she hiding in a drawing room somewhere?” Devon asked with irritation. It was one thing to call on her out of a favor to her father; it was another thing to do so repeatedly. He did not care for the prospect of organizing his schedule to make the time to return for a tepid cup of tea, when in all likelihood, the girl was just fine.
    “My lord,” the butler said with an air of complete superiority, “Miss Highhart is at your country estate, Cliveden. As is the lady of the house, Dowager Viscountess Palmerston,” he finished haughtily.
    Devon started to laugh; the butler thought he was Phillip. And here he was not even attempting to pass himself off as his twin. Then it dawned on him. Damn. Phillip was entertaining Harold’s daughter at Cliveden, a place full of infinite opportunities to shut the door, take what you want, and get rid of the girl. The last thing Devon wanted to do was to inform