her graciousness only added to her beauty. He nodded slightly toward her, holding his regret firmly in check, and then excused himself under the pretext of mingling with the other guests.
Instead, he exited the ballroom and went in search of the library.
There had been so few unmarried ladies who’d held George’s interest. His granduncle, the former Duke of Aylesham, had encouraged him to find a wife, as male heirs in the Aylesham line were sparse. Worse than sparse. Mr. Dutton had spent a good deal of time researching the family line in search of George’s heir. In the meantime, George had spent the past few years subtly reviewing each crop of young ladies making their come-outs, and he’d found no one he could stomach the idea of marrying, and the older he got, the younger and sillier they all seemed.
But enough of such maudlin thoughts, he told himself. Marriage was a business proposition, requiring only that George be able to at least envision himself leading some sort of companionable coexistence with his future wife. He’d held youthful hopes and even the beginnings of love during his brief betrothal to Lady Louisa, and then Lady Elizabeth’s near perfection had stirred those hopes again.
It was time to put such romantic foolishness to rest.
***
The door to the library opened.
Susan looked up from her book.
The door closed with a quiet click.
She waited, her ear straining for any noise. Had someone merely peered into the room and then left? Or was there someone in the library with her now? Ugh, how utterly annoying if her solitude was now to be interrupted. She’d only just set the poetry aside to read Evelina. She wanted to continue reading, not deal with the niceties of social conversation. Maybe if she remained quiet . . .
She heard a man sigh, followed by a squeak and swooshing sound that led Susan to conclude—unhappily—that whoever it was had sat in one of the chairs near the door, which meant he intended to be here for a while. Bother. Now what should she do?
She had been here first, she told herself. She would simply ignore the man. Perhaps he would soon leave.
She tried to resume reading—but, honestly, how was one to read under such circumstances, when one’s mind was constantly drawn to the awareness of an intruder in the room?
Within a few minutes, the door opened again, and the chair squeaked and swooshed as the man presumably arose to greet whoever had joined him.
Double bother.
“We must make this conversation brief,” a male voice said softly.
“Agreed. The less said, the better,” another male voice replied. This voice was slightly lower in pitch than the first man’s voice. Susan heard the sound of papers rustling. “These are the letters of introduction you will need”—more rustling sounds— “and this is the document from Lord C that will explain our intent.”
“Excellent,” the first man said.
“This final letter gives instructions to the captain of my yacht.”
Susan’s forehead knit together. Letters of introduction? A yacht? A document? And who was Lord C? What were these men talking about? Her mind was abuzz with curiosity.
“When can you leave?” the man with the lower-pitched voiced asked.
“As soon as I feel it appropriate, under the circumstances.”
“Ah, yes. Family duties. Do you have any questions? If not, it is best that we separate and each return in our own time to the wedding celebration.”
“I have no questions at present. I’m fully aware of the gravity of my assignment,” the man who’d been given the letters said.
“Excellent. Godspeed.”
Susan stayed completely still and waited to hear the door open and close. She didn’t have to wait long. The door opened and, after a few moments, shut again.
She let out a breath and stood, closing Evelina as she did so. She would put the book of poetry back on the shelf, but she thought she might ask Lord Cantwell if she could borrow the novel and finish reading it before she returned to Lincolnshire—
“Ahem.”
She looked up, startled.
A very tall, very haughty-looking, very angry gentleman stood at the end of the row of books directly in front of her. He stalked toward her, his mouth in a firm line, his eyes burning like black coals. She disliked him on sight.
“Do you make it a regular practice of eavesdropping on other people’s conversations?” he asked her in a surprisingly soft but nonetheless biting tone.
“Do you make it a regular practice of barging into a room that is already occupied and commandeering it?” she replied. It was an