The Property of a Gentleman

‘There are more important things in life,’ Eve commented, bored by the fervour with which Angela insisted they know all about a young man they had not met.

Angela scowled crossly. ‘You can say that when you’re almost betrothed to one of the most eligible men in the north, Eve,’ she said, reaching into a box of bonbons Leslie had brought them before disappearing.

‘And you will find as big a catch one day, Angela. Men flock round you in droves. You know how to flirt, how to say what pleases them. You’ll soon have yourself a husband—although if you carry on eating those bonbons like that you’ll become so plump you’ll put them off,’ she said as Angela popped another into her mouth. She watched as Angela’s soft pink lips closed around the sugary sweet, beginning to feel distinctly uneasy about the way Angela always attached herself to Leslie, who, to her anger and dismay, seemed flattered by it and not to mind in the slightest.

‘If he’s half as rich and good looking as Leslie, then I’ll be well satisfied,’ Angela replied, softly and serenely, licking each sticky finger, her mouth as pink as a rosebud and her eyes lighting with sudden interest when they came to rest on a man riding by on a powerfully built chestnut stallion, the man in the saddle exuding virility and a lazy confidence.

His head was bare, the sunlight shining on his hair, which was as black as ebony, his body in complete proportion as he moved as one with his horse. His shoulders and hips were firm, his booted legs long and his thighs powerful as they gripped his horse.

‘Good Lord,’ gasped Angela, agog with excitement. ‘It’s Marcus Fitzalan.’

As he rode past Angela and Emma stole long, lingering looks at him—but not so much Eve, who remained unimpressed. He was well-known and people moved out of the way to let him pass. Eve merely glanced at him with idle curiosity, because although they had never met—she had caught only a brief glimpse of him when he had called at Burntwood Hall once—she knew him to be a business associate and close friend of her father’s.

He seemed oblivious to the mayhem he caused within the breasts of two of the young ladies, his mind being on other things, but on hearing Angela’s unrestrained girlish giggles he condescended to look their way. The blast from his eyes acted like a douche of cold air as they swept over the group with little interest.

‘Goodness! What a handsome man,’ Emma exclaimed, sighing ecstatically as her eyes followed the delectable Mr Fitzalan, watching him become swallowed up by the crowd.

‘And he knows it,’ said Angela.

‘I wonder what he’s doing here.’

Eve shrugged. ‘I really do not care,’ she said, trying to sound indifferent, although the wave of excitement that had swept over her when she had watched him ride by told her she was not as indifferent to his masculine allure as she appeared.

‘I wonder if he’s staying for the dancing later,’ said Emma.

‘Maybe he will—although I’m sure he won’t dance,’ said Eve. ‘He’s far too superior—and I’m sure he wouldn’t be seen dead dancing with any of the local girls.’

Angela’s eyes narrowed, suddenly filling with mischief as an outlandish scheme came to mind. ‘But we’re not local girls, are we? At least not in the sense you mean, Eve—and I think we should have some fun with Mr Fitzalan—see if we can’t melt that ice-sculptured exterior he’s so fond of portraying to the world.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘That one of us should ask him to dance.’

‘Angela! That’s quite outrageous,’ gasped Emma.

‘Yes—but it’s fun—and I think it should be you, Eve,’ she said decisively, her eyes coming to rest with a sly, faint challenge on her friend.

Eve sat up with a jolt and stared at her in disbelief. Normally nothing Angela suggested either shocked or amazed her, but this was something quite outrageous—even by Angela’s standards.

‘Oh, no. I couldn’t,’ she whispered. ‘What you suggest is preposterous, Angela—and besides, if I am to dance at all—should Mrs Parkinson permit it—then I shall be dancing with Leslie.’

‘That’s if Leslie feels inclined to dance,’ Angela commented flatly, piqued. On seeing Eve shoot her a cross look she sighed, not to be deterred. ‘Oh, Eve—think about it. Leslie has paid you such scant attention today that I shall be surprised if he finds the time to seek you out at all—and he seems to be in no hurry to approach your father to ask his permission to marry you. He’s been dithering for weeks and you know it.’

‘That’s not true, Angela,’ Eve replied hotly, hating it when Angela took her to task over anything, but she could not deny that what she said was true. The manner in which he was dragging his feet in making any kind of commitment to her was being noticed by everyone.

‘Just think, Eve,’ Angela went on, smiling with enthusiasm, her eyes regarding her sardonically, ‘if he sees a man of Mr Fitzalan’s distinction paying you particular attention by asking you to dance, it’s bound to make him jealous and increase his intention to marry you.’

‘But if I am to do as you say, it will be me asking Mr Fitzalan to dance, not the other way round,’ she said drily.

‘Nevertheless, it could be just what Leslie needs to sharpen him up a bit. Mark my words, if he thinks Marcus Fitzalan is interested in you he’ll insist on seeking your father out immediately to ask for your hand in marriage.’

Eve frowned, uncertain. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course he will.’

‘But I could just as easily make him jealous by dancing with someone else. It doesn’t have to be Mr Fitzalan,’ she said, the very thought of approaching the formidable Mr Fitzalan making her stomach churn and her spirits sink.

‘But that wouldn’t have the same effect. Besides, everyone knows what good friends he and your father are. You’re far more likely to succeed with him than Emma or I. Unless, of course, you don’t think you can charm him into dancing with you—or anything else, for that matter,’ she said, in a deceptively casual way, lying back on the grass and closing her eyes with a sigh, giving the impression that she wasn’t really interested one way or the other.

But Eve was not deceived. The challenge had been tossed down and unless she wanted to look a fool she had no alternative but to take her up on it—but she had the uneasy sensation of being the victim of some secret plot. Goaded into action, she was determined to prove Angela wrong.

When a group of fiddlers started to play and the dancing began, that was the moment when Eve, having escaped the watchful eye of Mrs Parkinson, found herself walking in the direction of Marcus Fitzalan, unaware as she did so of the smug, self-satisfied smile curling Angela’s lips, and the malicious, ruthless gleam in her slanting eyes as she watched her go—like a lamb to the slaughter.

Observing the scene with his brooding gaze, Mr Fitzalan stood where a large crowd of spectators gathered. Dressed all in black, apart from his startlingly white neckcloth, he reminded Eve of a predatory hawk. She stopped short, becoming nervous suddenly, for what had started out as a silly prank no longer seemed like fun and already she was beginning to regret her silly impulse to call Angela’s bluff.

She was tempted to walk past Mr Fitzalan but, aware of Angela’s watchful gaze and the challenge she had thrown down, her pride forbade it, despite being intensely conscious of the impropriety of her actions and that her parents would be furious and deeply shocked if they were to find out.

And so it was that against the dictates of her better judgement she hesitantly stepped into the arena, feeling rather like Daniel stepping into the lions’ den, blessedly unaware as she did so that the situation she was about to get herself into would alter the entire course of her life.

She looked up at Mr Fitzalan with her heart in confusion, gazing into a pair of ice blue eyes, having no idea of the bright-eyed picture she presented to Marcus Fitzalan—a dainty, lovely image of fragility. He observed the healthy glow of her skin, how demure she looked in her high-waisted pale pink sprigged dress with its scoop neck, the delectable mounds of her young breasts peeping tantalisingly over the top.

He had seen her with her friends when he arrived, all of them in high spirits. Taking her for one of the country girls who had come to enjoy the fair—for no properly brought-up young lady would be seen watching what was about to take place—his eyes raked over her.

Eve looked up at him, taking the bull by the horns, for she would have to speak to him now. He would think it odd if she just walked away. ‘Have you only just arrived at the fair, Mr Fitzalan?’ she found herself asking.

He stared down at her in fascination, both repelled by the cool manner in which she had approached him and attracted by her physical beauty.

‘Yes. And you? Are you enjoying the fair?’ he asked politely.

She smiled. ‘Very much, thank you.’

Marcus was the kind of man who understood flirting and always found it distasteful—except when it happened to be from the right woman. But this was not a woman, this was a girl, and if she had not chosen that moment to smile he would have moved on, but it melted his bones to water and he found himself wanting to know more about her and enjoy her company a little longer. He was intrigued. Perhaps a little dalliance wouldn’t go amiss before he had to return to Netherley.

Eve felt herself begin to relax, turning to observe the event that was about to start. ‘What is going to happen?’ she asked innocently.

‘Another prize fight,’ he answered, his attention drawn to a brute of a man with a bare chest and massive shoulders prowling in the ring before them.

Eve paled suddenly when she realised she was close to the ring where pugilists were displaying their skills, accepting bets from amateurs who fancied their chances in fighting them. If she had known this was to be the attraction, she would have waited until Mr Fitzalan had moved away. Her eyes became riveted on the fighter awaiting another challenger. His fists were clenched and bloodied, his last challenger having retired with a broken jaw and bloody nose. He was powerfully built, rippling with muscles, his head covered with black patches to hide his scars.

Eve turned to speak to her companion, about to move further away, but the excited crowd closed in around them, forcing her to remain where she was, the roar that rose from a hundred throats as another challenger stepped into the ring rendering her speechless. She became dismayed and nauseated when she realised she would have to stay and watch the brutal slaughter.

Swallowing hard, she was determined not to waver, remembering Angela would be watching her mercilessly. ‘Oh—on whom do you place your money, Mr Fitzalan?’ she heard herself asking tentatively, wondering if he approved of this crude and violent sport. ‘Will it be the reigning champion, do you think, whose last opponent looks to be in a sorry state,’ she said, indicating the poor man holding his broken jaw and having a wound on his cheek sewn up at the ringside, ‘or the challenger?’

‘Neither. I’m not a gambling man. I would never bet on the obvious for I fear the challenger is destined to be the loser.’

‘I disagree,’ said Eve, studying the man who had stepped into the ring to try his luck. ‘I suspect the challenger is about to make his reputation. The champion is strong and lithe, I grant you, while his opponent is stout and not so great in stature—but he is full of fire which will give him added strength.’

Marcus looked down at her with slight amusement. ‘You speak like an expert. Do you enjoy prize fights?’