Page 35 of The Earl That Got Away (Sirens in Silk #2)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

T he lady in blue silk is Miss Darwish, the authoress of An American Heiress’s Guide to Landing a Lord ,” Charles informed Hawk at they stood in one of the massive receiving rooms in Strick’s London townhome attending Naila’s first salon.

They were with the duke and Guy. “She’s bound to be as great a success in London as she is in New York. ”

“Hawk and Miss Darwish have met,” Strick informed their friend.

Charles’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t realized.”

“Yes, we are acquainted.” Hawk pretended not to watch Naila glide masterfully around the room introducing the pauper lords to the dollar princesses.

She was resplendent in a shimmering gown that skimmed her considerable curves like a lingering lover.

Her dark eyes sparkled, her complexion rosy as she smiled.

Success definitely agreed with her.

“I ran into Miss Darwish the other day on Piccadilly,” Guy Vaughn said. “She seems very proud of the success of her pamphlet.”

“As well she should be.” Hawk surveyed the crowd. “There are quite of number of eligible young ladies here. Charles, did you bring all the New York heiresses back to London with you?”

Charles chuckled. “Quite a number of them. Miss Darwish was very convincing during Mr. Frost’s gatherings. She assured a number of the young ladies that there were many grand houses in need of saving.”

Guy snorted. “And that interested them?”

Charles grinned back. “The heiresses were much more drawn to the penurious lords that come with the homes.”

Guy adjusted his cuffs. “It is peculiar that Miss Darwish has become a successful matchmaker when she herself has never married.”

“Oh, she has had offers,” Charles told him. “She apparently attracted the serious interest of a lord.”

“Has she?” Guy tilted his head. “I wonder who that could be.”

Strick stared into his drink. Hawk schooled his features into a neutral expression even as his muscles tensed beneath his dark evening clothes. Was the gossip about him? Or did Naila have a new suitor?

“I’ve no idea,” Charles told him. “According to my betrothed, he was a high-ranking lord.”

“How intriguing.” Interest lit Guy’s eyes. “What happened?”

Charles shrugged. “Apparently it wasn’t a love match.”

Hawk grabbed champagne from a circulating footman bearing a silver tray of drinks. He bottomed out the entire glass, relishing the burn down his throat and into his chest.

Charles was still talking. “Once all the American heiresses heard that Miss Darwish had actually attracted the interest of a lord, they followed her around like she is the pied piper.”

Guy chuckled. “I confess that at first I viewed Miss Darwish as something of a plain mouse. But once you become acquainted with her, she is nothing of the sort.”

“Plain?” Charles looked at Guy as though he’d taken leave of his senses. “A mouse? Miss Darwish?”

The two men talked on but Hawk didn’t follow their conversation. He was far too busy contemplating Naila and the possibility she was advertising her one-time connection to him in order to sell more of her infernal pamphlets.

“I doubt the rumors came from Naila.” Strick’s voice cut into his thoughts. Hawk realized they were alone; the other two men had wandered away.

“It doesn’t matter to me in the least,” he lied as he tracked Naila’s movements. She appeared to be introducing a marquess’s heir to another of her young ladies. “But it is growing rather aggravating.”

“What is?”

“Must I always have the damnable misfortune of running into Miss Darwish at every wedding I attend? First yours and now Charles’s.

” It was if the fates were mocking him. Was he destined to always see her at the weddings of other people, a slap in the face when he’d once wanted nothing more than to meet Naila at the altar?

“You are in search of a wife,” Strick remarked. “Does anyone here catch your eye?”

He shrugged. “The evening is still young.” But he kept his eye on the only woman who had ever really caught his attention. He did not allow himself to regret breaking with Naila. It was the only way to save his sanity, but he still couldn’t help admiring her.

Naila was speaking to Raya now, in that confidential way of sisters that makes everyone else feel excluded.

He was weary of the turmoil that churned inside him whenever he laid eyes on her.

He detested tumult and upheaval. He’d had enough of that last year around the time of Strickland’s nuptials. It had to end.

He and Naila had settled their past. Surely neither of them wanted continued awkwardness between them to continue for the entire Season. They were adults.

It was time to call a truce.

Meanwhile, across the room, Naila focused on facilitating suitable matches among her guests.

“Miss Work,” Naila said to the fresh-faced Boston department store heiress, “allow me to introduce the Earl of Heresford. His lordship’s country seat is an impressive castle in Hampshire.”

Which was in danger of collapsing if the earl didn’t refresh the dwindling family coffers soon.

What Heresford lacked in looks, he made up for with his aristocratic bearing and excellent dress.

Most importantly, he possessed a title, which was the primary attribute the wealthy Americans girls looked for.

“Miss Work.” Heresford dipped his chin in a supremely elegant manner. “What a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance.”

To Naila’s relief the two were soon engaged in effortless conversation.

That was the thing with American girls. The English nobles were often attracted to their engaging confident manner.

She left them to it and turned to find Hawk approaching her.

Her skin tightened and grew warmer, as it always did whenever she was around him.

“It’s a marvelous feat,” Hawk said. “My congratulations.”

“Hawk.” She feigned surprise, pretending she hadn’t seen him coming. As if she hadn’t tracked his movements from the moment he first appeared at her salon.

“Welcome back to England,” he said.

“Thank you. I did not expect to see you here.”

“I do not think we can avoid each other.” His manner was almost friendly. “As much as we might like to.”

He looked handsome and forbidding in his dark evening clothes. There were more fine lines around his eyes, but they added to, rather than detracted from, his appeal. Why did the annoying man have to grow more enticing every time she saw him?

“I suppose we cannot help but run into each other,” she agreed, “since one of your closest friends is wed to my sister.”

“It is inconvenient.” A smile lurked at the corners his mouth and the memory of how those lips felt against her skin fluttered through her body. Around them, people talked and laughed and footmen weaved among the guests with champagne. But all she saw was Hawk.

“I expected you to give me a wide berth,” she admitted, “instead of going to the trouble to actually seek me out.”

His steady gaze remained on her face. “We parted on... erm... less than amicable terms.”

Emotion thickened her throat. “I remember.” It was seared into her mind.

“But just because we do not suit does not mean we should not be able to be in the same room together. I hope we can try to be friends.”

Again, with the friends talk. Even though he’d once told her they could never be friends. That he could only ever feel an intense emotion for her. Love or hate. Nothing as mild as friendship. And yet here they were.

“Of course we can be friends.” She forced a cheery tone that sounded false to her ears but she hoped he wouldn’t notice. “I would like that.”

And maybe one day, far into the future, that might actually be true.

“Excellent.” His answering smile seemed a little wistful.

“I didn’t realize you were in London,” she said. “Raya says you rarely come to Town these days.”

His brows lifted. “You are so interested in my whereabouts that asked your sister about me?”

“Ha!” Of course. But she’d never admit it. “I see your sense of self-importance is still firmly in place.”

“Ah, but you are the important one here this evening.” This time his smile seemed genuine. “What you’ve accomplished here is truly impressive.”

She basked in his praise far more than she should. “The pamphlet has turned out to be a greater success than I ever could have imagined.”

“So I have heard.” He seemed truly pleased for her. “You must be very proud.”

“There is one particularly beautiful old house that is being saved because of a match that was made thanks to the pamphlet.”

“Thanks to you ,” he corrected. “Are you speaking of Sherborne House?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised. “Do you know it?”

“Very well. Charles Brownley is an old school friend of mine.”

She shook her head. “The world really is a small place.”

“Particularly the world of the English aristocracy.”

“You all know each other, I suppose.”

“Something like that.”

“We’re hosting another salon next week at a tearoom on Brook Street,” she said impulsively. “Will you come?”

He paused.

“It is not just American heiresses who will be there.” She already wanted to kick herself for taking the conversation down this road. “English debutantes will be there as well.”

His eyes rounded. “Miss Darwish, are you trying to matchmake me as well?”

She wasn’t, but what could she say now that her impulsive desire to see him again—and to have him witness her successes firsthand—had led them to this point.

“You never know,” she said. And then she winked.

Hawk had never seen so much puce in one room. Brownish-purple dresses were everywhere in the tea shop. The establishment was brimming with both American heiresses and London’s finest debutantes, a sizable number of whom wore the muddy-colored dresses.

One of the first people he spotted was Frances, Guy’s impeccably fashionable sister. “Thank goodness you have the good sense not to wear puce.”

Her eyes sparkled. “You’ve returned to London.”

“I could hardly miss the nuptials of the year.”