Читать книгу Awakening The Shy Miss - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 10

Chapter Two

The night had been a success! Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban, allowed himself the rare private luxury of slouching into one of Andrew’s comfortably shabby overstuffed chairs. People had been interested in his project and in him. He didn’t fool himself. Interest in the latter was usually a strong recommendation for interest in the former. Being a prince had its merits even if it came with inordinate amounts of fawning. But the cause was worth it.

He pulled at his cravat and let out a sigh. ‘Ah, that feels better.’ Interest was a good sign. It meant the funds would come. Right now, the funds to start the project were all his, but eventually he would want to turn this project over to the people of Little Westbury and they would need to support it. For now, his mind could confidently race ahead to getting the project underway and all the next steps that would entail. There were arrangements to make, men to hire. But all that would keep for tomorrow. Tonight had been a start.

Not a finish. Dimitri pushed the thought away immediately and without tolerance. He wouldn’t allow himself to dwell on what else this evening was; the beginning of the end. This was the last project, his final foray abroad before he had to return to Kuban and take his place at court as all loyal, royal Kubanian males did when they turned thirty. He’d known this day would come. He’d been raised for it, but knowing its imminence didn’t make it any easier to accept. To give up this world and all its riches now, when there was so much more to learn, seemed a great tragedy. But not yet. There were still a few months. There was still time and he would be damned if he’d let the future pollute the present.

He turned his attention to Andrew at the sideboard preparing brandies. ‘You, my friend, were rude this evening.’ It would be far better to occupy his thoughts with more immediate issues. Andrew usually behaved with good manners. Not so tonight.

‘Rude?’ Andrew laughed and handed him a brandy before taking the seat opposite and settling in. A cool evening breeze drifted in from the open French doors of the study, a perfect late summer night. ‘To whom? I was charming to everyone who matters.’

Dimitri cocked an eyebrow and engaged in good-humoured debate. ‘The pretty girl doesn’t matter? That’s not like you, Andrew. I thought pretty girls were your specialty.’ Pretty, rich girls. But Dimitri was too much of a friend to say that out loud.

‘There were lots of pretty girls tonight.’ Andrew grinned and sipped his brandy. ‘Which one?’

‘The first one. Evaine,’ Dimitri prompted.

‘Evaine? Oh, Evie.’ Andrew shrugged dismissively. ‘She’s always around. Good sort, I suppose. Rather shy. You think she’s pretty? We grew up together. I suppose I never thought of her as pretty or otherwise.’

‘Well, she’s clearly thought of you,’ Dimitri probed. The girl had been eager for Andrew’s attention, all smiles and doting eyes whenever he looked at her, which was seldom. Andrew had been oblivious. His friend might not have noticed Evaine Milham, but he had. It was a habit of his, to excavate people the way he excavated sites. He liked looking beyond their surfaces to find their true natures. It made him a better judge of character. He’d seen a far different woman than the girl Andrew so readily dismissed.

Behind the plain upsweep of her hair and the quiet way she presented herself, Evaine Milham had fine features and a wide, generous mouth that lit up her face when she smiled—which was not in public company. She’d been uncomfortable tonight. Her hair might have been simply styled, but its colour was lustrous, a deep chestnut that reminded him of autumn afternoons. Her gown, also simple in fashion, had been intricately embroidered around the hem, where no one would notice. Another sign that she was not a woman who craved attention. Yet there was a certain quiet steel to her. When she’d been pushed to it, she had stood up for herself, demanding the respect she was due.

Taken together, these were no minor clues that Evie Milham was more than she appeared. It was too bad people didn’t look close enough to see those things. He would wager there were secret depths to Miss Milham. ‘I think she might be pretty if she were to do something with her hair.’ Dimitri decided to nudge the point. ‘Perhaps you should give her a second look. It’s no small thing to have a woman’s affection.’ A man could lay claim to no greater prize in this world than a woman’s loyalty. His parents’ marriage had taught him that. It had also taught him that such a gift should be protected, not shunned with the casual disregard Andrew showed Miss Milham.

Andrew gave another shrug as if to suggest it was nothing new, that he was used to having the women of West Sussex fall at his feet with adoring eyes. It was probably true. Andrew had never been short on female attention when they’d travelled together. His new friend had a knack for finding the loveliest, wealthiest woman in a room and latching on to her.

‘Evie’s not my type.’ Andrew’s tone was dismissive without hesitation. Miss Evie Milham would be disappointed to hear she’d been summarily discarded. She’d seemed quite interested, as if Andrew was her type. Andrew took a healthy swallow from his glass. ‘Never has been, never will be. She’s not rich enough by far. I suppose it’s a good thing I haven’t noticed her looks. It would hardly matter how beautiful she was if there’s no money to go with her, and in her case there isn’t. At least, not enough for me. Her father’s a baronet, not exactly a gold mine.’

Dimitri nodded noncommittally on both accounts, keeping his thoughts to himself. Andrew was not usually so harsh when it came to women. Tonight, he was downright callous. It was also the closest Andrew had ever come to admitting he was in the market for a certain type of bride. Dimitri had noticed, of course—the desire to be with the richest women, the state of the furnishings in Andrew’s home, which were comfortably worn out of necessity as opposed to a fashion choice. Still, Andrew was no pauper. Andrew lived well. He drank the finest brandies. In Paris, he’d spent money on opera seats and the expensive opera singers that went with them. Andrew simply didn’t like making economies. Apparently, Evaine Milham was an economy.

Dimitri gave his brandy a contemplative swirl. He had to be careful here. Who was he to judge? He was a prince with no apparent financial limitations. He had wealth untold as long as he returned to Kuban on time. He would never have to worry about economies. And yet, Andrew had the one thing that eluded him. Freedom. The freedom to go anywhere, to do anything, to be anything. There were nights when Dimitri thought he’d trade all the wealth of Kuban for that freedom and a pair of shabby chairs. He leaned back and sighed contentedly. ‘It was a good idea to come here, Andrew. Thank you for this opportunity.’

* * *

There were nights when Andrew knew without question he’d trade everything he had, everything he was, to be Dimitri Petrovich, Prince of Kuban: rich, handsome, charismatic, with the world at his feet. This was one of those nights. He’d seen the people approach Dimitri with something close to awe, the men impressed with his title and knowledge, the women impressed with just him. Andrew longed to command a room like that. He had his own charisma, it was true, but he knew it didn’t rival Dimitri’s magnetism. Of course, money probably had something to do with it. Money always had something to do with everything.

It was also one of those nights when he found Dimitri irritatingly high-minded. Of course, it was easy to be without sin when one was wealthy enough not to have to care. Andrew rose and poured another glass of brandy—the good stuff. If he had to listen to Dimitri go on and on about his plans for the villa excavation, he might as well enjoy himself. ‘This will be good for Little Westbury. The excavation will provide jobs.’ Andrew tuned it out. He had heard it all before, how retrieving history created a sense of local pride in small communities, how it helped the economy, not just labourers at the site, but the businesses that supported a large labour force: farmers, bakers, butchers who supplied the food required for such an endeavour; tourism and news stories that would bring people here, people who might require more services than a single inn or tavern could provide. The town might need two such places. The Prince had vision and he had the talent to give others vision too, Andrew would give him that.

After all, hadn’t the Prince given him vision? The vision of how dusty, broken artefacts could be translated into shiny gold. Once Andrew had seen the possibilities, history had become a lot more interesting. This villa excavation was going to be his own personal gold mine. He’d finally have the funds he needed, the prestige he needed, to live at the standard he wanted. There would be no more tatty chairs and worn curtains, no more carefully going over the account ledgers of his grandfather’s shrinking estate to make sure the books balanced. Andrew was not interested in what the excavation would do for Little Westbury, but what it could do for him. He would finally be free.