An intrigued spark had lit the marquess's eyes. "You intend to seek out other investors?"
"Given your negative response, yes."
His lips twitched. "I wish you luck."
Damn, the man was arrogant.
"This meeting is over, my lord." Anastasia gathered up her skirts and started to walk by him. "I appreciate your time, and your integrity. I don't share your opinions."
Unexpectedly, he caught her arm as she passed. "And I respect your passion for this venture. Can we agree to disagree, or is that too unconventional a notion, even for you?"
Anastasia froze, uncomfortably aware of the strong hand gripping her forearm, more aware of her own powerful, if confusing, reaction to it. Half of her wanted to yank herself away, the other half to stay precisely as she was, to explore the odd sensations elicited by Lord Sheldrake's touch. Both reactions were too extreme, too irrational, given the inconsequence of the contact, the casual nature of their acquaintance. Perhaps it was just the fervor of their discussion, the intensity of their differing opinions. And yet…
Slowly, her gaze lifted to meet his. "No, my lord," she replied, trying to read his thoughts, and to understand her own. "It's not too unconventional for me. As of now, we agree to disagree."
"Excellent."
Was it her imagination, or did his grip tighten? She wasn't certain. What she was certain of was that his gaze narrowed, probed hers, and that despite the finality of his tone, he made no move to release her.
A heartbeat later, he spoke. "I, in return, promise that I won't interfere with your efforts to win over England's businessmen. If you find someone eager to invest—wonderful. I
not only won't stand in his way, I'll applaud your abilities of persuasion."
Anastasia felt an unwilling smile tug at her lips. "Is that a challenge, my lord?"
His teeth gleamed. "And if it is?"
"Then I accept." Her gaze shifted back to her arm, where she could actually feel the warmth of his fingers seeping through her gown, singeing her skin with an unknown and strangely disconcerting heat. "We'd best go to lunch," she suggested, her tone oddly strained.
Slowly, he nodded. "Yes. We'd best."
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Lunch was an hour and a half of delicious food, fine wine, and tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.
It wasn't for lack of conversation. George saw to that. Seated at the head of the table, he scarcely let a moment pass before directing yet another financial question at Damen Lockewood. The marquess, seated on George's left, answered every question, his gaze politely encompassing not only George but Breanna—who sat directly across the table from him—and occasionally Anastasia, seated to her cousin's right. For his part, George never spared a glance at either girl, keeping his body angled toward the marquess, and his eyes, which seemed overly bright, glued to him as well. George's voice and expression were strained, and Anastasia suspected he was still peeved that he hadn't been privy to her financial advisory session.
She stifled a smile. How relieved her uncle would be if he knew he'd missed nothing of consequence. No grand business ventures had been planned, no innovative ways to invest her inheritance had been explored. To the contrary, other than learning the value of her father's estate and having Lord Sheldrake shoot down her investment plans, the entire meeting had been immaterial.
She looked up at that moment, met the marquess's scrutinizing gaze, and instantly averted her eyes.
Perhaps not entirely immaterial.
"Before we finish dessert, I have a bit of news I'd like to share." George leaned forward, for the first time addressing everyone at the table. "I've given Anastasia's situation a great deal of thought. It was Henry's wish that I bring her out, introduce her to all the right people. I've decided to do just that."
With a tight smile of self-approval, he continued. "I'm going to host a house party—a substantial house party—in Anastasia's honor. Several hundred people will be invited. It will include two or three days of diversions, including a grand ball to introduce Anastasia to high society. My niece will be brought out in true Colby style, with all the grace and distinction Henry would have wanted."
Anastasia started. This was the last thing she'd expected, especially knowing her uncle as she did. His mind was preoccupied with business, not parties, and his motives were never selfless—even if he was using her father's money to pay for all this. The bottom line was, what possible benefit could holding an event of this magnitude have for him?
"Uncle George," she responded carefully. "That's really not necessary. I appreciate your sentiments, but I don't think Papa expected…"
"Nonsense." George waved away her protest. "You're the only daughter of my only brother. I insist." He turned to Damen Lockewood, who was watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. "What do you think of the idea, Sheldrake?"
The marquess cleared his throat. "I think it has merit. After all, Henry set aside ten thousand pounds for this occasion. So there are more than enough funds available, as I'm sure you know." A pointed pause ensued—enough to make Anastasia wonder if Lord Sheldrake was thinking along exactly the same lines as she was. "When did you want to hold this party?"