Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

Drew consulted his watch. “A Mr. Claybourn is due here shortly, ma’am.”

“Ah, yes,” Aurora said, rising to shake out her skirts. “He is Daniele Cippolo’s English representative. Daniele, I fear, with all the political debacles in Italy, has found himself short of capital. The Orion will likely have to be our project, and ours alone.”

At precisely ten o’clock the following morning—a sunny morning, Aurora saw from her bedroom window—there came a stalwart rap on the front door. Lanson, his eyes all curiosity above his crooked nose, answered the door.

“I am here to see Mrs. Van Cleve,” Damien said, not bothering to hand his hat and cane to Lanson.

“I will ascertain, sir—”

“Good morning,” Aurora said in a ridiculously high voice as she swept down the staircase. She wore a vivid green silk gown fitted snugly at her waist and billowing out over half a dozen petticoats.

“How beautiful you look, my dear,” Damien said, his gaze following her descent. “And punctual. I see that I was right about you, Aurora. You are as calm as a placid lake.”

Giana appeared, as if on cue, in the doorway of the library, her eyes darting from her mother’s becomingly flushed face to the tall gentleman who was turning leisurely toward her.

“You are Aurora’s daughter? Quite beautiful, my child, but your mother stole a march on you. What is your name?”

“Georgiana Van Cleve, sir.”

“Not,

I assure you,” Aurora said, “Mary or Prudence.”

“No,” Damien said, smiling down at her, “I knew you would never be guilty of anything less than perfect taste. Let us go, my dear. Georgiana, you may or may not see your mother for dinner this evening.”

“But, who are you, sir?” Giana prodded.

“Why, I am Damien Arlington, of course.”

“What is your business, sir?” Giana asked.

Damien looked at her, clearly puzzled. “Business, my dear child? If you really wish to know, I shall ask my man about it.”

Giana looked at him, nonplussed.

“Perhaps this evening, Georgiana,” Damien said. “Come, Aurora.”

She heard her mother’s laughter, and turned to Lanson. “I think I will see Mr. Hardesty this morning.”

Aurora was still laughing when Damien assisted her into an open carriage. She saw a coat of arms painted on the door, and realized for the first time that the driver, Ned, was liveried.

“What is so amusing, Aurora?”

“My daughter,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “I expect you may be receiving a formal dinner invitation from her soon.”

“She is a lovely girl. I will look forward to it.”

Aurora shook her head, still smiling. “That remains to be seen, sir. Who are you, Damien?” she asked. “I saw a coat of arms on your carriage.”

“You want all of my names, my love? Very well. I am Damien Ives St. Clair Arlington, eighth Duke of Graffton.”

“Oh dear. You have made a mistake, sir—your grace.”

“Ned, keep a smart pace,” his grace called to his driver. “A mistake, Aurora?” he said, tucking her hand over his arm.

“I am Aurora Van Cleve. I am in trade—business!”

“Of course you are, my dear. I have never been able to abide stupid women, and I knew you for a remarkable woman the moment I saw you. I do wish though that you would not make it a habit to stand in the middle of the street.”