The Earl's Snow-Kissed Proposal

Etta blinked. Holy moly! There could be no gainsaying that this man had charisma. Whoa... Her brain cells finally caught up and she stopped gawping as recognition sent out a flare. The man in front of her was none other than Gabriel Derwent, Earl of Wycliffe, heir to the Duke of Fairfax.

Great! The first time she’d been poleaxed by a man since...since never, and it turned out to be a man she despised. True, she didn’t actually know him—but what kind of historian wouldn’t follow the exploits of a leading member of the aristocracy? A man whose ancestors had been instrumental in the most gripping moments of English history.

In fairness, she had no issue with the playboy lifestyle he’d enjoyed for years—it was his more recent actions that had left her enraged. Nine months ago Gabriel Derwent had renounced his playboy way of life, wooed Lady Isobel Petersen, wined her and dined her and taken her to visit his parents—all of it recorded in celebrity magazines worldwide. He had even been papped in a jewellery store, scanning the engagement rings, and then...kabam! On the verge of a proposal Gabriel Derwent had unceremoniously dumped Lady Isobel and fled the country.

There had been a short but excited media outburst before the efficient Derwent publicity machine had rolled in, and Etta had taken the plight of Lady Isobel to heart. Etta knew how it felt to be deceived, to become enmeshed in a situation only to have it exposed as an illusion, and she could almost taste Lady Isobel’s bitter hurt. A hurt inflicted by this man.

Her eyes narrowed as she returned his gaze.

His blue-grey eyes studied her face as he held out a hand, and something sparked in their depths. ‘I’m Gabriel Derwent.’

For an instant her gaze snagged on his hand. Capable, strong, thick-fingered...and suspended in mid-air. Get with it, Etta. The last thing she wanted was for Gabriel Derwent to believe her to be flustered by his presence.

Clasping his hand in a brief handshake, she mustered a cool smile. ‘Etta Mason.’ She ignored the surely imaginary lingering sensation from his touch.

‘Etta Mason...eminent historian.’

The words were more statement than question, and for a daft second she wondered if he had been lurking by the potted plant waiting for her. How ridiculous was that?

‘That’s me.’

For a moment she recalled the sheer struggle it had been to obtain her qualifications: the constant exhaustion as she’d strived to combine being the best mum she could be with the hours needed for study and working part-time. So no way would she go for false modesty—she was one of the best in her field.

As his eyes swept over her appearance she clocked a hint of surprise and ire sparked. Presumably her outfit didn’t match up with his idea of ‘eminent historian’.

‘You look surprised?’

There was a pause as he contemplated his answer, and then he lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Busted. I’ll admit that my preconceived idea of a renowned historian didn’t include a bright-pink-striped dress. But I apologise unreservedly. I shouldn’t have made such a stereotypical assumption. So how about we start again? I’ll forget you nearly impaled me with your shoes and you forget my stupidity? Deal?’

This was her cue to close this conversation down—make a light comment and then walk away. But the relaxed tilt of his l

ips vied with the determined glint in his eye. Gabriel Derwent was turning on the charm—and Etta wanted to know why. She certainly didn’t qualify as his type. Gabriel Derwent had been linked with a fair few women—all beautiful, all famous and all shallow—and none of them serious until the Lady Isobel Petersen debacle. So why would he show an interest in her?

The idea was laughable—Gabriel Derwent and a historian. And not just any old historian but one who had been a single mother at seventeen. True, he didn’t know that, but Etta knew the ballroom held plenty of women more suited to be the recipient of the dazzling Derwent smile. It could be that she was overanalysing, and that he charmed on automatic, but instinct told her otherwise and curiosity tickled her vocal cords.

‘Deal.’ There could be no harm in a conversation, right? ‘So how do we do that?’

‘How about you tell me a bit about yourself? A day in the life of a prominent historian?’

His interest seemed genuine, even if she didn’t get it. ‘Part of the reason I love what I do is that all my days are different. I recently helped an author research a historical novel. I investigate family trees...help organise historic events. I blog for a historic society, I’ve written articles, I’ve done guest lectures...’

‘Ruby told me you were one of the most committed professionals she knew.’

‘Well, I feel the same about Ruby. And Ethan. What they do for the kids their foundation helps is inspiring. I wish—’ Etta broke off. Her admiration for Ruby and Ethan Caversham and the ways in which they sought to help troubled teens—kids in care or on the street—stemmed from personal experience. How she wished she’d been able to turn to people like the Cavershams in her own time of need. But that was not a wish she had any inclination to share.

‘What do you wish?’

Surprise touched her at the hint of perception in his voice—almost as if he too could empathise with the children out there who needed help—and for an instant an absurd flicker of warmth ignited her. Ridiculous. Gabriel Derwent had come into the world housed and shod, with a whole drawer full of silver spoons to choose from.

‘I wish I did as much good as they do,’ she improvised. After all it might not have been what she’d meant to say but it was the truth.

‘Ruby mentioned that you’d done some work for her?’

The words niggled Etta. Ruby always had a good word to say about others, but that almost sounded as if Gabriel Derwent had expressed a specific interest in Etta. Could he be interested in her?

To her irritation the idea set off a spark of appreciation, caused her gaze to snag on his firm mouth, sent a strange, long-forgotten tingle down to her toes. Jeez, she must be losing it big-time—the idea was nuts.

Focus on the conversation, Etta.