He’d parted with a hundred pounds sterling for that trinket box she was no doubt talking about—no trifling amount. That was as much as he paid Ainsley in an entire year. A hundred pounds! And he knew for a fact Lord Scofield had sent the money to her. “I didn’t realize. That thieves paid for the items they procured, I mean.”
She glared at him, turning her eyes into two lovely slits of . . . what? He had yet to decide exactly what color they were. Dark, but not brown. Not quite blue either. Well, perhaps slate blue. Blue-grey. Or, in this particular light, simply grey. Though grey sounded far too dull a word to describe the lovely circles that spat fury at him more often than not in the last seven days.
Even so. She was without question the most beautiful woman he’d ever set eyes on, and the moment she’d bowled into him a week ago, he’d been sunk.
Pewter?
Or lead. As in, the lead shot of a weapon ready to blow him out of the water. See, even now she was hissing like a lit fuse, sparks showering from her whatever-color eyes.
She scrambled to her feet, no doubt so that she could tower over him. “You may not have known at the time that it was stolen property, but you do now. I don’t care if it is the crest of Prince Rupert on the lid, that does not entitle you to it. The box is mine. Give. It. Back.”
Usually, he would have let her tower. Seemed a bit unfair, really, to push himself up and then tower over her—she was a petite thing. He must have a good ten inches on her. And if he were to put his arms around her, he had a feeling she’d fit rather perfectly in their circle.
Not that he was oblivious enough to give that one a try. Instead, he stood solely so that he could make a show of turning out his pockets. As if she’d thought he had the trinket box on him right that moment. He gave her enough space that he wouldn’t seem quite so towering.
And so that none of those sparks would catch him on fire. One never knew when the metaphorical might take on substance.
She let out a rather adorable huff of aggravation. “I realize it’s in . . . wherever you come from. But you could at least promise its return.”
He could. But he didn’t. “The Lake District.” He smiled and put his pockets back to rights, leaving his hands in them. “My home, I mean. The wherever that I come from. Rather lovely, really. Not this lovely, but a fine home base. We call it—”
“I really don’t care what you call your enormous estate with its ancestral halls, Lord Sheridan.” She hugged Treasure Island to her chest and made a show of facing the water again.
Well, that was a shame. He half intended to use it as a bargaining tool to win her attention. It had worked for that Darcy chap in the Austen novel his sisters read aloud at least once a year, after all. Elizabeth Bennet herself had said so. Perhaps partly in jest, but he’d detected a kernel of truth in her statement. Perhaps Elizabeth Tremayne could be similarly persuaded. “Pemberley.”
It at least brought her face turning his way again, shedding its sun-bright light upon him. Though she was frowning. Was that a step up or down from scowling? “Your estate bears the same name as the one from Pride and Prejudice?”
“Well, no.” He looked out over the water, well able to imagine pirate ships just there. Had Prince Rupert stood on this very spot, even? A thrill ran through him at the thought. Sheridan wasn’t exactly a direct descendant of the prince, but close enough that he’d claim it. How many people really had a pirate prince in their lineage, after all? “It’s called Sheridan Castle. But my sisters claim it’s based on it. Pemberley, I mean. On Sheridan Castle. Not the other way round. Utter rot, probably, but Millicent’s convinced of it.”
“Millicent?”
“My sister. The younger one. That is, of the two of them. Both older than me. Eldest is Abbie.” She’d like them. Everyone liked Millicent—who never went by Millie—and Abbie—who never went by Abigail. Well, perhaps there were a few exceptions. Like when people didn’t care for his sisters’ tendency to take control of a situation. Invited or not. But Beth would like them. Perhaps. And they would like her too. They never met a new person that they didn’t deem an instant friend. Well, unless it was one they deemed an instant adversary.
Not that he knew how he’d ever lure Beth Tremayne to the Lake District to see his home and meet his sisters anyway. Maybe she had an aunt and uncle she could tour with, like Elizabeth Bennet. If they were casting him in the Mr. Darcy role.
Which they weren’t. He wasn’t nearly so gruff. And he liked dancing quite well. Though Darcy did have the right opinion about a fine set of eyes.
He could probably lure her there with the promise of her trinket box’s return, though. Take her on a tour of the grounds. And then . . . what? “All of this could be yours for the low price of your hand in marriage!”
His lips twitched. Abbie would test him for a fever if she knew he was plotting how to propose to a girl he’d just met a week ago. Who had yet to look at him as something other than a half-villain.
Though that was better than viewing him as a nuisance, which was how Libby had always seen him, and he’d been ready to let Telford talk him into formally proposing to her.
He’d never really minded annoying Libby, though, he had to admit. Beth, on the other hand . . . “I’ve probably ruined the solitude you were after. Sorry about that.” Sort of. He edged back a step. “As I told your brother last week, feel free to tell me to go away if I’m bothering you.”
Her frown grew a bit more perplexed. “That would be a bit rude, don’t you think?”
“Not at all.” He chuckled and stepped closer again when a bit of movement caught his eye on the water. “I’m not easily offended. Is that them?”
Beth spun, lifting a hand to shield her eyes, and nodded. “Oh, and it looks like Team Tremayne is in the lead. Come on, Ollie!”
She hadn’t immediately told him to leave. That was something. Progress. At this rate, she’d be Lady Sheridan in a decade, at the most. “Are they the same each week? The teams, I mean?”
“More or less.” She went up on her toes, though it surely afforded her no better view. What would she do if he hoisted her up? Probably sock him in the nose. “There are alternates. And it used to be our fathers leading the teams, not Oliver and Casek. But the rivalry between the Tremaynes and the Wearnes has been going on for so long that they were the natural lines for drawing teams when the races started.”
Sheridan had never had a rival. It would keep life interesting. Perhaps he should invest in one sometime, just for the experience. Maybe he could convince Telford to act the part, though he had no idea what they’d be competing for.
His chest went tight. Hopefully not over Beth. Telly hadn’t shown any signs of real attraction toward her, and Sheridan had been watching for it. He knew how his best friend behaved when he found a girl intriguing, after all. And though Sheridan thought Beth’s sunlight-spun hair and not-blue-not-grey eyes utterly captivating, Telford hadn’t been sneaking any glances.
The tightness eased, though its momentary appearance should probably convince him that he didn’t, in fact, have any desire for a rival. And come to think of it, he did have a few semi-rivals in the world of antiquities—or had, back in his Viking hunting days—and it really hadn’t been any fun at all. Far better to steer clear of them. Perhaps he’d tell Oliver so. A bit of friendly advice.