Page 5 of How to Win a Duke’s Heart

Still Belleisle Racecourse

A few awkward moments later

Blocking the coach opening, Evan leaned a shoulder against the frame. His posture was rude and intimidating. Regardless, the American lass deserved everything he dealt her and more. Sophronie Slater had been a source of vexation from the moment they’d met.

For a fleeting instant, chagrin swept across the smattering of freckles on her face before she swiftly adopted a nonchalant mien and fashioned a stiff smile. Her hydrangea-blue eyes, framed by dark ginger lashes, remained wide and unflinching—challenging—as always.

He didn’t think her capable of coyness or diffidence. Miss Slater’s directness marked her as an American even before she opened her mouth and her cultured southern drawl emerged.

“In point of fact, perceived aggression by bears is usually the creature actin’ defensively when it feels threatened,” Evan said. A not-so-subtle strike, but she made it so deliciously easy.

Her eyes flashed with blue fire at the unspoken insinuation, but for once, Miss Slater kept her opinion to herself. A miracle that. All of the angels and saints in heaven must be rejoicing.

“Waycross.” George Slater nodded, his judicious gaze swinging between his daughter and Evan. The man was no idiot. He recognized the tension.

“Slater.” Evan dipped his chin. He respected Slater and had no wish to make an enemy of the man over his impulsive and fractious offspring.

It would’ve been too much to expect George Slater to leave his impudent daughter with one of her English friends while the American visited Scotland. Evan hadn’t thought to request that very thing. Truthfully, he doubted Slater would’ve considered joining him in Ayr had his daughter been excluded from the invitation.

More fool Evan for not having considered that fact and making arrangements to distract Miss Slater. His sisters would’ve done the trick nicely, and with a promise of a new bonnet apiece, they’d have kept this blue-eyed termagant well away from him all day. Too blasted bad he hadn’t thought of that brilliant notion before.

His focus drifted to Slater.

The American’s devotion to his daughter was evident to anyone with eyes in their head. As much as Miss Slater irritated Evan, he admired her father’s affection for her. Evan’s extended family was close-knit and loving too.

Nevertheless, Miss Sophronie Slater behaved like no other woman of Evan’s acquaintance. Blessed with three sisters, four aunts, and two grandmothers—all living at Balston House—Evan knew women. Strong-minded and spirited, every one of his female kin paled in comparison to Miss Slater’s sheer mulishness, impertinence, and complete disregard for what others thought of her.

Miss Slater was perplexing, aggravating, maddening, infuriating, and a dozen more unflattering terms.

“We have bears in Virginia, but it’s rare to see one,” she practically chirped. A bid, Evan would vow, to cover her ill-timed statement regarding his bearish nature.

Giving her a stern paternal warning with his gaze, George Slater descended from the coach. “Good of you to watch for us, Waycross. Saved us bustling about in this horde trying to find you.”

At first glance a person might dismiss Slater, of average height and build, as…well, average. However, acute intelligence shone in his blue eyes, so very much like his impetuous daughter’s. Rarely had Waycross come across a man with a keener mind, more brilliant business sense, or such an extraordinary eye for prime horseflesh.

In truth, George Slater’s only shortcoming seemed to be the lackadaisical parenting that permitted his daughter’s spitfire behavior.

Slater’s knowledge of horses was precisely why Evan had requested his presence at the Belleisle Racecourse today. He coveted the man’s insight on the stallions Evan was interested in. Neither was favored to win the race and in fact, both would retire from racing soon. Which was why he was considering one or the other as a stud.

Evan glanced behind him. The coachmen hovered a few feet away, apparently assuming Evan would assist Miss Slater from the conveyance.

Bollocks.

If Evan had his way, he’d lock the lass inside the coach until it was time for her father to depart. Pressing his mouth into a displeased line, he extended his hand. “Miss Slater.”

Politesse was highly overrated. A deuced farcical expectation. Had Miss Slater’s father not been present, Evan would’ve presented his back and stalked away.

For several blinks, Miss Slater simply stared at his black-gloved palm.

Evan quirked an eyebrow in challenge.

She wanted to refuse his help as much as he disliked offering it.

He saw the reluctance in her pretty eyes and the way she pursed her plump lips. But Evan had heard her promise to behave with his own ears. Snubbing him mere minutes after her arrival meant she’d either lied or wasn’t capable of controlling herself.

Personally, Evan would bet his scuffed boots on the latter.

She gave a resigned sigh, placed her small hand in his, and permitted him to help her alight.