The same insolent footman was eager to inform Cayle that Lady Rebecca hadn’t calmed down for an hour after their morning argument. Becca would be furious but he could manage her. He’d matured. Grown. His ducal powers sat a little easier on his shoulders now. He looked towards the upper level where the four Jamison women had begun their slow descent, hems of their gowns daintily lifted. The butler and the footman audibly gasped. His breath caught tightly in his chest before he hissed out a sound that was half stunned disbelief and half pure masculine admiration. Instead of congratulating himself on how he’d tricked this prickly and prideful woman into attending the ball, he should have prepared himself for her aggressive response. Pride had spurred her to outfit her family in a fashionable manner. Resentment of his offer of monetary assistance had goaded her into going to extremes. Like a teasing mare that holds her tail high and prances before a stallion.
