An Unexpected Gentleman (17 page)

“I’ve always lived in Banfries,” she said quietly. “I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else.”

“Never?”

She shook her head without looking at him.

“Then Banfries it will be.”

“I should like to travel,” she said and discovered the dream was becoming easier to admit aloud. “I should like to visit the places we spoke of before. But I want a home, as well. I’ll always want to come back here.”

He tapped the wall. “Here, specifically?”

“We shall see,” she replied primly. “Ashbury Hall certainly is . . . substantial.”

“There’s more to it than size. Have a look about. Explore a bit.”

Why not? It was likely to be her home soon enough. “I believe I shall.”

She took her time, wandering from hall to hall, room to room. There were an inordinate number of halls and rooms. Tidy stacks of tools lined the walls, and here and there she saw a project still in progress—the piece of molding waiting to be refinished, a door off its hinges, and those boarded windows—but the vast majority of the worked appeared to have been completed.

It was, she had to admit, a sizable feat for Connor to not only have purchased the estate but have effected such a remarkable change in so short a time.

Some of the rooms were already furnished, and most of those furnishings appeared to be new. Everything appeared expensive.

Adelaide trailed her fingers along wainscoting as she walked down an upstairs hall. The wood was a rich, glossy brown and smooth to the touch.

She’d had such fantasies of Ashbury Hall as a child. It had been an enchanted castle or the haunted lair of a murderous ogre, depending on her mood. But seeing it now, from the inside, with its wood and crystal polished to a gleam, it no longer seemed a castle from a magical tale, just a large and opulent home.

Her fingers met air at the entrance of a lavishly appointed billiards room containing, not one, but
three
tables. Good Lord, she never aspired to this sort of opulence. She’d never expected a home of such vast proportions.

But, heaven forgive her, the mere thought of having it now made her almost giddy. It took very little imagination to picture herself in the library, reading a book by a roaring fire while George played on the plush carpet and Isobel’s bubbling laughter filled the air. It took a little more effort to envision Wolfgang in his chambers, a snifter of brandy . . . No, a cup of tea in his hand and a contented smile on his face. But envision it she did. It was lovely.

“You’re smiling.”

Adelaide jumped and whirled at the sound of Connor’s voice. He was standing not six feet away.

“You do sneak up on a person. I thought you were waiting downstairs.”

“I was. Then I wasn’t. Don’t try to turn the subject. You were smiling.”

“Perhaps.”

“Because you like the house.”

She did. Oh, she did. It occurred to her suddenly that Isobel had been quite wrong. She wasn’t a martyr at all.

She was an adventuress.

“You’re a breath away from laughter.” He moved forward. “Admit it, you want this.”

She bit her lip to make certain that breath didn’t slip away. “Possibly.”

He came closer. “Say the word and it’s yours. Say yes and I’ll give you anything you want. Everything your family needs. A permanent home. Fine gowns for Isobel and a proper education for your nephew.” He moved nearer still. “You could see your brother walk free.”

They were one and the same for her. And well Connor knew it. It was then that Adelaide realized his purpose in bringing her to Ashbury Hall. It hadn’t been to boast or impress her.

“It’s bait,” she muttered and stepped away from him.

“Beg your pardon?”

“This house. You’re using it like a lure, a symbol of what I might have.”

“If you like,” he replied after a moment’s thought. “All you have to do is reach out and take.”

“And the moment I do, you’ll swoop down on me like a hawk.”

His smile brought fine creases to the corners of his eyes. “Hawks don’t need lures. I believe you’re mixing metaphors.”

Nevertheless, a hawk is what he was. And in her mended gown and worn slippers, she felt very much the disheveled wren he’d called her the night of the masquerade.

A plain songbird in a raptor’s nest. It was a fitting image. It was also unacceptable. She would not be snatched up like prey . . . Unless, of course, the bait was very alluring indeed.

“You’ve such an expressive face,” Connor murmured. “What are you thinking, love?”

Her pulse surged at his easy use of the endearment. She tipped her chin up. “I’m wondering how much you’re willing to sacrifice to have your revenge.”

“What is it you want? Name your price.”

Adelaide chewed on the inside of her lip, considering. Under the circumstances, “name your price” was a distasteful and debasing phrase. Only she didn’t feel debased, particularly. Whichever suitor she might have chosen, her reasons for marriage remained unchanged. But it was only with Connor that she’d been able to speak of those reasons aloud. She didn’t have to pretend an affection. She didn’t feel obligated to bite her tongue when she wanted to argue, or swallow her reservations and hope for the best.

However objectionable the current conversation, the honesty of it afforded her a certain measure of relief and no small amount of empowerment. If she was going to allow herself to be lured into a snare, or bought like a side of beef at market, she damn well
would
have something to say about the price . . . or the bait. Damn it, she was mixing metaphors.

“I want the terms of marriage agreed upon in advance,” she announced.

Connor inclined his head in agreement but said nothing.

“Well,” she prompted after a moment’s silence, “make an offer.”

“As I said, name your price.”

She bit her lip again and shifted her feet. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

She tossed her hands up. “I don’t know what you have.”

“You’ve your brother’s head for business, I see,” he drawled before taking pity on her. “Very well. Ten thousand pounds per annum. How does that sound?”

“You have ten thousand pounds a year?” Good heavens, it was twice Sir Robert’s income.

“
You
will have ten thousand pounds a year.”

She smiled a little at the invitation to consider what was his as her own. Sir Robert had never made such a gesture, but then, he only had half the income. Ten thousand pounds, however, though a highly respectable sum, seemed far less than what would be needed to own several properties like the one they were in now. He’d need . . .

Suddenly, Connor’s emphasis of “you” took on another meaning. But it seemed so fantastical to her, so unlikely, she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around even the possibility.

“When you say
I
shall have ten thousand pounds,” she began slowly, “you do mean
we
. You are referring to a sort of . . . joint accessibility—”

“I am referring to an allowance. Your pin money, as it were.”

“Good
heavens
.” Ten thousand pounds was . . . It was . . . Well, it certainly wasn’t
pin money
.

Her heart began to race as visions of what she could do with such a fortune danced through her head. Isobel could have the finest gowns. George would never know a day’s want. Her home would be repaired and refurbished. Wolfgang would be freed of his debts. She could purchase a pianoforte for herself, or even travel. The bulk of the funds would be put away for safekeeping, of course, but a few indulgences here and there . . .

“Adelaide?”

“You could withdraw those funds,” she said quickly, surprised she was able to snatch the concern from her whirlwind of thoughts. “As my husband, you could cut me off—”

“We’ll draw up a legal contract.”

“Contracts can be broken.”

“They can, but it’s more assurance than Sir Robert will offer you.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Or perhaps she could have, had her mind not still been occupied with the idea of having
ten thousand pounds
.

It was far more than she had ever hoped for, more than most people saw in a lifetime, and she blamed the shock of such a windfall for what next came out of her mouth.

“I want twenty.”

She nearly swallowed her tongue. There was naming a price, and then there was asking for more than what could reasonably be expected to materialize. She had most certainly crossed the line.

Connor grinned. “Eleven.”

“Nineteen,” she shot back and rather wished she had swallowed her tongue in truth.

“Shall we save time and agree on fifteen?”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She couldn’t believe what she was saying.

“Fifteen is acceptable, but initial payment will be rendered in full the day of marriage.” She’d put it in her sister’s name, or her nephew’s. Whatever happened after, even if she never received another promised penny, her family would still have that fifteen thousand pounds.

“Agreed. Anything else?”

There were likely an infinite number of demands it would be wise for her to make, and an equal number of points on which an understanding should be reached in advance. Unfortunately, she had only the foggiest notion of what those might be. She’d never negotiated a marriage contract before.

And, oh, but it was difficult to concentrate when there was fifteen thousand pounds sitting on the table, figuratively speaking.

She walked a few feet away and back again. Difficult or not, she had to consider things carefully and thoroughly. No one else was going to take care of matters for her. She couldn’t very well ask Lord Engsly and Lord Gideon to engage in this sort of bartering. Her knowledge of marital contracts might be limited, but she was fairly sure that, generally, a bride did not demand a lump sum of money be delivered on her wedding day.

And she was quite certain that the next concern that occurred to her was not one she wished Lord Engsly and his brother to address on her behalf.

She looked at Connor and found him waiting with an air of amused patience. She cleared her throat. “What of . . . er . . .”

He lifted his brows and bent forward a bit, waiting.

“Will you expect . . . ?” Lord, this was awkward. And ridiculous. If she could demand a price for herself without batting an eyelash, then she ought be able to reference the marriage bed without tripping over her own tongue.

She blew out a short breath and tried again. “A marriage is not a marriage, not a lawful one, until . . . That is, will you require . . .” She made a prompting gesture with her hand.

“To . . . go somewhere?”

“No, to . . .” Feeling increasingly foolish, she made an even more emphatic—and no doubt even less decipherable—prompting motion. “. . . To have a
lawful
marriage . . . ?”

“Ah.” Understanding dawned on his face. “Yes.”

Right. Well, that was to be expected, wasn’t it? “I understand the marriage must be consummated, and I am willing to . . . do what must be done.”

“You sound like a martyr.”

“I don’t. I merely wish to make clear the details of our contract.” A hint of annoyance crossed his face. She ignored it. “I will agree to share a bed with you once a year.”

“No.”

Now she was growing annoyed. “ ‘No’ is not a counteroffer, Mr. Brice.”

“Connor. And ‘no’ means the offer was too insulting to dignify with any other response.”

Was it? Well, how the blazes was she to know? She sniffed, because it seemed the only thing to do. “Well, it stands until you come up with one of your own.”

“Fine. Ten times a day.”

She gaped at him, shocked beyond measure. “Surely not. There is only one night in a day.”

“I know.”

Adelaide felt a moment’s panic. She was at a terrible disadvantage in this negotiation, utterly in the dark in the private ways of husbands and wives. With her mother gone, and her friendship with Lilly and Winnefred not yet the sort that allowed for the discussion of such delicate matters, there was no one to whom she might turn to for guidance . . . No one but Connor.

“Is . . . ten times . . .” The heat of embarrassment and frustration filled her cheeks. Without realizing it, she leaned in a little and spoke in a lowered voice. “Is that
normal
?”

Connor blinked. For several long seconds, that was his only reaction. He stood mute and still as a statue. There wasn’t a trace of humor on his features, nor anger, come to that. There wasn’t a trace of anything that she could see. His face was a blank mask.

Good Lord, she’d shocked him stupid.

Adelaide straightened and twisted her lips. “The question hardly warrants that—”

“We’ll discuss it later,” he said suddenly, coming to himself.

His peculiar behavior deserved pondering, but his suggestion they revisit the conversation another time took precedence.

She shook her head in adamant refusal. “No. Not later. Now.”

She sounded like George asking after a biscuit. She didn’t care. Under no circumstances was she going to repeat this experience.

Connor stepped forward, took her by the elbow, and began to lead her down the hall. “Not everything needs to be decided today.”

This from the man who’d proposed after a day’s acquaintance? “But—”

“I’ve business to see to in Edinburgh this week. Take the time to think on matters.” He stopped, turned, and pulled her into his arms. “And while you’re thinking, keep this in mind.”

His lips brushed across hers, soft and warm as the sun of spring. There was no hurry to his kiss, no demand, only patient invitation delivered with devastating skill. She accepted without thought, caught off guard by the sweetness of it, and before she knew it, her mouth was moving steadily under his. She leaned forward, gripping handfuls of his coat.