Elizabeth Powell (15 page)

“I suppose I should be flattered that you believe marriage to me is preferable to disinheritance. But I will not allow you to march into Wellbourne and start selling off my horses and my land to settle
your
debts. That farm is all I have left of my father, and I will not let you ruin it.”

Sebastian struggled to contain his rising fury. The chit dared moralize to him after the way she had deceived her now-former betrothed?

“You mean sell
my
horses and
my
land,” he snapped. “Wellbourne Grange will become mine when we marry.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“Then you are also aware that you will have little say in the matter.” His temples began to throb with an insistent,
painful rhythm. Hellfire and damnation, this was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now!

“So you will rank the demands of your pocketbook above those of our marriage?”

“You will be a viscountess, not the wife of some loutish squire, and that must be deemed an advantage.”

“To you, perhaps—not to me,” she shot back. She paced a few steps away from him, turned, and paced back. “What a masterful stroke of irony! I wanted you when I could not have you, and now that I have you, I no longer want you.”

“A bit late for that,” he sneered. “In a few moments we will be husband and wife.”

Tears glimmered in her eyes; she blinked them away. “I want you to know something before we complete that arrangement.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “And what would that be?”

“I have written a letter to your father informing him of our marriage and the circumstances surrounding it, including your quest for an heiress.”

“You
what
?”

“I told your father everything that had transpired between us. My family knows; so should yours.”

A red haze misted his vision. “My God—what have you done?”

“The only thing I could, my lord, to ensure the safety of my inheritance. To that end, I propose a bargain. Since you have no interest in helping me manage the estate, I shall return to Leicestershire—alone. I shall pay your debts, and the stables will sustain your fashionable style of living. But if you gamble away so much as an acre of Wellbourne land or auction any of the horses, I will sell what remains of the estate to your father and disappear to
the continent. Then you shall not have me, my land, or any notable source of income, nor shall you have the freedom to marry another heiress.”

Sebastian gaped at her. Never had he seen the girl so fierce, so determined. If she had been solemn before, now she was absolutely grim. Her eyes held no trace of sparkle or vitality.
He
had done this to her. His wounded pride had goaded him to say some terrible things last night, none of which he had intended her to hear. But she had heard, and he could not take any of it back. The resentment and anger he had nursed since last night began to dissipate beneath in an overwhelming cloud of guilt.

“You forget one thing: I shall require an heir. Do you not want children?” he asked quietly.

“Even if I did, I could not imagine bringing them up in such appalling circumstances. I cannot imagine anything more horrid than growing up in a world where one’s parents despise each other.”

“But you do want them?”

She bit her lip; fresh tears shimmered on her lashes. “Yes.”

“Then where does that leave us?”

“If—you honor your side of the agreement, then perhaps, in a year or so, we might…”

He took a step closer to her. “You are my wife. You cannot keep me from your bed forever.”

“Would you force me?”

She sounded so vulnerable. And with those tears in her huge eyes, all he wanted to do was pull her into his arms and hold her as he had last night. He swallowed hard. “No.”

“Then do you agree?” Her voice quavered.

His shoulders slumped. “Yes.”

“Very well. Then let us go inside and have done with
it. We should not keep the minister waiting.” Lifting her skirts, she strode past him and into the house.

Sebastian watched her go but did not follow immediately. He stood in the garden, more alone than he had ever been in his life.

He should be happy. Jane was giving him what he wanted most—his freedom. So why did he feel so utterly miserable?

Odd. He did not feel like a married man. That must be because he had no idea what the devil a married man was supposed to feel like. If it meant feeling drunk, unbearably empty, and sorry for oneself, then he supposed he’d gotten it right.

Nearly a month had passed since that ill-fated morning when he had exchanged vows with Jane Rutledge. His wife. Strange to think of her in such an intimate way. During the ceremony he had stood next to her, so near as to feel the warmth from her slender body, but never actually touched her until the end, when he had placed his ring on her finger and given her a chaste, gentle kiss. No sooner had his lips brushed hers than she pulled away, her face shuttered and pale. The memory of that contact, however brief, lingered with him.

The anger and resentment lingered as well. He had spent his wedding night alone and drunk as an emperor. Why not? He had gotten himself married and had nothing to show for it but injured pride and an empty bed.

His plan had been proceeding perfectly until
she
came along. He shouldn’t even have been attracted to her; she was outspoken, forthright, and plain. Yet he was. And he
had thrown all his carefully-laid schemes out the window for one kiss.

Now she had him on a leash. She had been as good as her word and paid his debts, but it rankled that he should be obligated to his wife for his living. Her property was his by law; legally he had complete ownership and control of Wellbourne Grange and could dispose of it as he pleased. But he could not bring himself to do it.

What the devil was the matter with him?

Determined to forget about his wife and his travesty of a marriage, Sebastian had returned to his former way of life, with Nigel’s enthusiastic endorsement. He had patronized the lowest gaming hells, imbibed bottle after bottle of claret without fear of reproach, ogled opera dancers, and raced his chestnut mare through Hyde Park against all comers. Let the gossip get back to his wife in Leicestershire. That would show her he had no intention of mending his roguish ways.

But Fate, ever a fickle mistress, had other plans. Instead of losing at the gaming tables, he won, even when he wagered recklessly or on a whim. Just last night he had won over two thousand pounds from Sir Reginald Kettering. He found none of the opera dancers attractive; their overripe figures and painted faces revolted him. And two weeks ago his mare had pulled up lame, depriving him of another favorite pastime.

So here he sat, bored, half-foxed, and thoroughly out of temper. He hefted the bottle of wine, peered at the level of liquid within it, then set it aside. God’s blood, he did not even have the desire to get himself properly foxed. Furious with himself, he vaulted out of his chair and headed for White’s; at this hour of the day, he could usually find Nigel at the faro table.

Unfortunately Lord Nigel Barrington had never been
known for his constancy, and could be found neither at White’s nor at Watier’s. In fact, Sebastian had not seen the garrulous fellow for the past two days, and that troubled him. He had many acquaintances, but few friends. Jace was gone, and now Nigel had taken himself off without so much as a word.

Suddenly he felt unbearably lonely.

With a low growl, Sebastian returned home to dress for the evening. There had to be
something
in London with which he could distract himself.

He was halfway up the stairs when his butler stopped him.

“Ah … forgive me, my lord,” the servant began.

“Yes, what is it, Cobb?” Sebastian asked with no little annoyance.

The portly man looked as though he had swallowed something that disagreed with him.

“Well?” demanded the viscount.

“Er… the Earl of Stanhope is waiting in the drawing room, my lord.”

Sebastian’s hand tightened on the iron stair railing. His father? Here?

“He insisted upon waiting, my lord,” Cobb added.

“Yes, I am certain he did,” muttered the viscount. After a moment’s hesitation, he reversed direction and headed back down the staircase.

The Earl of Stanhope stood in front of the bow window, leaning heavily on his mahogany cane. Sebastian paused in the drawing room doorway and studied his father’s profile. Though the man’s shoulders seemed increasingly bent with age, the rest of his appearance remained unchanged. Faded hair that was once a deep brown waved away from his forehead. Hawk-like blue eyes presided above a straight aristocratic nose and a
strong jaw. The resemblance was unmistakable; Sebastian would probably look like this when he got on in years. A strong sense of loathing gripped him.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” he said, his lips curled in disdain. “To what do I owe the dubious pleasure of this visit?”

The earl turned; his sharp blue gaze settled on Sebastian.

“Ah, there you are,” Lord Stanhope replied. “I was beginning to think you would never return.”

“If I had known you were here, I would not have,” the viscount assured him.

A dry chuckle rattled in his father’s throat. “Still angry with me, I see.”

“Why should I not be?” Sebastian snarled, then checked himself. “What do you want?”

“Will you not invite me to sit down?”

His face wooden, Sebastian gestured to one of the claw-footed chairs near the fireplace.

Lord Stanhope sat down slowly, supporting himself on his cane. His left leg did not bend, but stuck out at a stiff angle.

Sebastian remained standing. “I take it this is not a social call.”

“No, indeed.”

“I have fulfilled your stipulations, my lord. We can have little more to say to each other.”

“On the contrary,” replied the earl. “We have a great deal to discuss, beginning with your wife.”

A tremor of foreboding quivered at the base of Sebastian’s spine. “I have been married over a month, my lord. ‘Tis a bit late to express displeasure with my choice.”

“Actually, she intrigues me. Plucky sort of girl. If you happen to like pluck.”

The viscount glared at him. “What do
you
know of her?”

“Very little, really, other than what I was able to glean from her letter.”

Sebastian ground his teeth. Her letter. Of course.

“I did a bit of checking into her family,” Lord Stanhope continued. “Her father left her some property in Leicestershire, I believe.”

“Yes,” he intoned. What was the old despot getting at?

“I am merely curious to learn why she is there, and you are here and have been since your wedding.”

The viscount grimaced. It all made sense. Now that he was married, the next topic of discussion would be grand-children and how soon he could produce them. “That, my lord, is none of your business.”

Lord Stanhope rested both his hands atop his cane and sighed. “You have never liked me, have you, boy?”

“Like you?” Sebastian almost laughed. “Oh, come now, sir, let us be frank. I loathe you.”

“Why?”

The question took the viscount by surprise. “I should think it obvious.”

“Then humor me.”

“All right, then. Where to begin? As far back as I can remember, you pitted Alex and me against each other. You held him up as a paragon of virtue, but you never had a kind word for me. In fact, the only time you ever spoke to me was to criticize me for some real or imagined wrong.”

The earl nodded. “Go on.”

“I might have forgiven you if not for one thing.”

“And what might that be?”

Sebastian stared up at his brother’s portrait about the
mantelpiece, his heart constricted in a painful knot. “You killed Alex.”

The earl glanced at the portrait and flinched.

“Do you deny it?” Sebastian demanded.

The old man’s shoulders slumped, and he shook his head. “No.”

Sebastian stared. “What did you say?”

“I never gave you a detailed account of what happened, did I?”

“You never bothered to mention it at all.”

Lord Stanhope seemed to hunch into himself; the lines in his face deepened. “I had thought to spare you, but I see now I erred too much on the side of caution. At Christmastide five years ago I suffered an attack of apoplexy that left me almost completely paralyzed. My physician thought I would not live much longer, so I sent for your brother.” He shook his head sadly. “Alexander was determined to reach me, blizzard be damned.”

Sebastian slid into the nearest chair, stunned. “Apoplexy?”

The earl gestured to his leg. “Did you never wonder how I came by this?”

“Why did you not tell me?”

“I did not think you would care to know.”

“Then Alex … You did not order him…”

“I blame myself for what happened,” the earl said in a heavy voice. “I sent for him because I was a selfish, fretful old man—I did not wish to die alone.”

Emotion clogged the back of Sebastian’s throat, and he fought to suppress a sudden onslaught of tears. He swallowed hard. He’d be damned if he displayed such frailty in front of his father.

“All this time I blamed you for separating us,” he said harshly. “Alex and I had just started to become friends for
the first time in our lives. Then you summoned him home and ripped him away from me just as I was getting to know him. I hated you for that. I thought you had done it on purpose.”

The earl’s gaze softened. “I know.”

“You knew? What do you mean, you knew?” Sebastian gripped the arms of his chair. “You let me revile you as a tyrant, yet you said nothing. I blamed you for Alex’s death—still you said nothing. You ignored me for the better part of five years. Why?”

“It took me that long to recover the use of my legs. I did not wish you to see me as a cripple.”

Sebastian stared uncomprehendingly at his father. “But—Alex’s funeral… You were not there …”

“I had paid my respects earlier from my Bath chair. In my pride, I did not wish to display the extent of my infirmity to all and sundry—including you.”