Heiress in Love (9 page)

The words burst from her before she could check them. “Flattered! You are the last man on earth I would
choose
to marry. But I have no choice, it seems.”

Anger blazed across his face, but it was gone in an instant, leaving him smooth-featured and smiling. She wasn’t fooled, however. His eyes were hard and brilliant as emeralds.

“Well,” he said softly. “That has put me in my place, hasn’t it?”

Jane flushed. An apology for her rudeness hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it down. Waspishly, she said, “I suppose you think any lady must faint with delight at the thought of wedding you.”

“Faint?”

The smile deepened, but it still did not reach his eyes. He strolled toward her, so effortlessly powerful, his large body moving with grace beneath the fluid silk of his dressing gown. “Why, you’re practically swooning right now. Look at you, all pokered up and straitlaced with your tight little bun and your high-buttoned collar.” He stopped, inches from her. “And all that passion seething underneath.”

She tried to slow her breathing, but it ratcheted up a notch with him so near. She smelled the sweetness of wine from his breath. Her gaze snagged on that intriguing line where his lapel met bare skin. The man’s sheer masculinity was overpowering.

But she was
not
frightened of him, not at all. The heat that scintillated through her body had nothing to do with fear.

Boldly defiant, she raised her eyes to his. Passion? Ha! What did he know of her desires? She had no interest in bedding him. None at all.

He held her gaze and reached out to lift a lock of hair that had fallen from the knot at her nape. One broad fingertip brushed the skin at her jaw, leaving hot thrills in its wake. She felt the faint tug at her scalp as he sifted the curling tendril between finger and thumb.

“Soft,” he murmured.

A barrage of conflicting emotions assaulted her, confusing her sense of purpose. With a gasp, she pulled away. Jane turned her back on him, desperately groping for her lost composure.

Jane bit her lip, striving to suppress the lingering quivers in her body. No one had ever touched her like that, not even Frederick. It was intimate. Far too intimate. She ought not to have allowed it.

What could Constantine seek to gain by behaving thus? Did he think to frighten her with such tactics? Suddenly, his mocking words about seduction assumed a sinister aspect.

He spoke softly, startling her. “What possessed Frederick to leave it all to you, hmm?”

There was a suggestive note to that husky voice that she didn’t like. She had the impression he sized her up as a bed partner. Perhaps he suspected she’d persuaded a fortune out of Frederick in return for spectacular sexual favors.

How ironic.

“Frederick was mad to do it,” she managed. “I had nothing to say in the matter or I would have told him so.”

Silence.

He didn’t believe her.

Jane swallowed, trying to order her thoughts. Luke’s happiness was at stake. She couldn’t allow Constantine Black to befuddle her with his practiced wiles.

She rounded on him. “Let’s be done with this game of cat and mouse, sir. You know what I want. All I care about is keeping Luke with me. If I must marry you to do that, so be it.”

“You’d sacrifice your freedom and your fortune for one scrap of a boy?” His tone told her he found that difficult to believe.

Her voice shook. “Luke is like a son to me.” He
was
a son to her. She’d fight for him with her last breath.

Clearly, this reprobate before her would never understand the depth of her feelings. It was useless to even try to explain them.

Goaded beyond civility, she fired her words at him like grapeshot. “Will you or will you not marry me?”

Unmoved by the verbal barrage, he unleashed on her the full power of his most charming smile.

“I don’t know,” he said simply. “I haven’t decided.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Jane set the candle down at a safe distance from Luke’s bed so as not to disturb him. As she peered through the gloom, she realized Luke’s eyes were wide open, watching her.

“It’s very late,” she said softly. “You should be asleep.”

“Can’t,” he whispered back. “You forgot to read me a story.”

Oh, dear.
“Darling, I’m so sorry. It’s been such a busy day.”

She hadn’t forgotten, not really. But it was late by the time the final guests had left. After that, she’d been obliged to tend to Lady Endicott, who was suffering a fit of the vapors—brought on by her blackguard nephew, no doubt. She’d managed to extricate herself from the countess, only to realize it was an hour past Luke’s bedtime.

After her fraught interview with Constantine, she’d stolen away to check on Luke, fully expecting him to be asleep. But the last few days had brought great upheaval in this little boy’s world. It was hardly surprising he couldn’t settle.

That firmed Jane’s determination to say nothing to Luke about Constantine’s guardianship until she’d resolved the problem to her satisfaction. Why worry the poor little fellow about it now? Not even Constantine could be so callous as to part them immediately. In the meantime, she’d do her utmost to convince the new baron to fall in with her plans.

Gently, she stroked Luke’s curly hair back from his forehead, then traced his eyebrow with her fingertip. Would reading help him sleep or merely excite him?

“Please?”
He did his best to look soulful and failed utterly, the imp. “I
need
to find out what happened to Sir Ninian.”

She didn’t even try to resist that imploring look. “Very well. But only another ten minutes, mind.” Jane crossed to the bookcase to find Sir Ninian’s adventures.

“Here we are,” she said, drawing out the volume. “Do you remember where we left him?”

“About to be boiled in oil?” said Luke with undisguised relish.

She chuckled. “Ah, that’s right.” Jane slid her finger along the pages of the book she’d marked with a green ribbon. The spine crackled as she spread the novel open and began to read.

Poor Sir Ninian, indeed! Cecily, the minx, had penned this thrilling tale of derring-do when still in the schoolroom. Sir Ninian Trinian was supposed to be the hero of the tale, yet he was always being rescued by the resourceful and redoubtable Henrietta Peddlethorpe, the tavernkeeper’s daughter. Delighting in Cecily’s talent, their cousin Andrew had ordered copies to be printed and bound for all of the cousins.

Realizing that Luke was a little too old for fairy tales now, Jane had scoured the library for books that might interest a boy his age. They were few and far between. Her own collection of romances didn’t seem suitable, either.

Then she’d remembered Cecily’s mad creations. If anything could interest a boy like Luke in reading for pleasure, those hilarious episodes would do the trick. Jane hadn’t read the tales for years, but she soon became as enthralled as Luke. Cecily’s gift for storytelling had been evident, even at fifteen.

Glancing at Luke as she read, she saw his eyelids grow heavy. They fluttered a little as he fought sleep. She read on, lowering her voice a little, until at last, Luke’s eyelids drifted closed. Jane let her words trail away until Luke’s deep breathing told her he slept.

She marked the place with her green ribbon and returned Cecily’s book to the shelf.

Bending down to Luke, Jane kissed the delicious, petal-soft roundness of his cheek. His lips curved a little, as if he knew she was there. With a tiny sigh, he snuggled down into the pillow, secure in the instinctive knowledge that he was loved.

Jane’s heart filled. Her eyes moistened. The ache in her throat seemed to form a hard, jagged lump.

She would do anything for this child. Anything.

Even if that meant marrying Constantine Black.

*   *   *

Constantine needed a drink.
Another one.
He strode down corridors, through connecting rooms, his breath streaming harshly through his nostrils.

Bloody rabbit warren of a place! He’d been halfway to his bedchamber when he’d remembered the decanters sitting idle in the library. A pity he hadn’t also recalled that one needed a map and a compass to navigate the old pile.

Westruthers! Damn them all to hell. So bloody self-righteous, so superior to the rest of the human race—at least in their own estimation. How
dare
Jane Westruther look down her nose at him?

Tomorrow, he’d move into the master apartments and damn her sensibilities. The sooner she left Lazenby Hall, the happier he’d be.

He hissed air through his teeth. More pressing than showing her who was master here was the need to closet himself with all of Frederick’s advisers and see if something might be salvaged from this mess.

If he had to sell Broadmere … His stride slowed. He struck his fist against his thigh. No. No, his brother should have their father’s property. George had the right. There must be another way.

One that didn’t involve taking a prudish, opinionated
Westruther
to wife.

Oh, he’d given her a good scare, telling her he hadn’t decided whether he’d fall in with her demands. The look on her face would have given him tremendous satisfaction if it hadn’t been so damned insulting to his vanity.

And here he’d thought no one had that kind of power anymore. His father, his mother, hell, even Frederick himself, had done their worst. But
she
 … Why should he care what she thought of him? They’d only just met!

Typical of such a high-and-mighty lady to believe she knew what was best for Luke. Well, Constantine had been appointed the boy’s guardian and it was for him alone to decide that. He’d scarcely be discharging his duty by handing the boy over to Lady Roxdale without thoroughly investigating her first.

In any case, if Frederick had wished Luke to remain with Lady Roxdale, why not stipulate that in his will? He must have had his reasons for excluding her. And Constantine would find out what they were.

He’d begin by talking with the boy himself. He’d summon him in the morning, after his ride.

As he walked the length of the corridor, Constantine heard noises from the other side of the door leading into the gallery. Who could it be at this hour? Although he guessed the time not far past eleven, he’d the impression everyone kept sober hours at the Hall.

He opened the door, to hear the scrape and clang of steel and a grunt of effort. His brows twitched together. He moved cautiously into the room, to see the Duke of Montford fencing with another man.

They were well matched, both highly skilled, subtle in their swordplay. The duke’s opponent had the advantage in height and reach but still, he did not have the contest all his own way.

In another lifetime, Constantine would have challenged each of them to a bout. Now, he cleared his throat.

There was a fencer’s command to halt and the two combatants turned to stare at him, the tips of their foils pointing to the floor.

“Ah, Roxdale,” The Duke of Montford said.

Constantine had thought the other man a stranger, at first. Now, he realized who it must be. He hadn’t seen Adam Trent for many years. Trent’s lands bordered Lazenby to the west. In the old days, he’d been the golden-haired child who’d told tales on Frederick and Constantine and refused to join in their mischief. By his steely-eyed glare, the idiot still held a grudge.

Over his shoulder, the duke murmured a polite dismissal to his opponent. “Will you excuse us, Mr. Trent? Lord Roxdale and I have important matters to discuss.”

Never taking his eyes from Constantine’s, Trent handed the duke his foil. Then he gathered up his coat and boots, bowed, and left the gallery.

Constantine quirked a brow. “Friendly fellow, ain’t he?” He glanced at the door. “I’d no intention of depriving you of a fencing partner. I was just passing through.”

“No matter. It grows late. That is … would you care to cross swords with me, my lord?” The duke spoke casually, but there was a note in his voice as honed and lethal as a naked blade.

“No, thanks. I don’t fence.”

The duke sighed as he replaced the foils in their sconces on the wall. “Such a pity that you young men seek only to fight with the most barbarous of weapons. In my day, we showed more finesse.”

In fact, Constantine had some skill with a rapier; tonight, he simply chose not to exercise it. There was a difference, but he didn’t feel called upon to explain that to the duke. “A very sad state of affairs, indeed. You like to keep your hand in, obviously.”

“I do.” The duke smiled as he eased his surprisingly muscular frame into his coat. “When you get to my age, it behooves one to have a care for one’s health or simply rot away. Gout, heart troubles, more, er, intimate complaints…” He smiled and waved a vague hand. “The wages of sin.”

“You sound like a deuced parson,” said Constantine, once more wishing for that drink. First penury, then insult added to injury from the Ice Maiden, and now a moralizing duke. Could this day get any worse?