Impulse (6 page)

He grimaced. “Thank you for your concern, my lady, but I have no interest in this sugarcoated future you envision for me. You see, I did get something of value from my dealings with the Stanhopes. I learned exactly how useless ‘love' is.
We
were in love, and it did not help us. It did not stop your grandfather from separating us. It did not heal me. It did not keep you from marrying someone else. And, much as you seem to revere the idea of it, I do not see that it has kept you from winding up out here, a recluse, an outcast from your own people,
divorced, shamed…. What do I need with this ‘love' of yours?”

Angela's cheeks flamed with color at his description of her life. “You think so highly of me, I can readily understand why you wish to marry me. Good God, Cam, don't be such a fool! Marrying me is no way to move in the best circles. I am divorced and messily so. My reputation is thoroughly and permanently blackened. If you want position and heirs, not love, then find some other poor girl of good family. There are more families than the Stanhopes who are of good lineage and who would be happy to sell their daughter for a little cash. Let her give you noble children and entrée into Society. It would be far easier for both of you. But, for pity's sake, leave me and mine alone!”

He regarded her silently for a long moment. Finally, he said, as if the words had been wrenched from him, “Would that I could! I wish to heaven some other family, some other little chit, could soothe the thing that has been burning in me for thirteen years. But they will not. No matter how difficult, how contrary, you are, no matter what your reputation has been, you are the only one who will satisfy me.
You
are the one I
will
have.”

He gave her a brisk nod, then turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving Angela where she was, gaping after him.

J
ASON
P
ETTIGREW
reluctantly drew his gaze from the much more interesting sight of the maid Kate polishing the brass sconces in the hall, which he could see through the open door of the study, and turned to look at his employer, who was pacing back and forth across the room, his brow furrowed.

“She is the most exasperating female,” Monroe was saying, his mouth set in a grim expression. “Not at all the way she was when I knew her.”

“I'm sure not, sir,” Pettigrew agreed, firmly thrusting aside the memory of the neat turn of Kate's ankles as she stood on the stool, stretching up to reach the sconce, and the jiggle of her bosom beneath the maid's uniform as she rubbed at the metal.

Cam paused, thinking about Angela as she had been thirteen years earlier—sparkling and full of life, her eyes lighting up whenever she saw him, that irrepressible smile bursting across her face. He could still remember how eagerly he had awaited each sight of her, how his heart had pounded in his chest whenever she came near. And it had not been only her beauty, but her spirit and sweetness, as well. But then, he reminded himself harshly, he had not really known her at all. What he remembered of her had been merely his illusion, the fiction that he had attached to her beauty.

“No doubt I am a fool even to try to marry her.”

Pettigrew looked up warily at Monroe's words. They were the first thing his employer had said about this whole matter that made any sense to him. “Perhaps,” he began tentatively, “we should return to London, then.”

Cam flashed him a look that sent the faint hope of leaving out of his head. “No doubt. But I'm not going to. Damn it! She is going to be my wife.”

Pettigrew shifted uneasily in his chair. He had worked for Cameron Monroe for almost seven years, and in all that time, he had never seen him like this. God knew, he could be a hard man, and he was driven by demons that Jason did not understand, but Monroe was always practical, patient and, above all, calm and self-possessed, even to the point of coldness. He had never acted irrationally or in the heat of the moment…until now.

What he was doing made no sense to Jason. It was hardly as if there were not plenty of young women back in the U.S. who would be more than happy to be Mrs. Cameron Monroe. He was one of the wealthiest men in the country, and he was still young, no more than thirty- three or thirty-four, as well as quite handsome. There had been any number of hopeful mothers throwing their daughters in his path the past few years. And if he was so set on marrying into the English nobility—another thing Jason Pettigrew found difficult to understand—it was well-known that there were plenty of impoverished nobles in Britain who would be more than willing to make a financially advantageous marriage for one of their daughters.

However, Cam was dead set on this one family and this one woman, who, having been involved in a scandalous divorce, was not even socially acceptable. It was not as if she were beautiful, either. Pettigrew would admit that she was pretty…in a very subdued way. Her
blue eyes were fine and intelligent, her oval face was almost perfectly modeled, and her hair was an intriguing reddish color. But her features were devoid of animation, and she wore her hair screwed tightly into a bun. Her clothes were dark and drab, successfully hiding whatever sort of figure she had. Jason did not think he had once seen her smile or heard her laugh since he came to Bridbury. Certainly she exhibited none of the feminine graces or flirtatious airs that were likely to lure a man.

Yet Monroe was determined to have her, even to the point of using all the force of his power and wealth to coerce her into marrying him. Certainly Pettigrew was not fool enough to try to dissuade Cam Monroe from a course he was set upon.

“I thought she would be reasonable,” Monroe went on. “Pragmatic. God knows she went to Dunstan willingly enough, and she had no feeling for him.”

Despite what had happened, Cam was certain on that particular point. Whatever she had lied about when he was in love with her, he had felt the passion in her for him. He had also seen her with Lord Dunstan once or twice that weekend, and she had been completely uninterested in him. No, marriage to Dunstan had been for family reasons, for money. Cam had been certain she would be guided by the same motives here. Had Dunstan soured her so on the state of marriage? Or was it that she had discovered she could never be content with just one man? Cam quickly shut that thought out of his mind; he did not like to think of Angela's promiscuity. The idea of her being with even one other man had tormented his nights when he first went to America. The thought that she had in reality had at least three other lovers, maybe
more, had gnawed at him from the first moment that he read the lawyer's report.

“Do you think the allegations at the divorce trial were true?” he asked abruptly, startling Pettigrew, whose thoughts had not followed the same trail.

“What? Oh, well, uh, she did not deny them.” Pettigrew was well aware that he was treading on very delicate ground. No man, least of all one as proud as Cameron Monroe, would like to think that he was going to marry a hussy. He thought hastily. “On the other hand, she certainly does not
look
like the sort of woman who would…ah…”

“No,” Cam agreed quickly. “She looks—well, except for sometimes when she seems to forget herself and gets angry and her eyes flash—she looks almost mousy. But Angela never had an ounce of fear in her.” He smiled faintly. “I remember how she used to ride, even when she was little, how she'd throw her heart over the fences.”

Pettigrew looked at his employer narrowly. He heard the tinge of affection in Cam's voice, and not for the first time, he wondered what had linked Monroe with this woman in the past. He knew no more than anyone else in the United States did what Cameron Monroe's history had been before he came to America. He had heard stories, of course, about his grit and determination, about his courage in the oil fields of Pennsylvania and his shrewd business sense. But about the time before he had arrived in New York, at the age of twenty, Pettigrew knew nothing.

“You, ah, taught her to ride?” he asked colorlessly.

Cam shook his head. “No. That was old Wicker's job, and he was quite jealous of it. He taught all the Stanhopes to ride. I came to work in the stables when I was eleven. I used to watch her riding about the ring
on her little pony, Wicker holding the leading rein. She always wanted him to let her go. She was only seven. Later, when she was older, I would ride out with her to make sure she came to no harm—as if anyone around here would have touched a hair on her head. They all loved her.”

Jason was growing more and more interested. He was beginning to suspect that his employer had been one of those many people who loved her.
Had he loved her all these years?
But then, Jason reminded himself, the means that Monroe had chosen to persuade Angela Stanhope to marry him would hardly qualify as lover- like. No, only anger and bitterness could have engendered his harsh methods.

“Perhaps, sir,” he suggested cautiously, “you might want to woo the lady in question.”

“Woo her?” Cam's eyebrows vaulted upward.

“Yes. Women seem to like that. Perhaps she does not like to feel as if you were, ah, purchasing her, no matter how pragmatic she may be in marrying for money. Or it is possible that she might resent the manner in which you forced her hand.”

Cam cast him an amused glance. “Are you trying to say, in your diplomatic way, that the lady despises me because I am forcing her into marriage? I am well aware of that. I am not asking for her affection.” His face turned grim. “But, damn it to hell, why is she not giving in despite her dislike?”

“You do not care if your wife dislikes you?” Pettigrew asked neutrally.

Monroe frowned at him. “I should think you, of all people, are well aware that this is no love match.”

Pettigrew refrained from pointing out that, at this moment, it was no match at all. Angela Stanhope might
be willing to risk Monroe's bad temper, but Jason was not. “Yes, sir. It is just that it seems a mite uncomfortable, sir. There is a vast difference between an indifferent marriage and one in which there is open animosity.”

Monroe gave him a level look. “I believe I will be able to handle it.”

“Of course, sir.”

Monroe turned away from him and walked to the window. He stood silently for a few minutes, gazing out at the gardens. When he turned back, his face was set and impassive. “We will have to apply more pressure.”

Jason hesitated. “You mean, tell the Earl about the… the information we have?”

“Yes.” Cam paused, watching his assistant. “Do you have a problem with that?”

Jason glanced away, then brought his gaze back to meet Cam's squarely. “I am not accustomed to blackmail, sir.”

“Don't worry. You will not have to do it. I shall speak to Bridbury myself.”

“He—he seems a nice enough man,” Jason went on.

“And you would hate to ruin his reputation, is that it?” Cam smiled faintly as Jason nodded, a little sheepishly. “Well, you need not be ashamed of feeling that way, man. There's nothing wrong with having scruples. Don't worry, 'tis an empty threat. I would not use it against him, either. It is useless to me except in the
possibility
of using it. The actuality serves me nothing. But I hope it will concern them enough that they will agree to my terms.”

“Yes, sir.” Pettigrew still looked slightly troubled. “But, sir…well, is it worth it?”

“Oh, yes. To me it is. It is very much worth it.”

 

Angela decided that the best way to avoid Cam was to take a long walk with her dogs. Accordingly, she put on a pair of stout boots and headed out the front door, Wellington and Pearl close on her heels. But before she could reach the front door, Cam stepped out of the library.

“Angela.”

She came to a halt, mentally cursing her bad luck, and slowly turned around. He came toward her. The two dogs turned and watched him, Pearl with interest and Wellington with some distrust. As he came closer, Cam looked down at the dogs, and a small smile touched his lips.

“Well, hello, old fella,” he said quietly, extending a hand toward Wellington. “I wouldn't have guessed you'd still be here.”

Wellington came forward slowly, sniffing at the outstretched hand. His tail began to wag and he put his head under Cam's hand, giving it an inviting bump. Cam chuckled and began to stroke him.

“Traitor,” Angela murmured.

“Well, I
am
the one who gave him to you,” Cam pointed out. “You have a good memory,” he told the dog, scratching in just the right spot behind Wellington's ears.

Even Angela had to smile a little at the memory. She and Cam had been riding, only a few weeks before Cam had admitted his love for her. They had come upon the miller's son and a few of his cronies down by the pond. The boys had been throwing a puppy into the pond, a rock tied to his neck to pull him down. “That's true,” she said softly. “I'll never forget the way you jumped into the pond to save him.”

He cast her an amused glance. “Nor will I forget the way you boxed the miller's boy's ears.”

Angela shrugged. “Well, he deserved it. He was a heartless little criminal. As I remember, you sent him on his way with a few choice words in his ear.”

She did not add, though she remembered it quite well, that she had given her heart utterly into his keeping at that moment, when he had walked toward her from the pond, dripping wet, holding that squirming little puppy against his chest. Angela cleared her throat and looked away.

“Well, Wellington has managed to stay alive quite well ever since then. Now, if you will excuse me, we were just on our way out.”

“Perhaps I could walk with you. Where are you going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” she replied shortly, turning her gaze away from his. “And I prefer to be alone, thank you.” She started for the door, snapping her fingers for the dogs to follow. Cam made no move to follow her, merely stood watching her until she and her companions were out the door.

Angela managed to stay well out of Cam's way the remainder of the day, not returning from her walk until it was almost time for dinner. She wished she could have skipped that, too, but nothing less than illness was an acceptable reason to her grandmother for not dressing formally and coming down for the evening meal.

It was not a comfortable dinner party. The eldest Lady Bridbury was haughty and frigidly polite, obviously displeased at being forced to break bread with a former groom. Jeremy looked quite pale and contributed little to the conversation, while Cam was about as voluble and expressive as a rock. It was left to Angela and
Mr. Pettigrew to utter a few inanities about the weather and the landscape. Angela's mother contributed by describing the latest condition of her health. Angela was relieved when the elder Lady Bridbury rose, indicating that the ladies could retire. She spent only a few minutes with her mother and grandmother in the drawing room, listening to her grandmother complaining bitterly about what the world had come to, what with grooms eating with earls, before she pleaded a headache and retreated to her room.

It was some time later, when Kate had helped her change into her nightclothes and had herself retired, and Angela was sitting up reading in the hopes that it would help her to fall asleep more easily, that there was a light tap at her door and Jeremy stuck his head in the door.

He gave her a small, set smile. “Hallo. Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not.” Angela laid her book aside and motioned him toward the other chair. Though she and Jeremy were very fond of one another, they had never been the sort for cozy late-night chats. She remembered the way he had seemed through the evening meal. “Is something wrong?”

Again he gave her a forced smile. “Wrong? No, I just wanted to talk to you.” He paused, scrutinizing his hands for a moment, as if they contained the secrets of the universe. “Well, actually…” He sighed. “Yes. There is something wrong. I—Cam talked to me again this afternoon about the possibility of your marrying him.”