by Diana Quincy
“You’re delusional.” Her pulse drummed loudly in her ears. “I want nothing to do with you. Move away.”
He studied her face. “May I ask you a question?”
“No.”
He leaned closer, his face shiny with perspiration. “You’re fucking the duke, aren’t you?”
Her lungs deflated. “No.”
“I don’t believe it. You’ve swived Huntington. I could tell when I saw you two together the other day. Now you’re going to spread your legs for me or I am going to tell Victoria the truth about her stepmother and her future husband.”
“You’re an idiot. There is nothing going on between me and Huntington—of all people. Now move away.” Behind her, Leela felt for the desk drawer. “That is your last warning.”
“God, how I’ve wanted you,” he murmured, his lips just inches from hers, his brandy-soaked breath humid against her face. “I’ll make it good. I swear it. Much better than Huntington. Or Father. Or any of those Levantine heathens you allowed beneath your skirts.”
Behind her, Leela pulled open the drawer and felt around until she found what she was looking for.
“Please say yes.” He reached out, placing his hand on her waist.
“Get your hands off me.”
His hand slid around her body, brushing her bottom. “You’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted to touch you like this. Admit it,” he whispered in her ear. “You want it, too.”
“You cannot say I didn’t warn you.” Leela whipped out her janbiya and reached up to slash Edgar’s cheek in a quick precise motion.
He shrieked and jumped back. “What the devil?” His hand shot up to touch his cheek and came away with the crimson blood staining his fingers. “What have you done?”
“Surely you are smart enough to figure it out.”
“You cut me?”
She shrugged. “I did warn you.”
“I’m bleeding.” Disbelief stamped his face. “How badly did you cut me?”
“Not enough to do any permanent damage, but there will be a scar. Consider it a reminder never to touch a woman who doesn’t want to be touched.”
“I cannot believe that you took a knife, a knife, to my face.” He stared at the blade in her hand. “You actually sliced my cheek open.”
She reached for a kerchief on her desk to wipe Edgar’s blood from her janbiya. “Consider yourself fortunate that I didn’t slice into something more critical.”
He watched her clean her blade. “Where in Hades did you get that? What kind of lady carries a knife?”
“A lady who has to protect herself from men like you.” Because Edgar didn’t seem inclined to try to stem the bleeding, Leela went to the kitchens and came back with a clean cloth.
She held it out to him. “Here.” He blinked, still in some sort of shock and very likely too foxed to think clearly. “I don’t want you staining my carpet,” she said impatiently. “Hold it against your wound. You might need to have that cut stitched.”
Pressing the cloth to his cheek, Edgar stumbled into the front hall to peer at himself in the gilded mirror that hung there. Lifting the bloodstained cloth away, he turned his head and lifted his chin to get a better look at the two-inch gash at the center of his left cheek. “Damnation! It’s huge.”
“Don’t exaggerate. It’s not that big.”
“If you are so determined to draw my blood, you could have cut my arm or somewhere else. But my face? Everyone can see it.”
“Exactly.”
Edgar followed her back to the reception room. “What am I supposed to tell people about how I got this knife wound?”
“Whatever you like. Tell them the truth.”
“Now you’ve really done it.” Edgar slumped into the high-backed velvet chair, still gingerly dabbing the cloth against his cheek. “Don’t even think about taking up residence here. You’d better take all of your possessions with you when we return to Town in two days’ time.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I shall personally toss out any personal items you leave behind.”
Leela settled on the gold sofa opposite him. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”
He examined the bloodstains on the cloth. “What are you talking about?”
“How did you think this would all play out?”
“I thought you would become my mistress—”
“In order to keep the house that I already own?”
“—but clearly that was a mistake . . . Wait,” he stammered, his eyes huge. “What . . . I beg your pardon?”
“The appointment I had today was with Mr. Sherman, your late father’s solicitor.”
Edgar paled. “Why did you meet with Sherman?”
“Why do you think? Because you are determined to deny me what is rightfully mine. I know your father left Parkwood to me. This is my house and has been for two years.”
“Oh, very well.” He sank back in his chair. “So now you know. Father did leave this pile to you.”
“You admit that you’ve known all along?”
“Of course.” He shrugged. “You can hardly blame me for trying to keep Parkwood in the family.”
“I certainly can.”
“Be reasonable.” He winced as he patted his injured cheek with the cloth. “Parkwood has been ours for over a century. You have no ties here. No children who carry Chambers blood. Parkwood must remain in the family.”
“I was your father’s wife for seven years. He saw me as family. Your thoughts on the matter are irrelevant. I intend to claim what is mine. To that end, I have instructed Mr. Sherman to collect the rents from my farms.”
Edgar’s jaw tightened. “Those are among our most profitable properties. I need that income. Lambert Hall requires that money to remain prosperous.”
“I don’t believe you. Douglas loved Lambert Hall. He wouldn’t have done anything to jeopardize its future. As to the dower house, you may rent it out to the tenants you have chosen.”
He regarded her suspiciously. “Why are you being reasonable about the house now?”
“Because my solicitor will collect the rents for me.” She stood up. “If that is all, I’d like to be left alone in my house now.”
Grumbling under his breath, he came to his feet. She followed him into the front hall. Pausing, on the front doorstep, Edgar turned back to face her. “I will send some of the grooms down to remove the extra furniture.”
“Do not bother.” She was almost amused that he was still trying to cheat her. Almost. “Everything in this house belongs to me. As you well know.”
“You don’t even want those furnishings.” He spoke through clenched teeth. “Just yesterday you couldn’t wait to have them hauled away.”
“That was before I knew that it all belonged to me. I understand the marble side tables are quite valuable. I may sell them.”
He flushed. “Those are family heirlooms that belong with family.”
“I agree.”
His face brightened. “You do?”
“That is why I shall consider giving you a family discount when I sell them back to you,” she said before slamming the door shut in his face.
Chapter Sixteen
Lady Victoria sucked in a breath. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”
Hunt couldn’t help but smile at the young woman’s reaction. One would think he’d presented her with the crown jewels rather than the extensive library at his Mayfair residence. They’d returned to Town three days earlier. Victoria requested this visit to Weston House primarily, Hunt suspected, to examine his book collection.
She stared up at the book-lined walls. “Isn’t this the most delightful library you’ve ever seen, Delilah?”
“Oh yes, indeed.” Leela, who’d accompanied Lady Victoria, smiled as she watched the girl wander up and down the rows of books. “This is all very grand.”
Hunt’s father had seen to that, restoring the historic home after Hunt’s debauched grandfath
er sold away many treasures to finance his gaming habit and numerous mistresses. A serious-minded boy from the start, Hunt’s father took to hiding the family treasures before his father could sell them all off. He was aided and abetted by his grandmama, the dowager duchess, who realized her adored son had inherited the disastrously decadent Townsend gene.
Phillip had not yet resorted to selling off family heirlooms before his untimely death. The book collection Lady Victoria now perused remained one of the finest in London. Touring the house, she’d appeared suitably impressed with the stately house’s massive mahogany staircase, carved and twisting balusters, generous chambers and fluted walls. But it was the library that truly took her breath away.
Victoria’s pale fingers trailed along the book spines as she wandered down the book stacks. “Do you have a travel section?”
Hunt noticed she’d overcome some of her discomfort in his presence. She no longer stuttered and stammered. “Yes, but Foster has just reorganized the books at my request.” He shot a discreet look at the attending footman, who silently slipped away. “He will know where to find them.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to disturb Mr. Foster’s work.”
“Nonsense. His duties are to serve me. And in serving you, Foster serves me.” He tried not to look at Leela, even though he felt her presence as keenly as if he were touching her. She’d remained quiet during the tour of his home, although he’d sensed her interest in seeing where he lived. She wore a red spencer over her cream day dress. Red was certainly her color, especially against that dark mane of hers.
“What do you think?” he asked her.
“Victoria will get lost for hours in here.”
“But it isn’t the library that interested you the most, I believe it was the family sitting room.”
Her brows lifted. “What makes you say that?”
“Am I wrong?” He’d noted the way her face lit up when she’d first seen the chamber’s silvery oak paneling and full wall of mullion windows.
“Well, it is a lovely room.”
“I noticed your appreciation.” As he noticed everything else about her. Even though he tried not to. It was just as well that she planned to continue traveling. As much as he could not bear the thought of not seeing her, having Leela around constantly—and knowing he could never have her—was far more agonizing.
Foster arrived in a smart brown tailcoat but still managed to look rumpled all the same. “You summoned, Your Grace?”
“Yes, please show Lady Victoria where you’ve moved the travel books.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.”
While his secretary attended to his future bride, Hunt turned to Leela. “I’m pleased you came with Victoria.”
“She insisted.”
His brows came together. “Still? She seems to have overcome her fear of me.”
“I think so as well. But this is all still overwhelming for her.”
They watched Foster gesture to the various shelves at the opposite end of the library while Victoria listened carefully, asking questions along the way. “I believe he’s giving her a complete rundown of the entire collection,” Hunt remarked.
“Do not be surprised if she reads her way through every book in here.”
Hunt watched the young woman interact with his secretary in a kind and interested manner. “She’ll make a fine duchess.”
“You are growing fond of her.”
“She possesses a sweet nature and keen intelligence. I feel very protective of her.” His gaze met hers. “But it is nothing like—” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Understanding leaped in her eyes. An erotic charge of unspoken desire flared between them. She flushed, her eyes darkening. Heat pumped through his blood, shooting through the length of his prick.
“I might have been content with her. Had I not met you.” He spoke honestly. They were beyond parsing words.
“Once I am gone, after the wedding, when I resume traveling, you will forget me.”
Pressure bore down on his chest. “I won’t.”
“You must try.” Her breath shuddered. “As must I.”
“I will do my best.” He watched Victoria pull another book from the shelf. “She will never know there is another who owns my heart.”
They watched Victoria in heavy silence waiting for the longing to abate to a manageable level where it wasn’t quite as excruciating. Oblivious to the emotional current streaming through the chamber, Victoria leafed through a book while Foster left her momentarily only to return with another title.
Finally Hunt spoke. “That’s quite a cut Devon has on his cheek. It’s certain to leave a scar.”
“Is it?”
“He says he ran into a tree branch while riding.”
“He really ought to be more careful.”
“Branches don’t normally cause such a precise wound.”
“Don’t they?
“That cut looks like it was made by a knife.” He looked at her. “Was it you?”
She kept her gaze on Victoria. “Yes.”
Fury rose in him. “What did he do?” He’d been correct about the masculine hunger he’d sensed in Devon.
“He attempted to reach an agreement for me to remain in the dower house. Needless to say, I did not care for his terms.”
His neck burned. “Did he lay his hands on you?” His lips drew back in a snarl. “I’ll kill him.”
“I don’t need your protection.” She finally looked directly at him. “I can take care of myself. Victoria is your concern. I am not.”
“You will always be my concern.” But Leela was right. It was not his place to come to her defense. He willed himself to calm down. “He took the dower house from you?”
“Not at all.” Triumph flared in her face. “It’s mine. Douglas left it to me outright.”
“You own the house?”
“As well as four surrounding farms and the income they produce. So, you see, I don’t need looking after.”
“Your late husband left you well looked after.” Hunt would welcome the opportunity to take up where her husband left off. To see to Leela’s welfare. To her every happiness. To her every need.
“You must put all of your considerable energy into Victoria,” she said. “It is the only way forward.”
He nodded. “Lady Victoria,” he called out, forcing a smile onto his face. “Would you care to see the duchess’s rooms now?”
Leela stared at the glass-fronted establishment on Fleet Street. She tucked her finished manuscript under her arm.
Horse-drawn carriages and carts clattered by in the muddy street, the great dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral on Ludgate Hill rising up in the near distance. Beyond her own precarious reflection, she could make out the shelves and tables of books within the shop.
She drew a fortifying breath. Beneath her kid leather gloves, her palms were moist. She was about to meet her publisher in person for the first time. For the occasion, she wore a cream muslin gown beneath a full-length forest green pelisse. The lines were simple, the long plain sleeves finished with a narrow trim of lace at the cuffs. She had dressed to be taken seriously. She knew he would be shocked. A lady of quality should not have any business concerns, and if perchance she did, she certainly did not manage her own affairs.
Leela’s eye caught on a book at the center of the window showcase at William Edgerton Bookseller. She blinked. Twice. There, on prominent display, stood Travels in Arabia. Pride swelled within her, coating her taut nerves with warmth, boosting her confidence.
She’d never before seen her book in a shop. Although Mr. Edgerton had written to her about the great success of Travels in Arabia, seeing it for herself now, positioned in a place of pride where all of the passersby could see it, somehow made it more real.
Fizzy with excitement, Leela entered the shop. She momentarily forgot that Mr. Edgerton, her publisher, a man who’d corresponded with author D. L. Chambers for more than a year, had no idea that his bestselling author was
a woman.
Chapter Seventeen
Mr. Edgerton had a face like a raw slab of beef.
Marbled red-and-pink splotches adorned not only his cheeks, but also his forehead and chin. Deep crevices bracketed a moist pouting mouth. Despite a pugilistic exterior, Leela’s publisher was tidily attired and spoke with an air of refinement.
“Good afternoon,” she said to him. “I am Lady Devon.”
“The Countess of Devon?” His face lit up. “How fortunate we are to have a noble lady such as yourself visit our humble establishment. How may I be of service, Lady Devon?”
She glanced at the clerk busily stacking books on a nearby shelf. Edgerton was a bookseller as well as a publisher. “Perhaps we can speak more privately?”
When he hesitated, appearing momentarily confused, she continued, “Do you have an office?”
“Certainly. This way, my lady.” He led her back through a corridor and into a small but tasteful office full of books and dark woods. He took care to leave the door ajar to avoid any appearance of impropriety.
“Now, what can I do for you, my lady?” Curiosity lit his gaze once he was seated behind his orderly desk. “Do you perhaps have a library to furnish?”
“No, nothing like that.” Sitting opposite her publisher, Leela settled her packaged manuscript on her lap with her reticule perched atop it. She smiled at him. She felt as though she knew the man. How would he react once Leela revealed she’d written his bestselling book? “It is good to meet you in person.” She enjoyed their correspondence. Mr. Edgerton’s letters were businesslike, but also edged with humor and wit.
His exuberant brows drew together. “Have we corresponded?”
“Yes.” She summoned her courage. “I am D. L. Chambers.”
He stared at her, a polite expression frozen on his meaty face.
She added, “I am the author of Travels in Arabia.”
“Ludicrous,” he exclaimed on a breath of disbelief.
“Nonetheless, it is true.”
“You’re not a man.”
“No indeed.”
“You’re supposed to be a man.”
“You may have assumed me to be a man. But I never said that I was.” Although, to be honest, of course she knew Mr. Edgerton assumed her to be a man.