Then a fourth levered upward
The little vixen. Had to outdo him, didn’t she?
“And my grandfather continues grazing his cattle on the property without any fee or a partial commission to you when they are sold? And…”
Her thumb sprang up.
Five bloody conditions? Damn, but he’d underestimated her negotiating skills.
Her chin notched skyward another inch. “You’ll also provide Ophelia a ten-thousand-pound dowry.”
Astonishment jerked Max’s head up, but after a moment of staring into her wounded gaze, nearly drowning in the fathomless depths, he gave a terse nod.
She’d added terms he hadn’t considered and not a single request had been for herself.
Nonetheless, he had no qualms with her provisions. If it brought her peace of mind and helped her to feel like she had a measure of control, so be it.
“As you very well know, you could grant every one of those conditions now if you wished to. Not the dowry for Ophelia of course, but all of the rest.” Though her face was alabaster pale, she met his gaze unflinchingly.
By God, she was brave. A remarkable woman, indeed.
“I could. But Harold Breckensole doesn’t deserve that kind of grace or forgiveness. And knowing one of his beloved granddaughters had to sacrifice herself, because of his selfishness, will eat away at him for the rest of his days.” He couldn’t prevent the rancor edging each clipped word.
Just as losing Grandmother had gnawed at Grandfather.
“You are a cruel man, Maxwell.” Something akin to profound disappointment along with resignation and no small amount of resentment shone in Gabriella’s eyes. “You would do well to remember, that someday, you will stand before God, and you’ll be judged as harshly as you have judged others. You’d best pray the day never comes that you need forgiveness.”
Too late.
Max flexed his jaw. Yes, he was cruel. He’d learned about cruelty firsthand. As for the other? Well, wasn’t it true that those who’d committed wrongs were usually the first to demand forgiveness and often quoted scripture to enhance their manipulation? He suspected though, he might very well end up as miserable as his sire and grandsire.
“Which is it to be, Gabriella?” Hands on the reins, he spared her a short glance from the side of his eye. “The choice is yours.”
“No, it’s not. It’s never been mine.” She gave a fragile, broken laugh. “I shall grow to hate you. You know that, don’t you? Anything that may have turned into warmth or affection, any desire I may now have for you, bitterness and resentment will eventually corrode into loathing. If you insist upon this path, are you prepared for a life every bit as miserable as that of your father’s and your grandfather’s?”
“I know what I’m doing,” he bit out, not at all pleased to have his thoughts read and vocalized.
She pressed on, relentless in her judgment. “You’re making me pay the penalty for a crime that wasn’t mine. My only sin is being Harold Breckensole’s granddaughter. Something I have no control over whatsoever. You, however, do have a choice whether you choose to forgive or carry a grudge. I’m not saying you and yours weren’t wronged, or that if my grandfather is guilty, there shouldn’t be recompense, but this…”
“It is what a duke would do. What he does for his duchy and family,” Max ground out.
She flicked a hand between them. “I vow you will come to regret it, and if this is what a duke would do, then I am very much glad I was born a commoner.”
They’d reached the road, and the gig jostled her against him as the vehicle crested the low embankment. They rode in strained silence until the bridge came into view, and Max slowed Aphrodite once more. He turned to look straight into Gabriella’s eyes, the anguish there, the accusation and condemnation, stabbing him to his core like a rusty two-sided sword.
Yet, it wasn’t enough to put aside the vengeance that had burned inside him for months. How could he just let it go? Forgive the offense? The treachery? A better man might be able to, but then again, he’d never claimed to be a good man. Dutiful, loyal, well-mannered, the epitome of haut ton refinement, honest, and on occasion given to mirth and benevolence.
But never good.
“What’s it to be then, Gabriella?” He used the same tone he used to soothe a skittish horse. “Which of the three do you choose, because as you said the sin is not yours? So you will make this decision. Not me. Not your grandfather or your grandmother or your sister. You.”
Snorting, she shook her head, her disgust palpable. “As if any of them have appeal.” Her eyes drifted closed for a moment, and she released a ragged sigh, her cheeks puffing out slightly with the exhalation. “You’ve given me no alternative, and you well know that. Since I must pick, as you knew I would, I select the third option.”
Max gave a curt nod, at once exalting in the small victory and also grieving for the wound he’d inflicted on this gentlewoman. She wasn’t deserving of this. She was a pawn and he’d used her unforgivably for vengeance. This doublemindedness would likely drive him mad. He hopped to the ground and allowed himself a moment to bring his chaotic thoughts under control before striding to her side and lifting his arms to help her down.
She stared at his hands, indecision whisking across her refined features. He had no doubt she wanted to tell him to go to the devil—was actually surprised she already hadn’t.
Still, they would be man and wife. And damn it all, he’d treat her with the dignity and respect a duchess deserved, because that’s what a duke did, as he’d told her. A duke took care of his dukedom. His family. Of the people entrusted to his care. Of his lands, village, tenants, and servants, and God knew the Pennington Duchy had long, long been neglected.
Dukes don’t destroy young women’s hopes and futures.
At last, she permitted him to assist her from the conveyance. Head held high, and shoulders squared, she met his gaze directly. “I’ll explain to my family what has occurred. You may come for dinner at seven.”
He lifted his hat and canted his head in a brief bow. “I shall be there.”
“But know this, Your Grace.”
He didn’t miss the deliberate cool politeness she’d reverted to.
“I shall never come to your bed willingly. Never. You’ll have to force me each and every time we copulate if you want your heirs.” A miserable smile pulled her soft mouth upward. “I wonder, in a decade or two, if you’ll still think your revenge was worth it.”
Hell, he was beginning to doubt it even now. Though he knew it was her anger speaking, he could no more violate his sweet Gabriella than pluck the sun from the sky or dam the ocean. Seduction, though… Her kisses told him, she desired him too. “Gabriella?” He touched her cheek, but she flinched away, her expression hard and gaze frosty.
“I’ll not succumb to your seductive wiles anymore, Duke.”
She meant it. The magical kisses they’d shared would be the only affection he’d ever receive from her. From anyone. She spun on her heel and took several strides before swinging back to face him, utter devastation ravaging her lovely features.
“I could have loved you, Maxwell,” she said on a sob before running down the drive.
Tears pricked his eyes.
I could have loved you too, my darling Gabby.
One glimpse of Gabriella’s face when she returned from her outing with the Duke of Pennington, and Ophelia dragged her to her bedchamber. With a swift glance up and down the corridor, she closed the door then spun to face her twin, demanding an explanation.
“Gabby, whatever has happened? You were gone for nearly two hours, and you appear as if… Well… I’m not certain exactly what you look like except there is a haunted glint in your eyes that frightens me.” Three neat lines appeared on her forehead, and she wrinkled her nose, staring pointedly at Gabriella’s empty hands. “And where are your sketch pad and pencils?”
“Botheration.” Gabriella groaned as she untied her bonnet wishing she might speak the fou
l oath on the tip of her tongue. “I left them in the duke’s gig.”
Ophelia stopped fussing with the fringe of the pillow she’d picked up and went poker stiff. “Perhaps you should explain from the beginning, because I believe I just heard you say, your drawing supplies were in the duke’s gig. I presume you refer to the Duke of Pennington?”
Something in her expression must’ve given her away for Ophelia tossed aside the pillow and said, “Yes, just as I presumed. But you told me you were going for a walk and to sketch, and you do not, in general, dissemble.”
“I lied.” No sense in prevaricating about it. She had, and from her sister’s astonished expression, she’d deduced more was afoot. No one could ever mistake Ophelia for a bacon brain. “But I assure you, dearest, I had an exceptionally good reason for doing so.”
Trying to save her family from utter ruin and a madman’s vengeance. She’d failed. No, not entirely, she hadn’t. She’d protected her family, but at a cost most dear.
Gabriella dumped the bonnet on her dressing table, avoiding glancing in the mirror as she reached to unfasten her spencer. “How is your headache? Aren’t you to leave for Jessica’s soon?”
“My headache is gone, but dear Jessica has a megrim now,” Ophelia said. “A note came while you were out. We’ve rescheduled for next week.” Impatience fairly radiating off her, and arms akimbo, Ophelia drummed her fingertips on her hips. “What’s this explanation for lying, for I’ve never known you to flat out fib before?”
More of the duke’s unsavory influence.
Gabriella was aware turmoil roiled in her eyes and also that her lips might be the merest bit rosy from that extraordinary kiss. Hopefully, her sister would credit her countenance to the blustery weather.
After removing her spencer and gloves, she sank onto the mattress, completely drained. Not surprising since her life had just been toppled teapot handle over spout. Once she’d reconciled herself to what she must do, a peculiar sort of peace had enveloped her. Rather, a numbness that enabled her to function in a sort of hazy, incredulous cloud.
As succinctly as possible, she shared the dismal tale, somewhat amazed at her ability to do so without collapsing into a weeping blob of hysteria. She judiciously omitted the part about the scintillating kisses. Of everything that had occurred, this last kiss made the least sense. How could she have responded so wantonly? How could she have permitted a knave of his caliber such liberties?
Not fair, her conscience scolded. She couldn’t place all the blame for that intimate interlude on his shoulders. Not when their previous kisses had made her eager—hungry—for his embrace. She’d enjoyed the experience far too much, and as furious as she presently was with him, feared her declaration about sharing a bed might’ve been incensed bluster. She’d all but melted into his arms with little provocation.
True, but that was before he’d shown his hand, and she’d seen what an immoral lout he truly was. She mightn’t have any control over these circumstances, by she could withhold her affection and passion. “So, you see, Fee Fee, there’s naught else to be done but for me to wed the duke.”
Her twin’s jaw dropped open, and her hazel eyes so like Gabriella’s rounded in incredulity before the irises almost disappeared as she narrowed her eyes into wrathful slits.
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God! The churl. The fiend. The… the…reprehensible, scapegracing bastard.” Ophelia’s voice jumped an octave on the last word, and she, too, plopped unceremoniously onto the bed. “Gabby, you cannot—simply cannot!—marry Pennington under these wretched circumstances. Why, it amounts to nothing short of extortion.”
It did indeed. And in Gabriella’s mind, that made Maxwell no better than Grandpapa. Worse, for she held no affection for the duke. Keep telling yourself that and perchance you’ll come to believe it. Teeth clamped until they ached, she squashed the intrusive thought. She wasn’t one to mistake feminine lust and curiosity for something more meaningful.
She grabbed another floral pillow and plunking the soft square on her lap, plucked at the silky gold fringe. “There isn’t any alternative. If Grandpapa is guilty, and I fear he very well might be, I cannot allow him to go to prison for the rest of his life. He’s old and frail and would die within months.
“Nor would I ever consider permitting you and Grandmama to be put out of your home. I suppose we ought to appreciate the duke allowing me any choice at all. He might’ve booted us to the curb and seized all without consideration.”
All outraged sisterly protector, Ophelia snuffled loudly and scrubbed at her damp cheeks. “And here I believed Pennington a decent, chivalrous sort. I even suspected you held a tendre for him. I would never have believed him capable of such vileness. Oh, my darling sister, I cannot bear it. I simply cannot comprehend that you would even consider making such a sacrifice.” She punched her pillow. “God rot the blackguard. If I were a man, I’d call him out.”
Now there was a lovely thought. A duel at dawn. Fisticuffs at four? Swords at six? Sabers at seven? Gabriella snorted at her own absurdity.
What would the pompous, self-righteous Duke of Pennington do if she challenged him to an affair of honor? Had such a thing ever been done? A woman demanding satisfaction? Not with a man, though there were a few isolated instances of women dueling other women.
He wouldn’t accept of course. A duke most certainly wouldn’t concede to duel with a woman. And most definitely not a lady very nearly his affianced. Oh, what a succulent treat that would be for the gossip rags. What that wouldn’t do to his efforts to keep everything hush-hush.
Mayhap she’d pen a letter or two or ten to the most notorious of the tattle magazines.
No, she wouldn’t. Because it wasn’t only his name and reputation that would be dragged through the filth. She stopped fiddling with the fringe and shot a frantic glance to her bedchamber door.
Dear God, Grandpapa wouldn’t do something so rash as to demand satisfaction, would he? Did he even own a blunderbuss or a blade of any sort except for kitchen and garden utensils?
Flopping onto her back, she stared at the familiar, pleated fern-green canopy. “The duke is coming to dinner at seven tonight. I must talk to our grandparents beforehand. It will be horridly awkward when he arrives.” She turned her head, reaching for her sister’s hand. “He wants us wed straightaway, as if he almost fears Grandpapa will contrive a way to save Hartfordshire Court. Though, I confess, if all that Pennington said is true, I cannot conceive it.”
“Neither can I,” Ophelia whispered, her voice breaking. “This is awful beyond belief.”
Biting her lower lip, Gabriella closed her eyes for a blink. “Maxwell is ruthless and unforgiving, Fee Fee. He cannot be reasoned with. God knows I tried. I really, truly tried.”
And he was absolutely undeterred in his quest for retribution.
“No. It’s unthinkable. You cannot bind yourself to such a monster.” Ophelia thumped the mattress with her fist. “Grandpapa shan’t permit it. You’ll see. There must be an alternative.”
“I’m of age now,” Gabriella reminded her quietly. “The decision is mine to make.”
Her twin shook her head vehemently. Several pins came loose, and tendrils of hair tumbled to her shoulders. She put a shaky palm to her forehead. “I fear what the shock will do to our grandparents.”
Gabriella’s exact concern.
Swallowing, she dipped her chin in a nod. “I’ve the same worry, and that’s why my mind is made up. Trust me when I tell you, Pennington has thought of everything. He provided me with three options, and I’ve selected the least dire. This way, I am assured you and our grandparents won’t suffer from his wrath. You’ll still have a home, and the duke is willing to cancel the tax debt grandpapa owes the duchy. In truth,” she gave a raspy, unhappy chuckle, “I suppose there is a degree of benevolence in this particular solution.”
She doubted the verity of the words even as she murmured them.
Ophelia snorted and launched the pillow across the room. “Ballocks.
He’s a selfish blackguard for reclaiming Hartfordshire Court and entrapping you. I’ll bet my best bonnet, you’re what he’s been after all along.”
Even if nothing was further from the truth, Gabriella adored her sister for the suggestion.
“The knave knew you were beyond him,” Ophelia insisted, torturing the poor coverlet with her nails. “That he was undeserving of someone as wonderful as you, so he resorted to nefarious means to claim your hand.”
Genuine amusement caused Gabriella’s burst of laughter. “Oh, Fee Fee, come now. The duke can have his pick of any number of women. A penniless commoner most assuredly does not top his list of eligible ladies. Rest assured, I never set my cap for him, and there’s no danger of a broken heart.”
He’d already shattered the organ to fragments. She doubted she’d be capable of feeling anything romantic for a very long time.
If ever again.
“Hmph.” Arms crossed, Ophelia glared moodily at the canopy. “Our maternal great-grandfather was an Italian count. That ought to amount to something. And I don’t believe you when you say, you’ve no interest in Pennington. I’m your twin, remember. I know you. You did entertain warm feelings for him.”
“I’ll warrant, I found him charming when we returned from finishing school.” Intriguing and exciting too. “I was also struck by his good looks and humor, and prior to learning he intended to take Hartfordshire Court from us, I may have engaged in silly schoolgirl notions. But that’s all they were. In any event, I have since discovered that a handsome face can hide a blackguard’s heart.”
As she spoke the words, Gabriella knew them to be false. But if the untruth eased Ophelia’s worry a jot, she’d keep vowing to feeling nothing for Maxwell but enmity.
I could have loved you. Those words replayed in her mind, a relentless mantra of what would never be. She could have loved him. Might’ve been well on the way to doing so. But not now. She wouldn’t permit the tender emotion to grow and bloom. Not when he forced her into a union.
What Would a Duke Do? Page 12