One Dangerous Desire (Accidental Heirs)

by Christy Carlyle

  “Miss Sedgwick.” He gave a curt nod and merely took her hand, shaking it gently before releasing her. He’d always provided a sober counterpoint to her father’s exuberance.

  “May I present my friend, Lady Emily Markham?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Graves. Would you care to join us for tea?”

  In his familiar low drone, he acknowledged Em’s offer but shook his head. “I’m afraid I cannot, but I wonder if I might speak to Miss Sedgwick. Alone.”

  He shot May a meaningful look, and she glimpsed something in his eyes that made her wary. Whatever information he had to impart, she suspected it would not be happy news. Still, she needed to discover the mystery of whatever brought him to England when her father had left him in charge of American business concerns.

  “Yes, of course. Em, may I take a rain check on our visit to the gallery?”

  “Certainly, my dear. But might I keep these and show them to Papa?”

  May considered the question only a moment before agreeing. “Catch him when he’s feeling particularly open-minded.”

  HOURS AFTER MEETING with Douglas Graves, May stood in the Devenham drawing room, trying to ease the frenetic buzz of nerves that had plagued her since the conversation with her father’s business partner. Pushing her shoulders back, she ignored the chatter of conversation in the room and eyed the furnishings. Far better to focus on artful ways to rearrange the Devenham settees than the knot in her belly.

  She still struggled to make sense of what Mr. Graves had told her. The Chicago branch of Sedgwick’s was sinking, and the New York shop might follow. Her father had siphoned funds for years to feed his bad habits, and they were on the cusp of financial ruin. By a series of legal maneuverings, only her dowry remained secure.

  Her father’s gambling had never been a well-kept secret. Nor had his mistresses, the last of which he’d left behind in New York when he’d joined her in London. Yet despite his personal failings, she thought he’d remain steadfast in business. He was a marvel who’d innovated one department store in the Midwest shortly after she was born and translated its success into a bigger, grander storefront in New York City. Had he truly squandered all he’d accomplished on women and wagers?

  Mr. Graves said he’d been summoned by her father regarding a London-based venture to salvage Sedgwick’s, but the man who’d always shown her paternal kindness had also emphasized haste. He advised May to secure her future, wed a nobleman, and become the titled lady Mama had tutored her to be. And soon—before word of her father’s troubles became public. A favorable match touted in the newspapers might aid her father, he’d insisted. The man all but told her a quick, fortuitous marriage was her duty to preserve the Sedgwick name.

  Her father had yet to confirm or deny Mr. Graves’s claims. He was rarely at their rented townhouse in Grosvenor Square anymore. Claiming he’d taken an office space in the city to conduct business matters, he stayed away most days, sometimes long into the night. Now May wondered if any of it was true. Perhaps he whiled away his hours in London’s gambling dens.

  She’d been selfish. Blind. Too pleased to be left to her own devices to wonder about his activities.

  “Oh, Miss Sedgwick, I’m afraid you’ve taken a gentlemen’s glass instead of one set aside for the ladies.” Lady Caroline, Lord Devenham’s younger sister, approached and scolded her in a mock playful tone.

  May glanced at the etched tumbler in her hand. She’d mindlessly accepted it from a passing footman and hadn’t taken a single sip of the pale amber liquor. Brandy, perhaps? Now she wanted to drink it. More so the longer Caroline stared at her with a tight smile.

  Tipping the heavy-bottomed glass, May swallowed a mouthful of its fiery contents. The burn seared her throat, but the liquor’s warmth eased as it settled in her chest.

  “I’ll keep this one, Lady Caroline.” She leaned toward the pretty blonde and winked. “I promise to sip it slowly.”

  Caroline sniffed. One of those utterly English sniffs that carried the punch of half a dozen verbal set-downs in a single well-timed inhale.

  “I do forget you Americans have your charming ways.” The lady frowned at her own small glass before striding away.

  Perfect. Offending Lady Caroline hadn’t been her intention, but being chastised for a silly social formality didn’t interest May either. Contradictions abounded among English aristocrats. At times they held to etiquette with tight-fisted determination, but then just as easily discarded the rules without warning.

  “Have you spoken to Henry yet? Or is Caroline’s friend monopolizing him again?” Emily came to stand next to May, carrying a lady-sized glass.

  “I should speak to him.” May stifled a sigh. This was why she’d come to London in the first place. Marriage, status, a title that would keep blue-blooded ladies like Lady Caroline from looking down their regal noses at her. Design and art would have to be a hobby. Lots of noble ladies had hobbies. Few of them insisted on making a business of their diversions.

  “He’s been watching you all evening.”

  “Has he?” May glanced over her shoulder to where she’d last seen the earl. As if he’d overheard their mention of him, the tall, sandy-haired lord set his glass aside and beelined toward her with a determined glint in his dark eyes.

  “I’ve finally caught your notice, Miss Sedgwick.” He’d mastered his sister’s tone, full of mirth and a pinch of chastisement. “Does this mean you’ll allow me to escort you in to dinner?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Excellent.” He said the word around a crooked grin, his baritone low and infused with warmth.

  Each time the man spoke he oozed charm, and she felt . . . nothing. No speeding pulse or racing heart. Not even a spark of interest lit inside her when Henry looked her way.

  And so it had been with every man for six years. Marriage to a well-bred Englishman had always been a matter of strategy for her family, and yet she persisted in hoping for more.

  Why? Hadn’t sentiment been her downfall six years ago? Perhaps Mr. Graves was right. Practicalities mattered most now. Father had allowed his weaknesses to destroy all he’d worked so hard to achieve. She couldn’t let foolish notions about romance mar her own future.

  Turning to Henry, she smiled and gripped the arm he offered. “Lead the way, my lord.”

  Chapter Three

  “SO YOU WISH to claim one of our young ladies for your own, Mr. Leighton?” The Duke of Ashworth seemed incapable of holding still. He’d been moving from the moment Rex walked into his cluttered library. Now the man flitted behind him as Rex sat in the chair Ashworth had indicated.

  He’d never liked someone standing behind him. Not knowing what loomed at one’s back made a man defenseless.

  Rex rose and strode to the bookshelf where Ashworth stood running a long, thin finger across a row, as if seeking a specific title. It was unnerving to converse with a man who wouldn’t look him in the eye, and Rex found himself barking in an overloud voice, just to snag a bit of the duke’s attention.

  “Don’t you recommend marriage to an Englishwoman, Your Grace?”

  That stopped the duke, but the pause was brief. He turned on Rex, his bushy gray eyebrows arched high above strikingly clear hooded eyes. “I do, young man. I do indeed.”

  The duke stomped across the room, his long-tailed coat flapping out behind him like boneless raven’s wings. “See here.”

  Following at a more sedate pace, Rex drew near a portrait of a stunning dark-haired woman that hung in a wall nook seemingly designed to show off the piece. Sullivan’s report on the duke made mention of a beloved wife who’d died of consumption nearly two years past. She’d been clever, a renowned philanthropist, and the duke had rarely ventured out in public during the year since her death. As Rex stepped around Ashworth to get a closer look, the duchess’s amber eyes seemed to follow him.

  “My wife made me a believer in marriage, Mr. Leighton, and brought me more happiness over the course of thirty-three years than any
man deserves.” Ashworth nodded once toward the portrait and then turned to gesture toward the chair Rex had vacated. “So, yes, I heartily recommend matrimony to an Englishwoman.”

  When Rex made no move to return to his chair, the duke pointed again.

  “Please, sir, take a seat. Enough of love and ladies. Let us sit and discuss this hotel notion of yours.”

  Rex resumed his chair before the duke’s wide oak desk. He sat forward, arms braced on his thighs, suddenly humming with the same nervous energy the duke exuded. He thought the man might finally take a seat too, but Ashworth merely moved his enormous high-backed desk chair aside and stood in front of the plans Rex had presented. He traced one of those bony fingers along the lines of the blueprint, and Rex counted that a good sign. He was interested. Rex could read it in the way he leaned in, unable to resist touching, the way his gaze danced over every inch of the plans.

  “Electricity throughout?”

  “For lighting, heating, and every purpose that requires power.”

  “And the numbers?”

  Rex retrieved a sheet of paper from his waistcoat pocket and laid it out before the duke. He was asking for a large sum. An amount most men would call a fortune. But between the revenues of the hotel and money from his other investments, he presented Ashworth with an offer to repay his money at a reasonable interest rate within two years.

  “Quite ambitious.” Ashworth folded himself into his chair and lifted a hand to stroke his neatly trimmed beard. After studying the sheet of numbers only a moment, he pushed it toward Rex.

  Reaching out, Rex slapped a hand on the paper and nudged it back toward the duke. “I can provide details of my other investments and the results they’ve produced.” He could already taste his first meal at the Pinnacle, imagine the first night in his own bed. He wouldn’t leave the man’s study without his consent to fund the project.

  “I would like to see reports on your other investments. I’d like more details too. About you, Mr. Leighton.”

  Rex clenched a fist and pressed it into the palm of his other hand. This was what Sullivan had warned him about. Ashworth’s insistence on befriending those with whom he invested. He’d prepared himself for the man’s inquiries, yet the prospect of conversing about himself needled his nerves. After spending so many years revealing as little as possible to others, he could never feel at ease being open with the facts of his life.

  “I have spent the last six years building up my interests in railroads, shipping, and manufacturing.” The scant explanation conveyed facts, but detailed none of his struggle. He’d nearly gone hungry nudging the pittance he’d brought from New York into a modest profit through risky investments. Angling one shoulder forward as he settled into his chair, Rex lifted his gaze to look directly at the duke. “Before that, I resided in New York City.” More sparse words, pointing back to everything he preferred to forget.

  “Tell me about New York City.”

  Rex’s mouth went dry. Every memory of New York was tainted and dark. Every memory but the ones of May Sedgwick, and those carried a unique bite of their own.

  “When I left six years ago . . . ” His throat felt raw, his voice stony and rough. Not at all the cool confidence he’d intended to show the Duke of Ashworth. “It was a thriving city, filled to the brim, always moving, never sleeping.”

  “I imagine it’s all that and more now.” The duke was on his feet again. Apparently five minutes in a chair was his limit. He folded the long tails of his housecoat behind him and clasped his hands behind his back as he began pacing. “But what of your people, Mr. Leighton? Do you have family back in America?”

  The man asked the question as if he was truly curious, not merely attempting to sniff out Rex’s commoner bloodlines.

  “No family, Your Grace. London is quite to my liking. I have no plans to return to the States.” After his English mother had run off to America with his father, a footman who’d served her family’s estate, every member of the Leighton clan had turned their backs on her. As to the family of the man he’d come to think of more as sire than father, Rex knew nothing of them.

  “Surely there must be someone. Some Leighton doddering around England. I believe I knew a Leighton once—”

  “I’d prefer to be known by my achievements rather than a name, Your Grace.” Especially considering that since remaking himself in London he’d adopted his mother’s maiden name, discarding the surname of George Cross, the footman-turned-thief who’d abandoned his mother before Rex was born.

  “Your name and your achievements will be forever intertwined, young man. And your children will carry your name forward.”

  He couldn’t think about children. Children were for a future he hadn’t yet grasped. But he might if he worked hard enough, if he stayed the course and made wise choices, and it all began with the Pinnacle.

  “Does investment in my hotel interest you at all, Your Grace?”

  The older man stopped pacing and strode back behind his desk again, reaching a hand out to rest it along the edge of his chair.

  “Impatience is a quality we share, Mr. Leighton. And I do admire your American bluntness. Quite enough to return the favor. Tell me, sir, are you planning to marry my daughter?”

  This was the question for which he had a ready answer. He couldn’t promise marriage to Lady Emily on a day’s acquaintance. Never mind that she was a friend of the woman he’d spent six years trying to forget. He’d denied himself a good deal to achieve his goals, but spending the rest of his days with May Sedgwick just out of reach was not a misery to which he could imagine subjecting himself.

  “Your daughter is one of the cleverest young women I’ve encountered during my time in London.”

  “However?” Ashworth drew out the word and punctuated it by opening one hooded eye wide, his squirrel-tail brow cresting high on his forehead.

  “However, Lady Emily and I have only met on a single occasion. Marriage hasn’t yet crossed my mind.” His voice grew rough again as he lied. Apparently, he was losing his touch.

  “Aha! A man who speaks sense.” Ashworth clutched his chest as if his heart gave him pain, then threw back his head and let out an ear-piercing chortle. When he looked at Rex again, his eyes crinkled in amusement. “You have no idea what a relief it is to hear the lack of false enthusiasm in your tone, Mr. Leighton. Not that I do not think my Emily endowed with every feminine virtue. I do. But I won’t have any man marry her as a pawn.” Ashworth waved his long hand in the air between them. “What goes on here. Whatever business we conduct. Let us keep it separate from your friendship with my daughter. I wouldn’t wish one to be in any way dependent on the other.”

  “WAS THAT YOUR father?” May swiveled on the settee to glance toward the howling noise she’d heard echoing down the Ashworth’s main hallway.

  “Never mind him. Papa makes strange noises when he’s riled. Or happy. Or can’t contain any emotion beyond the usual bland niceties.”

  “What has him riled today?” May had visited Ashworth House often and never heard the kind of high-pitched sound that still rang in her ears. She’d come to think of Emily’s father as an eccentric. Seeing as it was how many described her own father, she wasn’t surprised by the duke’s unusual behavior.

  “I suspect it’s the interesting man he’s meeting with in his office. An American.” Emily lifted her teacup for a sip and shot May a mischievous grin before pressing the porcelain to her lips.

  There had to be hundreds of Americans in London. Perhaps thousands. But Emily’s mention of an American brought one man to May’s mind, a dark-haired rogue with kaleidoscope eyes, as changeable in color as his heart was in its allegiance. A man she tried to keep hidden, locked away in the back of her mind. Memories of him were still too sharp six years on. Sharp enough to bring her as much pain as they did pleasure. Better to keep those bittersweet reminiscences at bay.

  “I met him at the National Gallery when you ran off with Mr. Graves.” Em seemed to want her to ask about hi
m. After sipping her tea, the grin returned. It spoke of secrets, but not the kind to be kept. The sort to be whispered between friends. May sometimes thought there wasn’t a nobleman in England Emily didn’t know, yet none seemed to draw her particular notice. Perhaps it wasn’t a nobleman who’d win her heart after all.

  “Tell me about the American man.” May settled back against the plush couch and curled her hands around her steaming teacup.

  “First, tell me about your father. You said he hasn’t returned to the townhouse in several days.”

  “After my meeting with Mr. Graves, I found a note from father indicating he would be away on business until the end of the week.” May couldn’t bring herself to tell her friend the rest. She needed to hear the facts from her father. It was long past time he told her the truth.

  “Then you must stay with us. Don’t remain there on your own.”

  Hardly on her own. There were twelve staff members at their rented home in Mayfair. Still, May preferred a few days with Emily and the colorful duke over spending nights in the townhouse without her father in residence.

  “I would love to.”

  “Then it’s settled.” After setting her teacup down, Em rubbed her hands together. “You can take the Rose Room. I’ve always considered it the prettiest in the house, though I suspect you’ll think of some clever way to improve upon the current decor.”

  Emily stood and approached the writing desk in the corner of her sitting room. She lifted May’s folio of designs from the top drawer. “And it will give you the perfect opportunity to show these to my father.”

  “Perhaps.” What had been such an exciting, hopeful prospect three days ago seemed frivolous now. “But wouldn’t you rather I help with preparations for the soiree your father is hosting next week?”

  A party that half a dozen eligible noblemen would attend, including the Earl of Devenham. Marriage to such a man would have to be her hopeful prospect now.

  “Your assistance will be a godsend, but don’t give up on your ideas about redecorating Ashworth House. Father and I need a lift.” The pleading quality in Emily’s tone was out of character, but May had an inkling about the cause. She’d known Emily’s mother only briefly before her death, and none of them—Em, her father, sisters, or brothers-in-law—had been the same since the duchess’s passing.