The Wedding Bargain

by Victoria Alexander

  “Come now, haven't we spent enough time in this purgatory on earth? Can't we now be allowed to leave without incurring the wrath of a host of well-meaning female relatives intent on cutting short our lives by shackling us in marriage?”

  “Not quite yet, old man,” Max murmured. He directed his words to his friend, but his attention was fixed on Pandora. She moved about the dance floor with the grace born of generations of excellent breeding, but there was more in her step than mere heritage. The woman had a spark about her. Life with the incomparable Miss Effington would never be dull.

  Laurie deftly lifted a glass from the tray of a passing waiter and downed the champagne in one gulp. “Why on earth not, Max? It's still a reasonable hour. We can try our hand at the gaming tables, or--”

  “Later.” After his meeting with Pandora. Not in his most farfetched dreams had he expected her to suggest such a thing. But nothing in their first face-to-face encounter had gone quite as he had anticipated. He certainly hadn't planned on accusing her of a desire to become his mistress. He smiled to himself. It seemed the Hellion did indeed bring out the beast in him.

  “Who are you staring at?” Laurie glanced from Max to the whirl of dancers, then back to his companion's face. “Max?”

  “Yes?” He'd been vaguely aware of Pandora in her first season, when she was a green girl straight out of the schoolroom. Who hadn't been? But he had just been back from the war, and an innocent, no matter how lovely, held no appeal for him. He'd missed her second season entirely. It was only in the last few years that he'd noted her activities. Wondering what she would do next. What rule she would flout. Which heart she would break. Wondering as well if any man could conquer her. None had. Until now.

  “Don't even think it.”

  “Don't even think what?” Max said absently. It was not until the start of this season that he'd realized that what had begun as simple curiosity had evolved to fascination and finally to desire. Intense and undeniable.

  “Think about her.” A note of alarm sounded in Laurie's voice. “That's who you're staring at, isn't it? Pandora Effington? The Hellion?”

  “She is lovely,” Max said in an unconcerned manner. It was past time he chose a wife. For good or ill, the only wife he wanted, the only woman he wanted, was Pandora Effington. And he would have her.

  “Quite lovely. All that black hair and those remarkably blue eyes.” Laurie studied the dancers with annoyance. “For some odd reason, the woman's charms seem to develop with each passing year. And she has a great deal of money. But she's trouble, Max.”

  “Is she?”

  Laurie eyed him for a moment. “Do you know how many times her name has appeared in the betting book at White's?”

  “Twenty-three, to be exact.” Max grinned and raised his glass to his lips. “She's been extremely busy.”

  “She's been the cause of at least one duel in any given year.”

  “Not at all. She missed last year and 1815, I believe.”

  “The year 1815 was not my best, either.” Laurie shook a warning finger. “The chit skates on the edge of scandal.”

  “As do we all. But she's yet to fall.” Max handed Laurie his glass. “I believe I should like to dance.”

  “Stay away from the Hellion, Max. When and if either of us decides it's time to sacrifice freedom to the demands of producing an heir, we shall require a bride far different from Miss Effington. A lady of unquestionable behavior and unblemished reputation. A young woman of the highest standards.”

  “Standards you yourself have not seen fit to abide by.” Max raised a brow. “And what does such a model of respectability get in return?”

  Laurie smiled smugly. “Me.”

  “A bargain at any price.” Max laughed and started in the general direction taken by Pandora and her escort.

  Laurie groaned. “Have you heard a single word I've said?”

  “Each and every one.”

  “And you're still going to approach the Hellion?”

  “Not at all.” Max adjusted the cuff at his wrist and cast Laurie a sly smile. “I am going to approach her dearest friend.”

  Even with the light of a full moon, the burying grounds were distinctly unnerving. Pandora rested her back against the cold stone wall of the chapel and shivered, the weight of the pistol she held hidden under her cloak scant comfort. This was certainly no way for the Hellion of Grosvenor Square to behave.

  She sighed. It was not easy to live up to such a title. Particularly when she hadn't really done all that much to earn it, save refuse to curb her temper and her tongue. In point of fact, it all stemmed from a simple misunderstanding in her second season involving a race to Gretna Green with a young lord, whose face and name now escaped her, and two other couples, only one of which was seriously intent on marriage. The others had been far more interested in the excitement of a late-night adventure and the lure of a forbidden lark.

  Unfortunately, between carriage accidents, a brief stop at an overcrowded inn, and hot pursuit by angry relations and spurned suitors, the incident had spiraled completely out of hand, the ensuing scandal quite out of proportion to the actual event. The other couples had dutifully agreed to wed, one eagerly, the second more reluctantly, to avoid society's eternal condemnation.

  Pandora, however, had flatly refused to marry the gentleman who had accompanied her on the escapade, her refusal loud and long and in no uncertain terms. She saw no reason to be condemned for life to a man she barely knew when she'd scarce done anything truly wrong. Besides, the man was a twit.

  The couples involved vowed to keep her participation secret, although word leaked out, as word always did. Still, her part in the debacle was not quite so public as was the others'. That, plus the fact that she was descended from dukes and her family possessed considerable wealth and the power to match, kept Pandora's reputation intact, if a bit tarnished. However, the twit--she did wish she could remember his name--was rather taken with her, and her vehement rejection did not sit well. It was he who'd bestowed the title “the Hellion of Grosvenor Square.” Secretly she had to admit she quite liked it.

  A twig snapped in the distance.

  Pandora tensed and squinted into the black shadows of the graveyard. Trent? No. Trent would not slink silently into sight. Rather, she was certain he would stride onto the grounds in the manner of a conquering hero. He had that air about him. He also seemed to have a rather disturbing effect on the pit of her stomach.

  No doubt the sound came from Peters, her family's butler, or one of the two footmen she'd had the good sense to bring with her and hide strategically among the gravestones.

  Surely Trent should have been here by now, if indeed he was coming at all. A creature skittered across the grass and she started, tightening her grip on the pistol. It was probably nothing more menacing than a squirrel out for an evening stroll. Still, if Trent wasn't here soon, she'd have to leave. She could not wait all night. Why, that was simply inviting trouble. And she'd had more than her share of that, due in great part to the actions of men.

  In any given season, at least one youthful lord would declare his undying love. Inevitably there would be a chance remark, usually in reference to her hellion title, and a duel would ensue in defense of her honor. No one was ever killed. Even the occasional wound was scarcely worth mentioning. If these gentlemen, the cream of British manhood, were such incredibly bad shots, Pandora wondered how England had ever managed to defeat Napoleon at all. Perhaps the incompetence evidenced on the dueling fields explained the sheer length of the war with France.

  Something brushed against her hand; she bit back a scream. It was but a spring breeze, nothing more menacing than that. What else could it possibly be? Surely she did not believe in ghosts or other creatures that came out only at night to terrify little girls unable to sleep, or test the bravery of little boys too young to know danger, or terrorize foolish young women determined to live up to a reputation not all well earned, or--

  A heavy touch fell on her shoul
der. Panic ripped through her. She screamed, jerked the pistol from beneath her cloak, whirled, and fired into the night.

  Chapter 2

  The Stakes are Declared

  “When you said I should be shot, I did not realize you planned on doing the deed yourself tonight.” Wry amusement rang in the familiar voice.

  “Trent?” Her voice trembled.

  “Were you expecting someone else?”

  “Not at all.” Her heart hammered against her ribs and she attempted a calm manner she did not possess. “You are late.”

  “I am precisely on time. Were you trying to kill me?”

  “Not yet.” She lowered the weapon.

  “Excellent. It would not be the ideal way to begin our arrangement.”

  “Ah yes.” She pulled a deep steadying breath. “Our arrangement. I have given it a great deal of thought.” As bright as the moon-light was, his face was still obscured by shadow. She would much prefer to see his expression. “My lord, it seems to me there are only two reasons why a woman would agree to give up her virtue to a man: money or protection. I have no need of either.”

  “No indeed. You have money and a pistol. Do you know how to use it?”

  “Certainly,” she lied.

  He snorted. “Not well. I was right behind you and you missed me.”

  “I'm English,” she murmured.

  “I must say, I am disappointed.” He sighed. “If you have no need of my money or my protection, although I could give you a few pointers on handling a firearm, then we have nothing to discuss.”

  “We have a great deal to discuss.” Her voice was firm, in the manner of a stern relative. “I wish to know what you intend to do about Miss Weatherly.”

  “Miss Weatherly?” A question sounded in his voice. “Why should I do anything at all about Miss Weatherly?”

  “You have shown her a great deal of attention this season. You have led her to believe you have an affectionate interest in her.” Pandora poked a finger at his chest. “You, my lord, have broken her heart.”

  For a moment Trent stood silent, as if he could not quite believe her charge or her nerve in charging it. Then he abruptly laughed, a rich, deep sound that echoed inside her. “What did you expect? You said it yourself.” She could hear the smug grin in his voice. “I am very much a rake, a rogue, a scoundrel, and let's not forget, a beast.”

  “You needn't be so proud of it.”

  “Oh, but I am proud. I have spent much of my life working for the titles you so kindly bestowed on me. But even as I deserve them, and have well enjoyed their acquisition, I cannot take credit where your friend is concerned.”

  Pandora scoffed. “No?”

  “No.” His tone was unyielding. “As much as I hate to risk the ruin of my hard earned reputation, I have done nothing to encourage Miss Weatherly.”

  “But she--”

  He held up a hand to forestall her words. “If she has interpreted my minimal notice to denote any affection on my part beyond that of acquaintance, it is a mistaken assumption. In addition, if I were in the market for a wife, I should certainly not choose someone of Miss Weatherly's ilk.”

  “Whyever not?”

  “She is a paragon of virtue.”

  Annoyance on her friend's behalf surged through her. “She is a lovely girl.”

  “Perhaps.” Trent shrugged. “And as a wife, I've no doubt she would be quite biddable and easy to manage, yet…where would be the challenge in that?”

  “Challenge?” Pandora cocked her head and studied his dark figure.

  “Indeed. If I were to choose to be leg-shackled for life to a woman, any woman, I should prefer the experience to be an interesting one. I would want a wife with a spark of fire in her eyes and spirit in her soul. She should be not unpleasant to look upon with a pretty face and a fine figure. She should be able to produce children--”

  “Sounds very much like the requirements for a good brood mare,” she said under her breath.

  He continued as if he hadn't heard her. “--Heirs one could hand one's estates to with confidence in the future. In addition, I should like a fair amount of intelligence in a wife. I have no intention of spending my days in the company of a simpering imbecile.”

  Pandora drew her brows together. “It seems you wish the attributes of an accomplished mistress in the guise of a respectable wife.”

  “I suppose I do.” He chuckled. “You see, when I wed, I do not intend to seek pleasure elsewhere. A radical idea, but there you have it.”

  Pandora shook her head. “You set impossibly high standards, my lord.”

  “Do I?” He turned his head and his eyes caught the moonlight. His voice softened. “I thought so once, but now…”

  She swallowed the lump that abruptly rose in her throat. “Now?”

  “Now, I believe I have found a wife to meet my requirements.

  A knot to match the lump settled in her stomach. “You have?”

  “Indeed.” His voice rang with a determined, businesslike manner. “I think we shall suit very well together. I shall call on your father first thing in the morning.”

  “You will call on my father?” Was this presumptuous creature planning her future without even a thought as to her wishes? Why, she was right in the first place: he chose a wife with the same attitude he'd use to select a horse.

  If this was a jest on his part, he had gone far beyond the bounds of a mere joke. The man needed to be taught a lesson. Perhaps she should simply shoot him after all and be done with it. “I gather your intention to talk to my father makes this conversation a proposal of marriage?”

  “That is my desire.”

  She tilted her head to glance at him through a fringe of lashes she knew were dark and lush and irresistible. She quirked up the corner of her mouth in a hint of a smile designed to deepen the dimples in her cheek. Her glance, her expression, her demeanor--all perfect. Exactly as she'd practiced them. Her voice was as low and seductive as she could muster. “Would you care to hear of my desire?”

  “Your desire?”

  “My desire.” She sighed the words. Pandora hadn't spent seven seasons in London society without learning a thing or two about handling rakes, rogues, scoundrels, and the occasional beast.

  “And…er…what is your desire?” His words were cautious.

  “Well, my lord, my desire…”

  “Yes?”

  “My heartfelt desire…”

  “Yes, yes?”

  She bit her lip to hold back a laugh. The man sounded so frightfully expectant. “That is, I should like nothing more…”

  “Go on.”

  Pandora favored him with her sweetest tone. “--Than to be tortured at the hands of naked savages in the wilds of America before I should consent to marry you.”

  For a stunned moment, silence hung in the air. Triumph swelled within her.

  Without warning his laughter rang through the night. “I was right. You will make a delightful wife.”

  “Indeed I will,” she snapped, all sense of victory lost. “But not for you.”

  “I daresay, we'll make an extraordinary couple.”

  “Which part of my declaration did you not understand, my lord?”

  “Come, come, Dora--”

  “Do not call me Dora!” She raised the pistol. “Only my parents are allowed to call me Dora.”

  “And,” he said pointedly, “your betrothed.”

  “You are not my betrothed!”

  “I'll permit you to call me Max.” He grabbed the firearm and twisted it from her hand.

  “I don't want to call you Max. I don't want to call you anything!”

  “Dora and Max, I quite like the sound of that,” he murmured.

  “It sounds like a pair of matched hounds.” She raised her chin and glared in his direction. “Now, if you would be so kind as to give me my pistol, I believe our discussion is at an end.” She tried to pull it out of his grasp but he held it tight.

  “Now, now, my dear, the singl
e shot has been spent and it can do you no good, save to accidentally drop it on my foot and cripple me for life.”

  “I can assure you, it would be no accident!”

  “Furthermore, our discussion is just beginning.” The brute was obviously enjoying this. “And I daresay I prefer you unarmed.”

  “Very well. Keep the blasted thing.” She turned on her heel and stalked off.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Home.” She strode toward the graveyard.

  He laughed. “Nothing lies in that direction but the dead.”

  Her step slowed. Damn the man. He had her completely turned around. “I should rather be among those enjoying eternal rest than spend one more moment in your company.”

  “Pandora.” His footsteps sounded behind her. He caught her arm and spun her to face him. “Don't be a fool. I cannot allow you to go traipsing through a graveyard alone at night.”

  “I am not afraid,” she said, with a defiance spurred more by annoyance than courage. “The dead are scant threat.”

  “It's not the dead who concern me. It's the living who haunt London in these late hours that threaten the safety of a woman alone. Even a hellion.” Amusement sounded in his voice. “Life with you will never be boring, will it?”

  “Life with me will never be your concern.” She tried and failed to shake off his grip.

  “Oh, but it will be.” He whirled her around and half led, half dragged her toward the church. “My carriage is in front of the chapel. I will take you home.” He raised his voice. “The rest of you can go now.”

  Pandora groaned. “How did you know--”

  “Beg pardon, my lord.” Peters stepped out from behind a nearby tree. “Miss Effington's safety is our responsibility.”

  “And are you armed as well?” Max stopped, his tone resigned.

  “Of course, my lord,” Peters said without a moment's hesitation. Pandora doubted he carried so much as a kitchen knife.

  “Very well, then.” Max sighed. “You may ride with my driver. As for you,” he steered her toward the street, “you will accompany me. Our chat is far from over.”