The Wedding Bargain

by Victoria Alexander

  “Why are you here?

  “I told you, I was invit--”

  “No. I understand how you came to be here, although I do not understand why the invitation was issued. What I want to know is why you accepted.”

  “I had nothing better to do.” He swaggered to one of the tables flanking the sofa and picked up a glass that matched her father's. “I thought it might be amusing.”

  “Amusing?”

  “Indeed.” He took a thoughtful sip. “I am well aware of the bargain you have made with Trent. As he is here, well, I did think it would be entertaining to watch him attempt to pass your tests.”

  “I doubt he'll be doing any such thing while he's here.” Would he? Why hadn't she considered that possibility? This might in truth be the best place for Max. Had he realized that?

  “Then perhaps I should leave.”

  “Excellent.” She stalked to the still open door and gestured for him to go ahead. “I'd be delighted to have someone see you to the gates.”

  He shook his head in feigned regret. “But I can't. It would be the height of impolite behavior. I am nothing if not polite.”

  “You, my lord, are a twit!”

  “Perhaps.” He raised his glass in a toast. “But an extremely well-mannered twit.”

  “I doubt that,” she said sharply. “A well mannered twit wouldn't have come here in the first place.”

  He chuckled. “I did not say I was intelligent, merely polite.”

  “And are you honest as well?”

  He frowned as if trying to decide. By the gods, if she had a bottle in her hand right now she'd certainly put it to good use. “When it can't be avoided, I suppose.”

  “Then don't avoid it now. Tell me the truth.” She trapped his gaze with hers. “Why are you really here?”

  He stared at her silently, as if choosing his words. “How much do you wish to win this game with Trent?”

  “I never play a game I don't want to win.” Caution edged her voice.

  “Neither does Trent. However”--he drew another swallow--“I want him to lose.”

  She pulled her brows together in confusion. “Surely you can't think you and I--”

  He laughed shortly. “Not in my worst nightmare.”

  “Excellent. On that, then, we agree.” She studied him carefully. “But I thought you were his friend.”

  “I am. His oldest and dearest friend. That is precisely why I want him to lose.”

  She shook her head. “I still don't understand.”

  “It's really quite simple, my dear. I don't wish to see you break his heart.” He met her gaze directly. “As you did mine.”

  “Good Lord!” She sucked in a sharp breath. Shock swept through her, and without thinking, she advanced toward him. “I don't believe you.”

  “Be that as it may.” He lifted a shoulder in a casual manner, as if to say it was of no consequence, but his eyes held a different story. “It's one unavoidable truth.”

  For a moment she could only stare. Guilt and shame welled up inside her. Pandora wrapped her arms around herself and pulled her gaze from his. Her mind whirled with questions and accusations and memories. She stepped to the tall windows that overlooked the gardens and the flanking boxwood mazes, one square, the other round, and gazed unseeing through the glass.

  What on earth could she say to this man? As far as she knew, she'd never broken anyone's heart before. Oh, certainly there had been scores of suitors who had pledged their undying love, but she'd never quite believed any of them. Still, she'd always tried to be gentle in her rejection, and most, if not all, had recovered sufficiently to wed someone else within a year of declaring she alone held his heart.

  With Lord Bolton, she'd been anything but gentle. She'd never suspected his feelings. “I didn't know. I--”

  Incredulity rang in his voice. “How could you not know?”

  She stared out the window, barely noticing the spring blossoms coloring the garden, seeing only the events of what seemed like a life-time ago.

  “It was a lark. We went to Gretna Green as a diversion. To see the others marry. Nothing more. I never dreamed your intentions were serious.”

  “Perhaps they weren't at first,” he admitted in a grudging manner. “But then everything in that little escapade went wrong. The accident with the carriage, and--”

  “That horrible inn.” She shuddered at the memory of a dark, dank place filled with miscreants who'd leered at her as if she was a woman of the streets. “I still thank the gods we lingered only a few minutes.”

  “Not to mention the trio of fathers hot on our trail.” She could hear a smile in his voice.

  “And those two gentlemen, each of them swearing--oh, what was her name now?”

  He chuckled. “I can't recall.”

  “Neither can I, but I distinctly remember both claimed Miss Whoever-she-was had promised to marry each of them.” She shook her head. “What a night that was!”

  His voice sobered. “Then, when the families involved insisted the only way to avoid scandal was for all of us to wed, well, I thought: why not? But you declared, how did you put it?”

  She cringed. “I don't remember.”

  “Oh yes, it was something to the effect of preferring to be devoured by hungry lions in the coliseum at Rome rather than marry me. I was devastated. You see,” he hesitated, and a knot settled in her stomach, “I was in love with you.”

  “I am truly sorry.” She turned to face him. “I had no idea.”

  He stared at her, his gaze intense. “Would you have married me had you known?”

  “Of course not,” she said without thinking, and immediately regretted her quick response. He lifted a brow. “What I mean is that we scarcely knew each other. We'd shared a few dances and a couple of rather inane conversations.”

  “Nonetheless.” He raised his chin staunchly. “I was in love.”

  “I really did not…” A thought struck her and she paused. “You certainly did give up quickly for a man in love.”

  “I spoke to your father,” he said loftily.

  “And,” she prompted.

  “And…” For the first time he looked ill at ease. “And that was it.”

  “That was it?” Irritation wiped away her guilt. “You claim you were in love with me and further charge I broke your heart, yet all you did to win me back was talk to my father?”

  “Well…” Bolton looked as if he wished he were anywhere but here. “It seemed the thing to do at the time.”

  “I was right all along. You are a twit.”

  “You made a fool out of me.” He aimed his glass at her. “You humiliated me in front of all of London. Held me up to ridicule. I am still trying to live down the scandal.”

  “Hah!” She scoffed with disbelief. “Some scandal! It's barely remembered. And even when it is,” she narrowed her eyes and pointed an accusing finger, “your name is not the one connected with the incident. It's the Hellion of Grosvenor Square who bears the brunt of that business. The Hellion of Grosvenor Square whose every move is watched with an eye toward propriety. The Hellion of Grosvenor Square whose entire life has been overshadowed not so much by that incident, which as I've already noted, is nearly forgotten, but by the title a twit bestowed on her!”

  She poked him hard in the chest.

  “Ouch.” He drew back with a look of apprehension in his eye, as if he feared for his life.

  As well he should!

  “And who is responsible for that?” She poked him again. He stepped back. “Who is that twit?” She poked him once more.

  “Stop that.” He rubbed his chest with his free hand.

  “Well?” Her voice threatened far more damage than her finger.

  “Let me think--”

  “Bolton!”

  “Very well.” He had the grace to look chagrined. “I'm the twit.”

  “And tell me one more thing.” She glared up at him. “Just how long did it take you to get over your broken heart? To fall in love w
ith someone else to the same degree you did with me?”

  “I'm not sure I can remember. It was a long--”

  She clenched her teeth. “Bolton.”

  “Very well. If I recall, I recovered in a rather miraculous manner after I named you the hel--” He shrugged apologetically. “It did take much of the sting out of it.”

  “Bolton!”

  “The memories are so dim…” He sighed in defeat. “I'm not certain. At least a month.”

  “A month?” She could barely choke out the word.

  “I think so.” He smiled weakly.

  “A month.” She spun on her heel and stalked across the room.

  “That should take some of the guilt out of it for you.” Hope colored his voice.

  She whirled toward him. “Guilt? I feel absolutely no guilt whatsoever. For the barest moment, I did experience something akin to the mild regret one feels at having selected the cod over the haddock at dinner. But guilt? Hah! Besides, what I broke wasn't your heart. It was your pride.”

  “Nonetheless, it hurt,” he muttered.

  She wasn't sure if she wanted to smack him or throw something at him or laugh hysterically or break down and weep. Perhaps she should ask Harry to shoot him. His aim was probably better than hers. That's what fathers were for, wasn't it?

  A nasty thought flitted through her mind. Given the rancor the viscount had obviously retained against her all these years…“Does Trent know about, for lack of a better word, us?”

  “No.” Bolton downed the rest of his brandy and cast her an uneasy glance. “He was not, well, himself that season, and he stayed in the country much of the year. I was far too embarrassed initially to mention it all, and then simply never got around to it.”

  “That's something, anyway,” she murmured.

  “You know.” Bolton glanced at the cabinet where the brandy was kept, but was apparently far too polite a twit to ask for a refill. Or perhaps he was concerned she wouldn't be able to resist the lure of a bottle as a weapon. “I haven't spoken of all this in years. Whenever I thought of it, or you, my memories might have been a bit, well, slanted, shall we say.”

  She raised a brow. “A bit?”

  “More than a bit. Now, for the first time, I realize you may be right. It may well have been my pride you injured. I am willing to forgive you.”

  “You are willing to forgive me?” she said with amazement.

  “Absolutely.” He smiled magnanimously. “And in addition, admit, perhaps, all things taken into account, you have indeed borne the brunt of the past. And that, perhaps, is my fault.”

  She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Perhaps?”

  “Perhaps.” His smile widened to a grin.

  Given the long-lasting repercussion of his actions on her life, she certainly wasn't willing to forgive him so much as the use of the wrong fork at dinner. Still, her irritation with him dimmed. Blast it all, the man's grin was as irrepressibly charming as his friend's. “I'm not sure I entirely trust you.”

  “Then we agree.” He beamed. “I don't entirely trust you, either.”

  “So, now that you have forgiven me and accepted blame--”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Perhaps,” she chose her words carefully, “where does this leave my game with Trent?”

  “Oh, nothing has changed in that regard,” he said matter-of-factly. “I still want him to lose.”

  “Because you fear I'll break his heart?”

  He gazed at the glass in his hand, turning it this way and that in an obvious effort to ensure no drop of liquor had escaped his thirst. “In the midst of your ranting about lions and raving about the coliseum, do you recall what else you said?”

  “No.” Unease twinged through her.

  He met her gaze. “You said you would never wed without love.”

  “Did I?”

  “You did indeed.” He nodded. “So regardless of any newfound revelations I've reached regarding the past, I still believe this bargain of yours carries the distinct possibility of heartbreak.”

  Her breath caught. “Does Max love me?”

  “I don't know. I don't know that he knows. Do you love him?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Well, in that, at least, you are well matched.”

  So Max had discussed the possibility of love. How very interesting. Thoughtfully, she stepped to the cabinet, selected a decanter of brandy, and returned. Bolton held out his glass and she obligingly filled it.

  “Feeling as strongly as you do about love playing a role in marriage,” he paused, “and I assume you still feel that way, unless with your advancing years you have decided marriage for any reason at all is better than no marriage whatso--”

  “I haven't,” she said sharply.

  “Very well. Given that, I seriously doubt you will hold Trent to his agreement to wed a bride of your choosing, should you win. However, if he wins, both of you would be obligated to abide by your word and you will marry.” He lifted his glass. “Regardless of how either of you feels.” He threw back a rather impressive swallow of the liquor.

  “I see,” she said slowly. “My victory ensures that a choice remains. Trent's leaves no room for anything but marriage.”

  “Exactly. Therefore I have a proposition to offer you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I propose we join forces.”

  A snort of disbelief sounded from the other side of the room.

  “Together, victory is assured.”

  “I do want to win,” she murmured. Besides, hadn't she already realized as the winner, she could still wed Max, if that was what she wanted? And what she thought he wanted? But an alliance with the twit? It was at best an uneasy truce. “I still do not trust you.”

  “The best allies are those who do not completely trust each other. So, do you accept my proposal?”

  “I assume we would keep this between us. Not mention it to Lord Trent. He might not think it was quite--”

  “In the spirit of the game?”

  “Exactly.”

  “On that point, I agree completely. Good God. Max would never--”

  Laughter sounded at the open door. Cynthia stepped into the library, followed by Max, carrying what appeared to be an ancient Greek drinking cup.

  “Pandora, we were look--” Cynthia caught sight of the viscount and stopped short. “Oh dear, it's the prig.”

  “Twit, actually,” Pandora said under her breath.

  “Laurie?” Max's brow furrowed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “He was invited,” Pandora and Cynthia said in unison. Cynthia's eyes widened and Pandora slanted her a questioning glance. “How did you know?”

  “I simply assumed he wouldn't be here unless he was invited.” Cynthia appeared distinctly uncomfortable.

  Pandora narrowed her eyes. “Do you know him?”

  “Well, I…” Cynthia floundered.

  “I know I would never have forgotten such a charming face,” Lord Bolton said smoothly. Cynthia blushed.

  “Laurie, what are you doing here?” Max said.

  “As they said, I was invited.”

  Pandora sighed. “Apparently, my mother's doing, although her reasoning escapes me. But I do intend to find out.”

  “I often receive invitations,” Lord Bolton said immodestly. “I am considered quite an excellent addition to any gathering. I am unmarried, wealthy, titled, and unfailingly polite.”

  Max studied him. “I didn't know you even knew the Effingtons.”

  “Did I fail to mention that?” Lord Bolton took a sip of his brandy. His gaze slipped to Pandora and a wicked spark shone in his eye. “My acquaintance goes back years.”

  Cynthia cast Pandora a puzzled look.

  “Yes, he's a very old, and nearly forgotten, acquaintance,” Pandora said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “It's of no consequence.”

  Max's gaze slid from Pandora to Lord Bolton and back and he appeared to be trying to figure out a vexing problem.r />
  “I still do not--” Max started.

  “What is that?” Pandora said quickly, nodding at the cup Max held. If Max were to learn of her long past relationship with his friend, she would prefer it be revealed at a time of her choosing. And this was definitely not the right moment.

  “This, my dear, is my fifth point.” He stepped toward her and presented the cup with a flourish. “A bull from Crete.”

  She accepted the cup and studied it. It appeared vaguely familiar. Annoyance surged through her. She frowned and glanced at him. “Where did you get this?”

  “It was a gift.” His grin widened.

  “A gift? Grace has a piece exactly--” She glared. “Did my mother give you this?”

  “Absolutely not,” he said staunchly.

  “Then where--”

  “I gave it to him.” Cynthia's chin rose and she stepped forward. “It was given to me and I in turn gave it to him.”

  “But why would…” The answer struck her like a bolt from above. By the gods, it wasn't enough that Cynthia was thoroughly behind Max's efforts; now she was obviously doing what she could to assist him. How could she? Consorting with the enemy. Her dearest friend. Pandora shot Lord Bolton a grim look. “I accept.”

  He lifted his glass in a salute.

  “Accept what?” A note of suspicion sounded in Max's voice.

  “Your point, obviously,” Lord Bolton said. “Although I daresay, it seems a little weak to me, Miss Effington. I'm not at all certain you should award him a point for this. After all, it's not as if this was a real bull. No, this is really not at all--”

  “Lord Bolton,” Cynthia said, with a slight quiver in her voice but determination in her eye. “Have you seen the gardens? Perhaps you would care to accompany me?”

  He raised a curious brow. “Why, Miss Weatherly--it is Miss Weatherly, isn't it?”

  She nodded.

  “I should like nothing better.” He handed his glass to Pandora, stepped toward Cynthia, and offered her his arm. Regardless of whether she was actively helping Max or not, Pandora simply couldn't allow her go off with the twit without at least a warning. If Max was a scoundrel, no doubt he'd learned much of what he knew from the twit.