CAD'S WISH

by Cheryl Holt

  “Yes, it is,” he said. “I’m a renowned cad, and I try to seduce every female who crosses my path. It’s my wicked nature poking through. Am I having any success with you?”

  She bristled with irritation. “You, sir, are too ridiculous to abide, and this conversation is over.”

  She slid to her feet, and he startled her by clasping hold of her wrist. She stared him down, her expression annoyed and aghast, his confident and cocky.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Miss Graves.”

  At her proclaiming her identity, he blanched and jerked away, almost as if he’d been burned.

  “Did you say Miss Graves?”

  “Ah…yes?”

  “By any chance, are you the Miss Graves who owns an estate in the country called Parkhurst?”

  “Yes, and how odd of you to inquire. I can’t suppose my reputation preceded me to town.”

  “Miss Graves from Parkhurst,” he mumbled to himself. “I’ll be damned…”

  “Please don’t curse in my presence.” Her tone was prim and scolding. “I don’t like foul language.”

  His hot gaze rose to the top of her head, then meandered down her torso. When he finished, he appeared very smug, as if he’d deduced all her secrets.

  “I must admit to being incredibly surprised,” he said, which made no sense.

  “May I ask your name? Dare I learn it?”

  “I’m Hunter Stone.” He announced it dramatically, as if he’d imparted special news that would delight her. “Viscount Marston?”

  “A viscount? My, my, I simply thought you were a common scoundrel. Now I discover—to my horror—that you’re an aristocratic scoundrel.”

  “You don’t know who I am?”

  “No, sorry. I have no idea. Why? Have we met previously and I’ve forgotten? I can be flighty that way.”

  “No, we haven’t met, but I’m happy to report that you’ll do just fine, Miss Graves. In fact, you’ll be perfect.”

  She had no idea to what he referred, and she wasn’t about to dawdle and pry out an explanation. She’d been drooling over him much too avidly, the end result being that he was a noble cad rather than an ordinary one.

  They were all nobly corrupt, and respectable women trifled with them at their peril.

  “All righty then,” she said. “It’s been fascinating to verbally spar with you, but I should get back to the party.”

  “I refuse to let you leave.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Are you bossing me, Viscount Marston? If you imagine you can, you are sadly mistaken as to the sort of person I am.”

  “Yes, I’m definitely bossing you. Stay and talk with me a bit more. I intend to pepper you with questions about your tastes and attitudes.”

  “I’m certain this will crush your massive ego, but when I told you I don’t like you, I wasn’t jesting. And with the revelation that you’re an aristocrat, I like you even less.”

  “Honestly, Miss Graves, I don’t believe I’ve ever been so thoroughly insulted.” He snickered with amusement, as if he was greatly humored by her. “How have I incurred so much of your wrath?”

  “You mean besides being condescending, patronizing, and obnoxious since the moment you sat down?”

  “Yes, besides all that.”

  “Goodnight, Lord Marston. I would say it’s been lovely meeting you, but it really hasn’t been.”

  She yanked away and marched toward the manor. She hadn’t taken a dozen steps, when he called, “Miss Graves!”

  She glared over her shoulder. “What?”

  “I’ll see you again very soon.”

  “Not if I can help it,” she muttered.

  She whipped away and kept on.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Was it worth it?”

  “Absolutely, yes.”

  “I’m glad then.”

  Hannah forced a smile at her younger half-brother, Jackson. He was fourteen and had been dumped on her doorstep a few months earlier by a grouchy vicar who’d demanded Hannah take charge of him.

  He was her father’s bastard son, a situation that hadn’t necessarily surprised her. After Sir Edmund’s death, she’d learned that he’d been a notorious roué. It was likely he had many natural children out there in the world, but for the moment, Jackson was the sole one who’d appeared.

  His mother had been a doxy whom Sir Edmund had adored for a short period. She’d fallen on hard times, then had passed away after an extended illness. Jackson had been living in dire circumstances, and he’d had no other relatives to offer shelter. Hannah had been the only person available, and she hadn’t debated whether she should pitch in.

  She’d viewed it as her Christian duty, but also, her family was small and shrinking in size, and she’d welcomed the opportunity to increase its ranks with a new member. Jackson was her brother, and she was ignoring the dubious conduct of the two people who’d created him.

  He’d grown up with little supervision, so he was an interesting boy. He’d often scrounged for food and fought for what he needed, so he was tough and smart—and a tad ruthless too.

  Being vigilant and watchful, he tracked the tiniest details, as if afraid tragedy would strike when he wasn’t paying attention. He was pensive and rarely talked about the desperate years with his mother. If he was grateful to Hannah for allowing him to stay with her, she had no idea. Every morning, she expected to discover his bed empty and that he’d run away.

  They shared the same facial features, with him having her same smile and dimples, but where she had her mother’s chestnut hair and green eyes, he was blond and blue-eyed like their father. His body was slender and lanky, and he was her same height of five-foot-five, but she suspected he’d shoot up and be broad and strapping as Sir Edmund had been.

  She yawned, and he said, “You got home late.”

  “It was almost one o’clock, and I’m not used to such wild entertainment. I’ll probably walk around in a fog all day.”

  “I’ll lurk behind you to be sure you don’t trip over any hidden objects.”

  She chuckled at that. They were in their apartment over her bookshop that was located on the street down below. They’d just had breakfast, and she was about to head down and open for business. It was always a pleasure, where she was able to remind herself that she was engaged in a valuable activity.

  When she’d thrown up her hands and had fled Parkhurst, she could have carried on in town as a contented spinster. She’d had the funds—if she’d been thrifty—to reinvent herself as a lady of leisure, but she hadn’t been keen to loaf and waste time by making social calls and planning charity events.

  Yet now that she’d been confronted by the difficult aspects of commerce, she frequently wondered if she shouldn’t have traveled that less-risky path. But she’d wanted to prove to herself that she was competent, that she could thrive in the world just as a man could.

  The jury was still out on whether she’d succeed or not, and if the shop failed, she’d have to slither back to Parkhurst with her tail between her legs. She refused to have that be her sorry conclusion.

  “Did you meet Mr. and Mrs. Ralston?” Jackson asked.

  “The house was so packed that I didn’t have a chance to speak with them. I didn’t say goodbye to Miss Jones before I left either. I tried to find her, but it was impossible in the large crowd.”

  “Did you dance?”

  “No, but I chatted with a viscount.”

  “My, my, was he quite grand?”

  “He thought he was grand, but in reality, he was rude and insulting, and I didn’t like him.”

  For some reason, she’d been avidly pondering Viscount Marston, but she couldn’t figure out why. Most likely, it was because it had been an eternity since she’d stumbled on a handsome bachelor. He was gorgeous, dissolute, and incredibly vain, but she was so pitifully lonely and insecure that she’d reveled in the encounter.

  “You have humorous notions about people,” he said. “My mother alway
s told me to be really, really nice to a rich nob like him. They’re the only ones with money, so they’re the only ones who can shower us with some of it.”

  “He’s a notorious scoundrel; he even bragged that he was. A woman like me could never be friends with a man like him. In fact, women like me should avoid men like him at all costs. He was a menace who would have stirred trouble and scandal.”

  Jackson grinned in a way that indicated she was being silly. Because of his unstructured upbringing, they viewed things very differently. She often considered prying into the types of experiences that had shaped him, but the vicar who’d conveyed him to her door had whispered that he’d been battered by life and she should tread cautiously in dredging up any memories.

  They tiptoed around each other, and she felt as if he was a wolf pup that had been captured in the forest and domesticated so it could live with humans. And of course, she was clueless as to how to be a parent. She’d had no role models to provide any guidance, so she staggered about and hoped for the best.

  “I have to open up,” she said. “Will you help out today?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He occasionally performed chores, dusted shelves, moved boxes, or delivered packages, but he didn’t like the tedium they presented. Usually, he disappeared for hours. When she questioned him later as to where he’d been, he’d have vague answers such as how he’d been here and there, but he never firmly clarified his whereabouts or who he’d been with.

  She should have been more adamant in demanding explanations, but she didn’t want to upset him where he’d leave and not come back.

  It was July and mid-summer, but she’d insisted, after autumn arrived, he would have to sit down and have some schooling. He’d received some education, so he could read and write, but he thought the prospect of further instruction was ridiculous.

  If she mentioned hiring a tutor for him, he would smile and nod, but she was sure—in the end—he’d ignore her and continue on however he pleased.

  She descended to the shop, and he followed, silently observing as she puttered around and prepared to greet her customers. The place was messy and crammed to the rafters, the aisles narrow, the shelves high, but she loved the smell of paper and ink, and when she inhaled it, she always paused to remember that she was very lucky.

  She could have still been at Parkhurst, constantly bickering with her stepmother, Amelia, or incessantly raging at Amelia’s husband, Winston. Or she could have been shaking her head over her half-sister, poor, dull, Rebecca. Rebecca was Amelia’s daughter, the one child she’d managed to birth for Sir Edmund, but she was so quiet and slow-witted that Hannah despaired for her future.

  Hannah had escaped, and she could never forget how fortunate she was to have accomplished it.

  Time sped by, with a steady stream of customers for once. She had a male clerk as her sole employee, so she was able to sneak to her office to add and subtract numbers, but the task simply had her wincing with alarm over how she dangled on a fiscal cliff.

  In the past, if she went bankrupt, she’d only had herself to worry about. She’d have trudged home to Parkhurst, a pathetic failure. Now, she had Jackson to protect, so she had to do a better job of handling her affairs.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when the hair on her neck began to prickle. She was at the rear of the shop, retrieving a book, and she glanced about to discover what had caused the odd reaction. To her great dismay, Viscount Marston was at the other end of the aisle.

  He was causally leaned against a stack of books and watching her intensely. He was grinning, as if he knew a secret she didn’t.

  “Miss Graves!” He straightened and started toward her. “We meet again.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I was so impressed to hear that you own a business and run it by yourself. I had to witness the spectacle for myself.”

  “You bestirred yourself for that? Why don’t I believe you?”

  He kept coming until she was wedged into a corner, and he stood so close that the toes of his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt. She was assailed by his proximity. He was much taller than she was, and he towered over her.

  He was more handsome than she recalled—if that was possible. Dressed for riding, he was wearing leather trousers and a blue coat. He had a jaunty kerchief tied around his throat, and his glorious blond hair had been mussed by the wind.

  He looked deliciously virile, and manly vigor practically oozed out of him. She could have dawdled forever, letting him ogle and annoy her. The moment was positively divine.

  She placed her palms on his chest and tried to ease him away, but his torso was hard as a rock, and she couldn’t budge him.

  “Are you glad to see me?” he asked.

  “No. Why would I be?”

  “You claim you don’t like me, but we’re scarcely acquainted, so your attitude is ludicrous. How can I wipe away your disregard?”

  “There’s no reason for us to be cordial, and I can’t fathom why you’d stop by to antagonize me. In my view, you’re simply used to having women throw themselves at your feet. I haven’t prostrated myself, and you can’t abide it.”

  She thought he’d deny the charge, but he nodded. “Precisely. You’re not in awe of me, and I’m irritated.”

  “Have I pointed out that you are incredibly absurd?”

  “I think so.”

  “I stand by my prior assessment.”

  To her shock—and also a bit of delight—he stepped nearer so his body was crushed to hers all the way down. She was awash with heady sensation. It was no mystery why women drooled over him, but she was made of sterner stuff. He might be handsome, dynamic, and mesmerizing, but she wouldn’t become a fawning admirer.

  “Why are you in London by yourself?” he asked. “Don’t you have family in the country? Don’t any of them care about you?”

  He’d raised a thorny topic, and if she’d felt like explaining—which she definitely didn’t—she could have talked for ages about the wretched state of the situation at Parkhurst.

  Her mother had died when she was born, and her father had remarried to Amelia when Hannah was seven. Her new stepmother had been just sixteen herself, a dreamy, foolish debutante fresh out of the schoolroom, so she was only nine years older than Hannah.

  Sir Edmund had wed Amelia, then decided he didn’t like her. He’d deposited her at Parkhurst, then he’d continued reveling in town. Amelia had no maternal tendencies and had never been interested in mothering Hannah. They’d never gotten along.

  Amelia had birthed Rebecca for Sir Edmund, and on the limited occasions she’d exhibited any parental conduct, it had always been focused on Rebecca. Not that Hannah minded. Any attention Amelia showered on Hannah was dispensed for negative purposes: to criticize, to complain, to condemn.

  Sir Edmund had perished—in a doxy’s bed—when Hannah was eighteen and Amelia twenty-seven. The day after his funeral, her current husband, Winston Webster, had moved in with them. He’d been a tutor to Amelia’s brother when she was a girl, and he’d glommed onto her the minute she was widowed.

  Amelia had married him a short month later, when Sir Edmund was barely cold in the ground. The hasty nuptials had fomented gossip all over the neighborhood, and with Rebecca just happening to look like Winston, rather than Sir Edmund, it was assumed Amelia had been unfaithful to Sir Edmund and Rebecca was Winston’s daughter.

  If that was the case, then she wasn’t Hannah’s half-sister. Whatever the truth of the matter, Amelia’s reputation had been shredded, and they were pariahs.

  Winston was a cunning fiend who manipulated and pressured Amelia into obeying his every command. Hannah had grown so sick of them that she’d given up and had fled to London. She never went home unless it was an outright emergency.

  She worried about Rebecca though. Amelia browbeat her, and Winston mocked and reprimanded her until she was a trembling wreck. Hannah often wondered if she shouldn’t ask Rebecca to come to town
and stay with her, but she was certain Amelia would never allow it.

  It would also mean Hannah would have another person to support, so she hadn’t extended the invitation.

  “If you must know—” she started.

  “I must.”

  “I’m here because I didn’t want to waste my life in the country.”

  “How would your life there have been wasted?”

  “I was bored silly, and I hated the tedium. It drove me quite mad.”

  “You didn’t fill the hours with sewing and knitting?”

  “No, and I must repeat that you’re absurd. I realize, in your world, it’s common for women to do as little as possible, but in my world, there are actually women who like to be busy and make a difference.”

  “How can you make a difference by selling books? How is it a benefit to anyone?”

  “If you don’t comprehend the joy people receive from reading, then I can’t explain it to you. I’ve already deduced that you’re a barbarian, so I’m not surprised that you would fail to recognize the boon I provide to others.”

  He’d hurt her feelings, and she was very angry, but she was determined not to show it. He was a vain, entitled oaf, and he was pestering her for no reason she could discern. If he discovered that he’d distressed her, he’d become even more of a nuisance.

  “Are we finished?” she asked. “I have to get back to work.”

  “Why haven’t you wed before now?”

  She sighed. “That is a very private question, and I shouldn’t have to answer it.”

  “Tell me. I’m curious.”

  “Well, I’ve never previously met a man who could tolerate me.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” he agreed. “With that sharp tongue and bitter attitude of yours, what man could stand you?”

  “Exactly, and I’m not sharp or bitter. I’m shrewd and discriminating.”

  “If you say so.”

  “In order for me to wed, I would have to find someone who had an ego that wouldn’t deflate the instant he noticed I was smarter than he was. He’d have to listen to me and be kind. He’d have to feel that I mattered and that I was worth having.”