by Cheryl Holt
If Viscount Marston hadn’t been watching her in such a fierce way, Amelia would have grabbed her by the ear and dragged her out, but it was too late to rectify the damage.
A parent selected her child’s husband, but Rebecca was vehemently opposed to being a bride, and if Amelia didn’t know that Rebecca was too dense to plot subterfuge, she’d suspect Rebecca had deliberately displayed a disheveled condition, merely to scuttle Amelia’s plan.
“Who is that?” Viscount Marston asked with venom in his tone.
“It’s my daughter, Miss Rebecca Graves, and it seems I should clarify a pertinent fact.”
****
“Talk fast, Mrs. Webster,” Hunter said, “and this better be good.”
The woman had had the sense to shove her insipid daughter out of the room, and the girl had dashed off like a frightened rabbit. Hunter couldn’t abide trembling ninnies, and he loathed her.
“There’s been a slight glitch in the marital negotiations,” the idiotic woman said.
“A glitch? You contacted my father and offered Miss Graves’s hand in marriage. Am I to conclude that I have been fixated on the wrong Miss Graves?”
“I’m terribly afraid you have been, and I’m so sorry. Hannah should have been more candid in her dealings with you.”
“You’re blaming this on her?”
“Yes, she has a habit of stirring controversy. It’s entirely characteristic of her to have deceived you like this.”
“You’re not old enough to be her mother, so what is your relationship to her?”
“She’s my stepdaughter, but Rebecca is my daughter. She is the one I offered.”
Hunter was still sipping his whiskey, and Mrs. Webster’s comment had him so angry he could barely keep from hurling the glass against the fireplace. Nate must have realized what Hunter intended because he plucked the glass away so Hunter couldn’t smash it.
“We should go,” Nate murmured.
“No, no, no!” Mrs. Webster practically shrieked the words. “You can’t leave! You haven’t even chatted with Rebecca.”
“I’m not about to chat with her either,” Hunter fumed.
He was about to stomp out in a huff, and Mrs. Webster started babbling as rapidly as she could, as if a torrent of speech could hold him rapt.
“She’s been educated and trained to her duties, so she’s learned how to manage a large house. I will agree she’s not that pretty, but she cleans up nicely. If you would give her a chance, I’m sure you’ll eventually be charmed.”
“How old is she?” Hunter demanded. “Has she even left the nursery?”
“She’s almost seventeen, and it’s a great age for a bride. Just ask anyone!”
“I would never wed a child.”
He was furious and embarrassed, and his mind was running at a frantic pace. He hadn’t ever wanted to be a husband, but his father had convinced him to relent. He’d believed he’d been provided a female who was intriguing and worthwhile.
Hannah Graves amused and delighted him. She was filled with vigor, attitude, and sass. They were traits he’d thought he detested, but in her, the unusual qualities were fascinating.
With scant pondering, he’d agreed to proceed, without questioning whether his father had fully investigated the matter—as any sane parent would have done. His father was a lazy scapegrace who scooted through the world by exerting the least amount of energy possible. Why had Hunter trusted him?
He’d listened to Neville and had followed his advice, only to discover he’d been pursuing a different girl. He could never bear to admit that he was a reckless fool, and when he returned to London, he would wring his father’s neck.
“Where is Miss Graves?” he asked Mrs. Webster. “And I don’t mean your vapid, plain daughter. Where is your stepdaughter?”
“She’s hiding in her bedroom.”
Nate butted in. “We shouldn’t tarry, Hunter. It’s pointless.”
“We’ll depart in a few minutes,” Hunter said.
“I don’t like the gleam in your eye,” Nate told him.
“Wait for me. Miss Hannah Graves and I need to have a little talk.”
He marched out to the foyer. A crowd of servants had gathered, as if it were a scene in an exciting theatrical play. Miss Grave’s brother, Jackson, was standing there too, and as Hunter passed by him, he whispered, “Her bedchamber is on the second floor, to the right, at the end.”
“Good man.”
Hunter patted him on the shoulder and continued on, and as he stormed up the stairs, he felt like a berserker, like a Viking about to raid and pillage. He was that incensed, which was incredibly strange.
For the most part, he was easy-going and happy. He never experienced strong swings of emotion because he rarely suffered incidents or conversations where powerful sentiment was generated. After his years of fighting in the army, he tried to never lose his temper, so his surge of rage was peculiar and humorous.
Where would it lead him?
When he arrived at her door, he didn’t knock. He simply grabbed the knob and flung it open so hard that it whipped around and slammed into the wall behind.
He blustered into the sitting room, and for a moment, he was confused. It was decorated in shades of very bracing pink. The drapes, rugs, paintings, furniture; everything was pink. Beyond the sitting room, the bedroom was pink too. The frilly, feminine color was completely at odds with the type of emasculating harpy he deemed her to be.
Had he entered the wrong suite? Just when he decided the answer was yes, she called out from further inside.
“Amelia? Is that you? What’s happened? There’s no reason to barge in like a bull in a china shop!”
She appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, and on seeing him—he had to look like an angry god bent on destruction—she squealed with dismay and fled in the opposite direction. He shut the door and spun the key in the lock, then he stuck it in his coat, so she couldn’t escape until he’d said what he’d come to say.
He couldn’t imagine what that diatribe would be, and she wouldn’t heed him anyway, but he would proceed despite her recalcitrance. He was so livid that he wondered if the top of his head might blow off, but then, she’d pushed him to that sort of deranged ledge.
He wound into the suite to the dressing room at the back. There was no rear exit so she was trapped, which was a relief. If he’d had to chase her through the house, he’d have been seriously annoyed.
“You can’t be in here,” she claimed.
“Too late, Miss Graves. I already am.”
“What do you want?”
“I want an explanation. I assumed we were about to betroth ourselves, only to find out that you tricked me.”
“I didn’t trick you!” she huffed. “Your father and my stepmother are the culprits. I am a totally innocent party.”
“There’s nothing innocent about you.”
“If I remember correctly, you learned my name and started bothering me. If you’d stopped being so pompously arrogant for one second and had enlightened me as to the basis of your sudden fascination, I could have informed you that I was not—and never will be—your fiancée.”
“Why is that precisely? I’m a rich, prominent viscount who will someday be a rich, prominent earl. You should be down on your knees and thanking me for my interest.”
“Here’s a tidbit I’m sure will dent that enormous ego of yours. You’re a cad, and I don’t like you. I’ve been very clear about it. I would never bind myself to an irresponsible wastrel.”
“Is that right?” he sneered.
“Yes, that’s right. My father was one, and in my opinion, vice and profligacy are contemptible. I would never shackle myself to a rogue with his same bad traits.”
She was over in the corner, trying to hide behind a dresser, and he sidled over so they were toe to toe. He towered over her, and if she’d had any sense, she’d have been unnerved, but she wasn’t. She gazed up at him, her expression irked and exasperated, as if he was a gr
eat trial to her. Her disregard was so irritating that he couldn’t figure out how to deal with it.
Women threw themselves at his feet. They were drawn to his handsome looks and fat purse, but they were also intrigued by his wicked habits and dissolute style of living. They never viewed him as horrid.
But then, he wallowed in the worst muck of the demimonde, so it was entirely likely he’d wandered so far outside the realm of respectable people and decent behaviors that he wasn’t aware of how awful he’d become.
“You are the most absurd female I’ve ever met,” he said.
“I’m certain that’s true.”
“You have a sharp tongue and a sassy attitude that are completely inappropriate in your gender.”
“I’m delighted by your lecture,” she sarcastically stated. “I will take your words to heart and modify my conduct so it conforms with your rigorous standards.” She gestured to the door. “Get out of here. I can’t abide a man who struts and preens, and I don’t have the patience to put up with you.”
She didn’t know him at all, so she didn’t realize the effect her command would have. He never did what he was told, never acted as others were hoping. It was the consequence of his lackadaisical upbringing. He and his two brothers had had lazy servants to tend them and no parental supervision of any kind.
As a boy, he’d never had to rein in his excesses, and as an adult, he felt no need to rein them in. If someone was stupid enough to boss him, he’d grow obstinate merely to prove he couldn’t be ordered about.
He stepped in so the front of his body was crushed to hers all the way down. Sparks ignited, and they were odd and riveting. Apparently, they shared one of those physical attractions that caused poets to write sonnets.
He’d heard acquaintances insist the magnetism was genuine, but he hadn’t believed it. The universe had marked them as compatible, and he supposed, if he’d ended up wed to her, they’d have had a rollicking carnal life that was rarely enjoyed by most husbands.
But he wasn’t about to marry her, and he wouldn’t waste time convincing himself it was a possibility. Still though, he couldn’t force himself away. Magnets might have been holding him in place.
For reasons he’d never be able to clarify later on, he leaned down and kissed her. Since he didn’t like her, and he didn’t deem himself to be an idiot, he couldn’t fathom what was driving him. He brushed his mouth to hers in an almost chaste fashion, and even though it wasn’t exactly a passionate embrace, his pulse was racing, and he was overwhelmed as a green boy with his first girl.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, her tone scolding as she yanked away.
“I’m thinking you needed to be kissed by me in the worst way.”
“Your vanity has swelled your head to such a massive size that I’m surprised you can walk through a door.”
He ignored her; he always ignored women. “I want to do it again.”
“You can’t bluster into my bedchamber and start mauling me.”
“I can’t? Really?” He feigned innocence. “No one told me it wasn’t allowed.”
He wasn’t about to debate the issue with her. He kissed her again, this time with an incredible amount of relish. For the briefest second, she was stiff as a board, then she participated with quite a bit of enthusiasm.
He pulled her even closer and jumped in with both feet. Why not? Once he rode away, he’d never see her again. He might as well take advantage while he had the chance.
He wasn’t overly amorous, didn’t unbutton any buttons or untie any laces, but very quickly, he was in too deep. She was dangerous to his equilibrium, and though he recognized the hazards, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop.
Finally, she was the one who drew away. She put a hand on his chest and eased him back. Their lips parted, and he stared down at her. Previously, they’d been glaring, but now, they were frowning, confused over what had occurred.
The interval seemed to have been sweet, important, and actually very grand.
“What just happened?” she asked, breaking the taut silence.
“I have no idea.”
“I don’t like you, so I’m stunned that I let you do that to me. I must have lost my mind.”
“I have that effect on women.”
“Would you go?” she said. “Please?”
“I will go—since you’ve begged so prettily. Have I proved my point?”
“What point is that?”
“That you could be wild for me—if I lowered myself to bother with you.”
She smirked. “Are you ever charming and cordial? Must you always be annoying and horrid?”
The question was ridiculous, so he didn’t reply to it. He pushed away from her and said, “I will state for the record that I probably would have liked being wed to you.”
“Liar. I would have driven you mad and sent you to an early grave. You won’t inflict yourself on my sister, will you?”
He scoffed with disgust. “I don’t dabble with children.”
Their gazes locked, and the moment became very intimate. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her to reconsider. They could contract their own marriage; they didn’t have to rely on his father or her stepmother.
Why shouldn’t they? He needed to wed in a hurry, and if he didn’t proceed with her, he’d have to find someone else, and the prospect was too exhausting to contemplate.
He didn’t necessarily like her, but she’d never bore him. She would amuse, infuriate, and tantalize him constantly. What husband could claim such a thing about his wife?
“Why is this suite decorated pink?” he said, eager to change the subject. “Do you have secret feminine tendencies I haven’t noticed?”
“No. What you see with me is what you get, and the bracing color scheme wasn’t my choice. My stepmother remodeled while I was away, and she thought I’d like it.”
“You have to tell me you don’t like it. I can’t suppose you would.”
He’d wrenched a laugh out of her. “I loathe it. I swear.”
“Goodbye, Miss Graves.”
“Goodbye, Viscount Marston.”
“You can call me Hunter.”
“I’d rather not.”
He hovered and couldn’t depart. It seemed as if he should offer a profound final remark, but he couldn’t imagine what it might be. He’d already made a fool of himself by traveling to Parkhurst to propose to the wrong girl. Would he compound his error by voicing sentimental gibberish he didn’t mean?
He spun and left without another word. She didn’t comment either, and as he went down the stairs to locate Nate, he couldn’t decide if he was glad about it or not.
CHAPTER SIX
Rebecca slipped into her solarium and shut the door. She went over to the chair in the corner and plopped down.
The solarium was her haven, her sanctuary, and she spent most of her time in it, painting, reading, or staring out the window and thinking about the friends she wished she had.
Her cat, Chester, strolled by and rubbed her leg, and she pulled him onto her lap.
“I did it,” she told the elderly, raggedy animal, and she grinned from ear to ear. “I looked awful and I behaved badly. Viscount Marston won’t agree to an engagement now. I’m sure of it.”
Her cat glared at her, then leapt down, as if to tell her she was wrong, that she could never win against her mother.
Amelia had never gotten over the fact that her father hadn’t wed her to an aristocrat, and she’d sworn Rebecca would have a grand match, but Rebecca didn’t want to marry. Not ever. She didn’t like men very much. They were big, loud, and scary. No, if she could choose her ending, she would be a spinster—like Hannah.
Rebecca had attended boarding school for three perfect years, and they’d been the best years ever. She’d loved the packed halls and the chattering girls. She’d loved the kind teachers and quiet conversations at night in the dormitory. If she could have engineered any conclusion for herself, she’d have stayed fourteen and remai
ned at school forever.
She was sixteen, so her mother insisted it was the appropriate age to be betrothed. Rebecca had explained that she couldn’t bear to leave Parkhurst and live in a strange man’s home. She couldn’t bear to move in with people she didn’t know or have to figure out how to boss new servants.
Her mother never listened though, and she’d declared that Rebecca would blossom as a wife, but Rebecca doubted it. She was who she was: a plain, shy, modest person who was happy with her small world.
If she could make any alteration at all, she would start a school and be the headmistress. She would remodel Parkhurst and hire a slew of young, pretty teachers to work at it. She’d fill the empty halls of the manor with merry girls who’d smile and gossip as they flitted down the stairs on their way to class.
Rebecca would watch over all of it like a benevolent caretaker.
The dream could never come to fruition though. First—even if she dared to broach the idea—her mother would have an apoplexy. And second, Parkhurst was too valuable to be wasted on such a frivolous endeavor. She only owned half of it too, so she didn’t have the right to change it.
She hated owning it though, and if she’d had her druthers, she’d sign over her half to Hannah. As it was, her mother was nagging at her to give her share to Winston, so he could sell it. Winston was deeply in debt, and it was causing problems for her mother. She and Winston fought constantly, in the evenings, in her mother’s bedroom suite when she imagined no one could hear them.
Her mother’s badgering was intense and difficult to deflect. She blamed Rebecca for not helping Winston, but Rebecca couldn’t abide him, and she would never give him anything. Most especially Parkhurst.
She was so glad Hannah had traveled to the country, and she hoped her sister would tarry for a few days. She and Hannah weren’t close, and they didn’t know each other very well, but Hannah was tough and strong. She’d be able to protect Rebecca from her mother’s plotting. Rebecca never succeeded with Amelia on her own.