by Cheryl Holt
“Isabella, there you are,” he curtly said, as if they’d had an appointment, and she was late.
“What’s going on?”
“Let’s discuss it in the front parlor.”
“Tell me what this is about. I insist.”
He said to the servants, “Finish up while I’m downstairs.”
He clasped her arm and marched her out, and he had to practically drag her. She wasn’t exactly trying to slow their pace, but she was disoriented and perplexed. Was she being evicted? Would her things be put out on the street? The prospect was too infuriating to consider.
They entered the parlor, and before she had an opportunity to protest his horrid treatment, he said, “I’ve determined that you breached our contract.”
“What? I never have!”
“You knew better than to show up at Marston unannounced.”
“It was Nate’s fault. Not mine. He claimed you’d be lonely and would like to have some company.”
She smiled, anxious to coax a responding smile out of him, but he glowered as if she were a misbehaved toddler.
“I don’t care why you were there,” he said. “Your conduct was extremely detrimental to me.”
“Why is that?” She was sneering, but she couldn’t help it. She was just so enraged! “Was Miss Graves upset? Why should we fret over her? She’s nothing to us.”
A dangerous look clouded his gaze. Clearly, she should keep Miss Graves out of the conversation, but the annoying tart was the cause of what was wrong. How could Isabella forget that fact?
“You’re too sure of your spot by my side,” he said.
“We’re so good together, Hunter. Your happiness is always my first concern.”
“No, your happiness is what drives you, and you have totally misconstrued your role in my life.”
“I’m sorry for visiting Marston. I shouldn’t have.”
“Fine, I’m delighted to hear you’re sorry, but we’re through.”
Her knees buckled, and she had to grab onto the sofa to steady herself. “But you promised to extend our contract!”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Shall I apologize again? Is that what you want? You’re glaring at me as if you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you. I’m simply done with you.”
As he voiced the comment, he was so blasé that they could have been discussing the weather. How could he be so cold? So detached? She felt as if she was dying.
“Are you kicking me out?” she asked.
“Yes,” he brutally said.
“Where am I to go?”
“I’ve rented lodging for you for the next month. The servants know where it’s located. There’s a wagon coming to cart your trunks over to it.”
“I don’t agree to this!”
“It’s not up to you,” he crushed her by replying. “You can ride in the wagon or you can hire a cab. It’s your choice.”
“If I travel anywhere, it will be in my own carriage.”
“Well, that’s a problem for you because it’s my carriage, and you no longer have use of it.”
There was a satchel over on a table, and he picked it up and handed it to her. She didn’t reach for it, but sidled away, as if it were a venomous snake.
“What’s in it?” she demanded.
“I don’t view myself as a cruel man, so I will supply you with a year’s severance. There’s one condition though.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“You have to depart England for a year. Paris is beautiful. Or you could try Scotland, but I’ve found the winters there to be frigid and uncomfortable.”
She scoffed. “I’m not about to go to Paris or Scotland.”
“Your obsession with me has to cool down, and if we’re constantly bumping into each other, it never will. I’m positive time and distance will repair the situation.”
“You’re awfully certain I’ll oblige you. Why are you being so horrid?”
“I’m getting married.”
If he’d pulled out a knife and stabbed her, he couldn’t have wounded her any more painfully. “You’re what?”
“I’m marrying, and I can’t have you popping up every second to irritate me.”
“Who is your bride to be?”
“Who would you suppose? It’s Miss Graves.”
“Oh, Hunter, please! It will kill me if you wed her!”
“My decision has no bearing on my relationship with you whatsoever.”
“How can you say that? You should be marrying me! I…I…love you. I thought we’d always be together.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’ve never loved anyone but yourself, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t create a scene.” He waved the satchel at her. “Will you take the severance and leave England or not?”
“No! You can choke on your blood money!”
She’d hoped her vehement rejection would affect him, but he was unmoved. “If you won’t depart, I won’t give you anything. I won’t even pay for the month’s rent at the lodging I’m willing to provide. I’ll toss you out on the street, and you can fend for yourself.”
“This is blackmail!”
“Yes.”
“Bastard…” she mumbled.
He stared at her forever, wearing her down with the force of his personality.
Her mind whirred as she hastily reviewed her options. She yearned to refuse what he was offering, but she couldn’t imagine it. During her time with him, she’d skimmed from the household account he’d furnished for her expenses, but London was very costly so the sum wouldn’t last long.
If she didn’t agree, what would become of her?
“I can see you’re deviously plotting,” he said. “You’re wondering if you can trick me by accepting the money, but not retiring to France. You’re debating whether you can lurk in London on the fringe of my world, and that my pique will gradually fade so it won’t aggravate me. You shouldn’t presume that would be possible. If you attempt it, I guarantee every door in the demimonde will be closed to you.”
“And if I go as you’re demanding? What then?”
“Then…? Nothing. I’m sure this period apart will fix the issue, and I won’t ever speak a bad word about you, so you’ll be able to find a new gentleman. But if you harass me, if you pester my wife, if you renege on our bargain, then all bets will be off, and I will spread any story I feel like telling.”
If she’d been clutching a pistol, she’d have shot him right in the middle of his cold, black heart.
He knew her so well! She’d been furtively thinking she’d grab the money, then skulk in London and gossip about him and his pasty-faced wife. If she told lies about him, they’d bounce off him like dull arrows. Yet if he told lies about her, her social standing would collapse, and she’d be in real trouble.
It wasn’t fair that he was rich and male. Men were so powerful, and they always held all the cards. She had to abide by his terms or be ruined. What kind of choice was that?
“Fine,” she spat, “I’ll take the severance and travel to Paris.”
“A wise decision.”
She yanked the satchel away from him, and she didn’t bother peeking in it. It would contain another contract or perhaps a bank draft she would have to figure out how to cash. A man would have to handle it for her. She, as a woman, wouldn’t be allowed to do it herself.
“What are your plans for my house?” she said. “I suppose you’ll finish your mistress interviews and give it to my replacement.”
“Actually, I’m selling it. I intend to fall madly in love with my bride, so in the future, I won’t need any doxies.”
He seized her arm and marched her toward the front door. Another brawny footman was dawdling by it, and as they approached, he jerked it open. Hunter continued on outside, and though she struggled to slow him down, to glance over her shoulder for a last glimpse of the foyer, she couldn’t manage one.
A wagon had pulled up, and her belongings were being loaded. Hunter esco
rted her to it and said, “Goodbye, Isabella. Godspeed. I’m certain you’ll have a marvelous holiday in France.”
He strolled off, and she sputtered, “That’s it? You’re going?”
“Yes, I’m going.”
He was so delighted to be shed of her that he was practically skipping with joy. His carriage was down the block, and before she could muster the energy to chase after him, he climbed into it. His outriders jumped aboard, his driver cracked the whip, and he was whisked away. Just that fast.
“Hunter!” she shouted like a deranged lunatic, but the entreaty was pointless.
Passersby frowned and glared, and the nearby servants gaped at her with an enormous amount of pity. Her cheeks heated with chagrin. She inhaled a deep, fortifying breath, then walked over to the front door. She spun the knob, determined to supervise the rest of the packing, but she was stunned to find it locked.
She knocked quite loudly, and the brawny footman peered out.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“My trunks are still being brought out. I shouldn’t have to cool my heels out here on the street while they are.”
“Sorry, Miss Darling, but you’re not to be permitted back inside.” He nodded to the wagon. “Why don’t you sit in the box? We’ll be departing in a few minutes.”
“I don’t want to sit in the box. I want to sit in my own bloody parlor.”
“I have my orders.”
With that, he shut the door in her face.
She stood like an idiot, listening as the key grated in the lock. She glowered at it stupidly, not able to process what she was witnessing.
It seemed as if she was trapped in a nightmare, and she couldn’t wake up. If she’d been a weepy sort of female, she’d have dropped to the ground and cried like a baby.
As it was, she could only shake her fist at the heavens and murmur over and over that she hated Hunter Stone with an abiding passion, and she would never forgive him as long as she lived.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“We have to tell you something important.”
“What is it?”
Hannah stared at Rebecca and Jackson. They appeared impish and smug, as if they knew a secret she didn’t. The pair had bonded so powerfully, and it would remain the great joy of her life that Jackson had joined the family and that she and Rebecca had a very nice, very loyal brother to call their own.
“We’ve talked about it repeatedly,” Rebecca said, “so you shouldn’t suppose we haven’t thought it through. I especially can’t have you assuming I haven’t pondered enough.”
Hannah frowned. “You both look so serious that you’re scaring me.”
“It’s not scary,” Jackson claimed. “It’s just a possibility.”
“Which is…?”
Rebecca provided the answer. “I’m giving Jackson my half of Parkhurst.”
“I didn’t suggest it,” he hurried to insist, as if Hannah had accused him of coercing her.
“It was my idea,” Rebecca said. “I want him to have it.”
Hannah asked Rebecca, “Is this because of…well…of the rumor about your parentage?” She wouldn’t speak Winston Webster’s name aloud, and they understood she wouldn’t. “You shouldn’t necessarily believe it. It’s entirely likely that the story was a lie.”
“I don’t think it was a lie, and it means Sir Edmund isn’t my father. But it’s established fact that he was Jackson’s father. It’s only fair that the property belongs to him.”
Hannah wouldn’t argue about Rebecca’s paternity. With Winston bragging that he’d sired her, it was clearer than ever that Rebecca resembled him exactly and didn’t resemble Hannah and Jackson at all.
“What is your opinion?” Hannah asked Jackson.
They were in the front parlor at Parkhurst. Hannah was seated on a sofa by the hearth. It was a chilly afternoon, the sky grey and promising rain, and they had a fire burning to warm the room. Rebecca was pacing, as she explained to Hannah what she hoped to do. Jackson was over by the window, peering outside, as if he was watching for guests to arrive.
“I’m happy with whatever Rebecca chooses,” Jackson said in reply to Hannah’s query.
“He’ll let me start a school,” Rebecca added. “That’s my plan. I liked attending boarding school so much, and I’d like other girls to have the same chance.”
“It’s a good dream to have,” Hannah told her, “but it would cost money. I can’t imagine how we’ll ever have an amount sufficient for an enterprise like that.”
“Things will get better fast now that you’re in charge, and Viscount Marston’s people are improving matters quickly. They’re experts at running an estate. We’ll be on the right track in no time.”
“Lord Marston’s servants have been very helpful,” Hannah agreed, “but they won’t be here forever, and we can’t count on them to fix our financial woes.”
“You just can’t predict what might happen.” Jackson stared out the window even more intently. “I wouldn’t be surprised if his servants end up staying for quite awhile.”
In Hannah’s view, they’d already dawdled too long, and she constantly expected to hear from Hunter that they had to come home and resume their regular duties at Marston.
She was growing stronger and more competent by the day, so if they left, she’d be fine. Yet it was lovely to have them on the premises, to have them mending what was broken and modifying what needed to be altered. So far, she’d trusted all of their assessments, and their dedicated support had been a boon too wonderful to describe.
They made her seem closer to Hunter, which was probably deranged.
As he’d departed Parkhurst, he’d claimed he would return in two weeks, but it had been over a month with no sign of him. She was aware of the sort of life he led in town, and it was very likely he’d realized it was much more entertaining to cavort in the city than to loaf with her in the country.
She ought to be glad he’d avoided her, to be glad he wasn’t underfoot and bothering her. When he was present, she couldn’t forget how fervidly she’d once yearned to be his bride. She had to tamp down that memory and move on, but it was so hard.
After her ordeal at the Dower House, where he’d shown up like a knight on a white charger, they’d been linked in a way that couldn’t be severed. From the minute he’d ridden away to convey Amelia to Scotland, she been ridiculously fearful. There was no one at the estate who might frighten or harass her, so there was no reason to fret, but she could still be so apprehensive.
If he was with her, she was certain she’d always feel calm and protected.
He was front and center in all her musings, so it was difficult to focus on any other topic. She physically yanked herself out of her dreamy reverie to concentrate on the current issue, that being Jackson and Rebecca and their scheme for Jackson to own half of Parkhurst.
“I’m not sure I should have an opinion about this,” she said. “Nor am I convinced that any of it should be up to me, but Rebecca, are you positive? I only inquire because—if we change the title—it will be permanent. It will be forever.”
“I understand,” Rebecca said, but Hannah doubted her sister comprehended the particulars.
“Later on,” Hannah continued to press, “if you met a nice boy and decided you’d like to wed him, you wouldn’t have Parkhurst as a lure to snag him.”
Rebecca blanched with dismay. “I won’t ever marry. A husband would take me away from home, and I wouldn’t like that.”
“I would hate to have it stir a problem between you and Jackson. If you give it to him, you’ll never persuade him to give it back.”
Jackson huffed with offense. “I’d give it back—if she asked for it. I would never keep it from her.”
“You say that now,” Hannah gently apprised him, “but you’re both so young. In another decade, Rebecca might wish she hadn’t proceeded.”
“I won’t ever wish that.” Rebecca sounded very firm. “Could you write to Attorney Thumberton for me an
d inform him of what I’d like to do?”
“Yes, I can write to him, but he’ll try to talk you out of it.”
Rebecca grinned. “He’ll never succeed. I’m determined to sign it over to Jackson.”
“And I’m determined,” Jackson said, “to always watch over her.”
His attention was on the lane, and he peeked at Rebecca and nodded.
“Is it them?” Rebecca asked.
“Yes.” Jackson spun away from the window and said to Hannah, “We have company. Shall we go out to meet them?”
“Who is it? From how you’re smirking, I’m almost afraid to know.”
“Come here. You should see this.”
She pushed herself to her feet and went over to him. He pulled back the drapes, and the sight that greeted her was unnerving.
A cavalcade was promenading toward them. There was a procession of horsemen in full livery, their horses decorated with ribbons and braiding. They were leading several fancy coaches that sported ornate crests on the doors. Each coach had a contingent of outriders, the men also decked out in full livery.
“Who on earth is that?” she said.
Jackson didn’t explain, but grabbed her wrist and dragged her outside without her bothering to fetch cloak or bonnet. It was chilly, but she didn’t notice the cold.
The vehicles rattled to a halt. Outriders jumped down to whip doors open and set the steps.
An incredibly handsome older gentleman was the first to appear. At fifty or so, he was slender and dapper, with a head of blond hair that had faded to silver. His wealth was obvious, his coat and trousers expensive and impeccably tailored, his fingers covered with gaudy rings that sparkled so brilliantly the stones had to be real diamonds.
An outrider approached and asked, “Miss Graves?”
“Yes, I’m Miss Graves.”
With a flourish of his arm to the gentleman, he said, “I present Neville Stone, Earl of Swindon.”
Hannah’s jaw dropped in amazement. Hunter’s father? In her driveway?