To Wed a Wild Lord

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “My offer still stands,” Pierce said. “If you want to rent and run the place once it passes to me, I’ll happily give you a long lease.”

  “Thank you,” Gabriel said, with a squeeze of Virginia’s hand, “but we’d rather have a place of our own. If we can ever afford it.”

  “Why wouldn’t you, once you get your inheritance from Mrs. Plumtree?” Mr. Masters asked. The barrister had come over from London for the day at his wife’s request.

  Gabriel snorted. “Unless someone I don’t know about is planning on offering for Celia, I doubt any of us is going to inherit.”

  All eyes turned to Celia. She blinked. “Now see here, are you saying that I can’t get a husband?”

  “No one’s saying that, I’m sure,” Virginia said.

  “Oh yes, they are. Gabe is, anyway.” Celia glared at him. “You think I can’t get a husband. You think no one will marry me!”

  Gabriel shrugged. “There’s four months left in the year and I don’t see anyone but Devonmont at our door, and Virginia says you’re too clever to fall for him.”

  Pierce lifted an eyebrow at her.

  Gabriel continued, “By all means, tell me if you have someone else waiting in the wings. But I won’t wait around hoping for a slew of suitors to appear. I’m making my own plans for the future, since Gran seems determined to hold to her ultimatum.”

  Celia rose to plant her hands on her hips and survey the rest of the family. “Is that what all of you think? That I’m incapable of finding a husband? That no one would ever offer for me?”

  The women murmured reassurances, and the men blinked like startled deer—except for Gabriel, who kept staring at Celia with his taunting smile, and Mr. Pinter, who was watching Pierce with a shuttered expression.

  Celia colored deeply. “To hell with all of you. “I’ll have a husband by Christmas—you’ll see!” She hurried from the room.

  Virginia jumped up and ran after her, but she’d barely reached the stairs before Gabriel caught up to her. “Leave her be, sweetheart.”

  “You don’t understand. Now she thinks that we all believe her to be unmarriageable.”

  “Good.”

  “Gabriel! That’s cruel!”

  “No, Celia has a contrary side. When Gran said we had to marry to inherit, that made her dig in her heels and say she would never marry. Someone had to push her in the opposite direction. Now that she has a challenge to rise to, she’ll kill herself trying to meet it. If she says she’ll be married by Christmas, I promise you, she’ll be married by Christmas.”

  Virginia stared at him. His grandmother was famous for such manipulation, but she’d never seen it in him. “Is the money so very important to you?”

  “No, but my sister is.” He drew her into his arms, lowering his voice to a husky murmur. “Gran has been right about one thing all along—none of us would have pursued love if she hadn’t pushed us. And now that I know what love is, I want nothing less than that for Celia.”

  Those words made her heart soar, but there was one more thing she wanted to know. “Do you ever miss the racing, my love?”

  He stared solemnly down at her. “The truth? I don’t. Racing is for the young and foolish, for those who have nothing to lose.” He brushed a kiss to her lips. “These days I have far too much to ever risk it for something as stupid as a horse race. Watching my Thoroughbred run a race course with you at my side is plenty enough excitement for me now.”

  Death had finally lost its hold over him. “For a man who once said he wasn’t adept at giving pretty compliments, you certainly know how to turn a woman up sweet.”

  He flashed her that cocky grin she so adored. “Really? On the very night we met, Lyons informed me that I wasn’t good with respectable women.”

  “You’re not,” she teased. “But with women who challenge men to races and have a secret yearning to be swept off their feet by scoundrels?” She looped her arms about his neck and stretched up so she could whisper in his ear. “With those women, my love, you are very, very good.”

  Then he kissed her, hot and sweet and slow, and she met it with all the recklessness and yearning in her soul. Because as any clever woman knows, sometimes the only way to true happiness is to wed a wild lord.

  Turn the page

  for a special look

  at the final delightful romance in

  Hellions of Halstead Hall series

  A LADY NEVER SURRENDERS

  featuring the fiercely independent Lady Celia Sharpe

  by New York Times bestselling author

  SABRINA JEFFRIES

  Coming soon from Pocket Books

  Bow Street runner Jackson Pinter gaped at Lady Celia, wondering how this conversation had turned so terribly wrong. The woman was clearly daft. Bedlam-witted.

  And trying to drive him in the same direction. “You can’t be serious. Since when do you know anything about investigating people?”

  She planted her hands on her hips. “You refuse to investigate my suitors, so I will have to do it.”

  God save him, she was the most infuriating, maddening—“How do you propose to manage that?”

  She shrugged. “Ask them questions, I suppose. The house party for Oliver’s birthday is next week. Lord Devonmont is already coming, and it will be easy to convince Gran to invite my other two prospects. Once they’re there, I could try sneaking into their rooms and listening in on their conversations, or perhaps bribing their servants—”

  “You’ve lost your bloody mind,” he hissed.

  Only after she lifted an eyebrow at his choice of words did he realize he’d cursed so foully in front of her. But by thunder, the woman would turn a sane man into a blithering idiot! The thought of her wandering in and out of men’s rooms, risking her virtue and her reputation, made his blood run cold.

  “You don’t seem to understand,” she said in a clipped tone, as if speaking to a child. “I have to catch a husband somehow. I need help, and I’ve nowhere else to turn. Minerva is rarely here, and Gran’s matchmaking efforts are about as subtle as a sledgehammer. And even if my brothers and their wives could do that sort of work, they’re preoccupied with their own affairs. That leaves you, who seems to think that suitors drop from the skies at my whim. If I can’t even entice you to help me for money, then I’ll have to manage on my own.”

  Turning on her heel, she headed for the door.

  Hell and blazes, she was just liable to attempt such an idiotic thing, too. She had some fool notion she was invincible. That’s why she spent her time target shooting with her brother’s friends, blithely unconcerned that her rifle might misfire or the other gentlemen might shoot her by mistake.

  The wench did as she pleased, and the men in her family just let her. Someone had to curb her insanity, and it looked as if it would have to be him.

  “All right!” he called out. “I’ll do it.”

  She halted, but didn’t turn around. “You’ll find out what I need in order to snag one of my choices as a husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if it means being a trifle underhanded?”

  He gritted his teeth. This would be pure torture. The underhandedness didn’t bother him. He’d be as underhanded as necessary to get rid of those damned suitors who didn’t deserve her. But to manage that he’d have to be around her a great deal, if only to make sure the idiots didn’t compromise her.

  Still, he had no choice. So he must find something in their backgrounds to send her running the other way. She said she wanted facts? By thunder, he’d give her enough damning facts to blacken every one of those men in her mind.

  And then what?

  If you know of some eligible gentlemen you can strong-arm into courting me, then by all means, tell me. I’m open to suggestions.

  All right, so he had no gentlemen to suggest. But he couldn’t let her marry any of her ridiculous choices, could he? They would all make her miserable. To keep her from making the same foolish mistake as his mother, he must impress
upon her that she was courting disaster.

  Then he’d find someone more eligible for her. Somehow.

  She faced him. “Well?”

  “Yes,” he said, suppressing a curse. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  A skeptical laugh escaped her. “That I’d like to see.” When he scowled, she added hastily, “But thank you. Truly, I mean that. And I’m happy to pay you extra for your efforts, as I said.”

  He stiffened. “No need.”

  “Nonsense,” she said firmly. “It will be worth it to have your discretion.”

  His scowl deepened. “My clients always have my discretion.”

  “Ah, but the only client actually paying you at the moment is Oliver. I want to be your client on my own terms—especially since you must keep my plans secret from him and Gran.”

  That roused his suspicions. “And why is that?”

  Her expression grew guarded. “In case this doesn’t turn out how I want.”

  Under his pointed stare, she flushed. Damn if it didn’t make her look even prettier.

  She dropped her gaze to the jewel-encrusted bracelet she kept twisting about her slender wrist. “They think me incapable of gaining a husband, and I mean to prove them wrong. But I don’t want them knowing that I’ve been forced to stoop to such devious tactics. It’s embarrassing.” She cut a glance up at him. “Do you understand?”

  He nodded. Pride was a powerful motivator. Sometimes the urge to prove people wrong was the only thing that kept a man—or a woman—moving forward.

  “This conversation will stay between us,” he said tightly. “You may depend upon that.”

  Relief shone in her lovely face. “All the same, I wish to pay you for your discretion. And for whatever work isn’t covered by your arrangement with Oliver.”

  He was not taking money from her for this. “I tell you what. Assuming that all goes well and you gain one of these gentlemen as a husband, you may cover my fee with the money you’ll inherit from your grandmother.”

  “But what if it doesn’t go well? You still deserve to be compensated for your efforts. Gran gives me an allowance. Just tell me what you want.”

  What he wanted was her, naked in his bed, gazing up at him with a smile as she drew him down to kiss that thoroughly enchanting mouth.

  But that was impossible, for more reasons than he could count. Desiring her didn’t change that.

  “My clients only pay me if they get results,” he lied. “So until you achieve your goal, there’s no fee.”

  She eyed him skeptically. “Come now, surely you require at least a pledge of some kind, so you’ll receive something for your trouble.” She unclasped her bracelet and held it out to him. “Take this. I’ll warrant it’s worth a few pounds.”

  More like a few hundred pounds. Leave it to a fine lady to act as if it were some bauble.

  When he merely stood there, she added softly, “I insist. I don’t want to be obligated to you in case this . . . doesn’t work out. You could always sell it or give it to your sweetheart. Or perhaps your mother.”

  He tensed. “I don’t have a sweetheart, and my mother is dead.”

  Her face fell. “I’m sorry, I forgot that your mother . . . that is . . .” She drew back the bracelet. “How awful of me to remind you of it.”

  The soft regret in her voice clutched at his gut. He’d never seen this side of her. “It’s fine. She died a long time ago.”

  Her eyes searched his face. “Some wounds even time can’t heal, no matter what people say.”

  They shared a glance of their mutual loss, both of their mothers vilified in death as they’d been wronged in life. A lump caught in his throat.

  “You live with your aunt,” she said hesitantly. “Is that right?”

  He cleared his throat. “Actually, she lives with me. My uncle willed their house in Cheapside to me when he died last year, with the condition that she be allowed to live there until her death. I was going to remain in my regular lodgings, but she’s been so lonely. . . .” Realizing he was revealing more of his life than he wanted, he said, “Anyway, I moved in last week.”

  She held out the bracelet again. “Then keep this as a surety and give it to her if our agreement doesn’t prove fruitful.”

  “She could never wear that,” he countered. It was too expensive for the widow of a magistrate to sport at church or in the shops.

  A flush filled her cheeks. “Oh, of course. I see.”

  He hadn’t expected her to take his meaning, but her mortification showed that she had. He’d never thought Lady Celia was so perceptive. Or sensitive.

  “My aunt’s wrists aren’t as delicate as yours,” he added hastily. “It wouldn’t fit her.” When relief showed in her eyes, he was glad he’d lied. “Still, I’ll accept it as a gesture of good faith on your part.” He took the bracelet from her. “Though I fully expect to be returning it in a few weeks.”

  “Of course.” Her bright smile warmed him. “So, what do you think of the idea of inviting the gentlemen to the house party? Halstead Hall is large enough to accommodate a few more guests.”

  What an understatement. The marquess’s seat was called a “calendar house,” because it had three hundred and sixty-five rooms, seven courtyards, fifty-two staircases, and twelve towers. It had been given to the first marquess by Henry VIII.

  “And if you attend, too,” she went on, “you’ll be able to investigate the gentlemen more easily. Plus, it will give me more chances to get to know them.”

  Damn. Attending a house party would mean vails to pay the servants and fine clothes for him, a definite strain on his funds. Especially now that he was trying to do improvements on the house he’d inherited.

  But if her idiot suitors were going to stay at Halstead Hall, then by thunder, he’d be here, too. They wouldn’t take advantage of her on his watch. “We’re agreed that you won’t do any of that foolish nonsense you mentioned, like spying on them, right?”

  “Of course not. That’s what I have you for.”

  Her private lackey, meant to jump at her command. He was already beginning to regret this.

  “We shouldn’t have any trouble tempting the gentlemen to accept our invitation,” she went on blithely. “It’s hunting season, and the estate has some excellent coveys.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  She cast him an easy smile. “Yes, you generally hunt men, not grouse. And apparently you do it very well.”

  A compliment? From her? “No need to flatter me, my lady,” he said dryly. “I’ve already agreed to your scheme.”

  Her smile vanished. “Really, Mr. Pinter, sometimes you can be so . . .”

  “Honest?” he prodded.

  “Irritating.” She tipped up her chin. “It will be easier to work together if you’re not always so prickly.”

  He was more than prickly, and for the most foolish reasons imaginable. Because he didn’t like her trawling for suitors. Or using him to do it. And because he hated her “lady of the manor” role. It reminded him too forcibly of the difference in their stations.

  “I am who I am, madam,” he bit out. “You knew what you were purchasing when you set out to do this.”

  She colored. “Must you make it sound so sordid?”

  He stepped as close as he dared. “You want me to gather information you can use in playing a false role to catch a husband. I am not the one making it sordid.”

  “Tell me, sir, will I have to endure your moralizing at every turn?” she said in a voice dripping with sugar. “Because I’d happily pay extra to have you keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “There isn’t enough money in all the world for that,” he said in a low voice.

  Her eyes blazed up at him. Good. He much preferred her in a temper. At least then she was herself and not putting on some show.

  She seemed to catch herself, pasting an utterly false smile on her lips. “Well then, do you think you can manage to be civil for the house party? It does me no good to bring suitor
s here if you’re going to be skulking about, making them uncomfortable.”

  He tamped down the urge to provoke her further. If he pressed her too far she’d strike off on her own, and that would be disastrous. “I shall try to keep my ‘skulking’ to a minimum.”

  “Thank you.” She thrust out her hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

  The minute his fingers closed about hers, he wished he’d refused. Because having her soft hand in his roused everything he’d been trying to suppress during this interview.

  He couldn’t seem to let go. For such a small-boned female, she had a surprisingly firm grip. Her hand was just like her—fragility and strength all wrapped in beauty. He had a mad impulse to lift it to his lips and press a kiss to her creamy skin.

  But he was no Lancelot to her Guinevere. Only in legend did lowly knights dare to court queens.

  Releasing her hand before he could do something stupid, he sketched a bow. “Good day, my lady. I’ll begin my investigation at once and report to you as soon as I learn something.”

  He left her standing there, a goddess surrounded by the aging glories of an aristocrat’s mansion. God save him, this had to be the worst mission he’d ever taken on, one he was sure to regret down the road.

  I prefer not to marry a fortune hunter.

  With a scowl, he tucked her bracelet into his coat pocket as he walked out the door. No, she only preferred fools and lechers and sons of madmen. As long as they were rich and titled, she was perfectly content. Because then she knew they weren’t after her money.

  Yet he couldn’t despise her for that. He might travel between two worlds with apparent ease, but it made him all the more aware of how hard it would be to actually take up residence in the world he hadn’t been born to.

  And yet . . .

  I know what you think of me.

  If he wasn’t careful, one day he would show her exactly what he thought of her. But if that day came, he’d better be prepared for the consequences. Because he suspected they would not be easy ones.

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