by Cheryl Holt
“I’m not lying. My friend, Damian Drummond, bought up your brother’s gambling debts and foreclosed.”
She gaped at him, his remark rattling her in ways she didn’t like. She hadn’t known the Drummonds, but their names were whispered by the servants, by her mother and father when they presumed no one was listening.
Whatever had happened to them was so awful it couldn’t be mentioned aloud.
She blanched with astonishment. “Miles wagered over Kirkwood?”
“Yes and lost spectacularly.”
“Why would Mr. Drummond want it?”
“For revenge. Why would you suppose?”
“Revenge against who?” she inquired.
“Against all of you.”
“What did we do to him?”
“I suggest you ask your brother. Or your mother. I doubt they’ll confess their many perfidies, but you should definitely ask.”
She eased away and stood, suddenly deciding he wasn’t quite as handsome as he’d initially seemed. Actually she sensed malice emanating from him.
“Get off our property, Mr. Roxbury. I demand you leave.”
“Are you deaf, Miss Marshall? It’s not your property any longer. You have no authority to command my departure.”
“I’ll summon the footmen. They’ll deal with you.”
“Miss Fogarty already tried, but I’m still here. You needn’t bother trying the same.”
“I’ll tell my mother!”
He shuddered scornfully. “I’m trembling in my boots.”
Sophia had grown up under Augusta’s heavy thumb, and she viewed her mother as powerful, unbending, and impossibly commanding. She was stunned that referring to Augusta had had no effect.
“She’ll show you!” Sophia insisted. “She will!”
“I don’t think so,” he scoffed, “and you’re acting like a child again. Go away, would you? You’ve absolutely ruined the peace and quiet.”
“I’ll do more than ruin the peace and quiet. I’ll…I’ll…”
She couldn’t conceive of a threat sufficiently horrid. He was the most stoic, unflappable man she’d ever encountered.
“You’ll what?” he inquired when she couldn’t finish her sentence.
“I don’t know yet, but you’ll be sorry.”
She spun and strutted away, and his rude laughter followed her across the garden.
“Thank you for coming. Thank you for coming.”
Georgina was in the front foyer, the sole family member who’d seen fit to greet their guests. She welcomed another group and waved them toward the festivities, and as they wandered off, she breathed a sigh of relief.
So far, no catastrophes had erupted. Mr. Drummond had stayed away as she’d ordered him to. A few of his guards were present, but they’d blended in with the crowd, providing the impression that they’d been invited.
Augusta was still upstairs, which was always a benefit. She cast a dour shadow on any gathering. No one had asked after her or noted her absence. They wouldn’t court trouble by speaking her name and conjuring her appearance.
Miles hadn’t appeared either, and Georgina was both glad and irked. She wished he’d display more interest in the estate, but with Mr. Drummond lurking it was probably better that he hadn’t arrived. He was a spoiled idiot and would only make matters worse.
Sophia was missing too. She’d been bickering with Harold and had flounced into the garden in a snit. She was miserably unhappy in her betrothal. Georgina had tried to confer with her about it, but Sophia refused to discuss it, and Georgina pitied her cousin. It left her deliriously pleased that she’d never succumbed to amour herself, that she hadn’t ever had to ponder a sensible proposal from an unpalatable dullard.
Just then, Portia Smithwaite strolled in. Or perhaps it was more correct to say she floated in. With her white-blond hair, violet-colored eyes, and curvaceous figure, she was glamorous and beautiful in a way Georgina could never dream of being.
She was Miles’s fiancée, the match between them another fiasco Augusta had arranged, just as she’d arranged the match for Harold and Sophia. Portia’s mother and Augusta had attended the same boarding school as girls, and they’d pledged to each other that their children would marry in the future. Augusta was determined for it to happen, pursuing the conclusion with an almost maniacal zeal that had Georgina wondering if she wasn’t proving a point to Portia’s mother.
Portia and Miles were an odd couple. Miles was thirty-four and Portia twenty so he was old enough to be her father, and Georgina had never understood why she’d agreed to the engagement.
Yet the pair went through the motions of pretending to be happy, but as with Harold and Sophia, no wedding date was ever set. Whenever they were together, Georgina furtively observed them, and they were like two strangers at a ball who had nothing in common.
She didn’t like Portia. She tried, but couldn’t manage it. Though Portia was very pretty, she was a female version of Miles—entitled, selfish, spoiled—and Georgina worried about how horrid life would be once Portia married Miles and became mistress of Kirkwood.
As the poor relative, Georgina’s position had always been precarious, but with each passing day, it grew more unstable.
“Hello, Portia,” Georgina said. “I’m so glad you could join us.”
“Why wouldn’t I? Kirkwood is almost my home. It’s only appropriate that I lead any entertainment that’s hosted.”
Then where were you when we were addressing invitations? When we were planning the menus and drafting the seating charts?
“Yes, it’s been splendid to have you in charge.” Georgina bit down a caustic reply and gestured to the main parlor that was packed with people. “Your guests await.”
“Is Miles here?”
“Not yet, but we expect him soon.”
“How about Augusta? Where is she? I should say hello.”
“She hasn’t come down.”
“Not down?” Portia flashed a tight smile. “Should I go up and urge her to hurry?”
“I wouldn’t. She’ll be down when she’s ready.”
Portia slipped off her wrap and dropped it, a hovering footman jumping to grab it so it didn’t land on the floor. From prior experience, he knew if he hadn’t caught it, he’d have earned himself a terrible scold for being incompetent.
Georgina couldn’t fathom why Portia had adopted such snooty attitudes. Her father was gentry, as Miles’s had been. Her background and ancestry were equal to the Marshalls, but she viewed herself as being incredibly superior to them.
Oh, what a dreadful place Kirkwood would be when she took over. How would Georgina stand it? What if she couldn’t stand it? What if Portia decided they wouldn’t continue to support her and ordered her to leave? What then?
As the wild thoughts careened through her head, a vision of Mr. Drummond wedged itself front and center. No doubt he’d evict Georgina long before Portia ever had the chance.
“What would you like me to do?” Portia asked. “How can I be of the most help?”
“Just be your usual, charming self.”
“I’m good at that.”
She smirked and waltzed away, the scent of her perfume cloying and depressing.
There was no one entering behind her, and Georgina snuck away, tiptoeing down a deserted hall to a door that opened onto the verandah. She dawdled in the shadows outside the parlor where the furniture had been pushed back and the younger guests were dancing.
She loved to dance, and on any other night, she’d have been in the middle of the merriment. But when they were facing such calamity, the whole endeavor seemed silly and pointless.
Gradually it dawned on her that she could smell smoke from a cheroot. She glanced down the verandah and saw Mr. Drummond loafing as she was, his hips resting on the balustrade. He was attired all in black, and he was very still, not moving the slightest inch so it was hard to detect him, but he was there.
For a few minutes, she surreptitiously watched him. To her
consternation, she was eager to call out to him, to chat or shift closer so they could socialize. At her foolishness, she bristled with annoyance.
She didn’t like him and wouldn’t further an acquaintance. He had wicked intentions toward her family, was cruel and dangerous—probably a criminal—and he was determined to cause trouble. Why would any flicker of interest be ignited?
“Will you come to me, Miss Fogarty?” he suddenly said as if reading her mind. “Or should I come to you?”
“You should remain where you are.”
“Why? Will we holler at each other from a great distance? Is that your plan?”
“I’m not about to holler, Mr. Drummond. In fact, I don’t care to speak to you at all.”
“Why is that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I don’t wish to converse.”
She whipped her focus to the dancers, observing as various couples promenaded by. When she glanced at him again, she was irked to note that he’d approached without her noticing, and he was right next to her.
How did he manage to be so stealthy? He was crafty as a large cat, like a snake slithering in so it could strike without warning.
“Why aren’t you dancing?” he asked.
“I don’t like to dance.”
He studied her and scoffed. “Liar. I’m betting you love to dance and that you’re very good at it.”
She wasn’t about to explain her maudlin mood so she changed the subject. “Why are you out here, Mr. Drummond? I could swear I told you to stay away from the party.”
“You were very clear, Miss Fogarty, but let’s review a pertinent detail you know about me.”
“What is it?”
“I never listen to women, and I especially have no desire to listen to you.”
“You’re hurting my feelings,” she sarcastically retorted.
“You keep forgetting that you’re hosting this event with my permission.”
“Oh, yes, you were so benevolent to allow it.”
He scowled. “You don’t believe that I own Kirkwood.”
“No.”
“You should.”
“I don’t.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Need you ask? You’re a stranger who barged in unannounced and insisted you had the right to take over. But so far, you haven’t provided a single piece of evidence that you have any legal authority to be here.”
He shrugged. “As if I’d discuss my authority with a girl like you.”
“A girl? Am I a girl now? Last time you insulted me, you claimed I was a decrepit spinster.”
“Aren’t you?”
She snorted with derision. “Why do I bother talking to you?”
“You’re fascinated by me.”
“Your vanity knows no bounds.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he agreed.
“Why are you always dressed in black?”
“I like to appear sinister and menacing. The dark color helps me intimidate others.”
“I’m sure that’s true, and it definitely works. You seem absolutely sinister to me.”
He abruptly switched topics. “Why isn’t Augusta at the party?”
“I assume she will be. She hates entertaining.”
“The same old shrew, hmm?”
“Don’t disparage my aunt. I won’t tolerate it.”
“I’m not disparaging her. I’m simply stating the facts. She’s a shrew and always has been. You must have told her about me. What was her response?”
Georgina wasn’t about to reveal any of the conversation she’d had with Augusta. She’d written the letters Augusta had demanded she write, but Mr. Drummond had intercepted them. She hadn’t apprised Augusta yet so her aunt was futilely expecting assistance very soon.
If Mr. Drummond knew that, it would only exacerbate his feelings of superiority, would only underscore his sense that he was in charge and in control. And he was in control. She couldn’t stop him or put him in his place, but it wasn’t her job to put him in his place or send him packing. Miles should be the one. Or perhaps Augusta.
But Miles was missing in action and Augusta was completely incompetent.
She stepped away as if to leave. “I’d say it was grand to see you again, but it wasn’t.”
He ignored the gibe. “Any sign of Miles?”
“He should arrive any minute. Then we’ll find out if you’re staying or not.”
He chuckled. “Don’t get your hopes up for a good ending.”
“I have all my hopes up. I hope you wind up in jail for this.”
“For committing what crime?”
“I’m certain—given sufficient opportunity—I can devise a very long list.”
“As I said, don’t get your hopes up.” He pointed to the window where the dancers were still prancing by. “Who is the blond woman in the lavender gown?”
“Portia Smithwaite.”
“She’s a neighbor?”
“Yes, and Miles’s fiancée.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“How long have they been betrothed?”
“Since they were children. Her mother and Aunt Augusta are friends, and they arranged it decades ago.”
“Interesting…”
He was scrutinizing Portia so intently that she was unnerved by it. “Why is Portia interesting?”
“She’s another thing I can take from your cousin.”
“You’d take his…fiancée? How would you?”
“When he’s dispossessed and rendered penniless, why would she continue her engagement?”
“You think she’d switch to you instead? That’s awfully fickle. Why would you pick someone so capricious?”
“I’m very rich, and your cousin isn’t. A female like Miss Smithwaite doesn’t need to be very adept at mathematics to figure out the consequences that such a situation can produce.”
Georgina stared up at him, and he coolly stared back.
Throughout their brief acquaintance, she hadn’t wanted to believe his story about Miles and the foreclosure, but with a sinking heart, reality settled in.
“You’re not lying, are you?” she asked.
“About what? About Miles and Kirkwood? No. Why would I?”
“But…if you own everything, what are we to do?”
“What would you like to do? I’m not a cruel man. If you could wrangle any conclusion for yourself, what would it be?”
“Could we buy it back from you?”
“Buy it…back?” He looked stunned, and he laughed. “No.”
She must have seemed particularly glum because he moved very close and laid a comforting hand on her waist. She was so distressed that she didn’t shake him off.
“Why would you care what happens to Miles?” he said.
“He’s family, and this is my home.”
“I have it on good authority that you’ve kept him afloat for years, that it’s all been your diligent effort that has held things together.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“From the servants. Where would you suppose?”
“Maybe I should remind them to be more discreet.”
“They’re not your servants to order about.”
“They are—until Miles tells me differently.”
He smiled, but it was a smile of commiseration, like an older brother learning that she’d just had her heart broken by an unworthy beau.
“What if I told you that you could remain at Kirkwood after the others depart?”
“Remain in what position?”
“Well, you couldn’t be my estate agent. I’ve offered the post to Kit Roxbury.”
The announcement was like a knife in the chest. If he’d had a real knife, if he’d stabbed her with it, she couldn’t have felt anymore wounded.
“It’s not his job,” she complained. “It’s mine, and I’m extremely capable. You’ve admitted that I am. You can’t give it to him.”
“I already have. You could stay on though—bu
t in another role. We could probably devise an acceptable arrangement.”
“What are you talking about?”
To her astonishment, he leaned down and brushed his lips to hers in a very light, very brief kiss. She hadn’t expected it, hadn’t seen it coming, and it occurred so quickly that she didn’t react.
“You’re very pretty, Miss Fogarty,” he murmured as he had out on the road.
The timbre in his voice shocked her. So did his sudden regard. He was displaying a great deal of tenderness and masculine attention, as if he was smitten, as if he’d like a much more intimate association.
“I have no idea why you’d say that to me.”
“Don’t you?”
“No.”
He wedged her into the balustrade so his body was pressed to hers in a way that was thrilling and disturbing. She put her palms on his chest and eased him back.
“Why couldn’t I work for you?” she asked. “I’ve been a terrific estate agent for Miles. Let me prove myself to you.”
He smiled again, and this time he was more cocky, more preening. “I might permit you to work for me, but it wouldn’t be as my estate agent.”
“In what capacity then?”
“You know in what capacity.”
His lazy gaze wandered down her torso, and because she’d had so few amorous experiences, he was able to meander to her toes and back up before it dawned on her what he was proposing.
Her jaw dropped. “You’re requesting an…illicit liaison?”
“Yes.”
She’d never been more scandalized. “Why would you?”
“You won’t have many options after I boot the Marshalls out of here, and a woman like you only has one thing to offer to a man like me.”
“An affair? You’re suggesting I engage in an affair?”
“Why not? As I mentioned, you have no options, and it would certainly liven up this godforsaken place.”
“You think I’d be amenable? Why would you assume so?”
“I’ve always found that when a person is desperate, when a person doesn’t have any choices, many deplorable deeds become palatable. Even an affair with a rogue like me.”
Her ears were ringing, her pulse racing. She was astounded and insulted and enraged.
Rendered speechless, she yearned to hurl a hundred slurs as to his debauched character, but instead she slapped him as hard as she could. Then she whirled and ran, and she didn’t stop running until she was in her room, the key firmly spun in the lock.