Heiress in Love (Ministry of Marriage Novels)

by Christina Brooke

  Trent looked from deVere to Montford and back again. “Well, I…”

  “Aye, he has an interest,” growled deVere. “I’ll not let That Woman get the drop on me again.”

  Montford potted his ball with an elegant carom off the side of the table, then looked up. “And what does Mr. Trent say to that?”

  Trent reddened. “As to that, Your Grace, my interest was fixed well before my lord deVere had anything to say in the matter.”

  “Ah, so yours is a long-standing regard?”

  Trent turned white, clearly realizing the trap into which he’d fallen. “No!” He licked his lips. “Well, of course, Frederick was my greatest friend. I wouldn’t have dreamed … I mean, I’ve always held Lady Roxdale in high esteem. Of course!”

  “Oh, of course.” Montford raised his brows. “You have no need to explain yourself. I understand you quite well, you know.”

  DeVere was impatient. “What the hell does it matter, all this talk of regard? Trent will marry her because he’s my candidate and because I say so, and there’s an end to it!”

  A frown creased Trent’s noble brow.

  Montford said gently, “You don’t think it will be that simple, do you, deVere?”

  DeVere stabbed a finger in Montford’s direction. “It will be that simple because you will make it so! And you!” He turned on his hapless nephew. “What have you been doing to fix your interest with her, hmm? Bit of slap and tickle never goes astray in a case like this.”

  In freezing accents, Montford said, “Might I remind you, you are speaking of a lady?”

  “I haven’t even seen her, much less touched her,” muttered Trent. Explosively, he said, “That blackguard Roxdale has her bewitched! I tried to tell her what he was like but she wouldn’t listen. She won’t even see me.”

  Startled, Montford repeated, “Bewitched?” Jane?

  DeVere grounded the end of his cue stick and regarded his nephew in disgust. “Turned tattletale, did you, you spineless whelp! I’m not surprised she has nothing to say to you.

  “Women,” deVere growled, “like a man who shows her he’ll brook none of her nonsense. A man who takes just a bit more than she’s willing to give.”

  Trent looked uncertain, then glanced at Montford, but the duke merely shrugged. Let Trent dig his own grave, and deVere hand him the shovel. He didn’t believe ham-handed tactics would work with Lady Roxdale, but it was early days. Perhaps Jane needed to be shaken out of her cool complacency.

  Somehow, he doubted that Trent was the man to do it.

  However, they would see.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Lady Arden fingered the curtain of Jane’s sitting room aside. “I hear Montford has arrived at Trent Manor,” she said. The words were idle, uncaring, but tension showed in the lady’s slim shoulders.

  Jane stared at her, disconcerted. The duke? Why hadn’t he written to warn her? When she and Constantine had become engaged, she’d written and asked him to come so that she could break the news of her betrothal in person, yet she felt totally unprepared to deal with him now.

  Lady Arden turned. “My dear, is something the matter? I trust you’re not fretting over whether Montford will approve the match. I daresay he might not have chosen Constantine for you, but he will soon be obliged to admit himself in the wrong. From what I’ve seen, Constantine is taking his new duties very seriously. He told me he will take his seat in Parliament when all is settled here.”

  “Parliament,” murmured Jane. That meant London. A wave of apprehension swept over her.

  “Ah. Here they are.” Unhurriedly, Lady Arden moved away from the window. “The drawing room, I think. Come along, my dear.”

  What Jane really wanted to do was hide under the covers in her bedchamber like a child and wait for the storm to pass.

  She wished Constantine were here. Or no, perhaps she didn’t wish it. He and Montford were sure to lock horns over her.

  In the drawing room, she and Lady Arden sat pretending to embroider while they waited for the gentlemen to be announced.

  “My dear, it will be best if you allow me to raise the subject of your betrothal,” said Lady Arden, setting her work aside. “There will be a to-do, I don’t deny it; certainly now that Lord deVere has seen fit to meddle, there is likely to be a little heat in our exchange.” The lady’s eyes kindled. “But you must not concern yourself. I shall prevail.”

  “Indeed, ma’am.” A craven impulse made her blurt out, “Perhaps it might be best to say nothing about the betrothal at this juncture.”

  “Say nothing? No, no, that would never do. Leave it to me, my dear.”

  With a growing tightness in her chest, Jane waited. Finally, Feather appeared, announcing their guests. Not only Montford, but Lord deVere and Mr. Trent, too.

  The gentlemen bowed; the ladies sank into curtsies. The duke came forward and took Jane’s hands in his. “My dear Lady Roxdale, how do you do? I must apologize. My business kept me in Town longer than I anticipated when I left you.”

  Jane murmured some platitude and the duke turned to Lady Arden. He gave a slight smile. “I might have guessed.”

  She raised her brows. “Indeed, you might.” She fluttered an elegant hand. “Do sit down.”

  Lady Arden engaged in lighthearted small talk with Montford and Trent, ignoring Lord deVere completely. The baron sprawled in a chair that looked far too delicate for his huge frame, his gaze fixed on Lady Arden’s face. He seemed unconcerned by her ladyship’s coldness toward him and disinclined to enter into the conversation.

  Finally, deVere reached out a boot and kicked Mr. Trent, who shot out of his seat. Clearing his throat, Trent turned to Jane. “I’d hoped to ask for your company on one of our old rambles, Jane, but the weather grows ever more inclement. Would you like to take a turn with me in the gallery?”

  Jane glanced at Lady Arden. “What a good idea,” said the lady. “You young people go and enjoy yourselves. The gentlemen and I have dreary business matters to discuss.”

  Eager to escape, Jane rose and curtsied, placing her fingertips lightly on Mr. Trent’s arm.

  Trent didn’t speak until they reached the long, rectangular room where the Blacks of generations past glowered down at them from their gilt frames.

  “Lady Arden is making her home at Lazenby Hall, I see,” he said in a tone of marked disapproval.

  “For the moment, yes,” said Jane. “I am obliged to her ladyship for her company. Circumstances have led me to remain at Lazenby Hall longer than I’d planned.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to inform Trent of her betrothal, but she’d agreed to let Lady Arden break the news, hadn’t she? And in truth, Jane was glad to postpone the inevitable explosion when Trent found out.

  He frowned. “I heard about the particulars of your inheritance from Montford today. A damnable position to place you in, if you’ll forgive me.”

  She was saved from answering him, for Trent stopped short, understandably astonished at the sight of a six-foot-high nose standing in one corner of the room.

  “Good God, what the…” His voice petered out as he examined the new addition.

  “Yes, it does take some getting used to,” agreed Jane. “Lord Roxdale brought it. The provenance is unknown, but he thinks it quite possibly part of an ancient Greek statue. I believe he said he bought it from a smuggler in Rye.”

  Oh, Lord, she was babbling. Anything to keep Trent’s mind from whatever purpose he had in bringing her here.

  “Good God,” he said again. Then he shook his head. “An abomination. I don’t know how he can … But never mind that. Shall we?”

  He indicated a striped satin couch that stood against the wall. Strategically placed, no doubt, so that the person sitting there could admire the portrait of the fourth baron. This particular ancestor had rather the look of Charles II: all rolling black curls and heavy-lidded eyes. In fact, the portrait could have depicted Constantine, if the nose hadn’t been so large and the mouth a little less on the
cruel side.

  “My dear Jane.” Trent regarded her gravely. “I beg your pardon for approaching the matter so suddenly. I’d intended to wait until after you’d preserved a decent period of mourning—”

  Her eyes widened. Was this a declaration? “Dear sir, no! I beg of you—”

  “But I must!” Suddenly fierce, he leaned toward her and gripped her hands. With a wordless cry of protest, she tugged at them to free herself but he didn’t release her.

  “Listen to me!” he said, gripping her hands tighter. “For God’s sake, just listen!” In a low, urgent tone, he said, “Roxdale is a blackguard, but he’s so deuced handsome and charming, none of you can see it! Lady Roxdale—Jane—I care for you for your own sake as well as for Frederick’s. I must speak!”

  “What is this?”

  The words sliced through the air, as cold and sharp as a whip. Jane’s head snapped around. Constantine stood only a few yards away, glowering as fiercely as the first baron in that portrait.

  Never in her life had she been so lost for words. Good God, she surely appeared as flushed and guilty as if she’d been caught with her garters showing. What must he think of her, alone with Mr. Trent, her hands in his? Surreptitiously, she tugged at them once more. Trent’s grip tightened, making it impossible to pull away.

  Head tilted, Constantine studied her for a long, silent moment. Then his regard switched to his neighbor. “I think the lady wants her hands back, my friend.”

  “I’m no friend of yours!” spat Trent, but his grip relaxed as he stood to face Constantine.

  With a wary eye on her furious betrothed, Jane stepped between the two men, a hand slightly outstretched in either direction, as if to keep each of them at bay.

  Not a vestige of his customary smile lurked in Constantine Black’s eyes. The lazy grace that ordinarily characterized his movements had wholly deserted him. His face was hard as Carrara marble, his stance alert and aggressive, with that obstinate chin leading, as if begging to be hit.

  Oh, he was spoiling for a fight. She trusted Trent would not give him one.

  A glance at their neighbor told her his blood ran equally hot. Oh, no! In her experience, once the male of the species began hitting one another, they didn’t stop for anything. The situation called for swift, preventive action.

  “Mr. Trent was just leaving, were you not, sir?” She threw as much haughty command into her voice as she could, which was a considerable amount. She was a Westruther, after all.

  Holding their neighbor’s gaze, Constantine opened his arms wide and stepped clear of the doorway.

  But either Trent had greater confidence in his pugilistic talents than Jane did or he was laboring under a terrific sense of injustice.

  “Lady Roxdale! Are you going to let a shameless libertine dictate to you in this fashion? He is obviously afraid of what I might tell you about him.”

  “Is that so?” Constantine’s eyebrows climbed. “I thought I was afraid you had your dirty great hands on my lady and she didn’t seem to be relishing it above half.”

  His gaze flickered to Jane. “Or have I that wrong?” he said, softly dangerous. “Perhaps it is I who should leave.”

  Her temper flared. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  Trent pointed a finger at Constantine. “You might have cozened her, Black, but you don’t fool me, d’you hear?”

  “I’m sure you can find your way out,” replied Constantine. “Let me know if you require assistance, however.” He smiled, showing his teeth.

  Disregarding the implied threat, Trent lingered. His hazel eyes gazed steadily into Jane’s, as if he could communicate all his knowledge to her through the space between them.

  Slowly, she shook her head. She was willing to believe he had her interests at heart because he’d been Frederick’s greatest friend. But in this, he was misguided. She would not listen to gossip about Constantine from him.

  Jane lifted her chin. “Please go, Mr. Trent. Whatever you have to say, I do not wish to hear it.”

  Trent threw out a hand toward Constantine. “Ask him, then! Make him tell you why he was forbidden this house! Then see if you think he is worthy of you!”

  With a last, venomous glance at Constantine, Trent strode from the room.

  Constantine watched him depart. “The sad thing is, he was born like that,” he commented. “A self-righteous, sneaking prig. Hard to believe his mother’s a deVere.”

  “He meant well.”

  Constantine’s nostrils flared. “Don’t be so bloody naïve.”

  “Sir! I’ll thank you to watch your language.”

  Green eyes blazed down at her. “Why do you think he was holding your hands like that? He wants you.”

  “He was holding my hands because he was trying to make me listen to him and I would not!” Jane couldn’t contain a spurt of incredulous laughter. “The notion he wants me in that way—why, it’s ludicrous! He was Frederick’s dearest friend.”

  Constantine muttered something under his breath about silly little innocents. Then he poked his index finger at her. “Don’t entertain him alone again.”

  “But I—”

  “Did you tell him?” he demanded abruptly.

  “Tell him what?” Her lips parted in bewilderment at this change of subject.

  “That we’re betrothed, of course! Did you tell him?”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I—there was no opportunity…”

  Again, the ice. “I see.”

  There was a long, tense pause. Constantine was pale, breathing hard. He seemed to read all manner of negative things into her omission, but it hadn’t been like that. She hadn’t yet grown accustomed to the idea of … They’d decided to wait until Montford had been informed to make the news public … She’d promised Lady Arden … Any number of excuses came to mind.

  But none of them quite approached the truth.

  His jaw tightened. “I may not be your husband yet, my lady, but I am your betrothed and your protector under this roof. And if that weasel tries again to touch so much as a hair on that pretty head of yours, I’ll rip his damned hands off. Do I make myself clear?”

  Jane stared up at him, bewildered at such heat. Could this be jealousy? Certainly, his fury smacked of a possessiveness that had nothing to do with a gentleman’s duty to protect his betrothed. “I can handle Mr. Trent.”

  He curled his lip. “Looked to me like he was handling you.”

  Jane opened her mouth, then shut it again. She pulled her upper lip between her teeth and released it with an exasperated sigh. “I see there’s no reasoning with you. I concede you are at liberty to bar whomever you wish from this house, but you have no right to censure my conduct or dictate to me about whom I may and may not see.”

  “Stay away from him, or you won’t like the consequences.”

  She said nothing, merely studied the angry lines of his face, a hundred questions running through her mind. Paramount among them was: why did she want so much to believe there was good in this man, the blackest of the Blacks?

  Montford had laid bare the facts of Constantine’s disgrace. No one—not even Lady Arden—disputed what had happened. Yet, why didn’t Constantine’s reprehensible past fill her with disgust?

  Somehow, she knew that whatever Trent meant to tell her, that wouldn’t matter, either. Oh, she was a hopeless case.

  Constantine looked down at her in silence for some moments. His face slowly lost its tightness. The dangerous light died in his eyes and that wry twist to his mouth reappeared.

  He set his shoulder against the wall. “Go on, then. Ask. I’ll tell you whatever you wish to know.”

  She did not like the way this concession had been forced from him. She didn’t want to be his interrogator, with the threat of Mr. Trent’s revelations hanging over his head.

  But the truth was, Constantine owed her an explanation if he expected her to share in his fall from grace. She’d been wandering in a dreamland not to demand one from him before.

  “
Very well, then. What did you do that led my father-in-law to bar you from this house?”

  He stared straight ahead, avoiding her gaze. “I seduced a young lady of gentle birth. When we were discovered, I refused to marry her. And then I nearly killed her brother in a duel over it.”

  It was the same story she’d heard already, yet his cold recitation stung Jane like a slap in the face.

  That was all? At the very least, she’d expected him to produce extenuating circumstances. Perhaps he disdained to do so. Or perhaps he was a scoundrel in truth. Perhaps she was, yet again, grasping at straws because she wanted so very much to believe in his decency.

  Jane sucked in a breath. “Yes, I’ve heard that version. Now I wish to hear yours.”

  His jaw tightened. “There is no other version. I did the deed. I pay the price.”

  She stared at him, and after a moment, she realized she was shaking her head, over and over, in denial.

  A jeering laugh broke from him. “Did you expect I’d been wronged by my family, by society? No such luck, my sweet innocent. There’s no way to whitewash my sins. If you marry me, you will have to take me as I am, not with a spun-sugar coating you’ve woven around me.”

  Jane flinched at his tone. This hard, sneering devil was not the Constantine Black she’d grown to care for. Others had called him scoundrel, but it was a long time since she’d truly thought of him that way. Now, he looked more than ready to play the part.

  A burning sensation sprang up behind her eyes. His words, his mocking tone, made her ashamed of overlooking his crowning sin so blithely. It was, indeed, a heinous one.

  He’d ruined a young lady’s life. Yet, if he’d offered any kind of justification, however spurious, Jane would have clung to it gladly. She’d already woven various self-serving scenarios in her head. Fantasies that painted Constantine as the wronged hero and not the villain of that particular melodrama.

  How pathetic she was.

  In truth, she was not so naïve as to believe a man could change his character. Yet, she’d wagered her happiness on just such a miracle occurring, hadn’t she? Not only by agreeing to marry the Bad Baron, but by growing to care for him, too.