by Gayle Wilson
He held up his hand, palm out, and vowed, “I shall never beat you, Cat. There are better ways to achieve control over a recalcitrant wife than violence. Far more pleasant ways.” There were methods that he’d be delighted to demonstrate to this girl, who was seriously endangering his plans with her stubbornness.
“Really?” she said with a touch of haughtiness, disliking the suggestive undertone of that declaration.
“Marry me, my sweet, and I shall be delighted to demonstrate the controlling power of love.”
“No,” she said simply, returning to the contemplation of the garden that stretched below her in the darkness. “I don’t want to get married. To anyone.”
“But eventually—” he began.
“Not tonight, please. I don’t want to think about that tonight. Go away, Gerald. Let me just enjoy being alone. I have a feeling that the days when I control my own destiny are dwindling, which makes each more precious. My days of freedom may be numbered, but I’m not at your beck and call yet. Nor any man’s. Not yet,” she said with an almost fierce resignation.
Amberton watched the slight heave of the slender shoulders as she took a deep breath, but smiling still, he obeyed.
Let her enjoy the illusion that she had some choice in the matter as long as she was able, he thought. The Season was coming to an end, and her days of freedomwere certainly numbered. Like it or not, Catherine Montfort would have to choose, forced to that decision by the demands of her father and of society. Amberton knew that there was not another of her suitors who enjoyed the rapport he had so carefully cultivated. Soon she, and more importantly her fortune, would be under his control, and there were a few lessons that he would delight in teaching Catherine Montfort, proud and stubborn as she was.
With Gerald’s departure, only the calm of the night sounds and the drifting music from the ballroom surrounded her. Propping both elbows on the stone railing, she interlaced her fingers under her chin and sighed again.
Unbelievingly she heard behind her the sound of a pair of hands slowly clapping. She turned to see a tall figure standing in the shadows at the edge of the balcony.
“Bravo,” the intruder said softly. “A remarkable declaration of independence. I applaud the sentiment, even if I doubt the possibility of your success in carrying it out.”
“How long have you been there?” she demanded.
“I believe you were being pawed. And objecting to it.”
“How dare you!”
“I didn’t. That was Gerald.”
“You were listening to a very private and personal conversation. You, sir, are obviously no gentleman.”
“Obviously,” he said agreeably.
Now that she was over her immediate shock, she had begun to notice details of his appearance. He was far taller than any of the men she knew—over six feet tall. Several inches over, she accurately guessed. And very broad shouldered. Massive, really.
As he moved into the light from the windows, she became aware of bronzed skin stretched tautly over high cheekbones and lean, smoothly shaved cheeks. Dear God, she thought in disbelief, it was the man who had bought the donkey. The man with the eyes—crystal blue and piercing, set like jewels among the uncompromisingly strong angles of his dark face.
She swallowed suddenly, fascinated again by his sheer foreignness. No fashionable cut scattered curls over the high forehead. His black hair was pulled straight back and tied at his nape, the severity of the style emphasizing the spare planes of his face and the strong nose.
She realized that she had been staring. Angry with her display of near country simplicity and still embarrassed at having been caught in such a compromising situation, she turned back to the railing, trying to regain her composure.
The silence stretched, only the muffled strains of the music invading the quietness. She had expected some reaction—an apology for his intrusion, a reminder that they’d met before and that she was in his debt, something. He was certainly not responding as Amberton or any of her other courtiers would have reacted to her very deliberate lack of attention.
Almost against her will, she turned back to face him. He was standing exactly as he had been before, watching her with those strangely luminescent eyes. Those damnably beautiful eyes. Even as she thought it, she wondered what was happening to her. She was surely sophisticated enough not to fall tongue-tied at the feet of a stranger because he had blue eyes.
“I’d like to talk to you,” he said. The accent was marked, and she wondered why she hadn’t been aware of it when he’d spoken from the shadows. Probably because she’d been too mortified by the idea that he’d witnessed Amberton’s attempted lovemaking.
“If I don’t want to talk to Gerald, who is a very old friend, it should be obvious that I don’t wish to talk to you.”
“I’m not Gerald,” he said, unmoving.
“I beg your pardon?” She had gaped at him like the veriest schoolroom miss. Yet she didn’t intend to be treated like one.
“I’m not Gerald,” he repeated obligingly.
“I know what you said. I didn’t mean that I didn’t hear you. I meant…”
He waited politely for her explanation. His hands were relaxed at his sides; his face perfectly composed.
“I meant I don’t knowwhy you said that—that you’re not Gerald. Obviously you’re not Lord Amberton.”
“My name is Raven,” he said calmly.
“Mr. Raven,” she said sweetly, acknowledging the information. Raven? What kind of name was Raven?
Raven inclined his head, not the least bit taken in by her politeness. She was certain by now to be wishing him in Hades.
“Go away,” she responded, turning once more to the railing.
Behind her she heard his soft laughter. He was laughing at her. Whoever he was—whatever he was.
“I’m not accustomed to gentlemen who refuse to do as they’ve been requested,” she said with frigid politeness.
“I didn’t imagine you were,” he said reasonably. “However, I have some business to discuss with you. I believe that this is an opportunity I may not be offered again.”
She could still hear the amusement in the deep voice.
“Business?” she repeated, turning once more to face him. “I assure you that I do not discussbusiness with strange men.”
“But I’m not a stranger. We’ve met before. I thought you might remember.”
“Of course I remember. I believe that Idid thank you for the donkey. And now, I really must insist that I be left alone. If you would be so kind.” She didn’t understand why she was trying to drive him away. She was honest enough to admit that his image had intruded frequently in her brain during the days since their first encounter. She had even envisioned meeting him again, but not while baring her soul on a dark and isolated balcony where no well-brought-up young lady should be found.
“I have a proposition to offer you,” Raven said, completely unperturbed by her repeated attempts to dismiss him.
She turned back to face him, appalled beyond words, feeling her skin flush hotly. He had witnessed Gerald’s very improper embrace and apparently believed that she would entertain…
“My father will have you horsewhipped,” she threatened.
The line of his lips tilted upward at the corners. “Notthat kind of proposition,” Raven corrected. “And I’m shocked that a gently reared young woman would believe that I’m about to offer her carte blanche. Iam surprised at you.” He made a smalltsking sound, shaking his head. The anger he’d felt watching the blond Englishman hold her was beginning to dissipate. She was obviously not the kind of flirt he’d feared when he’d followed the pair from the crowded ballroom.
“What do you want? Please state yourbusiness and then go away,” Catherine ordered. “You have the manners of a barbarian.”
“American,” he admitted pleasantly, knowing that she was probably correct—at least by her standards.
“Ah,” she said, giving him a mocking smile of agreement. �
��That explains so much.” American. No wonder he was unusual.
“I hope so,” Raven replied graciously, as if there had been no trace of sarcasm in her reply. “I’m not very familiar with the apparently intricate courtship rituals of your circle. So forgive me if I fail to say all that’s proper. I’m a man who believes in cutting to the heart. I’d like you to marry me.”
Despite her genuine sophistication, Catherine’s mouth dropped open slightly. She made a small strangled sound and then, controlling her shock, began to laugh, in honest amusement that he should believe he could appear out of the shadows—a stranger with all the panache of a red Indian and the physical presence of a prizefighter—and offer her marriage.
Raven made no outward reaction to her amusement. He hadn’t expected her to laugh, despite the fact that she knew nothing about him. Few people ever laughed at John Raven. If nothing else, his sheer size was too intimidating. But, he remembered, Reynoldshad tried to warn him.
The American waited with only a calm patience evident in his features. Eventually her laughter began to sound a little forced, even to her own ears, and she allowed it to die away.
His lips lifted slightly in what she was beginning to recognize as his version of a smile. A mocking smile.
“I’m glad I’ve amused you. I imagine you haven’t found an occasion for such a prolonged bout of laughter in months.”
“Youare amusing,” she taunted, knowing he’d seen through her. Could he possibly realize how he’d affected her at their first meeting? She forced sarcasm into her voice. “I can’t tell you how deliciously ridiculous I find you. And your suit. Quite the most unconventional suitor I’ve ever had, I assure you.”
“At least I’m not boring you,” he suggested softly.
She realized with surprise that he wasn’t. She was not— definitely not—bored and had not been for the last few moments.
“There are worse things than boredom,” she retorted mockingly, unconscious that she was repeating Amberton’s statement, which John Raven, of course, had certainly overheard.
“I doubt it,” he responded, exactly as she had. “At least we agree on something.”
“I would imagine that’s the only thing we are ever likely to agree on,” she said, opening her fan and moving it gracefully.
His eyes watched the play of her hands a moment and then lifted to study her features. He’d never seen a woman as beautiful. Despite her coloring, there was no scattering of freckles across the small, elegant nose. The long lashes that surrounded the russet eyes were much darker than the auburn hair. Almost certainly artificially darkened, he realized in amusement.
Catherine was glad of the covering darkness that hid the slight flush she could feel suffusing her skin at his prolonged examination. Her acknowledged beauty, which had been her heritage from her mother, had attracted the usual masculine attention, but he was tracing each individual element of her face as if he were trying to memorize them.
“And I believe there are other, more important considerations about which we are in agreement,” he said finally, the piercing crystal gaze moving back to meet her eyes.
“Such as?” she asked indifferently.
“Such as the idea that a woman need not be at the beck and call of her husband. That she should enjoy a great deal of personal freedom. With a few necessary limitations, of course.”
You have nothing to offer the girl that she doesn’t already have, Reynolds had told him, but Catherine Montfort herself had given him a key, an inducement that might tempt her to consider his proposal. She had said that she wanted freedom, and perhaps, if he promised her that…
“Of course.” She smiled tauntingly. “But there are those limitations—those verynecessary limitations.”
“I’m offering you almost unlimited wealth. Enough money to become the most fashionably dressed woman in London. You’ll have your own household, furnished and staffed exactly as you desire. An unlimited account for entertainment. And the more lavishly you entertain, the better it will suit me. Jewels, horses, carriages, travelwhatever appeals to you will be yours to command.”
She smiled again, almost in sympathy at his naiveté. “And if I told you that I already enjoy all of those enticements? What do you have to offer that I don’t already possess?”
He studied her upturned face a moment. “Freedom,” he said again, and laughing, she simply shook her head. “Freedom from being courted by men you abhor,” he continued, as if she’d made no response. “Freedom from society’s restrictions. Freedom from your father’s demands for a grandson.”
“Ah,” she said, mocking again, “but to achieve that particular freedom…” She let the indelicate suggestion fade.
“I don’t need a mistress,” Raven responded softly. “What I need is a hostess.” She wanted his assurance that he didn’t intend to make physical demands on her, and although her rejection of that aspect of his proposal had not occurred to him before, he knew that he would do whatever was necessary to ensure that Catherine Montfort would be his. Even if it meant restraining for a time his very natural inclinations to do exactly what Lord Amberton had been attempting moments ago.
A platonic marriage was definitely not what John Raven had in mind, but he was a very patient man. He had been carefully trained in that stoic patience since childhood. He could wait for what he wanted, for the kind of relationship he intended to have with this woman.
At his rejection of her taunt, Catherine was surprised to feel a tinge of regret.Good God, she thought, examining that emotion.Why the deuce should it matter to me if he has a dozen mistresses? A hundred mistresses.
“Then how should I answer my father’s demand for a grandchild?” she asked. “Or will your mistress handle that, too?”
“Our marriage would answer for a time. And eventually—”
“Eventually?” she interrupted, smiling at the trap he had created for his own argument.
“He’ll decide you’re barren or unwilling to share my bed—whichever version you prefer to put about. I assure you I couldn’t care less.”
She hid her shock at his matter-of-fact assessment of her father’s probable reaction. “You won’t require an heir for this unlimited wealth you intend to put at my disposal?”
“Eventually,” he said again, as calmly as before, the blue eyes meeting hers. “But you may take as long as you wish before satisfying that desire.” The word hung between them, its sexual connotations implicit in the context of their discussion. “You will surely begin to feel maternal stirrings before I require you to carry on my family line,” he continued. “After all, I believe you’re only eighteen. Or was Amberton wrong about that, too?”
“And how old are you?” she wondered aloud.
“I’m thirty-four,” he said.
Almost twice her age. Older by several years than most of the eligible suitors who had approached her father. Except, of course, for the highly unsuitable—like the Earl of Ridgecourt, on the lookout for his fourth wife, someone to preside over his shockingly full nursery, the production of its inhabitants having brought a swift and untimely end to his first three wives.
“Why do you need a hostess?” she asked. She didn’t understand why she felt such freedom to delve into the intricacies of the patently ludicrous proposal he’d made. Maybe it was his willingness to discuss any aspect of his plan with her, despite its nature. He didn’t seem to be shocked by her questions. On the contrary, he had treated them as legitimate attempts to solicit information necessary to make her choice.
“I’ve already made investments in British industry—”
“What kind of investments?” she interrupted.
“Coal,” he said, thinking with pleasure of the mines that were already producing a far greater tonnage than he had thought possible when he’d bought them.
There was a spark of something in the crystalline depths of his eyes, and she could hear the same quality of possessiveness in his deep voice that one sometimes heard in the voices of w
omen discussing their jewels or, more rarely, their children.
“I buy coalfields,” he continued.
“Why?”
“So I can build railroads from them.”
When Catherine shook her head slightly in confusion, he smiled that small, controlled smile. “Coal is going to fuel what’s beginning to happen here, and the man who controls the coal…” His explanation faded away and he simply watched her face.
“You’ve made investments in coalfields and railroads?” she questioned carefully. Again she felt a sense of unreality that she was standing in the darkness with a stranger discussing coal.
“And foundries. To make iron. However, most of the men who will be instrumental in deciding on the direction British industry will take in the next few crucial years belong to the circle you frequent. I need to talk to them, to influence them in ways that will increase the value of my investments. But I have no access to those men. I need a wife who does.”
“What men?” she asked, interested despite herself. There was some strange compulsion in listening to his deep voice.
“Men like your father. Men of power and influence. The men who control the House of Lords. Who control the land and property of this country.”
“Men like that don’t discuss business over the dinner table,” she told him seriously, falling in with his fantasy.
“And after dinner? Over their port and cigars? With the ladies safely out of the way?” Raven questioned. It was what Reynolds had told him.
“Perhaps,” she was forced to admit.
“But first…”
“First they must agree tocome to dinner.”
“Yes,” he said simply.
She studied the lean, harshly defined planes of his face.
“I can’t marry you,” she said finally. She paused, thinking about all he’d offered. “Even if…” She carefully began again, wondering why she was making an explanation. It was almost as if he had constrained her to consider his proposal seriously. “Even if I wanted to.”