The elderly Edith, ever round and jovial, had adorned herself in vivid pinks and another frivolous hat that had seen better days, a sharp contrast to Vema’s muted blue sari and quiet ways. A sedate bun held the Punjabi woman’s glossy black hair secure at her nape, the perfect foil for skin the color of well-creamed coffee. While living with her cousin’s family in Delhi some ten years past, Edith had met Vema. They’d been fast friends since.
Though she loved them both, Maddie was in little mood for gossip this morning, the usual accompaniment to the meager breakfast fare at Ashdown Manor. As Maddie tried to tip-toe out of the room, Edith looked up.
“Dear child, do come and join us.”
“No, I merely—”
“Nonsense,” insisted Edith. “You must come in and sit.”
Escape was impossible now. Knowing her aching head would have to endure the ladies’ well-meaning chatter and sage advice, Maddie ambled into the room and sat at the table with a repressed sigh. Vema flashed a mysterious smile.
“I hear you had a gentleman caller last eve. Gads, not a new creditor, I hope!” Edith perched her straw hat decorated with flowers and bees in flight upon her head just so.
Despite the seriousness of the topic and her headache, Maddie suppressed a rueful smile at her aunt’s peculiar garb.
“Naughty girl! Do you laugh at my charming hat?”
Maddie searched for a diplomatic response. “Merely thinking that such adornment suits you.”
Edith primped the gray hair beneath her bonnet. “Indeed, though I’ve had it for some years, I still find it just the thing.” Her softly lined face turned serious again. “Now, you must tell us of your caller.”
Knowing the woman wouldn’t cease until she pried the truth from her, Maddie confessed, “It was Brock Taylor.”
Aunt Edith was speechless for fully thirty seconds, an unparalleled feat. “The Brock Taylor? Your Brock—”
“The very one,” Maddie broke in before Edith could finish the distasteful thought that somehow Brock belonged to her. “He bought the remainder of Colin’s debt and says he will forgive it—if I agree to wed him.”
“Shocking!” Edith exclaimed, though her smirk was not altogether appalled. “When is the wedding, dear?”
Incredulity swept through Maddie. “I cannot wed him. You are no stranger to my past with that beast, and now he wants me for some manner of prized mare he can parade about the ton. It is not to be borne.”
“And if you refuse him...?”
Reaching for a cup, Maddie pretended interest in pouring tea. She hated confessing her situation to Edith and Vema, and despised Brock for putting her in the position of explaining why she would refuse the logical but outlandish proposal.
“If I refuse, he’s threatened to see me in debtor’s prison, but—”
“Scandalous!” Edith looked well and truly shocked.
“But,” Maddie continued through gritted teeth, “I am determined to find another way to repay him. I will not endure the parson’s trap with so ruthless a cad.”
Colin had been trying enough. Cold fish, he had called her, along with less polite names that had shamed and incensed her. And that had been the least of his crimes.
He had married her fully aware of her past with Brock Taylor. Colin had known that she did not love him. Despite that, he had vowed he would be content in their marriage. Two terrible years had shown her otherwise. Her husband’s death had brought only guilty relief that her ordeal had ended.
Through her disastrous union, she’d learned that marrying meant a complete legal surrender of both possessions and body, even her daughter. It was too steep a price to pay to clear her debts. Wedding Brock, a man who had already proven himself without scruples, would be an unthinkable mistake. And if he were to learn the truth about Aimee...
“Dear girl, where will you find the means to repay him? They are not within our reach. I fear you must wed him.”
Maddie absorbed her aunt’s declaration like a kick to her middle. “You’re advising me to marry the man who left me so dishonorably, after taking money from my father and making promises he had no intent to keep? His abandonment is the reason I wed the despicable Colin, if you recall.”
Edith patted her hand. “Mr. Taylor is offering marriage now. He has the funds to keep you well and the ability to keep such funds coming.”
Maddie frowned. Pragmatism from the woman who epitomized frivolity?
“Besides,” Edith went on, “Aimee is his daughter.”
“A fact he must never discover.”
God only knew how ruthless he might be then. Although he had taken money to abandon her and used it to seek fortune, Maddie feared the Brock she had encountered last night would be beyond furious that she had not told him she’d conceived, regardless of the fact that she’d had little notion where to find him. She could not give Brock additional leverage to use against her. With his financial power, he could easily convince a judge that he should have sole custody of Aimee. Courts favored the rights of fathers. She would never prevail, should he attempt to separate her from Aimee.
Panic gripped Maddie like a white-knuckled fist about her throat. Having her daughter ripped away by a rake who didn’t love the little girl would crush her. And terrify Aimee.
Maddie glanced at her aunt and found mischief sparkling in her eyes. Unease prickled along her spine.
“No, Aunt Edith. He cannot know about Aimee. Colin and I went to great lengths to have Aimee’s official birth date recorded as a full six weeks later than actual. We wanted no hint of scandal attached to her.”
“There is a Hindu saying,” began Vema in her soft, sing-song voice, “‘All things we desire but do not have are found when we enter that space within the heart; for there abides all desires that are true, though covered by what is false.’”
Maddie stared at the Indian woman. “You believe I secretly love this man but have convinced myself I do not?”
“If not, why have you never shown interest in another man, even your own husband?” countered Edith.
“Because I learned my lesson the first time.”
Edith’s expression chastised her. “Come now, you are far too young to put yourself on the shelf. Admit that you have always cared for Mr. Taylor.”
Her headache now beating with a vengeance, Maddie stood. “Both of you have gone mad. Well and truly mad. If I wanted another husband, I would certainly find a man other than Brock Taylor.”
“Perhaps.” Edith eyed her shrewdly. “But in my long life, I’ve discovered that the more one protests, the more she desires what she denounces.”
Desire Brock? Maddie had wanted the terrible man at one time, true. After he left her five years ago, it had seemed forever before she could think of anything or anyone but him, much to Colin’s irritation.
Today, she wanted him gone. Forever.
Maddie glared at the two women, a suspicion taking root in her mind. There was one thing this duo loved even more than gossip, and she would not stand for it.
Thrusting her hands on her hips, she stared at them both. “Save your matchmaking schemes for another. I cannot and will not marry that man!”
Edith merely smiled, blue eyes deceptively innocent. “Whatever you say, my dear.”
#
Afternoon cast the brightest of spring rays through Maddie’s parlor window when she slammed her account book shut. If throwing the slim volume against the wall would have netted her different sums, she would have cheerfully succumbed to the temptation.
Weariness making her ache, she rose from her chair, stretching her neck to ease hours spent hunching over her dwindling accounts. Aimee needed new dresses, and though she was hard on her clothes, Maddie couldn’t bring herself to chastise the girl. Her daughter deserved childhood innocence, as much freedom from the cold reality of their finances as Maddie could provide.
Edith’s small stipend of fifty pounds a year from her late husband, Mr. Bickham, helped a bit. That, along with the two hundre
d pounds per year provided by the farmlands her father had left her in Warwickshire, barely kept them with life’s necessities.
Anxiety gripped her. Brock’s offer would solve so many problems—but create others that were both permanent and dismaying.
At a knock upon the door, Maddie called out, “Yes?”
“Matheson, my lady,” came the servant’s crisp voice through the door. “Mr. Taylor has come to call.”
Apprehension and anger, along with something fluttery she refused to name, raced through her. How dearly she would love to instruct Matheson to send Brock away, but she must persuade him to compromise and agree to some settlement of her debts without marriage. She had to make him understand that she would not succumb to his demands.
Her headache returned. “Show him in and leave us.”
“Very good, my lady.”
The quiet click of the door moments later unnerved her. She glanced up to find her nemesis hovering just inside the room, his sharp gaze completely focused on her.
For a heartbeat, Maddie could not breathe. The room and its tattered drapes faded away until only Brock remained. The low buzz in her ears intensified the hum of awareness swirling throughout her.
It wasn’t the clothing that made him, though the superior cut of his dark coat enhanced his air of power. Nor was it the sheen of his slightly askew mahogany hair. But those potent green eyes captured her. Held her. Made her remember his kisses, the touch of his hands, his fervent whisper of ardor as he seduced her out of her clothes and joined their bodies, giving her a rush of pleasure.
Drawing in a shaky breath, she shoved the memories aside and set her gaze over his strong Roman nose, the stark blades of his cheekbones, his square chin. His skin no longer looked berry-brown but would never be pale enough to please the ton. As her gaze strayed down, she remembered the warmth of his broad, muscled chest, the thrill she’d felt when he held her.
Admonishing herself, Maddie met his gaze squarely. “You gave me a week to decide my fate. Why have you come now?”
A wry smile curled his mouth upward. “I see you’re pleased by my call.”
Of course she wasn’t pleased. However, she must tread cautiously.
Gesturing to the Louis XIV sofa, Maddie seated herself on the farthest armchair, wondering how best to proceed. “Mr. Taylor, in light of our...improper past and our differing lives, I wonder if we might come to some other mutually pleasing arrangement.”
“By the improper past, I assume you mean the fact that we were lovers. But, I confess, the differing lives part confounds me. Are you referring to our differences in social standing?”
She was, but the razor edge of his voice warned her that admitting it would incite his ire.
“Or perhaps we could negotiate.” She dodged his question. “I could repay you over a longer period of time. As a gesture of good faith, I can give you thirty pounds now.”
Not for anything would she tell him that was nearly every penny she had left, save that necessary for food. The rest of the money would come from somewhere. Later, she would figure out where.
“I don’t want you to call me Mr. Taylor, Maddie. Nor do I want your thirty pounds.”
“But—”
“Even if you repaid me the six thousand, seven hundred eighty-three pounds and twenty pence we established you owe me, and you paid it over five years at five percent interest, you would owe—” he paused, clearly calculating in his head— “one hundred twenty-eight pounds each month, give or take a pence.”
Icy shock paralyzed her. One hundred twenty-eight pounds? She would owe Brock half of her annual income every month? She, Aimee, Edith, and Vema had lived on little more than that all of last year. How would she ever produce such an enormous sum so often?
“I can repay you over ten years.”
“No, you couldn’t afford it even then. Keep your thirty pounds.” He cast a disparaging glance at the faded lavender morning dress she wore. “Visit your modiste.”
Stinging at his slur, she lashed back. “I have no intention of marrying you, so you should take my thirty pounds. It will afford you some satisfaction.”
Brock leaned back against the sofa, stretching out like the lord of the manor, complete with a confident smile and a hot stare. “Your…company is far more satisfying than you know.”
She stiffened. “I’ve no intent to satisfy you any way but monetarily, Mr. Taylor.”
“You have six days to consider my proposal of marriage. In the interim, you must allow me a proper chance to court you.”
Court her? Brock had always been a clever boy. Who knew what charming lies the ruthless man would be capable of?
Though he’d cited business as the primary reason he wished to wed her, Maddie felt certain he had far more personal feelings about this match. The banked fire in his eyes and his carefully chosen words hinted of ulterior motives. None of it matched his angry tone when he called her Lady Wolcott. Why should he be cross about her marriage to Colin? Brock had abandoned her, not the other way around. And she’d rather slit her throat than admit that his rejection had crushed her. Worse, any discussion of their past could too easily lead them to the subject of Aimee.
Cautiously, Maddie rose. “I don’t wish to be courted. Allow me to give you my thirty pounds.”
His faintly sexual smile fell, replaced by false regret. “I’ve already given you my terms, Maddie. It’s hardly in my best interest to extend this loan, and you have nothing with which to bargain.”
She scowled, hating these games. Hating him. “You know I cannot pay you.”
“Courting it is.” He sounded terribly pleased by that fact. “I shall pick you up tomorrow evening for the theater. I have a box at the Adelphi.”
He rose and approached on silent steps. Maddie resisted the urge to back away. Then Brock clasped her hand, his grip rife with warmth and strength as he lifted her fingers to his mouth.
Before she could brace herself, he pressed those firm, full lips to her fingertips, his green gaze gleaming with mischief. Awareness shot up her arm in a warm tingle, all the way to her belly, where it spread through the rest of her body with alarming speed, settling right between her thighs to create a shocking ache. Maddie tore her hand away.
Brock merely smiled. “I shall anticipate tomorrow night.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Taylor.” She stepped back, hoping her voice didn’t sound as breathy as it felt.
“Until tomorrow, sweet girl.” Brock crossed the room and opened the door.
As he did, a tiny blond tornado hit him with the gale force of a gallop. With one hand, she held a stick with yarn attached steady between her chubby legs. She carried a paper sword with the other. Sporting two swinging braids and gray eyes just like Maddie’s, he knew this must be her daughter.
“Aimee!” Maddie’s gaze darted between himself and the girl. “You should be upstairs sleeping.”
“Only babies nap. I’m a knightess,” the child proudly proclaimed.
Intrigued, Brock bent to the child. “A knightess? That does sound important.”
“I am Aimee. Who are you?”
The girl had already mastered haughty. He laughed.
“Brock Taylor.” He extended his hand for the girl to shake.
Instead, she grimaced, nose scrunched. “I will rid this house of you, evil knight.”
“Evil, am I?”
She nodded her little blond head with conviction. “You made Mama mad.”
Brock heard Maddie’s embarrassed gasp, and he chuckled again.
“Aimee,” Maddie said. “We do not insult strangers. Apologize, please.”
“So it’s no faux pas for you to call me evil because you know me?” Brock teased and was rewarded with a pink splash of color upon Maddie’s cheeks.
“I challenge you to a joust,” the girl declared to Brock.
“And should I win, do you promises to stop calling me evil?”
“Aye,” answered Aimee, chin raised.
“If I should los
e?”
“To the dungeon!”
Brock suppressed a smile. He’d wanted to dislike Viscount Wolcott’s offspring, but the girl was too cute.
“Aimee,” Maddie cut in, tone warning. “Leave Mr. Taylor alone.”
“But I can defeat this bl-blackc... What did you call him, Mama?”
“Blackguard?” Brock supplied helpfully.
“That’s it,” Aimee pronounced, prancing on her makeshift stick pony.
Brock glanced Maddie’s way, only to find her shielding herself from embarrassment with a palm over her face. He laughed again.
“Well, we can’t have anyone thinking me a blackguard,” he told Aimee. “How shall we joust? Surely not outside with swords?”
“No. That is cold and unsafe.” She shook her head like a chastising parent, as if he ought to know better.
“You do have a point.”
“I hide and you find me,” she explained with a little fist on a little hip.
“Aimee, now is not an appropriate time for this game.” She shot Brock a glare as she stepped between them. “Mr. Taylor was just leaving.”
Brock watched Maddie. She hadn’t exactly welcomed him earlier, but now she wanted him gone desperately, as if she meant to protect the child from him. God, did she think him the kind of villain who would hurt the girl? Perhaps so. He had threatened her with the Fleet. Brock grimaced. He probably should leave, but playing this game might show Maddie that he’d always treat Aimee well.
“And if I cannot find you, I lose?” he asked the girl.
She nodded. “Now close your eyes.”
Maddie cleared her throat and approached the child. “Mr. Taylor is quite busy and does not wish to play right—”
“On the contrary,” Brock broke in. “I would never turn down a delightful game with two such lovely ladies.”
“See, Mama?” Aimee said, then turned to him. “Close your eyes and count to ten.”
“Brock, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Closing his eyes, Brock began, “One, two, three...”
As the counting continued, Brock heard Aimee drop her stick horse on the thin carpet, followed by shuffling and giggling. He found his grin widening.
Shayla Black Page 3