Chapter 3
The following morning, Bella pushed aside the black mourning gown in her wardrobe and chose a walking dress with a muslin overskirt of emerald green. She refused to wear black in her own home when she felt no grief, only a great sense of relief to be rid of a pitiless tyrant. She had no plans to venture into St. Albans and act the grieving widow, and the walking dress was her favorite—not only because the deep color matched her eyes, but because it was one of the few dresses that she had owned before her marriage.
Roger had been obsessed with his wife’s clothing and had chosen each of her gowns. She had not been permitted to select accessories, not even a pair of gloves, without his permission.
After Harriet brushed her hair and arranged it in a knot at her nape, Bella made her way to the breakfast room. She finished her toast and was sipping a cup of tea when she heard the sound of a coach traveling up the graveled drive. Bella rose and rushed to the window overlooking the front of the house.
An impressive black-lacquered coach and team of six came to a stop before the fountain. It was a resplendent conveyance, emblazoned with the crest of the Duke of Blackwood. The matching team of horseflesh stood obediently, their sleek muscles gleaming beneath the morning sun. A liveried footman hopped down and opened the door. The handsome, dark-haired devil of last night alighted and strode confidently up the front steps.
Seconds later the door knocker sounded.
Sweet Lord! He really is a duke!
She felt momentary panic as her mind jumped to the startling truth—he hadn’t lied last evening.
Harriet’s footfalls echoed off the marble vestibule. Composing her features, Bella turned.
“He’s here,” Harriet said, holding out a card. “What do you want me to tell him?”
Bella reached out and took the gold embossed card of the Duke of Blackwood. Her stomach churned with anxiety.
“Please put him in the drawing room,” Bella said.
Harriet’s brow furrowed. “You’d best be careful, Bella. My instincts tell me he’s not a man to be trifled with. Do you want me to stay outside the door?”
Bella touched her sleeve. Harriet was willing to stand outside the door to protect her. Just like she had with Roger, only nothing could have saved her from her spouse. “That won’t be necessary, Harriet. I have the documents. I can handle him.”
Minutes later, Bella made her way to the drawing room. Straightening her spine, she opened the door.
Blackwood was standing at a large window beside a potted palm, looking out at the gardens below, as she entered the room. Hearing the door, he turned.
Unlike their first encounter, today he was immaculately dressed in a well-tailored coat of navy superfine with buff-colored trousers and highly polished black Hessians. In the light of the day, he appeared even taller, and the cut of his coat emphasized his broad shoulders. A lock of black hair fell a little forward onto his forehead, giving him a rakish appearance. But the intense indigo eyes that studied her spoke of a firm inner strength that told her this was no dandy or town fop. He had an air of authority and the appearance of one who demanded instant obedience.
In short, he looked every inch a formidable duke.
He bowed. “Mrs. Sinclair. Shall I properly introduce myself this morning?”
She curtsied. “At least you were gracious enough to knock.”
His full lips curved in a smile. “I decided against using my key. I was afraid of being attacked with another sharp fireplace implement.”
“Tempting, Your Grace.”
To her surprise, his mouth quirked with humor. “I’m shocked to hear you address me by my title, Mrs. Sinclair. Shall we dismiss with the formalities then?”
She nodded curtly. “Let us speak plainly.”
“Very well. Wyndmoor Manor belongs to me. I have the documents to prove it.” He reached for a black leather bag on a nearby settee.
The drawing room, along with most of the house, had come furnished when she purchased it from Sir Reeves. It had been an added incentive since—along with his fortune—Roger had bequeathed all their furniture to the church. Bella had left her marital home with only the pieces that had been in her bedchamber and those that she and Harriet had had the foresight to hide.
Blackwood opened the bag and withdrew a piece of paper, which he offered to her. “This is the deed to the manor, which is officially in my name.”
She took it with a surprisingly steady hand and gazed at the official-looking document. The letters blurred before her. A solitary thought crossed her mind—fate was cruel indeed to bring another man to her doorstep intent on wielding power and authority over her, this time to force her from her home.
She thrust the paper back at him. “This document means nothing to me.”
“Where is your husband, Mrs. Sinclair?”
The question took her off guard. “He’s unavailable.”
“You’re a widow then? Have you nowhere else to go?”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t need anywhere else to go. This is my home.”
“Show me your deed.”
She went to a rosewood sofa table, opened a slim drawer, and withdrew a piece of paper. “I truly did not believe you would show today, but nonetheless, I am prepared.” She handed the document to him.
He studied the deed carefully, and then held it up to the light from the window.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Checking to see if it is a forgery.”
“A forgery!”
“Quite frankly, yes.”
“My deed is true. Yours is the forgery,” she insisted.
“Sir Redmond Reeves made no mention of you,” he said.
“I don’t believe you.”
“If your deed is true, and I’m not admitting that it is, then it seems we were both played as fools. You purchased the property from Sir Redmond Reeves three days prior to me,” Blackwood said.
“Are you saying Sir Reeves sold Wyndmoor Manor to both of us?” she asked incredulously.
“I am.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He could be a swindler. A thief. He may not even be a knight. Perhaps there are others out there with deeds as well,” he said.
Others? Her heart beat rapidly.
Rancor sharpened her voice. “But you said yourself, I purchased it three days before you from Sir Reeves. I am the rightful owner and yours is the invalid deed.”
“Not in the eyes of the law.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“The rightful owner is the first to record the deed,” Blackwood said. “I recorded the deed with the Hertfordshire Registrar the day I purchased the manor. There was no mention of your deed in the books, and I carefully examined them. I questioned the clerk as well, and he was unaware of another owner or resident. So you see the legality of my deed is no longer in question.”
A cold knot formed in Bella’s stomach. She’d had no idea she was expected to record the deed. She had believed all was legal when Sir Reeves had scrawled his signature on the deed and handed it to her. But this man, this duke, was trying to steal her home from beneath her based on a legal technicality that was ethically wrong. She refused to be bullied by him.
She had purchased Wyndmoor Manor first!
Bella stalked forward, glaring up at him. “For someone who claims to have been a barrister for over ten years, you were duped alongside me.”
He flinched, and she suspected she had struck a nerve.
“There is a simple way to resolve our dilemma,” he said. “We have to find Redmond Reeves. He told me he planned on departing Hertfordshire when he sold me the place. Nonetheless, one of the barristers with whom I share my chambers has access to some of the best investigators in the business. I will retain his services to search for Reeves straightaway and see that your money is returned. If he is not found or has spent the money, I will personally reimburse you.”
“Why would you do that?” she asked.
“Th
is manor has great significance to me. It belonged to my father, the old duke, before he recently sold it to Reeves before his death. I intend to reclaim it. That being said, I do not believe it will be difficult for the investigator to locate Reeves. He cannot have gone far, and I will ensure he returns your money.”
Bella did not like the direction he was taking. “To the contrary, Sir Reeves has run off with your money. You should locate him and argue the matter with him.”
He shook his head. “I do apologize for frightening you last night. I’ve noticed you have only one servant here, an elderly woman. I will instruct my servants to assist yours in packing your things.” He looked around haughtily as if he were an appraiser at a foreclosure sale. “I trust it will not take longer than a week. I’m perfectly willing to sleep at the Twin Rams Inn until Reeves is found and your belongings packed.”
She glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes. He had her future meticulously planned and probably never once doubted her cooperation.
Just like Roger.
Were all men so selfish and manipulative?
Fury almost choked her, and her breaths came in ragged gasps. She had spent too many years living in fear, capitulating to the whims of a cruel, controlling man, to fall victim once again. She wanted peace, the freedom to run her own life and resume her writing ambitions, and this isolated country manor offered her the perfect respite.
Every curve of her body spoke defiance as she pointed to the empty stone fireplace. “You can burn your document before you leave. It means nothing to me. I purchased Wyndmoor Manor first. I moved in first. I am the rightful owner. You may have recently inherited your title, but you are no gentleman. You are nothing more than a bully trying to oust a widow from her home. I trust you can see yourself out, Your Grace.”
But the Duke of Blackwood, as he now was, stood unmoving. His eyes narrowed, and a muscle flicked angrily at his jaw.
His voice, though quiet, had an ominous quality. “I think not, Mrs. Sinclair. You are the one that must leave. I had planned on acting the gentleman by residing elsewhere until the matter is resolved in consideration of your reputation. I have since changed my mind. I intend to live here until that time.”
“You’re insane! I’m living here. You are now a duke. Surely you have vast estates to choose from in the country and in London.” She was aware of the faint thread of hysteria in her own voice.
“Yes, that’s true. But as I explained, I intend to reclaim this place. Now I’ll ask you again, do you have anywhere else to go? What of the home you shared with your husband? His family?”
She felt icy fingers travel up her spine. The thought of returning to Plymouth and facing the suspicions and hatred of its townsfolk made her gut clench. “I’m not leaving.”
They glared at each other across a sudden angry silence.
“Then you will have to reside with me until we locate Reeves and retrieve your money,” he said. “Do you truly wish to live with a bachelor? Your reputation will be shredded beyond repair.”
Little did he know, Roger had already successfully destroyed her reputation. Since she never planned to marry again, she cared naught for society’s cruel and unjust opinions.
She met his gaze without flinching. “As I said, you may have inherited a dukedom, but you are no gentleman.”
He stepped forward, appearing tall, broad, and compellingly male. His eyes traveled her face, and he leaned close—so very close—yet he did not touch her. She raised her chin, her eyes flashing with outrage. Then he reached out to finger a wayward auburn curl resting on her cheek, twisting it leisurely between his fingers.
Her heart hammered in her chest. She could smell a hint of sandalwood in his cologne and feel his warm breath on her cheek. She wanted to slap his hand away, resist his unexpected touch, but a ripple of awareness passed through her limbs, upsetting her balance.
Raising her eyes, she was struck by his sardonic gaze, full of challenge and amusement, as if he enjoyed her struggle to maintain her composure and knew his effect on her senses. Knew he exuded a potent sensuality.
She pulled away, momentarily abashed.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, “and I’m no gentleman. I’ve always had a weakness for the fair sex. I seem to find most attractive women irresistible, even widows with tongues that can clip tin. Who’s to say I won’t behave ungentlemanly and pay a nightly visit to your bedchamber should we live under the same roof?”
Shock and embarrassment yielded quickly to fury. “Bastard!” she cursed, not caring how unladylike she sounded. “If you so much as come near my bedchamber, you’ll find me armed with the poker—and I won’t waste my efforts on your skull!”
Grasping her skirts, she spun on her heel and slammed the door on her way out.
Chapter 4
What was it about the woman that made James’s iron-clad control slip? Had he actually threatened to come to her bedchamber? In all his years of debauchery, he had never forced himself on a woman. It had never been necessary. Bella Sinclair had rightfully called him a bastard.
And until recently, he’d believed the same of himself.
James sighed as he stood in the center of the drawing room. Bella Sinclair was a beautiful woman with a glorious shade of auburn hair that matched her volatile temper. When she’d entered the drawing room, head held high, dressed in a gown that accentuated her generous curves, his blood had pounded in his veins. Memories of the night before returned, and he recalled her dark red tresses loose about her shoulders, whereas today her hair was bound in a tight knot. His fingers had itched to pull the pins from her hair and see the true color in the sunlight. Her gown had enhanced her magnificent green eyes, and he suspected she had carefully chosen her attire.
James knew women, knew all their ploys and virtues, and Bella Sinclair had walked into the room with every intention of throwing him off balance.
She had succeeded.
Bloody hell.
He had to put a stop to his carnal thoughts and consider her as an adversary barring him from what he coveted. She was a female, no different from any other, and James had yet to encounter a woman he couldn’t charm and seduce. How difficult could it be to convince her to leave Wyndmoor Manor?
Yet he was not so foolish as to dismiss her entirely. James had always been professional, but aggressive in the courtroom when dealing with his adversaries. It didn’t matter that he was now a duke and a member of the House of Lords. His legal training, his way of life, was an intrinsic part of his nature.
She was a widow, and when he had asked about her previous home and husband, he detected a momentary flicker of fear in her eyes. She’d been quick to conceal it, and another man may have missed the telling signs—her quick gasp, the rapid beat of her pulse at the base of her throat, the slight clenching of her fingers beside her skirts—but not James.
His instincts were well-honed from dealing with a wide swath of humanity—both victim and perpetrator. As a skilled cross-examiner, he had learned to carefully observe witnesses on the stand and not only to listen to the words that came from their lips, but to look for their physical responses.
He had offered to pay Bella Sinclair from his own pocket should Redmond Reeves be found fundless. He had initially accounted her adamant rejection of his offer as hotheaded anger and sheer stubbornness, but his gut told him there was more.
So what was the lovely widow hiding? A married lover, a hostile relationship with a meddling mother-in-law, or an overly aggressive creditor?
James had never been one to enjoy investigative research, yet he could think of nothing more scintillating than digging through layer after layer until he discovered all of Bella Sinclair’s secrets. He was, after all, a seasoned barrister and a notorious lover—and, when he chose to combine his skills, he could be an expert manipulator. If money could not get her to quit the place, then he would woo her into revealing her secrets. Whatever trivial problem she was hiding, he would use to his advantage.
His seduction must be systematic, methodical, and well-planned, his emotions tightly reined the entire time. Just like a trial, the jury must never see his inner turmoil, only a calm, confident barrister in control of his emotions and the courtroom proceedings, no matter what unethical tactics an opponent attempted or what surprising testimony a witness blurted out on the stand.
Confident with his scheme, James chose a chair by the stone fireplace and sat. He studied the drawing room and soon childhood memories returned. There were notable differences in the décor since his last visit years ago. Gone were the Grecian-style furnishings and Wilton carpet. The wallpaper had been changed to a Chinese motif of winding bamboo, and an Oriental carpet covered the floor, yet the room struck a familiar chord in his chest.
Even though he had inherited a vast amount of property throughout the country and a splendid London mansion, this small manor was an inner anchor, a place where he could escape and feel as if he truly deserved the dukedom recently bestowed upon him. The truth was he felt like a fraud usurping his half brother, Gregory, after all these years.
Only at Wyndmoor Manor had James felt like the old duke’s son.
Once a year until he had attended Eton, the duke would send a coach for James at the boarding school where he had resided and bring him to Wyndmoor. Here father and son would hunt, fish, and swim together. No grandmother, no Gregory, just James and the duke. The staff had been kind, and the word “bastard” had never been whispered in its halls. A full week later it would end, and the coach would return James to school.
So why hadn’t the old duke publicly accepted him as his son? According to his grandmother, his father had confessed on his death bed that James was his legitimate child. Then why had he not claimed James during his lifetime? Instead James had spent his youth ostracized by his family, spending Christmas dinners at the homes of friends kind enough to share their tables with a duke’s bastard son.
James had never been one to wallow in self-pity, and he had overcome his need of familial acceptance years ago. He had been driven to succeed, determined never to depend on handouts from his aristocratic grandmother. She, alongside his own father, wanted nothing to do with him publicly. So James had carved his own future and entered his pupilage at Lincoln’s Inn. He had found his calling as a barrister, and the three other barristers he shared his chambers with were more like true brothers to James than Gregory had ever been.
In the Barrister's Bed Page 3