Guilt rifled through him. After taking everything from his uncle, the old marquess had gone after Eve’s land. Shortly afterward, Spencer killed himself, and Bane was partly to blame.
Of course, it didn’t help that Eve would never let him forget it.
Nonetheless, he hated to mention the hitch in her plan. “Amberdeen’s claim is sound. He has estate maps that clearly show his property markers.” The markers revealed that 140 acres of what Eve had thought to be her land actually had been Amberdeen’s all along. Considering the vast amount of acreage they shared between their two properties, 140 acres was a pittance. But family pride was on the line as well.
“I know. I’ve seen them,” she said, her tone short and clipped. “That’s why I asked him what it would take for him to leave things as they are now, as a sort of . . . a settlement.”
Bane didn’t like where this was going. “And?”
“He wants a foal from Gypsy.”
He let out a bark of laughter. The idea was ludicrous. Not one single person of his acquaintance would even suggest a thing. Above all, she was more than just a prized broodmare. “That will never happen.”
Eve swallowed. A clear indication she was hiding something else, but he didn’t pursue it for the moment. There was no use trying to get the whole truth from Eve. It could take ages. He would have to investigate and find out on his own.
“Every time I’ve spoken with Amberdeen, he’s come across as a reasonable man. I’m sure you can offer him something else he wants in return,” he said with a smirk. They both knew that if the only thing Amberdeen wanted from Eve was the land, he easily could have taken the matter to the courts. Besides, Bane had suspected for quite some time that her neighbor wanted a far more amicable relationship with Eve. He doubted it had anything to do with wanting a foal. “A man always has his price.”
She gritted her teeth. “He isn’t reasonable in the least. Which is precisely why you’ll give Gypsy to me when you lose our bargain.”
“It won’t come to that,” he said, determination setting his jaw. “Besides, you said yourself that Amberdeen only wants a foal.”
“If a foal was all he wanted, then he would have gone to you,” she said evenly, losing her patience. “Don’t you see it won’t end there? Therefore, once she is mine, I can dictate the terms with Amberdeen.”
He watched her carefully. Why was she so desperate to have him attend this house party? Was it simply because she wanted him to lose the bet and claim her prize? Or was there was still something he wasn’t seeing? He didn’t like not having the full picture. Then again, there were always ways to go around Eve and speak with Amberdeen himself.
She set her hands on her hips. “For the sake of our bargain, I must have an answer.”
“First,” he began, pausing to drain the last of his second cup, “tell me how you will know if I engage in sexual congress. Plan to have a footman follow me day and night?”
“I have eyes everywhere.” She glanced pointedly toward his bed. “Inside your table drawer is a sheaf of preventatives. I doubt you’re ever without them, as you would never take the risk of begetting a Fennecourt heir.” She looked entirely too smug for his liking.
If her definition of sexual congress involved only activities where he donned a preventative, that left quite a bit of fun she’d overlooked. Then again, her recently deceased husband had been an old man. So perhaps she’d forgotten the fun parts.
Yet it was impossible to see past his need to complete his revenge. His task seemed simple enough.
Perhaps even too simple.
He knew there was a hidden trap, something she refused to divulge. Eve didn’t truly care if he married or not. Pestering him was just another one of her games. Strangely, she found pleasure in reminding him of the tragic circumstances that had led him to vow against marrying or begetting an heir. More than anything, she seemed to delight in his hatred.
Yet when such a reward dangled before him, he’d be a fool not to play her game. Attend a house party and avoid tupping one of the guests for a fortnight? Done.
Surprisingly enough, it was the former that posed the most difficult task. The latter had grown tiresome of late. He never kept a mistress for long, finding it monotonous. Yet for some reason, even random encounters provided nothing more than a few hours of pleasure and were easily forgotten. In fact, the most extraordinary encounter he’d had in recent memory was being petted and kissed by a green girl who hadn’t an inkling about pleasure. Though, she’d had a natural talent for it—that much was certain.
However, because of his skewed perspective and boredom, he’d already decided that a period of abstinence would set him back to rights. Though Eve didn’t know it, she’d given him the perfect excuse.
“Very well. You shall have your bargain. However,” he began, clarifying the terms, “I will draw up a contract stating the details. That way, if you decide they do not suit you and refuse to sign, then I will leave your party and be on my way.” He waited a beat, letting her see the cold determination that had been bred into him. “If that happens, I will remove Gypsy from your stables, refuse to attend your party, and leave you to get out of Amberdeen’s clutches all on your own from that point forward.”
There was no way he could lose.
CHAPTER FOUR
Merribeth stared at the silver lamé behind the glass case. That length of ribbon must have been there before today. After all, she frequented Haversham’s Draper Shoppe at least twice a week. This time, though, it felt like she’d never been here before. In fact, her entire world seemed equally foreign.
“Which one would you choose—the amaranthine or the chartreuse?” Delaney McFarland asked as she stepped forward, obscuring Merribeth’s view of the silver lamé.
She blinked and suddenly Haversham’s came into focus. Ribbon spools filled the far wall, trays of embroidery thread covered tables, and towers of perfectly creased handkerchiefs stood on either side of the counter. From behind copper-rimmed spectacles, the aproned clerk stared at her as he held a length of ribbon in each hand. His stance shifted, indicating he’d been waiting for her response for some time.
Her world was usually in color, some bright and vibrant, others in shades of pastels. Yet today, everything she saw was silver and gray, shadow and light. How many times had she noticed a coal black top hat or coat, or a silver pin winking from beneath the folds of a cravat? Everywhere she looked, her eyes sought comparisons to Lord Knightswold’s hair and eyes, while all the colors she normally noticed went dim.
“Well? Which do you think?” Delaney exhaled her impatience, making Merribeth wonder how many times she’d repeated the question.
“The silver lamé . . .” The words at the forefront of her mind spilled out, unheeded. Too late, she realized that hadn’t been one of the choices. “I mean, the chartreuse, of course.”
Delaney turned her head, the motion setting free several wildly curling auburn tendrils from beneath her stylishly askew periwinkle hat. Her pale violet eyes squinted in disapproval. “For my coloring?”
It was Merribeth’s turn to exhale her impatience. She felt her notorious brow lift. “The amaranthine, then.”
“Ah. There you are,” her friend whispered and tossed a cheeky wink. “I’d wondered where you’d gone.”
Her comment drew Emma and Penelope’s attention away from the selection of new threads. They both looked at Merribeth curiously, as if they’d also noticed her absence of mind on this afternoon’s outing.
Since last night, Merribeth realized, her mind had gone on holiday. That could be the only explanation for what she’d done. She’d lain awake, replaying every aspect of her folly. She didn’t know the woman who’d brazenly pressed her mouth to Lord Knightswold’s, but she certainly wasn’t the same woman standing here today.
She was changed. “I am out of sorts.”
“Then we shall do our very best to put you back in,” Emma said as she sidled up beside Merribeth and linked arms with her. She
grinned in her usual friendly manner, yet there was a certain glow about her ever since she’d married Lord Rathburn only a month ago. It was obvious to anyone who saw her that she was quite splendidly happy.
A brief, unwelcome image of Mr. Clairmore flashed in Merribeth’s mind, where she recalled his expression of supreme joy—or madness. She still wasn’t certain which. Perhaps love was a combination of both. Strange. Although she’d been nearly engaged since she was eighteen, she didn’t know the answer. Lately, her primary feeling was the bitterness over losing five years of plans.
Penelope joined their trio, holding three variations of blue embroidery thread, amusement lighting her eyes. “Back into sorts? I’m not certain anyone would want that either.”
“Yes, I quite agree. Back into sorts sounds much worse than being out,” Delaney said and then turned her attention back to the clerk. “This chartreuse is far too yellow green, as opposed to a greener yellow.”
The clerk blinked at her logic and then looked past Delaney to their trio. After a mere glance to Emma and Merribeth, his gaze settled on Penelope as if seeking commiseration.
“Seems perfectly sensible to me,” Penelope said with a slight shrug that caused her shawl to droop.
Grateful for the distraction her friends provided, ridiculous though the change in conversation may be, Merribeth felt relaxed for the first time all day.
From the moment they’d first met, they’d become the best of friends. It had all started here at Haversham’s. A clerk had mixed up their orders, sending the wrong packages to each of their Danbury Lane addresses. By the time they’d set matters aright and discovered their common interests—needlework as well as their statuses as wallflowers—they’d become fast friends.
Merribeth knew she’d never have survived Mr. Clairmore’s betrayal without them.
With a laugh at the clerk’s discomfort, Delaney said, “Oh, go ahead and give me that horrid chartreuse as well. I’ll give it to Miss Pursglove as a peace offering the next time I incur her wrath by acting like myself instead of a soldier of decorum.”
Merribeth exchanged looks with Emma and Penelope. Delaney was impulsive to a fault, and there was no reining her in—not that they’d ever want to. To them, she was quite perfect just the way she was. However, to her decorum instructor, the dour Miss Pursglove . . . well, there was no hope to gain her good opinion. Not that Delaney wanted it. No, in fact, she was guaranteed permanent placement on Miss Pursglove’s vexation list. New battle lines were drawn between the two of them daily.
“What length would you like in the silver, Merribeth?” Delaney asked, as the clerk set about wrapping the ribbon in brown paper and string.
“I am not interested in the silver,” she lied.
Delaney made a passable attempt at intimidation with the lift of her brow. “I beg to differ. You were practically ogling the entire spool.”
“Ogling,” Merribeth scoffed—which might have been convincing if not for a wave of heat rising to her cheeks. “If you’ll recall, I’m going out of town and will have no need of it.”
With Merribeth’s meager allowance, she couldn’t afford it anyway. Even though Delaney could, as a matter of personal pride, she didn’t want her friend to buy it for her. Besides, her friend would want to see what she chose to create with it, and all Merribeth wanted to do was hold it in her hands and stare at it for hours, remembering the heated shimmer in a certain gentleman’s gaze.
“Don’t remind me,” Delaney huffed, dropping her new purchase into her periwinkle reticule before cinching the silver cords. “I hope you know, you are leaving me to face the wolves alone.”
“Oh dear,” Merribeth said, with Emma and Penelope mirroring her concern. “I thought the backlash from last year’s . . . incident . . . had died down.”
The members of their needlework circle vowed never to speak of it. However, if her friend was suffering any of the societal injustice that had recently befallen her, then Merribeth was determined to speak of it and help in any way she could.
Delaney laughed. “I’m afraid that will never be forgotten. No doubt, they’ll have it inscribed on my gravestone. Here lies Delaney McFarland, the woman who—Oh bother, what is he doing here?”
Merribeth looked up to see none other than Mr. Croft, the famed second party to the incident. Thankfully, he merely inclined his head in greeting but made no attempt to cross the store in order to speak with them. Besides that, he seemed quite busy acting as chaperone to three of his sisters. Merribeth knew of a fourth as well, but she was perhaps too young for an afternoon outing.
Since he’s done them a service not long ago, she returned the greeting, keeping her society-approved smile in place.
However, Delaney did not. “That man seems to have no other purpose than to vex me. No matter where I go, he’s there, in far too close proximity. And you know what happens when we are seen together, don’t you?”
Merribeth knew. Seeing them together only reminded the entire ton of the infamous incident.
“I will never live it down so long as he frequents the same establishments.” Delaney cinched the silver cords on her reticule tighter. “Though why he should step into Haversham’s of all places when Forester’s is far closer to his part of town, I shall never—” Her words stopped abruptly when Elena Mallory, gossip monger extraordinaire, sidled in and batted her sparse lashes up at him. “Of course. How lovely that my cousin should be here as well. No doubt she’s behind this, hoping to create another scandal by luring him to a shop we’re known to frequent.”
“Surprisingly enough, she was not in attendance at Lady Amherst’s last night. A fact for which I am ever grateful,” Merribeth murmured. They’d ceased their acquaintance with Miss Mallory earlier in the Season when she’d tried to embroil Emma and Lord Rathburn in a scandal by spreading vicious gossip.
Her statement earned Delaney’s interest. “Why, exactly, are you grateful Elena wasn’t there? Strike that—the list is too endless. It’s obvious why you wouldn’t want her there. Both she and Lady Amherst are founding members of the Scandalmonger Society, I’m sure. Unless . . .” She drew in an excited breath. “You’re telling me there was a reason she wasn’t there. Or perhaps that something newsworthy happened, and you’ve yet to tell me? If it’s the latter, I will forgive you only if you tell all this instant.”
“Tell all of . . . what?” Emma asked as she rejoined them, holding the strings of her purchase.
Penelope flanked her other side and leaned in to whisper. “Did something happen at Lady Amherst’s?”
Emma tsked. “That woman is notoriously cruel. I knew you shouldn’t have gone. If she said anything to you, I’ll . . .” She stopped and pulled on the corner of her mouth as if she were thinking. “I’ll have the dowager give her the cut direct.”
“If it was something truly dreadful, you don’t have to speak of it,” Penelope added, already acting like the perfect mother hen, even though the birth of her first child was still four months away. “You have our full support.”
Delaney gasped. “Dreadful or not, she still has to tell us. After all, how can we support her fully without having the details?”
In unison, they turned their gazes on Delaney, who lowered her lashes in a pretense of shame. No one was fooled.
Merribeth lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose the way Aunt Sophie did. Drat! How did she get herself into these conundrums? Her vow of not thinking, let alone speaking, of last night was pointless now. “Not here.”
At least that was something upon which they could all agree. In the next few moments, they made their way through the door and to Penelope’s carriage, which waited beside the pavement.
As the carriage drove them back to Danbury Lane, Merribeth took a deep breath, and focused on the bright side. The truth was, she didn’t have to tell her friends, or anyone for that matter, everything that had happened last night. That stolen moment would forever be hers and hers alone. After all, she highly doubted someone like the infam
ous Lord Knightswold would remember her from amongst the hordes of other women he’d kissed.
As if summoned by her thoughts, a coal-black top hat caught the corner of her eye as they passed a gentleman on the pavement. The rumble of horses’ hooves, plodding on the dusty streets, nearly sent her heart over the edge.
Unbidden, a memory swept over her. You have brandy-sipping lips. Supple, with the slightest pout where their color changes from dusky pink to a deeper shade.
Her cheeks grew warm.
At her very core, Merribeth was a romantic. However, losing Mr. Clairmore and her expectations of a future forced her to see things in a different light.
Merribeth decided that perhaps a different viewpoint was just the thing she needed to get through this crisis. From this point forward, she would adopt a bit of practicality and cynicism in order to keep her romantic notions in check.
“Now, tell us of Lady Amherst’s.”
Instantly, her mind returned to the darkened study, the sound of his voice, the feel of his fingers nudging hers apart. No doubt, you even prefer coffee over tea.
“You see . . .” Merribeth cleared her throat, wishing her mind would clear as well. “The thing is . . . I didn’t exactly see the play.” She was about to say that she wished she’d stayed home entirely but found the words blocked by her protesting lips. Indeed, her lips were very glad she’d gone.
She felt another rush of heat to her cheeks.
Delaney studied her. “We’ve already clarified you were present at Lady Amherst’s, which leads me to believe this little tidbit you’re sharing has nothing to do with Elena Mallory.”
Merribeth swallowed, her gaze passing from Delaney to Emma.
“By the way you’ve been distracted today, I’d venture to guess that something happened last night.” Emma blinked at her. “Though you don’t have to talk about it . . . if you don’t want to.”
Winning Miss Wakefield: The Wallflower Wedding Series Page 5