“BETROTHED TO YOU! YOU MUST BE MAD!”

“Perhaps I didn’t phrase it quite right. You don’t need to marry me, merely become my fiancée for a short time,” he explained. “I am in need of a temporary fiancée.”

“But why me? We do not get along well together at all.”

“The strong aversion you’ve shown for my company suits me very well. I’ve no doubt you will be quite willing to leave at the appropriate time. You want your brother’s estate back-it will be done. Is a few months in my company such a sacrifice for your brother?”

“A few months! I’d rather spend an eternity in hell than a day in your company.”

Ann Elizabeth Cree is married and lives in Boise, Idaho, with her family. She has worked as a nutritionist and an accountant. Her favorite form of daydreaming has always been weaving romantic stories in her head. With the encouragement of a friend, she started putting these stories to paper. In addition to writing, and caring for two lively boys, two cats and two dogs, she enjoys gardening, playing the piano and, of course, reading.

A Bargain with Fate
Ann Elizabeth Cree

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

Whatever was taking the man so long? Rosalyn, Lady Jeffreys pushed a strand of hair off her brow with nervous fingers. She hoped Lord Stamford would soon put in an appearance, or she would be tempted to flee from his house like a common thief.

She had spent the entire morning mustering up the courage to come. If she possessed an ounce of sense, she would have turned coward and jumped back into the hackney carriage the minute she laid eyes on the imposing mansion in St James’s Square. Instead, she’d marched up the front steps, determined to confront the notorious Marquis of Stamford.

To her dismay, Lord Stamford’s butler not only indicated his lordship would return shortly but insisted on showing her into this intimidating drawing room with its pale green walls and a fireplace with the most elaborate carving she’d ever seen.

The butler had been surprisingly solicitous for such a stiff, dignified man, inquiring if she were warm enough and insisting on arranging her chair near the hearth. She had had some idea that a man of Lord Stamford’s stamp would run a household as wild as his reputation. Instead, the few servants she’d spotted looked respectable enough and went quietly about their business. The drawing room showed no signs of haphazard management. It was furnished in the height of elegance: the mahogany chairs polished to perfection, rich Oriental rugs scattered about the floor. Above the elaborately carved mantelpiece was the portrait of a darkly handsome man, his hair tied back with a riband, his hand on a sword, his cool gaze resting on Rosalyn with a mocking expression.

Rosalyn shifted uneasily. The house seemed unnaturally quiet. She heard no footsteps, no servants’ voices—only the relentless ticking of the clock. Another five minutes dragged by. It was quite apparent Lord Stamford did not intend to see her. She was miffed. Rudeness obviously numbered among his many other shortcomings.

Well, she could not sit here forever. She would have to hunt the man down and force him to see her. She stood up so abruptly her reticule slid to the ground. Its contents spilled across the floor.

‘Oh, drat!’ Rosalyn exclaimed. As she knelt on the carpet, the poke of her bonnet hit the edge of the chair, which knocked it askew. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. Could anything else possibly go wrong?

‘Lady Jeffreys?’

A pair of shiny black riding boots appeared in her line of vision. She froze. Her horrified eyes travelled up a pair of lean, muscled thighs encased in buckskin breeches, over a dark riding coat covering a broad masculine chest and came to rest on the most wickedly handsome face she had seen in her life. With his lean, dark features and midnight black hair, he could be an arrogant Italian nobleman from a Gothic romance.

His disconcerting gaze swept over her face. She flushed and dropped her eyes. Her fingers trembled as she pushed her bonnet back into place. Never had she felt at such an utter disadvantage.

‘It appears you need some help. May I be of assistance?’ the man inquired politely.

‘No, I…’ She snapped into motion, grabbed the last item and shoved it into her reticule. She started to rise, but before she could protest, the man reached down and hauled her to her feet. She backed away, even more flustered.

A small smile of amusement quirked his lips. ‘I am Stamford.’

‘Lord Stamford?’ This man could not possibly be the dissolute gamester she’d expected. Well above average height, his athletic figure proclaimed a man who spent more time in sporting pursuits than hovering around a gaming table. No lines of dissipation marred his fine aristocratic face. But most unexpected of all were the lines of humour lurking about his firm mouth.

Colour flooded her cheeks as the Marquis raised a curious brow.

‘Perhaps you expected someone else? You look rather astounded.’

‘I was merely surprised. I…I did not hear you come in, my lord.’

‘You did seem to be occupied. I am sorry I kept you waiting so long. I usually ride in the mornings and had just returned when I was told you were here. I was not expecting visitors. Have we met before?’ His eyes flickered over her face in a coolly amused manner calculated to put her firmly in her place.

She raised her chin. ‘No, we have not, my lord.’

‘So you do not intend to claim an acquaintance with me?’

‘No, why should I? I had not even heard of you until a few days ago.’

‘The last lady unknown to me who called on me in this fashion wished to renew an acquaintance which I fear I did not recollect,’ he informed her blandly.

Rosalyn stared at him. Whatever was he talking about? Then a shaft of anger shot through her as she perceived his meaning. Did he really have the audacity to imagine she had called on some flimsy pretext merely to make his acquaintance?

Suppressing the desire to let him know exactly what she thought of such arrogance, she said, ‘I am not here on a social call but on a matter of business, my lord. There is no other reason I would ever wish to call on you.’

‘I beg your pardon, my lady. I usually deal through my agent in business matters. However, in this case…’ his lazy gaze slid over her face and down her body ‘…I shall be delighted to make an exception.’

Her cheeks grew even warmer. She hated her appalling tendency to blush. ‘This is a personal matter.’

His dark brows raised a fraction. ‘A personal matter? Now I am curious, Lady Jeffreys—especially since you say we have never met.’

‘It is not my personal business. It is my brother’s.’

‘Your brother’s?’ Surprise flitted across his features. He motioned towards the elegant brocade settee with a careless hand. ‘Please be seated and tell me how I can help you.’

He settled his frame in one of the upholstered mahogany chairs arranged near the settee, his dark eyes fixed on her face.

‘I am the sister of James Whitcomb,’ she began, folding her hands tightly together, wishing he would not stare at her so. ‘I believe you know him.’

‘I made his acquaintance only a few days ago. Go on.’

‘I know that he has lost his estate to you at cards.’

He stretched his muscular legs in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest. Although his expression was still that of the polite host, his eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. ‘So, you are here at your brother’s request?’

‘No, of course not! He would be furious with me if he knew I was here. I pray you will never mention this to him!’

‘I wouldn’t think of it. I cannot see what business this is of yours, however.’

‘What do you mean by that? Of course this affair is my business. He is my brother. It is our family estate!’

‘I understood your brother has full title to the property and is free to do with it as he wishes.’

‘That is true, of course, but I cannot sit by and watch it lost like this! I think it’s quite despicable for you to take away someone’s inheritance in such a shabby fashion!’

‘Are you perchance implying I cheated, my lady?’

Rosalyn shifted uneasily under his hard gaze. ‘No, I don’t know that at all! I only meant that it was quite wrong of you to take advantage of such a green boy! I think that—’

‘I appreciate your sisterly concern,’ he drawled. ‘But your brother is hardly a young boy. He was not forced into staking his estate. I did not hold a pistol to his head. He had no business playing for such high stakes if he could not cover them. I am sorry about the loss of your family estate, but I cannot do anything about it.’

Cold fury seeped through her. ‘I cannot imagine why you would want another estate. I am certain you must have quite enough.’

Lord Stamford laughed sardonically. He uncrossed his arms and rose from his chair to lounge against the carved marble chimney piece. He idly picked up one of the small ivory figurines adorning the mantel. ‘Can one ever have enough estates? I am certain I can think of something to do with the property. But I am still at a loss to know exactly what you hoped to accomplish by coming here today.’ He returned the figurine to its place and regarded her with cool indifference.

Rosalyn had never detested anyone more in her life. She swallowed her anger, forcing herself to remain calm. ‘I had hoped we could reach some sort of agreement. I cannot pay you the entire price, but I am willing…’

She faltered as a cold, cynical light leapt to his eyes. His gaze, suddenly insolent, raked her face and moved appraisingly down her body, resting for an instant on the soft curve of her breast. She sat frozen. No man, not even her husband, had ever stared at her in such a manner.

‘An agreement? Exactly what sort of agreement did you have in mind, my dear lady? I usually don’t bargain my gambling debts away, but I am certain you and I could come to an arrangement that would satisfy both of us. You are not quite in my usual taste, but your figure is satisfactory and you are…pretty enough.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ For the second time, he’d managed to thoroughly confuse her.

Then his insulting words pierced her consciousness. Humiliation followed by pure outrage washed over her.

She shot to her feet. Her voice shook with suppressed fury. ‘You think I am here to offer you…that? I would never do such a degrading thing. I would rather spend my life in debtor’s prison or…or hang than come to such a despicable agreement with you!’

She whirled around and swept towards the door. But Stamford reached the door before her; his strong fingers closed over her wrist.

More than a little frightened, she tried to jerk her hand out of his iron grasp. His intimidating nearness, and the warmth of his hand, caused her heart to pound most alarmingly. She could smell the masculine scent of his cologne.

He could not possibly intend to ravish her now! Helplessly, she stared up into his dark compelling eyes surrounded by lashes far longer than any man’s should be. His expression, so cold and sardonic only minutes before, was now warm with amusement.

‘Please do not leave yet, Lady Jeffreys. I must offer my most sincere apologies and humbly beg your pardon. I am afraid I misunderstood your intentions. You must give me a chance to redeem myself by telling me what you wanted.’ The laughter in his eyes rendered him dangerously attractive.

Her breath caught in her throat. ‘I…I must go. Please release me, my lord.’

He instantly dropped her wrist. Gentle fingers caught her chin, tilting her face so he could look into her eyes. ‘Don’t look so frightened. I promise I won’t seduce you in my drawing room. It’s not good ton, you know.’

How dare he laugh at her after making such an improper suggestion? She slapped his hand away and glared at him. ‘I have nothing more to say to you.’

He moved in front of her and rested his broad shoulders against the door and folded his arms over his chest. ‘I won’t let you go until you tell me what you wanted. I must make up for my despicable behaviour.’

‘I cannot say you are behaving any better now,’ she snapped.

His eyes danced, totally unrepentant. ‘I am afraid I generally don’t behave very well. More than one lady of my acquaintance has informed me of that very fact. But please tell me your request.’ His mouth curved in a most devastating smile.

She flushed, resenting the implication that he categorised her with all the other women he knew, particularly as she could imagine the sort of female company he kept. But further argument appeared fruitless. He obviously had no intention of letting her go until she did as he bade her. Her shoulders slumped.

‘I wanted to discuss some sort of arrangement to pay my brother’s debt to you and ask you to return Meryton. I cannot pay you what it is worth, but I can pay something. I have an income from my husband and a small house in London at my disposal. I should like to pay the debt off in instalments…with interest, of course.’

The laughter left his eyes. He said quietly, ‘I am sorry, but I cannot fulfil your request, my lady.’

Disappointment surged through her. ‘Why not?’

He shrugged. ‘The debt is between your brother and me. I do not think he would appreciate your interference. If you wish to come to some sort of an arrangement with him, he may approach me. I would be willing to consider it, but I cannot promise to restore the estate to him.’

‘I see.’ She prayed she would not burst into tears. ‘Please allow me to leave.’

He paused with his hand on the doorknob, the plain gold signet ring he wore reflecting the sunlight filtering in through the brocade curtains. ‘Tell me, do you also have a passion for gambling, Lady Jeffreys?’

‘Of course not. I am the worst card player in the world.’

He laughed gently. ‘It’s too bad others are not as honest about their abilities as you.’

He opened the door. She moved past him, ignoring the arm he held out to her. She hastened down the curving staircase to the hallway. His butler sprang to open the door. To her vexation, Lord Stamford trailed her down the steps and followed her to the waiting hackney carriage.

‘Are you in London often, Lady Jeffreys?’ he asked conversationally as if nothing had passed between them.

‘Rarely,’ she replied without looking at him.

He leaned towards her, the sun glinting off his raven hair. ‘I thought not. Then you should know it’s most improper of you to call on me in this fashion,’ he said kindly, but his eyes danced. ‘I am surprised your husband allowed it.’

‘Not that it is any of your business, my lord, but I am a widow, not a young girl. I can do what I please.’

‘Perhaps so, but you should have at least brought a maid with you. My reputation is not the most sterling. Respectable ladies know better than to call on me and certainly not unchaperoned.’

Completely taken aback, she stammered, ‘I…I trusted you would behave like a gentleman.’

He grinned at her in a maddening fashion. ‘I am afraid you sadly misplaced your trust. I am no gentleman.’

‘That’s nothing to boast about,’ she replied tartly.

‘I look forward to our next meeting, Lady Jeffreys.’ Without removing his eyes from her face, he captured her hand and raised it to his lips.

Rosalyn jerked her hand away. ‘Since I do not move in the same dissipated circles as you, there is not likely to be another meeting.’

He looked startled at that but quickly recovered. ‘Shall we make a wager on that, my lady? I think we shall meet again—and soon.’

‘Goodbye, my lord,’ she said. He merely smiled in his infuriating way and insisted on handing her into the coach.

Rosalyn settled back into the hard cushions. How she wished she were a man! Planting him a facer or, better yet, running him through with a sword would give her unbounded satisfaction.

Her anger quickly gave away to depression. She had completely failed in her mission. James was no better off; their home had been lost to a stranger. A tear trickled down her cheek, quickly followed by another. She fumbled in her reticule for her handkerchief, grateful she had been too angry to cry in front of the abominable Lord Stamford.

‘Oh dear,’ she whispered. Could this day possibly get any worse? Her favourite fan was missing, undoubtedly lying in Lord Stamford’s elegant drawing room.

‘Damn!’ Michael muttered as he entered his study. He threw his long frame into the chair in front of his desk, a frown marring his brow. The whole business of this estate was proving to be a blasted nuisance. He’d never meant to gamble Whitcomb out of his estate, but the chance to foil Edmund Fairchilde, a man he disliked, was too tempting. And in spite of himself, he’d felt a flash of pity for the young man, clearly in over his head and about to be ruined, which he surely would be if he fell in Fairchilde’s clutches.

To complicate matters, he discovered the Dowager Countess of Carlyn was James Whitcomb’s maternal grandmother. Lady Carlyn was a friend of his aunt, Lady Spence. Michael could quite imagine his aunt’s words upon learning her nephew had gambled Whitcomb out of his estate. They would hardly be complimentary to Michael’s character.

And now Lady Jeffreys. What in the devil possessed him to insult her in such a fashion? He had known the instant he first looked into her sweet face and clear honest eyes, her bonnet charmingly askew, that she was a lady in every respect.

He spent too much time with the demimonde, rendering him far too cynical. Most women of his acquaintance would have no compunction in trading their charms to pay off a gambling debt. It would not have been the first time he had been made such an offer.

He rose, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He reluctantly admitted she interested him despite her very real dislike for him. She was quite lovely in a quiet sort of way. Her prim grey gown could not completely disguise the soft curves of her breast and hips or detract from her luxuriant chestnut hair and large hazel eyes. Michael quite looked forward to their next meeting, although she would most likely cut him dead, as he undoubtedly deserved.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft cough of Watkins, his butler, hovering in the doorway. ‘M’lord.’

‘What is it, Watkins? Not another unexpected visitor, I trust.’

A feminine voice spoke from behind the butler. ‘I shall show myself in. I do not wish to be told again that my nephew is not at home.’

Michael inwardly groaned as Lady Margaret Spence swept into the room, a determined look on her aristocratic face. He wished Lady Jeffreys to the devil for her ill-timed visit. He should have been at White’s by now and out of reach of his aunt and her unwelcome business.

He bowed over Lady Spence’s gloved hand. ‘My dear aunt, I am delighted to see you,’ he murmured.

Lady Spence fixed intelligent blue eyes on her nephew’s face. ‘I doubt it. This is the first time I’ve managed to catch you at home. I am almost inclined to think you’re avoiding me.’

She drew off her kidskin gloves in a businesslike manner and seated herself in the chair near his desk. In her mid-fifties, she possessed the figure and posture of a much younger woman. Today, she was fashionably dressed in a powder-blue round gown with a matching pelisse which set off her greying blonde hair becomingly.

Michael seated himself on the other side of his desk. ‘Why would I wish to avoid you? You know I am always pleased to see you. And how is my uncle? I have not yet seen him about town.’

‘Frederick is quite well. However, I did not call to exchange pleasantries with you. You know very well why I am here, Michael, so I suggest you stop fencing with me. You cannot avoid this discussion forever.’ She impaled him with ice-blue eyes. He sunk back in his chair with all the enthusiasm of a fox run to ground by a pack of hounds.

Nearly an hour later Michael entered the portals of White’s. He was shown to a table in the corner of the dining room where he was greeted by a stocky blond man attired in a bottle-green coat and striped waistcoat, his starched cravat elaborately tied in an oriental knot.

‘Michael, my boy!’ the gentleman exclaimed. ‘I thought you weren’t going to show. I’ve nearly starved waiting for you and was forced to order.’

Michael glanced at his cousin’s ample figure and laughed. ‘I don’t think there’s too much danger of that, Charles,’ he said pulling up a chair. ‘I’ve been besieged by visitors today. First I had a call from—’ he broke off, frowning. ‘Never mind. The last caller was my Aunt Margaret.’

‘Been after you again about that chit? You’ll end up with your neck in the parson’s noose before you know it. I’m glad your Aunt Margaret ain’t my relative. Don’t envy you your father either.’

‘They’re bad enough apart, but together—I’d rather face a firing squad. I’d have much better odds.’ Michael frowned at the glass of dry sherry the waiter set in front of him. ‘My aunt came to inform me my bride-to-be will arrive in town within a fortnight. There’s been a slight illness in the family that prevents her from coming any sooner. I’ll have a reprieve at any rate.’

‘Don’t see how they can force you into marriage. Good lord, you’re thirty, well past your majority,’ Charles said.

‘Well, would you care to oppose my father?’

‘Good point,’ said Charles hastily as the waiter brought his meal. ‘Don’t know how anyone could oppose your parent when he fixes you with that damned devilish stare. Sets me to quaking in my boots every time. I’d marry a woman with a horse-face and freckles before crossing swords with Eversleigh.’

There was silence for a few moments while Charles dove into his food with all the vigour of a man who hadn’t eaten for weeks. Michael sipped his sherry in contemplative silence, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

His father, the Duke of Eversleigh, was notorious for his iron-fisted management of his family’s personal affairs. Several weeks ago he had summoned Michael to Eversleigh Hall. There, in his formidable study, the Duke had coolly informed his heir it was time he married. Since his son did not seem capable of choosing a suitable bride for himself, a bride had been chosen for him. The young lady was Miss Helena Randall, the granddaughter of a long-standing friend. She was to be presented at Court this season. After a suitable period, unless there were major objections on the part of either party, their betrothal would be announced.

Michael could see any number of objections, starting with the fact he had no desire to marry a girl fresh out of the schoolroom. Argument with his father appeared useless. The Duke wore the implacable expression that meant he’d made up his mind and would brook no opposition. In addition, the Duke’s health was poor due to a recent severe bout of pneumonia that nearly claimed his life. Michael hesitated to come to cuffs with his father in his still-weakened condition.

Charles, who always thought better on a satisfied stomach, dropped his fork with a clatter. ‘What you need, my boy, is a fiancée!’

Michael eyed him as if he had taken leave of his senses. ‘Exactly what I’ll end up with if my father has his way. That’s what I’m trying to avoid.’

‘Would save you a lot of trouble,’ said Charles earnestly with all the experience of a happily betrothed man. ‘Now that I’m betrothed to Beth I never worry about matchmaking mothers trying to foist their daughters on me. Not that I’ve ever had the number you’ve had. No more hounding from my mother about finding a suitable wife. And Beth’s a good girl; doesn’t have odd fits or expect me to escort her to any of those damned musical evenings.’

Michael was fascinated. ‘I never realised there were so many advantages attached to a betrothal.’

‘Well, the point is, Michael, if you were already betrothed your family could hardly expect you to offer for Miss Randall.’

‘Very true. It would be awkward. But the problem with fiancées is that one is expected to marry them.’

Charles downed several slices of ham, his brow creased in thought. He wiped his mouth on his napkin and looked up. ‘You could hire one.’

‘Hire one? One what?’

‘A fiancée! Remember when Greely hired an actress to be his wife so he could inherit from his old uncle in Manchester or some other ungodly place? Worked too; the old man fell for it and Greely got the money. Dare say he had to pay that actress a bundle.’

Michael grinned. A few of the actresses he knew flashed across his mind.

‘That may work very well in Manchester but hardly in London. Where in the world would I find an actress I could hope to pass off in the middle of a London season as my fiancée? Even the best of them couldn’t appear respectable enough to suit my father. Besides, my aunt could sniff out an impostor at ten paces!’

‘Maybe you could find a foreign actress.’

‘Good God, no! My father would be in a rare temper if I announced my engagement to a foreign woman! Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll figure out a way to avoid this entanglement. I always do.’ He polished off his sherry. ‘Where are you off to tonight, Charles?’

‘To Lady Winthrope’s rout. Probably another one of her damned squeezes. Promised to escort my mother and Beth. How about you?’

‘I’ll put in an appearance.’

‘I’ve heard Elinor Marchant is in town,’ said Charles carefully. ‘Have you met her yet?’

‘Today, while riding in the park. She was determined to regale me with every bit of gossip she could think of, half of it probably unfounded rumour.’

‘Hope you don’t plan to take up with her again.’ Charles shuddered. ‘Never saw such a temper in my life. Don’t know how you could have put up with it. That last scene—right in the middle of a ball! Heaving vases around!’

A grin lit up Michael’s face. ‘Only one vase. And it wasn’t in the middle of a ball, merely in a private room.’

‘One vase, half a dozen vases, what does it matter? You’re well rid of her! Never know how you manage to come up with these vixens. Need to show a bit more discrimination in the petticoat line.’

Michael laughed and rose from the table in a lazy movement. ‘Put your mind to rest, Charles. I have no interest in renewing a relationship with Lady Marchant. Ready to go? There’s a pair of chestnuts up for auction at Tattersall’s I’ve been wanting to see.’

Michael only half-attended to his cousin’s conversation as they made their way to the auction yard. Instead, he found himself thinking of Lady Jeffreys. Would she be present at Lady Winthrope’s rout? He hoped so, for he had the perfect excuse for speaking to her. After his aunt had departed, Watkins had presented him with a small folded fan, saying he believed it belonged to the young lady. Michael had taken the fan, assuring Watkins he would personally see it was returned to its owner.

Chapter Two

‘I was sorry to hear of your brother’s troubles. I know how much Meryton means to you,’ Edmund Fairchilde said softly. ‘Perhaps there is something I could do to help.’

Rosalyn looked up into his cool, hooded eyes, and wished she could escape from him. However, it was impossible in Lady Winthrope’s crowded drawing room unless she was to clamber over one of the guests behind her.

‘Thank you, there is nothing you can do. But, how did you know? I had thought it was a private game.’ She tried to keep the dismay from her voice. She had hoped no one outside of Lord Stamford, James and herself knew about the wager.

A faint smile touched his thin lips. ‘I was also there, my lady. I had hoped there was something I could do, but alas, Stamford rarely loses. It makes one wonder…but, his temper, one hates to suggest…At any rate, do not worry, only the three of us were present, and I am very discreet.’

‘Thank you.’ She managed a smile, not certain she trusted him at all. He had been a visitor to Meryton, coming down once with a group of her brother’s friends. Although he had been charmingly courteous, there was something about his hooded gaze, particularly the way it sometimes rested on her, that made her uneasy.

‘But I do wish to offer my help.’ He smiled again. ‘Before you protest, you must hear my proposal. I am not without resources, and I should hate to see you turned from your family home. Come driving with me tomorrow, and I shall tell you my proposition.’

‘That is very kind, but I…I shall be busy tomorrow.’

‘Will you? Then the next day.’ His eyes rested on her face as if he wanted to calculate the impact of his words. ‘I have longed for the opportunity to become better acquainted with you ever since I saw you at Meryton.’

‘My dear, there you are!’

Relieved, she turned to see her grandmother, Lady Carlyn, suddenly appear next to her. Lady Carlyn acknowledged Fairchilde with a cool smile. ‘If you will excuse us, sir, I must introduce my granddaughter to Lady Carruthers. I fear she is about to leave.’ She dragged Rosalyn away, but not before Rosalyn saw Fairchilde’s brows snap together in sudden anger.

Lady Carlyn marched Rosalyn from the drawing room to an adjoining room, then stopped. ‘My dear, you should not be talking to Edmund Fairchilde. His reputation is, well, not quite what it should be. People will talk.’

‘I didn’t wish to talk with him. He approached me. He is an acquaintance of James’s.’

‘Indeed. I must say I am surprised at James, although he has been going about with some rather wild young men. I hope he will settle down soon enough and properly manage Meryton. It has been most careless of him to leave you to do so. Women have no business running estates.’

Rosalyn said nothing. She had not yet informed her grandmother that James had gambled away Meryton. For once she was thankful that her grandmother’s mind tended to jump from subject to subject. ‘However, we must concentrate on you. What did you think of Neville Hastings?’

‘Neville Hastings?’ Rosalyn finally recalled a plump, man with thinning hair and creaking corsets. Lady Carlyn had introduced him to her when they first arrived. ‘He seemed very nice, I suppose.’

‘A bit plump, although a diet of rice and water would help. But twenty thousand pounds a year, that is nothing to sneeze at in a husband.’

‘A husband?’

‘Why, yes, for you, my love.’

‘Grandmama! I don’t want a husband!’

‘But of course you do. You are only six-and-twenty and still quite pretty. I must own Neville Hastings is not quite what I had in mind. Someone with a bit more dash.’

‘I never plan to remarry.’

‘Of course, it will be someone you like,’ Lady Carlyn continued, paying no heed to Rosalyn as usual. ‘I have several eligible men in mind.’

Her sharp grey eyes darted around the packed drawing room, seeking more prey. ‘I see Lord Brandon has arrived. He is searching for a wife. A pity he has five children, but I know you are very fond…’

‘Please, no! I am rather tired. I would like to rest for a few minutes.’

Lady Carlyn fidgeted with her fan, then snapped it shut. ‘Very well. You may stay here. I must admit, you do look a trifle pale. No use having you faint, although Ellen Winthrope would consider that the highest compliment! I must have a few words with Maria Smythe-Howard and then we can leave.’

Rosalyn watched her grandmother make her way through the packed room, a small plump figure dressed in a gown of orange satin completely unsuitable for a woman of more advanced years. The dictates of fashion meant nothing to Lady Carlyn.

Rosalyn shifted uncomfortably. Her feet hurt from standing, her mouth ached from smiling, and her head pounded from the strain of making conversation in the impossible noise. There was no place to sit, as all the furniture had been removed to accommodate the several hundred people Lady Winthrope expected to parade through her rooms.

At least she was free of her grandmother for a few minutes. Lady Carlyn’s unflagging energy was exhausting. And this hare-brained notion of finding her a husband…she had enough to distress her without fighting her grandmother’s schemes.

Her thoughts turned to James, as they had all day. Ever since their mother’s death, four years earlier, he’d become more and more unmanageable. She no longer knew how to reach him. Somehow, she had believed if she tried to preserve Meryton for him, he would return, for he had once loved Meryton as much as she did. Now Meryton was lost and, in her heart, she feared he was lost also.

‘Oh!’ She gasped as a stout gentlemen stepped back, jostling her with such force that she lost her balance and stumbled sideways against a tall, hard form. Strong hands caught her bare arms, causing an unexpected warmth to course through her.

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said in confusion.

‘There is no need to apologise. I am always delighted when beautiful ladies fall into my arms.’

That familiar, detestable voice caused her heart to stop. Slowly, she lifted her head to meet the Marquis of Stamford’s laughing eyes. For the briefest of moments, he seemed not to recognise her, and then, a wicked grin spread across his face.

‘Why, Lady Jeffreys, what a delightful surprise to run into you like this. Particularly since you assured me we never moved in the same dissipated circles.’

She jerked away from him. Irritation replaced the unwelcome sensation she’d felt at his touch. ‘Please excuse me, my lord.’

‘But I have looked forward to seeing you all evening. You cannot mean to leave me now when I have finally found you.’

The hated colour flooded her face at the implication that he actually hoped to see her. Of course, she didn’t believe it for a moment. ‘I must find my grandmother. I do not have time for idle chatter.’

He laughed. ‘Is there any other sort at these tedious affairs? But never mind, I wanted to see you for a particular reason. I have something for you.’

‘Something for me?’

‘Yes, your fan. I believe you dropped it in my drawing room. I wanted to return it to you.’

‘You’ve been carrying my fan around?’

‘In the remote chance I might see you.’ He reached under his evening coat, towards his white embroidered waistcoat.

She nearly grabbed his hand. ‘No, please, not here.’ What would people think if they saw him pull a fan from his pocket and present it to her?

‘Shall I call on you, then?’

‘No! I mean, why can you not send it to me?’

‘But I want to give it to you in person, to make certain you get it, of course. I was hoping we could become better acquainted.’

‘I have no desire to become better acquainted with you, my lord.’

‘But I would like the opportunity to change your mind.’ A lazy half-smile, full of meaning, curled the edges of his mouth as he let his leisurely gaze travel over her person.

Mesmerised, she stared back. It occurred to her that his eyes were really not black at all, but the deepest, richest shade of brown she’d ever seen. And would his thick midnight hair, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, feel as soft and silky to her touch as it looked?

What was she thinking of?

‘Never! You’ll never change my mind!’

She whirled away, only to find her escape blocked by two ladies standing directly behind them. They gasped and stared, their fans stopped in mid-air. From the looks of pleasurable shock on their faces, she had little doubt they had heard her every word.

Lord Stamford nodded to the ladies, who tittered and turned away. Grasping Rosalyn’s arm, he bent his head towards her, and said conversationally, ‘It’s best not to pick a quarrel with me in public. It will hardly ease your entrée into society.’

Her mouth fell open. Pick a quarrel with him? He was doing his best to provoke her.

‘However, any time you wish to quarrel with me in private I would be delighted to accommodate you.’

‘If you had an ounce of sensibility you would realise that, under the circumstances, I want neither to speak to you nor to see you.’

‘I take it you refer to the business with your brother. I cannot see what it has to do with you or…with you and me.’

She was floundering, badly out of her depth. Nothing in her limited experience with the opposite sex had ever prepared her to deal with a man such as Lord Stamford, a man with devastatingly dark expressive eyes, a man as handsome as the devil himself, a man who was flirting with her in a blatantly sensual fashion that caused her to feel vulnerable and utterly confused.

Desperate, she looked around for escape. With relief, she saw Lady Carlyn winding her way towards them. Her relief was short-lived when she noted the look of utter disbelief on her grandmother’s face. What if Lord Stamford said something about this morning?

He must have read her mind for he said, ‘There is no need to fear, my lady. I promise I will not tell your grandmother how you called on me in such a bold manner without so much as a maid to accompany you. As far as I am concerned, our first meeting has only now taken place. Of course, I shall not mention your fan. I will find a more private moment to return it to you.’

The wicked spark in his eye did nothing to reassure her, but it was too late to do a thing. Lady Carlyn had already made her way to them.

Lord Stamford’s mouth curved in a disarming smile as he bowed over her plump hand. ‘Lady Carlyn, I have just had the delightful opportunity of meeting your granddaughter. She is as lovely and charming as her grandmother.’

Lady Carlyn fluttered her lashes at him in a disgustingly flirtatious fashion. ‘It’s no use trying to turn my head at my age, young man. Rosalyn is much lovelier than I ever was. But how did you come to make her acquaintance? With a proper introduction, I trust?’

His eyes danced. ‘Not at all. I was forced to introduce myself after she stumbled into my arms. Quite by accident, of course. But now that I have met her…I hope to secure your permission to call on her.’

A peculiar expression crossed her grandmother’s face. ‘You may, but I’ll have you know I intend to keep a strict watch on her. She may be a widow, but she is not one of your flirts. I will not have you trifling with her.’

He turned his gaze on Rosalyn who felt as if she’d turned to stone. ‘I shall behave with the utmost propriety.’

‘That I shall have to see to believe.’ Lady Carlyn stared at him for a moment. ‘Very well, you may call on her.’

Rosalyn had to put a stop to this. ‘It is quite doubtful that I would ever be at home to you, my lord.’ And how could they discuss her as if she were in leading strings with no mind of her own? She did not know which one to strangle first.

‘Nonsense. Of course you will, dear.’ Lady Carlyn shot her a quelling glance.

A smile of pure devilment quirked his mouth. ‘Unfortunately, I must depart now. I will see you soon, very soon, Lady Jeffreys.’ Her name sounded like a caress on his lips.

He made an elaborate leg and strode off. Lady Carlyn watched his dark-haired figure weave its way through the crush.

With a bemused expression, she took Rosalyn’s arm. ‘My dear, I can scarcely believe this! Lord Stamford wishes to call on you. I cannot image why; he never pays the slightest heed to any respectable woman. Surely he cannot think that…no, of course not. Not with you dressed in that gown!’

‘Isn’t it fortunate that I wore it, then,’ Rosalyn replied with a humourless smile. Her simply cut blue gown had been a source of contention between them, Lady Carlyn declaring it was fit only for a Methodist.

Rosalyn barely noticed as they made their goodbyes to Lady Winthrope, descended the crowded staircase, and waited a good twenty minutes for the carriage to be brought around. Her thoughts were totally occupied with the icy set-downs she planned to give Lord Stamford.

It wasn’t until they had settled into the carriage and her grandmother spoke that Rosalyn started out of her reverie.

‘My dear, what do you think of Lord Stamford? I hadn’t even considered him. But now that I think of it—he would do quite nicely. No woman would ever be bored with him.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Lord Stamford. For a husband.’

‘A husband?’ Horrified, she stared at Lady Carlyn.

‘I don’t believe you’ve been attending at all. His aunt, Lady Spence, told me—in strict confidence, of course—that Eversleigh has been casting about for a wife for him. Why did I not think of this before? There is no reason why you should not be in the running. Now that you are finally in London, I shall call on Margaret and drop a hint in her ear.’

A most alarming headache was beginning in her right temple. ‘Grandmama, please, no. I would rather be dead than ever, ever consider him for a husband.’

His most blatant efforts to flirt with her had failed dismally.

Michael received his overcoat and hat from the footman and headed down the steps into the cool spring night. He liked walking at night, despite the risk of footpads.

A smile curled his lips. It was wicked of him to tease Lady Jeffreys so much. Especially in front of Lady Carlyn. But the fire that sprang to her eyes and the all too-ready colour washing over her cheeks was too tempting to resist.

He had no idea why such a respectable widow should interest him. She was pretty but not beautiful. Her dress, even tonight, was unfashionably plain; no rows of lace and flowers adorned its hem, no low-cut bodice designed to reveal its wearer’s charms. But it became her.

He usually found such ladies excessively dull. But not Lady Jeffreys. Behind the proper façade she tried to present, he sensed a warm, passionate woman. It would be a challenge for any man to storm those barriers.

Particularly as she detested him and made no pretense otherwise, not even in hopes he might relent and return her brother’s estate. He admired her for that. At least she was honest in her dealings with him.

It would probably be too much to hope Miss Randall would harbour the same sentiments. No, from what he gathered of the young lady, she was very biddable and unlikely to disobey her family’s wishes. A pity Lady Jeffreys was not his intended bride; he’d never get her to the altar unless she was drugged and bound.

Suddenly, Charles’s words flashed through his mind. His head snapped up and he stopped dead in the quiet street, inspiration hitting him like a bolt of lightening. Why not? She was well bred, respectable, pretty, intelligent. And she disliked him thoroughly.

What more could he want in a prospective bride?

Having the proper, disapproving Lady Jeffreys in his power would be most agreeable. He’d wager any sum that by the end of their association, he could break down her resistance to him.

And he knew without doubt he could induce her to agree to his plan.

Chapter Three

Morning sunlight streamed through a crack in the heavy brocade curtains of Rosalyn’s bedchamber. She fought to open her eyes, heavy with sleep, wanting nothing more than to snuggle back down into the cosiness of her bed.

It was these late nights. She was not used to staying up past midnight, let alone until two or three in the morning. She had never realized what energy a woman of sixty some years could possess. An evening at home was far too tame for Lady Carlyn; she must be out to a soirée or ball or to a concert every night. And she insisted Rosalyn accompany her.

Rosalyn struggled up as Mrs Harrod, her housekeeper, entered. She carried a tray with a pot of chocolate and a plate of toast.

‘Anything else, my lady?’ she asked as she set the tray in front of Rosalyn. She was plump and kindly and watched Rosalyn with a motherly eye. ‘I thought you might like a tray today seeing how you did not come in until nearly three. Such a long night for you.’

Mrs Harrod bustled about, opened the curtains and then departed. After pouring herself a cup of the steaming chocolate, Rosalyn sunk back on her pillows, wondering if there was any way she could escape tonight’s ball. She had been to more of these affairs since arriving in London ten days ago than in the eight years since her own coming-out.

Her husband, John, had considered ton parties a frivolous waste of time, as did most of his scholarly colleagues. After the miserable, tongue-tied shyness of her one and only season, she had been grateful.

Sometimes she had longed for a little more gaiety. It seemed after the first year or so of their marriage, as he became more deeply immersed in completing the massive book he’d spent years working on, that anything which distracted him from his work was a waste of time.

Including her.

Tears pricked her eyes. She brushed them away with an angry hand. It was only that she had lost so many people she loved in the past five years, first John, then her mother a year later. Her father’s spirit had been buried along with her mother, his body finally succumbing to a bout of influenza two years later. Now, she was losing James.

She had come to London, hoping to somehow bridge the gap between them. Since their mother’s death, he’d walled off his emotions, rarely talking to her as he once had. Her father had been no help; lost in his own sorrow, he’d scarcely noticed James was growing more unmanageable, running around with some of the wildest young men in the neighbourhood. After her father died, he stayed away from Meryton for long periods of time, only once bringing a group of his new friends down for a week.

Rosalyn had been appalled. It took no more than a few hours in their company to discover he kept company with some of the most disreputable rakehells in London. She’d stayed out of their way, afraid to say anything to James for fear he’d shut her out even more. But he’d never asked them again.

She finally forced herself out of bed. Her abigail, Annie, helped her dress in a long-sleeved navy print cambric gown with a ruff around the throat, then dressed her hair in its usual knot.

Rosalyn had just reached the staircase when Mrs Harrod bustled up to her, her plump face shining with curious excitement.

‘You have a visitor, my lady. I have shown him to the drawing room.’

‘A visitor? Is it James?’

‘No, not your brother.’ Mrs Harrod clasped her hands. Her voice quivered with anticipation. ‘It is the Marquis of Stamford, my lady. He wishes to see you.’

Rosalyn backed away from the staircase, her hand fluttering to her throat. What was he doing here so early? It was hardly the hour for morning callers. Did he think she was at his disposal at any time?

‘Lord Stamford? He wishes to see me? Please inform him I am not at home.’

‘But, my dear, he is very anxious to see you.’

‘No, I certainly do not want to see him. It is much too early.’

Mrs Harrod pursed her lips in disapproval. When she saw Rosalyn did not plan to relent, she nodded and bustled away.

Irritated, Rosalyn turned back to her room. She supposed he’d finally decided to return her fan. A full three days had passed since the rout. Well, he could leave it with Mrs Harrod. She would hide out until he left. She picked up a novel she was reading, but the words jumbled into nonsense.

She jumped at the knock on her door. Mrs Harrod poked her head around the edge, her face devoid of expression.

‘His lordship wishes me to inform you he will not leave until you see him. He will wait for your convenience, even if it is past midnight.’

‘That is most ridiculous.’ But something about his confident, overbearing manner made her think he was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat, effectively holding her prisoner in her room. She could hardly go about her business while he cooled his heels in the drawing room. What if someone called? Her grandmother, for instance. She closed her book and rose.

The strange sensation that her life was about to be altered forever floated over her. But how silly—she had never been prone to such fanciful notions.

With reluctant steps, she entered her drawing room. The morning sun cast a friendly glow about the small yellow room. Her unwanted visitor sat in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, absorbed in a leather-bound volume, his buckskin-clad legs stretched out before him. He didn’t notice her presence for a few seconds and then he glanced up, closed the book and laid it aside. He rose to his feet in a lazy movement.

He was dressed much as he had been the first time she saw him, in riding coat and breeches, and top-boots, his cravat tied carelessly about his neck. His elegance looked out of place amidst the fading Oriental carpet and the comfortable but old-fashioned furnishings of the room.

His face was relaxed and his manner confident, as if there was no reason he was not perfectly welcome in her home.

‘Lady Jeffreys, I did not expect to see you quite so soon. I was betting on some time in late afternoon.’

This threw her off completely. ‘Indeed. I usually don’t keep visitors waiting that long.’

‘In my case, I was not sure. I am relieved, although my day is at your disposal. I decided to fetch a book from the library to occupy my time.’

‘A book?’

‘Does that astound you? I occasionally engage my mind in less dissipated pursuits, such as reading. I have even been known to pick up a volume of philosophy or history on occasion. But only when I have tired of sitting around a gaming table, stealing away estates or pursuing improper women.’

‘Is there a purpose for your visit, my lord?’ she asked with ice in her voice.

‘Yes. To return your fan, of course. And to speak with you in private. I would not have called so early, except I did not want you to flee.’ He held out her fan. She took it from him, careful to avoid any contact with his hand.

Her voice trembled for some odd reason. ‘I see. I can’t imagine what you would wish to speak to me about.’

‘I wish to discuss your brother’s gambling debt. I have a proposition to lay before you that I believe will benefit both of us. If you will sit, I will tell you.’

Even more confused, she quickly seated herself on one of the Queen Anne chairs. He settled back in the other, his eyes fixed on her face. The horrid premonition he was about to offer her another carte blanche caused her heart to beat uncomfortably fast. She folded her hands in her lap and waited.

‘I do not think you will find my proposal too distasteful. I merely want you to become betrothed to me.’

Her heart stopped for a dizzying moment. ‘What did you just say?’

‘I would like you to become betrothed to me in exchange for returning your brother’s estate to him.’

Her hand went to her throat. ‘Betrothed to you! You must be mad! I would never consider such a thing!’

‘Do you always answer your offers with such an excess of civility?’ he inquired drily. ‘Perhaps I didn’t phrase it quite right. You don’t need to marry me, merely become my fiancée for a short time. I am in need of a temporary fiancée.’

He sounded as if he were discussing the need for a new pair of boots.

‘A temporary fiancée? Whatever for? I have never heard of anything so…so ridiculous!’ She stood up and backed away from him towards the window, knotting her hands.

He rose and followed her. ‘Not at all. My father has informed me it’s high time I marry. He’s already chosen the bride. I want to put a stop to his plans before I wake up one morning and find I’m expected to show up at the altar before noon. If I produce a fiancée of my own, I can hardly be expected to offer for the young lady he has in mind.’

‘I…I should hope not.’ He sounded so reasonable, Rosalyn had no doubt he was quite mad. ‘But why me? I hardly think I would suit your purposes. We do not deal at all well together.’

A disarming smile settled over his features. ‘You mean you wish me to perdition, my dear. There is no need to look so shocked, your face is far too honest. The strong aversion you’ve shown for my company suits me very well; I’ve no doubt you will be quite willing to cry off at the appropriate time. The bargain benefits both of us. You want your brother’s estate back—it will be done. I avoid a marriage I don’t want. And just consider, what could be more natural than for me to return Meryton to your brother as his future brother-in law? It will save a lot of explanation.’

‘It is blackmail!’

‘Hardly. Come now, Lady Jeffreys, what is so difficult? Is a few months in my company such a sacrifice for your brother? Just think how much you’ll enjoy publicly jilting me in the end.’

Apparently the whole thing was nothing but a huge jest to him.

And how dare he be so confident that she would be delighted to play the role of his fiancée?

‘A few months! I’d rather spend an eternity in hell than a day in your company.’

Her hand flew to her mouth, horrified at her rude words.

Something wholly unexpected crossed his face, but for such a fleeting moment, she was certain she had imagined it. Only slight amusement remained. ‘Indeed? In that case, I shall leave you to plan your move from Meryton.’

He picked up his gloves and moved towards the door, then turned and bowed elaborately in her direction. ‘However, I will leave my offer open for a day or so. In case you change your mind. Good day, my lady.’

‘My lord, I am…’ Before she could frame an apology, he quitted the room.

Mortified, she sank down on the sofa. Never had she said such an unkind thing to anyone. She tried to tell herself he richly deserved it, but she wasn’t so certain. For one brief moment, he had looked as if her words had affected him. But no, that was impossible. Not the imperturbable Marquis of Stamford.

She put a hand to her head, which was beginning to ache in a familiar way. She could not possibly take him up on his preposterous suggestion, not even for James.

She stood up and took an agitated turn around the room.

But would a few months in his company really be such a high price to pay for Meryton? It was not as if he demanded she be his mistress. She had heard of men who were unscrupulous enough to ask for a woman’s favours to pay off a debt. Not that she thought Lord Stamford was above that if it suited him. Most likely she was not to his taste, thank goodness. The thought of spending a night in his arms filled her with shivery panic.

She bit her lip, trying to think. What would they live on? John had left Rosalyn a small income and this house. The rest of his estate had been entailed to a nephew. Her competence could be stretched to accommodate two people in meagre comfort, but James would never accept that from her.

What would become of him?

She stared into the street with unseeing eyes. After all, how much time would she really be in his company? He was unlikely to spend much time dancing attendance on her. Such a flirt as Lord Stamford would undoubtedly find a woman more to his taste to occupy him.

She had no choice. She only prayed his offer was still open.

Michael entered Lady Burkham’s crowded ball room at half past midnight. Almost immediately, Lady Burkham glided forward, and caught his arm. ‘Why, Lord Stamford! We had given up all hope that you ever planned to show! I fear there has been more than one lady suffering from pangs of disappointment.’

‘I doubt the affliction is permanent.’

Her smile faded a little at his cool tone. ‘No, now that you are here. We are about to go down to supper. I hope you will partake of it.’

‘Thank you. Your suppers are always superior.’

She smiled again and, after a few more remarks, departed. He watched the guests drift towards the doors, talking and laughing. The boredom he felt at these occasions assailed him. He regretted his impulse to come.

Except he’d felt equally bored at White’s.

He finally admitted to himself he came in hopes of seeing Lady Jeffreys. Why, he had no idea. Until this morning, he had no doubt she would agree to his plan. But he had gravely miscalculated the depth of her dislike for him. Her words had stunned and then angered him. He tried to tell himself it was only because her refusal foiled his plans. He cared little what anyone thought or said of him. Including Lady Jeffreys. But a shaft of hurt he hadn’t felt since his youth had shot through him, piercing his careful armour of indifference.

This was ridiculous. He decided he would make his excuses to his hostess and leave. Then he saw her.

She was going down to supper with Lady Carlyn. Dressed in a dark blue gown that emphasised the gentle curve of her breasts, she looked delicately lovely.

He would stay after all.

He finally caught up to her at the supper laid out in buffet style. He waited until she finished putting a lobster patty on her plate before speaking.

‘Lady Jeffreys.’

She whirled around and looked up at him as if he’d sprung out of the wall. ‘What are you doing here?’

He removed the plate from her hand since the food appeared to be in danger of sliding to the table. ‘I was invited.’

‘I only meant I had not yet seen you. Did…did you get my note?’

‘Note? No, although I have hardly been home. Does this mean you wished to see me?’

‘Yes.’ Her face turned a delicate pink.

‘Perhaps you could continue your conversation elsewhere?’ Michael turned to find a stout gentlemen glaring at them.

Rosalyn quickly moved forward, Michael behind her. ‘Do you wish some strawberries? They look quite good.’

She looked completely confused. ‘Yes, I think so. This is for my grandmother.’

He put some strawberries on the plate. ‘You are not eating?’

‘I am not hungry.’

‘So you hoped to see me? What has caused you to change your mind?’ he asked softly.

She looked alarmed. ‘Please, not here.’

‘No.’ He looked down the plate, now containing enough food to feed several elderly ladies. ‘Is this enough for your grandmother?’

She eyed the plate doubtfully. ‘I hope so.’

‘Where is Lady Carlyn?’

He followed Rosalyn. Lady Carlyn sat at one of the long tables, between two older ladies. She beamed when she saw them. ‘Lord Stamford! How kind of you to fetch my plate! And you have found my granddaughter, I see. Perhaps you will join us.’

Lady Carlyn’s voice carried. Rosalyn’s face coloured as several heads craned their way.

‘Actually, I had hoped to have a word with your granddaughter in private.’ He smiled at Lady Carlyn.

‘Why…why, I suppose so. Yes, but I trust you will be on your best behaviour!’

‘Of course.’ He took Rosalyn’s arm, leading her from the room before Lady Carlyn could make any more pronouncements to the rest of the guests.

He led her to Lord Burkham’s study. He closed the door and leaned against it, watching her face.

‘What did your note say?’

‘I wished to accept your offer,’ she replied so softly he almost didn’t hear her. She twisted her hands. Her face had all the appearance of one offering to take another’s place on the gallows.

‘So you decided a few months of misery in my company was worth the price of your brother’s estate?’

Guilt washed across her delicate face. ‘I didn’t exactly mean that. I am sorry I said…’

He held up his hand. ‘There is no need to apologise. Your sentiments towards me are quite clear. At least you are honest. Very well, my lady, your brother shall have his estate.’

She cast him a helpless, almost fearful look. ‘What do you wish me to do now, my lord? Are we to announce our…our agreement right away?’

His mouth quirked slightly. ‘I see no reason to delay the announcement of our…betrothal. As soon as our families are informed, I will put an announcement in the Morning Post.’

She looked almost horrified. ‘Is that necessary?’

‘It is quite necessary, my dear.’

‘But what will everyone say? It seems so sudden. We hardly know each other.’

He shrugged. ‘What does it matter? I am known for making up my mind quickly. Come, Rosalyn, the sooner this is settled, the sooner your brother will get his estate.’

The frightened look fled. ‘I have not given you permission to use my given name, my lord.’

‘You have my permission to use mine. You sound like my butler, not a woman who has accepted an offer of marriage.’

‘But I have not accepted an offer of marriage. I am merely pretending to be betrothed to you. There is no need to be on such familiar terms when we are alone.’

He raised his brow. ‘Pretending? No, you will be betrothed to me. You will be my fiancée and you will address me by my given name, Rosalyn.’

Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘You will not dictate to me. I will call you whatever I please, my lord. I understood I was merely to become betrothed to you so you could avoid an arranged marriage. I do not think we need to expand our acquaintance beyond that. We shall do the bare minimum to establish that we are engaged and nothing more. You are free to go your own way.’

So she thought she could avoid him so easily, did she? He settled more firmly against the doorway and folded his arms. ‘You’re quite wrong,’ he drawled. ‘I have no intention of going my own way. If this is to succeed, I must play the role of the devoted fiancée. My Aunt Margaret, not to mention my father, has an uncanny ability to sniff out a scheme. In fact, I intend to make it clear I am in love with you. I shall accompany you everywhere and take as many opportunities as possible to be alone with you.’

‘That is…is ridiculous. There is no need to go to such lengths.’ She seemed at a loss for words, and then recovered herself. ‘In fact, it is quite mad and I have no intention of going along with this. We can see each other once or twice a week and no more. I will not have you accompanying me about like some sort of…of lapdog.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Now you are attempting to dictate to me, my lady. I know you wish me to the devil, but we have a bargain. I will return your brother’s estate and you will play the role of my fiancée. I expect some enthusiasm on your part for my company. Do you understand?’

She tilted her chin up, meeting his gaze. ‘Quite, but I will not pretend to be in love with you. And I want you to understand I have no intention of engaging in idle flirtation with you when we are alone.’

They faced off for a moment like a pair of duellers, eyes locked. He finally shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

He moved away from the door. ‘I will escort you to the opera tomorrow. You will meet my sister and her husband. I will ask Lady Carlyn to accompany us.’

‘Very well, my lord,’ she replied.

‘You had best begin to practise using my given name.’

‘I have no idea what your given name is.’

‘It is Michael.’

She said nothing, merely continuing to regard him as if she wished he would go away. He stepped towards her, causing her to put her hand to her necklace, and retreat a step back. He captured her slender hand and lifted it towards his lips, then pure devilment shot through him as he looked down at her. Without warning he pulled her to him, his lips brushing over hers.

She tasted cool and surprisingly sweet. He had a sudden urge to crush her to him. His hands dropped away.

‘Until tomorrow, Rosalyn.’ He dragged out her name with deliberate, intimate slowness. Her gaze flew to his face. There was no mistaking the apprehension in her eyes.

Chapter Four

Rosalyn stared down at the note, completely dismayed. Lady Carlyn, pleading a sudden headache, would not accompany them to the opera. Since her grandmother developed a headache only to avoid some commitment. Rosalyn suspected Lady Carlyn wanted her to be alone with Lord Stamford. She must have the only grandmother in London who actually encouraged her granddaughter to consort with rakes.

She crumpled the note, resisting the temptation to fling it across her bedchamber. Apprehension made her hand tremble. She had no desire to be alone with Lord Stamford, cooped up in his carriage across from him, forced to make conversation with a man she knew nothing about, a man whose power she was now in.

She was behaving in a ridiculous manner. She rose from her bed and peered distractedly into her looking glass, not really seeing her pale face. He had no power over her. She was hardly alone in the world; she had her family and her own small but adequate income. So there was nothing to fear. She would take part in this absurd charade, Meryton would return to James, and she would return to her safe, well-ordered world.

But nothing, she told herself, could dispel the sense of dread she felt every time she thought of that fleeting kiss. She must make it very clear that she had no intention of engaging in that sort of behaviour with him.

She turned from the mirror in an impatient movement and picked up her gloves and fan. A glance at the small clock on her dressing table showed Lord Stamford was already fifteen minutes late. The least he could do was show up on time.

‘My lady?’

Rosalyn started. Mrs Harrod peered around the edge of the door. ‘Lord Stamford is here. So very handsome he is. All dressed in black. Like one of those heroes in a novel.’

Even her housekeeper was charmed by the man. Rosalyn picked up her velvet cloak from the bed. But Mrs Harrod stepped in front of her before she could leave. ‘There’s a bit of hair that’s come out, my lady.’ With deft fingers, she pulled the offending lock back into place. She stepped back and beamed, her kindly face warm with admiration. ‘There, my lady. You look lovely. No wonder his lordship is so smitten.’

Rosalyn flushed, wishing her housekeeper did not have such a romantic imagination.

She slowly descended the staircase, her heart beating much too fast. She entered her drawing room, the lamps casting a cosy intimate glow about the room.

Lord Stamford stood in front of the fireplace, gazing at the landscape over the mantelpiece, hands clasped behind his back. He turned at her soft footsteps.

She caught her breath at his dashing appearance.

His black long-tailed coat, contrasted with the stark white of his ruffled shirt, became his dusky complexion and emphasised the lean, aristocratic planes of his face. A diamond glittered in the folds his white cravat. His hair, wavy from the misty rain, gleamed midnight in the lamplight. The black silk breeches and white stockings revealed a pair of muscular calves.

She tore her gaze away, praying he hadn’t noticed her staring. She crossed the room towards him, arranging her features in what she hoped were cool, impersonal lines.

He took her hand and released it. His eyes searched her face. ‘I hope I did not keep you waiting too long, Rosalyn.’

‘Only a mere fifteen minutes, my lord.’

He grinned. ‘Tis some improvement. Usually I am at least twenty minutes late. By the time our association is at an end, you may cure me of my propensity for lateness.’

He removed the cloak from her hands and stepped behind her. She felt the soft velvet slide around her shoulders. And then his hands stilled at the nape of her neck, making her feel as if every nerve had sprung to life.

‘It is really your fault, you know,’ he said.

‘My fault?’

‘You are not like most women. They are always at least ten minutes late to add to the stir their appearance will create. That is what I expected.’

‘I don’t like to waste time.’ His touch distracted her so she hardly knew what she said.

He removed his hands and stepped around to observe her. His eyes took in her gown of black crêpe over a black sarcenet slip and the simple diamond necklace and matching ear drops.

‘Certainly you didn’t tonight.’

A blush crept over her face. Of course, he was a practised flirt who knew exactly how to gaze at a woman, making her feel as if she were especially lovely in his eyes. She dropped her eyes, attempting to get her thoughts in order. ‘My grandmother will not accompany us, my lord. She has the headache.’

‘She has already informed me.’ He continued to watch her with a penetrating look that made her uncomfortable.

‘Perhaps we should depart, my lord.’ She turned away and picked up her reticule.

‘Michael,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Address me by my given name, Rosalyn.’

‘Until we announce our…agreement, I do not think it is necessary to be on such familiar terms.’

‘I think it is. My name is not that difficult. I want to hear you say it.’

He moved in front of her. She recognised that particular half-smile and knew they could be here all night if she didn’t comply with his request.

‘Very well…Michael.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He leaned towards her, his fingertips lightly brushing her cheek. ‘That is a good beginning. My name sounds very nice on your lips.’

She could think of nothing to say as she sat across from him on the comfortable cushions of the coach. Even the weather seemed too difficult to discuss. There was nothing but the sound of the horses’ hooves on the street and the soft patter of rain on the coach. She hardly knew where to look and mostly stared down at her hands. Finally she glanced up at Lord Stamford, lounging in his corner, and found his unfathomable eyes fixed on her face.

‘Must you stare at me in such a way?’

‘What way is that?’

‘As if you mean to memorise my features. Or as if I am some strange creature! It is most unnerving and quite rude.’

‘My apologies, but you have the most expressive features. I find it fascinating to watch your emotions play across your face.’

‘I cannot imagine why you would find that so interesting.’ She’d always disliked her inability to hide her feelings. It made her feel vulnerable and, at times, awkward. And now with Lord Stamford, she wanted more than anything to present a cool, remote exterior. Instead, he was telling her she had a face that displayed her every emotion.

‘Can’t you? Perhaps it is because I’ve known too many women who hide their every thought and feeling under a carefully cultivated veneer.’

‘Sometimes I think that would be an advantage.’

‘It’s not. I prefer honesty.’

She looked away from him, even more disconcerted.

The coach finally halted, and she saw they were near the Opera House. Several carriages waited in line before them. She watched a gentleman followed by an elegantly dressed lady glittering with jewels, and then a younger lady in the dress of a debutante, descend from the coach. The man was dressed much as Lord Stamford in the dark coat and breeches required for admittance to the opera. The young lady stared up at the impressive rectangular building with its façade of columns marching across the row and seemed to bounce in excitement.

It brought to mind her season when she first saw the elegant King’s Theatre. She had been so nervous, in her white muslin gown and pearls, as she accompanied Lady Carlyn up the steps and passed through the portico with all the haute ton milling about. She could barely speak when she was introduced to some of Lady Carlyn’s elegant acquaintances. But she had merely been one among a throng of young girls presented that season and hardly dazzled anyone. No one stared much at her arrival or fixed a quizzing glass on their box. It had been both a relief and a disappointment.

Stamford lightly touched her arm, causing her to jump. ‘Rosalyn, we are here. We cannot spend the evening in the carriage.’

She abruptly returned to Stamford’s coach and saw the footman had flung open the door. Stamford alighted in one swift, graceful movement and held out his hand to her.

She accepted his assistance, but stumbled a little, so he was forced to steady her. She started away from the unnerving contact and then dropped her reticule at his feet.

He retrieved the bag, handing it to her with his characteristic half-smile. ‘Have you always had the unfortunate habit of dropping your reticule?’

‘Only since I’ve met you.’ Thank goodness for the dark, so he couldn’t see the dark blush that she knew stained her face and neck.

‘That is not the usual effect I have on women.’

She coloured even more, and vowed to avoid any further contact with him. But he lightly caught her arm before they entered the portico, turning her to face him. The half-shadows kept her from clearly seeing his expression.

‘Before we go in, there is something I must make clear to you,’ he began.

‘Yes?’

‘I think you fear that I intend to offer you another carte blanche as part of our bargain. In light of my conduct at our first meeting, I cannot blame you, but rest assured, I have no intention of doing so. I do not force women to my bed.’

‘Of…of course not,’ she stammered.

He drew her arm through his as they passed through the doors into the crowded entrance hall.

If she had received little attention during her season, it was made up tenfold tonight. Heads swivelled as they passed. Stamford paid no heed, merely nodding to acquaintances without pausing, his hand resting possessively on her arm as he guided her through the elegantly dressed crowd. Heat flooded her cheeks but she managed to keep her head high.

As they reached the circular staircase, a woman stepped away from a small group and clutched Stamford’s arm, forcing him to halt.

‘Dear Stamford! How surprising to see you! You have been so scarce I thought you’d left town. And how remiss of you to not have yet called on me.’

She was tall and well built with a fascinating sultry face. Her low-cut emerald gown revealed a creamy expanse of flesh. Jade-green eyes flickered over Rosalyn, then dismissed her.

‘I have been busy,’ Stamford replied shortly, his face haughty. He began to move away, but she caught his arm.

‘Come riding with me tomorrow, then. I have not seen you for an age.’

‘I cannot. Elinor, if you will excuse me.’

‘You’re always so difficult. At least introduce me to your companion.’ Her smile held a touch of malice.

Stamford looked discomfited. ‘Lady Jeffreys, may I present Lady Marchant?’

Lady Marchant ran her eyes up and down Rosalyn as if she were summing up an enemy before battle. ‘How nice to meet you,’ she finally replied, an insincere smile pasted on her lips.

Stamford nearly wrenched Rosalyn away. ‘We must go.’

Rosalyn eyed his cool face with fascination. She had never seen him at such disadvantage. With sudden intuition, she knew the voluptuous Lady Marchant was or had been his mistress. How very awkward to be forced to introduce one’s mistress to the lady one was to be betrothed to. And how very fortunate Rosalyn was not really his fiancée.

As if sensing her gaze, he turned his head and look down at her with unsmiling eyes. ‘Do you find fault with my appearance? Is that why you are staring?’

‘Not at all. I was thinking how nice it was to meet Lady Marchant. She is very lovely. Is she a particular friend of yours?’

His eyes narrowed. She met his suspicious gaze with innocent eyes. ‘No,’ he replied shortly.

‘Do you often ride with her in the park?’

This time he openly glared. ‘That is none of your business. That is—’ He stopped and clamped his lips in a tight line. ‘I assure you I have nothing to do with Lady Marchant. She is an acquaintance, that is all. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’

She averted her head to hide the smile tugging at her lips. How gratifying to know it was possible to provoke Lord Stamford.

The curtain had already lifted on the singers by the time they took their seats. To her surprise, there was no one else in the box.

He must have noted her puzzlement for he leaned towards her, his breath fanning her cheek. ‘We will meet my sister and her husband later. I did not wish to entirely overwhelm you.’

He settled back in the box; his eyes fixed on the stage. She stared around the theatre; it looked much as she remembered from her season; the tiers of boxes painted cerulean blue and gold filled to capacity with glittering ladies and handsomely dressed gentlemen, the fops strolling in the pit; the stares, the whispers behind fans as subjects for scandal-broth were spotted.

Only this time many of the glances were directed at their box. She felt as self-conscious as if they were sitting on the stage themselves.

She hoped James wasn’t here. She knew she would have to break the news of her agreement—no, betrothal to Stamford, soon. She would rather do it in person than have the news leak to him. She looked around the theatre again and then her gaze fell on Edmund Fairchilde sitting a few boxes away. To her great consternation, he had a quizzing glass fixed on her face. She quickly turned away, only to find Stamford observing her.

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No, I…I wished to see if my brother was here.’

‘The thought seems to fill you with dismay,’ he remarked.

Why could he read her so easily? ‘I didn’t tell him I was coming with you.’

His mouth quirked. ‘I see. That is quite cowardly of you.’

She twisted her hands in her lap. ‘I am afraid I am something of a coward.’

‘I wouldn’t say that. Otherwise, you would not be here with me.’

His words were completely unexpected. She glanced at him, taken aback, hardly knowing what to say. She fixed her eyes on the stage.

Concentrating on the performance proved impossible. She was too aware of the man beside her and of how alone they were, despite the filled boxes. More than once his arm brushed hers, causing her to flinch. She was grateful when the curtain finally fell and the last of the opera dancers flounced off stage for the interval.

‘Did you enjoy the performance at all?’ Stamford asked.

‘Oh…of course. It was very nice,’ she murmured, hardly recalling what took place.

‘I am not certain you did. You seemed rather distracted.’

‘I had forgotten how inquisitive people could be in London.’

‘I take it you don’t like being the focus of so much curiosity and speculation?’

‘No, not at all. Do you?’

His mouth twisted in a sardonic half-smile. ‘I am quite used to it, so I pay no heed. Don’t trouble yourself about it. They will soon find a more scandalous on dit to occupy them.’ He held out his hand, assisting her to her feet. ‘But for now, my dear lady, I am afraid you must put up with more turned heads. I am going to introduce you to my sister and her husband.’

He led her past the curious stares and whispers down to the saloon, already crowded and noisy with patrons wishing to procure refreshments. They approached a small group standing in one corner.

‘Michael!’ A stocky fair-haired gentleman turned around and grinned. ‘Here so soon? Didn’t expect you to show before the last act!’

One of the two ladies standing next to the gentleman laughed. ‘That’s too kind! I would have said the—’ She broke off, her eyes wide with astonishment as she caught sight of Rosalyn.

‘I had no idea you were bringing someone,’ the lady said, her voice cool. Her haughty gaze brushed over Rosalyn’s face. Dark-haired with an olive complexion, her relation to Stamford was unmistakable—she could only be his sister, Lady Hartman.

The other three, the stocky gentleman, the red-haired lady standing next to him and a taller man, observed her with polite curiosity.

Stamford took Rosalyn’s hand, pulling her to his side. ‘May I present Lady Jeffreys? Lord and Lady Hartman, my cousin Charles Portland, and his fiancée, Elizabeth Markham.’ He pulled her even more close and said blandly, ‘You must congratulate us. Lady Jeffreys has done me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage.’

The effect could not have been more startling if he had pulled a pistol on them. They froze and stared in stunned silence until Lady Hartman spoke.

‘You cannot be serious. Is this one of your jests?’

‘I am quite serious. She finally made up her mind to accept my offer yesterday.’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Mr Portland faintly. He exchanged a glance with Miss Markham and then turned a fascinated eye on his cousin.

‘But does Papa know this? Michael, he—’ began Lady Hartman.

‘This is hardly the time to discuss the matter,’ Stamford replied coolly. His hand closed more tightly about Rosalyn’s, who was experiencing the nightmarish sensation of having been plopped down in the middle of a farce without having read the script.

Then Lord Hartman stepped forward and took her hand. Grey eyes twinkled in a pleasant countenance. ‘Let me be the first to congratulate you. We are, of course, surprised, although I have no idea why. We always suspected Michael would waste no time once he met the right lady.’ His smile was reassuring. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting you once a long time ago when I attended a lecture of Sir John’s. I was acquainted with him, and you were there. I was sorry to hear of his death; he was a good man and a talented scholar. But I am delighted you have found happiness again.’

‘Thank you,’ Rosalyn replied, touched by his kind words for John and grateful for his courtesy towards her. She smiled a little shyly. ‘I’m sorry I do not recall meeting you, my lord.’

‘No matter. I am glad to renew our acquaintance.’ He turned to his wife. ‘My dear?’

Lady Hartman’s bright, inquisitive gaze never wavered from Rosalyn’s face. Slender and vivacious with dark hair tumbling about in charming disarray, she resembled a pixie. A smile of pure mischief spread over her countenance. ‘What delightful and unexpected news. But you must tell me, wherever did you meet my brother?’

‘At…’ began Rosalyn.

‘At Lady Winthrope’s rout,’ Stamford replied firmly.

‘But that was only two days ago! I see, Michael, you have tumbled into love at last! Who would have thought this would happen! Lady Jeffreys, you must tell me all about yourself. Where are you from?’

‘Caro, it is not necessary to interrogate Lady Jeffreys.’ His face took on the haughty look Rosalyn was beginning to recognise as irritation.

His sister blithely ignored his black look. ‘Oh, but it is.’ She turned back to Rosalyn with an innocent smile. ‘At least tell me how my brother persuaded you to marry him. I can’t imagine how any woman in her right mind would accept his offer. Did he bribe you?’

Mr Portland, who had been silent, emitted a strangled cough.

‘My dear, Lady Jeffreys is not used to your rag-mannered ways,’ said Lord Hartman.

‘Well, did he?’ persisted Lady Hartman.

It was all Rosalyn could do to maintain her countenance. ‘Not quite,’ she managed.

Lady Hartman crowed. ‘Now I am even more curious. We must have a coze when my brother is not present.’

‘Very pleased for you, Michael. Never thought you could pull it off,’ Mr Portland said.

‘And I am also very pleased for you,’ Miss Markham said.

Mr Portland grasped Rosalyn’s hand and grinned. ‘Best wishes to you, my lady. Welcome to the family. We’re all quite insane, you know. Just keep that in mind and don’t let us eat you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Rosalyn, dazed.

‘Charles, what a thing to say!’ scolded Miss Markham.

Her fiancé smiled lazily. ‘You’ve often said the same thing; we’re all quite mad.’

‘Now that you’ve all managed to properly scare her with such an encouraging welcome, I’d best take her back to our box,’ Stamford said coolly.

He first procured Rosalyn a glass of lemonade she did not want, then fixed her with such a fierce stare she felt obligated to force it down her throat. Her temper was beginning to flare over his high-handedness and utter lack of sensibility for all concerned.

Michael was not at all surprised to have Rosalyn round on him once they reached their box. Her hazel eyes flashed fire. She didn’t look a bit like the compliant fiancée he’d envisioned. In fact, he’d seen the same expression in his aunt’s eyes more than once.

‘How could you spring this on them?’

He fixed her with his most bland look. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. They were so shocked. That was hardly kind of you. You might have at least prepared them in some way.’

‘I suppose you wanted me to drop sly hints and be seen in your company an appropriate amount of time before declaring my intentions, is that it?’

She snapped her fan shut. ‘What is wrong with that? It would have been the most courteous thing to do.’

He leaned back in his seat and said in his most annoying drawl, ‘I assure you, my family would be more surprised if I were to be courteous. This is more what they expect out of me.’

‘Indeed. I feel quite sorry for them. And for your future wife if she has to put up with this!’

He was beginning to enjoy himself. ‘I will make it worth her while in—other ways.’

He was delighted to see a dark blush stain her cheeks, but she rallied. ‘I am certain nothing would be worth it.’

‘Now that we’re engaged, it would be quite proper of me to demonstrate and let you make up your mind,’ he suggested wickedly.

She looked shocked. He must learn to curb his tongue when with her. She was not one of his flirts who would parry his double-edged remarks with an even more suggestive one.

‘Besides, I want to squelch any rumours.’

‘What rumours?’ she asked.

‘Rumours about our association.’ The puzzlement on her expressive face brought him up short. He found himself unable to tell her there were already bets on the book on how long it would take him to make her his next mistress. She would be appalled.

‘I wanted to make certain no one would claim your hand and your affections before we announce our, er…agreement.’

‘Since I plan never to remarry there was very little danger that would overset your plans.’

‘Why don’t you wish to remarry? You are a very lovely woman. I’m surprised you don’t have suitors falling over themselves,’ he said carelessly.

‘I hardly consider that a compliment. Perhaps your only criterion for judging a woman’s worth is her beauty or lack of it, but I hope most men don’t use that in looking for a wife.’

‘You are right, of course, there are more important qualities in a woman than beauty. I do beg your pardon. But tell me, do you consider a man’s appearance important?’

‘Yes, I generally find the degree of handsome looks a man possesses also determines his degree of conceit.’

He grinned. ‘Touché, my lady. Are you perhaps referring to myself?’

‘I didn’t exactly say that.’

‘No, not exactly. But at least you consider me somewhat handsome. How much conceit do you think I possess?’

She glared at him and turned away.

He eyed his betrothed’s profile as she sat concentrating very hard on the performance, ignoring him. Somehow he had entertained the erroneous notion Lady Jeffreys would prove to be quite compliant once he bent her to his will. She appeared so quiet and reserved, which in his experience translated into malleable. He could see now she intended to cross swords with him at every opportunity. A grin creased his face. Suddenly, a betrothal seemed a much more interesting state of affairs than he’d ever imagined.

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