by Diana Bold
“Hello.” Michael sounded surprised by his pleasant greeting. “I didn’t know you’d spent the night.”
It was a good beginning. Dylan couldn’t even remember the last time he and his brother had managed to carry on a conversation not marred by anger, jealousy, or defensiveness.
“I stayed for breakfast.” Dylan sat down at one end of the huge walnut table and dug into his kippers with relish. “You can't get fare like this down at Mrs. Tweed’s.”
Michael filled his own plate and then took the place across from Dylan, frowning. “You don’t have to live in that deuced boarding house, you know. You’re welcome to come home anytime you wish.”
“But I like that deuced boarding house. I can come and go as I please without having to listen to Father’s various complaints about my behavior.”
“He's not so bad. and he wouldn't be so angry with you all the time if you behaved with a little more discretion. How do you expect him to react when you taunt him the way you did last night? That blasted party means a great deal to him.”
For once, Dylan decided against a flippant reply. He met Michael’s chiding glance head-on, as he tried to find an answer to the question that had haunted him all his life. “You know how hard I’ve tried to win his favor. I was awarded the bloody VC, for God’s sake, and he didn’t even come to the ceremony!” His voice rose, and he made an effort to regain control. “He hates me no matter what I do.”
Michael looked away. To his credit, he didn’t try to deny it.
Watching the play of emotion on his brother’s face, Dylan felt a twinge of guilt. He knew Michael didn't enjoy the responsibilities that came with being the heir. And Michael didn’t understand any better than Dylan why their father chose to draw a line so sharply between them.
As children, Michael had often tried to take the blame for Dylan’s many real and imagined transgressions, wanting to spare his little brother at least some of the constant beatings. But the earl never allowed it.
In their father’s eyes, Michael could do no wrong, and Dylan could do no right. “Ah, hell. Let’s just change the subject, shall we?” The last thing Dylan wanted to do was dredge up the hurt and pain of the past.
Seeming relieved, Michael cleared his throat and picked at his breakfast. “The old man’s been after me to marry. I’ve begun courting the Duke of Clayton’s daughter.”
“Lady Natalia?” Dylan pushed away his plate, a sinking feeling in his gut. This was one complication he hadn’t counted on.
“I danced with her last night, and she gave me permission to call upon her this morning. She’s a strange little thing, a bit too foreign-looking for my tastes. Not much for conversation either, but her dowry is enormous.”
“I think she’s lovely.” Dylan schooled his face into a smile and hoped his anger and dismay didn't show. Everything came so easily to Michael. It seemed Lady Natalia was no exception. Michael had been given permission to call, while Dylan hadn't even been able to win a dance.
Michael raised a brow. “I thought redheaded actresses were more your type.”
“So, you've heard about Cassandra.” Dylan continued to smile, but he knew what Michael thought. Like Jonathan, Michael assumed no respectable woman would ever look twice at a penniless younger son.
They were probably right.
“I believe everyone has heard about Cassandra.” For once, a hint of admiration laced Michael’s voice. He leaned forward, rampant curiosity in his warm blue eyes. “What’s she like?”
Dylan shrugged. “Beautiful. Sensual. Wildly imaginative.”
Michael sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I envy you. It must be nice to have a woman you can relax and be yourself around. Perhaps I’ll take a mistress as well, after I’m wed.”
A woman you can be yourself around. What a fascinating concept. Dylan decided not to inform his brother he’d never found any such thing. The women he met expected him to be the hero they read about in the papers. He’d never had the courage to disappoint them.
“Why wait until after the wedding?” Dylan asked, truly curious. “Why not take a mistress now?”
“I can’t afford even the hint of a scandal,” Michael explained, an odd note in his voice. “Not if I’m to win the duke’s daughter.”
Dylan kept his opinions of his brother’s hypocrisy to himself. He finished his breakfast, and then bid Michael farewell. As he hurried from the house, he cursed beneath his breath. Of all the girls in London, why did this bet have to center around the one Michael wanted?
He wondered if Jonathan knew about Michael’s interest in Lady Natalia. Had the fop put Dylan at odds with his brother on purpose?
The wisest thing to do, given this new information, would be to bow out gracefully and let Jonathan win the infernal wager. He’d come up with the money somehow, even if it meant going to his father.
But as soon as the thought occurred, he dismissed it. He’d never been one to simply give up, and he’d be damned if he’d start now.
Besides, the girl intrigued him, and he was tired of stepping aside for his brother. Perhaps he needed to prove to himself that he could be first in someone’s heart.
Chapter Four
Dylan spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon at his club. He drank, played cards with Basingstoke, and tried to pretend nothing was wrong. He laughed off questions about the wager with a confidence he didn't feel.
In truth, the thought of competing with Michael terrified him. After all, he’d been compared to his perfect brother all his life. And all his life, he’d come up lacking.
As he left the club, he railed inwardly against his father for promoting such a strong rivalry between his sons. Dylan had always hated himself for his driving need to beat Michael, especially since Michael seemed beyond such petty behavior.
Then again, Michael didn’t need to compete, since he always won without effort.
Sighing, Dylan hailed the nearest hack, gave the driver his address, and then settled back in the stained seat for the long ride home. Fleet Street was a long way from Pall Mall,
Evening had already descended by the time he reached the rundown yet painfully clean boarding house where he’d taken a room. Well into his cups, he decided to take the back stairs in order to avoid his landlady, Mrs. Loretta Tweed.
He was late with his rent again and had no idea how he would pay if he didn’t win this bet. He wasn’t due to receive his quarterly allowance from his father for another month.
Unfortunately, Loretta lay in wait for him. By the time he got to his room on the second floor, she was marching up the front stairs.
“Captain Blake!” she called, giving him no chance to pretend he didn’t see her. “Might I have a quick word with you, sir?”
Dylan sighed and pressed his forehead to the scarred wooden door for a moment, trying to summon the charm that had worked so well for him in the past. Turning, he pasted on a smile. “Loretta. How nice to see your lovely face.”
Grossly overweight and near fifty, Loretta had never been lovely. Still, his compliments usually managed to buy him some time.
“Don’t you try to charm me, you naughty boy.” She mounted the last few stairs and bustled toward him, her breath hitching from her exertion. “You know you’re over two weeks late with the rent.”
Dylan smiled wider, his mouth aching with the effort. “Am I? So sorry, my love. A mere oversight. I’ll have the funds for you in the morning.”
“That’s what you said last week.” She gave him a weary shake of her head. “I can’t keep letting you slide, even if you are gorgeous as sin. I’ve got bills of my own to pay.”
Too tired to keep up the pretense, Dylan let the smile slip from his lips. “I know, Loretta. I’m truly sorry. I’ll get the money somehow. I swear I will.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then nodded and gave him a wan smile of her own. “Just try and have the money for me by the end of the month. Otherwise, I’ll have to evict you.”
He w
atched her trudge back toward the stairs. She’d given him more of a reprieve than he deserved. He felt guilty for taking advantage of her generous nature.
Letting himself into his room, he lit the closest lamp and cursed as he burned his fingertips. He waited impatiently as the flame sputtered and flickered before catching hold.
The light illuminated a small suite of shabby rooms. It wasn’t Grosvenor Square, but it was neat and clean, a veritable palace after the tiny crowded spaces he’d occupied during his years in the Army. At least the flat was warm and dry, two things he’d have sold his soul for in the Crimea.
It was also lonely.
Sometimes, the loneliness ate at his very soul, and he wished he'd never sold his commission. He didn't miss much about his former life. Not the boredom that gave way to bloody frenzy, nor the endless rules and regulations. But he did miss the companionship, the swapping of stories, and the friends who had become like family to him.
Blinking back the memories, he crossed the room and poured himself a shot of gin. He drank deeply, letting the familiar burn of alcohol drown his sudden sense of unease. Pouring himself a second drink, he settled on the sofa to read the Times, only to be interrupted by a knock at the door.
He frowned at the sound. Who on earth could it be? Too loud to be Mrs. Tweed, too impatient to be Michael, and Basingstoke made it a matter of principle never to be seen in Dylan’s neighborhood. Muttering under his breath, Dylan tossed the paper aside and went to answer the summons.
When he saw who’d come to call, his heart sank, and his gut knotted. My father.
Though impeccably dressed, the earl’s usually impassive face was flushed with anger. Dylan had never seen the man in such a state.
Alarmed, Dylan took an unconscious step back. Over a decade had passed since the earl had last beaten him, but he supposed a shadow of the terrified child he’d once been lurked somewhere deep inside him.
“Father,” he muttered, steeling himself against any further signs of weakness. “This is an unexpected surprise.”
Unexpected and unwelcome. Shutting the door on a few curious neighbors who stood in the hall, the earl moved to stand in the middle of the small parlor. He cast a disparaging glance around the humble surroundings and then allowed his wintry gaze to settle upon Dylan once more. “You needn’t act as though you’re pleased to see me. This isn’t a social call, I assure you.”
“I didn’t think it was. You’ve certainly never bothered to visit before.” Dylan sank into the nearest chair and stared at his father in brooding silence.
What the hell is he doing here?
As if in answer, the earl tossed him some official-looking documents. Dylan’s foreboding intensified as he unfolded the crisp sheets of paper.
When he’d read enough to realize what they were, his blood ran cold.
“You’ve written me off.” He schooled his face into a controlled mask, determined not to let his true emotions show. All he had left was his pride, and he wasn’t about to let the old bastard know how much this final repudiation hurt.
The earl stepped forward, seized Dylan’s chin, and forced him to meet his furious gaze. “You embarrassed me, you ungrateful little bastard. All your life, I’ve given you more than you deserved, and this is how you repay me?”
Dylan jerked away. “You’ve given me nothing! No love, no respect, certainly no mercy. My mother was barely cold in her grave before you shipped me off to boarding school.”
“Don’t speak to me of her!” The veins in the earl’s forehead pulsed with anger. They stared into each other’s eyes for one long, endless moment. Then the earl spun away and paced the length of the small room like a caged tiger. “You never should have left the Army. That’s where you belong. There’s no place for you here.”
Each word hit him like a slap. Dylan knew his father bore him no great love, but this was the first time the earl had allowed him to see this seething hatred.
“You shan’t get another farthing from me,” the earl continued. “Not ever.”
“I believe you’ve explained all that quite clearly.” Dylan flung himself out of the chair and stalked to the window. “So, if you haven’t anything further to add, why don’t you get the hell out of here?”
Lengthy silence greeted Dylan’s words. He turned and found his father less than a yard away, face contorted with rage.
“I have rued your existence since the day you were born. You are no son of mine.”
Dylan gave a cynical laugh. “God. As though I hadn’t ever heard that before.”
The earl spun on his heels and slammed the door behind him. The sound reverberated in Dylan’s skull, freezing him into immobility for a long, long moment. The last little part of his heart that had believed in his father’s love withered and died.
Written off.
Despite everything, he’d never thought his father would go this far. Trembling in delayed reaction, he sank gracelessly down the wall. His limbs failed him as he contemplated his dwindling options.
Though he and his father had never gotten along, he’d never dreamed there would come a day when the old man would cut him off completely. A terrible predicament, to be sure. Made even worse by the fact that he had nothing to fall back on.
He’d already failed to find employment as an estate manager. The only jobs to be had in the city were menial in nature and wouldn’t even pay his rent at Mrs. Tweed’s. English Society wasn’t set up to provide for gentlemen who were down on their luck.
Still, he wasn’t without talents or resources. An old friend from India had already offered him a partnership in a lucrative trading venture. And opportunity abounded in America, now that the States had finished their bloody civil war.
All he need was an entrepreneurial spirit and a small stake to get started.
At the moment, however, he didn’t have the funds for a coach ride to the country, let alone fare for a passage to India or America. Besides, he’d spent the last twelve years aching to return home to England. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving so soon.
Marriage. There seemed to be no way around it. A marriage for money.
Restless, he stood and poured himself another drink. Basingstoke was right. He needed an immense dowry. He needed to find a woman so impressed by his war record and impeccable breeding she wouldn’t notice his complete lack of funds.
Though he hated the thought of spending the rest of his life with a woman he did not love, it seemed better than the alternative. He comforted himself with the thought that he could surely find a girl who was both rich and attractive, someone he might come to care for.
Once again, he was brought up short by the reminder that a courtship of that nature would take months to pull off. Months he didn’t have. At the moment, his largest concern was keeping a roof over his head.
He drained his glass, feeling the need to be far drunker than he was. Lost in thought, he poured another drink and carried it to the sofa as he pondered the humiliation of asking Michael or Basingstoke for a loan. Either one would give him the money he needed without question, but his entire soul rebelled at the thought.
Then, suddenly, the answer became clear.
The wager.
Of course. He needed to win the bet he’d made with Jonathan. Two hundred pounds would easily finance a lengthy search for a suitable bride.
What had begun as a mere challenge had become his only chance to save himself.
His conscience balked a bit at the thought of using the girl in such a manner, but he quieted the little voice. He didn’t plan to ruin her. It was just a couple of dances, which would do nothing but raise an eyebrow or two.
He needed to charm Lady Natalia Sinclair. Not an easy task but one he had yet to pursue wholeheartedly. He smiled, thinking of all the unused weapons in his arsenal.
He would put her icy reserve under siege. He would assault it from every side until he wore down her defenses.
She didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of resisting h
im.
Chapter Five
“Just one dance. That’s all I’m asking.”
Natalia sighed as she stared into Dylan Blake’s persuasive gray eyes. A little more than a week had passed since she’d first met him, and he had made her the target of a very heated campaign. Everywhere she went, he was there, charming and cajoling her into granting him a dance.
Tonight, they’d both attended a costume ball in prestigious St. James Square. She’d come garbed as Diana, the Huntress, but he’d had no trouble seeing beyond her disguise.
Of course, she’d also recognized him. Dressed as a desert sheik in flowing white robes, he wore a turban and a gold demi-mask.
Even disguised, he was the most handsome man in the room. She thought his appeal must lie in the confidence of his walk. Or perhaps his height and the ungentlemanly breadth of his shoulders made him stand out,
More likely, the sensual curve of his lips drew her. What woman could ever look at that mouth and think of anything but the way it would feel to have it pressed against hers?
She’d hoped her attraction to him would fade, but instead, it had intensified. So far, she’d managed to keep him at arm’s length, but that hadn’t been easy. Denying him the requested dances took every bit of willpower she possessed. The righteous anger he’d elicited upon their first meeting faded a little with each new encounter, and this dangerous need to deepen their relationship grew.
Heartbreak seemed as inevitable as the tide, yet for the first time in her life, she considered taking the risk.
Mustering the last of her self-will, she shook her head and gave him a rueful smile. “Why do you continue to plague me, Captain Blake? Hasn’t any woman ever told you no before?”
He made her feel reckless, able to speak her mind and flirt shamelessly, safe in the anonymity of her mask and the knowledge that their nearest observers were several yards away.
He laughed, a surprised, openly amused sound that sent heads turning in their direction. He flashed a charming grin, revealing a deep dimple in each lean cheek. “Never. I’m afraid I’m rather spoiled where women are concerned.”
