by Farr, Diane
She could already hear the hardness in his voice. Anticipating her answer, he was condemning her. Good, she thought wildly. Good. She wanted him to condemn her. She wanted to convince him, despite the myriad ways she had betrayed her feelings in the past day or two, that he had been right to begin with—that she was nothing more than a moneygrubbing harpy. That her heart was as cold as rumor said it was.
“I think I would like to be rich,” she heard herself say.
“And how do you define ‘rich?’” He sounded angry now.
She had no idea. She had never given it serious thought. Of course, a girl whose ambition was to be rich would have given it some thought, so Cynthia stalled for time. She turned her head sideways and tried to look vague. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, deliberately conveying the impression that she had an income in mind but was too coy to voice it.
She was not looking into Derek’s face any more, so she failed to read his intentions. She gasped, startled, when she felt herself roughly pulled to her feet. Derek had lifted them both off the window seat in one smooth motion. Before she knew what he was about, he had taken her, willy-nilly, in his arms. She looked instinctively up into his face, and was lost. She could not look away. His eyes, filled with pain, bored into hers.
“There are all sorts of riches, Cynthia,” he said hoarsely. “Wealth can be measured in many ways. Let me show you one of them.”
He was going to kiss her. Oh, no. Panic surged through her; he would know... he would know everything. The way she felt. The fact that she had lied. But a strange lassitude was gripping her. She could not seem to move. Her eyes dilated with fear, but she did not pull away. And when his mouth closed on hers, her ability to think fled, taking all fear with it.
She went limp and pliant in his arms, loving the feel of him. The taste of him. Derek. There was room for nothing more in her mind. Her racing thoughts quieted and focused. Her will to resist, consumed by a firestorm of pure emotion, vanished like smoke in a whirlwind. Chaos ended. Doubts faded to nothingness.
She belonged in Derek’s arms. This was right. This was good. This was all she ever wanted. For a few blissful seconds, Cynthia was in heaven.
And then, inevitably, the clock downstairs began to chime midnight.
Chapter 10
How could she kiss him like that if she didn’t care for him? She must feel something. Some tenderness, some desire. Something.
He was dimly aware of bells ringing in the distance. Cynthia seemed to freeze in his arms. She tore her face from his with a moan of frustration, then rested the top of her head against his lapel, staring at the floor and gulping air. “I must go,” she said, sounding half-strangled.
Midnight. Of course.
He threw his head back; he was feeling the need to gulp a little air, himself. “Very well,” he said unsteadily, “Cinderella.”
She gave a sad little choke of laughter, then raised her head and looked at him. “I shall have to tell Mama that I did not find my book.”
“Good. Perhaps she will let you come back out and continue your search.”
“Unlikely, I’m afraid.” She gave him a wan smile. “I would not hang about in the passage, waiting for me to reemerge, if I were you.”
Her lovely face was a portrait of pure sorrow, bravely, but inadequately, hidden behind that unconvincing smile. It was heartbreaking.
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Cynthia,” he said hoarsely. “I would gladly wait all night, if—”
“Hush.” Her voice was tight with pain. “No more. I must go, and quickly now. Goodnight.”
“One kiss more.” He bent his head, drunk with need, but she pushed him away as if panic-stricken.
“Derek, I cannot stay. She will pull the bell rope and wake the servants. I must go back.” With a desperate little shudder, Cynthia pulled herself out of his embrace and picked up her lamp. The light wavered and danced in her trembling hand.
He extended his own hand, steadier than hers. “Give me the lamp. I’ll escort you.”
She hesitated, irresolute, then shook her head. “My mother might open her door and see you. Goodnight, Derek. Good—goodbye.” Her voice quivered, nearly suspended with tears; he heard them plainly. But even as he reached for her again—to comfort her, to argue with her, to steal her from her wretched, greedy family—she was gone, her footsteps hurrying lightly down the passage.
He took a deep, rueful breath and blew it out, raking his hair with one hand. That had not gone as planned.
His only consolation was that it hadn’t gone as Cynthia planned, either. Tell him goodbye, indeed! And over money, of all things. He snorted with disgust. If there was one thing his up-and-down life had taught him, it was the treachery of money. People did terrible things to one another in pursuit of it, and for what? Neither love nor health nor luck, none of the things that truly enriched a man, could be purchased.
It occurred to him that Cynthia, on the other hand, appeared to be for sale. And there was no blinking the fact that Cynthia would enrich his life. So perhaps great wealth was desirable after all.
He jammed his hands in his pockets, scowling, and headed moodily for the bedchamber Cummings had assigned him. He had to admit, unpleasant though it was, that if Cynthia were truly mercenary he would be better off without her. He was, most would say, a reasonably wealthy man. But there were women for whom no amount of money was sufficient. A woman like that could wreak havoc in a man’s life. Even if he won her hand, he might live to regret it. It clearly behooved him, then, to banish her from his dreams.
On the other hand, he had attempted that feat for three years without success. He had firmly believed, then, what he only feared was true now, and despite his long-held conviction that Cynthia Fitzwilliam was a mercenary jade, he had dreamed of her incessantly. What made him think he could forget her now, if he couldn’t then?
She felt something for him, he was sure of that. Whatever her ambitions, however focused she was on her goals, he could certainly distract her. He had demonstrated his power to do so time and again. But should he? Was it wise? In the long run, was he better off standing back and letting her cast out lures to Ellsworth?
He needed more information, he decided. Stronger evidence, in one direction or the other. Cynthia seemed to have an odd mixture of priorities vying for dominance: filial duty, attraction to him, and greed. Seemed, he thought, because there was something wrong with that picture. He just wasn’t sure what it was.
Ah, well. Time would tell. He’d sort it all out somehow. He had always considered himself a fortunate chap. People said he had been born under a lucky star, and he was inclined to believe it. Whenever things looked bleakest, somehow fate always intervened on his behalf. He had inherited Crosby Hall against near-impossible odds. Perhaps he would win Cynthia, too, and live happily ever after.
Unless, of course, those two things were mutually exclusive. In which case he must trust his lucky star to prevent him from winning her, even if he tried. Because it seemed pretty clear that he was going to try, even against his better judgment.
He had to place his faith in something: God, or fate, or lucky stars. He obviously could not trust himself.
The next morning he set out to waylay Cynthia again, but something even more pressing reared its head. Natalie did not come down to breakfast.
Derek startled the housemaid carrying breakfast to Lady Malcolm’s room by intercepting her in the passage and forcibly wresting the tray from her hands. He reduced her to giggles and blushes with a wink, a grin, and a promise that he would not spill Lady Malcolm’s tea, and then carried the tray to his sister with his own hands.
He found her lying listlessly against a welter of pillows. She turned her head when Derek came in and he saw her woebegone expression transform comically into one of pleased dismay. “Oh, no!” she uttered, in tones of despair. “Not you.”
“Yes, dear sister, it is I,” intoned Derek, bearing the tray into the room and depositin
g it on a low table beside Natalie’s bed. “I have come to visit you on your bed of pain.”
She glowered at him. “It isn’t a bed of pain. It’s merely a bed of discomfort. Get out, Derek, do! I look hideous.”
“Nonsense,” he said loyally. “Buck up, Natalie, and stop feeling sorry for yourself. Everyone tells me you are healthier than you think you are.”
He hoped to high heaven they were right. She really did look terrible, poor girl. It wasn’t just the hugeness of her distended belly; her color wasn’t good, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
“Move over,” he ordered. “I want to sit on the bed.”
“There isn’t room,” she said glumly. “I’m enormous. Pull the chair over, if you must stay. Gracious, not that one! That’s the commode.”
“No. Is it?” He stared at it with interest. “Very clever.”
“It’s practical, at any rate. I daren’t stray too far from it these days. There’s a plain chair by the vanity.”
The vanity chair was small and spindly. “The commode looks more comfortable,” he said.
“I told you you needn’t stay.”
“Nonsense. How else am I to force all this tea down your throat?” He hauled the vanity chair close to the bed and sat in it, facing her. “Give over, Natalie! If you didn’t want me at Oldham Park, you shouldn’t have sent me that affecting letter.”
Her lips twitched. “I wanted you near,” she admitted. “But not this near.” She eyed the tray with misgiving. “What is that? Porridge?”
“Gruel, I think.” He lifted the cover and sniffed the air. “Mmm.”
Natalie shuddered and closed her eyes. “Take it away, for pity’s sake.”
“Careful,” he warned her. “You’ll hurt my feelings in a minute. I’m beginning to think you don’t want me here.”
She gave a strangled little laugh and then covered her face with a pillow, emitting a hollow moan. “It’s not just you,” she said, her voice muffled beneath the pillow. “I can’t bear for anyone but Malcolm to see me this way.”
“Well, why should Malcolm be the only one to suffer?” he asked reasonably. “Share the burden, Natalie. Make us all take turns looking at you.”
As he expected, Natalie removed the pillow from her face and threw it at his head. “That’s better,” he said smugly. “Now you’re feeling more the thing, eh? And, by the by, where is Malcolm?”
“I made him go away. There’s nothing anyone can do for me. I must simply endure this until it is over. If you wish to feel sorry for someone, feel sorry for Pippa. Malcolm and Sarah are old enough to understand, but poor Pippa thinks I have abandoned her.”
“She’ll recover. And so, of course, will you.” He picked up a piece of toast and wagged it invitingly at her. “Toast? It’s well-buttered.”
“Oh, very well,” said Natalie crossly. “Although, for once, I am not hungry.” She took it from him and bit into it without enthusiasm.
“Excellent. While you are recruiting your strength, I shall distract you from your misery with a tale.”
She looked askance at him over her toast, and he chuckled. “Well, it isn’t really a tale,” he admitted. “It’s a true story. I need a little advice—for a friend,” he added untruthfully. “You were always better at that sort of thing than I am.”
Natalie looked mildly interested. “I hope it’s a love triangle. Those are my favorite.”
“Well, it’s not a triangle, exactly, but it is definitely a romantic sort of problem. The very thing at which I’m hopeless.”
She visibly perked up. “Fire away. I’ll do my best.”
Derek leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, thinking. “What would you tell a chap,” he began slowly, “who has fallen in love with a girl—”
“Congratulations?”
“I haven’t finished. A girl whom he suspects is a fortune-hunter?”
“Oh.” She thought for a moment. “Has your friend got a fortune?”
“No.”
“I see. ‘Congratulations,’ then, is a bit premature. How certain is he that the girl is a fortune-hunter?”
“Fairly certain,” Derek admitted. “She’s told him she can’t marry him because he’s not rich enough.”
Natalie choked on her toast and went into a brief coughing fit. “That’s rather conclusive evidence,” she said, when she had got her breath back.
“Yes, but he’s not ready to throw in the towel just yet. He thinks the girl has feelings for him.”
“Oh.” Natalie absently reached for more toast. “Well, that does complicate matters a bit. For the girl, at any rate.”
Derek quirked an eyebrow at her. “If he’s right, doesn’t that give him some hope?”
“Perhaps.” She chewed thoughtfully. “It depends on what her feelings for him actually are, and why she wants to marry money. And, of course, whether your friend is facing serious competition. Is there a rich suitor waiting in the wings?”
“I believe there is,” said Derek gloomily.
“Well, do not blame the girl too much if she chooses the rich man,” said Natalie. She sounded, to Derek, depressingly chipper about it. “There are all sorts of reasons for fortune-hunting. Some can be quite compelling. Without knowing what her reasons are, it’s impossible to judge the situation.”
He frowned. “What are you saying? That if she has a good reason to marry for money, there is nothing inherently wrong with that?”
“My dear Derek.” Natalie looked amused. “It’s the way of the world. Or hadn’t you heard?”
“I’ve heard,” he growled. He felt his frown deepening. “But it’s repellent. Aren’t some things more important than wealth?”
“Many things. But you don’t need to convince me. You need to convince the girl. And if dear old Uncle Joe needs to be rescued from debtor’s prison, or Papa’s lands have all been mortgaged and the lenders are calling in the notes, or Mama needs an expensive medical procedure, or anything of that sort, you—and your friend—will have your work cut out for you. That’s all I am saying.”
“What if her reasons are not so compelling? What if she just likes spending money, and having beautiful things? A life of leisure and all that.”
Natalie rolled her eyes. “Any sensible person, given a choice, would rather be rich than poor. But if she truly has tender feelings for your friend, I should think her desire for him would outweigh her desire for silk gowns and an army of servants.”
Derek shifted uneasily on his chair. “And if they don’t?”
“Then your friend is clearly mistaken about the lady’s sentiments—or her sense—and ought to withdraw his suit.”
This was not the answer Derek wanted to hear. “Don’t you think he could change her mind about the importance of money? If she does care for him, that is, rather than the other chap. Perhaps she hasn’t thought it through. If he pursues her ardently—”
“Then he’s a fool.” Natalie brushed the toast crumbs from her fingertips with an air of finality. “The girl is either in love with him, or she is not. If she is not, he might try to win her heart. But you say she is. Or something near it. My dear Derek, in that case the girl is plainly a ninny, and your friend is better off without her.”
He stared at her, taken aback. “Come, now! You told me a moment ago that it’s the way of the world, and that anyone would rather be rich than poor, and all that rot.”
She pointed imperiously at the teapot. He obediently poured her a cup. As he did so, Natalie went on. “Of course. But any female who would rather marry a rich man whom she does not love than a poor man whom she does love—”
“He’s not poor. He’s just... not as rich as she needs him to be.”
“Worse and worse,” exclaimed Natalie. “Then her choice is not between poverty and wealth, it is merely between rich and richer?”
“Something like that,” admitted Derek.
She held out her hand, and he passed her the cup and saucer. “Your friend sounds like
an idiot,” she remarked, apparently disgusted. “What does he see in this harpy? She’s obviously shallow and grasping. And probably trifling with your friend for her own amusement. I don’t believe she cares for him at all.”
“Well, what am I to tell him?” asked Derek, nettled. “I can’t tell him he’s an idiot, and his inamorata is a harpy. The chap wants advice, not invective.”
“Here’s my advice: forget about her. Look elsewhere.”
“He can’t! He’s in love with the chit. Been mad about her for years.”
“My word.” She swallowed a sip of tea. “How sad. I confess, I do not foresee a happy outcome.”
Derek’s feelings propelled him from the chair and sent him prowling round the room, muttering curses under his breath. Natalie watched these gyrations from the bed, her composure unruffled. “You seem to be taking this a bit hard,” she observed.
“Well, I wanted to give him some advice worth having. Not ‘give up and go home.’ How can you be so sure of what you say, when you don’t know the people involved?”
Natalie opened her eyes at him. “Why, then, give him your own advice. You asked for my opinion, and I gave it.”
He had to acknowledge the justice of this. Still, it rankled. “I was relying on you,” he grumbled. “You generally give excellent advice. But I think you’re wide of the mark this time.”
“Why? What do you think your friend should do?”
“Pursue her as if his life depended on it,” replied Derek promptly. “Give her no peace. Thrust himself in her path. Force her to acknowledge what she feels.”
“Well,” said Natalie cautiously, “that might do some good. But not in the way you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think it may, rather than force the lady to acknowledge her true feelings, force your friend to acknowledge her true feelings. Which he seems loath to do.” She leaned awkwardly over to set her empty teacup back on the tray. “At any rate, if he chases her determinedly, her response—whatever it may be—will doubtless be revealing. One way or the other.” A peculiar look came over her face. “Derek, I need you to leave now. And pray take that vanity chair out of my path.”
