by Cheryl Bolen
"How much?"
"I believe it is about fifty-thousand."
"Pounds?"
She nodded, slipping the marked cards in the false bottom of a drawer of the table. A perfectly legitimate deck remained on the table.
Since her hands were under the table, Haverstock had not seen her action. He grabbed the deck that remained. "I will have a look at the cards, Miss de Mouchet."
"Please, do. I have nothing to hide. You will find I won the money fairly."
Mr. Morgan made an attempt to straighten his spine. "I say, Haverstock, bit rough on the girl. I take full responsibility for my losses."
Haverstock ignored his friend as he examined the cards for several minutes. Then he looked around the room. "No one else has been here while you played? Someone who could have been observing my friend's hand and passing the information to you?"
"No one," Anna snapped. "Unless you count my companion who has not moved from her chair on the other side of the room."
He turned to observe the young woman who sat sewing at least twenty feet away. "May I ask who the dealer was?"
"The deal changed with each hand, my lord," Anna said calmly.
He flung the cards back on the table as Morgie began to slide from his chair.
"Deuced fool. He's passed out," Haverstock said, lifting Morgie effortlessly and carrying him to a nearby sofa.
Then, Haverstock turned back to Anna, malice on his face. "I don't know how you did it, but I submit that you are a cheat and a thief, like the French whore who was your mother."
Her face growing hot with rage, Anna rose. "Get out of my house at once!"
Fury flashed in his eyes as he glared at her icy beauty. "I will not leave until I have my friend's money back."
"That, my lord, is impossible."
He knew Morgie would make up the losses within the next few months, but that would be too late for his meeting with Monsieur Herbert.
By holding back his anger and negotiating with the woman, perhaps he could get the money by tomorrow. Drawing a step nearer to her, he said, "Forgive me. I spoke rashly. It's just that it's imperative that I have the money tonight."
"As I said, that is impossible."
"I will give you a promissory note to return the entire sum with ten percent interest before the end of this quarter. That's another five thousand pounds for you."
"My answer is still no."
In silence, he stared at the lovely creature for what seemed like several minutes, phrasing the words that gathered in his mind. "I know you to be a woman of fortune. May I ask why you cling so obstinately to this money?"
She lifted her defiant gaze to him. "It is because I have no love for the House of Haverstock. Your father treated my mother cruelly and unjustly, and my mother was the kindest, most loving woman I've ever known."
From the way he had heard his father talk of Anna's mother, he could well believe his father's treatment of the woman. And he knew only too well how cruel his father could be when dealing with those he felt were beneath his rank.
"Surely you cannot blame the son for the sins of the father?" he said in an apologetic voice.
Her eyes as cold as Sienna marble, she challenged, "Does his blood not run in your veins?"
He spoke slowly and almost with a gentleness. "I am not my father."
"But you also insulted me. For that you will pay."
Anna looked up into Haverstock's piercing black eyes. She had never stood so close to such a large man before. He had to be several inches over six feet. Everything about him was large from his broad shoulders to his deep, resonant voice. He neither looked nor acted like the man she remembered as his father. Whereas his father had been fair, the son was dark. His thick black hair crept slightly further back on his forehead than she guessed it had a decade earlier. And a fleshiness around his square chin added to his maturity without detracting from his good looks. His somber face featured a full mouth and fine aquiline nose. She found him quite handsome, and his presence had a disturbing effect on her. She wanted to detest him but found she could not, particularly after he had so humbly said You cannot blame the son for the sins of the father. Without speaking unfavorably, he had acknowledged his parent's meanness.
As if in defeat, he lowered his huge frame into a chair. "Is there nothing I can do to get back the money?"
"Perhaps there is," Anna said, her voice decisive. She walked to the window and stood looking out on the square, her back to him. Finally, she turned to him and smiled. "I can think of no better revenge against your father than for you to marry me, the daughter of a French whore."
Chapter 3
Had his deceased father walked into the room, Haverstock could not have been more shocked. He opened his mouth to protest, but no words came. He merely looked upon the temptress who glared at him with a challenge in her eyes. The woman must be mad to make so ridiculous a suggestion.
Yet he found himself contemplating her proposal. He had given marriage little thought, largely because he had no money to set up his own household. He had known he would someday have to marry a woman of fortune. And here was a woman of great fortune whose beauty was unmatched. But he could not give serious consideration to her demand. He could not marry a woman of such low morals.
After a long silence, she crossed the room to him. "You said you had to have the money tonight. My way is the only way you will gain possession of it, my lord."
"Can you not give me a fortnight to contemplate the matter?"
"Certainly. If you can wait a fortnight for the money."
"But I leave tomorrow on a trip and must have the money then."
"Then you must marry me tonight."
"God in heaven, woman, I cannot marry you tonight! We have no license."
She hovered over the card table, her hands raking through the gold coins. Lifting her eyes to his, she spoke casually. "With your rank, I am sure you could ride to Lambeth Palace tonight and secure a special license from the Archbishop himself."
He rounded the table and planted his feet in front of her. "And who, pray tell, would marry us tonight?"
A flicker of triumph flashed in her eyes. "I can take care of that matter, my lord."
He had less than forty-eight hours before his meeting in France. What was he to do?
He decided to shock her. "Do you mean to say you would bed a man you despise?" Surely the thought of making love with him would repulse her into changing her mind. "I would insist on it, you know."
Her eyes widened. After a moment, she whispered, "Yes, I could do that for I want children very much."
He lifted a brow. "Children of Haverstock blood?"
"They would also have the blood of Annette de Mouchet," she countered.
His eyes traveled over the soft curves of her perfect body and, against his will, he wondered what it would be like to have such a woman beneath him in bed. He felt himself wavering.
Then he thought of his mother's reaction to the match. He would rather throw himself beneath a runaway coach and four than tell her. She had loathed Anna's mother. And like her husband, his mother would never be able to think of Anna as anything but the illegitimate daughter of French whore, certainly not of the breeding to be the Marchioness of Haverstock.
"I doubt my family would ever accept you," Haverstock challenged.
She threw her head back and laughed. "Do you think I care? I know very well what your family thinks of me. Which makes my revenge all the sweeter. I want to hurt your family as your family hurt mine."
His voice softened. "What is it my father did to cause such loathing?"
A flash of anger leapt to her eyes. "He killed my mother."
Haverstock's brows lowered. "Come now, I know my father was no saint, but he did not kill anyone."
"Oh, he didn't lift a finger against her, but he killed her as surely as if he'd fired a musketball through her heart."
A look of concern swept over his face. "How so?"
"It is a long story, and I
do not have time to tell you tonight. Another time, perhaps."
"You don't have time because you plan to marry tonight. Correct?"
She nodded.
Why did the prospect of marrying the doxy leave him with a gnawing emptiness? Surely he had not harbored hopes for a loving marriage. His own parents clearly had not married for so sentimental a reason.
Marriage to a wealthy woman did have its merits. Anna de Mouchet possessed a large fortune and uncommon beauty. He could bring worse to his bed.
God, but the woman balanced his honor and his ruin in her delicate hands, and he hated her for it. She had the power to unravel four years of his relentless labor to restore the good name of Haverstock his father had so thoroughly soiled.
Haverstock got to his feet. "I am a defeated man. I go now to Lambeth Palace."
Anna, a generous benefactor to St. George's, scribbled a note begging the curate to come at once to Grosvenor Square. She then set about selecting a wedding gown. She chose a gown she had never worn, an elaborate dress of white sarcenet, suitable for a presentation gown. She had known she would never be presented to the queen, but nevertheless had commissioned the gown to please Colette.
As much as Colette wanted Anna to be a fine lady, she was not at all pleased over this marriage, protesting when Anna informed her of the vows that would be exchanged that night. "Not the man most despicable!"
"He is the son of that man," Anna defended. "He's nothing like the father." She hated not being able to confide in Colette the real reason for marrying the marquess.
Tears glistening in her eyes, Colette had asked, "What of amour?"
It was a question for which Anna had no answer.
Once Colette had fastened Anna's silken buttons, Anna stood back to gaze at herself in the looking glass. Her bare ivory shoulders curved into tiny puffs of sleeves. The neckline was much too low for a young maiden, but now she would be a married lady. Gossamer layers of silks softly gathered below her bosom, falling along the smooth curves of her body. In the back, the dress flowed into a train edged with pearls. The queen herself could not have a lovelier gown, Anna thought approvingly.
She slipped her feet into dainty beaded white satin slippers and pulled on long, opera-length gloves.
Dismissing Colette, she walked back and forth to the window. What could be taking the man so long? Was the archbishop not at home? Had Haverstock changed his mind? The second prospect more likely. The Marquess of Haverstock did not seem to be a man who would allow himself to be forced into marriage. Especially to her, the daughter of a whore.
She heard the clopping of hooves on the square and hurried to her window. A gig with a lone rider approached her house. Haverstock had come. She pulled away from the window and tried to calm the rapid beating of her heart. Was she doing the right thing? Was she being foolish?
A moment later, Perkins rapped at her door. "Lord Haverstock has arrived, Miss de Mouchet. And the clergyman is also waiting."
She opened the door. "Show them into the par – -" Then, remembering that Mr. Morgan was stretched out, dead to the world, on the sofa, changed her mind. "Show them to the salon, Perkins. I will be right down."
She was unable to take the next irrevocable step, the step that would indelibly alter her future. She had to remind herself that she would not only be helping her country but also granting her mother's last wish. She pictured her lovely mother, wasting away on her deathbed, meekly whispering, "Promise me, Anna. You will show them all. You will be a grand lady."
Tears streaking her face, Anna had replied, "Yes, Mama. For you, I will be a lady."
If only she could satisfy her own wishes for a loving partner. Raising her head proudly, Anna strode from her room and descended the stairs.
* * *
Haverstock and the curate were sorting out the matter of the license when Haverstock smelled the rose water and turned to gaze at his bride-to-be. Her head held high, she regally glided into the room. A sense of unreality shook him. It was as if he levitated from his own body looking down upon her ethereal beauty. She looked so angelic in her flowing white gown, she seemed framed in a radiance, like a Madonna in an old Italian painting. No mortal woman had ever appeared more flawlessly beautiful than this woman he was about to marry.
The curate spared them the awkwardness of a greeting. "Will there be any attendants?"
"Only the two of us," Anna said softly. "If you have need for witnesses, my servants can oblige."
The clergyman nodded, then stood the bridal couple in front of him. Standing between them, he began the ceremony.
Haverstock found himself taking Anna's delicate, gloved hand in his own. Her touch was devastating. He cursed the swell of life in his groin. He was responding to beauty, not goodness.
Anna recited her vows in a voice barely above a whisper.
Then it was his turn. Would he love, honor and cherish her until death? the clergyman asked. If only he could, he thought, a deep, sinking feeling of hopelessness engulfing him. He promised to forsake all others. Perhaps he could honor that one pledge, provided she satisfied his sexual needs. Then he felt coarse and cheap. She was a brood mare, he a stud.
When it came time to place a ring on her finger, he took off his signet ring and slid it over her gloved finger. It could have fit over two of her slim fingers. "When I get it from my mother," he whispered, "the Haverstock ring shall be yours."
After the ceremony and after Haverstock thrust a handful of guineas into the curate's palm and dismissed him, the two of them faced each other in the suddenly chilly salon and found themselves at a loss for words.
"I will make arrangements with my solicitor in the morning, my lord," Anna said. "You will find me generous."
Anger rose within him. Did she think he was to be bought like a horse at Tattersall's? "I do not want your bloody money!" he snapped.
She faced him calmly. "Nevertheless, my lord, it is yours. Whatever I have is now yours. And, of course," she said bluntly, "your title is now mine."
"Yes, it is, Lady Haverstock," he said, malice in his voice. "Bought in an unfair manner."
Stinging under his rebuke, she fingered the large signet ring and shot her husband a perceptive gaze. "Tell me, my lord, is your mother in London?"
He looked at her warily. "Yes."
"Yet you chose not to get her ring tonight. Am I correct in saying you would rather not inform your mother of our marriage?"
He walked around the pianoforte, avoiding her gaze. "I shall notify her. But since I will be gone these next two weeks, I find the idea of conveying the information by means of a letter much less confrontational. I shall pen the letter tonight. She will receive it tomorrow and will have two weeks to prepare Haverstock House for you. I give you my word, you will be mistress there."
"Do you know, I have no notion of where your seat is."
"It's in Devon."
"I've never been there," she said, moving toward the pianoforte and forcing him to meet her gaze. "Is it quite lovely?"
"Quite. But Haymore needs much work."
"If you don't want my fortune for yourself, then perhaps you can put it to use restoring Haymore."
Had the cursed woman invaded his very thoughts? How could she have known how strongly he wanted to bring Haymore back to its former glory, before his father squandered his money at the gaming tables?
"I may consider that," he said coolly, erecting a barrier between himself and this woman, his wife. He must not let her get too close. Stiffening, he addressed her: "Madam, I go to my town house now to ready for my trip. Do me the goodness to have one of your servants rouse my friend, Mr. Morgan, at four in the morning." He turned his back to her and stepped toward the door.
The ceremony had been legal enough, Anna thought. Haverstock had even addressed her as madam, but she did not trust the man. In the eyes of the law, she was still not his wife. And if the marriage were not consummated, he could easily dismiss her with an annulment once he had spent the fifty-thousand pounds.
Though she did not desire him, she knew what she must do.
She strode to him and laid a gentle hand on his arm. "I know you are in haste to prepare for your journey, my lord, but you forget this is our wedding night. I would have the marriage consummated before you leave on your journey."
His eyes lingered over the perfection of her face and once again cursed her touch that brought the swelling in his breeches.
Chapter 4
If consummation was what the woman wanted, then she would have it, Haverstock vowed angrily as he paced the masculine chamber adjoining hers. He would take her swiftly, with no allowances for pleasuring her. Wife she may be in name, but name only. He would satisfy her legal whim and be gone. He had other matters to see to tonight.
After an adequate amount of time for her to ready herself, he rapped at her door, then entered. The room's only light came from a fire glowing in the hearth and a single taper beside her gilded bed. She was in the bed, propped up on mounds of lacy pillows, her freshly brushed hair hanging loose around her lovely face. She wore a white lace gown buttoned to the neck and looked impossibly innocent. He held back a snort, doubting her innocence. The woman was the daughter of a whore and was herself most likely a cheat and a thief. Certainly no innocent.
He would not accord her gentlemanly courtesies. "You are to remove your clothing, madam," he said, his voice as clear and cool as an icicle.
Her eyes widened for a hint of a second, then she moved to the edge of the bed, blew out the candle and began to unbutton her gown.
"I want the candle lighted," he said harshly. "I am your husband, and I want to see what I'm getting." He scooped up the candle, strolled to the fireplace and relit the wick from the flames. Walking slowly back to her bed, he watched her lift the gown over her head, then clutch the coverlet to hide her breasts, her face flaming.
He set the candle on the marble top of her bedside table and leaned over her, lifting her chin with his finger. "I cannot believe the former Miss de Mouchet blushes over the prospect of displaying her lovely body."
