The WEDDING BARGAIN
VICTORIA ALEXANDER
This book is dedicated with love to
Lorie Knudsen Canno,
who showed me that the bonds of best friends
forged on an Air Force base at age thirteen
can last forever
THE TWELVE LABORS OF HERCULES
as interpreted by Pandora Effington
from the writings of
Lord and Lady Harold Effington
1. Defeat the lion of Nemea.
2. Defeat the nine-headed Hydra.
3. Capture the gold-horned deer of Diana.
4. Defeat the wild boar of Erymanthus.
5. Clean the Augean Stables.
6. Drive away the carnivorous birds of Stymphalis.
7. Capture the wild bull of Crete.
8. Tame the man-eating mares of Diomedes.
9. Capture the cattle of Geryon.
10. Obtain the girdle of the Queen of the Amazons.
11. Retrieve the golden apples of the Hesperides.
12. Defeat the three-headed hound guarding the gates of Hades and rescue Theseus from the Chair of Forgetfulness.
Contents
The Twelve Labors Of Hercules
Chapter 1: The Opening Gambit
Chapter 2: The Stakes are Declared
Chapter 3: The Players are Positioned
Chapter 4: The Gauntlet is Thrown
Chapter 5: A Point is Scored
Chapter 6: A Canny Strategy
Chapter 7: A Foul is Charged
Chapter 8: The Players Increase
Chapter 9: The Rules Defined
Chapter 10: A Dangerous Move
Chapter 11: Strategies Reconsidered
Chapter 12: A New Field of Play
Chapter 13: Interference
Chapter 14: An Uneasy Alliance
Chapter 15: Advantage is Gained
Chapter 16: Momentum Shifts
Chapter 17: An Unfair Advantage
Chapter 18: A Break in the Play
Chapter 19: A Tactical Error
Chapter 20: A Point Well Played
Chapter 21: A Desperate Move
Chapter 22: The Stakes are Raised
Chapter 23: The Final Play
Chapter 24: The Opening Gambit
About the Author
Avon Romances by Victoria Alexander
Cover
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
The Opening Gambit
Spring, 1818
“You, my lord, are a rake and a rogue. A scoundrel.” Pandora Effington leveled a gaze filled with every vile thought she could marshal at Maximillian Wells, the Earl of Trent. “In short, sir, you are a beast.” Trent stepped into the secluded salon, within easy distance of the crowded ballroom of the Marquess and Marchioness of Rockingham, yet far enough away to provide a discreet meeting place for a private assignation. “Am I?”
“You are indeed. You should probably be shot.”
“I scarcely know what to say.” He snapped the doors closed behind him.
A twinge of apprehension stabbed at her. Perhaps it was not a good idea to be alone with a rake, a rogue, a scoundrel, and a beast.
“Except, of course,” amusement glimmered in his eye, “thank you.”
“Thank you?” Why, the man was as arrogant as she had heard.
The corners of his mouth twitched as if he struggled to hold back a grin. “It is not often that one receives such a compliment.”
“It was in no way intended as a compliment.” In the space of a few moments, Trent had managed to turn the conversation completely around. Why was she surprised? She should have expected that he wouldn't believe her comments were criticism of the highest order. His reputation preceded him.
Trent leaned against the carved fireplace mantel in a manner at once casual and challenging. “Perhaps it was not intended as such, but it was indeed high praise. Although I must admit, I did not expect flattery when you lured me in here.”
“Oh?” Pandora was never particularly given to caution, but the same instinct that kept her from straying too far past the bounds of proper behavior warned her now to take care. Still, curiosity was as integral to her existence as the beat of her heart. “What did you expect?”
Trent raised a brow.
Pandora laughed in spite of her annoyance. He did indeed have an inflated opinion of himself. “Surely, you did not presume--”
Trent nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. “What would you have me believe? I am enticed into a private setting--”
“I did not entice you.”
“--For reasons completely unknown to me--”
“I intend to make those perfectly clear.”
“--By a woman who is no longer a green girl, and by all accounts should know what she is about. I believe this is your eighth season, is it not?”
It should not have bothered her, this reminder that in a life filled with the excitement of following her own rules, her inability or unwillingness to marry was a failure in the eyes of most. Yet it did. Always. Her amusement vanished and she gritted her teeth. “Seventh.”
“Forgive me. One tends to lose track when a young lady passes a certain age. But then again, the term ‘young’ is relative, don't you think?”
“I am barely four-and-twenty. Hardly in my dotage.”
“As old as that,” he murmured. “One would consider most women of that age past their prime and firmly on the shelf.”
“If I am on the shelf, it's because I prefer to be there.” She settled on the edge of a perfectly appointed settee in the perfectly appointed salon and adopted a calm demeanor that belied her irritation at his condescending attitude. “I quite value my independence.”
“Oh?” Skepticism rang in his tone. “I thought the wish of every unmarried young woman of notable family was to wed, preferably to a noble title and nobler income.”
She raised her chin. “It has never been my particular desire to marry.”
“Come now, my dear.” The expression on his face verged on pity and her hand itched to slap it off. “One would have to have been blind and deaf not to have noticed the enthusiasm with which you've thrown yourself into the festivities of the marriage mart the past eight seasons.”
“Six.” Was he deliberately baiting her, or was he really as sanctimonious as he sounded?
“The number scarcely matters; suffice it to say, it is considerable. If you are not interested in marriage, as you claim, what are you interested in?” He paused as if struck by the answer to his own question. “Forgive me, I should have realized.”
“Realized…what?” She did not like the knowing look in his eye.
In two strides he was by her side, towering over her in a most disconcerting way. Quickly she rose to her feet. He stood nearly a foot taller than she, and his eyes, gray and deep, gazed down at her in an impertinent and assessing manner. No, she did not like the look in his eyes at all. Unease fluttered in her stomach. He stood far closer than propriety dictated, and while she'd never cared about silly edicts before, at once she comprehended their worth.
“I take pride in being an intelligent man, but tonight I seem to have forgotten myself.” He took her hand, turned it palm up, and lightly brushed his lips against the sensitive skin of her wrist, revealed by an unbuttoned gap in her glove. Her breath caught. “I understand completely now.”
“You do?” Why didn't she? She too prided herself on her intelligence. Yet at the moment she could do little more than wonder why she had never before realized gray was quite an intriguing shade for a man's eyes.
“Indeed.” He nodded soberly. “While in most circumstances the daughter of a v
iscount would have to depend on marriage to secure her future, all of London knows your father has seen fit to ensure you not only a substantial inheritance, but funding enough to provide you with independence even now.”
He still held her hand in his, only now his thumb traced lazy circles in her palm. Shivers skated down her spine. “It has long been rumored that's why you have not felt it necessary to pursue marriage. And at this juncture, as the possibility of a suitable marriage dwindles with the years, you have made another plan for your life.”
“I have?” Why was he doing that to her hand? He studied her as if she were a delectable meal and he a discriminating connoisseur. Other men had, of course, regarded her in that way, but never had such a perusal seemed quite so personal, so intimate. Mesmerizing. And distinctly uncomfortable.
“Why, my dear, it's obvious.” He leaned closer. Lightning flashed deep in his steely eyes. Her gaze drifted past a straight aquiline nose, a jaw square and strong, to lips firm and full.
“What is obvious?” An unbidden thought danced in her head: what would those lips feel like next to hers?
“You have, no doubt, decided on a different course. And for that you need a rake, a rogue, and a scoundrel.”
“I do?” An intoxicating scent of spice and man wafted around her.
“Only a rake, a rogue, and a scoundrel, and--what else did you call me?”
“A beast.” A beast with hypnotic gray eyes.
“Ah, yes. A beast. Only such a man would agree to flout society blatantly and take the granddaughter of a duke as his mistress.”
The odd spell that had gripped her vanished. “His mistress?”
“Naturally. I assume that's the purpose of this rendezvous. You wish to offer yourself to me as my mistress.”
“I do?” she said cautiously.
“I must admit, while it does come as something of a surprise, it also strikes me as an eminently sensible solution to the question of your future. After all, you simply cannot continue to go on season after season as you have.” Trent shrugged. “And there are so few options available for unmarried--forgive me, independent--women, these days. No one in his right mind would ever imagine you as a governess. And beyond that…” He paused as if words were no longer necessary.
Her immediate impulse was to crack her hand across the confident smirk on his face. No man had ever had the nerve to suggest such a thing to her. She might well tread close to the edge of scandal, but she had never entirely crossed the bounds of respectable behavior.
“Your mistress.” Pandora pulled her hand from his slowly and deliberately and crossed the room, affecting a thoughtful manner, as if she were actually considering his words. She paused before the mantel to study the portrait that glared from above the fireplace: an eminently proper painting of an eminently proper ancestor perfectly positioned in an eminently proper room.
There was nothing here out of place, nothing unexpected. The salon in the Rockingham mansion was as staid and unimaginative as everything else in the world of London society, or at least, the world open to well-bred young women of good family. Perfect and proper and boring.
“And precisely what would that entail, my lord?” She glanced at him over her shoulder. His smug smile slipped just a bit. She smothered a triumphant smile of her own. Just as she'd suspected: he'd been toying with her. Playing a game to ascertain just how far the Hellion of Grosvenor Square would go. Pandora relished nothing more than a good game.
“Well, the details, of course, would have to be decided upon.”
Was there a slight hesitation in his voice? A man of his reputation was well used to dealing with women of the world. Actresses or demireps or widows at last savoring the heady excitement of freedom from their husbands. The last thing he would be expecting was for the daughter of a noble line to consider such an outrageous proposal.
“A great many details, I should think.” Pandora turned and struggled to keep her sense of victory from showing on her face. Trent studied her cautiously for a moment, then his smile returned as if he realized she too was playing a game.
“A great many indeed.” A wicked light shone in his eyes. “Perhaps we should discuss them?”
“Perhaps. But this is not the place for such a discussion. It is not yet midnight. I should think in an hour--no, two. I shall meet you in two hours' time. In the park. Near the Grosvenor gate.”
His brows pulled together; his smile disappeared. “My dear Miss Effington, I daresay the wisdom of such a meeting--”
“You're absolutely right. Even at this hour, the park might not be the best place for our rendezvous.” She thought for a moment. “I know. Behind Grosvenor Chapel, by the burial grounds. That should be more private.”
“I had not planned on frequenting a graveyard in the--forgive me--dead of night until such time as it was unavoidable,” he said wryly.
“Do you not wish to continue our discussion?”
“Indeed I do.” A considering expression crossed his face. He stepped to the door, pulled it open, and bowed. “Two hours, then.”
She nodded and swept from the room. A low chuckle drifted after her. Her step faltered.
By the gods, what had she done? She'd never before agreed to meet a man, any man, not to mention a virtual stranger, alone in a secluded spot in the middle of the night. What could she have been thinking? Indeed, was she thinking at all? This had not been her intention when she'd sought him out for a private conversation. The beast had simply caught her unawares. He was much more interesting and far cleverer than she'd ever expected. All that nonsense about her wanting to be his mistress. Still, perhaps this time she had gone too far.
She groaned to herself. Her impulsive nature and reckless disregard for the consequences of her acts had led her into a situation rife with unknown peril. Yet didn't peril go hand in glove with adventure? For good or ill, she did so long for true adventure.
Pandora slipped into the ballroom and hoped her absence had not been observed. Surely in such a crush no one would have missed her. Odd and unfair, how unmarried men could behave precisely as they wished, while women in similar circumstances were constrained by all manner of ridiculous rules. Her meeting with Trent would be considered quite improper.
Absently she accepted a dance with a vaguely familiar gentleman and allowed him to lead her onto the floor. Pandora had made it a rule of her own to ignore the rules of others whenever possible, while still avoiding the kind of scandal and censure that would make life rather unbearable. It was as difficult a path to tread as a fallen log across a raging stream, and just as challenging. And her life was anything but boring.
Trent strode into the ballroom, caught her gaze, and lifted a glass in a slight mocking toast. At once the spin of the dance took him out of her sight, much to her relief. She cast her partner her best flirtatious look and vowed to keep her attention on him--whoever he was--and away from Trent. A dazed smile was her reward. Quite pleasant. Quite flattering. And not in the least interesting. She sighed. The earl was as present as if he danced between them.
Resolve swept through her. She would not allow Trent to consider himself a victor in their encounter. No indeed.
She would keep their appointment, but she would not be unprepared. And surely being alone at the chapel with Trent would pose no real danger beyond the ever-present possibility of discovery. Should that happen, no doubt his sense of honor would then dictate salvaging hers with an offer of marriage. That was one trap she preferred to avoid.
When she married, if she married, she would do it for love, as her mother had, and most of her friends had not. Nothing less would serve.
As for Trent and his little game, it would be amusing to play, at least for the moment. She laughed softly and her partner glanced at her with a pleased expression. Her true purpose in seeking out the earl tonight had nothing to do with any desire to become either his mistress or his wife.
Why, not once during her seven seasons had the man even asked her for a dance. Admitted
ly it rankled, through the years, knowing this one eligible lord had failed to so much as cast his eye in her direction. Not that she cared. She'd scarcely been aware of the man herself.
However, he was right in one respect: she did want to speak to him about matters of the heart. But not her heart. She beamed at the very idea of Trent's surprise. Her partner grinned back and hope lit in his eyes. Pandora paid it no heed.
The Earl of Trent, Maximillian Wells, might indeed be a rake, a rogue, and a scoundrel, not to mention a beast, but he'd never before pitted wits with the Hellion of Grosvenor Square. Poor man probably didn't even realize the truth before him.
The game had begun.
“Another deadly ball, another wasted evening.” Lawrence, Viscount Bolton, pronounced the observation with his usual air of studied indifference.
And as usual, Max ignored him. “I would scarce call it wasted, Laurie.”
The Wedding Bargain Page 1
