CAD'S WISH

by Cheryl Holt

  “You’re what? Twenty-five?”

  “Yes, and I’m sure I’m obliged to watch over Amelia as my father’s widow, but should Winston be included in that obligation? The situation vexes me.”

  As she voiced the comment, she looked young and vulnerable. It was obvious she could use a strong man by her side, and suddenly, he caught himself eager to be that man.

  He wanted to step into the role of protector. He wanted to announce that she was no longer alone, that he would lift her heavy load off her shoulders and carry it on his own. He wanted to care for and defend her, to keep her safe from Winston Webster. He couldn’t abide Mr. and Mrs. Webster, and he had no connection to them. He would have no problem evicting them. It wouldn’t stir a single ripple in his conscience.

  The impulse to intervene was so powerful that he physically bit down on the words that were trying to spill out. He was terrified, should he open his mouth, he’d utter promises he didn’t mean.

  She chuckled in a self-deprecating way. “I can’t believe I told you all of that. I guess I’ve been anxious to confide in someone who would listen, and you’ve been my unwitting, captive audience. Have I bored you silly?”

  “No, I’m glad you apprised me of what occurred. From the moment I arrived, everything felt out of balance, and now, I understand why. Please tell me you have some male guidance out there in the world. Is there anyone to give you solid advice?”

  “Yes, I have male guidance. Very good male guidance in fact, so don’t worry your pretty little head. My assets are held in trust and overseen by my father’s lawyer. Mr. Thumberton? Do you know him?”

  “Yes, I know him well. He’s my father’s lawyer too.”

  It was a relief to learn Thumberton kept track of her. The renowned attorney served the best families, so Hunter wouldn’t need to fret about her quite so much.

  “I like to pretend that I’m in charge of my shop and my money,” she said, “but I can’t make any important decisions without his permission.”

  “Why hasn’t he ordered you to rid yourself of Mr. and Mrs. Webster? If you’re not here to rein them in, aren’t you afraid they’ll engage in mischief you wouldn’t like?”

  “I’m constantly nervous about it, and he has suggested I rid myself of them, but I’m too nice.”

  “Yes, you are.” And too gullible, he mused to himself.

  Winston Webster was the type of cretin who would rob her blind, and again, it was on the tip of his tongue to extend his assistance, but there was only one route to having any influence or control over her, and that was to become her husband, which didn’t interest her in the slightest.

  “Will you return to town in the morning?” she asked.

  “That’s my plan.”

  “What is your life like there? Is it all gambling, parties, and loose women?”

  “Yes, you’ve described it exactly.”

  “Don’t you ever wish you behaved better?”

  “No, but I’m not the total wretch you assume me to be.”

  “You’re not? Aren’t you celebrated for your vices? Don’t you have a mistress?”

  “We’re not discussing her.”

  “Why not? You’re sufficiently dissolute to have one, but you can’t talk about it?”

  “Correct, and if you’d ever met my father, you’d comprehend why I have so many failings. He’s much worse than me. While growing up, I had no authority figure to tamp down my reckless impulses. My brothers and I were raised by servants who weren’t concerned about us, so we were wild and incorrigible.”

  “If that statement is supposed to make me feel sorry for you, it hasn’t.”

  “I tried to mend my ways by joining the army for half of a decade. I wasn’t lying when I told you that. Has it impressed you?”

  “I simply can’t picture you in a uniform. Were you good at soldiering?”

  “Good enough.”

  “Why did you retire?”

  “I was wounded, remember? I almost died too. Does that impress you?”

  “Maybe. Where were you stationed?”

  “In the Americas. A band of natives snuck up and attacked our camp.”

  “Did you fight valiantly on behalf of the Crown?”

  “No. I didn’t have time to be brave. I was cut down by an arrow shot to the chest.”

  “A shot to the chest!” She looked horrified, and it provided him with a modicum of satisfaction.

  “It happened so fast that I didn’t have a chance to defend myself, and I really was close to death from my injury. After that, I decided I shouldn’t pursue employment that could result in such mortal peril, so I quit and came home.”

  “Perhaps I am a tad impressed.”

  They shared a fond smile, one that was disconcerting. He found himself drowning in her striking green eyes, and he was on the verge of voicing personal remarks that would be completely inappropriate. Thankfully, she prevented him from making a fool of himself.

  “Do you like being a viscount?” she asked.

  “Who wouldn’t? I inherited a ton of property and money. Plus, there are women—reputable women for a change—around every corner who are falling at my feet. So far, there’s been no downside. Not that I’ve noticed anyway.”

  “What is your estate called? Marston?”

  “Yes, and there’s a grand house there too: Marston Manor.”

  “Would you consider fleeing the city and residing there instead?”

  He scowled. “Why would I?”

  “You could give up your vices and doxies. You might be able to wash away some of your sins with moral conduct.”

  “I would never give them up. I love my wicked habits, and a tedious existence in the country holds no appeal whatsoever.”

  “Who is at Marston Manor to watch over it for you?”

  “The servants—but they’re competent.”

  “Have you been there frequently enough to be sure?” She snorted with derision. “I just realized we both have properties we don’t want. Are we lucky or unlucky?”

  “You don’t want Parkhurst?”

  “I want it. I merely wish things were different.”

  “If you wed, would it pass to your husband?”

  “Yes, and if Rebecca weds, her half will pass to her husband, so I’ll likely end up owning it with a stranger I can’t abide. The conundrum leaves me quite breathless.”

  “You could have wound up owning it with me. We’d have been bound for the rest of our lives.”

  “I shudder to imagine it.”

  He laughed. “Will you miss me when I return to town?”

  “No.”

  “Liar. Women always miss me. Admit it. You like me more than you expected you would.”

  “I won’t admit it. Your ego is already too inflated.”

  “Now that I’ve learned where your shop is located, I may develop an interest in reading. I may stop by constantly.”

  “You? Read books? The idea is too preposterous to fathom.”

  At the comment, she merrily chortled, and he liked how her eyes sparkled, how she was so genuine in her views and opinions. He was becoming ensnared by her. Fate was wrapping fetters around his ankles, locking him in, so he couldn’t escape her relentless pull.

  She was a damsel in distress, and a more ordinary man might have been eager to rescue her, but he was no knight in shining armor. Still though, he suspected, if he wasn’t careful, he’d start spewing nonsense, so he leaned down and kissed her again. He enjoyed kissing her, and it kept him from having to talk, where he might have dug a deeper hole for himself.

  He continued for as long as she allowed him to, but it wasn’t very long at all. Before matters could get moving, she eased him away.

  “This flirtation is baffling to me,” she said.

  “It’s not a flirtation,” he claimed. “I don’t even like you, so I can’t figure out what’s driving me.”

  “You don’t like me?” She batted her lashes in a teasing way. “You certainly know how to
make a girl feel special.”

  “It’s one of my most stellar traits.”

  For the briefest instant, it crossed his mind that he should invite her to be his next mistress. Nate had been arranging interviews, but Hunter hadn’t met anybody intriguing. She’d wedged herself into his life, and he couldn’t ignore the perception that he wasn’t finished with her.

  Should he tender the indecent proposal?

  The thought bubbled to the surface as a serious suggestion, and he nearly blanched with dismay. What was wrong with him?

  She was a respectable gentlewoman, a shop owner, a landowner, an heiress. He was so used to wallowing with strumpets that he’d forgotten there were females like her in the world.

  “I should go back inside,” she said.

  “No, you shouldn’t. You should tarry out here with me so we can keep misbehaving.”

  “I can’t. I’m stunned to confess it, but for the past few minutes, you’ve seemed enormously appealing. I’m liking you more and more.”

  “What a ridiculous remark. Why shouldn’t you like me?”

  “If I begin to like you, I’ll spend all my time staring out the front window of my shop, hoping you’re about to arrive, but you’re not a man any woman should count on.”

  “I might surprise you.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  It dawned on him that he was still holding her hand, their fingers still linked, as if they were adolescent sweethearts. She slid away and stood, and though he grabbed for her, she stepped off too quickly and was out of reach.

  “What are your plans for the remainder of the evening?” he asked her. “Will you loaf with your relatives and listen to your sister play the harpsichord?”

  “I’ve heard my sister play the harpsichord. It’s not a concert I’d like to have repeated.”

  “Do you play?”

  “No, not a note.”

  “If I remember correctly, your mother died when you were a baby. Was there anyone to train you to the frivolous activities at which young ladies are supposed to excel? Do you sing? Do you paint? Do you knit? Are you proficient at any feminine task?”

  “No, I am completely inept at every endeavor required of a female. It’s why I had to stagger to London and open a commercial venture.”

  He snickered with amusement. “You go out of your way to be different.”

  “Why would I want to be exactly the same as every other girl?”

  “Why indeed?” he asked.

  They shared a charged look, where—should either of them speak—they might discuss dangerous topics, but she saved them by whipping away and strolling off.

  “Goodnight, Miss Graves,” he said.

  “Goodnight, Viscount Marston.” She didn’t halt.

  “I wish you’d call me Hunter.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “You’re a hard woman, and I’m calling you Hannah.”

  That got her attention. She frowned over her shoulder. “I don’t give you permission.”

  He smiled a slow smile that promised delicious pleasure in the future. “Am I likely to care whether I have your permission or not?”

  She scoffed. “No, and it simply proves my point.”

  “Were you trying to make one?”

  “Yes, but I’m not about to tell you what it was. Instead, I’ll say that I’m perplexed as to why you delayed your departure from Parkhurst. What time will you leave in the morning?”

  “I hope to be on the road by seven or so.”

  “Will you forgive me if I don’t come down to see you off?”

  “No. I shall expect you to be standing in the driveway. I demand that you weep and wail and proclaim that our parting will devastate you forever.”

  She smiled too. “I might miss you, Viscount Marston. To my great astonishment, I just might miss you quite a lot.”

  “I told you I’d grow on you. It’s shocking, I know. I’m too charming for my own good.”

  “Yes, you are. How bizarre.”

  She kept on, and he let her go. He was on the verge of behaving foolishly again, which he never liked to do.

  He’d traveled to Parkhurst to propose marriage, and he’d slither to London without a fiancée, so his father would start seeking offers from other parents. The prospect was exhausting.

  Maybe he wouldn’t return to town immediately. Maybe he’d hide at Parkhurst for a few days and allow Hannah Graves to entertain him.

  There were worse endings.

  At the notion of dawdling, he grinned with satisfaction. Yes, Hannah Graves was extremely entertaining. Why not have her divert him with her silly attitudes and quirks?

  Why not?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “What have you to say for yourself?”

  “What would you like me to say?”

  Winston glared at Rebecca, trying to appear stern, but he was never concerned about how she behaved. If he was ever motivated to put his foot down, it only occurred after sufficient nagging from Amelia.

  “You should be engaged to Viscount Marston by now,” Winston said, “but you’re not.”

  “Oh, that.” Rebecca waved a vague hand, as if her scuttled betrothal was irrelevant. “I told Mother he wouldn’t like me, but she didn’t listen.”

  “You’re blaming this fiasco on your mother?”

  “I’m not sure why she thought the Viscount would be interested in me. What attributes might I have displayed that would have enticed him?”

  He agreed with her. Amelia had been deranged to suppose she could have captured Marston’s notice. It had been a doomed project from the start, but he wouldn’t admit it to Rebecca. Amelia had demanded he scold her for being disobedient, but with Winston not really caring how Rebecca acted, it was hard to exhibit much aggravation.

  They were in the library, with Winston seated at the massive oak desk, and Rebecca huddled in the chair across from him. Supper was over, the long, slow evening stretching ahead. Mr. Carew and Amelia were chatting in the front parlor. Viscount Marston had stomped out into the garden, and Hannah was nowhere to be found, which was always a relief.

  Her loathing for Winston was well-documented, and the feeling was mutual. He couldn’t abide the little snot.

  “What is your plan?” he asked Rebecca.

  “About what?”

  “Your mother insists you work your way back into the Viscount’s good graces. She’s determined you change his mind.”

  Rebecca flashed a pitying look, one that indicated Winston was a fool. She was lucky he didn’t march around the desk and slap her. He never had, but there was a first time for everything.

  Perhaps he should be more physically aggressive with Hannah too. If he’d been more forceful over the years, she wouldn’t be such a vicious shrew. She might think twice before she sassed him.

  “Father Winston”—Rebecca sounded particularly woeful—“it’s pointless to imagine I could charm Viscount Marston. How would I?”

  Winston had moved into Parkhurst when Rebecca was nine, and Amelia had been anxious for Rebecca to accept him as her husband. Amelia had settled on the moniker of Father Winston for Rebecca to use, but whenever he heard it, he cringed.

  Especially with Rebecca being older. These days, when she called him Father Winston, there was a hint of disdain buried in her words, and it fueled his rage to a dangerous degree.

  “Your mother expects you to make an attempt with Marston,” he said. “If you ruin this chance, we will have to impose a penalty.”

  “What kind of penalty?”

  “If you can’t persuade him to propose, then there is no reason for you to hold onto your ownership of Parkhurst. The only value it presents to you is as a portion of your dowry, but if you don’t wed, where is the benefit? You will sign it over to me—as the price for your misconduct.”

  “What misconduct have I committed?” she asked.

  “You intentionally guaranteed the Viscount wouldn’t like you.”

  “I did not!” she hu
ffed.

  “By your immature actions, you have wasted your mother’s efforts and squandered the sole opportunity you’ll have to be a bride. Gossip will spread in London that Marston declined the engagement because there’s something wrong with you.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do, and I won’t tolerate your nonsense. Your mother and I need Parkhurst, and it should have been ours when your father died. He never should have bequeathed it to you when you are so unprepared to own it.”

  “I’m a good owner!” she ridiculously claimed.

  He scoffed with derision. “You are not, and I shall take it away from you before it’s completely run into the ground.”

  “Hannah wouldn’t want me to give you my share of Parkhurst.”

  “It’s none of Hannah’s business. You are your mother’s daughter and my stepdaughter. You’ve been deliberately recalcitrant, merely to injure us, so we will wash our hands of you. Why would we continue to provide shelter to you when you are simply a drain on our finances?”

  “I’m not a drain. How can I be when the estate is half mine?”

  “I am the one who manages it. I am the one who pays the bills. What, precisely, is it that you do? You paint, daydream, and wander the halls. While the property is falling apart, you live in a fantasy world, while assuming I’ll support you as if you were still ten. I don’t have to.”

  She frowned, as if he’d just posed a difficult puzzle she couldn’t unravel. “I don’t think that’s right.”

  “Would you like to fight me over Parkhurst? Why don’t you try? I’d love to see who would win any skirmish.”

  She might have burst into tears, but they were saved by a knock on the door.

  “Who is it?” Winston barked.

  The bastard boy, Jackson, poked his nose in. “May I borrow Miss Rebecca for a minute. Mrs. Webster sent me to fetch her.”

  Winston nearly told him to sod off, but he’d terrified Rebecca enough for one evening. He’d let her stew and worry, then he’d harangue at her again about Parkhurst. Eventually, he’d wear her down, so she supplied exactly what he required. He was a master at manipulating both her and her mother.