by Allison Lane
“Betrothal?” Agnes squeaked. “But you can’t!”
“Of course we can. The first banns will be called tomorrow,” said Max. “We will wed a fortnight later. Hope’s mother should be fully recovered by then.”
“How can you do this after all we’ve meant to each other?” demanded Agnes, the whites of her eyes showing. “You vowed to save me. Papa will force me on Squire Foley. I know he will.”
“These fantasies must stop, Miss Porter,” snapped Max. “We mean nothing to each other. I doubt we were even introduced. Lady Marchbanks will be appalled to discover that she allowed a forward hoyden into her drawing room.”
Agnes broke into tears.
“You are making a cake of yourself,” Hope said sternly. “And you haven’t the slightest idea what Max is like. He prefers the country, you know. We will be living here, for he is a farmer at heart.”
“But everyone says—”
“Gossip rarely conveys truth,” Max declared.
Hope nodded. “If you do not wish to accept Squire Foley, then use your trip to Bath to find someone more suitable.”
It took her a quarter hour to push Agnes outside, but Max finally closed the door behind her. This time he locked it.
“Alone at last, my love.” He pulled her close.
“Poor Max. Are all girls so silly?”
“Like men, they come in many varieties, though I must admit that Agnes is worse than most. But enough of her.”
“Ah, yes. The new wing.”
“First we should discuss Dornbras.” He pulled out a letter, joining her on the couch. “This just arrived from the runner I hired. Dornbras is a procurer for several London brothels.”
“Dear Lord, no!”
His eyes had darkened, revealing his pain at having unwittingly supported the very man he had long opposed. “He abducts country girls,” he said with a sigh. “That may have been what he wanted from you that morning. Perhaps he thought my friendship would protect him if the truth ever emerged.”
“It is more likely that he knew of your crusade but expected that flattery would prevent you from unmasking him.”
“Another blunder.”
“No, Max.” She caught his gaze, willing him to put the past behind him. “You are not responsible for his actions, and you have already done more than your share to repair the damage. What did your runner find?”
He drew her close to his side, resting his head atop hers. “Dornbras abducted his latest victim last week. The runner could not accost him until he’d delivered her in London, but Dornbras is now in custody, and the girl has come to no harm.”
“Good. Has he enough evidence for transportation?”
“More than enough. Dornbras made a huge mistake this time. The girl’s father is only a vicar, but her grandfather is a duke. He’s demanding a life sentence. We’ll not be troubled by Dornbras again.”
“Thank God.” She twisted to look him in the eye, relieved that his guilt was already fading. “So what are your plans for the house?”
“First I need to clear a very bad taste from my mouth.” He lifted her into his lap, running his fingers through her hair as his mouth swooped down for a kiss.
“How will I last two more weeks?” he groaned several minutes later.
“You are the most stubborn man in England, love,” she said, stroking his hair. “You will keep your vow if it kills you.”
“It might just do that.” His eyes blazed. “What did I do to deserve you, Hope? You have made me the happiest man on earth.”
“And you have taught me to trust, my love.” She smiled. “It’s only two weeks…”
Her emphasis on the word trust made him sigh. He was already counting the hours. But he was stubborn. A gentleman’s word was sacred. “Now about the new wing…”
Copyright © 2000 by Susan Ann Pace
Originally published by Signet Regency (0451199723)
Electronically published in 2006 by Belgrave House
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
