by Cheryl Holt
"We’ll eventually discover who’s right, won’t we?" she seethed.
"Yes, we will."
"When I’m in charge again, you won’t be welcome here. Your days of leeching off this family will be over."
"When you’re in charge again? Will you be Jackson’s blushing bride? With your son, Percival, as the earl?" He laughed as he sneered Percival’s name.
"If you think I can’t bring about that conclusion, you’ve vastly underestimated me. But then, you always were a dolt."
"Have you conferred with Jackson beyond your initial hello?"
"No, why?"
"He’s got an interesting story to tell you." He winked. "It’s about Percival."
She blanched. The way he leaned in, the way he was preening and scoffing, raised her hackles but terrified her, too. What on earth could he mean?
"What kind of story?" she demanded.
"It has to do with a woman named Georgina and her son Michael. Jackson will explain." He nodded down the hall. "I believe he’s in the library. Find me after the two of you are finished. I’d like to know how it went."
He strolled off, chuckling with glee. The horse’s ass! How she detested him!
And he’d ruined her grand entrance, too. When she approached Jackson, she wanted to appear alluring and composed. Instead, she was fuming and sweating, her temper out of control.
She took several deep breaths, calming herself, then she glided down the hall. She knocked and hurried in without being invited.
As she’d hoped, Jackson was seated at the desk, his back to her. He was sipping a brandy and staring out the window.
She hastened over as he glanced around. There was anticipation in his gaze, as if he was expecting someone else.
"Oh, Susan." He frowned, his disappointment clear. "It’s you."
"Hello, my dear Jackson," she gushed. "We got off to such a bad start this morning. How can I mend things between us?"
"There is no need for any mending."
"Yes, there is! Years ago, we parted on such awful terms, and you’ve been away for so long. Must we quarrel?"
She sauntered over until she was standing next to him. She balanced her hips on the edge of the desk and bent forward, giving him a spectacular view of her magnificent cleavage.
Beatrice kept pointing out that he was a man—with a man’s affinities and tastes. For a delicious moment, they froze, and he definitely looked at what she was eager for him to see. There was no question he was intrigued.
Perhaps Beatrice knew of what she spoke. Perhaps Susan could seduce him again. It didn’t seem out of the realm of possibilities.
"I hate that we’re enemies now." She traced her tongue across her bottom lip, instantly capturing his hot attention. "Wouldn’t you rather we were friends?"
"I have plenty of friends."
"There’s always room for one more."
He continued to study her bosom, and she suffered a thrill of exultation. They were perched on the edge of a magical encounter. If he moved just a little closer, they could embrace.
She waited, on tenterhooks, then abruptly, he pushed to his feet and stood.
"What do you want, Susan?" he snapped.
"What do you imagine I want?"
"You’re sending a loud message, and I’m receiving it. You’re keen to take up where we left off."
"Would that be so horrid? We were in love."
"Is that how you remember it?" He raised a condemning brow. "I loved you, yes. I admit it. What should we call your sentiment? Faked? Duplicitous? However you wish to paint it, I don’t recollect that things ended too well for me."
"I was so young."
"So was I."
"I’ve missed you," she claimed but immediately saw that it was the wrong comment.
"Really?" He snorted with disdain.
"I have, Jackson! You don’t know what it was like after you ran away."
"If you’re about to wax on about how Edward was a terrible husband, how the two of you had a ghastly marriage, I’m not in the mood to listen."
"He was a terrible husband," she vehemently declared. "You told me he would be, but I refused to heed your warning." She pursed her lips in a fetching pout. "Can’t you forgive me?"
She stepped in so her body was touching his all the way down. He didn’t attempt to deflect her advance, so she snuggled herself even nearer, letting him feel her breasts, her thighs.
"You desired me in the past," she whispered, her blue eyes wide and searching. "You could want me again."
"You actually suppose I could?"
"Kiss me, Jackson. Just once—for old time’s sake."
She slackened her knees, so she collapsed against him. It was a coquette’s trick, and he had to catch her lest she fall to the floor. One hand was on her waist, the other on her bottom. She grinned, daring him, urging him to recklessness.
Any wild thing might have occurred, but from across the room, someone gasped.
Together, they glanced over.
A woman was hovered in the doorway, watching them. She was petite and pretty, but she was attired in gray, covered from chin to toe in a conservative dress such as an underpaid governess or nanny might wear.
Jackson tried to move away, but Susan wrapped her arms around him and held on for dear life.
Let the other woman stare and wonder. She was obviously a servant, and Susan was aware of how the staff liked to gossip. When the woman left, she’d race down to the kitchen and tattle about what she’d witnessed.
Word would quickly spread that Jackson and Susan had been observed in a compromising situation. Speculation would begin, rumors circulating that they were involved.
If Jackson had shoved her onto the sofa and made passionate love to her, she couldn’t have orchestrated a better ending.
"Dammit," Jackson muttered.
"Excuse me," the woman mumbled in reply, looking as if she might faint. "I apologize for interrupting."
She spun and flitted away so swiftly that she might not have ever been there, at all.
"Dammit!" Jackson cursed again as he pried at Susan’s fingers. "Release me, you interfering shrew."
"Who was that?" Susan asked as he fought to slip from her grasp.
"You’ll find out soon enough," he ominously threatened.
"Let’s don’t bother about her. Before she barged in, we were having such a pleasant conversation."
"No, we weren’t."
"We were. Don’t deny it."
She smiled enticingly, hoping to rekindle the intimate moment, but the spell had been broken. He appeared angry and irked.
With a particularly vicious yank, he pulled on her hands and stepped away.
"Don’t try to seduce me, Susan," he said. "It’s humorous to watch you flaunting yourself, but it annoys me."
"Seduce you! I wasn’t doing anything of the sort," she felt compelled to claim. "I was simply reminding you of our previous friendship."
"Despite what you suppose, I’m not interested in you."
"You could be."
"No, and I would never want you after you’ve been with my brother. Doesn’t a relationship between us seem a bit sordid—even to your twisted sensibilities?"
She saw her fiscal security fading away, as if it was rolling down a steep hill and she couldn’t run fast enough to catch it.
"We could be so good together," she persisted.
"In what universe?"
"You once loved me so intensely. That emotion can’t have fled entirely."
"If you need money, Susan, you won’t get it by throwing yourself at me."
"I wasn’t!" she insisted again.
"You’ll have to make a case for it as my mother will have to do. We can have a meeting in the morning. Write out a list of your expenses, and I’ll consider an allowance."
He headed toward the door, and she stomped her foot like a petulant toddler.
"Jackson!"
"What?"
"Let’s have supper. Just the two of us—in my room.
Please?"
He grimaced with distaste. "Don’t beg, Susan. It’s beneath you."
Then he sauntered out, and she was left to fret and stew all alone.
DC
Grace raced into the garden. Blindly, she hurried down the paths, not really seeing where she was going.
Like a silly schoolgirl, she’d been yearning to be with Jackson Scott all day.
They’d engaged in marital fornication, and she’d assumed she could participate methodically and technically, that she could remain detached. Yet she’d been so wrong!
She was all jumbled on the inside, insanely happy, glad and stunned, but sad and weepy, too.
While she looked exactly the same, it seemed as if she’d been altered into someone new, someone different from boring, stalwart Grace Bennett. She felt connected to him now, as if she was his and they could never be separated.
At least she’d felt that way until she’d stumbled on him in the library.
For reasons she didn’t understand, she’d been confined to her bedchamber for hours, having received his curt and unhelpful note that she shouldn’t leave it until he sent for her.
She’d been insulted and furious, chafing at his edict and desperate to confront him, while recognizing that she was an unwanted guest, and he could treat her however he wished.
When the maid had knocked and told her that he was awaiting her, she’d been giddy with relief. She’d rushed down the stairs, as if floating with elation. But he’d been busy. With another woman.
Who was she? From her hair, clothing, and sparkling jewels, it was obvious she was everything that Grace was not. They’d been a handsome couple, wealthy and attractive and perfectly suited.
Grace was sick with envy and hurt. Why had he invited Grace to meet with him? Why deliberately break her heart?
She staggered to a halt and spun to face the Abbey. The sun was off in the west, casting shadows on the walls, the bricks glowing a creamy peach color. The mansion could have been a prince’s castle, like a palace in a fairytale.
She didn’t belong in such a place and never would.
Jackson was a cad and libertine. That fact wasn’t in dispute. While she’d been pining away, eager to tell him that she was madly in love for the very first time, he hadn’t been similarly afflicted. No, he’d been hugging a great beauty in a very public spot where Grace would be guaranteed to see.
Why was she surprised? Why was she devastated? She knew what he was like, but she’d had carnal relations with him anyway. She’d set herself up for disaster. Didn’t she deserve what had happened?
She started back to the house, walking slowly, getting her bearings. How was she to proceed? She’d been reckless and had jeopardized Michael’s chance to make a good impression.
What if the woman was Jackson’s fiancée? Grace possessed very little personal information about him. He could be engaged, and she wouldn’t have any idea. If he was betrothed, she could hardly remain at Milton Abbey.
She’d grown so complacent that she’d tossed away her security—she’d tossed away Eleanor’s and Michael’s, too—with scarcely a thought to the consequences.
Well, she was thinking of them now. First and foremost, she had to avoid Jackson Scott until she could gain her equilibrium. They’d been acquainted for such a brief period, and their intense association had turned her into a blithering idiot. She’d thoroughly disgraced herself, and there was no denying that she was dishonored.
She had to regroup and reassess. She had to conclude her business with him, reach an accord for Michael, then leave. It was the only answer.
She approached the verandah, and as she climbed the steps, Duncan Dane was sitting at a table, drinking wine and smoking a cheroot.
He waved her over, and she hesitated, then joined him. In her current mood, she was in no condition to chat, but she couldn’t act as if she hadn’t seen him.
"Hello, Mr. Dane."
She eased herself into a chair as he studied her curiously. There was another glass on the table, and he poured wine into it and pushed it toward her.
"Have a drink," he said. "You definitely need it."
She snorted. "Do I look that bad?"
"Yes. What’s happened? Nothing horrid, I hope."
"No, nothing horrid," she lied, and she glanced away. "I was doctoring. I’m tired."
She rarely imbibed of spirits, but her hands were shaking. She picked up the glass and gulped several deep swallows that calmed her.
"You must call me Duncan," he insisted. "You used to."
"That was back when I had to pretend to like you for Edward’s sake."
"Ooh, you have a wicked tongue." He scowled. "You should be nicer to me. I believe you about Michael. I can help you to convince Jackson."
"I don’t need you to convince, Mr. Scott."
"I might have agreed with you yesterday, but Beatrice is here."
"His mother?"
"Yes, with Percival and his mother, Susan."
"I didn’t know," she murmured.
"Why would you be informed? In their eyes, you’re scant more than a servant. No one would think to apprise you."
She understood her lowly status, and typically, she wouldn’t be upset by the remark. But in light of her conduct with Jackson, the comment was incredibly galling. She could have been a poor scullery maid who—when promised a penny—lifted her skirt for the lord of the manor. Yet she hadn’t even received the penny!
Her cheeks flushed bright red. "Would you suppose Beatrice Scott has been told about Michael?"
"I’m sure she has. She’s a nosy, meddling shrew who is immediately notified of the smallest occurrence, which is why you should be nicer to me."
"Why would it matter?"
"Because I grew up in this house, so I have some notion of what you’re facing. You don’t have a clue."
"What do you mean?"
"She’s treacherous and cunning. In your dealings with her, you should beware."
"I’m no shrinking violet myself."
"No, you’re not." He sipped his wine, appraising her as if it was all a big joke, as if the whole situation with Michael was funny. "Before she arrived, you might have persuaded Jackson, but now that she’s in residence, you never will."
"Michael is Edward’s son."
"So? Who cares? I’ve lived around these rich families all my life. Even though Jackson has been gone for over a decade, he won’t break ranks with his own kind, and Beatrice is a master at manipulation. Ultimately, he’ll consent to whatever she tells him." He leaned nearer. "Beatrice will never admit that her precious Edward married Georgina or sired Michael."
"You know the truth."
Duncan shrugged. "She’s always said I’m a fool and a liar. How could my opinion have any sway with her?"
"A fool and a liar?" Grace chuckled. "I guess she has you pegged."
"Unfortunately, yes."
"You mentioned that Susan Scott is here, too," Grace tepidly ventured.
"Yes, she is."
"What does she look like?"
"Very beautiful, but in an icy way."
"White blond hair? Striking blue eyes?"
"Yes, that’s her. I’d beware of her, too, if I were you."
Grace didn’t want to ask, but she couldn’t stop herself from inquiring.
"Has Mr. Scott known her long?"
"Since they were children."
"Were they ever…close?"
"Close? They were engaged for years; he was smitten in an absurd fashion."
Grace felt as if she couldn’t catch her breath, as if there wasn’t enough air in the sky.
"Why didn’t they wed?"
"Beatrice decided Susan’s dowry and ancestry made her the ideal bride for Edward instead. She insisted on the match, and Edward never could stand up to her. He finally relented and proposed."
Grace frowned. "But Susan was betrothed to Mr. Scott."
"Precisely."
"How terribly unfaithful and cruel," Grace mu
sed.
"Jackson certainly thought so." Duncan nodded, his expression indicating that he could count all the skeletons in their closet. "It’s what drove him out of England. He couldn’t bear to stay and watch the marriage unfold."
"He must have loved her very, very much," Grace sickeningly muttered.
"More than his life, he used to claim. Of course, I always told him he was being ridiculous. No woman is worth that sort of fervor."
"Spoken like a true romantic, Mr. Dane." She stared down at her hands, pondering, fretting. "Is it possible he might still care for her?"
"In the crazed manner he did as a boy? No."
"But…in a different way?"
"They’re older now, and there’s all the money and property involved. Like I said, these rich people aren’t like you and me. Jackson and his mother would deem it perfectly appropriate for him to wed Susan. It would keep everything in the family. I believe Susan and Beatrice have already discussed it."
Grace bit down a gasp. "He doesn’t love her anymore, though."
"No, but with these folks, love doesn’t factor into a marriage. It’s all about wealth and titles and land." He lit another cheroot, puffed at it. "If he shackled himself to her, the ending would be very tidy, don’t you see?"
"Oh, yes," Grace mumbled. "I definitely see."
She pushed back her chair and lurched away.
CHAPTER TWELVE
"Your sister is insane."
"Why would you say so?"
"She allows you to ride off with me, and she doesn’t even care."
Eleanor grinned over at Duncan.
They were out on horseback again, at the edge of the estate and headed for the secluded bower he’d previously shown her. It was a warm and sunny afternoon, and this time, they’d brought a picnic basket of food, wine, and a soft blanket.
"I didn’t tell her I was going with you."
"Good, because she’d likely have me…well…"
"Well, what?"
"She might injure me in a way that a girl like you oughtn’t to know about."
"You mean she might cut off your privates?"
"Yes, that’s precisely what I mean."
His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and she laughed and laughed. He viewed himself as a cad, the type who would take any horrid liberty, but he was flummoxed by his feelings that he should protect her from herself.
