by Cheryl Holt
“No, I don’t. I think we should make it our country home. It’s much more grand than Henley Hall.”
“Rebecca,” Michael said as if talking to a dunce, “I believe we’ve had this conversation before.”
“What conversation is that, Michael?”
“You are not to interfere in my personal business. You are not to make decisions on my behalf. You are not my mother, and you are not yet my wife, and even when you are, you will never meddle in my affairs.”
To her credit, she stood her ground through the tirade.
“I want to live at Wainwright Manor,” she responded, “and I won’t apologize for it.”
“Wainwright Manor will never be yours.”
“What do you mean? Of course it will be. It’s all arranged. I’ve already had some of my belongings shipped there.”
For a wild instant, Michael appeared crazed, as if he might strike her, or as if he might pick her up and bodily toss her out in the street, but he whipped away from her to confront the Duke.
“Where is the school?”
“Why would I tell you?” the Duke queried. “Are you imagining you’ll race off and rescue him?”
“Yes, I’m imagining precisely that.”
Michael stomped around the desk, and the Duke wasn’t nearly as brave as Rebecca. He leapt back, terrified that Michael was about to pummel him, but Michael wasn’t bent on assault. Not yet, anyway.
Instead, he riffled through the Duke’s papers until he found a letter from the headmaster, informing the Duke that Thomas had arrived.
“You contemptible swine,” Michael fumed. “Your cruelty and duplicity never cease to amaze me, but to turn it on an eight-year-old boy! Anne warned me that you hated him, but I wouldn’t listen.”
“Don’t mention your sister to me.”
“You knew about Thomas all along, didn’t you? You prevented John from helping him. How? What did you do?”
The Duke studied Michael, noting his haughty demeanor, his condemning attitude, and his fury spiraled to incalculable heights.
He recalled the fights with John, the incessant arguments over the boy and what should be done about him. John hadn’t learned that he’d fathered a child until the boy was almost six years old, the news being provided by an acquaintance.
At the discovery, John had wanted to rush to the country, to rescue him from his horrid mother and take him home to Wainwright Manor, but the Duke had managed to talk him out of his rash plan.
John had calmed and reflected on the situation, as the Duke had suggested, but he’d never completely abandoned the idea. When the Carrington correspondence had started to arrive—all of it pleading, all of it listing dire circumstances—the Duke had wisely and prudently intervened.
“I burned every letter,” the Duke confessed.
“So John wasn’t aware that Fanny had written.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“John never had a chance to meet his son, to love his son. Because of you.”
“I wasn’t about to allow him to ruin his life over the little bastard.”
“When he inherited John’s estate, you had me bring him here under false pretenses.”
“Yes, I did. I won’t deny it.”
“You never intended Thomas to benefit. It was all a ruse.”
“It is my money!” the Duke insisted. “It is my property! It was never John’s to give away.”
“Not even to his own son?”
The Duke snorted with derision, his scorn revealing his opinion, and Michael backed away, his revulsion evident.
“You’re despicable,” Michael charged, “and that’s the best thing I can say about you.”
He marched out, sweeping by Rebecca as if she was invisible, but she had more temerity than any female the Duke had ever met. She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to a halt.
“Where are you going?” she demanded to know.
“I’m going to get my ward and bring him home. To Wainwright Manor.”
“I forbid it!” she ludicrously said. “I will not mother him!”
“Has anyone asked you to be his mother?”
“No, but I assumed that...”
“Yes, you did. And you assumed wrong. I wouldn’t force that poor child to spend a single second in your miserable company.”
“Well!”
“As to Wainwright Manor, has Thomas requested that you reside there?”
“I hardly need his invitation.”
“Have you heard me, as the executor of John’s will, give you permission?”
“Ah...no.” With each inquiry, she sounded less sure.
“Then why would you suppose it will occur?”
“We’re...we’re...about to marry, but you haven’t seen fit to decide how we’ll carry on. Someone had to.”
“But not you.”
“And why shouldn’t it have been me?”
“Because woman, you are mad as a hatter, and you’ve tried me beyond my limits. I have no desire to do anything you say.”
Michael physically lifted her and set her to the side.
“Goodbye.”
“Where are you off to now?”
“Are you deaf? I’m off to Cornwall to get my nephew.”
“You can’t go to Cornwall!” she shrieked, finally pushed to the breaking point. “You can’t! The wedding is tomorrow!”
“The wedding is not tomorrow,” Michael claimed.
“It is, too, and don’t even think about begging for a postponement.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, because I’m not marrying you.”
“Yes, you are! Tomorrow at eleven o’clock.”
“I’m not marrying you tomorrow,” Michael stated. “I’m not marrying you the day after that, or the day after that. Not next month. Not next year. I am never marrying you.”
The announcement sent the Duke into a panic. He saw their chance to get Rebecca’s money going up in smoke, saw his properties falling into foreclosure, saw his financial rescue vanishing into thin air.
“Michael, Rebecca! Both of you, calm down this instant.” His tone oozed conciliation, and he walked over and positioned himself between them, like a referee separating two pugilists in the boxing ring. “Of course there’ll be a wedding.”
“Of course there will,” Rebecca echoed like a parrot.
She’d never understood Michael, didn’t know what drove him, what he wanted or needed. She’d presumed that Fanny Carrington had been her sole enemy, and having vanquished the mistress, the battle was won. The Duke had to silence her before she said something so inane that Michael stormed out and never returned.
Michael didn’t issue idle threats. He didn’t say things he didn’t mean. If he was considering calling off the wedding, then they were at a dangerous impasse, and they had to reassess the situation.
“Now then,” the Duke started, “let’s discuss this rationally.”
“All right,” Michael agreed. “You go first.”
“We’re all under a lot of stress.”
“I’m not,” Michael contended. “Not anymore.”
The Duke forged on. “I see no problem with a slight postponement.”
“Absolutely n—” Rebecca began, but the Duke held up a hand, stopping her.
“You can check on Thomas,” the Duke amiably continued, “and we’ll delay the ceremony until you get back.”
“And Thomas would be welcomed at the wedding?” Michael asked.
“Certainly.” The Duke was the very picture of compromise. “We didn’t realize you felt so strongly about including him, and now that we know, we’re happy to do whatever you want.”
Rebecca looked as if she might faint, and the Duke flashed a glare that could have melted lead.
Grudgingly, she grumbled, “I suppose that would work.”
“You have to admit, Michael,” the Duke added, “that you’ve had one shock after another. After a short break, we’ll all be more composed.”
“But you’r
e forgetting one thing.”
“And what is that?”
“I told you months ago that I didn’t wish to wed Rebecca, yet like a fool, I proposed anyway. I thought I could marry her, but I can’t. It would be a mistake I’d regret forever.”
The Duke’s head throbbed, and that odd red ring was circling his vision again. His temper flared, his intention to be circumspect flying out the window.
“You will marry her!” he thundered. “By God, you will! I command it of you. As your father and as your lord, I command it!”
“If she’s so marvelous,” Michael retorted, “you’re single. Marry her yourself.”
He stepped by the Duke and strolled out without a backward glance.
Rebecca’s jaw dropped, and she protested, “Don’t just stand there. Go after him! You can’t let him talk to you that way. You can’t let him jilt me. A gentleman doesn’t cry off!”
“I believe he just has.”
“But I did everything you suggested. I got rid of Fanny Carrington. I found that terrible school for Thomas. You promised I could move to Wainwright Manor, so I made all the arrangements.” She threw up her hands in frustration. “Now he’s angry with me, but I was merely following your orders.”
“That’s not why he’s angry.”
“What other reason could there be?” She clutched his arm and pulled him toward the door. “You have to tell him that none of this is my fault.”
“It won’t do any good.”
He sighed, wondering how he’d miscalculated, how he’d so thoroughly misjudged his children’s penchant for rebellion. He was always so shrewd, so cunning in predicting their conduct. How had he ended up so far off the mark?
“Fine, be your usual obstinate self,” Rebecca whined. “See if I care. It’s evident you don’t possess the power to make him behave, so I’ll stop him myself. I’ve had to do everything else, so I might as well do this, too.”
“You will not pester him.”
“I will. You may be content to have him thwart you, but I’m not so easily defeated.”
She spun away as if she’d run out and initiate another quarrel. She didn’t comprehend that—short of physically restraining Michael—they would never bring him to heel. There wasn’t a rope strong enough to tie Michael down if he was determined to depart.
The only viable course was to allow him his tantrum. Let him travel to Cornwall and retrieve the boy. Let him do any bloody thing he chose, then after an extensive period had passed, he would calm sufficiently, and they would proceed according to the Duke’s plan.
The Duke had had three decades of beating Michael at his own game, and this occasion would be no different. The more Rebecca harangued at him, the more he’d resist.
“Hold it right there,” the Duke said, clasping her by the wrist.
“Let me go.”
“No. Leave him alone. He’s weary of you.”
“Someone must make him see reason, and obviously, it won’t be you.”
Her sass exhausted him, and he was eager to put her in her place. He yanked her around, and she fell against him, her pert, youthful breasts crushed to his chest.
To his surprise, his anatomy reacted in a purely carnal fashion, his cock actually stirring. He was only fifty-two; he’d had to have been dead not to respond. Pretty young girls, with their nubile, smooth bodies, fascinated him, and Rebecca had more than her share of pertinent feminine attributes.
Why not? a wicked voice teased. Why not wed her himself?
As Michael had mentioned, the Duke was a bachelor. He hadn’t been married in years, and it had been a long while since he’d trained a virgin to her marital duties. Rebecca was certainly more beautiful than any of the available debutantes. With Anne having sneaked off, he was in desperate need of a hostess, too, and Rebecca had proved that she was competent in that area.
No doubt, she’d be completely incompetent in the bedchamber, but proficiency wasn’t necessary for him to enjoy her charms. He could have at least a decade of pleasure, sawing away between her slender thighs, before she began to droop and sag.
He’d have all her money, too. He wouldn’t have to depend on Michael to change his fate.
As the possibilities spiraled by, he shook them away and released her, and the moment he stepped away, she started out again.
“What are you doing?” he snapped.
“I told you: I will not let him bring that child back here. I don’t care what he wants.”
She was a veritable cauldron of quivering indignation, and his ridiculous cock stirred again. He relished a challenge, and it would be so amusing to wear her down, to make her do what she’d said she wouldn’t. He was already conjuring images of the ways he would force her, and he was stunned to find himself nearly sick with glee at the prospect.
Perhaps there was something in the water or air. Perhaps his whole bloody family had gone mad.
“You will not chase after him,” he hissed.
“I will!”
“I’m warning you.”
“Ha! As if you frighten me. Every bit of your advice was wrong, so I’m not listening to you anymore.”
“That’s enough,” he bellowed. “Go fetch your coat, and go home before I take a strap to you.”
They stood, glaring, their mutual loathing almost sexual in its intensity. She was furious, but despite her spurt of temper, she’d been raised to respect station and rank.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
She practically spit the designation at him, then she swooped into a deep, deferential curtsy. He watched, humored by her prostrate and humbled position. He let her stay there until her knees were trembling with strain, then he gripped her hand, and tugged her to her feet.
“I just wanted to be a duchess,” she regally said, tears in her eyes. “My entire life, it’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
She turned and left, imperious as any queen, and he studied her retreating backside. Her ass was very shapely, and he was curious what it would be like to grab hold and fornicate with her as he was yearning to do.
He grinned and went to pour himself a brandy.
His daughter and son were insane, and as he passed a quiet afternoon without them, he’d have plenty to ponder, but they wouldn’t be the topic to occupy his thoughts.
No, they wouldn’t cross his mind a single time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“The wedding was postponed.”
As Phillip strolled into the dining room, Fanny glanced up from the breakfast table. “Postponed? Why?”
“Michael left town and no one knows where he is.”
“But I thought he and Lady Rebecca had reconciled,” Fanny said. “What could have happened?”
“With the way Michael has been acting lately, it’s anybody’s guess.”
After the duel the two men had fought, Fanny heartily agreed. By skipping the wedding and vanishing as he had, she wondered if he’d already found a new mistress to replace her, if perhaps they weren’t snuggly sequestered at his bachelor house near Henley Hall.
“Lady Rebecca must be furious.”
“I imagine she is.” Phillip chuckled. “Do you want to know a secret?”
“What?”
“I never liked her.”
“Why not?”
“You met her. You saw what she’s like.”
“I certainly did.”
“Michael will be miserable with her.”
“That fact didn’t seem to bother him.”
Anne took that second to enter. She walked over to Phillip and kissed him right on the mouth with Fanny watching. Phillip pulled her onto his lap.
“Are we talking about my brother?” she asked. “What didn’t bother him?”
“He was willing to marry Rebecca,” Phillip supplied, “no matter how unhappy it would make him.”
“Michael the martyr,” Anne said. “It was our father’s doing. He insisted that compatibility wasn’t a consideration when he was searching out marriages for us
.”
“How sad for both of you,” Fanny murmured.
“Wasn’t it, though?”
Fanny was beginning to like Anne very much, and she was delighted that Anne had come to her senses and fled from the Duke, though the dastardly man was still trying to control her.
He’d sent out warnings to church officials, from the Archbishop down, to keep Phillip from getting a Special License that would have allowed them to wed immediately. Phillip’s own father was out of the country, so Phillip didn’t have the influence to counter the Duke’s machinations. There wasn’t a vicar in the kingdom who would perform a ceremony for them.
The Duke presumed that he would wear Anne down, that he would delay and obstruct until Anne crawled home in disgrace, but the Duke had underestimated her.
Anne loved Phillip, and the Duke’s interference had simply hardened her resolve.
“Are you all packed?” Fanny inquired.
“Yes.” Anne grinned from ear to ear. “I can’t wait to be off.”
They were eloping to Scotland, a drastic remedy the Duke couldn’t prevent and obviously hadn’t realized was a possibility.
When he learned of what they’d done, he would be apoplectic, and Fanny was thrilled to know that someone was brave enough to antagonize him and that someone was her brother.
“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Phillip asked as he had a dozen times already.
“I’m not joining you on your wedding trip,” Fanny said. “Your bride might kill me in my sleep.”
“I don’t mind,” Anne responded. “I really don’t, Fanny. I hate to leave you here alone.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Phillip grumbled.
“All right, I’m not fine yet. But I will be.” She forced a smile. “I’m feeling better every day. When you return, I’ll be good as new.”
It was a huge lie. She doubted she’d ever fully recover from the summer and fall she’d endured with Michael Wainwright. She was pregnant and unwed, but she had her whole life ahead of her. She would manage; she would survive.
“What about my country house?” Phillip pressed. “What have you decided?”
“I would like it very much,” Fanny answered.
