by Cheryl Holt
Most important, he’d have none of Edward’s money. Not a single farthing would be available to keep the assets in good repair, to make them thrive. Jordan would inherit an empty shell.
He hated to leave the boy in such terrible shape, but he would not give in to Jordan’s whims and misbehavior.
Edward refused to support his wicked habits, his disgusting friends, or that harlot, Lauretta Bainbridge. The Winthrop men had held the Sunderland title for twelve generations, and Edward would destroy it before he’d let Jordan fritter it away.
Over the years, Edward had tried to talk sense to Jordan, but there was no making him see reason. He’d tried bribes and gifts and threats, but Jordan simply wouldn’t listen, and Edward was tired of their bickering.
Jordan’s decision to wed that social-climbing ninny Felicity Barnes was the last straw.
Despite how Jordan wished it were otherwise, Edward was his father, and Edward would select Jordan’s bride— especially when the girl Jordan had chosen for himself was so inappropriate.
Edward would not be insulted or ignored. Nor would he have his heritage mocked.
Jordan would do what was proper, or he would rue it till his dying breath. If he found no benefit in the Sunderland legacy, then he could forever flounder in poverty with his lowborn companions.
So ... the new will would go into effect, Thumberton would post a letter notifying Jordan, and that would be that.
Afterward, he’d most likely never see Jordan again. The notion was depressing and maddening, but Edward was finished worrying about Jordan or his fate.
“Look, Sunderland”—Thumberton interrupted Edward’s furious reverie—“why don’t you reflect for a bit? Just to be certain.”
“I don’t need to reflect. My mind is made up.”
“Then there’s no hurry, is there? You can sign it today, or you can sign it next week. The words on the page will be the same.”
Edward threw up his hands. “Why do I keep doing business with you?”
“Because I give you excellent advice. Take it for once, will you?”
“No.”
“Sunderland ... Edward,” Thumberton said more gently,
“I’ve known you a long time.”
“Yes, you have.”
“So please listen to me: I’ve written many, many wills in my life. I’ve counseled many, many fathers. I’ve seen them do selfish, stupid things. Because they’re angry. Because they’re fed up. Because they’re lonely or feeling neglected or—”
“Are you claiming I’m being ... stupid and selfish?”
“Yes. And these irate fathers I’ve assisted? The ones who’ve disinherited their children? Who’ve severed all ties? They’ve always regretted it in the end.”
Edward stared at Thumberton, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He wanted to rage at the man, wanted to walk out and never come back, but the truth was that he was sick at the idea of breaking it off with Jordan.
If he gave up on Jordan, what would he—Edward—have left? A few drafty mansions? A few aging friends who never remembered to invite him for supper?
He sighed. “What would you have me do?”
“Go to Barnes Manor. Try again.”
“You know it’s a waste of effort.”
“I don’t know that. And neither do you. He’s your only remaining boy. Isn’t it worth another shot?”
“No,” Edward petulantly retorted, but Thumberton wouldn’t relent.
“Talk to him. Don’t shout. Don’t threaten. Just talk. You might be surprised.”
Edward fumed. He didn’t want Thumberton to be correct, didn’t want to admit that he was proceeding out of rage and injured pride.
Jordan was stubborn, but Edward was, too. As Jordan had said: Like father, like son.
“All right,” he grumbled. “I will go to Barnes Manor and try one last time. But if he still insists on marrying that awful girl, I will be back here on Monday, and I will sign the new will. You will not dissuade me, and Jordan be damned.”
Chapter 14
CASSANDRA took a deep breath and opened the door to Mr. Adair’s bedroom suite.
Everyone else was at the village dance. It was the most popular event of the year, so even the servants had gone.
She and Adair had the house to themselves.
Victoria had made a big show of trotting off with Redvers, and she’d demanded that Cassandra accompany the family, but Cassandra had refused.
The entire group had been decidedly grim, with Redvers, Bainbridge, and Felicity all fuming over various issues. How they would get through the evening without a major brawl erupting was a mystery.
Even Mary had been in an odd humor. She’d looked pale and drawn, almost as if she was ill.
Cassandra had wanted to ask her what was wrong, but there hadn’t been a private moment where she might have inquired.
Harold Talbot had driven Mary to the party in his carriage, and as she’d climbed in the vehicle, she’d seemed even more miserable. And who could blame her?
Though Mary pretended it was a secret, she had set her cap for Harold, but he would be a sorry husband. It had to be galling for Mary to be a Barnes daughter and to have such limited prospects.
Cassandra had nearly invited Mary to stay at home, too, but in the end, she’d remained silent. She’d been left alone in the big mansion. The minutes had ticked by, the sky growing darker, the house quieter.
She’d started thinking about Adair, wondering why he hadn’t attended the dance, and the answer to that question had mattered more than it should.
Since the night they’d trysted in the gazebo, she’d been in a fine state, her body alive with yearnings she’d never previously experienced, and it was all his fault. He’d ignited a spark of desire she hadn’t known she possessed.
She ached and pined, couldn’t focus or relax, and her cravings had to be suppressed. He had to suppress them.
Over by the fire, he was lounged in a chair, appearing decadent and disheveled. His coat and cravat were off, and his shirt was unbuttoned down the front, the sleeves rolled back to expose his forearms.
He had a glass of liquor in one hand and a letter in the other, and he was frowning at the words that had been penned.
As she entered, he glanced up and grinned.
“What are you doing in my room, you naughty girl?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Your mother would have an apoplexy.”
“Will you tell her?”
He scoffed. “Not bloody likely.”
“She went to the party. I didn’t.”
“Neither did I.”
“I see that.”
With her having forged ahead, she was extremely uncomfortable, but she didn’t want him to know that she was.
There was a brandy decanter on a table in the corner, and she walked over and poured herself a liberal amount. She could feel him watching her, could sense his curiosity as to her purpose, when she wasn’t certain of it herself.
She downed her drink, poured another, and downed it, too.
“Why didn’t you go?” she asked.
“Redvers forbid me from gambling. If I was caught cheating the neighbors, he thought it might cause problems for your mother.”
“How noble of him to consider her.”
“Wasn’t it, though?” he sarcastically replied. “So if I couldn’t play cards, what was the point? Plus, I hate to dance. What about you?”
“I hate to dance, too.”
“Ah ... we have something in common.”
“And I can’t abide Redvers.”
“Most decent women can’t.”
“Or Mrs. Bainbridge.”
“She’s a difficult person to like.”
She scowled. “I’ve just insulted your two best friends. Aren’t you offended?”
“They’re both obnoxious. I admit it.”
He held out his glass, gesturing with it, almost daring her to bring him the brandy. She wasn’t scared of him, but she
was nervous about getting too close.
He chuckled. “Are you afraid I might bite, Mrs. Stewart?”
The taunt loosened her feet. She grabbed the bottle and marched over, filling his glass to the rim.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You have such pretty manners,” he said. “Obviously, your mother raised you well. You’ll make some man a dutiful little wife someday.”
“Shut up.”
She had hoped he might reach for her, and when he didn’t, she was disappointed.
He indicated a nearby chair, inviting her to sit, so she did. They were silent, drinking, pondering. He lit a cheroot, puffed at it, then handed it to her, observing as she finished it off.
“Does your mother know you have so many wicked habits?”
“No.”
“Were they acquired before you left to get married or after?”
“Definitely after.”
“You drank to cope with your cruel husband?”
“No. I drank to spite him.”
He laughed. “You fascinate me, Mrs. Stewart.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
They were quiet again; she gazed into his beautiful brown eyes, and it dawned on her that he didn’t look to be his cocky, arrogant self.
In fact, he looked weary and rather sad.
The realization stirred her to empathy. She didn’t want to see this side of him, didn’t want to worry about him or feel any compassion.
“Rough night, Adair?” she gently inquired.
“I’ve had worse.”
“What’s wrong?”
He gestured to the letter he’d been reading.
“I’ve heard from my father.”
“Is that good news or bad?”
“It can be either—depending on how we’re getting on.”
“I’d been told that he disinherited you.”
“Yes, he had. He does it every so often, after I’ve been particularly irresponsible.”
“But he changes his mind?”
“Always. He’s too fond of me. He can’t stand for us to quarrel.”
“He’s fond of you.”
“Shocking, isn’t it?”
“Very. What did he say?”
“He’s bribing me.”
“Why?”
“To encourage better behavior.”
“Will it work?”
“I haven’t decided.” He reflected, then frowned. “He’s inherited a small plantation in Jamaica, and he doesn’t want it, so he’s offering it to me.”
“As a gift?”
“Yes.”
“What are the conditions?”
“None—except that I move there, run it at a profit, and stop being such a profligate mess. He’s determined to make a man out of me.”
She hadn’t thought about the day when he would leave Barnes Manor, and the notion that he wouldn’t simply return to Town, that he’d travel on to Jamaica, disturbed her in ways she didn’t care to contemplate.
If he was in London, there was always a chance Cassandra might bump into him in the future, at a ball or a supper. But if he sailed off to the Caribbean, she’d never see him again.
“What would you do, Cassandra?” He used her Christian name, but she didn’t scold him. It seemed a night to share confidences.
“If someone offered me a plantation in Jamaica?”
“Not just that, but anything of value that would alter your situation. If you had the means to escape your mother, to be independent, would you grab for it?”
“In an instant. It would be heaven to have my own money, my own place.”
“Perhaps I should accept then.”
“Perhaps you should.”
He cocked a brow, his expression flirtatious. “Would you miss me?”
“No.”
“Would you write?”
“No.”
“My dear Mrs. Stewart, I presumed I had a lock on your affection.” He clutched a mocking fist over his heart. “You wound me with your disregard.”
“Not likely. You’re too vain by half. I could never wound you.”
“You might be surprised.”
Suddenly, there was a new intimacy in the air. Their banter ceased, and it seemed that not a second had passed since they’d dallied in the gazebo.
He stood and extended his hand.
“Come,” he said.
“To where?”
“You know where.”
He glanced past her to the bedchamber. She peeked over her shoulder and could see his bed.
“No.”
“Yes.”
He bent down and kissed her, abruptly stirring the passion he’d previously ignited. She’d had it carefully banked, but cad that he was, he’d stoked it so it burned hotter than ever.
As he eased away, his eyes were alight with merriment and something else—something seductive and profound that she couldn’t identify. It made her keen to try whatever he asked.
“Come,” he said again.
“Why?” Fear had her pulse hammering.
“Because I plan to kiss you senseless, but I’m foxed and exhausted, so I need to lie down.”
“I probably ought to go.”
Even as she uttered the comment, a voice in her head screamed that it wasn’t what she wanted at all, and he saved her from herself.
“Why? Will you sit alone in the dark and feel sorry for yourself? If you’re about to get blind, stinking drunk, at least do it here with me.”
He reached over to the table and retrieved a deck of cards.
“Pick a card,” he suggested, “and it will help you to decide. If I draw the high card, you stay. If you draw the high card, you leave.”
She pulled out a card, and he did, too. He had a king, and she had a two.
“The king takes all!” he smugly crowed. “The maiden is forced to sacrifice herself for a lousy deuce.”
She snorted with disgust. “Why do I play with you?”
“Because you can’t resist me. I push you to do what you secretly want to do.”
Considering, weighing her options, she swallowed and licked her bottom lip.
“I’m afraid of what happens in there,” she admitted.
“You don’t have to be. Not with me. Never with me.”
He rubbed her neck, soothing her, sending goose bumps down her arms. He was smiling down at her, as if he knew what she needed. As if he was what she needed.
He yanked her to her feet, and she went without a whimper of protest.
“PROMISE me that you won’t hurt me.”
“Honestly, Cassandra! Of course, I promise.”
“And promise that you’ll stop if I ask.”
“I will,” Paxton lied, intending to misbehave in every conceivable way.
Now that she was in his bedchamber, he wasn’t about to let her escape without his having sex with her. On such a dreary night, when he was in such a miserable mood, he was happy to have her liven things up.
He would have to go slow, would have to beguile and entice as he never had with another woman, but the challenge would be worth it. She would take his mind off his troubles, would give him something to think about besides the grim state of his affairs.
He was thirty years old, with no money, no home, and no family—other than a father who refused to claim him most of the time.
Usually, he wasn’t concerned. Usually, he was content with his pathetic lot and contemptible companions, but with the receipt of his father’s letter, he was questioning his choices.
Would he always live this way? Why didn’t he demand more for himself?
He wasn’t a dullard. He had a natural intellect, and his father had kindly seen to it that he was educated. He was smart enough to alter his fate, so why didn’t he?
His father had presented him with a viable, excellent option—practically on a silver platter—yet Paxton was too much of a coward to accept it. He’d never have made it as an explo
rer. He was terrified to leave England, terrified to walk away from the familiar and venture into the unknown, but he understood that his father had tossed him a lifeline.
If he didn’t grab for it, what would become of him? How many more chances would his father give him? How many times would Paxton disappoint the poor man?
He was a wastrel and gambler. Would that be the epitaph on his tombstone?
His morbid thoughts were too depressing. He hated reflecting on how he’d failed at every endeavor except vice, and Cassandra Stewart provided the perfect excuse to fritter away another indolent evening.
She was staring at his bed as if it were a torture device and he was about to strap her onto it, and a strident wave of affection swept over him.
What must she have endured? How awful had it been?
He didn’t want her fretting, so he clasped her around the waist and tumbled them onto the mattress. Before she could react, she was lying down with him, the worst moment over in an instant.
“Let me up,” she said.
“No.”
He kissed her, and for a second, she braced, ready to fight him off, when she appeared to recollect that kissing him was pleasurable. She’d done it before, and there was nothing of which to be afraid. She relaxed.
The embrace was very chaste. He didn’t caress or roll on top of her. He just kissed her, then kissed her some more, and with each passing minute, she was more amenable.
Gradually, he started touching her, his fingers roaming over her torso, moving closer and closer to her breasts, until he was massaging them without objection.
As he titillated her, he was surprised to find himself delighted and charmed. Without his realizing it, the encounter had taken on a significance he hadn’t intended.
He was anxious to show her how it could be between them, because he was desperate for her to like him. Gad, he wanted her to think he was a better man than the one he actually was.
Damn! he mused. Was he developing romantic sentiments?
The notion didn’t bear contemplating.
