“Sarah wanted the money to fund a new building to house the school. To be named after her, of course.”
“Of course,” she said mechanically, though her mind was elsewhere, trying to make sense of this. “Forgive me, sir, for I know this will sound insulting again, but…well, your wife didn’t even give money to the charities we support. I can’t imagine why she would bequeath a fortune to build a new school.”
“She actually donated a great deal to charities anonymously,” he said smoothly. “She was far more philanthropic than anyone knew.”
The picture he painted of Sarah was so odd as to be suspicious. Charlotte hated to speak ill of the dead, but she had to know what was at the bottom of this. “Again I must beg your pardon, but I thought that Sarah’s primary interest was cards, not charity.” That was the nicest way she could put it.
Even so, he flushed. “Yes, well, that is true. But that was a function of her desire to rise in society. She gambled to be accepted among a select group of ladies. And their acceptance came at a high cost.”
“Yet she still had enough money to leave the school a huge sum?”
He flashed her a thin smile. “Sarah’s fortune was substantial. Why do you think she and I were forced to elope six years ago? Her father was none too happy to see so much money go to a ‘titled wastrel.’”
The conversation was dancing very near to their own situation years ago, and that was the last thing she wanted.
Yet she could not ignore his opening. “Speaking of Sarah’s family, how do they feel about this bequest?”
“They don’t know of it, and I prefer to keep it that way as long as possible. It would pain her brother in particular to learn that Sarah gave money to your school rather than to her siblings. She and Richard were quite close, and she left him only a token amount. I hope I can count on your discretion.”
“Of course,” she said.
He cleared his throat. “About the building…I understand that the school’s situation is rather unsettled just now. That Samuel Pritchard means to sell Rockhurst to a fellow who runs a racing establishment.”
“You know Mr. Pritchard?”
“We’ve met in society a time or two.”
She leaned forward. “Do you know if the sale is certain? It will be the ruin of the school if they build a racecourse next door.”
“I can see how it would create difficulties for you,” David said. “But surely you could sell this house and property to build the school elsewhere. That would solve your difficulties, wouldn’t it?”
“For heaven’s sake, no. Aside from the fact that I prefer this location, I do not own the house or the property.”
He did not seem surprised to hear it. “Then who does?”
Charlotte stared down at her hands, wondering what David would think of her strange relation. “To be truthful, I do not know my landlord’s real name. When he offered the property for my use, it was with the condition that I allow him to remain anonymous. He…er…communicates with me using an alias. We go through a solicitor, a Mr. Joseph Baines.”
“Norcourt’s solicitor?” David asked.
“Yes, actually.” Anthony Dalton, Lord Norcourt, was one of David’s closest friends and had married Madeline, a former teacher from Charlotte’s school. “Anthony and I had a good laugh about it when I learned that he and Cousin Michael have the same solicitor. Do you know Mr. Baines?”
“In passing.” His eyes narrowed. “Cousin Michael. Sarah mentioned him once. He’s your anonymous benefactor?”
“Yes, though he has been virtually nonexistent of late.”
“A pity,” he said, rather curtly. “Now, about your situation with Mr. Pritchard…”
But she did not hear anything else, caught by an astonishing thought. What if David was Cousin Michael? Might that explain the sudden supposed “bequest” from Sarah to build a new school?
No, it was impossible. Her “cousin” had approached her through Mr. Baines only four years after the summer of the Great Debacle and her hasty elopement with Jimmy Harris. He had said that her late husband had mentioned her interest in opening a girl’s school and that he wanted to help her achieve her dream.
At that point, David’s public humiliation at her hands would have been fresh in his mind. He would have hated her virulently. He would certainly not have helped her start a school.
Besides, she had seen the solicitor’s name at the top of David’s document, and it was not Joseph Baines.
“Charlotte?” David prodded. “What do you think?”
She blinked, then sighed. “I am afraid I must once again beg your pardon. I was so caught up in considering this bequest that I missed what you said about Mr. Pritchard, my lord.”
“My lord?” His eyes darkened. “Surely we’ve known each other long enough to be less formal.” His voice softened. “You used to call me David.”
“That was before I destroyed your life.” She cursed her quick tongue.
“It was a long time ago. We’re different people now,” he murmured, clearly unwilling to speak of it. He forced a smile. “Beside, thanks to my wife’s unusual codicil, we’ll have to learn to deal with each other. We’re practically going to be in each other’s pockets for the next few months.”
She caught her breath. “I beg your pardon?”
“You really weren’t listening to what I said.” His tone turned wry. “I’ll make it brief, so as to hold your attention. Sarah’s bequest is contingent upon one thing—that I oversee the building of the new school. So you see, Charlotte, we’ll have plenty of time to become reacquainted.”
Chapter Two
David wished to God he’d never started his masquerade as Cousin Michael. His heart was thundering so loudly he was sure she would hear, and it took every ounce of his will not to tell her the truth.
But that wasn’t possible. The only way he could set right the school’s dicey situation was to reenter her life as himself, without her knowing of his alter ego.
Still, he could tell from the widening of her pretty blue eyes and the paling of her peach-tinged cheeks that he’d shocked her. Was that good? Or did it bode ill for his scheme?
Hard to tell. Charlotte had always had a knack for throwing him off balance, even as children, when she’d done such unorthodox things as climb trees in her pinafore and ride her pony bareback. Despite their years of correspondence, he never knew quite what to expect of her.
This was going to be so bloody difficult, even harder than the six months of mourning he’d endured so far, the six months of not writing to her, of not being sure of her situation. If he could have waited the full year to see her, he would have, but matters had become too dire with Pritchard for that. So he’d settled for waiting until he went into half-mourning, when society would find an association between him and a pretty widow less scandalous.
Now he had to pretend that he didn’t know every difficulty she’d had with the school to date. That he had no clue about how she fretted over it. That he was completely unaware of how his wife’s suicide had added to Charlotte’s problems by rousing every scandal ever discussed about the school.
Because telling her he was Cousin Michael was out of the question. As illogical as Sarah’s leaving money to the school must seem to Charlotte, the fact that he’d been playing a role with her all these years would seem even more so. She would demand to know why he’d set out fourteen years ago to help a woman he’d had every cause to hate. And then he would have to reveal the truth—that it had started out as a diabolical plan to revenge himself on her.
It didn’t matter that his desire to destroy her and her little school was long gone, because the bones of his plan were still in place. Pritchard was determined to get his due, no matter who or what it destroyed. So David had to fix the abominable mess he’d created before she found out.
Unfortunately, the close call with that Spanish fellow Diego Montalvo, who had pretended to want to buy Rockhurst earlier in the year, had shown that David could n
o longer manipulate matters from afar as Cousin Michael. He needed more control, and that meant ending his masquerade.
Horrible as it had been, Sarah’s death had given him the opportunity. He would step in as himself, inventing a legacy funded out of the money he’d made from investments through the years. No more “cousin,” no more letters of advice.
No telling Charlotte the truth, either. It would devastate her to realize that her friend “Cousin Michael” had sowed the seeds of her destruction; then she would balk at letting him help her.
After losing his fight to save Sarah from herself, he refused to watch another woman drown because of his mistakes. He couldn’t in good conscience let Charlotte lose her school, her only source of income, in a trap of his making. That meant persuading her to see sense. Knowing Charlotte, that would be bloody difficult.
Especially with her staring at him as if he’d just sprouted horns. “Why would Sarah want you to oversee the building of the new school?” she asked.
“Have you forgotten my interest in architecture?”
“It is one thing to have architecture as a hobby, sir. It is quite another to design an entire building.”
Her dismissiveness made him bristle. “What Sarah knew—and you don’t—is that my interest in architecture is more than a mere hobby. I worked very closely with architect John Nash in the building of my town house, and I was responsible for most of the renovation of Kirkwood Manor. You wouldn’t recognize it now.”
“I am sure I would not,” she mumbled, with a fetching blush that staggered him.
As easily as that, he was catapulted back to the summer of his parents’ house party and a handful of damned sweet kisses. Good God, if she continued blushing like a school-girl whenever he alluded to their past, he’d have trouble keeping his hands off her.
He stifled a curse. He would have trouble with that regardless. She was still a beauty and after all this time, his blood still raced at the sight of that softly bowed lower lip and that wealth of red curls. Even her mature face and figure only made him want to throw her down on her desk and ravish her.
But he was still in mourning for a wife he’d chosen badly, still drowning in the guilt of his own mistakes. An affair with Charlotte would only make that worse. He’d stupidly given her his heart once—he wasn’t fool enough to do so again.
Not that he had much of one anymore. He’d survived these past few years by packing it away, and he wasn’t about to pull it out so she could stomp the dry-rotted thing into dust.
“The point is moot, in any case,” Charlotte went on, jerking him back to the matter at hand. “I can’t build a new school on property that doesn’t belong to me.”
“Then buy property elsewhere and build the school there.” He held his breath. He had advised that in letters, but she’d ignored him. So he’d refrained from writing, praying that once he reestablished their connection and convinced her to trust him, she would more easily turn to him instead of her “cousin.”
He had to convince her to move the school before she was evicted. She didn’t know how close that danger was. And he couldn’t tell her, or his whole house of cards would come tumbling down.
“You assume I could afford such a thing,” she said. “Even with the bequest—”
“Didn’t you raise a nice sum at that charity event last spring, where that magician performed? If you couple that with a reasonable mortgage and Sarah’s money, you can purchase property and have plenty left over to build a new place.”
She arched one eyebrow. “Have you any idea how much it costs to build near London these days?”
“It doesn’t have to be near London,” he said irritably. “There are schools all over England.”
“Yes, but none with this one’s reputation. And I don’t want to leave Richmond. My friends are nearby, and having the girls near town means better opportunities for education. Unless Mr. Pritchard’s vile choice of a tenant puts me in a situation where I have to move, I intend to continue here.”
She wouldn’t continue here long, because the property didn’t belong to Cousin Michael. It belonged to Pritchard. David had a secret lien on it that allowed him to collect the rents, but the lien ran out in eight months—scarcely enough time to build a new school.
Confound it all, why hadn’t he invented a legacy big enough for her to buy property wherever she pleased?
Because he hadn’t thought she would insist upon remaining close to town. And because he’d known she would be suspicious enough of the amount as it was.
“You’re not thinking ahead, Charlotte. One day your cousin is sure to raise your rent beyond what you can pay, and then what will you do?”
A tiny frown wrinkled her brow. “Perhaps…” She brightened. “What if I were to buy the property from Cousin Michael?”
His gut twisted. “Are you sure he would sell it to you?”
“No.” A smile touched her lips. “But I can be very persuasive when I want.”
He knew that only too well. Unfortunately, she would be dealing with Pritchard, who couldn’t sell the property because it was entailed. “You’d still have the problems with your neighbor’s shenanigans at Rockhurst.”
She sat back with a frown. “Yes. There is that. Though I might have some methods for mitigating that.”
He knew her methods, and they wouldn’t work. Pritchard wanted this property back the second the lien was up. “You really would be better off trying to buy and build elsewhere.”
“But I can’t afford—”
“What if I were to help you find a property close to town that you could afford? A place where you could build the school exactly how you want?” He could subsidize that without her knowing. He’d simply make a private arrangement with the seller.
“Why would you do that?” Charlotte asked, her eyes narrowing.
She was every bit as skittish as he’d expected. “Because I mean to honor my late wife’s wishes.” Considering how much damage his wife had done to the school’s reputation, surely he could be forgiven for using her memory to counteract it. “Sarah clearly had some reason for giving you this money. The least I can do as her husband is try to finish the task she set for me.”
Surely eighteen years had sharpened Charlotte’s good sense. He’d just have to keep dangling that thirty thousand pounds in front of her. If he had to, Cousin Michael would raise her rents to force her out.
“I tell you what, Charlotte—why don’t you write your cousin and see what he says about selling? In the meantime, I’ll bring you a list tomorrow of local properties for sale. We could look at them, talk to the sellers—”
“I can’t. Tomorrow is the meeting for the London Ladies Society.”
“Ah yes, one of the charitable organizations Sarah mentioned you’re involved in.”
“She participated in precious few, and even when she did, she complained about our spending so much time with them.” Charlotte’s auburn eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Are you sure she left money to my school?”
He clamped down on his irritation. “It’s in that document I gave you. Have your attorney look over it.”
“I will, don’t worry.”
“If you don’t have an attorney, I can suggest—”
“I have an attorney of my own, for heaven’s sake,” she said defensively. “What sort of fool do you take me for?”
“I was only pointing out—”
“Yes, you were always good at that, weren’t you?” she snapped. “Pointing out. Suggesting. Bullying. Well, no one shall bully me into moving this school until I am absolutely certain it is necessary—not you, not Pritchard, not anyone. I am not the same fool I was at eighteen, David Masters, and I can handle my own affairs without the help of you or any other man!”
And just like that, the past crashed down between them, as palpable as a stone wall.
He fought for calm. Bad enough that the blow she’d administered to his heart and his pride half a lifetime ago still hurt, probably more so to
day, because she was here in front of him. But must she persist in thinking the worst of him still?
Not that it mattered, as long as he could fix his mistake. They might have killed whatever had been between them in those heady days, but he could still offer her his help, even his friendship. “I’m sure you’re a very capable woman,” he bit out, “and I have no desire to force you into anything that doesn’t suit your purposes.”
Mortification turned her cheeks a fetching pink. “Forgive me, I should not have spoken so bluntly.” She rose. “I am grateful to you for bringing this matter to my attention, and honored that Sarah would offer me such a legacy. But before this goes any further, I will need to have my attorney examine the papers. When he is done, I will consider all the possibilities and ramifications and let you know my decision. That will take time.”
“How much time?” he demanded.
“I cannot say. But I will keep you informed.”
Anger boiled up in him. So she meant to stall him, did she? The hell she would.
She gestured to the door. “Now, if you will excuse me, my lord…”
Her deliberately formal “my lord” was the last straw. He shot to his feet. “By all means have your attorney examine the document.” His eyes narrowed. “But I’ll be here again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that, until you decide. I won’t dishonor Sarah’s memory by letting this matter drag on.”
Setting her shoulders, Charlotte opened her mouth, but he had a trump card.
“Of course, you can always refuse the bequest, and I’ll understand if you do. You never did like me much.”
She flinched at his allusion to how she’d publicly humiliated him that blasted summer. Good. Now that he’d made it clear he would take her refusal as a repeat of what had happened years ago, her guilt might prevent her from heaping insult upon injury.
She sighed. “Give me two days to have my attorney look at it. I have my meeting tomorrow, but assuming everything is in order with the documents, you may come the day after, and we will discuss how to proceed.”
“Thank you.” Fighting to hide his relief, he bowed. “Until then.”
The School for Heiresses: 'Wed Him Before You Bed Him Page 2
