by Stacy Reid
Chapter 3
Several hours later, the man who stepped through the front door of their townhouse was as dangerous and unpredictable as the heralding storm. Fanny faltered in the hallway, the roses she’d intend to place on the table in the drawing room, forgotten. She was too far away to discern the words forming on his sensually shaped lips. Their butler, Jeffers, took the man’s coat, and top hat. Stripped of those distractions the body revealed was perfectly dressed and breathtakingly formed. She’d always thought so of Sebastian Rutledge, the new Lord Shaw, the man society had dubbed the iron king and her brother’s friend.
As if he felt her improper assessment, his eyes—a fierce blue-gray of a winter storm—collided with hers, and the vase in her hands trembled. The strangest of heat darted through her body, and her heart quickened. She had never been able to understand her reaction to this man. It was not as if they socialized. Her brother had always been careful which of his friends he brought into close association with her, and Fanny fancied this was the closest she has been alone with Lord Shaw since they were introduced. And that had been a little over two years ago. He had never asked her to dance at the few balls he’d attended, nor was he ever seated close to her when invited to dinner because of his rank. But she had always been aware that he watched her although he thought he was discreet. His eyes upon her had always been confusing, for he made no effort to converse with her, and she, in turn, avoided him for his intensity was both alarming and intriguing.
He smiled in her direction and for several seconds her wits scattered. How positively charming it was. She was then obliged for civility’s sake to return a warm smile at him and proffer a greeting. “Lord Shaw, how good of you to call. May I invite you to the fire in the drawing room?”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Fanny was painfully aware of the way his eyes kissed her skin. Surely, he was out and about in society enough to understand his obvious admiration was rude, and vulgar…and so distressingly lovely. Confoundingly it soothed the sting to her pride and vanity from seeing the man she was about to marry caught in the throes of passion in another’s arms. She handed the vase of flowers to the butler and ordered refreshments. Then she made her way to the drawing room, with the viscount on her heels. They entered, and she carefully ensured the door remained ajar.
A fire burned merrily in the grate and suspecting him to be chilled from being caught in the downpour, she invited him to sit on the sofa closest to the flickering flames. “I will inform Colin you’ve called Lord Shaw.”
He winced slightly, and she got the impression he did not like the honorific. Possibly she was mistaken, who could resent being a lord, and with such comfortable estates as it had been rumored he had inherited?
“I was hoping for a moment of your time, Lady Fanny.”
She lifted her eyes to his, quite astonished. “I beg your pardon; did you say of my time?”
There was a mocking glint in his blue-gray eyes, which she would allow were beautiful. She would never describe him as classically handsome like many of the men in society. The harsh sensuality of his features left no room for elegance or refinement, but he was compelling with his chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, and dark slashing brows. He also had the blackest hair she had ever seen, as if darkness itself had painted it. How would it feel to touch? Soft? Or coarse like? A flush went through her at the inappropriate thought.
“Yes,” he said mildly.
An oddly exhilarating thrill of anticipation swept through her. “You are not here to call on my brother?” she asked inanely.
An indecipherable emotion passed over his face. “I will speak with him, but I was hoping for your indulgence first.”
Her eyes widened, and her mouth went dry. Was it her imagination that he appeared agitated? Surely not. The man before her was Sebastian Rutledge, a self-made man of great wealth who owned several iron smelteries and factories in England and had business interests on the continent. There had been much speculation by society about the extent of his worth, and they had been unable to assess it accurately for he took none into his confidence. Not even her brother. But he was a man of singular fashion, and his manner was as elegant and rich as a gentleman of society. Though no one had entirely forgotten that he had common breeding, it was his air of affluence and the viscountcy which made him somewhat acceptable to her mamma and most in society.
“What could you have to say to me?” she asked lowering herself into a sofa.
He sat opposite her, on the very edge of his padded chair, as if he were impatient. "I…" he closed his eyes briefly, and she couldn't help noticing how incredibly long his lashes were…and this close, she could see the calluses on his palm and fingertips. It occurred to her then how much his gentleman like attire was a thin veneer of gentility.
“I am not very good at this,” he said gruffly. “I have never done this before.”
“Forgive me, my lord, I’ve no notion what you are about.”
“You’ve had a bad run of it.”
There could be no mistaking his meaning. She flushed, and he grimaced, no doubt accurately deducing that whatever he was about, he was making a hash of it.
“I’ve heard the whispers about your name that insist your reputation is beyond repair.”
She flinched at his lack of delicacy.
He stilled, his expression impenetrable. “Forgive my bluntness. The thing to do is marry with all haste, and I—” he raked his fingers through his dark hair.
She had always thought him a man of few words, and her suspicion was proven. There was a hollowness forming in her stomach, for he had still managed to communicate he was here because of the odious cloud hanging over her head. Fanny shot to her feet, and he stood, and moved alarmingly close.
“Fanny…forgive me, Lady Fanny.” His eyes caught hers, and she was unable to look away. “Would you do me the honor of marrying me?”
For a long moment, Fanny could only stare at him as if he were an apparition from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s gothic novels. She was of the opinion he could not be sincere. “I beg your pardon?”
“I believe you comprehended me, my lady.”
“Bu-but you asked me to marry you!”
There was a bewildering mix of arrogance and wariness in his eyes. “I did.”
Fanny was rendered speechless. “Without the benefit of courtship?” she was uncertain why she asked the question for there could be no contemplation of his outrageous offer. They hardly knew each other.
“Do you want courtship? I never imagined you would since you have been through it twice already, to repeat it must be unpalatable.”
How oddly fascinating they were having this conversation. “You are in earnest, my lord?”
His mouth tilted a little at one corner. “I am Lady Fanny. I also find I do not wish for you to slip through my fingers again and I must act with more haste than what is considered proper.”
Her eyes widened. He had never expressed the hope that they might become better acquainted. And now…marriage? Was he in want of a fortune? Though he did have a title to recommend himself to her family, she did not think his offer would be entertained. His background was too dubious, and his title did not render him wholly respectable. Why, he was hardly invited to the best drawing rooms or balls. And when he did appear, it was quite evident his presence incited speculation and uncivil rumors. More than once mamma had remarked she pitied the lady he would take to be his wife and had thought it better if he looked to secure an alliance with one of the many American heiresses who hankered for any title.
“I…I cannot marry you.” Her instinctive rejection felt wrong.
He moved scandalously close, his eyes searching her face with studied intensity. Fanny almost expired when he reached up and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his knuckle barely grazing her cheeks. That touch, so light it was scarcely a breath of sensation, pierced her like a well-aimed arrow.
“I ask you not to dismiss my offer without some consider
ation,” he murmured. “At least sleep on it.”
There was a peculiar weakness in her heart, and Fanny could do nothing but stare at him. Lord Shaw was sincere, and she was…terrified. She jolted as the awareness simmered through her. Not even when Lord Trent had offered for her had she felt this out of sorts, this breathless. An achingly terrifying sensation that she was powerfully attracted to Sebastian Rutledge tore through her. She went very still, hardly daring to breathe.
“What madness is this?”
She whirled about, her hand pressing against her chest. “My goodness, Colin, you startled me.” Had he heard the viscount’s absurd offer?
From the thundercloud brewing in her brother’s eyes, she surmised he had. “Lord Shaw has come to call. I…I fear I have a previous engagement to attend,” she said and winced at the blatant lie. Even Sebastian Rutledge would suspect they’d had no caller, but he had stolen her composure. “If you will both excuse me.”
Without waiting for their reaction, Fanny hurried from the drawing room closing the door behind her. She leaned against it, unable to believe the last minute had taken place. She was about to move away when her brother's shocked tones floated in the air.
“Did you just make an offer for my sister?”
Fanny stiffened, turned around and shamelessly pressed her ear flat against the door. It was unforgivably rude to eavesdrop, but that was the least of her sins.
“I wanted to assess how she would feel about the notion before I approached you.”
“You are not entirely serious?” her brother demanded.
“I’ve heard rumors that only fortune hunters will now offer for her hand, and that you are seeking suitors for her.”
Fanny trembled in reaction to that unwelcome news. How dare her brother act with such rank disregard for her feelings.
“I thought you would want better for your sister. There is even a bet at White’s going that you are so desperate you will accept the first offer that comes your way.” Lord Shaw’s tone was questioning and throbbed with an undertone of emotion she did not understand. How she wished she was still in the room to see his eyes.
“I will check the book at White’s when I next visit,” Colin said stiffly.
She was being discussed in the clubs. The very idea had humiliation cramping through her stomach.
“What are your designs on my sister?”
The anger in her brother’s voice was alarming.
“I would like to marry her,” Shaw said unapologetically. As if he were not low in connections and birth, a businessman asking for the hand of an earl’s daughter.
Her prejudice left a sour taste in her mouth, and she did not like that she was painted with the same brush as the rest of society. Fanny had never found him rude or inconsiderate. As it were, the very idea of any man who wasn’t hunting a fortune asking for her hand in marriage after the calamity that was her reputation was preposterous. The notion that it was Sebastian Rutledge was even harder to comprehend.
“My sister is a lady with well-bred sensibilities,” her brother said stiffly. “How dare you even think to approach me for her hand?”
She’d never heard her brother’s voice so cold and dismissive. Fanny frowned, for she had thought Sebastian Rutledge, a friend of Colin’s.
“I’m not hunting her fortune.”
Then why do you want to marry me?
Wariness settled atop her shoulders. Then her brother asked it as well.
“Why are you offering for her, I know damn well you don’t need her money. You are the man they call the Iron king for God sakes.”
“My reasons are my own but know that my regard for her is most sincere.”
That admission had the most peculiar longing welling inside of her. Oh, Dear God. She fell too quickly in the throes of love, and twice now because of that foolish sentiment she had been deceived of a man's character. Not that she thought she could love this man. But he had always made her feel so…so…warm, and just from a mere stare.
“My sister has too much delicacy of mind and tender sensibilities to walk by your side. She is not a stranger to a life of elegance amongst society. She is a lady of breeding.”
“And I, of course, am not a gentleman,” came his flat reply.
“Despite the title, you are not. Surely you know this. I’ve heard rumors you’ve no formal education. I cannot believe you would think to ask it. What would a man like you know of fine manners and good breeding to provide my sister with the lifestyle to which she is accustomed?”
There was a tense silence, and then the door opened, startling her. Her cheeks heated, and she peered up into the eyes of Lord Shaw.
His lips quirked, and amusement glowed in his eyes. “Eavesdropping? How intrepid and unladylike of you Lady Fanny. I confess you surprise me,” he murmured.
“Why do you want to marry me, if not for my fortune and my connections,” she whispered.
His eyes searched hers, intent. “I daresay you’ve bewitched me, and I want you.”
A shock went through her, hot and delicious. That response she’d not anticipated. You’ve bewitched me, and I want you. And suddenly she knew he wanted to do wicked and improper things with her.
Heat crawled up her neck, mortification gripping her.
No gentleman has ever, would ever be so forward with a lady. Though she was the one to enquire after his reason, he could have been more discreet in his utterances. Sebastian Rutledge was indeed no gentleman. Still, the raw and sincere desire she spied within his eyes and conveyed by his words had a feeling of alarm and excitement washing over her senses. Unable to proffer any reply, she spun around and strolled away. For a wicked intrigue had brewed within her heart and she would be foolish even to consider his unexpected proposal.
Chapter 4
It was with a sense of disbelief and trepidation, several days later, under the banner of darkness, Fanny pounded on the door of a most elegant townhouse in Berkeley Square. She lowered her hand after hammering the knocker once more, her gaze scanning the darkened street. A few gas lamps were lit, but the fog blanketing the air filled her with nervous tension. The noise of horses’ hooves sounded, but no carriage appeared through the dense fog. A light rain misted the air, and Fanny tugged her coat closer, shivering at the slight chill. Dear God, am I making the right decision? Her actions overwhelmed the bounds of propriety and every expectation she had of her conduct, but she wouldn’t be deterred. She had allowed her brother to dictate too much of her life because her living had depended upon him.
But no more. She was now the possessor of her fortune, all fifty thousand pounds of it, with an annuity of ten thousand pounds to be added over the course of ten years. She was an heiress. And distressingly she could not buy respectability or a husband. Not that she would want to marry a fortune hunter, such a man was not the kind she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Dear God, no, she needed more, so much more.
Don’t be a ninny, look what my quest for love wrought.
The door wrenched open, and a glowering Sebastian Rutledge peered down at her.
“I…I’d expected the butler,” she stammered, all the well-crafted demands for entry she had practiced abandoning her thoughts.
He stiffened, his expressive eyes shuttering. Several seconds slid by, he only stared, and Fanny gathered she had shocked him. Who would have thought him to possess an elevated sense of propriety? Then she winced, for she knew how outrageous her actions were. The man considered her for several more painful seconds, then he glanced behind her to the black lacquered carriage with no visible coat of arms. "At least you were smart enough to travel in an unmarked coach. To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?"
The man had no social graces. It was unseemly that he had her standing on his doorstep, even if the hour was distressingly inappropriate. “Will you oblige me by granting me an audience for a few minutes?”
He moved back and held the door wide. She stepped inside, quite shocked at the darkness. A door
loomed in the distance, light spilling from beneath, and it was toward that beacon she walked. Where was his staff? Why was everything so silent when it was barely nine in the evening? A strange shiver darted through her as she acknowledged the foolhardiness of her impetuosity. Why hadn’t she sent a note and asked for a meeting in Hyde Park? She faltered and shuddered when his chest caressed her back ever so slightly. He was so close. “Where is everyone?”
“I live alone.”
How preposterous. “You’ve no servants?”
“I’m not of a mind to have the people who work for me to do so from dawn until midnight. I leave such grueling expectations for my betters,” he drawled mockingly.
Her heart was beating too hard. Fanny wetted her lips, fighting the urge to turn around and flee. Stay true to your course. Squaring her shoulders, she once again strolled toward that single light. They reached the door, and he reached around her and pushed it open for her. She crossed the threshold, grateful to see a merry fire burning in the grate, and several lit candles on the mantel and a large oak desk which dominated the center of the room. They were in his study then.
The door closed behind her with a decisive click and her mouth dried. He walked past her to lower himself at the edge of his desk, his muscled forearms also braced against the side. Fanny gawked, feeling faint. Lord Shaw's state of undress was alarming. His thick dark hair was disheveled. He wore no cravat or waistcoat, but a white shirt where the collar was unbuttoned showing the corded muscles of his throat. Dear God. His shirt was not tucked into his trousers, and the man had on no boots.
She glanced around the room to see boots discarded by the lone sofa near the fire, and his jacket, cravat, and waistcoat draped over the back of another chair.
She lifted the veil from her face. Fanny had been cautious in disguising herself before she had left the comfort of her brother's townhouse.
“I had the greatest apprehension in coming here tonight," she said with a small smile, hoping to quell the tension that seemed to blanket the room.
