Annie Burrows (4 page)

Especially since no jury in the land would believe he had any reasonable excuse for feeling so murderous, if there was such a thing as a reasonable excuse for committing murder.

But then what man would feel
reasonable
when a woman betrayed him by marrying another man without even having the decency to reject his proposal first?

And not just any man, but one old enough to have been her father?

He snorted in disgust, causing Miss Morgan to raise her brows in surprise.

‘Slight cold,’ he excused himself. ‘Beg pardon.’

Father? Grandfather, more like. Much-married grandfather, too, according to Robert when he’d broken the news. ‘He’s already worn out three women with his filthy temper and his unreasonable demands,’ Robert had slurred, his voice thick with alcohol and revulsion. ‘Each of them younger and more unsuitable than the last. Can you imagine how I feel,’ he’d said, downing yet another glass of brandy in one gulp, ‘having to call a chit of a girl, scarce out of the schoolroom, “Mother”?’

He hadn’t cared a jot what Robert thought about having a stepmother who was younger than he was. It wasn’t as if they’d ever been close friends. They’d fallen in with each other because they were much of an age and enjoyed the same pastimes, that was all. Besides, he was having too much trouble coping with the sensation of having been punched, hard, in the gut.

Lydia, married?

‘She cannot have married him,’ he’d just about managed to gasp. ‘She wouldn’t.’ Fearing he might actually be going to cast up his accounts as he imagined her giving herself willingly to that stick-thin, papery-skinned old man he’d glimpsed striding about the grounds on the fateful day he’d taken her to the picnic Robert had thrown at Westdene, he’d shakily reached for the brandy decanter himself. ‘I only took her there two weeks ago. And I...’ asked her to think about marrying
him.

‘Well, we’re not talking about a love match, are we?’ Robert had splashed a measure of brandy into a glass and passed it to him, when his own hands had failed to accomplish the task himself. ‘My father likes young women. The younger the better, apparently. And he’s so rich that he has no trouble getting them to marry him.’

The words had eaten into him like acid scoring into a printer’s plate.

This was her answer, then. The Colonel had money and he didn’t, that was what it boiled down to. She was just like all the rest.

Though at least all those eligible débutantes who’d turned their pretty noses up at him because of his reputation, and the state of his finances, had been honest. Only Lydia had fooled him into dropping his guard. Into making him...
hope.

‘If your reaction means what I think it does,’ Robert had said, looking at him with such concern he knew he must have turned white, ‘then let me tell you, my friend, you’ve had a lucky escape. She’s obviously mercenary to the core. God, but I pity my sisters, having that harpy foisted on them.’

The remainder of that encounter had vanished into the red mist that had risen up and swamped him. He knew he’d said some pretty harsh things about elderly men preying on females barely out of the schoolroom, but he could not recall which of them had thrown the first punch.

It could well have been Robert. A man can say what he likes about his own parent, but he won’t tolerate hearing it from another’s lips.

Family was family, after all.

Which brought him neatly back to this dark-haired, wilful beauty, with whom he was dancing right now. One of Robert’s half-sisters from one of those wives Colonel Morgan had worn out with his unreasonable demands and filthy temper while he’d been clawing his way up the rungs of the Company army ladder. Not his first, or she would be Robert’s full sister. But did it really matter which of them it was? All that concerned him was that Lydia had been his fourth wife. He ground his teeth. His fourth.

Of course, he’d known Lydia had come to town to find herself a husband. It was why they all came, year after year, all these well-bred girls in their uniform white dresses. But he’d started to think she shrank from the prospect. He’d seen the way that dragon of a chaperon was always breathing down her neck, and how the longer the Season went on, the more she’d wilted under the constant pressure to bring some man up to scratch.

She’d started to look so fragile she’d put him in mind of a dandelion clock. All that silvery-haired trembling beauty, being held together only by a tremendous effort of will. One hard knock was all it would take to scatter her to the four winds.

Or so he’d thought.

He snorted again. When he thought of how hard she’d made him work to get her to speak without stammering and blushing...or when he recalled the sense of triumph she’d aroused when she’d shyly confided that he could take her mind off her woes just by being there...or worse—that surge of protectiveness that had swept through him that day when she’d just about fainted, and he’d caught her in his arms, and carried her into the house.

‘God, how I wish I had the right to take you away from that dragon,’ he’d bitten out as she’d turned her face into his chest with a moan. ‘I would never force you to do anything you didn’t want,’ he’d said, wishing he could drop a kiss into the curls that had been tickling his chin. ‘You’re so delicate,’ he’d said, ‘you should have someone to look after you. I wish it could be me.’

And before he’d gone three more paces, he’d loved the way she felt in his arms so much he’d found himself casting caution to the winds.

‘And why shouldn’t it be me? I’ve got to get married some day. I’ve got a duty to my family to preserve the name, if nothing else. And you know, I don’t think it would be such a dreadful chore, if it was to a girl like you. You make me feel as though I’m worth something, even though I haven’t two brass farthings to rub together.’

She hadn’t said a word in reply. She hadn’t thrown her arms round his neck and said that marrying him would make her the happiest girl on earth. Even though he knew she was determined to marry
someone.
She’d confided in him, just the once, that she dreaded what would happen if it came to the end of the Season without her getting even one proposal.

So the look on her face, as he’d lain her down on the sofa, had filled him with foreboding.

It could have been the result of the headache that had felled her, of course, but he’d been so worried she was about to frame the words of refusal that he’d cut her short.

‘Don’t say a word,’ he’d said, backing away hastily. He could see he was going to have to prove he could support her, even if it wasn’t in very much style. He’d noticed that his rather cavalier attitude towards paying bills had perturbed her. And she’d expressed open disapproval of his tendency to make rather reckless wagers. He was going to have to prove that for once in his life he was in deadly earnest. In short, he was going to have to raise enough money to at least pay for a ring, and a licence, and the vicar. ‘Just think about it,’ he’d said as he backed out of the room.

He’d thought she would at least have done that, while he was off fleecing every drunk too cross-eyed to see what cards he held in his hands. But no. By the time Robert caught up with him at Newmarket, she’d already worked her wiles on that...jumped-up clerk! She’d coldly, ruthlessly assessed what the Colonel could give her and then...sold herself to him without a qualm. She must have a core of steel to have survived marriage to a man who had gone out to India with nothing but the clothes he’d stood up in, and burning ambition, but who’d returned to England with wealth beyond most men’s wildest dreams.

And nobody was ever going to convince him that a man could amass such a fortune, so quickly, by honest means.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Rose Morgan was giving him an odd look. ‘What was that you said?’

It was only then he realised he’d been getting so worked up he’d begun muttering under his breath.

‘I’m thinking of a poem,’ he came back smoothly. ‘Something along the lines of...
Your beauty surpasses my wildest dreams, I mean to have you by any means...
’

Miss Morgan giggled and blushed. ‘You really should not repeat that kind of verse to me. If Robert ever found out, he would be simply furious.’

But she did not look displeased. She simpered and looked up at him from under those long, dark lashes of hers, with just the hint of a smile hovering round her lips.

Had Lydia coached her to look at men like that? Miss Morgan must definitely have practised often, to have perfected a look that conveyed so neatly both maidenly modesty, spiced with a clear dash of willingness to accept his suit, should he choose to further her acquaintance.

Well, if anyone knew how to get her young charge to bag herself a husband, no matter what obstacles society’s high sticklers might throw in her way, Lydia was the woman. Lydia had not appeared to have anything going for her when she’d come to town for her own Season. Not only had she been of a naturally timid disposition—or so he’d thought—but she’d also lacked the means to make the most of what assets she had. He had sometimes overheard other girls mocking her for having no more than two evening dresses, which she’d made over, in various ways, time after time. He had not minded. On the contrary, he’d admired her ingenuity, for he knew what it was like to always be juggling his own finances.

But she’d clearly minded more than he’d guessed. She’d been determined to marry money, no matter what kind of man would provide it for her. And being wealthy certainly looked as though it had suited her. Just look at her, sitting on the chaperons’ bench, fanning herself indolently while she watched Rose dancing with, he made no bones about admitting, just about the most eligible bachelor in the room.

Yes, she’d positively thrived on having married money. There was a sleek, contented look about her, like a cat that had been at the cream. He had always known she had the potential to become a beauty, but she’d had to paint on a facsimile of the roses that bloomed naturally in her cheeks now. She’d entirely lost those gauche mannerisms that had so appealed to him, too. And her gawky, coltish figure was now hidden beneath distinctly feminine curves.

She was no longer that frail, pale waif, who’d made him feel she needed some big strong man to come dashing to her rescue. The girl who’d so cunningly made him feel as though he could
be
that man. She was a self-assured, healthy, wealthy widow. A woman who’d got exactly what she’d set out to achieve in life.

In fact, to her way of thinking Colonel Morgan’s age might have been a positive advantage. She certainly had not had to put up with his
filthy temper
or his
unreasonable demands
for very long. She’d been a widow now for almost two years.

‘Typical,’ he muttered. The very year he’d finally decided that he was ready to dip his toe into matrimonial waters, some malign fate had brought her up to town as well.

Dammit, how could he search for a bride, when the mere sight of her provoked him so much that he’d started muttering imprecations under his breath while he was dancing with just about the prettiest girl in the room? He’d thought he’d got over his disillusion. His disappointment. His mistrust of everything a woman said. But then he’d seen her sitting there, pretending she had not seen him. Or worse, she simply hadn’t recognised him. The thought he might have been such an insignificant feature of her life that she did not even remember him had made him so boiling mad, he’d had to march across the ballroom and challenge her. Hurt her. And the only way he could think of to do it was to make her think he was only interested in her stepdaughter—when nothing could be further from the truth. He’d scarcely been aware of her, throughout this entire set.

Damn her, but Lydia had even ruined
this
for him, too. He’d used to enjoy dancing for its own sake. What could be more pleasant than indulging in vigorous exercise alongside an appreciative female? And then being able to return her to her seat, and walk away, and select another one, without risk of censure?

But he was not enjoying dancing with Rose Morgan. Not with his head full of Lydia. Not knowing that the moment would come when he would have to return the girl to her seat and stand within strangling distance of her all-too-alluring stepmother once more. And make polite conversation, when what he wanted was to demand an explanation.

It was hard to know whether he was angrier with her for being here, or himself for reacting to her in such an illogical, irrational...uncontrollable way.

His face set, he steeled himself to escort Rose across the floor. Why the hell should he let her make him feel in the least bit uncomfortable? He had as much right to be here as she did. More. He belonged in society, had been born to a position of rank and privilege. And what was more, he’d really made something of himself. People no longer assumed he would never amount to anything, because of the family he’d come from. They’d seen him turn his fortunes around by dint of hard work and resourcefulness. He’d become famous for being the first Hemingford for generations who hadn’t resorted to charming an heiress into marriage to pull the family out of debt. He’d come back to town knowing that, at last, he could marry any woman he damn well chose.

And he was not going to let her return to society spoil his plans.

* * *

‘This is all your fault,’ Lydia had said to Robert, as Rothersthorpe led Rose on to the dance floor. ‘You might have known that being so strict with her would drive her to some act of rebellion.’

‘Well, I don’t regret sending Lord Abergele to the rightabout,’ he retorted. ‘Not when everyone knows his pockets are to let.’

‘What does that have to say to anything? Rose has no intention of marrying the first man she dances with. She has come to town to find her feet socially and
enjoy
herself. She was the very first one to declare she would not think her Season a disaster if she did not find a man who truly loved her, whom she could love in return. She knows it won’t be easy to find a man like that, on just one trip to town. But you are making it impossible. How is she going to get to know any man well enough to know if she could possibly fall in love with him, if you won’t let any of them get anywhere near her?’