A Taste of Seduction (An Unlikely Husband) (22 page)

Alexander needn’t touch his skin to know it would be colder than the first frost. And he needn’t lay a hand on the old man’s heart to know it no longer beat.

The Earl of Montrose was dead.

Alexander pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to gather his wits. He wished he was shaved and wearing fresh clothing instead of the rumpled, whiskey-soaked attire he had on. It reminded him of his father, of his heritage. Philip would have been disappointed if he knew the day Alexander found him dead, he looked and smelled like a drunk.

“Jesus.”

Francie’s head shot up, tears shining in her sky-blue eyes. “He’s...dead,” she blurted out.

“I know,” he said, feeling stupid and inadequate.

“I…I...never got to say
goodbye.” More tears fell, trailing their way down her pale cheeks.

“I know,” Alexander said again, thinking of the last time he and Philip were together. It was as close to a fight as they’d ever been. And it had all centered on Francie. Guilt tore at him, made him wish he hadn’t been so damned harsh with the old man.

“Excuse me, sir, so sorry to interrupt.” James stood in the doorway, white as paste, foot suspended as though he were too stunned to engage in that infernal tapping he insisted upon. His gaze darted from Philip to Francie and settled in the vicinity of Alexander’s forehead. He cleared his throat twice and said, “Shall I call for Dr. Wellings?”

The bearded, bespectacled physician had guided Philip through bouts of illness on many an occasion, but he would not achieve success this time. Still, the physician should attend him. Alexander nodded. “Yes. Instruct the rest of the staff we are to be left alone until Dr.
Wellings’s arrival.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And James, thank you.”

“You are very welcome,
sir.” James backed up three steps and pulled the door shut. Alexander turned to Francie. “I’m so sorry.”

“We’d only just started to know one another,” Francie whispered. “After all this time. And now he’s gone.” She laid her head against her father’s chair, still clutching his limp hand, her red-gold hair cascading about her like a blanket. He wanted to take her in his arms and promise her all would be well, she would never feel this kind of pain again. But he wouldn’t because he knew he could never shield her from the agonizing heartache of loving and losing someone. The only protection was a wall of indifference, one she would never subscribe to but Alexander knew well.

He’d built his own wall out of grief and desolation one wretched brick at a time, and no one had ever breached it.

His chest tightened.

Except Philip.

***

“For God’s sake, Claire, they just buried Montrose three weeks ago.” Edgar Ashcroft frowned at his daughter. “At least, give the ground time to settle before you start after Bishop again.”

Claire pulled at a long, black curl and released it, watching it spring out of her fingers. “I am not in the habit of waiting, as you well know, Father.” She thought of Alexander Bishop’s narrow hips and broad chest. “Besides, I might be just the diversion he needs after all the gloom circling Drakemoor.”

The earl scratched his chin and mused, “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He leveled his ice-blue eyes on his daughter. “Bishop may already have a ‘diversion’. Right under his own roof.”

“What are you implying?” She knew, even before he said the name.

“Why, Francie Jordan, of course.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his stomach. “Quite cozy, I’d say. He can bid her goodnight like a proper gentleman and then sneak into her bed when the rest of the house is asleep.”

“She’s probably no better than a whore.” Alexander would
never
do that.

“Claire! That is no language for a woman of your breeding. Besides, what could you possibly know of such things?”

She shifted in her chair, intent on smoothing out a wrinkle in her lavender gown.
Whore
. She knew the word well, had even been called it a few times by angry lovers. “I’m sorry, Father. I’ve heard the groomsmen use the word once or twice.”

“I’ll fire the lot of them,” he snapped.

“No!” She didn’t want to lose the sixteen-year-old boy she’d been sneaking out to see in the middle of the night. Nicholas. What he lacked in experience, he made up in other ways. Just a few flicks of her finger or tongue had him hard and throbbing three or four times in a row. She grew wet just thinking about him. No, she wouldn’t let her father take him away. Not yet.

“Why such an allegiance to the hired help?” the earl asked, a thread of suspicion in his voice.

Claire cast him a furtive smile. “They meant no harm.” Her smile widened. “They didn’t even know of my presence.”
Not until I lifted my skirts and slid out of my pantaloons
.

“Very well,” he said, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand. “But I want no more talk of that sort coming from your lips. You are a young lady of fine and proper breeding. An Ashcroft. With our name come certain duties and responsibilities.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Now, what is this infernal talk about Alexander Bishop?” he demanded. “And what do you think is going to come of it?”

“I’m going to marry him.”
And ravish his delicious body
.

“What?”

Claire sat up in her chair, folded her hands in her lap, and met her father’s cold stare. “I’m going to marry him,” she said with the conviction of a saint confessing his belief in God.

“Have you gone mad?”

She shook her head, enjoying the feel of her thick hair swirling down her back. Alexander would like her hair, too. All the men did. “I’m not mad, Father,” she said in a low, sweet voice. “Not at all. I am captivated by Alexander Bishop and I intend to marry him.”

“He’s a stable boy,” her father bit out.

“He’s a very wealthy man with more manners than most members of the ton,” she countered. “And, he is very well respected in matters of business and finance.” She tilted her head to one side. “The stock market is his specialty. Think of the possibilities, Father. He could help you triple your wealth.” Talk of money would entice him. Everyone knew money was Edgar Ashcroft’s grand mistress.

“Hmmm.” The earl scratched his head. “Triple
, you say?” His thin lips spread into a slow smile.

Claire giggled and bound out of her chair. “Thank you, Father. Thank you.” She threw her arms around his neck and planted a big kiss on his cheek.

The earl’s smiled broadened as he smoothed his hand over her hair. “If you really want this Bishop fellow for a husband,” he whispered, “I’ll get him for you. Trust me. I’ll get him for you.”

***

Alexander stared at the ledgers in front of him. He’d counted the same column five times and come up with five different answers. Damn. He pushed the book away, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the soft cushions of his chair.

What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t think straight, couldn’t concentrate, and couldn’t sleep. Hadn’t been able to for the past two days, ever since the solicitor paid him a visit.

He’d read the contents of the will several times, with and without benefit of whiskey. The words always came out the same, sometimes a little fuzzy or blurred, but always the same. Damn, Philip. What had he been trying to prove? What in the name of all that was holy was he going to do?

A soft rap on the door disturbed him from his thoughts. “Come in,” he called in a weary voice.

He heard the click of the door closing, heard the footsteps shuffling across the room and stop beside his desk. “Hello, Bernard,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was so damn tired.

“Alexander,” Bernard’s quiet voice soothed him. “You wanted to see me?”

Alexander opened his eyes and stared at the old man standing before him, so calm and peaceful. What he wouldn’t give right now for a little slice of tranquility. Just one tiny sliver, like in the old days.

Before Francie.

“Sit down, Bernard. I need your help.”

The old man sat in the chair across from Alexander’s desk, his eyes watchful from behind gold spectacles. “What can I do for you, my boy?”

“It seems Philip played a great joke on me. Unfortunately, I find no humor in the jest.” He drummed his fingers on the desk and emphasized, “None at all.”

Bernard stroked his beard. “Joke?” he repeated, and Alexander heard the wariness in his voice. “What sort of joke?”

“I had a visit from his solicitor the other day. A Mr. Barnes. Wiry little fellow with the personality of a pebble. He informed me one-half of Philip’s estate is mine and the other half belongs to Francie.”

“That seems fair.”

“I thought so, too.” Alexander pinned him with a cold stare and continued, “Until he told me the provisions under which I am to receive my share.”

“Provisions?”

“I must marry Francie in order to get my half. Should I refuse, I lose all claim to Drakemoor.”

“What?”

Apparently, the contents of the will proved as much a surprise to Bernard as they had to Alexander.

“Marry her or lose all hold to Drakemoor,” Alexander bit out. His stomach churned just thinking about leaving.

“What are you going to do?”

Alexander shrugged. “I don’t want to marry Francie. Or anyone,” he added. “Nor do I want to give up Drakemoor.”

“I see.”

“Philip has left me in a damn fine predicament. Marry his daughter or get booted out of my home.”

“It may not prove as simple as that.”

Simple?
The situation was anything but simple. “What are you talking about?”

Bernard cleared his throat and fixed his gaze on Alexander. When the older man looked at him with his gray eyes narrowed to half-slits and his head tilted to the right at a slight angle, Alexander felt as though he were being studied, like an insect under a magnifying glass. Close careful scrutiny before systematic dismemberment for the express purpose of analysis. He tugged at his cravat
and shifted in his chair.

“The choice may not be yours to make,” Bernard said.

“Why not?” How could it not be his?

Bernard hesitated. “Eleanor wants to return to Amberden. She misses her home, her garden.” He lifted his hands in an expansive gesture. “She misses her life. As do I.”

“That’s understandable,” Alexander said.

“Francie wants to return with us.”

The words struck him square in the gut, stealing his breath. Francie leave Drakemoor? He’d planned on both of them residing there, with Eleanor and Bernard present to keep the gossipmongers at bay.

He tried to suck in a gulp of air but only managed a few feeble gasps. “She can’t leave.”
If she leaves, I’ll never see her again
.

“I agree,” Bernard said. “She can’t return to Amberden. She deserves better. Now that she’s seen this world, the world she was born to, she can’t go back,” he said, sadness spilling from his voice. “I won’t let her go back.” His gray gaze pierced Alexander. “But I won’t let her reputation be jeopardized by staying in this house with you.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not leaving,” Alexander bit out.

“I don’t expect you to leave.” Bernard sat back in his chair and stroked his beard. “There were several very attentive young men at the ball. I understand at least fifteen calling cards arrived the next morning.”

“Actually, seventeen.”

“Better yet.
Seventeen would-be suitors. Under the circumstances, it will be understood if Francie forgoes the usual mourning period and chooses a husband posthaste.”

Alexander’s jaw twitched. “You’d let her select a husband from that group of imbeciles?”

Bernard shrugged. “They’re all well-bred young men.”

“They’re all misfits in evening clothes,” Alexander spat out. “You’re supposed to care about Francie, look out for her as a father. How could you even consider letting one of them get close to her, let alone put a slimy hand on her? If you do that, you may as well have turned her over to Jared Crayton. She’ll suffer the same death with all of them, though some will be a little swifter than others.”

The older man cocked a brow but said nothing.

“What?” Alexander demanded
, annoyed with himself for revealing more than he’d intended. What had he just revealed anyway? He needed to clear his head and figure it out. Then he’d feel more in control. More like his old self.

“And you have no desire to wed Francie yourself?” Bernard asked.

“Of course not. Why?”

“You just gave a very passionate account of why Francie shouldn’t marry any one of seventeen suitors. It does make me wonder if they are all as flawed as you say they are.”

“They’re worse.”

“So you say. I’m wondering
, though, Alexander, if there’s not one possibility in seventeen young men, will there be any in twenty-seven or fifty-seven?” He smiled. “Somehow, I think not.”

“That’s not true.” Alexander tried to deny what he was beginning to wonder himself. “If the right man presented himself
, I’d consider his qualifications.”