Her Wicked Ways (42 page)

What kind of marriage could they possibly hope to have anyway? He wanted her for her money and, presumably, her body. She wanted him for the same physical pleasures, but at what cost? She didn’t expect love, an emotion her family skirted at the best of times and outright neglected at the worst. But she’d never expected, never wanted, to enter into marriage under these circumstances—feeling as if she had no choice. And now her mother insisted she not only had a choice, but that she was absolutely making the wrong one.

“Yes, Mother, you’re right. As usual.”

FOX turned on his heel and stalked quietly from the drawing room door. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but the duchess’s shrill tone carried into the hallway and he hadn’t wanted to interrupt. Once he heard the topic of their conversation, he’d been rooted to the floor. However, upon hearing Miranda’s statement, he couldn’t get away fast enough.

Served him right for trying to personally attend to their comfort instead of sending one of his two footmen. He’d done so because Saxton had given him a silent communication to give him a moment with the duke. Seeing to Miranda and her mother had seemed a logical—and inviting—opportunity. How wrong he’d been.

He reentered the dining room and tried to forget what he’d just heard, but he feared it would be impossible. Miranda’s words were engraved in his brain.

Saxton stood near the fireplace with his brandy. The duke, still seated at the table, frowned into his glass. Fox waited for the inevitable insult about the quality of the beverage.

The duke didn’t disappoint. “You say this is French brandy? A damaged cask, perhaps?” He held it up and studied the amber liquid. “Reminds me of the bad batch Rothbury served last spring. Bloody hell, Foxcroft, but your cellar needs attention.”

His demeaning observation eroded the last of Fox’s tolerance. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Your Grace, but I am rather low on funds.”

Miranda’s father tilted his silvery-blond head and pierced Fox with a glacial stare that should’ve sent him running. “And why is that?”

Rage exploded in Fox’s chest. He’d been patient. He’d been kind—well, he’d tried to be kind. “I can assure you I manage Bassett Manor and Stipple’s End quite well.”

The duke snorted and set his glass on the table, apparently abandoning all pretense of drinking the noxious liquor. “It doesn’t look like it to me. A ramshackle house. Insufficient servants. A dilapidated stable. And from what I can tell this orphanage of yours is in even worse shape, particularly if you’re moving the urchins here. If this is running things ‘quite well,’ I’d despair to think if things were going poorly.”

“Things
are
going poorly.” Which didn’t put him at fault. “I manage the best I can with what I have. And as you can tell, I don’t have much.”

The duke stood. “I understand your…dedication to the orphanage, but perhaps it’s time to let it go. There’s no shame in protecting your own interests and those of your tenants.”

Fox didn’t know their definition of shame, but it clearly didn’t match his. “There is plenty of shame in turning out forty orphans and six staff members. Those people have nowhere else to go, and I won’t consign the children to a workhouse.”

Holborn shrugged. “There are other orphanages, and absent those, a workhouse is precisely where those brats should be.”

Fox barely kept his rage in check. Brats? These people didn’t understand. They’d never understand. How could he marry into a family of such self-absorbed, arrogant, egotists? Fox stalked to the other end of the table, as far away from the duke as he could get. “Is there really anything for us to discuss?”

Holborn tugged at his waistcoat and straightened his spine, accentuating his still-impressive frame. “No, you’re quite right. You’ll not do at all for Miranda.” His lip curled. “For all I know you squandered your fortune at the gaming tables.”

Fox slammed his fist on the table. “I’ve never gambled a penny. Not once. Not ever. My life carries enough risk without the added stupidity of games of chance.” They couldn’t know about his father’s gambling habit, that it was the very reason Fox looked as if he were a complete failure.

“Wait.” Saxton set his glass on the mantel and finally entered the conversation. He’d been noticeably quiet all night. Like the others, he’d seemed terribly uncomfortable, but now Fox wondered at the reasoning behind it. Was it Fox’s house and offerings, or was it something else?

“Holborn, why don’t you give him a chance to explain?”

He called his father by his title
?

The duke glared at his son and Fox began to perhaps see the root of Saxton’s discomfort. “What could he possibly explain? That if he could just marry my daughter, he’d turn all of this around? I can see the man’s got no head for estate management.”

Saxton’s eyes frosted nearly as cool as his father’s. It was a bit impressive, actually. “You don’t know that. Look at his books.”

Fox appreciated Saxton’s interference, but thought it was likely pointless. If Fox had been a betting man, he’d wager Bassett Manor
and
Stipple’s End that the duke would look at his books on a cold day in hell.

Holborn snorted. “As if I’d bother. This was a fool’s errand. Don’t know why I let you talk me into it.” He spared Fox a meager glance. “Foxcroft.” Then he turned and strode from the dining room.

Saxton came toward him. He kept his voice low. “Couldn’t you have tried a bit harder? He’s going to forbid Miranda from marrying you, and I’d just as soon not explain why she must.”

Fox ran a hand through his hair. He
had
tried. Could he help it if her parents were completely insufferable? “Get him to Stipple’s End tomorrow. Maybe I can change his mind.”

Saxton shook his head. “I don’t see how.” Then he too quit the room.

Fox cut his fist through the air as if he were punching that supercilious ass, Holborn, in the face. God, but he wished he didn’t want Miranda so badly. He’d tell the lot of them to go rot.

Including Miranda?

He plucked his brandy glass from the table and gulped down the sharp brew. The conversation he’d overheard in the drawing room filled his ears. Chances were, he wouldn’t have to turn her away. She’d leave of her own accord.

Chapter Twenty-one

FOX’S head hurt. Too much lousy French brandy. He only prayed today went better than last night. Miranda and her parents were due at Stipple’s End any moment.

He peered up the ladder to watch Rob descend from the roof. “How does it look?” They’d just barely covered the gaping hole with the canvas following the collapse, but water had begun seeping into the hall again.

His steward jumped to the ground. “Not too bad, just lost one corner and I re-nailed it. Your future in-laws here yet?”

Tension throbbed along Fox’s shoulder blades. “No, but any moment. And they likely won’t be my in-laws.”

Rob looked Fox up and down. “Such optimism. Shouldn’t you be inside getting ready?”

Yes, he should. He owed it to Saxton—and Miranda if she was still remotely interested in having him. But therein lay the question. She’d never actually said yes to any of his proposals, had just gone along with her brother’s directive. Would changing his clothes make any difference?

“Last night I wore my best clothes, served my best food and wine, and donned my best behavior—and I came up short.”

“Hell, you didn’t give them that offensive brandy did you?”

Fox arched a brow at him. “They asked for port.”

Rob grinned. “No wonder they don’t like you.”

Fox snorted. And then, though he tried to fight it, smiled. “You should have seen her mother. Well, I suppose you will, shortly.”

A look of terror entered his friend’s eyes. “Oh no, must I?”

Fox sighed. “Never mind. One can only hope they won’t visit often once we’re married.” A tremor of unease skittered along his spine.
If
they married.

“Still can’t quite believe you pulled it all off. Norris facing charges of corruption, Stratham as well, betrothed to Lady Miranda…” Rob shook his head.

But it wasn’t as tidy as that. “Betrothed” was a bit of a stretch at this point. “I’d better go in.” Fox strode toward the house.

Rob called after him, “Might smile about it now and again!”

He opened the door and stopped short. Miranda stood just inside. She looked refreshingly beautiful in a pale blue dress with tiny flowers and a pearl necklace. She’d started wearing jewelry after she’d returned from the house party. Today it accentuated the divide between them.

“There you are,” she said. Her gaze flicked over his clothes.

He stiffened. “We had to adjust the covering over the roof.”

She walked to him. “Yes, I noticed the wet floor.”

They stood there at the threshold of the back door. Her inside, him outside. A perfect visual representation of their differences. She, of the parties and balls and London Society, and he, of the outdoors and country—a match doomed in hell.

Nevertheless he ached for her. She stood so close, he could smell her citrus-spice scent, see the remarkable details of her beautiful skin. Faint shadows of purple colored the flesh beneath her eyes. Had she slept as little as he? If he took one step, he’d feel her breath, her heat...

She tore her gaze from his and turned. “My parents are here. Last night didn’t go very well.”

A colossal understatement. “No.”

She turned back to face him, her forehead creased. “Fox, why didn’t you tell me about Bassett Manor? I might’ve prepared them—”

“How? It’s not as if I could have refurbished the place.”

“You can if we marry.” She eyed him uncertainly. “Turnbridge earns upwards of five thousand a year.”

“Really?” Fox had no idea she had an estate worth so much money. That could mean the difference for him. For all of them.

Her nostrils flared. “All you care about is my money. That’s the only reason you compromised me, isn’t it?”

Unable to help himself, he did move closer then. “No.” He leaned in and whispered against her ear, felt her shiver beneath his lips. “And you know it isn’t.” He pushed past her and made his way to the hall where her parents waited with Mrs. Gates.

“Good morning, Your Grace, Your Grace.” He bowed to them.

“I begin to see why Bassett Manor looks as it does.” Holborn stood near the leak and appeared to be studying the damage. “I’ll give you the name of an architect in Town. You don’t want a country bumpkin bumbling through this.”

Fox swallowed an acerbic retort. “I’ve already hired Bleeker and Dench. Representatives are due from London in two days’ time.”

“Indeed?” The duke’s eyebrows raised. “An excellent firm. Used them myself when we added a conservatory to Holborn House.”

“Would you care to see the rest of the building?” Fox asked.

“I suppose. We came all this bloody way.”

Fox bit his tongue lest he tell the duke to bugger off.

Mrs. Gates went back to her duties, and Miranda led them on a tour of the downstairs. The duke commented on different aspects of the building and the duchess frowned without relief. In the library, Miranda showed her parents the girls’ needlework. “Some of them are quite accomplished.”

“More accomplished than you, I see.” Miranda’s mother looked at a particularly elaborate piece Delia had stitched. “What else do these orphans do? Watercolors? Play the pianoforte?”

Miranda stood near the fireplace, her hands clasped demurely before her. “I should like them to do both, but there hasn’t been money for paint and we don’t have a pianoforte.”

We
. Love warmed Fox’s chest, though he tried to suppress it. Why did he have to love her?

Her mother inspected the room, her piercing gaze scrutinizing every detail. “So you’re a glorified governess here?”

Fox hoped Her Grace tripped. Why would Miranda want to go back and live in London with these people? They had nothing pleasant to say about anything. Their disappointment and irritation couldn’t be more obvious.

He studied Miranda closely, looking to see her reaction to her parents, but couldn’t detect anything beyond her serene expression. What happened to the passionate girl he fell in love with?