The Dangerous Lord (25 page)

Ruthlessly, he forced down his anger. Felicity was a rational woman and must be treated as such. “You know this is the best solution to your money troubles and my need for a wife.”

She merely stared at him, her mouth drawn up into a
tight line. Engulfed by her oversize dressing gown, she looked fragile and pale.

“Such a union will be very much to your advantage,” he went on. “You'll be a viscountess with a healthy allowance at your disposal. Your brothers won't want for anything, I'll continue the upkeep on this house, and I'll make sure your servants are provided for. I'll be a most generous husband, I assure you.”

“That's probably all true. Unlike you, however, I believe a woman needs more than a comfortable home and a generous allowance to make a successful marriage.”

“If it's your bloody column you're worried about, I don't care if you continue—”

“It's
not
my column,” she said wearily.

What then? He thought a moment, then stiffened. “You enjoyed our lovemaking—I know you did.”

“Yes.” She bent her head, her lashes fluttering down to shield her eyes. “Of course I enjoyed it. I'm not a block of ice, after all.”

Only when relief surged through him did he acknowledge that she'd actually made him doubt his prowess in bed. The woman was turning him into a nitwit, and he'd had enough. “Well? What is it you want from me?”

If she'd been a chit fresh from the schoolroom or a dewy-eyed lover of poetry, he might have thought she desired vows of undying love. But she was neither—she regarded all members of his sex with cynicism. And she'd never once mentioned love when refusing his last proposal.

“Felicity,” he said impatiently when she lifted her gaze to his, confusion and uncertainty on her face. “Don't make this more complicated than it needs to be. Name your concessions and be done with it. I'll give you whatever you wish within reason.”

“Even the truth about Miss Greenaway?” she blurted out.

Damn. He should've known. Once Felicity got an idea in her head, she worried it as a kitten worries a string. “I
told you before, Miss Greenaway has nothing to do with us. You're a fool if you balk at this marriage because of her.”

She pivoted away from him then, padding over to the window on slippered feet. Her slender frame looked small and delicate next to the lofty Gothic design, all the more as she shivered from the draft. He had a sudden fierce urge to enfold her in his arms and shield her from the cold, from her fears, from everything that could harm her.

With shaky hands, she tried to close the drapes at the window more tightly against the draft. “And what if…” She paused, as if to gather her courage. “What if I'm balking because of someone else? What if I'm balking at…Cynthia Lennard?”

Coming on the heels of his tender thoughts, her question hit him like a pistol shot to the chest. God, no. Not this. Not now. He strove to conceal his reaction, but his words still came out harsh. “What do you know of Cynthia Lennard?”

She bent her head against the drapes. “She was your aunt, wasn't she? I've heard…that you and she had a love affair. That she pined away for you after you fled England for the Continent.”

She'd “heard” this? Where? How? A weight of guilt crushed his chest, making it nearly impossible for him to breathe. Bloody hell, no matter how he tried he couldn't escape Aunt Cynthia's legacy. Poor beautiful and doomed Aunt Cynthia. He didn't know which was worse—the story Felicity had heard or the truth. Neither did him credit.

He needed more information. “You've truly outdone yourself this time. Where did you get such a tale? I doubt even Lady Brumley could rival it for sheer imagination.”

“Lady Brumley was the one who told me.” Felicity came away from the window and began to pace, her words tumbling forth in a higher pitch that showed her nervousness. “She heard about it from your uncle's servants. She seems
to detest your uncle, and so she tries to find out all she can about him. I don't know why.”

“Why? Because he jilted her twenty-five years ago. He left her at the altar when he discovered her father's wealth was a sham. After that, her only choice was to marry old Brumley. She's never forgiven my uncle for that.”

She seemed shaken. “I don't blame her.”

“Nor do I, but surely you can see this tale is nothing but her attempt to strike back at him. It makes him appear a fool and a cuckold. That's her only reason for spreading it.” Yes, perhaps it could work in his favor that Lady Brumley, of all people, had hit so near the truth.

“Actually, she told me her story because…” She swallowed. “Because your uncle had told me a worse one.”

The blood drained from his face. “My uncle?”

“He accosted me in private at her ball, and…and told me that you had…forced his wife and she'd killed herself for shame.”

He sank into a nearby chair and stared off sightlessly. Damn Uncle Edgar and his lies! Rage swam up through his senses to tear at him like a hungry shark. “I suppose you believed him!” he snapped.

“No! Of course not!” She stepped toward him and laid her hand on his shoulder, a blush tinting her cheeks a rosy color. “I know from experience that you don't force women. I found the entire tale suspect even before Lady Brumley confirmed that he was lying. But as you can see, she didn't tell me her story to strike back at your uncle. She was trying to help you. She'd guessed at your interest in me and wanted to reassure me of your character.”

“I see.” Shaking off her hand, he rose from his chair. “She wanted to reassure you I was merely an adulterer.” My God, this was a nightmare. Both tales were horrible. Yet the truth was so awful he couldn't even speak of it, especially to her.

“Then that's a lie, too?” she asked in a whisper.

Yes
, he thought, but couldn't say it, for then she'd want to know the truth. Damn them all for putting these doubts in her mind. And damn her for even thinking them partly true. “Obviously, you've decided the answer to that already. You believe I bedded my aunt—the wife of my own father's brother—and then abandoned her.” An awful realization stole over him. Staring down at her, he growled, “And you let me make love to you last night even though you thought—”

“I let you make love to me, because I didn't want to believe it. I still don't.” Her voice wavered, and he suddenly glimpsed the hurt she'd striven mightily to hide. “But I don't know what to believe. Everyone speculates about your life, bombarding me daily with new tales about the dangerous Lord St. Clair. And you expect me—a woman who's known you less than a month—to discern the truth amidst the lies while you act the tragic hero and keep silent about it all?”

Her logic only made it worse. “You have a history of writing lies about me, yet you wonder why I keep silent? Oh, that's rich!”

Her eyes flashed. “That's just an excuse, and you know it. Have I mentioned you once in my column in the past week? While you slobbered over every eligible woman in sight, did I write one word about you or the women you courted?”

“Slobbered over—Damn you, Felicity, I see why you insist on knowing my past.” His anger at himself twisted into anger at her. “You're jealous of women I didn't even bed! It's a wonder I had time for fighting a war or for running Chesterley, considering all the women you think I lusted over.”

He paced the room furiously. “There's my aunt, whom I apparently seduced at the precocious age of nineteen. Then I ran off to the Continent and into the arms of a score of Spanish women, depending on which source you credit.
Oh, and let's not forget Josephine, who apparently came to my bed despite the troublesome fact that I'm English and her sworn enemy. Not to mention all the women I've courted or supposedly bedded in the past three years in England.”

Stopping short, he glared at her. “And poor Miss Greenaway—I suppose you still believe her to be my mistress.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Is that all of them, or have I missed a woman or two whose association with me you wish to question?”

“Yes, you missed
me
—the woman you want to marry. But apparently you don't want her badly enough to entrust her with the truth.”

The accusation fell between them like a gauntlet. Her pain was so palpable, her green eyes so bleak. Bloody hell, he hadn't meant to hurt her. It was just that the thought of her knowing so much and yet so little roused his temper as nothing ever had.

Frustrated, he stabbed his fingers through his disheveled hair. How he wished he could unfold the entire ugly story. It would almost be a relief.

Except that once she knew, she'd never marry him—not his self-righteous Felicity.

And besotted fool that he was, he couldn't walk away from her.

“This isn't a matter of trust,” he said in an attempt to placate her. “Surely the very fact that I wish to marry you shows I trust you. I trust you not to shame my family name, and I trust you to be a good wife to me. I even trust you with the management of my home and the bearing and rearing of my children. Isn't that enough for you?”

She squared her shoulders. “Ian, I'm not insensible to the amazing compliment you pay me with this offer of marriage. I'll even admit I'd like nothing better than to marry you. But I don't want a marriage full of secrets. Why can't you understand that?”

“And why can't you understand that none of my secrets has anything to do with
us
? You're torturing yourself needlessly with all these questions about other women in my life. You're jealous of a woman who died ten years ago, another woman whom I consider merely a friend, and a former empress whom I never even met, for God's sake, much less bedded. You're jealous of ghosts when all I want is
you
.”

She sighed. “You insist on seeing this as mere jealousy. You can be such a vain, arrogant ass sometimes.”

How much more insulting the words sounded on a woman's soft lips. “That's why you should marry me,” he said in a weak attempt at humor. “It'll give you ample opportunity to prick my vanity and subdue my arrogance.”

She raised one eyebrow. “That is indeed a temptation.” Then she added, “But not enough of one. As long as you won't be honest with me, I can't marry you, Ian. I'll always know you don't trust me, and the thought will eat at me until I grow to hate you. I care about you too much to have that happen. I'm sorry.”

He'd seen it coming, yet he couldn't believe it. How could she be so bloody stubborn? Well, she wouldn't deny him this marriage simply because of old gossip and wounded pride, not when it was the means to her salvation as well. He wouldn't let her!

“You have no choice in the matter,” he told her grimly. “You
will
marry me.”

She stiffened. “I told you, I don't care if you've compromised me—”

“But you do care about starving, don't you? Have you forgotten your financial situation? I haven't. If you don't marry me, I'll seek out all your father's creditors and tell them you have no real inheritance. You know too well what'll happen then. They'll swarm over this place like rats.”

Shock filled her face. “You wouldn't! No gentleman would do such a cruel—”

“No gentleman would leave you penniless and compromised. I'll do what I must to ensure that you marry me, and if that means throwing you to the wolves until you see your folly, so be it. Don't be foolish, Felicity. How long do you think you'll last once those money-grubbers divide this house between them? How will you live when it's gone? In a garret, supporting four growing brothers on the proceeds from a newspaper column? I think not!”

“I have prospects! Mr. Pilkington says he'll print my book—”

“Mr. Pilkington will say anything to keep you writing that column he pays you a pittance for. Do you truly believe he cares about your book? Even if he did, it wouldn't bring you enough money to support a household of this size.” He neared her and lowered his voice. “You'd turn down a secure future for your family simply because of your damned principles? No. I won't allow it. You'll marry me tomorrow, and that's the end of it.”

He stalked toward the door, but she caught him by the arm before he reached it. “You don't want to do this! What kind of marriage can we have if I hate you?”

Though that was her best thrust yet, he forced himself not to heed her plea. “You won't hate me. You're too sensible for that. Eventually you'll thank me.”

“Oh, you really
are
an arrogant ass! And a foolish one, too, if you think I'll
ever
thank you for forcing me to act against my will!”

“I'm only doing what's in your best interests,” he bit out.

“And yours.”

“Yes, and mine. But our interests mesh very well together.”

“Do they? Well then, Lord St. Clair,” she said, his title sounding like a curse on her lips, “I have a surprise for you. I want a real marriage, and we can only have that if
you're honest with me. So until you are, you'd best pray our encounter tonight produced your heir. Because that will be the last time I take you into my bed willingly. If you force this upon me, you'll have to force the other upon me as well, do you hear?”

The thought that she might actually mean it momentarily paralyzed him. Then he shook it off. She was already relenting on the subject of marriage; the other would come. “I hear you, but this petty threat won't deter me. I've reached the end of my patience. We'll be married Christmas Eve if I must drag you into the church myself.”

She visibly recoiled at his words. “I mean what I say.”

“I don't doubt it.” He caught her chin and ran his thumb deliberately over her trembling lower lip. “But I know how easily your passions are roused. Mark my words,
querida
, I'll have my heir by Martinmas next, and I won't need force to get him, either.”