Authors: Kate Moore
To Tempt a Saint (7 page)
Cleo Spencer’s arms were crossed in front of her, held tightly to her body.
One fist emerged and swiped at her eyes.
Hell!
He stepped forward and took hold of her shoulders, turning her to face him. “Let’s try again, shall we? Miss Spencer, would you like to gain access to your fortune by marrying me?”
He stepped forward and took hold of her shoulders, turning her to face him. “Let’s try again, shall we? Miss Spencer, would you like to gain access to your fortune by marrying me?”
“What do you intend to do with my twenty thousand pounds, Sir Alexander Jones?”
Trust her to keep her mind on the money. “Purchase the East London Gas Company and restore its operations.”
Eyes green and gold as summer, luminous with tears, stared at him, then she smiled and let out a brief hiccup of a laugh. “Your talent for flattery astonishes. I am a gasworks. It is a fresh comparison, not overused by poets to be sure.” She stepped back out of his hold and dried her eyes with her sleeve. “What will you do with your gasworks?”
“Light St. Giles.”
“No wonder you are looking for heiresses. No bank would fund such a venture.”
“Just so.”
“Paying your gaming debts would be more profitable. Why St. Giles? Why not some fashionable quarter of London where you could make a profit and a name for yourself?”
He didn’t like that reference to making a name for himself. It meant she understood a bit too much of the scene she’d overheard. “Scores of investors are willing to light the palaces of the rich and titled. No one is quite so willing to bring light where it’s most needed.”
She studied him frankly, her head tilted to one side. “You don’t look like a saint to me.”
“Believe me, Miss Spencer, I am no saint.”
“What sort of marriage are you proposing?”
It was his turn to pause. He had intended to bed Miss Finsbury in the approved manner, but he was honest enough with himself to acknowledge that his conjugal visits were likely to have been few and far between. Maybe in the end that reluctance had been impossible to overcome.
Cleo Spencer presented a different sort of problem. Taking hold of her was like taking hold of one of those electrifying machines his friend Tom Ruxley set up to entertain dinner guests. But she was March’s niece and as blue-blooded as they came. Bedding her was not part of his plan.
“The usual sort.” He told himself the lie was justified. The partners of the Metropolitan Works Group wouldn’t wait forever, and Xander wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip away as the last had. His plan would do her no harm after all. She would have as much money as she needed now, and when their marriage ended, he would repay her.
She started her pacing again. “I suppose you want an heir, someone to carry on your name and fortune.”
If she had a talent, it was for plain speaking. The last thing Xander wanted was an heir. “The Jones name is in no danger of fading.”
“We could pretend to be married,” she suggested, turning back his way, with a hopeful expression.
He smiled. Maybe he didn’t have to worry about his plan after all. Women of her class generally found his person attractive enough, and his background—a definite inducement to sin. But Cleo Spencer’s lack of enthusiasm for warming his bed meant his conscience could rest easy about their bargain. “Defrauding a bank, Miss Spencer, has penalties you probably don’t want to contemplate.”
“Nevertheless, marriage is notoriously permanent, a life sentence.”
Not if you expected the marriage to be contested in court. He had already thoroughly investigated a way out. “Six years is a long time to wait for your money.”
Her face assumed a bleaker aspect, and she looked away. “Do you intend to have a mistress?”
He could not fault her for vanity. Apparently she had none. “You underestimate the charms of your person.”
“It’s the charm of my purse that brought you here today. That you can’t deny.”
“A purse you can open only when you marry. Do we have a bargain?”
She faced him squarely then, a militant tilt to her chin. “I want a generous allowance and equal access to
our
money. If you go to the bank, I go with you. Every time. And I want an exact account of every penny you spend. I shall insist on receipts.”
our
money. If you go to the bank, I go with you. Every time. And I want an exact account of every penny you spend. I shall insist on receipts.”
He regarded her coolly. Did she imagine that a man kept receipts for his mistress’s services? “If you wish, but you will have to bring
your
receipts to our meeting as well.”
your
receipts to our meeting as well.”
Her haughty look came and went in a blink. “I must see it in the settlement papers before I wed.”
“My solicitor will prepare the papers.” He waited, undergoing another close scrutiny before she gave a barely perceptible nod.
“Where will we live? Or will we even live together?”
“I need to be in town to pursue my hopes.”
“Town will suit me if I may have my younger brother with me. You know that I have a younger brother?”
He nodded. He knew little of the brother, the title-holder, a boy three years younger than Kit. “There’s room.”
“I wish to outfit him for school and provide tutors. Once he’s settled, I can live anywhere.”
“Then nothing remains except to set a date. Will Sunday be convenient?”
“This Sunday?”
“I have a special license in my pocket, and I am impatient to take a wife.”
“Do I have to point out how abominably sure of yourself you are?”
“It may be that I am more sure of your desperation.”
“Desperation!” The word came out on an indignant huff of breath.
“Isn’t that what drove you to propose to me?”
She did not pretend to misunderstand him. Her face assumed an expression he was already coming to know. She was about to be frank with him.
“Maybe I simply saw Miss Finsbury’s loss as my gain. And if you told me one thing about yourself, I’d have a reason for our bargain other than the obvious economic one.”
He could not hold back a grin. “I am ten and twenty, weigh thirteen stone, and dislike peppermints.”
“No one dislikes peppermints.”
“Knowing me will enlarge your experience of men.”
“Where will we be married?”
“The curate of Woford Abbey has agreed to marry us.”
She looked at her faded dress, and he experienced a dangerous moment of sympathy for her. She had probably dreamed of Hanover Square.
“You do think me quite destitute.”
He kept his face expressionless. “Do you require immediate funds?”
Her chin went up. “No.”
She
was
stubborn. He withdrew his pocketbook and offered her two substantial notes.
was
stubborn. He withdrew his pocketbook and offered her two substantial notes.
“Really, I don’t need your money.”
His patience snapped. It was not his intention to turn his proposition into an actual courtship. That would not fit his plan. “We both need money. That’s the point, isn’t it? We’ll get on better if we acknowledge that.”
“Fair enough. It’s all about the money.” She took the notes. “You will have to meet with my trustees to gain access to my funds.”
“And present our marriage lines. I know.” He offered his hand to seal their bargain.
She looked at it, and after a pause, extended her own. There was a brief contact, her hand in his, small and rough and determined. He thought he detected a tremor in hers before she snatched it back. He opened and closed his fist, undoing the sensation of that hand in his.
“Well, I promise to hold my tongue occasionally even if you are about to make a terrible cake of yourself.”
He grinned. He couldn’t help it. “I promise not to strangle you.”
Chapter Four
C
LEO watched Charlie slice another portion of Mrs. Lawful’s best ham. He had been eating steadily for a quarter of an hour from the feast provided by her betrothed, and she judged it was safe to tell him her news. “I’m going to marry.”
LEO watched Charlie slice another portion of Mrs. Lawful’s best ham. He had been eating steadily for a quarter of an hour from the feast provided by her betrothed, and she judged it was safe to tell him her news. “I’m going to marry.”
“I should hope so.” He pushed a piece of ham across his plate.
“On Sunday.”
He looked up, the captured ham hanging from his fork. “What?”
“On Sunday I’m going to marry Sir Alexander Jones.” She pulled her shawl tight to cover a quick shiver. To speak her wedding plan aloud made it real, not some mad invention concocted in the heat of the afternoon’s work. Charlie lowered his fork to stare at her.
“Cleo, what are you talking about? Did something happen to you?”
“It did. I met Sir Alexander last week at the bank. We . . . talked and realized that we could help each other by marrying.”
“You mean he’s a bloody fortune hunter, don’t you?” Charlie was as versed in the details of Cleo’s inheritance as she was.
“He’s going to buy a gasworks and light St. Giles.”
“A gasworks?” He was momentarily caught by the idea. Cleo could see him start to imagine it and stop himself. “With your money.”
“Not all of it. There will be plenty for us. No more waiting and starving. We will buy cartloads of potatoes and have them three times a day. You will wear fine coats and go to school.” She had rather concentrated on that part of the bargain since Jones left. She had wanted to ask Jones about his tailor, but thought the inquiry might be premature. Still, within a fortnight, she would be able to take Charlie to Bond Street to outfit him properly and engage a tutor to see that he passed his entrance examinations. And March would not be able to take him away from her.
Charlie pushed away his plate with a look of regret as if the food had suddenly become inedible because it was part of her bargain with Jones. “Cleo, you aren’t making any sense. You can’t marry just anyone to get your money.”
“Jones is not just anyone. He’s someone quite specific. He has dark hair and gray eyes and a direct manner. He’s forceful. I think he can stand up to March.” She did not mention that Jones was the natural son of
Lord Candover, as cold and powerful a lord as any in London. She could not guess what Jones’s relations with his father were, but he did not like his position in society. Of that she was sure. He seemed a gentleman in every way except the one that counted. To marry him would mean turning her back on the world Charlie would enter some day. But really, that world had turned its back on her over her father’s debts, his scandalous death, and her uncle’s rumors about her own mad flight from his care.
She did not mention Sir Alexander’s person, the slate eyes with their hidden spark that she couldn’t quite look away from, the deep voice that made her skin taut, the hands that made her think of dancing naked.
Charlie’s mouth had opened to protest, but he closed it and concentrated on his plate. He so seldom had enough to satisfy his appetite, and he had so thoroughly enjoyed eating his fill for once. She hated to see him regret it.
After a moment he looked up again, his gaze serious. “Cleopatra.” He used her full name. “I’m your only male relative, the only one who cares about you at any rate. I should meet this man, question him about his character and intentions.”
“His intention is to restore the East London Gas Company to operation and light St. Giles while I spend my fortune on you, or us, dearest. Sounds like a good plan to me.”
“Sounds maggot-brained to me. Have you told Evershot?” He didn’t ask her about March.
“He doesn’t need to know until after the wedding.”
Charlie looked at her. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.” She only wished that Sir Alexander had not smiled in just that way as they parted. His face had a charm then that quite took her breath away.
“March will be madder than Hades.”
Cleo smiled. She allowed herself that, a wide satisfied smile. “Won’t he though.”
O
NE Sunday later Cleo observed that cold stone under one’s slippered feet, like that of the vestibule of a small church, was perfectly conducive to facing hard truths. Her wedding, the one she was about to have, would not be the one she dreamed of as a girl.
NE Sunday later Cleo observed that cold stone under one’s slippered feet, like that of the vestibule of a small church, was perfectly conducive to facing hard truths. Her wedding, the one she was about to have, would not be the one she dreamed of as a girl.
She had once thought to make a grand catch, a duke or an earl’s son, and to marry with a great deal of show and notices in the morning papers. She had squandered dozens of daydreams trying to choose a fitting nuptial celebration, imagining first a breakfast party of champagne and strawberries and next an evening ball with fireworks. The groom in these spun-sugar daydreams had been a charming young man with a fondness for dogs and horses and a grand house in the country. And he danced well.
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