Heiress in Love (5 page)

Jane halted. “How could you? You’ve only just—”
Only just arrived,
she was about to say. But she didn’t wish to allude to that handful of electric moments when she’d been trapped in his gaze like a fly in a honey pot.

“Oh, I made a point of finding out,” he said softly. “Lady Roxdale.”

As he sipped, the corner of his mouth quirked upward. An indentation beside it that scarcely merited the term “dimple” appeared. Jane found herself fascinated with the seductive contours of his lips as he savored the brandy. She shivered, blinked to clear her head. She seemed to be falling under some sort of enchantment.

Then she realized what he’d said. He’d asked about her. Why?

Societal dictates told her to leave the room immediately, rather than bandy ripostes with a complete stranger. They hadn’t been introduced and so could have nothing to say to one another. Jane was somewhat a stickler for the rules of polite society … when they allowed her to follow her own inclinations.

But this time, her curiosity proved too rampant. Feigning disinterest, she waved a hand toward him. “And you are…?”

A magician. A conjurer. A wizard, binding me with your spell.

He set down his glass and made an elaborate bow. “I suppose I must be Roxdale.” A gleam of white teeth. “But you may call me Constantine.”

CHAPTER THREE

For an instant, the lady whitened, then a delicious flush bloomed across her cheeks. Her gray eyes stared up at him, caught fire.

“You,”
she said—and a world of contempt was contained in that one syllable—“are the new baron.”

He bowed. “For my sins.”

From the flattened lips with which she greeted that remark it was clear that his sins preceded him. Excellent. Now, the widow was offended by his presence in the specific, rather than the general.

With a cynical smile, he retreated to the sideboard and picked up his glass. Cradling it in his palm, he swirled the amber liquid, warming it with the heat of his hand. Perhaps he ought not to have revealed his identity so soon. She’d be sure to put up her guard, perhaps even shun him, as any virtuous, well-bred lady ought to do.

He raised his gaze to those disconcerting gray eyes. “I’m behindhand in offering my condolences. Frederick was a—”

“
Good man
. Yes.” She said it through gritted teeth.

Did she dispute the common opinion of her husband? Though her eyes were a trifle puffy she didn’t seem too distraught that Frederick was gone, but you could never tell with English ladies. Some were so astonishingly reticent that one made the mistake of supposing them cold-blooded. When in fact …

Curiosity had always been his besetting sin. Or one of them. Constantine leaned his hip against the sideboard and crossed one leg over the other at the ankle. He couldn’t sit in her presence until invited, even in what was now his own home.

She spoke first. “How well did you know my husband?”

So, Frederick hadn’t mentioned their history. “We were childhood cronies, Frederick and I. But I haven’t laid eyes on him in, oh, seven or eight years. As a point of fact, I have no idea whether he was a good man. He was certainly a good friend to me when we were boys.”

She tilted her head, considering that. “He was a good friend to me, too. Long ago.”

On the last words, her tone turned hollow. Did she damn Frederick with faint praise or pay him the highest compliment? Not an easy thing to discern. The lady’s face gave nothing away. Her hands, however, clung and twisted together like two tortured souls.

She was a contradiction, an intrigue. The urge to peel away her layers teased at him.

Dangerous ground, my boy.
Despite the risqué talk of her husband’s death by copulation—which, if one were honest, could happen to anyone, really—Frederick’s widow was undoubtedly a respectable lady, a member of that rarefied class of female with whom the infamous Constantine Black had no right to associate. He ought not to detain her. Imagine what an uproar there’d be over her tête-à-tête with an unrepentant scoundrel like him. On the day of her husband’s funeral, no less.

But he was reluctant to leave without discovering more about her; even more reluctant to concede the territory. This library had always been the most pleasant, welcoming room in the house. And it had the added advantage of being one place where the rest of the mourners weren’t. Why shouldn’t he stay here if he chose? If she found him so objectionable,
she
could leave.

“Do you return to London tonight, my lord, or put up at an inn?” It seemed the lady was curious about him, too.

He paused. There was, he acknowledged, some awkwardness in his situation. He’d ridden to Lazenby with not much thought beyond attending Frederick’s funeral. Now, he was here on a completely different footing: lord of the manor. Though he could see by her looks that Lady Roxdale had another label for him:
usurper.

The thought lent his resolve uncustomary firmness. “I’m staying here.”

Her eyes startled wide. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Why not?”

Her lips were far too luscious to be pressed into such uncompromising lines. “The staff haven’t been prepared for your arrival.”

Constantine smiled. “Oh, I’m not so high in the instep as that. All I require is bed and board.”

“You will find that’s not how we do things at Lazenby Hall.”

When he merely quirked an eyebrow, she tilted her head in the manner of a queen handing down a royal edict. “You must understand that it’s not what
you
require that is at issue.”

Her pompous tone didn’t amuse him as it should. “If I’m the master of this house, what I require is the
only
thing at issue.” Now who sounded pompous?

With an impatient flick of her hand, she persisted. “You must consider the sensibilities of your people. They wish to prepare for your arrival, to do the thing properly, to meet their own standards.” Her jaw set. “Even if
you
have none.”

He blinked. Then he burst out laughing. The muttered addendum was inexcusably rude but she made no bones about offending him.

Well, of course. She was a Westruther by birth, wasn’t she? And Westruthers thought themselves above considerations of common courtesy.

His laughter seemed to take her off guard. A puzzled look puckered her brow, as if she couldn’t fathom the reason for his mirth. Didn’t anyone laugh at her, then? What a pity. It would do her good to be swept off her high horse now and then.

He sobered. Well, if plain speaking was to be the order of the day …

“The staff of this house will be obliged to grow accustomed to my habits. I’m erratic. If I want to go somewhere, I go. I don’t ask permission or advertise my movements weeks in advance.”

And, he wanted to ask, what the devil did she think she had to say in the matter of his household? Callous to remind her she no longer reigned here, so he forbore to mention it. If it hadn’t been for Frederick’s summons, he would have waited a month or so before intruding on her like this. But he’d be damned if he’d back down now.

She sucked in a breath, and the color flamed in her cheeks in a most becoming fashion. As if the question pained her, she asked, “You
do
mean to stay here tonight, then?”

He bowed. “If that is agreeable to you, ma’am.” The statement was a mere sop to politeness. She’d no power to forbid him his own house and she knew it.

Lady Roxdale turned her head away, as if to conceal her expression from him. The dim light from a branch of candles played over her hair, picking out a reddish tint he hadn’t noticed before. He followed the trail of a long, errant curl that had slipped free from her coiffure, mentally traced it down her throat, imagined stroking one fingertip along the shadow of her clavicle …

Lord, she was a fine-looking woman, even secretive and disapproving, pokered up like a crusty old spinster.

“Jane!”

Constantine swiveled on his heel, surprised. He’d been so absorbed in her, he hadn’t noticed the approach of a large, dark-haired man. The fellow strode into the room, then halted at the sight of Constantine.

Lady Roxdale sprang to life as if caught in wrongdoing, speaking quickly in her agitation.

“Oh! Beckenham. May I present Lord Roxdale to you? My lord, the Earl of Beckenham, who is some sort of cousin of mine.”

As Constantine returned the earl’s bow, he had the distinct impression that he was being sized up. The other man wasn’t hostile, precisely. Perhaps wary was more the word.

So, Lord Beckenham hadn’t joined the ranks of gentlemen who openly shunned him. He didn’t allow himself to feel relief. He didn’t give a damn what Beckenham thought, or anyone else.

Of course, the earl was within his rights to expect an explanation for Constantine’s presence, alone, with his kinswoman. Strangely, he didn’t ask for one.

Instead, he fixed troubled, dark eyes on Constantine. “You didn’t attend the reading of Frederick’s will.”

“No.” He hadn’t wished to make a public showing of himself, provide more fodder for gossip than there already was.

Beckenham’s hands were clasped behind his back. He snapped the back of one hand against the other palm as he paced. “Then you don’t know.”

Constantine felt a twinge of unease. “Know what?”

The evidence of some internal struggle passed briefly across Beckenham’s face. “The most unfortunate—” He broke off, clearing his throat. “But it is not my place to advise you.”

Bad news, then. Of course. He ought to have expected something of the sort.

Constantine’s jaw firmed. “Your explanation will do for the moment.” Better to hear an unvarnished version than a long-winded load of legal drivel Frederick’s lawyer would pour in his ear.

Constantine folded his arms and settled back to listen. Inwardly, he shook his head at himself and his foolish optimism. Life always managed to dunk him head-first in the privy the very minute he nourished a hope of rising above the stink.

*   *   *

Jane watched Constantine Black closely, but she failed to detect the least sign of dismay at the somber tenor of Beckenham’s words. Of course, such flippancy must be a façade. He couldn’t be as uncaring as that. No one could.

But why did Beckenham regard her so gravely? Her jointure was secure. Montford had negotiated it all in the marriage settlements. He’d taken pains to explain every detail to her. One thing you could say for the duke: he didn’t underestimate the intelligence of the female sex.

Beckenham glanced around him, then indicated a grouping of chairs by the fireplace in the center of the room. “Shall we sit down?”

Biting her lip, Jane perched on a sofa. Constantine took the armchair opposite, crossing one booted leg over the other, apparently at ease. Beckenham remained standing, gripping the chair back before him, his arms straight, parallel lines of tension.

Beckenham spoke. “First of all, let me say that I think this was badly done of Frederick. Badly done, indeed. Had he asked me I would have counseled against it.”

“Against what?” Jane demanded. “Becks, you are talking in riddles. We all know how the estate was left. There’s the entail—all of the property goes to the new baron, here—and then there’s my jointure and various other legacies.”

He shook his head. “Not at all. You see, the estate was only entailed on Frederick. Before his father died, he and Frederick joined together to break the entail. That gave Frederick the full power to dispose of the estate however he wished.”

Beckenham fixed his gaze on her. “Barring those other, smaller legacies, Frederick left all of his funds, stocks, bonds, all of his gold to you, Jane. He has made you a very wealthy woman.”

Jane felt as if a giant hand had just picked up her world, turned it upside down, and given it a vigorous shake. Her senses reeled; thoughts hurtled around her brain. Of course, she’d expected a handsome jointure. Wealth on this scale was … overwhelming.

“The most serious consequence is for the estate,” said Beckenham, turning his attention to Constantine. “In short, Frederick has left you, Lord Roxdale, all of the land commonly attached to the title but no funds to maintain the property.”

Jane barely heard a strangled oath from Constantine Black. Her stomach gave a sickening lurch.
“What?”
she said. “But he can’t do that!”

The estate cost an astronomical sum to run. There were always repairs and rebuilding to be done to the tenants’ cottages, new farming equipment and agricultural projects to fund. Not to mention the house. The servants’ wages alone …

Jane lifted a hand to her mouth, then let it drop.
Oh, Frederick! How could you think I’d want this?

But of course, he hadn’t done this for her. He’d done it to punish Constantine Black.

Constantine folded his arms and settled back in his chair. “Is that all?”

“Unfortunately, no, it’s not.” Beckenham sighed. “There is a heavy mortgage over the mill property. Mr. Greenslade can give you the finer details, but I believe the debt has been triggered by Frederick’s death. You have less than two months to repay the full amount plus interest, or you’ll forfeit the mill.”