The Wagered Miss Winslow (8 page)

Rosalind sat down once more, eyeing Beau warily. “I doubt it would distress me unduly to pour cold water on Niall’s happiness. Go on, Mr. Remington. You begin to interest me.”

B
eau was rushing his fences—all but leaping headfirst over them one after the other—and he knew it. If he were to state now, simply and directly, that he and Miss Winslow should marry in order to put a spoke in Niall’s wheels, he would most probably end by being tossed out of the house on that head for his pains.

Besides, although it had seemed a reasonable answer at the time, did he really wish to bracket himself to this female, a woman he had scarcely met?

She was a pretty enough little thing, he granted to himself, and she would have brought out more of his protective tendencies if he didn’t believe she could probably hold off an army on her own, if not with weapons then with her sharp tongue and even sharper intellect.

And it wasn’t as if he had ever held out any great hopes for a love match. He was too raw, too uneducated, and too set in his ways to ever believe he was the sort females of Rosalind Winslow’s birth and breeding might flock to with visions of happily-ever-after gleaming in their eyes.

But she was a Winslow, and her family and his were sworn enemies, not that he had so far been able to summon up any real animosity toward her. Did this house, this property, mean enough to him that he would even consider marrying a Winslow?

He looked around the large room, taking in the purity of its architecture, the beauty of its furnishings. This was only one room. If the rest of the house lived up to its first impression, how could he turn his back and walk away? This was his family inheritance, the place of his birth. His parents, or so said Bridget, had been immensely happy here, and their bodies, as well as those of his grandparents and great-grandparents, were interred in a mausoleum somewhere on the property.

He had been robbed, cheated of his home by an unscrupulous Winslow who had preyed on a disconsolate, grieving man. For twelve years Beau had believed himself to be someone else, and for the past twenty-three years, two months, and six days he had been living only for the moment he would walk back into this house and claim it for his family, for the Remingtons.

Could he marry Rosalind Winslow in order to secure the house and estate grounds?

He could.

He would.

But he would have to be careful how he went about it.

“Mr. Remington?” Rosalind prompted, confused by this long lull in their strange conversation. He had been so quick to speak before, so anxious to share his thoughts with her, both yesterday when they had first met and again this morning, promising a way to get some of her own back with Niall, that his silence now seemed out of character.

Not that she could say that she knew the man. Dressed in the height of fashion, and wearing his clothes quite well, he seemed to swing from urban English sophistication to broad Irish openness with an ease born of long practice. Should she believe his story of being a long-lost Remington, or was she the victim of a cruel hoax, a deception most probably conceived by her conniving brother? It would be just like him to send an impostor to Winslow Manor, armed with Niall’s deed and a Banbury tale, in order to attempt to wrest her of her deed to the house.

But why would Niall do such a thing? He had never wanted anything to do with Winslow Manor. Other than to collect his share of the revenue from the estate, a thorn that had been jabbing in Rosalind’s side for all of the past five years, and to make himself an unwelcome visitor to the place on those rare occasions when he was passing through the area on his way to someplace “interesting,” Niall had acted as if Winslow Manor, and his sister, did not exist.

“Mr. Remington, are you all right?” she asked, deciding she would not make up her mind about anything until she had heard more from the man. After all, as her father had taught her years before, it would do her no good to speculate about anything until she had all the pertinent facts in hand. “You were about to propose a plan that could possibly serve to discommode my brother.”

Beau snapped himself back to attention, still cudgeling his brain for the proper way to begin. He leaned forward on the settee, his gaze intent on Rosalind’s face, prepared to gauge her reaction (or readying himself for a defensive reaction if she were to decide to fling the teacup at his head).

“Your brother doesn’t like me, Miss Winslow,” he said at last, easing his way into the subject. “He doesn’t like that I bested him at cards, he doesn’t like that I informed him afterwards that he isn’t a nice man, and he doesn’t like that I have depleted his funds by a considerable amount. Mostly, he just doesn’t like losing.”

Rosalind lowered her lashes, deliberately avoiding Beau’s startling blue eyes, those eyes that seemed so honest, so open, so trustworthy. “Yes, I believe we can safely assume that you are correct on that head. Niall has always been an abysmally wretched loser. I bested him once at chess and he slipped into my chamber later and smashed every last piece of my collection of crystal butterflies, then blamed it on one of the maids. I would have hated him less if he had owned up to what he had done, for I would never have reported his destruction to our parents. In the end, after interviewing the accused maid, Father took the tutor’s birch rod to Niall. This is only a single instance, you understand, in a long litany of instances from our shared childhood. If my brother does not like you, he detests me. Go on, Mr. Remington.”

Beau was temporarily distracted, Rosalind’s words causing him to dislike Niall more than he had previously, even as his protective feelings for the man’s sister doubled. Once more he found himself to be attracted to Miss Winslow, especially now, as the mid-morning sun slanted through the long windows, casting a glow over her blonde hair and highlighting her fine cheekbones and the small, enticing cleft in her chin.

“Exactly, Miss Winslow!” Beau exclaimed as he began to get into the thrill of the conversation, the part where he would turn their circumstances to his advantage. He had lived by his wits for so many years that it came easily to him—almost too easily. “And now, knowing that he has succeeded in pitting one hated person against another, creating a furor of controversy and, as you must know, a confoundedly awkward situation, your brother is sitting back, contemplating the joy he will feel as we tear each other apart over possession of Remington Manor.”

“Winslow Manor,” Rosalind interrupted, although her voice was soft, almost pensive. “But you’re correct. Niall must be all but overcome with glee at our dilemma. And, no matter which one of us might prove victorious in our struggle, Niall still wins, for he would have sullied any victory with the knowledge that both of us, unlike him, are innocent victims.”

She collapsed against the back of the chair. “Niall was born out of his time, Mr. Remington. He would have been right at home in Rome during Nero’s reign.”

“Nero fell, Miss Winslow,” Beau reminded her, for he was not totally uneducated. “Now, having discussed your brother’s happiness, allow us to consider his unhappiness. If we do not react as he has supposed, if we do not fight each other for possession of Rem—of this estate, it would sadden Niall Winslow to the bottom of his black soul, would it not? Why, if we were to work out an amicable solution between us, and this information were forwarded to your brother—who, you must remember, is not a totally happy man, for I have served to measurably lighten his pockets—he might just go into a major decline.”

Rosalind pressed her hands to her cheeks, her mind in a whirl. “But how are we to do this? Winslow Manor is my home, Mr. Remington. Niall has lost the deed to the land to you. I shall not even begin to discuss your claim of yesterday that my father acted dishonorably when he won the estate from your father, for it would not help a jot right now, would it? There is no answer, no possible way to reach a mutually satisfying settlement of our conflict.”

Now was the time. He could feel it, just the way he had always been able to feel when the time was right to draw another card, or to cut his losses and wait for another day. His inborn and well-refined sense of timing had not deserted him in war and it had not deserted him as he made his way across the Continent during the peace that followed. It would not, he was sure, fail him now.

“Oh, never say that, my dear Miss Winslow,” he drawled smoothly, allowing the well-practiced English of his adult years to slip a notch into the lilting brogue of his Irish youth. “As I have always believed in my heart of hearts—the good Lord will provide.”

Rosalind sneaked a look toward the corner of the room, to where Mollie, her eyelashes fluttering in ecstasy, reacted to Beau’s optimistic words. Her spine stiffened. It was one thing to invoke a lilting brogue and the good Lord’s name and impress a silly girl like Mollie, but it was quite another thing to think he could melt her resolve, her intellect, her sense of self-preservation with such outlandish, clearly visible tactics.

“I would appreciate leaving our heavenly Father’s possible intervention out of our discussion, Mr. Remington. After all, if the good Lord had wished He could have long since struck Niall down with a lightning bolt and saved us all from this uncomfortable encounter. As He did not choose to do so, I prefer not to ask His help now but would rather rely on my own wits for assistance.”

Beau heard and dismissed Rosalind’s warning tone, the hint of anger that had invaded her speech. He was near to his target now, honing in for the kill. “It’s just as you say, Miss Winslow,” he said, winking. The good Lord helps those who help themselves. All right, I’ll state my case simply, as I can see you are not a woman who wishes things wrapped up in clean linen. Marry me, Miss Winslow, and we can both have what we want.”

Rosalind had been at a loss to think of a way in which she and Beau could both win and her brother could end up the loser, but she certainly had not expected the solution offered to her now. She ignored Mollie’s gasp of—what? Surprise? Dismay? Disappointment? Certainly not delight!—and stared straight into Beau’s eyes, refusing to blink, forbidding herself to openly react.

Was the man out of his mind? Didn’t he see her? Could he have missed the fact that she was five and twenty—nearer to six and twenty? Didn’t he realize that she was a solidly-on-the-shelf spinster, even if she couldn’t abide the starched white caps that lay upstairs in her dresser? Was he so blind that he could not see that she was far from young, far from pretty, and eons away from the sort of pliant, conformable young miss so preferred by rich, handsome gentlemen such as himself?

Was he toying with her, leading her heart on a merry chase in order to wheedle her out of her deed, attempting to get round her with his Irish charm, his laughing blue eyes, his immense shoulders, his winning smile?

“Marry you?” she said at last, inwardly cringing at the slight tremor she heard in her voice. “You must be joking, sir. I have no plans to marry.
Ever
.”

Beau could sense victory, even smell it. It smelled like violets, and the enticing scent came from Rosalind Winslow’s lovely blonde hair. Standing, he looked down at her, wondering if the shine in her large green eyes was due to tears, or excitement.

He was no fool, after all. He knew he wasn’t an unappealing specimen. And then there was his fortune to consider, a not insignificant amount of money he had amassed during his travels. All in all, he might be considered quite a good matrimonial catch, if one were to overlook his rather checkered past and the fact that his lovely fortune had been won at the gaming tables rather than in the usual way—which is to say he did not inherit it from a conveniently deceased relative.

“I understand, Miss Winslow—Rosalind. I likewise have not considered marriage as part of my life’s desires, at least not until this moment. And I cannot lie to you, drop to one knee and confess undying affection for you, a woman I have just met and, lest we forget, the sister of my enemy. But it is the most logical solution to our problem. Ours would be a marriage of convenience, a partnership born out of mutual love for this estate and a motive for rendering Niall Winslow toothless forevermore, as I am convinced that he has not made you comfortable with this odd division of ownership which you have shared for—what? Five years?”

Rosalind bit her bottom lip, finding it difficult to deal with this sudden change from Irish brogue to precise, convincing English. “A marriage of convenience?”

Beau hid a smile, a triumphant smile that would have lost him the work of a half hour and set back their negotiations for weeks. “Strictly platonic, Miss Winslow, as I believe the Greeks termed such arrangements. We don’t know each other, do we? I am not totally without scruples, even if I have been known to make a fortune or two at the gaming tables. You are a young woman of refinement and gentle tastes, I am sure, and I would rather give up my claim to this land than to frighten you with demands I would be a cad to make at this point in our acquaintance.”