The Wagered Miss Winslow (9 page)

Rosalind’s chin began to wobble as tears threatened to engulf her. She had been alone since her father’s death, alone and sometimes lonely. Niall had been less than no help to her, draining money from the estate and steadfastly refusing to deed it over to her even though they both knew that her father had wished that he do just that.

It wasn’t easy, running an estate, and although she loved it, there were times when she wished sne could run away to London for a while, mix with Society during the Season, renew old friendships that had drifted away as one by one her girlhood friends had married, borne children, and become involved in their own lives.

Not that she spent her days repining for what she did not have. There was plenty for her to do at Winslow Manor besides the duties inherent in the daily running of the place. She had her reading, of course, and her painting, and, most recently, her research into the antiquities of Winchelsea. How she loved digging in the old ruins, discovering snippets of the everyday lives of the earlier inhabitants of the area, cataloging her findings, creating interesting histories for all she’d found. She even harbored hopes of one day publishing her writings.

She couldn’t leave Winslow Manor. She just couldn’t. And she doubted that Beaumont Remington would be any more willing than she to turn his back and walk away from the home into which he had been born, only to have that same home gambled away without his consent or knowledge while he was still in his infancy.

Oh, no. Not Beaumont Remington. Not this tall, strong, almost overpowering man who stood above her now, blocking out the sun, his presence taking possession of her house even before he had been on the premises above an hour. He was as determined, and as stubborn as she—possibly more so. He certainly was proving to be more inventive.

Why, if she were to turn him down now, refuse his offer, he would probably pitch a soldier’s field tent in the east garden, just outside her window—as would be his right—and then greet her each morning with a cheerful wave and some ridiculous Irish greeting, wearing away at her until she ran, screaming, from the estate.

Another thought struck her, stiffening her chin and her resolve. He had offered a strictly platonic relationship, a marriage of convenience. She couldn’t bring herself to believe his assertion that he had never planned to marry. Didn’t he wish for an heir? Had he gone to the trouble to wrest Winslow Manor from Niall only to let the Remington line die?

Perhaps, contrary to what he’d told her, he had indeed planned to marry and have children—straight up until the moment he had felt he must barter away his proposed dynasty in order to secure the house as well as the estate. Or—even worse—was the thought of theirs ever being a marriage in deed as well as in name so repugnant to him that he had dismissed it out of hand? She might not be beautiful, she might not have ever been beautiful, but she was no Medusa, for pity’s sake! How dare he propose a platonic marriage?

Unable to read Rosalind’s mind and, being a male of the species, unable to understand such disconnected yet strangely logical deductions even if he had been privy to them, Beau waited as long as he could without speaking, then said helpfully, fatally, “Perhaps you would wish for me to put my promises in writing, Rosalind?”

She shot him a look that should have warned him that his previous good luck had suddenly soured but, in his anxiety to finish with this particular discussion before he succumbed to the strange desire to run his fingers through her hair, he ignored it.

“There is no need for you to go to such lengths to prove that I am unattractive to you,” she said, shocking him speechless as he at last was brought home to the fact that he had blundered. “I believe you, Mr. Remington.”

Across the room, Mollie discovered herself to be so overjoyed to hear her own earlier thoughts confirmed that she giggled aloud, considering her own chances to capture Beau’s heart to be still alive—and kicking. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her mistress, for she did—Miss Winslow was the best of ladies— but if there was ever before such a prickly miss, Mollie certainly hadn’t yet met her. Of course Mr. Remington couldn’t be attracted to such a lady.

Now she, Mollie, was a much more approachable female. Very approachable. And she was Irish too, into the bargain, like him, not that she had ever so much as sniffed the air over the old sod. Let him marry Miss Winslow. It made no nevermind to Mollie O’Rourke—just as long as he understood that he wouldn’t have far to go to warm himself after climbing out of his wife’s frigid bed. The mistress wouldn’t put up a fuss—it would save her from lying on her skinny back and thinking of England, or at least that’s what Mollie’s mama had always told her when Miss Winslow’s randy father had been in residence all those years ago.

“Mollie,” Beau snapped, annoyed, even though he did not know all that was going through the maid’s mind, which could only be considered a good thing. He had forgotten she was still in the room, listening to all that was said, and most probably fully prepared to repeat it all later in the servants’ hall. It wasn’t like him to be so sloppy. Perhaps his heart was more involved than he believed it to be. “I think we can dispense with your services for the moment. Miss Winslow will ring if she needs you.”

The maid’s smile wavered, but then she rallied. He didn’t fool her, not for a moment. He had to play the ardent suitor, or else there would be trouble. Later, when he had done with convincing Miss Winslow to marry him, then there would be no more need for such playacting. And Miss Winslow wouldn’t mind either, Mollie was sure. All she loved was this house, this land, and scrabbling about in the dirt. Why, she wouldn’t know what to do with a fine, strapping man like Beaumont Remington!

“Yes, sir,’ Mollie said, gifting him with a confidential wink as she curtsied and headed for the doorway. “I’ll just go help Riggs with the luncheon.”

Beau waited for her to leave, then turned back to Rosalind, who had risen and gone to one of the windows, to stand looking out over the patio and gardens. He approached her carefully, not so slow-minded that he did not know that he had erred on the side of politeness to the point that he had insulted the woman.

“Mollie is a healthy girl. A very healthy lass indeed,” he said, bending so that his mouth was close to Rosalind’s ear. “You were very astute to hire Riggs. I should imagine you would otherwise find yourself spending all your time chasing Mollie and any male on the premises out of corners. But she doesn’t hold a candle to you, m’dear.”

Rosalind fought to keep her attention, and her eyes, locked to the scene outside the window, but it was difficult, especially with Beau standing so closely behind her. She felt light-headed, as she had done yesterday, and uncomfortably aware of his presence.

“There is no need for flattery, Mr. Remington,” she said, then sighed. “I will marry you. It is not, after all, an original solution. Heaven knows marriages of convenience such as you suggest are an ages-old way of settling provisions concerning land and fortune.”

Beau laid a hand on her shoulder, his fingers gently kneading the bare flesh just at the base of her throat. “You might wish to reconsider, Rosalind, when I tell you that you are wrong—I don’t find you the least unattractive. I can promise a platonic marriage, but I would not be honest if I told you I could promise it forever. Rosalind, my prickly little colleen, do you understand what I am saying?”

Rosalind closed her eyes as he turned her to face him; she swallowed hard as he used one long finger to lift her chin. “Irish blarney again,” she accused weakly, willing herself to believe what she said. “You’re very good at getting what you want, Mr. Remington. Very articulate, very smooth, and very, very convincing. I’m surprised Niall wasn’t paupered by your mutual encounter.”

Her eyes fluttered open and Beau felt his heart skip a beat at the confusion and hurt he saw in their green depths. Did she really have such a low opinion of her charms? He had been witness to the lures women threw out as they angled for compliments, but he knew Rosalind Winslow was not indulging in a feminine fishing expedition. She truly believed herself to be unattractive.

“I didn’t half-try with your brother, Rosalind,” he said now, slipping his left arm out of the sling and cupping her slim shoulders with his two large hands. “And a good thing it is too, I’m thinking, for it’s going to take all my powers to convince you that we might be able to turn our mutual needs and Niall’s mischief into a lifetime of happiness.”

Rosalind had never been wooed, not really, but she had a sneaking suspicion she was being wooed now. It wasn’t a totally unpleasant sensation. Actually, it was quite invigorating. Why, if she were less intelligent, more willing to build castles in the air, she might even think Beaumont Remington was about to kiss her!

“Mr. Remington,” she began, nervously licking her bottom lip, “Beau—”

“
Bobby
! Bobby Reilly! And where is it you’re hidin’ yourself, I’m askin’? Get this queernabs away from me now, Bobby Reilly, or it’s pokin’ him I’m goin’ ta be. Tell him, Bobby—tell him this be our house now!”

The loud feminine voice had come from the hallway and Beau and Rosalind turned as one to see Bridget Reilly standing just inside the doorway, the ever-present white apron visible beneath her opened cloak, a wicked-looking umbrella in one hand and the scruff of Riggs’ neck in the other.

“Bridget, m’ darlin’!” Beau exclaimed, not unhappy to see her but, in truth, wishing her at the other end of the earth for at least another quarter hour.

“Bobby Reilly?” Rosalind mouthed, more confused than ever and suddenly very glad for the interruption. What was going on? Had she just agreed to marry an impostor? Had she been right to believe that Niall had played a cruel joke on her? Had she actually been foolish enough to believe, if only for a moment, that she might be the least bit attractive to a handsome man like this bounder who called himself Beaumont Remington? Heaven help her, she
was
nothing more than another pathetic, gullible old maid!

“W
ould we care to change our linen before dinner?” Woodrow asked, his question more of an accusation, perhaps even an order, as he peered down his long thin nose at his employer, who was just then disposed most inelegantly in a chair at the opposite end of the dressing room—his spine slouched toward the seat of the chair, his long legs and booted feet sprawled on the soft carpet, his arms hanging over the armrests.

“Stow that bilge, Woodrow, before
we
stuff your skinny rump in the top drawer of that dressing table,” Beau answered absently, looking about the dressing room Bridget had already told him once belonged to his father. He was inside the house. Not
his
house—but
the
house. Still
the
house.

His clothing had all been disposed of behind the doors of the dressers and armoires in this paneled room. His bedchamber lay on the other side of the door, a large, elegantly furnished room that was hung with portraits of people who were not his ancestors. He had partaken of his luncheon on a tray in that room, glaring at those unknown faces, not at all in charity with any of them.

But he really was no further than he had been this morning, if his object was to feel at home in what he had believed to be his own house. He was here on sufferance, and only because Bridget had refused to budge, saying she couldn’t go another step, as her heart was “fixin’ ta quit on me, it is, and no mistake.”

What an unholy commotion Bridget’s early arrival had brought with it!

Rosalind Winslow, who had been just hitting her stride in a round condemnation of persons who would dare to invade another’s home and then lie to that person, presenting themselves as someone they were not and making outlandish proposals and advances, had watched, openmouthed, as Bridget had made her declaration and then headed straight up the steps to the third floor, where she had proceeded to lock herself into her old room.

That had left Beau and Woodrow. It wouldn’t do to forget Woodrow, the stiff-backed valet Beau had hired to teach him how to go on in Society, which he had done with an admirable level of competence if not remarkable enthusiasm. Woodrow appeared to hold a low opinion of his employer, and Beau (who hadn’t found much to admire in his valet) had been about to gift the man with his freedom from servitude to one of “those uncouth Irishers” when the plum called Niall Winslow had at last fallen into his hands. As Woodrow had a maiden sister living somewhere in East Sussex whom he had considered paying a visit soon, Beau had agreed to keep the man on—temporarily.