The Property of a Gentleman. Helen Dickson
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be friends.’
‘I doubt we can be friends now or in the future, Mr Fitzalan. After today it is most unlikely that our paths will cross again.’
His eyes became probing, penetrating hers like dagger thrusts, his face a hard, expressionless mask. ‘Don’t be too sure about that, Miss Somerville,’ he said quietly. ‘Atwood and Netherley are not so far apart—and your father and I were business partners as well as friends. I would say it is inevitable that we meet at some social event or other.’
‘We do not mix in the same society, Mr Fitzalan, but if we do chance to meet you will forgive me if I seem to avoid you.’
‘Come now, you were not so ill disposed towards me the last time we met,’ he said, his tone silky, easy, his eyes regarding her with fascinated amusement. ‘In fact, you were rather amiable, as I remember.’
‘You remember too much,’ Eve snapped, two sparks of anger showing briefly beneath her lowered lids. ‘It was an incident which I have had cause to reproach myself for many times.’
Undeterred by her show of anger Marcus chuckled softly, a glint of white teeth showing from between his parted lips. ‘I recall how you went off in an extremely disagreeable mood.’
‘I am still disagreeable and will remain so while ever I am in your company, Mr Fitzalan. Now you must excuse me. There are several people I must speak to before they depart.’
Before Marcus could reply and uncaring that her words might have given offence, Eve turned from him, seeing her friend Emma Parkinson moving towards her. Quickly she moved on, leaving her grandmother to carry on the conversation, determined not to give Mr Fitzalan another thought.
But it was not possible for her to dismiss a man of Marcus Fitzalan’s calibre from her mind—in fact, she thought with bitter irony, she doubted that anyone would be able to. Once met, he was not the kind of man who could be forgotten. When he had taken her hand he had kept it far too long in his hard grasp for her liking, and the fact that she had to look up at him had annoyed her, causing fresh resentment to flare up inside her, but she had been unable to take her eyes off his handsome features, which had caused him to arch his clearly defined eyebrows and a half-smile to curve his infuriatingly arrogant lips.
When he spoke, his voice was of a depth and timbre that was like a caress, causing a faint stroke of colour to sweep over her creamy skin, bringing a smile to his lips, for he knew exactly the effect he was having on her.
Despite the solemnity of the occasion, as she moved among the mourners who congregated at Burntwood Hall after the funeral, she was conscious of Marcus Fitzalan’s presence throughout, becoming annoyed with herself as she found her eyes unconsciously seeking him out, and she would find herself studying him when she thought he was not looking. But several times their eyes would meet and he made no attempt to hide the gleam of interest that entered his eyes as she felt herself undergoing the selfsame scrutiny.
Eve was not used to men of the world like Marcus Fitzalan, and for the first time in her life realised she was in danger of stepping out of her depth. He had a reputation as being one for the ladies, although he was always discreet in his affairs. By all accounts he was arrogant, conceited and ruthless—in fact, he was everything Eve hated. She had every reason to dislike him and, seeing him again for the first time in three years, she was determined that nothing would sway her from her opinion.
Waiting for Mr Soames to begin reading the will, Eve could feel Marcus’s eyes on her yet again, vibrant, alarmingly alive, assessing her in a way she found offensive as he stood by the window, looking for all the world as if he owned the place.
He was a neighbour and an associate in several of her father’s business concerns, a man her father had been extremely fond of, as well as being a wealthy land and mine owner in his own right, so there was nothing unusual about his presence for the reading of the will.
The Fitzalans had had to struggle to achieve prosperity as opposed to the Somervilles, who were rich not only in wealth but also in lineage. Marcus’s grandfather had been an astute, self-made man, seizing on the opportunities to be achieved by the mining of coal, knowing it was fuel for a whole range of industrial processes and for the new generation of industrial workers—and also knowing there was no shortage of it beneath the soil of Britain.
Reaching some degree of financial ability, he had bought fifty acres of land adjacent to the Somerville estate and opened his own mine—Atwood Mine. Coal had enabled him to sink more mines and given him the means to build Brooklands—a house to be envied and admired—but after a series of serious mishaps Atwood Mine had fallen into the hands of John Somerville.
Marcus’s handsome eyes raked the face of the girl sitting primly at the table across the room without her bonnet. His eyes dwelt on her hair, as ebony black and shiny like his own, her eyebrows arched and sleek, her neck rising graceful and swanlike from her slender shoulders. There was a creamy smoothness to her skin with a soft blush on her angular cheeks, giving a slant to her large and mysterious violet-coloured eyes that held his like magnets. Her lips were luscious, her chin pert with a stubborn thrust, and all these attractive features were encompassed in a perfect, heart-shaped face.
She was beautiful, slim and vibrant, the gentle curve of her young breasts straining beneath the bodice of her black dress. She still had the looks of a child, but there was something bold and defiant in the way her eyes locked on to his, which told him she was no innocent and that she possessed a spirit as strong and rebellious as his own, giving him the feeling that in this seemingly fragile girl he might have met his match.
After Mr Soames had read out the generous bequests Sir John Somerville had made to his loyal retainers and they had quietly left the room, everyone waited for him to continue as he licked his lips nervously, focusing his gaze on Eve.
With growing impatience Gerald Somerville was sitting with bated breath for Sir John’s will to be read out, finding it difficult to control his excitement. It was like finding a treasure chest just waiting to be opened. His hooded eyes were transfixed on Mr Soames, knowing he was about to inherit the title and complete control over his cousin’s property, which would elevate him at last from the penury and insecurity that had bedevilled him for far too long. It was a moment he had waited for, a moment which had come sooner rather than later owing to the tragic, but fortuitous, carriage accident which had killed Sir John.
Always the poor relation, all his life Gerald had hated poverty and dreamed of being rich and enjoying all that money could buy. He had loathed his respectable home and his parents’ dull existence. Aware that he was heir to Sir John’s estate he was impatient, knowing that it could be years before he came into his inheritance, but on learning of his cousin’s increasing ill health he had quietly rubbed his hands with hopeful anticipation, suspecting he would not have too long to wait after all. He bided his time, enjoying the adventures and excitement in the gaming rooms of London, which had become his haunts on the death of his parents, seeing gambling as a chance to become rich and powerful, which he craved.
‘What I am about to disclose will come as something of a shock, Eve, and you must understand that the will was written at a very difficult time of your father’s life,’ said Mr Soames gently, looking at her in a kind and sympathetic way, having known her from birth.
Her parents had spoilt and cosseted her to excess from the moment she was born, sheltering and allowing her to go her own wilful way—until three years ago, when, by her own foolishness, she had suffered a lapse from grace and her mother had died, causing her much grief. Her sorrow had increased in intensity when Sir John had become ill soon afterwards with a cancer that had slowly begun to eat its way through his wretched body.
Sitting perched on the edge of her seat as if her backbone was made of hard steel, Eve tried to fight off her growing alarm. Until now she had believed that the reading of the will was to be a mere formality, confident that she knew exactly what it contained and having no reason to be concerned—that even though the estate was in entailment and that no part of it could be sold to provide for her, her father would have seen to it that she would be well taken care of.
But suddenly she felt herself grow tense and