Lord Hunter's Cinderella Heiress. Lara Temple
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wouldn’t!’
‘Try me. I’m damned if I’m going to have someone whose name has been tied with mine in an unfortunately public manner make a fool of herself in one of the busiest hostelries in the city.’
‘So you are threatening to compound my folly with yours? That doesn’t make much sense.’
‘Don’t start preaching sense to me, young woman. Well?’
She raised her chin, trying to find a better solution and failing.
‘Fine. For one night. Your aunts will probably think you drunk or mad and I won’t blame them.’
He smiled.
‘Not them. They’re used to my eccentricities.’
Nell felt a snide comment wavering at the edge of her tongue, but held back and sat down again. It felt so very good to lose her temper, a luxury she rarely indulged, but the truth was that he was right—she was hungry and tired and upset and more than willing to postpone coping with the consequences of her actions until tomorrow.
‘Fine. And please stop swearing at me. It is very improper.’
‘Fine. Eat up.’
* * *
Hunter watched as she finally did as she was told and took one of Biggs’s bread and cheese creations. He walked to pour himself a glass of port so she wouldn’t see his smile. Admittedly when he and Sir Henry had agreed on the betrothal four years ago he hadn’t been at his best, but he wondered how his memory could be so seriously flawed. He knew people changed a great deal in four years, he certainly had, and not for the better, but the contrast between this young woman and that girl was extreme. Despite her height she had struck him as rather mousy, all long limbs and very little else, her pale hair showing a distinct tendency to fall out of its pins and obscure her face. She hadn’t been ugly, just...awkward. He remembered her expressions more than her face, from the joyful light after that incredible gallop on Petra to the sheer terror when she had come under her aunt’s attack. Then, in that last minute when she had marched out of the drawing room, there had been something else—for a moment she had taken full advantage of her height and looked almost regal.
She wasn’t a beauty, but mousy or gawky were definitely not the right words to describe her. He wasn’t quite certain what words were applicable, but those blue-grey eyes, sparked with the fire of temper and determination and with a faint catlike slant, were anything but plain, and though she was still lean and athletic, as her limber recovery from the fall on his steps indicated, even under her countrified cloak he could see that her girlish slimness had filled out quite nicely.
In fact, as far as looks went, she was much more appealing than he remembered. But what she had gained in looks, she had lost in temperament. He certainly hadn’t remembered she was such a prickly thing, though now he could recall some of her critical comments during that ride four years ago which should have forewarned him. It appeared he had as thoroughly misread her character as he had been mistaken about her appearance.
It hadn’t taken him long to regret his agreement with Tilney, but he had comforted himself that at least he would be gaining not only Bascombe but a docile, compliant wife grateful to be saved from her less-than-satisfactory life, content to stay in Hampshire and leave him to pursue his work and other interests in London. Well, that conviction was clearly nothing more than a fantasy. There was still something skittish about her and her words about bullying were telling, but she was about as docile as she was mousy.
He savoured his port as he watched her. She might not like sweets, but she was certainly doing justice to Biggs’s sandwiches. She put down her empty plate with a slight sigh and he smiled involuntarily. She was a strange little thing. No, not little.
‘Better?’
Her mouth wavered, as if she was contemplating holding on to her anger, and then settled into a rueful smile.
‘That was the best sandwich I have ever eaten, I think.’
‘I will inform Biggs of your appreciation. He takes bread and cheese very seriously.’
‘A sensible man.’ Her smile widened and he could see that girl again who had slid off Petra after her gallop, confident and confiding, but then she was gone again.
‘He is. Now that you are fed, I have a suggestion to make. When I go to Wilton I will confer with your father and when I return we will all sit down—’
‘Wilton? You’re going to the breeders’ fair?’ Nell asked, leaning forward.
Hunter raised his brow at the interruption. Her face had transformed again and was now alight and eager.
‘Yes. I’ve gone for the past couple of years. I’m looking for a stallion to breed with Petra. Why?’
Her gaze remained fixed on him, but he could have sworn that for a moment she wasn’t there, had left her body and travelled to some place lovely and warm because her cheeks and lips lost their pallor, warming to a shade of a very edible peach, and her pupils shrank, turning her eyes more silver than grey. For a split second he thought this is what she might look like after she climaxed, full of warmth and light, afloat. Then it was gone; she looked down at her hands and pressed them together as if about to pray.
‘I will agree to your compromise. On condition.’
Oh, hell. Somehow he thought he wouldn’t like this.
‘What condition?’
‘I will come with you to Wilton.’
It was not a request. This girl was definitely not turning into the biddable bride he had thought she would be.
‘I am not saying that I agree, but may I ask why?’
She shrugged and tugged at her gloves.
‘Well, clearly we need to speak with Father about repudiating this rumour and if he isn’t in London he has most likely gone to Wilton early. Surely there is no harm in merely driving with you since we are, for the moment at least, engaged. Well?’
Well, indeed? Why should every one of his instincts be on alert? Ever since Kate had shoved the newspaper with that blasted gossip at him he had known his life was going to take a distinct turn for the worse, but somehow he had hoped he could put off dealing with this particular commitment for a little while longer. He was used to the occasional sniping column about his affairs and activities and accepted them as part of his choice of lifestyle, but the deluge that had appeared in today’s papers following the appearance of those two sentences about his purported betrothal was trying his patience. It didn’t help that Biggs had indulged his sense of humour by acquiring several newspapers and spreading them around the house carefully folded open to the most damning, including one entitled ‘Wild Hunter Bagged at Last!’, which had been borderline libellous and peppered with the initials of the women reputed to be mourning his removal from the field.
All told he had been looking forward to confronting Tilney at Wilton and telling him what he thought of his management of this affair. What he had not counted on was that Tilney had clearly never told his daughter about the arrangement or that she would descend on him from the wilds of the Lake District demanding a disavowal. He walked over to the fireplace and shoved in another log. She wanted conditions, fine.
He stood and brushed the slivers of wood from his hands.
‘Very well. As long as you meet my conditions as well. Unfortunately, as far as the world is concerned we are betrothed and to deny that now will cause precisely the scandal we’re trying to avoid. So while at Wilton we present ourselves as such until we can consider how to end this engagement without turning us into a laughing stock. In addition, my co-operation is conditional upon reaching some reasonable long-term agreement about the water rights. I’ll be da—dashed if I have to negotiate yearly fee agreements with my once betrothed or your bridegroom of choice when eventually you decide to marry.’
Hunter trailed off as she blushed so hotly she might as well have been wearing