The Mammoth Book Of Regency Romance Part 38

Jared's eyebrows shot up. A snort of incredulity escaped him. Then he hunched over, his shoulders shaking. As Francis watched, perplexed, Jared collapsed in a paroxysm of laughter. His mirth went on for some time.

Mr Davis cleared his throat. "I was about to send you word that your ring had been found, but it seems you already learned that for yourself."

Jared chuckled. "Thank you, Davis. It seems your work is done."

The familiar tone of Jared's voice registered. Francis looked from him to Mr Davis as it dawned on her that the two men were acquainted with each other. Her teeth clicked together, the pieces of the puzzle forming together in her mind. Jared was Mr Davis' client. Her perilous quest to Bath had been all for nothing. It was Jared who had put the announcement in The Times in the first place and, all this while, he had been making a May-game of her.

Francis gave a little sob, and rushed to the door.

"Francis!"

Heedless of Jared's cry, Francis plunged into the street, narrowly missing a collision with a hackney. The driver shouted insults at her, but she ran on. It wasn't until she almost barrelled into a tall gentleman in the square that she realized Jared had overtaken her.

He grasped her shoulder. "Francis, please."

"All right!" Francis pulled the ruby ring off her finger and held it out to him. "Go ahead, take it. Just promise you will leave me alone!"

But Jared didn't take the ring. All traces of his former mirth were gone. He stood staring at her, his eyes dark with emotion. "It's not the Panchamaabhuta I want. It's you."

Francis stiffened. "I don't believe you."

Jared shuffled from one foot to the other. "You make it deuced difficult on a fellow. Every time I try to declare myself, you run away." He looked down at the ground. His confidence seemed to have deserted him. Francis examined his averted face, suffused with red, and realized with a chill that Jared was in earnest.

"You want to marry me?" Her voice squeaked in surprise.

Jared scuffed his shoe on the cobbles. "I've made a right mull of this. I don't blame you for telling me to go hang." He darted a quick glance at her, and a shudder ran through Francis. Jared's heart was in his eyes.

"I thought you only wanted the ruby."

"That was true at first." Jared frowned. "It's a family heirloom. It drove a wedge between my father and me, when I foolishly let go of it, years ago. Father's sick now, and I promised him that I would go back to England and try to get the Panchamaabhuta back."

Francis crossed her arms. "What do you mean, get it back? Robert didn't steal it from anyone."

"I know that." Jared grinned. "We roomed together at Oxford. I lost the ring to Robbie in a game of faro. Then I went back to Calcutta to join in my father's business, and we lost touch." His grin faded. "I looked Robbie up as soon as I got back here, and learned he had been killed. I tried to see you, but your friends gave out that you had disappeared." Francis nodded. After her dismissal by Colonel Burroughs, she had been too proud to seem to be begging from her old friends, and had moved from one cheap lodging to another, trying to find employment. Jared pressed her hand. "I am so very sorry for your loss."

"Not so sorry that you didn't try to take advantage of me," Francis flared up. "You snuck into my room, and stole the ring from me when I was sleeping!"

Jared shrugged. "I couldn't get a word out of you at the tap. And there was something furtive about the way you kept looking around, and covering up the ring. You gave your name out as Taylor. I thought you had stolen the ring from Robert, or his widow."

Francis glared at him. "You only suspected me of stealing the Panchamaabhuta because that's what you would have done yourself. I haven't forgotten your story about the road bandit!"

Jared gave her a mischievous smile. "Harmendra is my great-uncle, and he was a bandit, as I told you. Kamalakshi scandalized the family by taking on an Indian name when she married him. In return, Harmendra got into a more honourable line of work. In time, my father went out to join him in the business, and then I followed." Jared's eyes glittered with amus.e.m.e.nt. "I hate to disappoint you, but I'm merely a spice importer for a medium-sized British-Indian enterprise. I have to travel a great deal, and the climate where I live is oppressive and unhealthy to say the least." A wistful look came over his face. "Most British women wilt over there, after a few years, and have to go back home. They can't take the heat and the strangeness of India."

Francis tilted up her chin. "I'm not afraid of a little heat. I climbed the Pyrenees on horseback when we marched on France. And I don't mind living abroad either. What I don't like is deceit."

"Indeed?" Jared raised his eyebrows, and Francis flushed, remembering how deceitful she had been herself when she stole the ruby back from him earlier. She bit her lip. "I wouldn't have had to trick you if you hadn't stolen my ruby again. Why did you do it?"

Jared fiddled with his cravat. "Because it was the only way I could keep you at my side. I seemed to be incapable of making an impression on you, but the ring drew you to me like a magnet!"

Francis couldn't help giggling at this. "You must have realized at least that I was attracted to you. Why didn't you just tell me what you were about?"

Jared groaned. "Because I lost my head every time I was with you. Instead of getting out the words, I made love to you, and then you disappeared." His intent green gaze captured hers. "It cut me to the quick when I woke up this morning and found you had gone. You went off with that farmer, and left me flat." Jared frowned. "Then I remembered Kamalakshi's story. When I came of age, she gave me one of the rubies from her comb, telling me that the Panchamaabhuta would lead me to my heart's desire. It's a kind of myth in our family." Jared shrugged. "I thought it was all a load of moonshine until last night."

"Now what do you think?" Francis asked, aware that her mouth was suddenly dry.

Jared drew closer. "I think the Panchamaabhuta brought me a daring, adventurous woman to share my life in India. I want you, Francis."

Francis nodded, speechless with emotion. Jared crushed her against his chest. He kissed her for a long, breathless moment, and then let go. A catcall had sounded behind them.

Francis was suddenly blushingly aware that they were standing in a crowded square. She pulled away from Jared.

His grip only tightened on her. "Promise me you won't run away again."

"I promise," Francis removed the ring and slipped it on to Jared's finger. The square ruby looked perfectly at home there on his firm hand, bronzed by the heat of India.

He grinned. "Father will be pleased."

"I'm looking forward to meeting Aunt Kamalakshi."

He groaned. "She'll be insufferable now. Before I left Calcutta, she told me that when I found the Panchamaabhuta, I'd find my bride."

"The ring called you to me, answering my heart's desire," Francis said.

Jared gave her an impish smile. "Well, thank heavens for that."

Angelique.

Margo Maguire.

One.

Berkshire July 1819.

The honourable Miss Angelique Drummond was so furious she could have spit. But ladies did not spit, either in public or in private, no matter how despicable their fathers might be. Even their deceased fathers.

"I do not understand the rush, Angelique," said Minerva Drummond, querying her after their maid had fallen asleep. "My brother is not yet cold in his grave and here we are, flying off to Berksh-"

"'Tis two weeks since Father pa.s.sed away, Aunt Minerva. And after what he's done . . ."

Angelique tamped down the grief that threatened to overwhelm her, and allowed her anger to surface. She refused to grieve for her irresponsible, unfaithful sire who'd written his will so that she would be forced to beg for funds from the one man to whom she had not spoken in two years and refused to speak to now.

Her father, Viscount Derington, had lived his life frivolously, squandering his wealth so that he was in possession of very little beyond his entailment at his death. The meagre annuity he'd left his only child would be just enough to keep her and Minerva from the streets, but it was an unforgivable insult that he had not put her in charge of it.

He'd left the funds under the control of the Duke of Heyworth! Angelique ground her teeth in frustration at the thought of dealing with her former fiance.

"I do not understand why you are so upset."

Angelique looked squarely at her aunt and tried to be patient. Minerva was her father's elder sister, but never the sharpest needle in the basket. Angelique knew she was still grieving the loss of her younger brother.

"You remember two years ago," Angelique said, "when I well, when Father and I accepted Heyworth's marriage offer?"

Minerva's brows came together. "You seemed pleased at first. It seemed such a perfect match, and yet you left London before your nuptials. You upset your father . . ."

Yes, she had.

But his upset was naught compared to her own. Angelique had been enthralled by Heyworth. She'd fancied herself in love with him the handsomest, most charming gentleman who'd ever requested a dance. He'd courted her diligently, as though she were the most desirable young lady in town. He'd sent her flowers and even a pretty locket on a golden chain. He'd declared his love and admiration, and then proposed.

And yet, two nights before her wedding, she'd learned the unthinkable. All through the weeks of their courtship, while Heyworth had been professing his love for her, he'd been visiting his mistress with some regularity.

Even now, Angelique's blood boiled at the thought of his disingenuous attentions. What a rake. What a rogue. What an absolute scoundrel!

She would never wed such a man a mirror image of her philandering father and yet it was he who now managed the trust, the annuity that was Angelique's livelihood. She would not be able to maintain Primrose Cottage her house in Berkshire without asking the Duke for funds. It was unthinkable, absolutely untenable, and Angelique intended to challenge her father's will in court. She did not care how long it took, she would wrest control from the odious Duke and live on her own terms.

"Yes, I refused. But Father has seen to it that I must go to Heyworth and beg for my livelihood." As though that might cause her to soften towards the man. If anything, it hardened her heart even more.

"My brother and Heyworth's father had strong ties. And he is a duke, besides. You could not have done better-"

"Than to marry a lying womanizer? No, thank you, Aunt."

"But most men . . ." Minerva blushed, hesitant to finish her thought aloud. But Angelique understood clearly. "Well, I understand that 'tis not unusual for a man . . . to . . . uh . . ."

"Which is why I will never wed. I have no intention of tying myself to some . . . some . . . stud who wants a wife merely for the purpose of breeding."

"Angelique!"

"'Tis naught but the truth, Aunt Minerva."

And when Angelique had learned of the lightskirt who was a regular fixture in Heyworth's bed, she knew she could not bear knowing that his affections lay elsewhere. That she would not be the woman who owned his heart. Her very own mother had lived through the pain of that, and it had caused her demise at far too young an age. Angelique was not about to suffer the same fate.

She would write to Heyworth and request her funds, but there was no reason to have any closer contact than that.

Brice Colton, Duke of Heyworth, knew there was going to be h.e.l.l to pay.

And he relished the thought of it.

He rubbed his hands together like an old miser, although he was anything but miserly. As Duke of Heyworth, he'd always made a point to use his vast wealth in many charitable ways, but he was not so inclined to be charitable where Angelique was concerned. He intended to make her beg. For her money, of course.

The thought of Angelique begging for his attentions had not abated since the day of their aborted wedding. He'd been incensed at first, at the very idea of Lord Derington's daughter jilting him. He'd learned about Rathby's lies far too late to rectify the situation, and hadn't been able to find Angelique, either. Later, he learned that she'd fled to Italy against her father's wishes on the very day they were supposed to have wed.

She was gorgeous, and any man in his right mind would want her. But it was her fine spirit that had attracted him to begin with. Angel was no missish flower who swooned or worse, wept at the slightest hint of social irregularity. She had gumption. She had fire.

She had opinions, by G.o.d.

Which made her exactly the kind of wife Heyworth wanted. Though her abrupt departure on the eve of their wedding day caused him no scarcity of embarra.s.sment, he could only admire her courage and determination.

Heyworth had yet to see how determined she would prove to be against the seduction he had started planning the moment he understood the ramifications of her father's will. With Viscount Derington dead, Angelique had no income. The Viscount had no son and no nephews to inherit, so his estate had pa.s.sed to a distant cousin. There was nothing for Angelique but Primrose Cottage, bequeathed to her by her maternal grandmother, but she was going to need funds in order to maintain it. She could not live there without his largesse.

Heyworth expected her to arrive at any moment. Her father's heir would have taken possession of the house in town, as well as the estate in Shropshire as decrepit as it was. And Angel could not flee to Italy, not this time. She had no choice but to come to her grandmother's house.

And deal with him.

Perhaps she would believe him this time. Trust him.

Heyworth looked around at the fine appointments in the drawing room. Primrose Cottage was far more than what its name implied. There were five or six bedchambers, and two parlours besides the drawing room in which he sat, as well as several small sitting rooms interspersed with the bedrooms. The kitchen was large and only a tad outdated. Best of all was a very fine portico that overlooked the back gardens, with a large sofa that would be the perfect place to commence his seduction.

He heard the squeaks and clatter of a carriage and waited for it to come to a halt in front of the house. Soon, there were voices and carriage doors slamming. The angel of his dreams was finally here.

"Thank heavens there is a meal already prepared," Angelique said as she entered the foyer. The delicious aroma of a roasted something was in the air and it made her stomach growl. "I am famished."

Footmen began to unload the carriage and, with all the commotion, Angelique hardly took note of the butler when he said, "Miss-"

"We 'll take supper in the breakfast room, Thornberry. I do not wish to put you and Mrs Thornberry to any additional trouble. 'Tis bad enough that we arrived on such short notice." She removed her gloves while heading towards the small dining chamber, with her aunt right behind her, and stopped suddenly when the last man she wanted to see stepped into her path. Minerva b.u.mped into her, pushing her into his chest.

"Heyworth," she whispered as he caught her elbows. She could not have been more shocked. She was not ready to face him.

"At your service, Miss Drummond."

Angelique tried to step back and compose herself, but failed miserably. Not only was Minerva right on her heels, Angelique had never antic.i.p.ated seeing the Duke at Primrose Cottage.

He did not release her arms right away, and a powerful frisson of awareness raced up her skin. "I took the liberty of visiting your lovely cottage . . . to a.s.sess your financial needs personally."

"I'll just leave you two to . . . uh . . ." Minerva bustled away towards the breakfast room, leaving Angelique to face Heyworth alone. She withdrew her arms from his grasp, and accidentally dropped one of her gloves. They both bent to retrieve it, and inadvertently b.u.mped heads.

One of his big hands darted out to take hold of her once again, catching her to help her keep her balance. This time, he did not release her when she started to move away. He pulled her close and bent his head, his lips barely an inch away from hers. "You are even more beautiful than I remembered."

Angelique clenched her teeth, wishing his voice had lost its power to turn her knees to pudding. He smelled like shaving soap and leather, and his dark-green eyes were undeniably striking. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s touched his chest, causing her breath to catch in her throat. What a husband he would have made . . .

If he hadn't been keeping a lover while professing his love for her.

This time, Angelique did pull away. "I sent you a letter requesting quarterly funds, Duke. There was no need for you to travel so far on my behalf."

"Ah, but there was great need."

"I do not see why. You are not my guardian."

"But I would make a very poor trustee indeed if I did not come and see the conditions of the estate in person."

"As I said, it was not necessary. I did send you a letter which very accurately spelled out my needs."

If she could have taken back her last two words, she would have, for Heyworth from the way his gaze focused upon her mouth was quite obviously reading more into them than she'd intended. He swallowed heavily, drawing attention to his masculine throat and the chiselled line of his jaw. It was entirely unfair of him to possess such a manly chin with a hint of a cleft.