Wild Star (Star Quartet 3)

He drew a deep breath. I’m a fool, he thought. How could she possibly love him? He’d been her escape, that was all. He’d taught her woman’s pleasure, that was all. Passion made people say things they didn’t mean. He, of all people, knew that. No, she couldn’t have really meant to say it. She couldn’t really love him. Jesus, he’d certainly given her no reason to. He didn’t want her to. He felt her thigh move over his belly. No, he didn’t want that kind of feeling from her. But he did, of course.

TWENTY-SIX

Brent seated himself at his father’s desk, a huge oak affair that he remembered so well from his childhood. His father had looked larger than life seated behind that desk, with its neat piles of important-looking papers, the inkstand of black onyx, the gold antique French clock. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning back in the well-worn leather chair, remembering.

“I trust you and your brother will treat your new mother with proper respect, my boy.”

By turns cocky and sullen, Brent had said, “Hardly a mother, sir. My mother is dead.” If his father wanted a girl who was only four years older than his elder son, what could he say? He wanted to demand why his father had married the bit of fluff, but wisely he didn’t.

“Yes, your dear mother is dead. For five long years now.” Avery Hammond sighed, stroking his fingers over his thick side whiskers. “I’ve been lonely, Brent, damned lonely. Do you understand?”

No, he didn’t, but he nodded. He wanted to go hunting with Russell Longston from a neighboring plantation.

Brent, startled from his memories by a knock on the library door, quickly rose behind the desk. “Come in,” he said. He wondered now, pain filling him, how he could have been so crassly insensitive to his father’s needs. And now it was too late to make reparations, nine years too late. You spawned a stupid ass for a son, Father, yet you left me my legacy. What am I to do?

Frank Paxton walked into the room. He’d used this room before Brent Hammond had come home. He’d sat behind the master’s desk. He smiled and extended the ledgers toward Brent. “Here you are, Brent. The records of our purchases, expenses, and profits for the past five years.”

“Sit down, Frank,” Brent said pleasantly, “and let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Byrony, in the sitting room down the hall, was speaking to Mammy Bath. Laurel was reclining gracefully on a rose-wood swivel chair, her look mildly inquiring.

“I want summer material—cotton, I think—to be distributed to all the house slaves, Mammy. I think it’s ridiculous that our people have to wear wool all year around.”

“So,” Laurel said, “the slaves have been crying all over you. They’d do the same if you gave them silk to wear. They—”

“Also,” Byrony said, ignoring Laurel, “we need to hire a seamstress. The sla—servants I’ve met haven’t the foggiest idea of how to sew anything but the roughest seams. Nor, with all their responsibilities, do they have the time. I’ll speak to Mr. Hammond about additional material for the field hands as well.”

“I should trust that you would. They’re all lazy, whining—well, it’s a waste of money. My husband would never have consented to such a ridiculous use of funds. Brent isn’t stupid. I doubt he will either.”

“If you don’t mind, Mammy, I should also like to meet with Cook. What is her name?”

“Mile, missis.”

“Mile? How unusual. Yes, well, if you don’t mind, I’ll just visit the kitchen and speak with her.”

Mammy Bath sent

a sideways look at Miz Laurel. She looked fit to kill, at least her eyes did. “Yes, missis,” Mammy Bath said to Byrony.

Laurel rose suddenly in a swirl of pale yellow silk. “Mammy, have you made my perfume yet?”

“Yes, missis. It’s in your room.”

“It’s about time. Now, you may leave. I wish to speak to the—to Mrs. Hammond.”

Byrony wanted to say something, but she held her peace for the moment. Mammy Bath walked from the room, leaving the door open.

“Yes, Laurel?”

Before Laurel could vent her spleen, they heard raised voices coming from the library.

“I want an answer, Paxton, and I want it now.” Brent was speaking very quietly now, but was angry, very angry. Damned lying bastard.

“Look, Brent,” Frank Paxton repeated, also lowering his voice, “I’m not used to being questioned like this. I sold those slaves to Forrester because your father asked me to.”

The money transacted was neatly printed in the ledger. Brent realized he should have spoken to Mr. Milsom, his father’s banker, before confronting Paxton.

“What is your salary, Frank?”