Forever Yours Series Bundle (Book 1-3)

Chapter 3

Several hours later, the man who stepped through the front door of their townhouse was as dangerous and unpredictable as the heralding storm. Fanny faltered in the hallway, the roses she’d intend to place on the table in the drawing room, forgotten. She was too far away to discern the words forming on his sensually shaped lips. Their butler, Jeffers, took the man’s coat, and top hat. Stripped of those distractions the body revealed was perfectly dressed and breathtakingly formed. She’d always thought so of Sebastian Rutledge, the new Lord Shaw, the man society had dubbed the iron king and her brother’s friend.

As if he felt her improper assessment, his eyes—a fierce blue-gray of a winter storm—collided with hers, and the vase in her hands trembled. The strangest of heat darted through her body, and her heart quickened. She had never been able to understand her reaction to this man. It was not as if they socialized. Her brother had always been careful which of his friends he brought into close association with her, and Fanny fancied this was the closest she has been alone with Lord Shaw since they were introduced. And that had been a little over two years ago. He had never asked her to dance at the few balls he’d attended, nor was he ever seated close to her when invited to dinner because of his rank. But she had always been aware that he watched her although he thought he was discreet. His eyes upon her had always been confusing, for he made no effort to converse with her, and she, in turn, avoided him for his intensity was both alarming and intriguing.

He smiled in her direction and for several seconds her wits scattered. How positively charming it was. She was then obliged for civility’s sake to return a warm smile at him and proffer a greeting. “Lord Shaw, how good of you to call. May I invite you to the fire in the drawing room?”

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Fanny was painfully aware of the way his eyes kissed her skin. Surely, he was out and about in society enough to understand his obvious admiration was rude, and vulgar…and so distressingly lovely. Confoundingly it soothed the sting to her pride and vanity from seeing the man she was about to marry caught in the throes of passion in another’s arms. She handed the vase of flowers to the butler and ordered refreshments. Then she made her way to the drawing room, with the viscount on her heels. They entered, and she carefully ensured the door remained ajar.

A fire burned merrily in the grate and suspecting him to be chilled from being caught in the downpour, she invited him to sit on the sofa closest to the flickering flames. “I will inform Colin you’ve called Lord Shaw.”

He winced slightly, and she got the impression he did not like the honorific. Possibly she was mistaken, who could resent being a lord, and with such comfortable estates as it had been rumored he had inherited?

“I was hoping for a moment of your time, Lady Fanny.”

She lifted her eyes to his, quite astonished. “I beg your pardon; did you say of my time?”

There was a mocking glint in his blue-gray eyes, which she would allow were beautiful. She would never describe him as classically handsome like many of the men in society. The harsh sensuality of his features left no room for elegance or refinement, but he was compelling with his chiseled cheekbones, square jaw, and dark slashing brows. He also had the blackest hair she had ever seen, as if darkness itself had painted it. How would it feel to touch? Soft? Or coarse like? A flush went through her at the inappropriate thought.

“Yes,” he said mildly.

An oddly exhilarating thrill of anticipation swept through her. “You are not here to call on my brother?” she asked inanely.

An indecipherable emotion passed over his face. “I will speak with him, but I was hoping for your indulgence first.”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth went dry. Was it her imagination that he appeared agitated? Surely not. The man before her was Sebastian Rutledge, a self-made man of great wealth who owned several iron smelteries and factories in England and had business interests on the continent. There had been much speculation by society about the extent of his worth, and they had been unable to assess it accurately for he took none into his confidence. Not even her brother. But he was a man of singular fashion, and his manner was as elegant and rich as a gentleman of society. Though no one had entirely forgotten that he had common breeding, it was his air of affluence and the viscountcy which made him somewhat acceptable to her mamma and most in society.

“What could you have to say to me?” she asked lowering herself into a sofa.

He sat opposite her, on the very edge of his padded chair, as if he were impatient. "I…" he closed his eyes briefly, and she couldn't help noticing how incredibly long his lashes were…and this close, she could see the calluses on his palm and fingertips. It occurred to her then how much his gentleman like attire was a thin veneer of gentility.

“I am not very good at this,” he said gruffly. “I have never done this before.”

“Forgive me, my lord, I’ve no notion what you are about.”

“You’ve had a bad run of it.”

There could be no mistaking his meaning. She flushed, and he grimaced, no doubt accurately deducing that whatever he was about, he was making a hash of it.

“I’ve heard the whispers about your name that insist your reputation is beyond repair.”

She flinched at his lack of delicacy.

He stilled, his expression impenetrable. “Forgive my bluntness. The thing to do is marry with all haste, and I—” he raked his fingers through his dark hair.

She had always thought him a man of few words, and her suspicion was proven. There was a hollowness forming in her stomach, for he had still managed to communicate he was here because of the odious cloud hanging over her head. Fanny shot to her feet, and he stood, and moved alarmingly close.

“Fanny…forgive me, Lady Fanny.” His eyes caught hers, and she was unable to look away. “Would you do me the honor of marrying me?”

For a long moment, Fanny could only stare at him as if he were an apparition from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s gothic novels. She was of the opinion he could not be sincere. “I beg your pardon?”

“I believe you comprehended me, my lady.”

“Bu-but you asked me to marry you!”

There was a bewildering mix of arrogance and wariness in his eyes. “I did.”