Jenna watched him warily.
‘I have some family documents and diaries relating to the old Hall, including descriptions of some of the rooms as they originally were when my ancestor left England—I didn’t have them with me when I went round the place before the auction and I was wondering if you would allow me to go round again. Just out of interest, of course.’
He was challenging her, Jenna knew that, telling her that he knew she feared him, and mocking her for it, letting her know that he already anticipated her refusal. But if he was speaking the truth and he did have some records, they would be an invaluable source of information for her in her desire to refurbish the house as closely as she could to the original. Thinking quickly she said, ‘I think that could be arranged, but only if you are willing to allow me to look at these records: they could be of interest to me in my renovation work.’
‘That sounds fine.’ His expression was hidden from her by the fall of dark lashes guarding his eyes.
‘I’ll give you a call later in the week and we can fix something up. No doubt you’ll want to be in attendance when I visit—just to make sure I don’t steal the place away brick by brick. When you’ve got the time to go up there, let me know and we’ll go together.’
That wasn’t what Jenna had had in mind at all, but she knew there was no way she could refuse his suggestion without betraying her fear of him. She clenched her fists angrily, wishing her desire to see the documents he had described had not led her into agreeing to his visit, but it was too late to back out now.
She stepped back again, her expression firm as she made to close the door, relieved that this time he made no attempt to stop her. Only when it was firmly locked and the safety chain in place did she feel she could actually relax. Her mood for work was gone now and instead she went through into her bedroom. Her own reflection caught her eye as she drew level with a mirror. Her thin robe outlined the curves of her body, the shape and fullness of her breasts clearly visible beneath it. A wave of hot colour beat up under her skin as she remembered James Allingham’s leisurely scrutiny of her. Her fingers curled into angry claws. How she detested the man! She wished she had never agreed to allow him to look round the house. He meant to try and take it away from her, she knew that, but she would never let him have it…never!
* * *
Jenna had a very disturbed night. When she eventually managed to get to sleep, her rest was punctuated by vivid dreams so realistic that when she woke up just before dawn, she was trembling, still half convinced that if she opened her eyes she would find herself not in her own bed, but in a walnut four-poster in a room at the Hall. But, far worse than that, if she turned her head, she would discover beside her the man who had just seduced her—the dark, cynical-eyed Regency buck from the portrait that hung above the stairs at the old Hall.
Shuddering, she tried to dismiss the dream, but it refused to go away. Every time she closed her eyes, it came flooding back, and she saw herself dressed in a flimsy, gauzy muslin dress, adorned with fluttering ribbons, the fabric so fine that when she moved it swirled like mist round her body, provocatively revealing more than it concealed.
* * *
Tonight marked the occasion of her betrothal ball. All that she and her aunt had worked so determinedly towards during the London season had n
ow come to fruition. As the only daughter of an immensely wealthy tradesman, if it had not been for her family connections on her mother’s side, she would have been denied any entrée into aristocratic society. Its doors were closed to tradesmen and their offspring no matter how wealthy. At twenty-six she was old for a débutante, but during his lifetime her father had never allowed her to mix in society. She had been sent to school in Bath and there had suffered innumerable snubs and slights from the daughters of the poverty-stricken upper class who also boarded there. Mrs Hartwell had taken her as a boarder only because her father had paid her well to do so, and she had grown up hating those other little girls, who had every social advantage denied to her and were all too eager to make her conscious of that fact.
Now with her aunt’s connivance and backing she had finally breached the walls of aristocratic contempt. Her aunt’s connections and her own wealth had secured for her an invitation to one of the most exclusive balls of the season. It was there that she had met Viscount Deveril.
The viscount and his father were on the look-out for a rich bride, or so the gossips said. Their Yorkshire estates were deeply in debt, and the viscount himself, although only thirty-five, had already gambled away a fortune like his father before him. Physically, he had little appeal to her. But she craved the social position being his wife would give her, and so, deliberately and subtly, using the bait of her wealth, she had set out to snare him.
Now she had succeeded and it was the evening of their betrothal ball, which was being held at his ancestral home in Yorkshire. By the end of the week they would be married—her husband-to-be’s debts would not allow a long delay, and since her father-in-law was a widower, she would have full control of the household. Although Francis did not know it yet, she intended to keep an extremely tight hand on the purse-strings once they were wed. She liked Sir George even less than she liked his eldest son, but she was still determined to go through with the match. She knew that people talked about her behind her back, mocking her single-minded determination to get herself a titled husband, but she did not care. As the viscount’s wife, she would be in a position to turn the tables fully on those stuck-up misses who had made her school-days such a misery.
Francis, for his part, made no secret of his reasons for marrying her. He despised her for her low birth but he wanted her wealth—his father wanted her wealth and Francis did not have the strength of mind to withstand his domineering parent. She did not like Sir George. There were disturbing tales about the death of his wife, stories that he had mistreated her in some way. However, that need not concern her. Once she had provided Francis with an heir they could go their own separate ways in life, their marriage merely one of mutual convenience.
Eyeing her reflection in one of the long mirrors on the wall she frowned, not seeing herself but the man standing behind her, Francis’s younger brother. Unlike her husband-to-be he did not favour foppish, dandified clothes, but was clad from head to foot in black, apart from the contrasting white of his cambric shirt. She felt the rage shimmering inside her boil to the surface as she watched him.
She had seen him once or twice in London, his expression always cynical and mocking. Like Francis he had no money, and if Francis did not marry and produce an heir he would be the one to inherit—providing always, of course, that he outlived Francis. He had a reputation for embroiling himself in duels and living dangerously, as well as a predilection for other men’s wives, which suggested that his life expectancy would not be a long one. And that was not all. Rumour had it that he was not really Sir George’s son…that Sir George’s wife had played her husband false and that his second son had been fathered by the lady’s lover. She had no idea whether the gossip was true, but it was a fact that James Deveril did not favour either his father or his brother, and he certainly did not live in accord with either of them. She had seen that much for herself.
The first time she saw him she had been conscious of a powerful magnetism emanating from him; he constantly taunted her, reminding her in a thousand subtle ways of who she was—and how lowly her birth compared with his own. She detested him and once she and Francis were wed, she would see to it that he was no longer made welcome at Deveril Hall. She had heard that Stuart blood ran in his veins, and while his dark arrogance attested to this gossip, she herself was not inclined to believe it. She did not want to believe it.
She and Francis opened the ball, dancing together, his hand felt cold and clammy in her own and she deliberately closed her mind to the fact that within the week he would be entitled to do far more than merely touch her hand. She would have what she wanted, and she could endure the price to be paid for it. Pray God she conceived quickly.
‘This dance, I think, is mine.’
She watched him approach, his hair as black as his clothes, his eyes the same colour as the sapphires in her betrothal ring, wishing she could simply turn away and ignore him, but knowing that she could not, that they were being watched. He had a reputation with women that made many members of her sex find him additionally exciting—and there was no denying that the way he moved suggested that, beneath his evening clothes, his body was hard and firm unlike that of his brother.
They danced in silence, and she was so intent on holding herself away from him and maintaining her frigid distance that she was not aware that he was carefully manoeuvring her into the shadows and out of sight of the other guests until, abruptly, he stopped. He had taken her from the ballroom into a small salon off it where a buffet meal was laid out in readiness for later in the evening. When she turned away from him he grasped her wrist. Shock waves of tension burned her skin. No gentleman touched a lady—especially an unmarried lady—with such familiarity.
‘You still intend to go through with this marriage?’
Her eyes hardened as they met the sapphire blue of his. ‘Yes.’ She snapped the word out at him, daring him to challenge her determination.
‘So brave,’ he mocked, laughing at her. ‘My brother is no expert lover, madam. I hope you realise the price you will have to pay for the title of viscountess.’
‘I care nothing for lovers, my lord,’ she returned curtly. ‘As a tradesman’s daughter, I am more used to dealing in realities than fictions.’
‘And you barter your father’s wealth for my brother’s title? You will breed him strong sons to displace me from my hopes of inheriting from him.’
‘By all accounts you are not justified in entertaining such hopes, sir,’ she challenged recklessly, wishing she had held her tongue when she saw the black rage sweep down over his face.