Bride for a Night

Not surprisingly Harry blinked in astonishment at Jacques’s brutal honesty. For years Jacques had courted and wooed the insolent pup, encouraging his reckless dissipation even as he whispered constant reminders of how unfair life was to have blessed Gabriel with so many riches while Harry was forced to live on a beggar’s allowance.

It had all been so terribly simple.

“You were not so disdainful when you suggested that we become allies,” Harry said, pouting. “In fact, you implied I was a hero for my daring.”

Jacques gave a lift of his shoulder. “I had need of you.”

Harry frowned. “And now?”

“Now you have need of me,” he said, folding his arms over his chest, his pitiless gaze never shifting from the younger’s man’s face. “Or more precisely you have need of what I can offer you.”

Although not nearly so intelligent as his elder brother, Harry was not entirely stupid. He was forced to accept that his brief fantasy as a dashing adventurer was coming to a painful end.

“I have requested nothing more than a place to remain hidden from our mutual enemies,” he muttered. “You owe me that much.”

“I owe you nothing.” Jacques smiled. “But fortunately for you, I intend to offer you your deepest desire.”

Harry licked his dry lips, his hands clenched at his sides. “And what would you know of my deepest desire?”

“It is obvious to anyone who knows you, mon ami, that you are consumed with lust for your brother’s position.”

He paled, shaking his head in pointless denial. “That is absurd.”

“I agree,” Jacques mocked, sickened by the thought of placing this cowardly ass in a position of power. “You are a nasty toad who is unworthy of the title. Unfortunately, the current Earl of Ashcombe is a formidable gentleman of honor and ruthless integrity who I might have admired if he had not been standing in the path of what I most desire.” He shrugged, refusing to contemplate the fact he was about to order the cold-blooded murder of a nobleman. “You, on the other hand, are without pesky morals, which suits my needs perfectly.”

If possibl

e, Harry lost even more color, leaving his skin ashen.

“Even if I was fool enough to want the title, it is not a damned bauble that can be passed from one person to another,” he rasped.

Jacques’s lips flattened at the bitter memories of his childhood spent on the fringes of French aristocracy. There had been no need to explain that as a son of a mere artist, no matter how talented Jean-Luc Gerard might have been, he would always be considered inferior to the prissy dandies who sashayed the streets of Paris.

“I am well aware of the laws of heredity,” he snarled. “Laws that I intend to ensure are destroyed in France.”

Harry waved an impatient hand. “You may do whatever you bloody well want in France, but in England there are very precise rituals that must be observed to inherit a title.”

“And?”

“I cannot simply appear among the House of Lords and demand the Lord Chancellor proclaim me the next Earl of Ashcombe just because my brother has disappeared.” Growing agitated, Harry paced across the room, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. “It will take years before they will agree to declare Gabriel dead. You know damned well how they all dote on him. No doubt the entire nation will be expected to go into mourning. And it will be years more before the Letters Patent would ever be offered to me.”

“There will be no need to have your brother declared dead,” Jacques assured him.

Coming to a halt, Harry regarded him with an insolent expression that made Jacques long to thrash him.

“You believe they will take my word for his untimely demise?”

Jacques straightened from the desk, his expression grim. “They will so long as you have his lifeless corpse to show them.”

“A corpse?” Harry blinked, his mouth hanging open as the implication of Jacques’s words sank through his thick skull. “You cannot…”

“Oh, come, Harry, there is no need to pretend such outraged shock,” Jacques drawled.

Snapping his lips together, Harry glared at him with impotent fury.

“It is no pretense, you bastard.”

“Of course it is.” Jacques arched a brow. “You must have known from the moment your brother discovered that you had bartered your soul to Napoleon that he would have to die.” He deliberately paused. “If you did not, then you are an idiot.”