A Bargain With Fate

“BETROTHED TO YOU! YOU MUST BE MAD!”

“Perhaps I didn’t phrase it quite right. You don’t need to marry me, merely become my fiancée for a short time,” he explained. “I am in need of a temporary fiancée.”

“But why me? We do not get along well together at all.”

“The strong aversion you’ve shown for my company suits me very well. I’ve no doubt you will be quite willing to leave at the appropriate time. You want your brother’s estate back-it will be done. Is a few months in my company such a sacrifice for your brother?”

“A few months! I’d rather spend an eternity in hell than a day in your company.”

Ann Elizabeth Cree is married and lives in Boise, Idaho, with her family. She has worked as a nutritionist and an accountant. Her favorite form of daydreaming has always been weaving romantic stories in her head. With the encouragement of a friend, she started putting these stories to paper. In addition to writing, and caring for two lively boys, two cats and two dogs, she enjoys gardening, playing the piano and, of course, reading.

A Bargain with Fate
Ann Elizabeth Cree

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

Whatever was taking the man so long? Rosalyn, Lady Jeffreys pushed a strand of hair off her brow with nervous fingers. She hoped Lord Stamford would soon put in an appearance, or she would be tempted to flee from his house like a common thief.

She had spent the entire morning mustering up the courage to come. If she possessed an ounce of sense, she would have turned coward and jumped back into the hackney carriage the minute she laid eyes on the imposing mansion in St James’s Square. Instead, she’d marched up the front steps, determined to confront the notorious Marquis of Stamford.

To her dismay, Lord Stamford’s butler not only indicated his lordship would return shortly but insisted on showing her into this intimidating drawing room with its pale green walls and a fireplace with the most elaborate carving she’d ever seen.

The butler had been surprisingly solicitous for such a stiff, dignified man, inquiring if she were warm enough and insisting on arranging her chair near the hearth. She had had some idea that a man of Lord Stamford’s stamp would run a household as wild as his reputation. Instead, the few servants she’d spotted looked respectable enough and went quietly about their business. The drawing room showed no signs of haphazard management. It was furnished in the height of elegance: the mahogany chairs polished to perfection, rich Oriental rugs scattered about the floor. Above the elaborately carved mantelpiece was the portrait of a darkly handsome man, his hair tied back with a riband, his hand on a sword, his cool gaze resting on Rosalyn with a mocking expression.

Rosalyn shifted uneasily. The house seemed unnaturally quiet. She heard no footsteps, no servants’ voices—only the relentless ticking of the clock. Another five minutes dragged by. It was quite apparent Lord Stamford did not intend to see her. She was miffed. Rudeness obviously numbered among his many other shortcomings.

Well, she could not sit here forever. She would have to hunt the man down and force him to see her. She stood up so abruptly her reticule slid to the ground. Its contents spilled across the floor.

‘Oh, drat!’ Rosalyn exclaimed. As she knelt on the carpet, the poke of her bonnet hit the edge of the chair, which knocked it askew. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. Could anything else possibly go wrong?

‘Lady Jeffreys?’

A pair of shiny black riding boots appeared in her line of vision. She froze. Her horrified eyes travelled up a pair of lean, muscled thighs encased in buckskin breeches, over a dark riding coat covering a broad masculine chest and came to rest on the most wickedly handsome face she had seen in her life. With his lean, dark features and midnight black hair, he could be an arrogant Italian nobleman from a Gothic romance.

His disconcerting gaze swept over her face. She flushed and dropped her eyes. Her fingers trembled as she pushed her bonnet back into place. Never had she felt at such an utter disadvantage.

‘It appears you need some help. May I be of assistance?’ the man inquired politely.

‘No, I…’ She snapped into motion, grabbed the last item and shoved it into her reticule. She started to rise, but before she could protest, the man reached down and hauled her to her feet. She backed away, even more flustered.

A small smile of amusement quirked his lips. ‘I am Stamford.’

‘Lord Stamford?’ This man could not possibly be the dissolute gamester she’d expected. Well above average height, his athletic figure proclaimed a man who spent more time in sporting pursuits than hovering around a gaming table. No lines of dissipation marred his fine aristocratic face. But most unexpected of all were the lines of humour lurking about his firm mouth.

Colour flooded her cheeks as the Marquis raised a curious brow.

‘Perhaps you expected someone else? You look rather astounded.’

‘I was merely surprised. I…I did not hear you come in, my lord.’

‘You did seem to be occupied. I am sorry I kept you waiting so long. I usually ride in the mornings and had just returned when I was told you were here. I was not expecting visitors. Have we met before?’ His eyes flickered over her face in a coolly amused manner calculated to put her firmly in her place.

She raised her chin. ‘No, we have not, my lord.’

‘So you do not intend to claim an acquaintance with me?’

‘No, why should I? I had not even heard of you until a few days ago.’

‘The last lady unknown to me who called on me in this fashion wished to renew an acquaintance which I fear I did not recollect,’ he informed her blandly.

Rosalyn stared at him. Whatever was he talking about? Then a shaft of anger shot through her as she perceived his meaning. Did he really have the audacity to imagine she had called on some flimsy pretext merely to make his acquaintance?

Suppressing the desire to let him know exactly what she thought of such arrogance, she said, ‘I am not here on a social call but on a matter of business, my lord. There is no other reason I would ever wish to call on you.’

‘I beg your pardon, my lady. I usually deal through my agent in business matters. However, in this case…’ his lazy gaze slid over her face and down her body ‘…I shall be delighted to make an exception.’

Her cheeks grew even warmer. She hated her appalling tendency to blush. ‘This is a personal matter.’

His dark brows raised a fraction. ‘A personal matter? Now I am curious, Lady Jeffreys—especially since you say we have never met.’

‘It is not my personal business. It is my brother’s.’

‘Your brother’s?’ Surprise flitted across his features. He motioned towards the elegant brocade settee with a careless hand. ‘Please be seated and tell me how I can help you.’

He settled his frame in one of the upholstered mahogany chairs arranged near the settee, his dark eyes fixed on her face.

‘I am the sister of James Whitcomb,’ she began, folding her hands tightly together, wishing he would not stare at her so. ‘I believe you know him.’

‘I made his acquaintance only a few days ago. Go on.’

‘I know that he has lost his estate to you at cards.’

He stretched his muscular legs in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest. Although his expression was still that of the polite host, his eyes hardened almost imperceptibly. ‘So, you are here at your brother’s request?’

‘No, of course not! He would be furious with me if he knew I was here. I pray you will never mention this to him!’

‘I wouldn’t think of it. I cannot see what business this is of yours, however.’

‘What do you mean by that? Of course this affair is my business. He is my brother. It is our family estate!’

‘I understood your brother has full title to the property and is free to do with it as he wishes.’

‘That is true, of course, but I cannot sit by and watch it lost like this! I think it’s quite despicable for you to take away someone’s inheritance in such a shabby fashion!’

‘Are you perchance implying I cheated, my lady?’

Rosalyn shifted uneasily under his hard gaze. ‘No, I don’t know that at all! I only meant that it was quite wrong of you to take advantage of such a green boy! I think that—’

‘I appreciate your sisterly concern,’ he drawled. ‘But your brother is hardly a young boy. He was not forced into staking his estate. I did not hold a pistol to his head. He had no business playing for such high stakes if he could not cover them. I am sorry about the loss of your family estate, but I cannot do anything about it.’

Cold fury seeped through her. ‘I cannot imagine why you would want another estate. I am certain you must have quite enough.’

Lord Stamford laughed sardonically. He uncrossed his arms and rose from his chair to lounge against the carved marble chimney piece. He idly picked up one of the small ivory figurines adorning the mantel. ‘Can one ever have enough estates? I am certain I can think of something to do with the property. But I am still at a loss to know exactly what you hoped to accomplish by coming here today.’ He returned the figurine to its place and regarded her with cool indifference.

Rosalyn had never detested anyone more in her life. She swallowed her anger, forcing herself to remain calm. ‘I had hoped we could reach some sort of agreement. I cannot pay you the entire price, but I am willing…’

She faltered as a cold, cynical light leapt to his eyes. His gaze, suddenly insolent, raked her face and moved appraisingly down her body, resting for an instant on the soft curve of her breast. She sat frozen. No man, not even her husband, had ever stared at her in such a manner.

‘An agreement? Exactly what sort of agreement did you have in mind, my dear lady? I usually don’t bargain my gambling debts away, but I am certain you and I could come to an arrangement that would satisfy both of us. You are not quite in my usual taste, but your figure is satisfactory and you are…pretty enough.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ For the second time, he’d managed to thoroughly confuse her.

Then his insulting words pierced her consciousness. Humiliation followed by pure outrage washed over her.

She shot to her feet. Her voice shook with suppressed fury. ‘You think I am here to offer you…that? I would never do such a degrading thing. I would rather spend my life in debtor’s prison or…or hang than come to such a despicable agreement with you!’

She whirled around and swept towards the door. But Stamford reached the door before her; his strong fingers closed over her wrist.

More than a little frightened, she tried to jerk her hand out of his iron grasp. His intimidating nearness, and the warmth of his hand, caused her heart to pound most alarmingly. She could smell the masculine scent of his cologne.

He could not possibly intend to ravish her now! Helplessly, she stared up into his dark compelling eyes surrounded by lashes far longer than any man’s should be. His expression, so cold and sardonic only minutes before, was now warm with amusement.

‘Please do not leave yet, Lady Jeffreys. I must offer my most sincere apologies and humbly beg your pardon. I am afraid I misunderstood your intentions. You must give me a chance to redeem myself by telling me what you wanted.’ The laughter in his eyes rendered him dangerously attractive.

Her breath caught in her throat. ‘I…I must go. Please release me, my lord.’

He instantly dropped her wrist. Gentle fingers caught her chin, tilting her face so he could look into her eyes. ‘Don’t look so frightened. I promise I won’t seduce you in my drawing room. It’s not good ton, you know.’

How dare he laugh at her after making such an improper suggestion? She slapped his hand away and glared at him. ‘I have nothing more to say to you.’

He moved in front of her and rested his broad shoulders against the door and folded his arms over his chest. ‘I won’t let you go until you tell me what you wanted. I must make up for my despicable behaviour.’

‘I cannot say you are behaving any better now,’ she snapped.

His eyes danced, totally unrepentant. ‘I am afraid I generally don’t behave very well. More than one lady of my acquaintance has informed me of that very fact. But please tell me your request.’ His mouth curved in a most devastating smile.

She flushed, resenting the implication that he categorised her with all the other women he knew, particularly as she could imagine the sort of female company he kept. But further argument appeared fruitless. He obviously had no intention of letting her go until she did as he bade her. Her shoulders slumped.

‘I wanted to discuss some sort of arrangement to pay my brother’s debt to you and ask you to return Meryton. I cannot pay you what it is worth, but I can pay something. I have an income from my husband and a small house in London at my disposal. I should like to pay the debt off in instalments…with interest, of course.’

The laughter left his eyes. He said quietly, ‘I am sorry, but I cannot fulfil your request, my lady.’

Disappointment surged through her. ‘Why not?’

He shrugged. ‘The debt is between your brother and me. I do not think he would appreciate your interference. If you wish to come to some sort of an arrangement with him, he may approach me. I would be willing to consider it, but I cannot promise to restore the estate to him.’

‘I see.’ She prayed she would not burst into tears. ‘Please allow me to leave.’

He paused with his hand on the doorknob, the plain gold signet ring he wore reflecting the sunlight filtering in through the brocade curtains. ‘Tell me, do you also have a passion for gambling, Lady Jeffreys?’

‘Of course not. I am the worst card player in the world.’

He laughed gently. ‘It’s too bad others are not as honest about their abilities as you.’

He opened the door. She moved past him, ignoring the arm he held out to her. She hastened down the curving staircase to the hallway. His butler sprang to open the door. To her vexation, Lord Stamford trailed her down the steps and followed her to the waiting hackney carriage.

‘Are you in London often, Lady Jeffreys?’ he asked conversationally as if nothing had passed between them.

‘Rarely,’ she replied without looking at him.

He leaned towards her, the sun glinting off his raven hair. ‘I thought not. Then you should know it’s most improper of you to call on me in this fashion,’ he said kindly, but his eyes danced. ‘I am surprised your husband allowed it.’

‘Not that it is any of your business, my lord, but I am a widow, not a young girl. I can do what I please.’

‘Perhaps so, but you should have at least brought a maid with you. My reputation is not the most sterling. Respectable ladies know better than to call on me and certainly not unchaperoned.’

Completely taken aback, she stammered, ‘I…I trusted you would behave like a gentleman.’

He grinned at her in a maddening fashion. ‘I am afraid you sadly misplaced your trust. I am no gentleman.’

‘That’s nothing to boast about,’ she replied tartly.

‘I look forward to our next meeting, Lady Jeffreys.’ Without removing his eyes from her face, he captured her hand and raised it to his lips.

Rosalyn jerked her hand away. ‘Since I do not move in the same dissipated circles as you, there is not likely to be another meeting.’

He looked startled at that but quickly recovered. ‘Shall we make a wager on that, my lady? I think we shall meet again—and soon.’

‘Goodbye, my lord,’ she said. He merely smiled in his infuriating way and insisted on handing her into the coach.

Rosalyn settled back into the hard cushions. How she wished she were a man! Planting him a facer or, better yet, running him through with a sword would give her unbounded satisfaction.

Her anger quickly gave away to depression. She had completely failed in her mission. James was no better off; their home had been lost to a stranger. A tear trickled down her cheek, quickly followed by another. She fumbled in her reticule for her handkerchief, grateful she had been too angry to cry in front of the abominable Lord Stamford.

‘Oh dear,’ she whispered. Could this day possibly get any worse? Her favourite fan was missing, undoubtedly lying in Lord Stamford’s elegant drawing room.

‘Damn!’ Michael muttered as he entered his study. He threw his long frame into the chair in front of his desk, a frown marring his brow. The whole business of this estate was proving to be a blasted nuisance. He’d never meant to gamble Whitcomb out of his estate, but the chance to foil Edmund Fairchilde, a man he disliked, was too tempting. And in spite of himself, he’d felt a flash of pity for the young man, clearly in over his head and about to be ruined, which he surely would be if he fell in Fairchilde’s clutches.

To complicate matters, he discovered the Dowager Countess of Carlyn was James Whitcomb’s maternal grandmother. Lady Carlyn was a friend of his aunt, Lady Spence. Michael could quite imagine his aunt’s words upon learning her nephew had gambled Whitcomb out of his estate. They would hardly be complimentary to Michael’s character.

And now Lady Jeffreys. What in the devil possessed him to insult her in such a fashion? He had known the instant he first looked into her sweet face and clear honest eyes, her bonnet charmingly askew, that she was a lady in every respect.

He spent too much time with the demimonde, rendering him far too cynical. Most women of his acquaintance would have no compunction in trading their charms to pay off a gambling debt. It would not have been the first time he had been made such an offer.

He rose, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth. He reluctantly admitted she interested him despite her very real dislike for him. She was quite lovely in a quiet sort of way. Her prim grey gown could not completely disguise the soft curves of her breast and hips or detract from her luxuriant chestnut hair and large hazel eyes. Michael quite looked forward to their next meeting, although she would most likely cut him dead, as he undoubtedly deserved.

His thoughts were interrupted by the soft cough of Watkins, his butler, hovering in the doorway. ‘M’lord.’

‘What is it, Watkins? Not another unexpected visitor, I trust.’

A feminine voice spoke from behind the butler. ‘I shall show myself in. I do not wish to be told again that my nephew is not at home.’

Michael inwardly groaned as Lady Margaret Spence swept into the room, a determined look on her aristocratic face. He wished Lady Jeffreys to the devil for her ill-timed visit. He should have been at White’s by now and out of reach of his aunt and her unwelcome business.

He bowed over Lady Spence’s gloved hand. ‘My dear aunt, I am delighted to see you,’ he murmured.

Lady Spence fixed intelligent blue eyes on her nephew’s face. ‘I doubt it. This is the first time I’ve managed to catch you at home. I am almost inclined to think you’re avoiding me.’

She drew off her kidskin gloves in a businesslike manner and seated herself in the chair near his desk. In her mid-fifties, she possessed the figure and posture of a much younger woman. Today, she was fashionably dressed in a powder-blue round gown with a matching pelisse which set off her greying blonde hair becomingly.

Michael seated himself on the other side of his desk. ‘Why would I wish to avoid you? You know I am always pleased to see you. And how is my uncle? I have not yet seen him about town.’

‘Frederick is quite well. However, I did not call to exchange pleasantries with you. You know very well why I am here, Michael, so I suggest you stop fencing with me. You cannot avoid this discussion forever.’ She impaled him with ice-blue eyes. He sunk back in his chair with all the enthusiasm of a fox run to ground by a pack of hounds.

Nearly an hour later Michael entered the portals of White’s. He was shown to a table in the corner of the dining room where he was greeted by a stocky blond man attired in a bottle-green coat and striped waistcoat, his starched cravat elaborately tied in an oriental knot.

‘Michael, my boy!’ the gentleman exclaimed. ‘I thought you weren’t going to show. I’ve nearly starved waiting for you and was forced to order.’

Michael glanced at his cousin’s ample figure and laughed. ‘I don’t think there’s too much danger of that, Charles,’ he said pulling up a chair. ‘I’ve been besieged by visitors today. First I had a call from—’ he broke off, frowning. ‘Never mind. The last caller was my Aunt Margaret.’

‘Been after you again about that chit? You’ll end up with your neck in the parson’s noose before you know it. I’m glad your Aunt Margaret ain’t my relative. Don’t envy you your father either.’

‘They’re bad enough apart, but together—I’d rather face a firing squad. I’d have much better odds.’ Michael frowned at the glass of dry sherry the waiter set in front of him. ‘My aunt came to inform me my bride-to-be will arrive in town within a fortnight. There’s been a slight illness in the family that prevents her from coming any sooner. I’ll have a reprieve at any rate.’

‘Don’t see how they can force you into marriage. Good lord, you’re thirty, well past your majority,’ Charles said.

‘Well, would you care to oppose my father?’

‘Good point,’ said Charles hastily as the waiter brought his meal. ‘Don’t know how anyone could oppose your parent when he fixes you with that damned devilish stare. Sets me to quaking in my boots every time. I’d marry a woman with a horse-face and freckles before crossing swords with Eversleigh.’

There was silence for a few moments while Charles dove into his food with all the vigour of a man who hadn’t eaten for weeks. Michael sipped his sherry in contemplative silence, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

His father, the Duke of Eversleigh, was notorious for his iron-fisted management of his family’s personal affairs. Several weeks ago he had summoned Michael to Eversleigh Hall. There, in his formidable study, the Duke had coolly informed his heir it was time he married. Since his son did not seem capable of choosing a suitable bride for himself, a bride had been chosen for him. The young lady was Miss Helena Randall, the granddaughter of a long-standing friend. She was to be presented at Court this season. After a suitable period, unless there were major objections on the part of either party, their betrothal would be announced.

Michael could see any number of objections, starting with the fact he had no desire to marry a girl fresh out of the schoolroom. Argument with his father appeared useless. The Duke wore the implacable expression that meant he’d made up his mind and would brook no opposition. In addition, the Duke’s health was poor due to a recent severe bout of pneumonia that nearly claimed his life. Michael hesitated to come to cuffs with his father in his still-weakened condition.

Charles, who always thought better on a satisfied stomach, dropped his fork with a clatter. ‘What you need, my boy, is a fiancée!’

Michael eyed him as if he had taken leave of his senses. ‘Exactly what I’ll end up with if my father has his way. That’s what I’m trying to avoid.’

‘Would save you a lot of trouble,’ said Charles earnestly with all the experience of a happily betrothed man. ‘Now that I’m betrothed to Beth I never worry about matchmaking mothers trying to foist their daughters on me. Not that I’ve ever had the number you’ve had. No more hounding from my mother about finding a suitable wife. And Beth’s a good girl; doesn’t have odd fits or expect me to escort her to any of those damned musical evenings.’

Michael was fascinated. ‘I never realised there were so many advantages attached to a betrothal.’

‘Well, the point is, Michael, if you were already betrothed your family could hardly expect you to offer for Miss Randall.’

‘Very true. It would be awkward. But the problem with fiancées is that one is expected to marry them.’

Charles downed several slices of ham, his brow creased in thought. He wiped his mouth on his napkin and looked up. ‘You could hire one.’

‘Hire one? One what?’

‘A fiancée! Remember when Greely hired an actress to be his wife so he could inherit from his old uncle in Manchester or some other ungodly place? Worked too; the old man fell for it and Greely got the money. Dare say he had to pay that actress a bundle.’

Michael grinned. A few of the actresses he knew flashed across his mind.

‘That may work very well in Manchester but hardly in London. Where in the world would I find an actress I could hope to pass off in the middle of a London season as my fiancée? Even the best of them couldn’t appear respectable enough to suit my father. Besides, my aunt could sniff out an impostor at ten paces!’

‘Maybe you could find a foreign actress.’

‘Good God, no! My father would be in a rare temper if I announced my engagement to a foreign woman! Don’t trouble yourself, I’ll figure out a way to avoid this entanglement. I always do.’ He polished off his sherry. ‘Where are you off to tonight, Charles?’

‘To Lady Winthrope’s rout. Probably another one of her damned squeezes. Promised to escort my mother and Beth. How about you?’

‘I’ll put in an appearance.’

‘I’ve heard Elinor Marchant is in town,’ said Charles carefully. ‘Have you met her yet?’

‘Today, while riding in the park. She was determined to regale me with every bit of gossip she could think of, half of it probably unfounded rumour.’

‘Hope you don’t plan to take up with her again.’ Charles shuddered. ‘Never saw such a temper in my life. Don’t know how you could have put up with it. That last scene—right in the middle of a ball! Heaving vases around!’

A grin lit up Michael’s face. ‘Only one vase. And it wasn’t in the middle of a ball, merely in a private room.’

‘One vase, half a dozen vases, what does it matter? You’re well rid of her! Never know how you manage to come up with these vixens. Need to show a bit more discrimination in the petticoat line.’

Michael laughed and rose from the table in a lazy movement. ‘Put your mind to rest, Charles. I have no interest in renewing a relationship with Lady Marchant. Ready to go? There’s a pair of chestnuts up for auction at Tattersall’s I’ve been wanting to see.’

Michael only half-attended to his cousin’s conversation as they made their way to the auction yard. Instead, he found himself thinking of Lady Jeffreys. Would she be present at Lady Winthrope’s rout? He hoped so, for he had the perfect excuse for speaking to her. After his aunt had departed, Watkins had presented him with a small folded fan, saying he believed it belonged to the young lady. Michael had taken the fan, assuring Watkins he would personally see it was returned to its owner.