Charlie looked sick. ‘He wouldn’t. He’s angry, but I’m sure he will change his mind after reflection.’
They both knew their father well enough to know he was incapable of mind-changing.
Robert clapped his brother on the shoulder. The lump seemed to swell. He swallowed hard. ‘Charlie, try to have a bit more fun. You don’t want to end up like Father.’
Charlie looked at him blankly.
Robert let go a shaky breath. He’d tried. ‘When I’m settled, I’ll drop you a note,’ he said thickly, his chest full, his eyes ridiculously misted.
He strode for the door and hurtled down the stairs, before he cried like a baby.
Out on the street, he looked back at a house now closed to him for ever. Father had always acted as if he wished Robert had never been born. Now he’d found a way to make it true.
He turned away. One foot planted in front of the other on the flagstones he barely saw, heading for the Albany. Each indrawn breath burned the back of his throat. He felt like a boy again pushed aside in favour of his brother. Well, he was a boy no longer. He was his own man, with nothing but the clothes on his back. Without an income from the estate, he couldn’t even afford his lodgings.
All these years, he’d taken his position for granted, never saved, never invested. He’d simply lived life to the full. Now it seemed the piper had to be paid or the birds had come home to roost, whichever appropriate homily applied. What the hell was he to do? How would he pay his debts?
Ask Maggie for help? Charlie’s question roared in his ear. No. He would not be a kept man. The thought of servicing any woman for money made him shudder. If he did that he might just as well marry Penelope. And he might have, if she hadn’t been so horrified when she realised he wasn’t Charlie.
Father would scratch his name out of the family annals altogether if he turned into a cicisbeo. A kept man.
It would be like dying, only worse because it would be as if he never existed. The thought brought him close to shattering in a thousand pieces on the pavement. The green iron railings at his side became a lifeline in a world pitching like a dinghy in a storm. He clutched at it blindly. The metal bit cold into his palm. He stared at his bare hand. Where the hell had he left his gloves?
Gloves? Who the hell cared about gloves? He started to laugh, throwing back his head and letting tears of mirth run down his face.
An old gentleman with a cane walking towards him swerved aside and crossed the street at a run.
Hilarity subsided and despair washed over him at the speed of a tidal bore. He’d never felt so alone in his life.
God damn it. He would not lie down meekly.
He didn’t need a dukedom to make a success of his life.
Kent—1819
She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
The words beat time to Frederica’s heartbeat. Pippin’s hooves picked up the rhythm and pounded it into hard-packed earth. The trees at the edge of her vision flung it back.
The damp earthy smell of leaf mould filled her nostrils. Usually, she loved the dark scent. It spoke of winter and frost and warm fires. Today it smelled of decay.
She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
She would not wed Simon the slug. Not if her uncle begged her for the next ten years.
The ground softened as they rode through a clearing. Pippin’s flying hooves threw clods of mud against the walls of a dilapidated cottage hunched in the lee of the trees until a tunnel of low-hanging hazels on the other side seemed to swallow them whole. Frederica slowed Pippin to a walk, fearful of tree roots.
At the river bank, she drew the horse up. Her secret place. The one spot on the Wynchwood estate where she could be assured of peace and quiet and the freedom to think. A narrow stretch of soft green moss curled over the bank where the River Wynch carved a perfect arc in black loam. The trees on both sides of the water hugged close.
Barely ankle deep in summer, the winter flood rushed angrily a few inches below the bank, swirling and twisting around the deep pool in the crook of its elbow. Downstream, beyond Wynchwood Place’s ornamental lake, the river widened and turned listless, but here it ran fast, its tempo matching her mood.
Breathless, cheeks stinging from the wind, she dismounted. Pippin dipped his head to slake his thirst. Satisfied he was content to nibble on the sedges at the water’s edge, she let his reins dangle and strolled a short way upstream. She stared into the ripples and swoops of impatient water, seeking answers.
No one could force her to wed Simon. Could they?
The casual mention of the plan by her uncle at breakfast had left her dumbfounded. And dumb. And by the time she had regained the use of her tongue, Uncle Mortimer had locked himself in his study.
Did Simon know of this new turn of events? He’d never liked her. Barely could bring himself to speak to her when they did meet. It had to be a hum. Some bee in Uncle’s bonnet. Didn’t it?
If it wasn’t, they’d have to tie her in chains, hand and foot, blindfold her, gag her and even then she would never agree to marry her bacon-brained cousin.
A small green frog, its froggy legs scissor-kicking against the current, aimed for the overhanging bank beneath her feet. She leaned over to watch it land.
‘What the devil do you think you are doing?’
The deep voice jolted through her. Her foot slipped. She was going—
Large hands caught her arms, lifted her, swung her around and set her on her feet.
Heart racing, mouth dry, she spun about, coming face to face with a broad, naked chest, the bronzed skin covered in dark crisp curls and banded by sculpted muscle.
The breath rushed from her lungs. Swallowing hard, she backed up a couple of steps and took in the dark savage gipsy of a man with hands on lean hips watching her from dark narrowed eyes. Hair the colour of burnt umber, shaded with streaks of ochre, fell to a pair of brawny shoulders. His hard slash of a mouth in his angular square-jawed face looked as if it had tasted of the world and found it bitter.
Fierce. Wild. Masculine. Intimidating. All these words shot through her mind.
And frighteningly handsome.
A tall rough-looking man, with the body of a Greek god and the face of a fallen angel.
Heat spread out from her belly. Desire.
A shiver ran down her spine. Her heart hammered. Her tongue felt huge and unwieldy. ‘Wh-who are you?’ Damn her stutter.
Arrogant, controlled and powerful, he folded strong bare forearms over his lovely wide chest. He looked her up and down, assessing, without a flicker of a muscle in his impassive face. A dark questioning eyebrow went up. ‘I might ask the same of you,’ he said, his voice a deep low growl she felt low in her stomach.
She clutched at the skirts of her old brown gown to hide the tremble in her hands and inhaled a deep breath. Every fibre of her being concentrated on speaking her next words without hesitation, without showing weakness. ‘I am Lord Wynchwood’s niece. I have every right to be here.’ Panting with effort, she released the remainder of her breath.
He took a step towards her. Instinctively, she shrank back. He halted, palms held out. ‘For God’s sake, you’ll end up in the river.’
The exasperation in his tone and expression did more to ease her fears than soft words would have done. She glared at him. ‘Of c-course I w-won’t.’
He