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Belinda had found it almost comical to be greeted at the door by the housekeeper and addressed as Lady Granville. Obviously, Colin had informed his staff about what to expect after she’d texted him back and accepted his invitation to meet—or perhaps, more accurately, set down arms—at Halstead Hall. To her credit, the housekeeper had acted as if Belinda’s arrival at the front door was already an everyday occurrence.
Belinda knew she had taken on quite a bit by meeting Easterbridge in his bastion. But if nothing else, their recent encounters had shown her that negotiations would take place on his terms. The ball was, quite literally, in his court.
If the outside of Halstead Hall was an impressive testament to centuries of wealth and power, then the inside bore witness to the current occupant’s money and prestige. Everything had been updated for modern comfort but was still in keeping with the house’s history and majesty. The whole vast interior had central heat, twenty-first century plumbing and insulation and barely a creaky floorboard.
There were finely wrought plaster ceilings, and antique furniture and marble busts. She recognized paintings from Rubens and Gainsborough, among others.
It was all in depressing contrast to the Wentworth properties. She’d grown up with her great-grandmother’s Victorian china, but not wealth of the caliber that existed at Halstead Hall. She knew that Downlands needed a long-overdue modernization of its plumbing and heating, and the Mayfair town house required a new roof.
“Of course you have conditions,” Colin said smoothly. “Would one of those be having a wedding ceremony that does not involve a Vegas chapel?”
“No, definitely not.” She didn’t appreciate his sardonic humor. It was bad enough that she had come back to him with proverbial hat in hand. “I said I’d stay married to you—not that I’d marry you again.”
She’d already survived an elopement and a wedding. She didn’t want to push her luck. Because let’s face it, she and the altar had a love-hate relationship.
His reaction wasn’t what she’d anticipated. It was cool and calculating, despite a certain intensity in his gaze.
“There’s a difference?” he asked mockingly.
“Of course,” she replied. “Can you imagine what our two families would do if they had to sit across a church aisle from each other?”
“Make peace and attribute it to divine intervention?” he quipped.
“Quite the opposite, I’m sure.”
“It might make for a good show.”
“I’d rather take my chances with an Elvis impersonator.”
“You almost did.”
“Don’t remind me.” She’d declined—just barely—the offer of an Elvis wannabe to witness her elopement.
“So what are your conditions?”
“I want you to sign over the Wentworth properties to my name.”
“Ah.” Colin’s eyes gleamed, as if he’d been expecting her demand.
Belinda raised her chin. “It’s a fair bargain. After all, they are what is keeping this marriage alive.”
Colin tilted his head. “Considering how weak your bargaining position is, it’s an impressive demand. After all, your only bargaining chip is to threaten to dissolve our marriage, but then you wouldn’t necessarily wind up with the Wentworth estates anyway.”
Belinda felt her face heat but stood her ground.
She’d learned a few things during her years as an art specialist. One of them was to start bargaining by asking for more than one could possibly hope to get. It was up to him to make a counteroffer.
“And more than that,” Colin continued, “what assurance do I receive that you won’t go running off to Vegas for a dissolution the moment that I do sign the properties over to you?”
“You have my pledge.”
Colin laughed. “You’re delectable, but you are a Wentworth.”
Belinda ignored how her pulse skittered and skated over the word delectable. “And you’re a Granville.”
“It does come down to that, doesn’t it?”
She shot him a distinctly unamused look.
