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Then why do you want to marry me?
Wariness settled atop her shoulders. Then her brother asked it as well.
“Why are you offering for her, I know damn well you don’t need her money. You are the man they call the Iron king for God sakes.”
“My reasons are my own but know that my regard for her is most sincere.”
That admission had the most peculiar longing welling inside of her. Oh, Dear God. She fell too quickly in the throes of love, and twice now because of that foolish sentiment she had been deceived of a man's character. Not that she thought she could love this man. But he had always made her feel so…so…warm, and just from a mere stare.
“My sister has too much delicacy of mind and tender sensibilities to walk by your side. She is not a stranger to a life of elegance amongst society. She is a lady of breeding.”
“And I, of course, am not a gentleman,” came his flat reply.
“Despite the title, you are not. Surely you know this. I’ve heard rumors you’ve no formal education. I cannot believe you would think to ask it. What would a man like you know of fine manners and good breeding to provide my sister with the lifestyle to which she is accustomed?”
There was a tense silence, and then the door opened, startling her. Her cheeks heated, and she peered up into the eyes of Lord Shaw.
His lips quirked, and amusement glowed in his eyes. “Eavesdropping? How intrepid and unladylike of you Lady Fanny. I confess you surprise me,” he murmured.
“Why do you want to marry me, if not for my fortune and my connections,” she whispered.
His eyes searched hers, intent. “I daresay you’ve bewitched me, and I want you.”
A shock went through her, hot and delicious. That response she’d not anticipated. You’ve bewitched me, and I want you. And suddenly she knew he wanted to do wicked and improper things with her.
Heat crawled up her neck, mortification gripping her.
No gentleman has ever, would ever be so forward with a lady. Though she was the one to enquire after his reason, he could have been more discreet in his utterances. Sebastian Rutledge was indeed no gentleman. Still, the raw and sincere desire she spied within his eyes and conveyed by his words had a feeling of alarm and excitement washing over her senses. Unable to proffer any reply, she spun around and strolled away. For a wicked intrigue had brewed within her heart and she would be foolish even to consider his unexpected proposal.
Chapter 4
It was with a sense of disbelief and trepidation, several days later, under the banner of darkness, Fanny pounded on the door of a most elegant townhouse in Berkeley Square. She lowered her hand after hammering the knocker once more, her gaze scanning the darkened street. A few gas lamps were lit, but the fog blanketing the air filled her with nervous tension. The noise of horses’ hooves sounded, but no carriage appeared through the dense fog. A light rain misted the air, and Fanny tugged her coat closer, shivering at the slight chill. Dear God, am I making the right decision? Her actions overwhelmed the bounds of propriety and every expectation she had of her conduct, but she wouldn’t be deterred. She had allowed her brother to dictate too much of her life because her living had depended upon him.
But no more. She was now the possessor of her fortune, all fifty thousand pounds of it, with an annuity of ten thousand pounds to be added over the course of ten years. She was an heiress. And distressingly she could not buy respectability or a husband. Not that she would want to marry a fortune hunter, such a man was not the kind she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Dear God, no, she needed more, so much more.
Don’t be a ninny, look what my quest for love wrought.
The door wrenched open, and a glowering Sebastian Rutledge peered down at her.
“I…I’d expected the butler,” she stammered, all the well-crafted demands for entry she had practiced abandoning her thoughts.
He stiffened, his expressive eyes shuttering. Several seconds slid by, he only stared, and Fanny gathered she had shocked him. Who would have thought him to possess an elevated sense of propriety? Then she winced, for she knew how outrageous her actions were. The man considered her for several more painful seconds, then he glanced behind her to the black lacquered carriage with no visible coat of arms. "At least you were smart enough to travel in an unmarked coach. To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?"
The man had no social graces. It was unseemly that he had her standing on his doorstep, even if the hour was distressingly inappropriate. “Will you oblige me by granting me an audience for a few minutes?”
He moved back and held the door wide. She stepped inside, quite shocked at the darkness. A door
loomed in the distance, light spilling from beneath, and it was toward that beacon she walked. Where was his staff? Why was everything so silent when it was barely nine in the evening? A strange shiver darted through her as she acknowledged the foolhardiness of her impetuosity. Why hadn’t she sent a note and asked for a meeting in Hyde Park? She faltered and shuddered when his chest caressed her back ever so slightly. He was so close. “Where is everyone?”
“I live alone.”
How preposterous. “You’ve no servants?”
“I’m not of a mind to have the people who work for me to do so from dawn until midnight. I leave such grueling expectations for my betters,” he drawled mockingly.
Her heart was beating too hard. Fanny wetted her lips, fighting the urge to turn around and flee. Stay true to your course. Squaring her shoulders, she once again strolled toward that single light. They reached the door, and he reached around her and pushed it open for her. She crossed the threshold, grateful to see a merry fire burning in the grate, and several lit candles on the mantel and a large oak desk which dominated the center of the room. They were in his study then.
The door closed behind her with a decisive click and her mouth dried. He walked past her to lower himself at the edge of his desk, his muscled forearms also braced against the side. Fanny gawked, feeling faint. Lord Shaw's state of undress was alarming. His thick dark hair was disheveled. He wore no cravat or waistcoat, but a white shirt where the collar was unbuttoned showing the corded muscles of his throat. Dear God. His shirt was not tucked into his trousers, and the man had on no boots.
