‘My daughter, Mr Hunter, is my price. I wish you to ally yourself with my daughter.’
* * *
Cordelia’s jaw actually dropped. It was no consolation at all to see that Iain’s did the same.
Her father took advantage of their stunned silence to inform Iain of the excellent bargain he would be making. ‘Now, I accept that Cordelia here may not be as young as you would wish,’ he said, ‘but she comes from excellent breeding stock and her lineage, Mr Hunter, unlike yours, is impeccable.’
As if she were a prize ewe past her prime! Cordelia felt her mouth drop further. Just when she thought she had his measure, her father surprised her. Really, he quite took her breath away. A bubble of hysterical laughter threatened to escape. She made a choking sound, quickly muffling it with her hand.
‘Our alliance will bring you benefits far beyond the contract with my son-in-law,’ Lord Armstrong continued, getting into his stride. ‘Marrying into one of the oldest families in the land will give you access to my considerable experience and influence. If I say so myself...’
‘You’ve said more than enough. I don’t want to hear any more!’
Iain’s accent thickened considerably as his temper rose. It broadened even more in the heat of passion, Cordelia recalled, then wished fervently that she had not. This situation was beyond belief. Iain was on his feet, leaning over the desk. She too got up from her chair. The three of them faced each other, an oddly assorted triangle which under any other circumstances would have made her laugh.
‘Mr Hunter...’
‘Lord Armstrong, sit down and shut your mouth.’
The menace in his voice had finally registered with her father. Cordelia watched, fascinated, for she could almost see his diplomatic mind flicking through and discarding a myriad of responses. He seemed to be, for one of the very few times in his life, at a loss for words.
‘I came here to discuss contracts for steamships,’ Iain continued. ‘I’m not on the hunt for a wife, and if I was, I wouldn’t need you or anyone else to pick one for me.’
Iain was refusing her, which was absolutely what she wanted, so it was really rather silly of her to feel rejected, though it did give her the advantage of being able to claim that she would have complied, Cordelia thought, frowning. Not that she intended entering into a bargaining war with her father. And actually, it was insulting to be rejected so firmly and with so little consideration, especially by a man who had— With whom she had— And what’s more it had been— Well, it had been memorable. Very memorable. So memorable that she had only to close her eyes to conjure up...
‘...think it for the best if we discuss it alone.’
Cordelia’s eyes snapped open. Was this her cue to leave? But to her surprise, Iain was ushering her father out of his own book room, and her father was making not one sound of protest. The door closed once again, and Iain leaned his really very broad shoulders against it, smiling at her in a way that made her want to run as fast as she could in the other direction—which would be out the window on to the Cavendish Square, so that was out of the question—and at the same time rooted her to the spot.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. ‘What did you say to my father?’
‘Weren’t you listening, Mrs Williamson—or should I say Lady Cordelia?’
Corr-dee-lia. ‘Mr Hunter...’
‘Iain. It was Iain the last time we met, and given what went on between us, I’m not particularly inclined to go back to more formal terms now.’
He eased himself away from the doorway. She found herself trapped in his gaze. ‘I see no reason why we should be on any terms at all,’ Cordelia said. ‘You made it very clear that you were not interested in my father’s proposal.’
‘I wanted to get you alone.’
‘Oh.’ Cordelia tried to back away, and her bottom encountered the desk. She folded her arms, unfolded them again and pulled off her bonnet. It was giving her a headache. She was deflated and depressed by the encounter with her father.
‘So you’ve a title,’ Iain said. ‘Not plain missus after all, but a lady.’
He was standing right beside her now. It irked her that she was so aware of him. Not that he was in any way bulky, Iain Hunter was tall and lean. It was not his dress either. Not for this dour Scotsman the wasp-waisted coats and padded shoulders of fashion, his brown wool suit was plain, austere even, but he had no need of artificial aids to emphasise the breadth of those shoulders, and the modest cut of his trousers only drew attention to the length of his legs. She was tall, but she still had to tilt her head to meet his eyes.
She hated being put on the back foot, especially when she was not in the wrong. ‘I find that a plain missus attracts rather less notice than a title.’ Claiming to be another man’s relic also legitimised her lack of innocence, but Cordelia saw no need to point that out.
‘Your father had no idea we’d met before. I’m wondering why you were so hell-bent on not telling him.’
‘My father trades in information. I find a policy of withholding as much as I can works best.’
Iain laughed. ‘In other words, it’s better to lie. It’s not a policy I’d normally advocate, but in this case—I doubt the man’s ever been honest with anyone in his life. Not even himself.’
‘Especially not himself. It is how he manages to be so very convincing in his mendacity,’ Cordelia said with feeling.
Her cheeks were hot. There was barely a few inches between them. Beneath the tension it was still there, that—that thing between them. Remember me. Remember me. Remember me. She didn’t want to remember. She didn’t want to notice that in the year since that night, the grooves that separated his brows had deepened. She didn’t want to notice that his hair was still the same shade of auburn, that he still kept it so close-cropped. She was having great difficulty regulating her breathing. She yearned for him to touch her. She would die rather than admit that. She needed to get away. Regroup. Retrench. Re-something. But first she wanted to get into bed in a dark room and pull the covers over her head and hide.
It occurred to her that he was probably just as keen to escape. Then it occurred to her that he had come to Cavendish Square expecting to conclude a very lucrative business deal and that she, inadvertently, had put a spoke in the wheel. They were both suffering at her father’s hands, but Iain was utterly innocent.
‘Forget about what passed between you and me,’ Cordelia said, ‘it’s quite irrelevant. If I had not happened to be here when you called, this would not have happened. I am very, very sorry that I was. I am sure that when my father comes to his senses and realises that you will walk away from this contract rather than marry me...’
‘I’ve no intentions of walking away from this contract.’
‘Yes, I know. I mean I assumed— You told me, remember? You said that you needed new markets. I know how important this must be to you, but I merely meant you would call his bluff.’
‘Oh, I’ll do that all right.’
‘Good. Excellent.’ Cordelia picked up
