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
