"Yes." Anastasia was glad she'd mulled this over last night. There was no earthly way she could conjure up something profound in her current dazed state. "I think we should call it by the terms through which it was formed: Fidelity Union and Trust."
Damen's nod was almost instantaneous. "I agree. Lockewood and Colby. Fidelity Union and Trust. Fitting. Consider it done. I'll issue instructions to my assistant, have him draw up the papers with Fenshaw this very day. I'll look them over when I return to London tomorrow night. And you and I can sign them the next morning in my office."
"Wonderful." Anastasia averted her gaze, gripped Whisper's reins securely in her hand. "I think we should bring back the horses. It's nearly time for breakfast."
Silently, Damen studied her, and she could feel his steel-gray stare bore through her, even without turning her head for firsthand confirmation. "Fine," he said at length. "But we will talk about what happened here, Anastasia. Count on it."
* * *
George rose from behind his study desk, scanning the note he'd just penned.
Rouge, it read, Received your meager draft. Consider it an installment on our agreed-upon sum. Be advised that, as my costs have risen, so have yours. Therefore, the shipment you received was fair and adequate. Nonetheless, you'll be pleased to learn that I've found a new source of supply which will improve both the quality and the quantity. To demonstrate my good faith, a more extensive lot will be leaving in two to three weeks. The cost of that shipment is seven thousand five hundred pounds, including the fifteen hundred pounds due on the previous shipment. I'll advise you when the cargo is ready to sail. Rest assured, if you don't want the merchandise, another buyer will.—Medford
That said it all. Clear, direct, and without revealing any of the worry that gripped his gut.
With a terse nod, George folded the note in two, slipping it into the envelope he'd addressed beforehand and sealing it.
Two could play this game of threats.
Unfortunately, only one could win.
Pressing his lips tightly together, George yanked open his drawer and returned his writing paper to its proper home. He hated leaving things out of place. In fact, he hated disorder of any kind.
In the process of shutting the drawer, he paused, extracting the miniature portrait he kept hidden in back.
Staring at the delicate features and flawless skin, captured so perfectly on the tiny canvas, he scowled, the familiar rage starting to churn in his blood. Damn her. Damn them both. Things could have been so different. If only this part of his life had fallen neatly into line, everything else would have followed suit. His life, his family, his business—everything would have been in perfect order.
Well, it hadn't. And now chaos was everywhere.
With that, he shoved away the picture, shut and locked the drawer, and snatched up his letter. There was no time for brooding. He had work to do.
Purposefully, he strode down to the entranceway door, signaling for Wells as he did.
"I need this delivered immediately for dispatch to the Continent," he instructed the butler.
"Of course, sir." Wells glanced at the envelope as he took it. "Is it going to the customary address in London?"
"Yes."
"I'll see to it at once, my lord."
"Good." George glanced at the grandfather clock in the hallway. "It's after ten. Have the first guests awakened yet?"
"A few have made their way in for breakfast. A dozen or so of the gentlemen went out early, some to fish, others to hunt. All the ladies are still abed." A tender smile. "With the exception of Miss Stacie, of course."
"Anastasia? Is she in the dining room?"
"No, my lord. Although I should think she'd be ravenous. She was up and out before the sun, and returned to the manor, along with Lord Sheldrake, before eight."
"Returned?" That brought George up short. "Returned from where?"
"Why, from their ride, sir."
George stiffened. "You're sure it was Anastasia and not Breanna who went with Sheldrake?"
"Quite sure, sir. According to Miss Stacie, she and the marquess had some business to discuss."
"They left together?"
"No. Lord Sheldrake left the manor first, Miss Stacie about a quarter hour later." Wells frowned. "They were only gone a few hours, my lord."
"And then what?"
Wells's frown deepened. "Then they returned, each requesting that hot water be sent up to their respective bedchambers. After that, they went their separate ways. Lord Sheldrake came downstairs for breakfast and left the manor again about a half hour ago. And Miss Stacie is upstairs, waiting for Miss Breanna to awaken. She wants to have breakfast with her cousin."
"Did the marquess mention where he was going?"
"No, he didn't, my lord. He sent a message off to Mr. Cunnings at the bank, then headed out. I didn't get the impression he'd be gone long. Perhaps he joined the other gentlemen at the stream."
"Perhaps," George muttered, his lips thinning into a tight line of disapproval. "Then again, perhaps not."
* * *
Upstairs in her bedchamber, Anastasia paced restlessly about. She'd been unable to sit still—with the exception of her long soak in the tub—since she'd returned from the stables. And she knew exactly why.
It was that kiss she'd shared with Damen. Not only the kiss, but its significance—and its complications.
A deluge of guilt crashed down upon her shoulders, shattering the last vestiges of her earlier daze and bringing to light an issue she'd been evading since last night's ball.
Breanna. Or rather, Damen and Breanna.
Last night the prospect had hovered on the periphery of her consciousness, but had been eclipsed by her quest for financial backing, and later by her fascination for Damen. But there was no longer any excuse for dodging the all-too-crucial questions that today's kiss had accentuated.
Could a relationship between her cousin and Damen ever exist—not now, but in the future? True, they were merely acquaintances now, but might that change? Might they develop feelings for each other—feelings stemming from mutual respect and compatibility? After all, Breanna was changing, coming into her own. Damen himself had noticed that. Was it possible her feelings for him might change, too—or, if not change, grow? She had said she found the marquess charming, handsome, and intelligent. And as for Damen…
Almost against her will, Anastasia remembered Damen's observation of Breanna last night, what he'd said as they'd waltzed by.
She's enjoying all the newfound attention. Which is why it's too soon for her to be dancing with the same partner all night, and far too soon for her to be tied down to just one suitor.
By one suitor, had he meant himself? And if so, had he meant it as a response to Uncle George's obvious attempts to push him in Breanna's direction, or as a response to his own inclinations? Could Damen's comments be an indication, inadvertent or otherwise, that he intended to wait for Breanna, to indulge her until she came into her own? Was he destined to be the partner who ultimately stood at Breanna's side?
If so, Anastasia thought wildly, then what happened this morning could completely undermine Breanna's future.
She chewed her lip, her mind racing. Whatever had occurred between her and Damen, it had been based on passion, attraction, fascination; call it what you will. But it wasn't the kind of emotion that futures are based on. And if he and Breanna were meant to share a future—not one inspired by Uncle George's selfish whims, but one rooted in devotion—then what had she been doing, kissing Damen, losing herself in his arms and wanting never to stop?
Dejectedly, Anastasia dropped onto the edge of her bed, wondering how in the name of heaven she was going to deal with this. She couldn't speak to Breanna about it. She knew her cousin only too well. Breanna would always place her cousin's happiness above her own. If Anastasia so much as hinted at her attraction to Damen, Breanna would immediately squelch any feelings she might be developing just so as not to stand in Anastasia's way.
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My way to what? Anastasia questioned herself. There's no reason to assume Damen thinks of me as anything more than an exciting diversion.
But if he did…
If he did, then there was something else to consider, something just as critical as Breanna's feelings, and perhaps a great deal more dangerous.
Uncle George. Uncle George and his reaction if a relationship were to develop between his niece and the man he intended to be his daughter's husband. Lord only knew how angry he'd get—and how he would vent that anger.
Or on whom.
Anastasia's jaw tightened. That settled it. She couldn't let this flirtation between Damen and her continue. She'd have to put an end to it—now—before it really began.
* * *
George was in a foul mood.
He continued to trudge across the eastern portion of the grounds, having already covered the western and northern sections, searching for any sign of Damen Lockewood. The marquess hadn't been in the expected locations: the stream, the hunting or riding areas, as the other guests had been. In fact, wherever he was, it was becoming increasingly apparent that he was alone. Because the only guest who, according to the others, was out and about and who George had yet to come upon during this unwelcome excursion about Medford's grounds, was Viscount Crompton.
Predictably, the viscount had left the group he'd been hunting with to engage in target shooting on his own. As a retired military general, he prided himself on his superior skill with both rifles and pistols—a passion the other guests soon grew tired of hearing about and being forced to watch. And, as far as George knew, Damen had no particular affinity for the viscount and no interest in marksmanship. So, unless the two men were chatting about business, Sheldrake was alone.
The question was, why? Had Anastasia said or done something to give the marquess food for thought? Because Lord help her if she had. She'd already caused more trouble than she was worth, standing between him and Henry's assets, then embarrassing the hell out of him by approaching his guests for money to pour into some idiotic venture in the States. And now, this unexpected affinity between her and Sheldrake. It was trouble, any way you viewed it. Either the marquess was intrigued by her business ideas—or worse, by her.
Neither was acceptable.
But he'd find out exactly what was going on. Then, he'd stop it.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
The crack of a pistol brought George's head up. Crompton, he thought, turning in the direction of the sound. He must be nearby.
Striding forward, he found himself hoping that the viscount might at least have spied Sheldrake. Hell, who was he kidding? That self-absorbed loon probably hadn't noticed a bloody thing. No doubt he was too caught up praising himself over his incomparable aim.
At that moment, he spied Crompton, standing in a clearing and reloading his pistol, his stance every bit as arrogant as he.
George approached quietly, coming up behind the viscount as he raised his head and surveyed a line of trees.
"Do you see that cluster of oaks over there?" Crompton inquired conversationally, never turning around. He smoothed his gloves more snugly into place, then gripped the handle of the pistol and raised it. "I'd judge them to be about a hundred feet away. See that center oak—the short one that's dwarfed by the others? There's a good-sized knot about halfway down. You can see it if you look closely. I'm going to hit that knot directly in the center." So saying, he aimed and fired, striking the knot dead-center.
"Excellent," George commended, wondering if Crompton was talking to himself or if he actually knew someone was behind him, given that he'd yet to look. And, once he realized he had company, did he plan on launching into an endless lecture on the fine art of marksmanship; or worse, recounting long-winded stories of his years in the infantry, fighting the French, the Americans, and whoever the hell else he'd fought?
"Thank you." The viscount turned, his lean, tanned face relaxing into a smile. "Ah, Medford. I thought you might show up, acting as a good host and checking to see if I'm enjoying myself. Well, I am. And I must say, it's nice to have an appreciative audience." He sighed, waving his arm, presumably in the direction of the gentlemen who were out hunting. "I grew tired of shooting pheasants with amateurs. Anyone can strike a fat, slow-moving bird. It's mastering difficult targets that makes one feel truly accomplished."
George was in no mood for small talk, and less in the mood for Crompton's eccentric babbling. "I'm sure that's true. Actually, I can't stay and join you, much as I'd like to. I need to find Sheldrake. You haven't seen him, have you?"
"As a matter of fact, I have." Crompton flexed his shoulder, relaxing his lanky but well-muscled build for a moment. Despite the fact that youth had long since passed him by, extensive military training had left him as fit as a man twenty years his junior. "Sheldrake stopped by here a short while ago, said he was taking a walk." A knowing gleam. "And this time he was actually alone—not with that beautiful niece of yours."
A knot formed in George's stomach. "Why would you comment on that?"
"Oh, come now. Surely you saw the amount of time Sheldrake spent dancing with Anastasia last night. And they went riding early this morning. I saw them on their way back. They were laughing and joking like old friends. At first I thought it might be Breanna—I've heard rumors that you were encouraging a match between those two. But then I overheard snippets of their chatter: financing, business endeavors, and the like. Not to mention the woman's less clipped articulation. And I realized it was Anastasia."
In one smooth motion, Crompton reloaded his weapon. "Maybe she managed to convince Sheldrake to invest in that bank of hers. She certainly tried to convince me." A definite shake of his head. "But I have other ideas for how to increase my assets—ideas that can be furthered right here in England. And once those assets are mine, I'll deposit them in the bank of the very man you're looking for. He went in that direction, by the way." Crompton pointed toward the gardens on the south side of the estate. "He's a shrewd man, that Sheldrake. Smart as a whip."
"I agree." George was already walking. "That's why I need to find him. I'll catch up with you later, Crompton."
"Fine." The viscount adjusted his gloves, raised his pistol, and resumed his target practice.
* * *
Unaware he was being discussed, Damen continued along the path that led through the southern gardens.
Hands clasped behind his back, he was lost in thought, scarcely noticing the colorful array of flowers at his feet.
His rule about never allowing anyone to surprise him more than once had long since fallen by the wayside. And the person responsible was the same person he couldn't seem to get out of his mind—not for a minute, not since she'd first confronted him in Fenshaw's office, fire burning in those beautiful jade-green eyes as she'd battled her resentment over finding out that he'd been appointed her financial administrator.
Anastasia.
Damen paused, staring out across the manicured lawns beyond the garden, marveling at the unprecedented effect this one woman had on him. While he was definitely a man of passionate views and commitments—and an equally passionate sense of adventure—he was not a man given to sentiment, nor was he particularly romantic in nature. He enjoyed women, their company and their charms, as they enjoyed his. But as for anything deeper, more significant—no woman had ever inspired that sort of response from him.
Then again, Anastasia was nothing like any other woman he'd ever known.
She was beautiful, yes, but her beauty was just the outermost layer of something far more compelling. It was like the sugar drizzled over a tantalizing confection: initially, it lured you over, made you want a taste. And yet, having sampled one, you suddenly realized that the icing was but the finishing touch on a cake that was distinctively luscious unto itself.
God, he was thinking like either a starving man or a romantic. And since he'd already eaten, that left the latter alternative.
So m
uch for his lack of sentiment.
Damen stopped, leaning against a tree and contemplating the facts, if not the emotions, of the situation, with the careful deliberation he applied to investment matters.
Anastasia was drawn to him. She was too open to hide that. She was also enthralled by his knowledge, his contacts, and his influence in the financial community. She enjoyed his company, whether on the dance floor or on horseback, and she especially enjoyed matching wits with him, a fact that kept both their conversations and their arguments vibrant and interesting.
He, for his part, was fascinated by her quick mind, her untainted spirit, and her determination to overcome impossible odds—namely, becoming a successful business-woman in a world dominated by men. He was impressed as hell by her intelligence and insight; it had been her absolute belief in their banking venture that had provoked him into doing additional research and, ultimately, into reversing his decision.