The Gold Coin

  She whirled about, her eyes wide. "What did you say?"

  "I asked if your original offer still stands. Because if it does, if you're still interested in having me co-finance this venture of yours, I'd like to accept."

  Pensively, she studied the marquess's face, puzzled and curious all at once. What had prompted this total turn-around? she wondered. Certainly not some absurd sense of gallantry. Not with a man like Damen Lockewood, who regarded business above all else.

  Except perhaps loyalty. Was that it? Did the marquess feel a sense of commitment to her father, a responsibility not to let Henry's daughter falter?

  If that was the case, she wanted no part of his charity.

  "Why?" she demanded, giving voice to her thoughts. "Why would you change your mind so suddenly and completely? Out of duty? Pity?"

  One dark brow shot up. "Neither. To begin with, I don't pity you. Doing business means experiencing disappointment, sometimes even coping with failure. What's more, even if I did feel sorry for what you're going through, I don't allow emotions to dictate my business decisions. And that includes loyalty to fine men like your father. Henry would laugh in my face if he heard me suggest investing in something I didn't believe in just out of respect for him. So, no, put those foolish notions out of your mind. I'm reversing my decision because it's prudent to do so." Sheldrake lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "As it turns out, I spent the better part of last week researching your ideas. I made some inquiries, pored over long columns of numbers. And I discovered that you were right. I didn't give your proposal a fair chance. Well, now I'm ready to. If you're still interested."

  Anastasia eyed him skeptically. "Why didn't you mention this change of heart before an hour ago when I went on my futile crusade to solicit backers?"

  "Because I wanted you to explore all your options before I made my offer. After all, there was every chance you'd reject it at this point, given my initial response. Especially if you'd found someone else to finance your venture."

  "Which I didn't." Anastasia frowned, contemplating another, equally important, question. "Let me ask you this: what if I say no? Will that preclude me from using my own funds to finance the bank? Will I have to wait until October, when you're no longer managing my inheritance, to get started?"

  Lord Sheldrake's jaw tightened fractionally. "What you're effectively asking is whether or not I'd resort to blackmail. The answer is no. I don't do business that way. You'll have access to your funds immediately, whether or not we form a partnership. I'll sign the necessary documents at my bank on the morning after this party ends. No strings attached."

  "I see." Anastasia wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Forgive me if I insulted you. But I had to be sure."

  "No insult taken—this time. However, I don't expect my integrity to be questioned again."

  "Fair enough." The first ray of hope she'd experienced all evening dawned inside her. "You really believe in my bank?"

  "Our bank," Sheldrake corrected with a cocky grin. "At least if you accept my offer. And, yes, I do."

  With visible relief and excitement, Anastasia extended her hand. "Then consider us partners."

  "Splendid." Solemnly, he shook her hand, his fingers lingering far longer than necessary. "Tell me, now that we're partners, do you think we might dispense with the formalities?"

  Anastasia swallowed, her pulse picking up speed. "Which formalities in particular, my lord?"

  "The ones you just employed." His gaze held hers. "I believe it's fitting for partners to call each other by their given names."

  "I suppose that makes sense."

  "Good." Abruptly, his grip tightened, refusing to let go, and his stare delved deep inside of her. "When I first walked out here, you weren't only thinking about the bank, were you? There was far more on your mind."

  Anastasia blinked—startled by the abrupt change of subject, taken aback by the marquess's boldness and his insight. She had no idea what prompted her to answer. Perhaps it was the camaraderie of the past few minutes; perhaps it was the vulnerable state in which he'd found her or the compassion she heard in his voice.

  Or perhaps it was the heat that emanated from their joined hands.

  In any case, she stared at his strong fingers wrapped around her slender ones and replied, "Yes, I was pondering far more than the bank. I was thinking about many things—my grandfather, my father, how much I missed Medford Manor while I was away, how much I still…" She bit her lip, then blurted out, "Is it possible to miss home even when you're right there in it?"

  "Yes," the marquess responded without pause. "When that home is no longer the same as the one you remember. And the one you remember is the one you miss."

  Slowly, Anastasia tilted her face up to his. "You're a very perceptive man, Lord Sheldrake."

  "Damen," he corrected. "And you're a very intriguing woman, Anastasia."

  Without any warning, he stepped closer, caught her chin between his fingers, and lowered his mouth to hers. Anastasia had no time to think, no time to prepare. She only had time to feel.

  Damen's lips brushed hers in a whisper of sensation, a warm, fleeting caress that sent tiny shivers up her spine. He repeated the motion, and Anastasia caught her breath, her eyes sliding shut as she reeled with newfound awareness.

  She'd been kissed before—on the hand, an occasional peck on the cheek, even one tentative sampling of her mouth, given by a brazen though unimpressive suitor. But never before had she felt this tingling sensation, this quivering that rippled from her head to her toes.

  The odd thing was that Damen's kiss was no less chaste than those that had preceded it. It was a mere grazing of the lips—the only difference being that it lingered, its motion retraced in slow reversal—first right to left, then left to right.

  And then it ended.

  Damen raised his head, his eyes smoky as he gazed down at her. His knuckles brushed her cheeks—first one, then the other—before gliding down to skim the side of her neck. Then, he framed her face between his palms and bent to take her mouth again.

  This time his lips settled more fully on hers, moving back and forth in a purposeful dance of discovery, and Anastasia leaned closer, instinctively seeking a closer contact.

  His mouth was warm, firm, as intense and insistent as he, and equally as restrained. There was fire burning beneath the surface, fire she could sense, but he kept it carefully in check, smoldering beneath the surface.

  When finally they eased apart, it was gradual, their lips brushing softly—once, twice—before relinquishing contact altogether. Anastasia's lashes lifted as the night air fluttered across her damp mouth, gently prodding her back to reality.

  Damen was watching her, his stare intense, his steel-gray eyes alive with sparks. Still cupping her face, he murmured, "If I apologize for doing that, will you stay out here a while longer?"

  "No. But I'll stay out here a while longer if you don't apologize."

  He chuckled, lifted a few loose strands of burnished hair off her face. "Fair enough. Also far more honest. The truth is, I'm not sorry. I've been wanting to do that all night." He took a reluctant step backward, dropped his arms to his sides. "But I won't press my luck. If we stay out here, it's to talk."

  "About our bank?"

  "About whatever it is you'd like to talk about."

  Anastasia nodded, still somewhat off-balance, besieged by too many emotions to ponder. "Tonight is certainly a night of surprises," she managed.

  Damen's stare was deep, contemplative. "Is it?" he asked huskily. "Odd, it doesn't feel that way to me."

  * * *

  Inside the ballroom, George greeted the last of his arriving guests, then moved briefly into the hallway, standing alone to ponder the evening's accomplishments.

  All in all, things were moving along nicely. Breanna was dutifully stationed at Sheldrake's side, Lyman and his curiosity had been deferred to a more appropriate place and time, and his own business discussion—handled earlier as planned—had yielded
the necessary results.

  Silently, George congratulated himself on the excellent argument he'd presented. The necessary party now understood what needed to be done in order to ensure the highest profits were reaped and maintained. Not only understood the situation, but intended to act upon it.

  Yes, the response had been gratifying, and as a result, more attention would now be paid to the details. With that extra supervision, the quality of their next shipment would be better, the quantity greater. And the profits, higher. Hopefully, much higher.

  Now, if Sheldrake would only propose to Breanna, and he himself could somehow gain access to Anastasia's inheritance…

  "Medford." Lyman joined him outside the doorway, glancing about to ensure that no one could hear them. "I've been looking for you. You were swallowed up by the crowd before we could finish talking."

  "We were finished talking," George replied tersely. "As for where I was, I was greeting my guests—and solidifying our future success. That was part of my reason for holding this ball. From now on, we can expect our shipments to be more substantial, and our merchandise of finer quality."

  "Ah. Excellent. And imperative." Lyman took a step closer, and George could see the beads of perspiration on his brow. Clearly, the man was even more rattled than he'd realized. But why?

  "Imperative?" he repeated carefully. "That sounds rather ominous."

  Lyman's tongue wet his lips. "It is. That's what I was trying to tell you earlier. I'm glad you've corrected your business reverses, and equally glad our shipments will be improved. Because our costs have just gone up. Significantly. Fifty percent, to be exact. Effective immediately."

  George's brows drew together in a scowl. "Where did this information come from?"

  "From Meade. He's flatly refused to work another day without getting paid—in full. He won't accept your credit any longer, not for past shipments and definitely not for future ones. There have been too many late payments. He insists on your debt to him being satisfied immediately—in pound notes. As for upcoming deals, he wants his money up front and with a fifty percent increase. He says the risks are just too great, and your ability to pay too uncertain. I tried everything to convince him to reconsider, to bend a bit, but to no avail." Lyman whipped out a handkerchief, dabbed at his face. "So I'm glad we can meet his demands. Otherwise…"

  Anger surged through George's veins. "Are you telling me Meade is blackmailing us?"

  "I'm telling you he wants his money. He's not going to be deterred, not this time."

  "Oh, yes he is." George drew himself up, his mind already racing over possible solutions, and settling on a logical one. "I'm tired of Meade and his threats. It's time I eliminated them."

  "You're going to confront him?"

  "In effect. Nothing too uncivilized." George's jaw set. "Let's just say I'm going to see that the wind is knocked out of his sails." His hand sketched a dismissive wave, as Lyman began asking another question. "It's no longer your problem. I'll attend to it."

  "Very well." Lyman appeared to be relieved. Still, he hesitated, lingering in the hallway as if he had something more to say.

  "Is there something else?" George snapped, eager to bring this conversation to a close.

  "Frankly, yes." A frown creased Lyman's forehead, and he blurted out, "Do you actually approve of your niece's behavior—involving herself in business, investing in, of all things, an American bank, seeking backers right here at her own coming-out party?"

  The questions struck George like a series of blows. "What in the name of heaven are you babbling about?" he demanded.

  "Your niece. Anastasia. You mean you don't know? She's intent on starting a bank in the colonies. And she's asking Lord knows how many of your guests to finance this venture."

  Silence.

  "I didn't think you'd approve of it," Lyman concluded, seeing George's livid expression. "Not only Anastasia's choice of ventures, but the very idea of her being actively involved in business. And using this ball to acquire her…"

  "Are you certain about this?" George interrupted.

  "Of course I am. She approached me directly, requested my backing. She also approached Landow, Crompton, Bates…"

  "Where is she?" George broke into Lyman's explanation, whipping about to scrutinize the ballroom from the entranceway door, only to find his niece was nowhere in sight. "Where's Anastasia now?"

  "With Sheldrake. I assume she's soliciting his help as well."

  "That's impossible. Sheldrake is with…" George's mouth snapped shut as he spied Breanna, chatting with a group of girls near the punch. "Dammit," he muttered. He turned to glare at Lyman. "You say Anastasia is with Sheldrake?"

  "Yes. On the balcony. They've been out there for quite some time. Then again, as I understand it, the man is her financial overseer. Perhaps he's trying to talk some sense into her. I hope he succeeds."

  George's hands balled into fists at his sides. Bad enough that Sheldrake wasn't with Breanna, as planned. But this? This was disastrous. It had never occurred to him that Anastasia might have made plans with regard to her father's money. But he'd obviously underestimated her. And if she squandered that inheritance before he got his hands on it…

  Slowly, he sucked in his breath. Ludicrous. In order to spend her money, Anastasia needed Sheldrake's permission, something the marquess would never provide, not for a stupid venture such as this. And as far as getting other backers to finance her endeavor, that was equally preposterous. Not one man in this room, even the most outlandish of gamblers, would agree to do business with a woman. On the contrary, the stupid chit had probably succeeded in alienating every member of the peerage, a likelihood that posed an entirely different set of problems.

  It was time to contain the damage.

  "Excuse me, Lyman," George told his colleague. "All the guests have now arrived. I'm going to summon Anastasia and make her formal introduction."

  "A wise idea."

  George wasn't interested in Lyman's blessing. He weaved his way through the ballroom, forcibly restraining himself from plowing his way to the balcony. He had to look unconcerned, to avoid arousing suspicions. No one must think anything was amiss, that he was at all distressed by his niece's outrageous behavior. Oh, he didn't doubt the room was abuzz with gossip. But he'd deal with that later, address the comments, one by one. As for now, as host of an elaborate party, all that mattered was saving face.

  Schooling his features, he edged closer to the open French doors, mentally rehearsing how he'd introduce Anastasia, diffuse the gossip, and find a way to stifle his niece's campaign for funds long enough to get through this house party, after which he'd deal with her privately.

  He paused and, in a tone that echoed loud and clear, ordered the footmen to refill everyone's glasses. He was well aware that by doing so he was alerting the whole ballroom to the fact that an announcement was about to be made.

  Satisfied, he strolled out onto the balcony.

  Anastasia and Sheldrake stood near the railing, engaged in heated debate. George couldn't hear their actual words, but it was obvious his niece was uttering something decisive, her gloved hand slicing the air in emphasis. Sheldrake responded with an adamant shake of his head, refuting her position in no uncertain terms, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his baritone firm, uncompromising.

  Thank goodness.

  George could actually feel a bit of the tension drain from his body. But only a bit. Because he had an excellent memory. And if his now-grown niece bore any similarity to the willful child she'd once been, it would take sheer wizardry to alter her intentions.

  Wizardry or a heavy hand.

  He'd decide later which of the two to employ.

  "Anastasia." George bore down on her, determined to aid Sheldrake's efforts and divert Anastasia's attentions—at least temporarily—before she decided to seek support elsewhere in the room. "I've been looking for you. It's time for your formal presentation."

  Anastasia inclined her head and blinked, looking as
if she had forgotten the whole purpose of this bloody ball. "Oh—yes. Of course. I'm coming, Uncle George." She gathered up her skirts, giving the marquess a measured look. "You'll have to excuse me."

  Sheldrake gestured for her to join her uncle, then followed politely behind. "By all means. We'll continue this discussion later."

  "My announcement will only take a minute, Sheldrake," George informed him. "After which I'm going to ask the musicians to strike up a waltz to commemorate the occasion. I'm sure Breanna would enjoy dancing with you. So feel free to interrupt and ask her."

  With that, he guided Anastasia into the room, well aware that hundreds of eyes were upon them.

  "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, a polished smile on his face. "It's no secret why I've invited you all here. My niece, Anastasia, who's been living abroad for the past ten years, has returned to England. It was my late brother Henry's fondest wish that his only daughter be properly brought out and introduced to English society—a society that Henry so deeply missed and that Anastasia has yet to experience. Tonight is her first foray into that society, and she's eager to embrace it, to leave the colonies and all they represent behind." A pointed pause. "I'd appreciate your joining me in helping her do that, and in welcoming her back home to England. Everyone—my lovely niece, Anastasia."