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Authors: Shirlee Busbee
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was never any proof,” Morely muttered. “Just because he called frequently at your home while you were gone—several neighbors and friends did the same, you must remember—or because a few gossipy old cats claimed to have seen them riding together about the countryside does not mean that he was her lover.”
Chance flashed him a look. “Do you doubt the identity of her seducer? Do you think even for one moment that it was anyone else?” Staring blindly at his tankard, he said heavily, “Everyone knows that before Jenny fell in love with me, her father and Sam were considering a match between her and Jonathan. Just as everyone knows that Jonathan was furious when Jenny and I married and that he has always hated me.”
Hugh shrugged. “That may be, but if you feel so strongly about it—after Jenny was buried, why did you not simply call him out and kill him and be done with it?”
A smile that sent a shiver down Hugh’s spine curved Chance’s mouth. “Kill him?” he drawled softly. “Oh no, I have no desire to kill Jonathan Walker—I only want to take something very precious from him . . . something he prizes highly. I do not want him dead, Hugh, I want him to live a long life, a very long life, aching and hurting, full of bitter regret and pining every day for that which he has lost.” Chance’s gaze narrowed. “And who knows. Perhaps this baroness of his will give me the weapon I have long searched for. . . .”
Chapter Three
F ancy was glad to leave Richmond behind. When the Walker party finally departed on Thursday, after four days of being paraded through the town like a trophy by Constance, she was more than eager to leave. And if she were introduced by Constance just once more as “my friend the
baroness
, Lady Merrivale,” she was going to do her hostess a violence. While she
was
the baroness, technically the dowager baroness, there was something so smug, so unhealthy, about the way Jonathan’s mother lingered over her title that Fancy was repelled.
It wasn’t just the harping on her title that bothered her, either: both Jonathan and his mother seemed to be totally preoccupied with
her
, not Ellen. Ellen, she had noticed with growing dismay, was always introduced almost as an afterthought. She was also deeply troubled that the possibility of a marriage between the two families seemed to be common knowledge and, worse, that
she
was the prospective bride!
The expression of bewildered hurt in Ellen’s eyes tore at Fancy’s heart. Determined to discover just what sort of game Jonathan was playing, on the eve of their departure for Walker Ridge, she had sought him out. Finding him alone in one of the private sitting rooms, a militant sparkle in her fineeyes, she had shut the door firmly behind her and said bluntly, “I find myself in an awkward position. . . . I fear that I must know precisely what your intentions are toward my sister.”
“My intentions toward Ellen?” he asked slowly. A faint smile curved his mouth as he put down his newspaper. He crossed the room and reached for Fancy’s hand. Dropping a brief kiss on the back of it, he said softly, “My intentions toward your sister are precisely the same as they were in England. Why do you ask? Is something amiss?”
Fancy searched his face. He seemed perfectly sincere. She would have sworn that those blue eyes were guileless and that his face wore only an expression of polite interest. So why did she doubt him? Biting her lip, she slipped her hand from his, unconsciously scrubbing at the spot where his lips had touched her skin. What did she do now? she wondered vexedly. She could hardly take him to task because he did not appear to be paying as much attention to Ellen as she thought appropriate. She felt deucedly awkward putting into words her feeling that he and his mother were deliberately misleading everyone about
which
of the two Merrivale sisters might become his bride. And she couldn’t very well complain about the way his
Chance flashed him a look. “Do you doubt the identity of her seducer? Do you think even for one moment that it was anyone else?” Staring blindly at his tankard, he said heavily, “Everyone knows that before Jenny fell in love with me, her father and Sam were considering a match between her and Jonathan. Just as everyone knows that Jonathan was furious when Jenny and I married and that he has always hated me.”
Hugh shrugged. “That may be, but if you feel so strongly about it—after Jenny was buried, why did you not simply call him out and kill him and be done with it?”
A smile that sent a shiver down Hugh’s spine curved Chance’s mouth. “Kill him?” he drawled softly. “Oh no, I have no desire to kill Jonathan Walker—I only want to take something very precious from him . . . something he prizes highly. I do not want him dead, Hugh, I want him to live a long life, a very long life, aching and hurting, full of bitter regret and pining every day for that which he has lost.” Chance’s gaze narrowed. “And who knows. Perhaps this baroness of his will give me the weapon I have long searched for. . . .”
Chapter Three
F ancy was glad to leave Richmond behind. When the Walker party finally departed on Thursday, after four days of being paraded through the town like a trophy by Constance, she was more than eager to leave. And if she were introduced by Constance just once more as “my friend the
baroness
, Lady Merrivale,” she was going to do her hostess a violence. While she
was
the baroness, technically the dowager baroness, there was something so smug, so unhealthy, about the way Jonathan’s mother lingered over her title that Fancy was repelled.
It wasn’t just the harping on her title that bothered her, either: both Jonathan and his mother seemed to be totally preoccupied with
her
, not Ellen. Ellen, she had noticed with growing dismay, was always introduced almost as an afterthought. She was also deeply troubled that the possibility of a marriage between the two families seemed to be common knowledge and, worse, that
she
was the prospective bride!
The expression of bewildered hurt in Ellen’s eyes tore at Fancy’s heart. Determined to discover just what sort of game Jonathan was playing, on the eve of their departure for Walker Ridge, she had sought him out. Finding him alone in one of the private sitting rooms, a militant sparkle in her fineeyes, she had shut the door firmly behind her and said bluntly, “I find myself in an awkward position. . . . I fear that I must know precisely what your intentions are toward my sister.”
“My intentions toward Ellen?” he asked slowly. A faint smile curved his mouth as he put down his newspaper. He crossed the room and reached for Fancy’s hand. Dropping a brief kiss on the back of it, he said softly, “My intentions toward your sister are precisely the same as they were in England. Why do you ask? Is something amiss?”
Fancy searched his face. He seemed perfectly sincere. She would have sworn that those blue eyes were guileless and that his face wore only an expression of polite interest. So why did she doubt him? Biting her lip, she slipped her hand from his, unconsciously scrubbing at the spot where his lips had touched her skin. What did she do now? she wondered vexedly. She could hardly take him to task because he did not appear to be paying as much attention to Ellen as she thought appropriate. She felt deucedly awkward putting into words her feeling that he and his mother were deliberately misleading everyone about
which
of the two Merrivale sisters might become his bride. And she couldn’t very well complain about the way his
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