Книга - The Property of a Gentleman

The Property of a Gentleman
Helen Dickson


SHE WAS NO MAN'S PROPERTY!To the dismay of his daughter Eve, Lord Somerville bequeathed his property to his business partner, Marcus Fitzalan. However, Marcus will only inherit it on one condition–he must marry Eve. Eve can hardly believe her father has sold her into the arms of a man she despises, a man who ruined her reputation three years ago! But the attraction between Eve and Marcus cannot be denied, and soon Marcus convinces Eve to agree to a marriage of convenience for the sake of the inheritance. Will their marriage-in-name-only ever blossom to one of love?









“We cannot leave matters like this,” Marcus commanded.


“This has come as a shock to you, I can see,” he said.

“Yes, I am shocked and disappointed. I cannot imagine what prompted my father to do this,” she said, trying to keep a stranglehold on her emotions. “The last thing I want right now, Mr. Fitzalan, is a husband—and when I do I would prefer to choose my own.”

“And I have no more need of a wife than you a husband, Miss Somerville.” His voice carried anger. “However, if we want to hold on to the mine, then we have no choice but to heed your father’s wishes and make the best of it.”

“How do you know what it is I want? How can you possibly know? Marriage to me is important, and it is hardly flattering to know you would only be marrying me for what I could bring, Mr. Fitzalan.”

“The same could be said of yourself, Miss Somerville.”




The Property of a Gentleman

Helen Dickson







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




HELEN DICKSON


was born and still lives in south Yorkshire, with her husband, on a busy arable farm where she combines writing with keeping a chaotic farmhouse. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure, owing much of her inspiration to the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She enjoys reading and music. History has always captivated her, and she likes travel and visiting ancient buildings.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen




Chapter One


1800

B orn into the private establishment of privilege and exclusivity, Eve Somerville was every bit as beautiful as she was rich.

She was passionate and feckless and subject to all the moods and contradictions of a high-spirited girl. The only daughter of parents who adored her and cosseted and indulged her every whim, she knew exactly what the future would be. She would marry well and be happy and secure for the rest of her life.

But when she was seventeen years old she discovered that nothing is that certain, for when her mother died from consumption, her father was also struck down by a terrible illness—the doctors he consulted telling him he could not hope to live beyond the next three years. Sadly, he did not even have that because he was killed in a carriage accident shortly after Eve’s twentieth birthday.



The funeral of Sir John Somerville was attended by a few distant relatives, friends and acquaintances, having come from north and south, east and west to the steadily thriving, coalmining market town of Atwood in the West Riding of Yorkshire, a manor in the ancient and extensive parish of Leeds. It was attractively situated in an area of contrasts, with beautiful hills and valleys lying between Atwood and the pleasant and equally prosperous market town of Netherley five miles to the north.

The narrow, tree-shaded lane from Burntwood Hall to the church, set away from the town and adjacent to the grounds of the great house, with its beautiful slender cream spire soaring high above the trees, was fringed with a silent line of estate workers and coal miners alike—men and women who, like their ancestors before them, had helped make the Somervilles what they were today.

The estate, which, unfortunately for Eve, was entailed in default of male heirs—the next in line being a cousin of her father’s, Gerald Somerville—was causing some speculation as to what would happen to it when the new owner took up residence, and to Eve, although it was certain she would be well taken care of.

The cortège was quite magnificent: the elegant carriages carrying the many mourners leaving Burntwood Hall, the splendour of the black hearse which was drawn by six plumed black horses with their coats highly polished, carrying Sir John Somerville’s coffin, depicting everything he had attained in life.

Shrouded in black silk with a black lace veil attached to her bonnet and covering her pale face, Eve sat beside her maternal grandmother, the formidable Lady Abigail Pemberton, both in the carriage and in the church, taking strength from the older woman’s stiff, straightbacked figure, whose gloved hand clutched the gold knob of her walking cane so hard that her knuckles stood out sharply.

Her face behind her veil was grim, her thin mouth pressed in a hard line as she looked straight ahead, giving no indication of her thoughts or emotions, for she had been brought up in an age and society that had taught her it was not done to show one’s feelings in public, not even grief for the death of a dear son-in-law. Eve accepted the condolences of those who came to pay their respects graciously, sadly contemplating on what her future would be like without her father.



When the funeral was over they returned to Burntwood Hall, a large, stately Tudor manor house set in a wooded hamlet on the south side of Atwood, a prosperous and populous township where the Somervilles had lived from the sixteenth century. The mining of coal was anciently established in the area, the Somervilles one of several families dominating its production.

Apart from Mr Alex Soames, Eve’s father’s lawyer, sitting at the big, highly polished table, his elderly grey head bowed over her father’s last will and testament, few people were present for the reading, just a few important members of the household, Gerald Somerville, her grandmother and herself—and Mr Marcus Fitzalan from Netherley.

Marcus Fitzalan was tall and lean with strong muscled shoulders. His sharp, distinguished good looks and bearing demanded a second look—and, indeed, with his reputation for being an astute businessman with an inbred iron toughness, he was not a man who could be ignored. There was an authoritative, brisk, no-nonsense air about him and he had an easy, confident way of moving and a haughty way of holding his head. His hair, thick and jet black, was brushed back from his forehead, his cheek bones high and angular, making his face look severe.

Thirty years old, he was a striking-looking man with an enormous presence—a man Eve had met three years ago and had not seen since. It was an encounter which had been most unpleasant, one she did not wish to recall, for anger and the humiliation she had suffered at his hands still festered like a raw wound deep inside her. It was an encounter that had left a stain on her reputation and lost her the man she might have married.

From the moment Eve had seen Marcus Fitzalan in the church she had been unprepared for the uncontrollable tremor that shot through her. During the three years since she had last laid eyes on him, she thought she had remembered exactly what he looked like, but now she realised she was mistaken as her eyes refused to tear themselves away from the sheer male beauty of him.

He seemed to radiate a compelling magnetism, everything about him exuding a ruthless sensuality. He had a straight, aquiline nose which suggested arrogance, and his firm lips, which she knew to her cost, could be cynical or sensuous. His stark black brows were slashed across his forehead and his eyes were compelling, pale blue and clear. Hidden deep in their depths was humour, but also a watchfulness that made one wary. Eve found it hard to believe this was the same man who had kissed her so seductively and passionately three years ago.

When he had taken his seat across from her at the other side of the church in one of the tall box pews, he seemed to sense her watching him and had turned slowly. As their eyes met his dark brows lifted in bland enquiry. Eve caught her breath and felt heat scorch through her body before hastily looking away, ashamed that his look made her legs begin to quake and her treacherous heart to race, as it had on that other occasion when he had kissed her so devastatingly and sent her young, innocent heart soaring heavenwards.

His presence made her feel uneasy and she did her best to evade him, having no desire to come face to face with the man for whom she felt resentment heavy in her breast.

But her grandmother, always keen to meet the local gentry and, unlike her granddaughter, impressed by Mr Fitzalan’s importance and air of distinction, lost no time in acquainting herself once they were back at the house. She made sure that her granddaughter was introduced afterwards, ignorant of the fact that he was the man responsible for her ruin and disgrace, even though her father had packed Eve off to Cumbria to stay with her immediately after the unfortunate affair, the explanation being that a visit to her grandmother was long overdue.

Fortunately, her reputation had not been ruined beyond recall, the incident had soon passed over and she had returned home, but Marcus Fitzalan’s conduct towards her had left her with a deep sense of loathing and bitter humiliation.

He had left for a lengthy stay in London the following day, blissfully unaware of the furore he had left behind, thinking her nothing more than a promiscuous little flirt whom he had taught a harsh, yet valuable, lesson in life, and she had been too proud to let him think anything else—and it was that same pride that refused to let him see how deeply his callous behaviour towards her had hurt her.

‘Let me take you over to meet Mr Fitzalan, Eve. I find it difficult to believe you have never been properly introduced, considering he and your father were such good friends and partners in several business concerns,’ said her grandmother.

Panic gripped Eve as her grandmother began steering her in Mr Fitzalan’s direction. ‘I would really rather not, Grandmother. Besides—see—he is engaged in conversation with Mr and Mrs Lister. I would not wish to interrupt.’

Unfortunately, her grandmother was not to be put off. ‘Nonsense, Eve. Come along. Mr Fitzalan will not eat you, you know.’

Marcus turned as they approached, Mr and Mrs Lister moving on to speak to someone else. With Eve’s veil turned back over her bonnet, Marcus was able to look down into her white face, framed by hair of sable blackness, and their eyes met, frozen by time and memory. He thought how young she looked, more beautiful than he remembered, and he noticed how her soft lips trembled as she tilted her head back a little to look up at him.

With a warmth flooding and throbbing through his veins he remembered how it had felt to hold her, how soft and yielding her lips had been when she had kissed him with such tender passion, and how her body had moulded itself innocently into his own. He was seized by the same uncontrollable compulsion to repeat the pleasurable incident that had left a deep and lasting impression on him three years ago when she had sought him out at Atwood Fair.

A poignant memory came back to him of that time, of a bewitchingly beautiful young girl who had brazenly approached him and foolishly made an immature and improper attempt to seduce him—he later discovered for some mischievous prank concocted by her and her friends for their own amusement. But it was unfortunate that the man she had hoped to marry had found out about her indiscretion and spurned her because of it.

At the time he had regarded the incident with amusement, remembering how surprised she had been when he had turned the tables on her with an expert subtlety and started to play her at her own game. Because of her inexperience and ignorance of the rules of nature he had soon had her at his mercy. In no time at all she had been unable to prevent herself from becoming his victim—and he retained a poignant memory of how willingly she had melted in his arms.

But the incident had not turned out as either of them had intended, for he had continued to think of her. For a long time afterwards he had been unable to get her out of his mind. She had done something to him, aroused feelings he had not experienced before.

‘Mr Fitzalan, I would like to introduce you to my granddaughter, Eve Somerville—although I have just been saying to her how odd it is that the two of you have not been formaly introduced before, considering your close friendship with Sir John.’

Bowing his dark head slightly, Marcus looked at Eve with a gaze that seemed to look straight into her heart, seeing that her lovely eyes were shuttered, giving no insight as to what her feelings might be. With the exception of a muscle that tightened at the corner of his mouth his expression was impassive, his voice coolly polite when he spoke.

‘On the contrary, Lady Pemberton, we have met briefly, several years ago—although we were not properly introduced at the time,’ he said, without any hint of implications, for he was gravely conscious of the solemnity of the occasion and had no wish to embarrass Eve or cause any constraint between them. But Eve knew exactly to what he was referring. It was a meeting she would prefer to forget and she was angry that he had the audacity to allude to it now.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Miss Somerville,’ he continued. ‘However, had it not been for your father’s untimely death, I believe he was about to bring you over to Brooklands shortly,’ he told her, referring to his home. Taking her hand, he felt it tremble slightly. ‘May I offer you my condolences. What happened to your father was a tragedy. He will be sadly missed.’

With cool disdain she lifted her chin and smiled politely, trying to ignore the tightness at the base of her throat. ‘Thank you.’

‘Your grandmother has only recently returned from London, I believe,’ he said by way of conversation, as the aforesaid lady turned to speak to an acquaintance.

‘Yes,’ she replied stiffly, wishing he would go away and speak to someone else—anyone, just so long as she did not have to suffer his odious presence. ‘She has been visiting my Aunt Shona—my mother’s sister who lives in Bloomsbury with her family. She is travelling back to her home in Cumbria and thought she would break her journey to spend some time with me and my father here at Burntwood Hall. Sadly, it has not turned out as she expected. I am only thankful she arrived to see my father before the terrible accident happened.’

‘I am surprised you did not travel with her to London to visit your aunt.’

‘Had my father been in better health I might have—but as it was I did not wish to be away from home in—in case…’

‘I understand,’ he said quietly when she faltered, her tight façade of dignity slipping slightly, and for a brief moment she looked like a forlorn child. ‘Your father spoke of you often. Indeed, he told me so much about you that I feel I have known you all my life.’

‘Really!’ she retorted crisply, the shutters up once more. ‘You surprise me, Mr Fitzalan. So much of my father’s time was spent away from home, despite his illness, that I am flattered to learn he could find the time even to think of me, let alone to discuss me with a total stranger.’

‘Your father and I were hardly strangers, Miss Somerville. And,’ he said with a gentle lift to his eyebrows, holding her gaze steadily, ‘neither are we, come to think of it.’

‘Despite what took place between us on our previous encounter you are to me,’ Eve replied directly, her voice cool, finding it difficult to conceal her dislike. ‘However, when he was at home it may interest you to know that he always spoke of you a great deal, too, Mr Fitzalan,’ she said pointedly. ‘In fact, there was never a day went by when he did not sing your praises.’ Her voice held a faint trace of sarcasm and was cold, which she knew was reflected in her eyes.

‘I myself would hardly deem our meeting a pleasure,’ she continued, the impressionable, ignorant girl she had been when he had last seen her having fled away, although the remembrance of their encounter and the resulting chaos knifed through her as it had then.

Marcus frowned. ‘What happened between us was a long time ago. Surely now—especially at this time with your father so recently laid to rest—we can at least be friends.’

‘I doubt we can be friends now or in the future, Mr Fitzalan. After today it is most unlikely that our paths will cross again.’

His eyes became probing, penetrating hers like dagger thrusts, his face a hard, expressionless mask. ‘Don’t be too sure about that, Miss Somerville,’ he said quietly. ‘Atwood and Netherley are not so far apart—and your father and I were business partners as well as friends. I would say it is inevitable that we meet at some social event or other.’

‘We do not mix in the same society, Mr Fitzalan, but if we do chance to meet you will forgive me if I seem to avoid you.’

‘Come now, you were not so ill disposed towards me the last time we met,’ he said, his tone silky, easy, his eyes regarding her with fascinated amusement. ‘In fact, you were rather amiable, as I remember.’

‘You remember too much,’ Eve snapped, two sparks of anger showing briefly beneath her lowered lids. ‘It was an incident which I have had cause to reproach myself for many times.’

Undeterred by her show of anger Marcus chuckled softly, a glint of white teeth showing from between his parted lips. ‘I recall how you went off in an extremely disagreeable mood.’

‘I am still disagreeable and will remain so while ever I am in your company, Mr Fitzalan. Now you must excuse me. There are several people I must speak to before they depart.’

Before Marcus could reply and uncaring that her words might have given offence, Eve turned from him, seeing her friend Emma Parkinson moving towards her. Quickly she moved on, leaving her grandmother to carry on the conversation, determined not to give Mr Fitzalan another thought.

But it was not possible for her to dismiss a man of Marcus Fitzalan’s calibre from her mind—in fact, she thought with bitter irony, she doubted that anyone would be able to. Once met, he was not the kind of man who could be forgotten. When he had taken her hand he had kept it far too long in his hard grasp for her liking, and the fact that she had to look up at him had annoyed her, causing fresh resentment to flare up inside her, but she had been unable to take her eyes off his handsome features, which had caused him to arch his clearly defined eyebrows and a half-smile to curve his infuriatingly arrogant lips.

When he spoke, his voice was of a depth and timbre that was like a caress, causing a faint stroke of colour to sweep over her creamy skin, bringing a smile to his lips, for he knew exactly the effect he was having on her.

Despite the solemnity of the occasion, as she moved among the mourners who congregated at Burntwood Hall after the funeral, she was conscious of Marcus Fitzalan’s presence throughout, becoming annoyed with herself as she found her eyes unconsciously seeking him out, and she would find herself studying him when she thought he was not looking. But several times their eyes would meet and he made no attempt to hide the gleam of interest that entered his eyes as she felt herself undergoing the selfsame scrutiny.

Eve was not used to men of the world like Marcus Fitzalan, and for the first time in her life realised she was in danger of stepping out of her depth. He had a reputation as being one for the ladies, although he was always discreet in his affairs. By all accounts he was arrogant, conceited and ruthless—in fact, he was everything Eve hated. She had every reason to dislike him and, seeing him again for the first time in three years, she was determined that nothing would sway her from her opinion.

Waiting for Mr Soames to begin reading the will, Eve could feel Marcus’s eyes on her yet again, vibrant, alarmingly alive, assessing her in a way she found offensive as he stood by the window, looking for all the world as if he owned the place.

He was a neighbour and an associate in several of her father’s business concerns, a man her father had been extremely fond of, as well as being a wealthy land and mine owner in his own right, so there was nothing unusual about his presence for the reading of the will.

The Fitzalans had had to struggle to achieve prosperity as opposed to the Somervilles, who were rich not only in wealth but also in lineage. Marcus’s grandfather had been an astute, self-made man, seizing on the opportunities to be achieved by the mining of coal, knowing it was fuel for a whole range of industrial processes and for the new generation of industrial workers—and also knowing there was no shortage of it beneath the soil of Britain.

Reaching some degree of financial ability, he had bought fifty acres of land adjacent to the Somerville estate and opened his own mine—Atwood Mine. Coal had enabled him to sink more mines and given him the means to build Brooklands—a house to be envied and admired—but after a series of serious mishaps Atwood Mine had fallen into the hands of John Somerville.

Marcus’s handsome eyes raked the face of the girl sitting primly at the table across the room without her bonnet. His eyes dwelt on her hair, as ebony black and shiny like his own, her eyebrows arched and sleek, her neck rising graceful and swanlike from her slender shoulders. There was a creamy smoothness to her skin with a soft blush on her angular cheeks, giving a slant to her large and mysterious violet-coloured eyes that held his like magnets. Her lips were luscious, her chin pert with a stubborn thrust, and all these attractive features were encompassed in a perfect, heart-shaped face.

She was beautiful, slim and vibrant, the gentle curve of her young breasts straining beneath the bodice of her black dress. She still had the looks of a child, but there was something bold and defiant in the way her eyes locked on to his, which told him she was no innocent and that she possessed a spirit as strong and rebellious as his own, giving him the feeling that in this seemingly fragile girl he might have met his match.

After Mr Soames had read out the generous bequests Sir John Somerville had made to his loyal retainers and they had quietly left the room, everyone waited for him to continue as he licked his lips nervously, focusing his gaze on Eve.

With growing impatience Gerald Somerville was sitting with bated breath for Sir John’s will to be read out, finding it difficult to control his excitement. It was like finding a treasure chest just waiting to be opened. His hooded eyes were transfixed on Mr Soames, knowing he was about to inherit the title and complete control over his cousin’s property, which would elevate him at last from the penury and insecurity that had bedevilled him for far too long. It was a moment he had waited for, a moment which had come sooner rather than later owing to the tragic, but fortuitous, carriage accident which had killed Sir John.

Always the poor relation, all his life Gerald had hated poverty and dreamed of being rich and enjoying all that money could buy. He had loathed his respectable home and his parents’ dull existence. Aware that he was heir to Sir John’s estate he was impatient, knowing that it could be years before he came into his inheritance, but on learning of his cousin’s increasing ill health he had quietly rubbed his hands with hopeful anticipation, suspecting he would not have too long to wait after all. He bided his time, enjoying the adventures and excitement in the gaming rooms of London, which had become his haunts on the death of his parents, seeing gambling as a chance to become rich and powerful, which he craved.

‘What I am about to disclose will come as something of a shock, Eve, and you must understand that the will was written at a very difficult time of your father’s life,’ said Mr Soames gently, looking at her in a kind and sympathetic way, having known her from birth.

Her parents had spoilt and cosseted her to excess from the moment she was born, sheltering and allowing her to go her own wilful way—until three years ago, when, by her own foolishness, she had suffered a lapse from grace and her mother had died, causing her much grief. Her sorrow had increased in intensity when Sir John had become ill soon afterwards with a cancer that had slowly begun to eat its way through his wretched body.

Sitting perched on the edge of her seat as if her backbone was made of hard steel, Eve tried to fight off her growing alarm. Until now she had believed that the reading of the will was to be a mere formality, confident that she knew exactly what it contained and having no reason to be concerned—that even though the estate was in entailment and that no part of it could be sold to provide for her, her father would have seen to it that she would be well taken care of.

But suddenly she felt herself grow tense and anxious, sensing instinctively by the tone of Mr Soames’s voice that all was not as it should be. Her throat went dry and she spoke with difficulty.

‘A shock? But why should it be a shock? What precisely do you mean, Mr Soames? My father has left me well taken care of, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes—that is so, but it may not be what you are expecting.’ He focused his eyes on Gerald, who was watching him intently, every muscle in his face tense. ‘The entire estate—that is, the land, the house and other properties—both here and in London, are to go to you, sir.’

Eve waited, going colder by the second, trying not to look at Gerald as he tried to conceal his triumph, knowing there was little left to come her way but expecting her father to have made a substantial sum over to her.

‘You, Eve,’ Mr Soames went on, shifting his gaze once more to her, ‘are to receive an annuity in the sum of two thousand pounds a year.’

When he fell silent she waited in expectant anticipation, expecting him to continue, to tell her there was more, until she realised there was nothing more. Her heart rose up to choke her and she stared at him in absolute confusion and astonishment.

‘But—but that’s not possible. There must be some mistake. There has to be. My father’s assets—he—he was an extremely wealthy man. It has to be more than this.’

‘There is no mistake,’ he said quietly, his voice penetrating the mist of Eve’s bemused senses. ‘His main assets are private matters and have nothing to do with the estate—namely, his shares in several coal mines and interests in various industrial concerns and so forth, several of them in which he and Mr Fitzalan were partners and which he made over to him before he died.’

All the colour drained out of Eve’s face and her hand rose and clasped the collar of her black mourning dress. She was stunned, unable to believe what he had told her. A silence fell upon the room which seemed to last an age, the small assembly around her becoming shadowy, faceless figures, all staring at her, until Gerald, acknowledging his good fortune in inheriting the estate—and yet beginning to feel a trifle perplexed that not all Sir John’s property had passed on to him as he had expected it would—began talking animatedly to Mr Soames about what it would mean to him, with little regard for the pain and disappointment that was tearing Eve apart.

The still, quiet figure of Lady Pemberton sat rigidly on her chair towards the back of the room, neither shock nor surprise disturbing the marble severity of her face, but her eyes and ears missed nothing. Only the hand cupping the gold knob of her cane gave any indication of the way she felt, for it gripped the knob hard, so hard that her knuckle bones nearly punctured the thin white skin covering them.

Only Marcus seemed to be aware of the pain Eve was suffering. She was young and unable to deal with the dilemma in which she found herself. As he looked at her his gaze was secretive and seemed to probe beneath the surface, but he could see by the terror in her eyes, how her face had become drained of blood and the way her fingers clutched her throat, that this unexpected blow from her father had hit her hard.

From what Sir John had told him he knew she was a strong-minded girl who would know how to take care of herself well enough, but it was only a girl who was behind the artificial ageing of bereavement, and it would not be easy for her to get over something like this.

Something in the region of his heart softened and he wanted to go to her and offer some words of comfort, wishing he could erase the sad, stricken look from her face, but he knew by the cold hostility she had not attempted to conceal when they had been introduced after the funeral, and in her eyes when she looked at him, that by his own fault she would not welcome his sympathy.

‘Is that it? Am I to get nothing else?’ she asked, her voice surprisingly calm, but so quiet Mr Soames had difficulty hearing her. ‘With all his wealth, did my father make no other financial provision for me? Am I to be reduced to such dire straits that I must starve?’

Mr Soames was beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable before Eve’s hard gaze and his eyes wavered as he looked down at the papers in front of him, coughing nervously. ‘No—it is not quite as bad as that.’

‘Then please tell me. And where am I to live?’

‘Perhaps when I have explained everything to you it will be much clearer. Your father did not leave you as destitute as it would seem—for, as you know, he always had your best interests at heart. But there are certain conditions to be adhered to—certain clauses that may seem strange to you.’

‘Conditions? What kind of conditions?’

‘That you and Mr Marcus Fitzalan marry within six months of his death.’

Eve was so stunned she was unable to speak.

‘Should this be agreeable to you both,’ Mr Soames went on hurriedly, wanting to get this unpleasant part of reading the will over and done with as quickly as possible, ‘Atwood Mine—of which your father was the sole owner—will become yours jointly.’

The words came as a shattering blow to Gerald, whose face became as white as his frothing lace cravat, bringing an angry exclamation to his lips and jolting him to his feet, causing all heads to turn in his direction. ‘No, sir. It will not do. This I cannot accept. Atwood Mine is Sir John’s main asset and is surely entailed with the rest of his estate.’

‘That is not the case. Sir John purchased the lease, not the land. As everyone is aware Atwood Mine—which is the largest and most profitable mine in the area—was sunk by Mr Fitzalan’s grandfather and the lease sold by Mrs Fitzalan to Sir John privately on the death of her husband. The lease has another fifteen years to run—with the rent arranged annually on a scale related to the amount of coal mined. You are correct in saying it was Sir John’s greatest asset, and it was his wish that the lease be returned to the Fitzalan family—providing Mr Marcus Fitzalan marries his daughter Eve.’

Eve looked at Gerald properly for the first time that day. Both his parents were dead, and his home, where his younger brother Matthew—a quiet, gentle young man whom she knew well and had a strong liking for—still lived, was three miles from Burntwood Hall, but for most of the time he resided in London and she had not seen him for several months.

He had been a frequent visitor to Burntwood Hall in the past, and both she and her father had shared a very low opinion of him. On his last visit she noticed how changed he was towards her, as if he noticed for the first time that she was no longer a child but a young woman. She hadn’t liked the way he looked at her—too long and too hard, and not in the least like a relation who should know better than to lust after his cousin’s daughter.

Seeing him now, she liked him even less. At one time she had thought him to be as handsome as a Greek god, with hair the colour of spun gold and looks that made every woman he came into contact with swoon and fall at his feet. He was more corpulent than when she had last seen him, but he was a handsome figure still, though soft living and overindulgence had blurred him somewhat and there was a seediness creeping through.

At twenty-eight he had been spoilt by an adoring mother and fawned over and adored by countless women. He thought he had only to wink an eye to have any one of them tumble into his bed; if all the stories about him were to be believed, then there was an army of women he had enjoyed and then grown tired of, casting them aside as one would discard a worn-out toy. In the past he had been involved in one scandal after another, causing her father acute embarrassment.

As her gaze focused on his face she saw his expression was closed as he watched, his brown eyes, glittering with menace, darting from her to Marcus Fitzalan. They were filled with such hatred that her heart skipped a beat. His slack lips were set in a slight smile that was not pleasant; in fact, there was something about him that reminded her of something sinister and evil.

Her eyes shifted from Gerald and travelled across the room to meet the cold, pale-blue implacable stare of Marcus Fitzalan, where he still stood with what she could only describe as lounging insolence. He seemed so cool, so self-assured, while she felt as if she were falling apart.




Chapter Two


M arcus Fitzalan’s expression was unreadable, but Eve suspected he must be feeling every bit as shocked and horrified as she was. Or was he? she asked herself. It was no secret that her father had been an ill man, whose health had deteriorated rapidly over the last few months. The doctor had given him another twelve months to live at the most, and being such close friends, was it possible that this had been contrived by Mr Fitzalan in order to get his hands on Atwood Mine? After all, there wasn’t a man or woman in the whole of Atwood or Netherley who didn’t know how much he wanted it returned once more to his family. A wave of sick disgust swept over her.

‘Did you know about this?’ she demanded, having to fight to keep her anger in check, the horror of that first dreadful shock having left her eyes. ‘Did my father discuss this with you?’

‘No, he did not,’ he said crisply, giving no indication of the initial rush of gratitude that had washed over him towards Sir John for making it possible for him to own his father’s mine once more, for sentimental reasons rather than profit—the enormous wealth he accumulated from his other mines and business ventures provided him with more than adequate profit to enable him to maintain Brooklands and live comfortably.

The condition that he marry Sir John’s daughter did not pose a problem—providing she was agreeable. He was confident that despite the hostility she so clearly felt towards him she could be persuaded, for he seemed to have a power over women that often puzzled him. They had a way of retaining him in their minds and once met he was never forgotten, but no woman had ever managed to push him over the edge and into marriage—the love of his life being his work. But with Atwood Mine being offered to him he was prepared to adhere to any conditions Sir John had made.

Eve stared at him with angry, bewildered eyes. This was too much. Her father should have called Marcus Fitzalan out and shot him over his disgraceful behaviour towards her, after he had degraded and humiliated her so shockingly. How could he have been so audacious as to arrange a marriage for her with him when he had almost ruined her? The very idea was unthinkable—impossible.

‘I cannot possibly agree to this,’ she said furiously, beginning to lose control of her precariously held temper. ‘What can my father have been thinking of to ask this of me? He should not have done it. Why did he not tell me what he intended?’

‘Perhaps he would have—but for the accident,’ said Mr Soames. ‘It was very sudden.’

‘Nevertheless it is quite preposterous. Let me make it quite plain here and now that I will never agree to conditions such as these.’

Marcus remained silent, but roused from his complacent stance by the window he moved towards the table.

‘Shouldn’t you at least consider it?’ said Mr Soames. ‘When you get over the shock and weigh up what it will mean to you both—is it really so preposterous as all that?’

‘Yes, it is—to me. It was quite outrageous of my father to expect me to marry on these terms. I have been troublesome in the past, I know, but I have done nothing to contribute to his decision to treat me so shockingly. Clearly he was sick in mind as well as body—or it was done for some malicious reason of his own. He seems to have thought of everything.’

Marcus shot her an angry look. ‘Hasn’t he just. But your father was not insane and nor was he a malicious man, Miss Somerville—and you do him a grave injustice by accusing him of such. Being a man of honour and integrity, a man who considered the well being of others before his own throughout his life, I am sure he thought this over very carefully before laying down conditions that are clearly so abhorrent to you,’ he said coolly, in defence of her father, fixing her with an icy, hard stare.

Eve’s own eyes snapped back at him, angered that he of all people should have the temerity to reproach her like a naughty child, although she did regret using the word ‘malicious’, which was spoken unintentionally and in the heat of the moment. Mr Fitzalan was right. Her father had been a caring and gentle man and as honest as the day is long, and could not be accused of being ‘malicious’, but she did not need the likes of Marcus Fitzalan to tell her so.

‘And you would know, wouldn’t you, Mr Fitzalan?’ she said heatedly, accusingly, blinded with wrath, standing up and lifting her head imperiously, meeting his gaze boldly and squaring her chin in her proud challenge to his authority.

‘From the amount of time the two of you spent together you must have got to know my father very well. Knowing what little time he had left, was it your intention to wheedle your way into his good graces in an attempt to persuade him to transfer the lease of Atwood Mine back to you? After all, everyone knows how keen you are to get your hands on it once more.’

Her accusation bit deep, causing Marcus’s own temper to rise. His lean face darkened and his metallic eyes narrowed furiously, warningly, and Eve felt the effort it was costing him to keep his rage under control.

‘I refute that. I have been accused of many things, Miss Somerville, and have been the subject of much gossip and speculation over the years, but let me make it clear that, contrary to what you might think of me, it is not in my nature to stoop so low as to acquire anything by flattery or guile. I held your father in the highest regard and knew he was a very sick man—but not how sick. We were friends, good friends, and I thought—and hoped—him fit for a good many years to come.’

His lip curled scornfully across his even white teeth as he spoke softly and with a menacing calm. ‘At any other time—and if you were a man—I would take you to task for such an insult, but this is neither the time nor the occasion for doing so.’

‘That is extremely civil of you, Mr Fitzalan. But I do not retract what I said,’ Eve retorted, trying to speak with the utmost composure while growing more and more angry by the second.

‘That is your prerogative. I understand that you have justifiable reason to be shocked by the contents of your father’s will and that you are naturally quite distraught by your tragic loss—which I shall put down to being the reason for your outburst—so I shall take no offence and will ignore the affront to my character.’

His voice sounded calm, giving everyone the impression that he was not in the least put out by her insulting remark, but Eve was not deceived for his mouth hardened and his eyes flared like molten quicksilver, daring her to say more. But she refused to cower before him. Her eyes flashed defiance and her face assumed an expression of hardened resentment.

She opened her mouth to challenge his statement but the expression in his eyes made her close it quickly. With her lips clamped together she averted her gaze, considering it prudent to let the matter rest—for now.

Everyone present had listened to the angry altercation between them in astonishment and silence, amazed that Eve could have been so outspoken and unable to think of anything that could justify such behaviour, but, like Marcus, they put it down to her being overwrought and her dispirited and anxious state of mind. Only Gerald remained watchful, a ruthless gleam lighting up his eyes.

Marcus chose to put the matter from his mind—hoping that everyone else would do the same—but it was not forgotten.

‘What happens to the bequest if we do not marry?’ he asked, prising his eyes away from Eve’s stony expression and fixing them on Mr Soames, trying hard to ignore the burning hatred in Gerald Somerville’s eyes as they bored into him. He knew how Gerald had coveted Atwood Mine and how cheated he must be feeling on discovering that the estate had been creamed of its most lucrative asset—an asset Gerald had been depending on to help clear an outstanding debt of thousands of pounds he had acquired through gambling, having borrowed the money to settle his debt from ruthless moneylenders who would stop at nothing until it was repaid with extortionate interest.

But Marcus also knew how hard Sir John had worked to achieve success where Atwood Mine was concerned, and how much he had wanted it kept out of the hands of his cousin, who would have little interest in the mine itself, only the wealth it would bring to him.

‘You get nothing,’ said Mr Soames in answer to his question.

‘Nothing!’ whispered Eve, deeply shocked, turning her attention to her father’s lawyer. ‘But what will I do? Where am I to live.’

‘Should a marriage between you and Mr Fitzalan not take place you will get your annuity, of course, and he has made provisions for you to live with your grandmother in Cumbria.’

‘And the mine?’ asked Marcus abruptly.

‘Will revert to Mr Gerald Somerville and his heirs until the lease has run out, at which time it will be up to you or your heir—should you not be alive at the time—to decide whether or not it is renewed.’

A cold and calculating gleam entered Gerald’s eyes when he realised all might not be lost after all. It would appear that all he had to do was prevent Eve from entering into a marriage with Marcus Fitzalan, and if he wasn’t mistaken that shouldn’t prove too difficult—not when he observed that every time she looked at him or spoke to him, she did so with unconcealed hostility.

‘I realise that no one can force you to marry,’ Mr Soames went on, ‘that is for you to choose—but I ask you to give very serious thought to the matter.’

Marcus nodded, his face grim. ‘You can count on it.’

Eve scowled at him. ‘The day I marry you, Mr Fitzalan, will be the day hell freezes over. We do not suit.’ She returned her attention once more to Mr Soames, ignoring Marcus’s black look. ‘Did my father give no explanation when he laid down these conditions?’

‘I’m afraid not. Whatever it was that prompted him to do it I cannot say—and indeed, we may never know. I think, perhaps, that if he had lived a little longer, he might have explained everything to you. As you know, your father and I were friends for a good many years, and I knew him well enough to know he would not have set down these conditions without good reason. Knowing his death was imminent sharpened his anxiety to procure a suitable match for you.’

‘But what if Mr Fitzalan had decided to marry someone else before my father died?’ asked Eve, wishing he had.

‘Your father knew Mr Fitzalan had no one in mind—and, considering your father had only a few months left to live—a year at the most—he thought it unlikely that Mr Fitzalan would do so before his death.’

Eve looked at Marcus Fitzalan and could see that he was contemplating what the loss of the mine would mean to him—and to her. Then she saw herself living in the harsh, craggy wilderness of Cumbria with her grandmother, where everyday life can be particularly severe and so remote she would see no one from one day’s end to the next. The thought was not pleasant.

Turning his gaze on Eve once more, Marcus’s black brows drew together in a deep frown. He seemed to sense what was going through her mind.

Feeling betrayed, abandoned and unable to think clearly because of the shock all this had been to her, Eve rose suddenly, clenching her fists in the folds of her dress to stop them from shaking.

‘Please, excuse me,’ she said, turning and crossing to the door with a quiet dignity, having no wish to stay and hear more, only a strong desire to be by herself.

Not wanting to leave the matter in suspension indefinitely—which, he suspected, was what Miss Somerville intended doing—with long strides Marcus followed her out of the room into the large dark panelled hall, closing the door behind them. Two sleek liver and white hounds lay curled up in front of a huge stone hearth where a fire burned bright in an iron grate, despite the heat of the summer’s day. They stretched languidly, each cocking an uninterested eye in the direction of the intruders before resuming their doze in a state of blissful lassitude, ignoring the disturbance.

‘Wait,’ Marcus commanded. ‘We cannot leave matters like this.’

Eve paused at the sound of his voice and turned and faced him, extremely conscious of his towering, masculine presence. The immaculate cut of his coat was without a crease, moulding his strong shoulders. As his ice blue eyes swept over her his expression was grim and Eve felt extremely uncomfortable at the way he was regarding her—no doubt assessing her suitability as a possible wife, she thought wryly.

Having recovered some of her self-possession, she threw back her shoulders and lifted her head, the action meaning to tell him she was in control of herself. He felt a stirring of admiration for the way in which she conducted herself, but looking into her lovely violet eyes he could see they were as turbulent as storm clouds and that she had withdrawn inside herself to a place where she could not be reached.

‘This has come as a shock to you, I can see,’ he said, glad to be out of earshot of the others.

‘Yes. I am both shocked and disappointed. I cannot imagine what prompted my father to do this,’ she said, trying to keep a stranglehold on her emotions, ‘unless, of course, he had a momentary lapse of his senses when he saw fit to make these conditions in his will in the first place. But the last thing I want right now, Mr Fitzalan, is a husband—and when I do I would prefer to choose my own.’

Faced with her anger, Marcus paled and his eyes glittered like steel flints as he tried, with great difficulty, to keep his own anger in check, knowing exactly why she was doing her utmost to make matters as difficult as possible between them. She was still embittered by what had happened between them three years ago—although why she should continue to be so baffled him, for she had no one to blame but herself. Was it usual that the moment her will was crossed she started the sparks flying and spitting fire?

‘And I have no more need of a wife than you a husband, Miss Somerville,’ he replied, his voice carrying anger. ‘However, if we want to hold on to the mine then we have no choice but to heed your father’s wishes and make the best of it.’

‘And how do you know that is what I want? How can you possibly know?’ she said, her voice as cold as her face, whilst inside her stomach was churning. ‘As far as I am concerned the mine is the last thing on my mind at this moment. Marriage to me is important and I am hardly likely to walk into it blindly with a man who has treated me so abominably—to put my trust and myself completely in your power for the whole of my life. Besides, it is hardly flattering to know you would only be marrying me for what I could bring, Mr Fitzalan.’

‘The same could be said of yourself, Miss Somerville,’ he replied coldly. He gave her a hard look, his mouth tightening as he stared down at her. ‘Are you always so difficult?’

‘I can be as impossible as I like when something—or someone—upsets me,’ she answered.

He arched an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I suppose that is something I shall have to get used to if we are to make anything of your father’s will. Tell me, are you well acquainted with Gerald Somerville?’

‘No. I believe he has been in London himself and has only returned to the north this last week. We have met frequently over the years, but I cannot say that I know him at all well. My grandmother does not hold him in high regard and saw nothing of him while she was in town.’

Marcus’s lips twisted with slight scorn. ‘How could she? The kind of world your father’s cousin inhabits is a nighttime world of gambling and high living. There is no polite way to describe him. He is a slippery character and he has only one motive in life: to serve himself. He’d be considered a joke if he were not so ruthless in everything he does. He is to be found anywhere the beau monde chooses to congregate, and has an inability to resist the gambling halls and social whirl of London.’

‘That I am already aware of.’

‘His own estate is falling apart and bankruptcy is staring him in the face. He has lived in penury for most of his life and Sir John’s death has suddenly elevated him to an attainable position. I do not believe it will be too long before the estate shows signs of neglect as he uses it as a means to pay off his debts—which, I know for a fact, are astronomical.’

Wanting desperately to escape the threat she imagined this overbearing man suddenly posed to her life, Eve stepped back from him abruptly. ‘Do you think I haven’t worked that out for myself? It’s what I have always known. But it would seem you know Gerald well, Mr Fitzalan. Perhaps he frequents the same seedy establishments as yourself—is that it?’

‘I am very particular in choosing my friends, Miss Somerville,’ Marcus replied scathingly, choosing to ignore her outspoken attack on his social habits. ‘Your father’s cousin has a reputation for spending far more than his own father could support when he was alive. It is my misfortune to be a member of the same club—White’s in St James’s—and I was witness to him squandering his entire fortune at the card tables at a single sitting.’

Eve stared at him in astonishment. ‘Might I ask how much?’

‘If you are interested. It was thirty-five thousand pounds.’

She was stunned, unable to believe anybody could lose so much money, although her Aunt Shona had told her on one of her visits to London, that the rattling of a dice box or ill luck at cards, could well result in many a gentleman’s country estate being lost, and that as a result suicides were not uncommon.

‘But that is an enormous sum of money.’

‘Indeed it is. It is not something that can be dismissed with a flick of the wrist.’

‘And what did he do? Could he pay?’

Marcus smiled indulgently at her naïvety. ‘No. His estate was already mortgaged up to the hilt. Facing ruination, anyone else would have shot himself—but not Gerald Somerville. He took the only option and borrowed the money from unscrupulous moneylenders—who, on learning of your father’s death and knowing Gerald was his heir, have called in the loan…with astronomical interest. These men are ruthless and show no mercy to those who cannot pay. I have heard that they are exerting enormous pressure on him, so I don’t wonder at his anger on finding Atwood Mine is not his by right. He is in deep water. He needs it desperately to pay off his loan and get the these men off his back.’

Eve was astounded to learn all this. ‘I—I had no idea Gerald’s situation was so serious.’

‘Yes, it is. Inheriting your father’s estate will have come as a godsend to him—but your father has seen to it that he has not come into a fortune. Through his own hard work and good management the estate has never been so prosperous, and if Gerald is sensible and takes legal advice on how to settle his loan, then it will continue to be so—but if he does not mend his ways then I am afraid that in no time at all you will begin to see signs of its decline. Everything your father has worked so hard to achieve will be eradicated in one fell swoop.’

Eve winced, the very idea of her beloved home being mortgaged to pay off Gerald’s gambling debts and falling into the greedy hands of moneylenders and suchlike angering her beyond words. But there was nothing she could do.

‘Which is why your father made quite sure his financial affairs were put in order before he died.’

‘It’s a pity he did not consider putting me before his financial affairs,’ Eve remarked bitterly. ‘It seems to me that I was as much his property as Atwood Mine.’

‘But a more desirable property,’ Marcus smiled, his expression softening.

‘Am I?’ she remarked coldly. ‘I’m glad you think so, Mr Fitzalan, but that does not alter the fact that you cannot have one without the other—or, at least, you cannot have the mine without me, whereas you would not have me without the mine by choice.’

Marcus frowned with annoyance. ‘You do me an injustice, Miss Somerville. I am not nearly as mercenary as you make me out to be.’

‘And I have every reason to think you are,’ she shot back at him, referring to their encounter three years ago. ‘But what if I do not agree to marry you? And if my father thought so highly of you, why did he not leave Atwood Mine to you outright, knowing how important it is to you? It would certainly have avoided all these complications and I would not be faced with the daunting prospect of marrying a man not of my choosing—a man I have every reason in the world to despise. I could as easily have gone to Cumbria to live with my grandmother—or to London to my Aunt Shona.’

‘He knew that—just like he knew you would see the sense in what he was asking of you. I tend to share Mr Soames’s view.’

‘And that is?’

‘That, if it were not for his untimely death, he would have explained it to you himself—and to me. He probably believed you would fall prey to all manner of fortune hunters if you were left alone.’

‘What? Two thousand pounds is hardly a fortune, Mr Fitzalan.’

‘Two thousand pounds is a great deal of money to men who have nothing, Miss Somerville. Perhaps the conditions he laid down were his way of making sure you would be taken care of. Do not forget that your father desired only your peace of mind and future happiness. You must believe that.’

‘Which is why he has suggested making you my keeper, is that not so, Mr Fitzalan?’ she said scathingly. ‘However, I do not need you or anyone else to tell me what my own father desired for me,’ she said, lowering her head so he would not see the tears collecting her eyes.

‘Your husband—not your keeper,’ Marcus contradicted in a low voice.

‘Nevertheless, I confess I am bewildered by all this. It’s a riddle I cannot begin to comprehend. I always believed I knew how his mind worked—but it seems I was wrong. I would like to know why, knowing how I feel about you, he has used what can only be described as emotional blackmail to virtually force me into marriage with you. If I decide not to abide by his wishes, and I am sorely tempted not to,’ she said rebelliously, ‘then Gerald will stand to benefit enormously.’

‘That is true—and I implore you to consider his wishes seriously.’

Eve sighed deeply, so confused her head was spinning. Since her mother’s death and the onset of her father’s illness, she had stubbornly refused to consider the future and what it would mean to her when the inevitable happened, but now the future was with her and she was unprepared for the life that was being thrust at her. When she spoke a touch of anger had come to add to the bitterness of her disappointment.

‘Oh, I shall. I always knew how much my father’s work meant to him—Atwood Mine and all his other concerns—but it did not occur to me until now that he would allow his loyalty to all that, and to you, to affect his dealings with me, his daughter. Please—you must excuse me,’ she said quickly. ‘All this has come as something of a shock. I need some time to myself.’

‘Of course. I fully understand. I am leaving myself presently. I realise that you are your own mistress—but anger is a bad counsellor. Do not allow it to influence your decision, and do not foolishly refuse what is your due.’ He sighed. ‘We both have much to think about. I shall return to Burntwood Hall when you’ve had time to recover from today and we can talk seriously about what is to be done,’ he said, standing aside to let her pass.

‘Yes—thank you,’ she said stiffly. ‘Goodbye, Mr Fitzalan.’

Marcus watched her go, staring thoughtfully after her. Meeting Eve Somerville for the first time in three years had been like being a contestant in the first round of a boxing match. She was possessed of the most formidable temper he’d ever witnessed in a woman, having a tongue that could flay the meanest man, gladly stamping on his pieces of lacerated flesh before finally pulverising them into dust with the heel of her pretty foot.

He realised that the lady was a termagant, but he sensed she had a magic quality—if she chose to use it. Troubled, he turned to go back to Alex Soames, his expression tightening, his brows drawn together in an ominous black line when he continued to think of her.

He had felt a slight sense of shock the first time she had looked at him fully, when her grandmother had brought her to be introduced to him after the funeral. There was something in her eyes that set his pulse racing and he felt a great sense of excitement—as he had on that other occasion when he had had her at his mercy three years ago. She looked very young—almost a child—yet he already knew that behind the childlike exterior there was a ripe sensuality just bursting to be set free.

Instinctively, he knew that no matter how in control and confident she might conceivably be, she had that bewitching quality that could well captivate a man and enslave him for life—a burgeoning femme fatale. Yet, when he recollected how outspoken she had been at the reading of the will, of the insult she had thrown at him and how quick she was to anger, then he would make damned sure she curbed that temper of hers if she became his wife; if she did not come to heel, she would feel more than the length of his tongue.



When he entered the room once more, his eyes were cold and without expression as he took stock of Gerald Somerville and observed the unconcealed greed glittering in his eyes, knowing it would be exceedingly profitable for him if Marcus did not marry Eve. But there was something else lurking in their depths, something unpleasantly sinister and unconcealed as their eyes locked—a moment in which each of them knew they were mortal enemies.

Marcus had meant what he said when he had told Eve that Gerald Somerville was not unknown to him. He was a notorious rake about town, a man with a sordid reputation, and he was well acquainted with his depraved and corrupt ways, that differed greatly from the accepted standards of behaviour.

He remembered well the night Gerald had faced ruination, and the card game which he himself had been privy to. He’d been at White’s, seen with his own eyes the money Gerald had lost—and Gerald was aware that he knew and hated him for knowing. He recalled seeing his fellow players sitting intently round the the table watching Gerald lose, and not even wearing his loose frieze greatcoat inside out—which was often the case by those hoping to win—had brought Gerald luck.

He’d heard it rumoured the following day that in desperation Gerald had borrowed the money to pay off his debt from moneylenders—men without scruples who would resort to any foul and violent means to reclaim loans—digging himself deeper into the mire.

Gerald’s expression became set and grim, his eyes shining with a deadly glitter as his gaze became fixed, his feelings for Marcus clearly beyond words. He was filled with an impotent, cold black fury on finding himself cheated by Marcus Fitzalan out of something that he coveted.

Gerald was the kind of man Marcus despised and went out of his way to avoid. Because he knew that nothing was beneath Gerald, that he might even attempt persuading—or, even worse, compromising—Eve into marrying him in order to revert Atwood Mine to him, Marcus was even more determined to return to Burntwood Hall very soon to save Eve from herself in securing her hand in marriage.



Later, slipping out of the house unseen by the few remaining mourners who still lingered on, content to partake of the late Sir John’s liquor and to talk and rekindle old memories and dwell on times they had shared, in the falling dusk Eve took the path towards the church, glad there was no one about so that she could be alone, to pay one last visit to her parents’ grave before the day that had heralded such a change to her life ended.

She opened the gate into the churchyard, which was enclosed by a high stone wall covered by a wild tangle of weeds and ivy. A mass of ancient yew trees, black in the gathering gloom, were in stark contrast to the creamy sandstone church. All around her was silence, a sudden stillness, as drifting clouds passed over the moon just beginning to appear.

The churchyard was a sad and sorrowful place and Eve moved along the paths in sympathy to nature’s silence, the huge, cold grey gravestones covered in lichen and casting looming, grotesque shadows in the gathering gloom. Coming to a halt, she stood looking down at the mound of newly dug earth and clay strewn with flowers, noticing how they were already beginning to wilt and to lose all their frail beauty. Tomorrow they too would be dead. She felt a terrible pain wrench her heart when she contemplated the lifeless forms of her parents lying side by side beneath the soil.

Unlike their ancestors before them who had been interred inside the church, her parents had long since chosen to be buried side by side in the churchyard. Unable to contain the grief that had been accumulating in her heart since her father’s accident, tears started in her eyes and streamed down her face.

She fell to her knees and bowed her head as she finally gave way under the long strain that possessed her. All her reserve was gone and she began to cry dementedly, her body shaking with an uncontrollable reservoir of grief, bewilderment and betrayal—unable to understand why her father, who had loved her, had treated her so harshly, unaware as she wept of the tall, silent figure that stood watching her from the gate.

Having taken longer to depart from Burntwood Hall than he had intended, Marcus had come to the churchyard to pay his final respects to the man who had become more than a friend to him over the few years he had known him, a man to whom he owed so much. He paused at the gate on seeing the kneeling, sorrowing figure beside the grave, only just able to make out in the dusk the profile of Eve Somerville, her slender form racked with grief.

His heart contracted with pain and pity, for never had he seen or heard so much desolation in anyone before. He took a step, intending to go to her, but checked himself, thinking it would be best to leave her, that it would do her good to cry, for he suspected there was no one in that great house to offer her comfort. He had to fight the urge to go to her, to take her in his arms and hold her, to caress the soft cloud of hair that had tumbled loose from its pins and fell in wanton disarray about her lovely face.

Aware of his own inadequacy he cursed softly, knowing that Eve Somerville had made a deep and lasting impression on him, penetrating his tough exterior and finding a way into his heart as no other woman had done before. It took all his willpower to tear his eyes from her forlorn figure, to turn and walk away—but it was a picture he knew would never leave him.




Chapter Three


L ater, feeling drained of all emotion and extremely tired, Eve sought the sanctuary of her room, curling up in the large winged chair by the fire and closing her eyes, unable to cast Marcus Fitzalan from her mind. Falling into a fitful doze, she found her mind drifting back over the years to the time of Atwood Fair, when she had been seventeen years old, amazed that she should remember every detail and all the words he had said to her, which, because of the humiliation it never failed to evoke, she always refused to do.

She remembered that it had all begun as a silly, girlish prank on the day of the fair—although it could be said that the nature of the prank was not the kind any respectable, well brought-up young lady would have indulged in.

Knowing how much the townspeople looked forward to seeing them, normally her parents showed their faces for just a little while, allowing Eve to accompany them, but this time her mother was not feeling well so was unable to attend. However, knowing how much Eve loved the fair and not wishing to disappoint her, she allowed her to go in the company of Mrs Parkinson, a good friend and the wife of a reputable local squire, whose own daughter Emma was Eve’s closest friend. She was confident that she would be well chaperoned and that Mrs Parkinson would see that she did not get up to any mischief.

Atwood Fair was a tremendous social event and the highlight of the year, when the close-knit families of Atwood and the surrounding countryside came together to enjoy and revel in the two days of festivities. It was also of economic importance, for livestock and farm produce were brought in from nearby farms and villages to be sold. Drovers also brought in flocks of sheep and cattle from considerable distances, and wandering gypsies came in gaily painted caravans, positioning them in fields adjacent to the fairground.

There was always so much variety, with so many delightful attractions such as puppet shows, waxworks, shooting galleries and bowling, but also what Eve considered the less attractive events, such as bear baitings, cockfights and prize fights, which always attracted large crowds but which she never went near, finding such spectacles quite revolting.

Traders and merchants had set up stalls to try to tempt visitors to part with their money, and children romped about while lovers strolled hand in hand among the many colourful booths. The appetising aroma of cooking food filled the air, and Eve’s father always donated an ox to be roasted on a spit above an open fire, the fat sizzling noisily as it dripped into the hot charcoal embers.

It was mid-afternoon when Eve arrived with her friends Emma Parkinson and Angela Lambert. Eve and Emma were friends of long standing, but she had never got on really well with Angela, who rarely lost an opportunity to embarrass her. She was single minded and forever in pursuit of her own interests. Normally Eve would ignore her, although it did not occur to her that Angela might be jealous of her family’s wealth and superior standing in the district, and envious of her popularity with the local young men, selfishly wanting all their attention focused on herself.

Angela and Emma were so very different. Emma was as slender as a wand and had nut-brown hair with eyes to match, and while she was of a gentle disposition with a placid indolence, Angela, with auburn hair and hazel eyes, was quite the opposite, being rather voluptuous, lively and full of energies she found hard to repress. There was also a jealous, malicious streak to her nature that often challenged Eve’s own.

Sitting on the grass on the edge of the crowd beneath a warm July sun—where they were being watched over by a sharp-eyed Mrs Parkinson as she conversed with a group of ladies—they were discussing Eve’s imminent betrothal to Leslie Stephenson, the good-looking eldest son of a baronet who lived in the area, who had taken little persuading to come to the fair, although he had soon taken himself off to watch the wrestling and boxing matches in progress.

Leslie seemed to find Eve quite enchanting and she couldn’t believe her good fortune that she had made such a conquest, although he did seem to be taking an awfully long time in applying to her father for her hand in marriage, which was secretly beginning to worry and vex her.

Eve and Emma sat listening as Angela enthused at length about a young man from her home town of Little Bolton, which was situated halfway between Atwood and Netherley. She considered herself an authority on everything—especially men, positively thriving on their attentions; she was already an expert at knowing how to attract them.

‘There are more important things in life,’ Eve commented, bored by the fervour with which Angela insisted they know all about a young man they had not met.

Angela scowled crossly. ‘You can say that when you’re almost betrothed to one of the most eligible men in the north, Eve,’ she said, reaching into a box of bonbons Leslie had brought them before disappearing.

‘And you will find as big a catch one day, Angela. Men flock round you in droves. You know how to flirt, how to say what pleases them. You’ll soon have yourself a husband—although if you carry on eating those bonbons like that you’ll become so plump you’ll put them off,’ she said as Angela popped another into her mouth. She watched as Angela’s soft pink lips closed around the sugary sweet, beginning to feel distinctly uneasy about the way Angela always attached herself to Leslie, who, to her anger and dismay, seemed flattered by it and not to mind in the slightest.

‘If he’s half as rich and good looking as Leslie, then I’ll be well satisfied,’ Angela replied, softly and serenely, licking each sticky finger, her mouth as pink as a rosebud and her eyes lighting with sudden interest when they came to rest on a man riding by on a powerfully built chestnut stallion, the man in the saddle exuding virility and a lazy confidence.

His head was bare, the sunlight shining on his hair, which was as black as ebony, his body in complete proportion as he moved as one with his horse. His shoulders and hips were firm, his booted legs long and his thighs powerful as they gripped his horse.

‘Good Lord,’ gasped Angela, agog with excitement. ‘It’s Marcus Fitzalan.’

As he rode past Angela and Emma stole long, lingering looks at him—but not so much Eve, who remained unimpressed. He was well-known and people moved out of the way to let him pass. Eve merely glanced at him with idle curiosity, because although they had never met—she had caught only a brief glimpse of him when he had called at Burntwood Hall once—she knew him to be a business associate and close friend of her father’s.

He seemed oblivious to the mayhem he caused within the breasts of two of the young ladies, his mind being on other things, but on hearing Angela’s unrestrained girlish giggles he condescended to look their way. The blast from his eyes acted like a douche of cold air as they swept over the group with little interest.

‘Goodness! What a handsome man,’ Emma exclaimed, sighing ecstatically as her eyes followed the delectable Mr Fitzalan, watching him become swallowed up by the crowd.

‘And he knows it,’ said Angela.

‘I wonder what he’s doing here.’

Eve shrugged. ‘I really do not care,’ she said, trying to sound indifferent, although the wave of excitement that had swept over her when she had watched him ride by told her she was not as indifferent to his masculine allure as she appeared.

‘I wonder if he’s staying for the dancing later,’ said Emma.

‘Maybe he will—although I’m sure he won’t dance,’ said Eve. ‘He’s far too superior—and I’m sure he wouldn’t be seen dead dancing with any of the local girls.’

Angela’s eyes narrowed, suddenly filling with mischief as an outlandish scheme came to mind. ‘But we’re not local girls, are we? At least not in the sense you mean, Eve—and I think we should have some fun with Mr Fitzalan—see if we can’t melt that ice-sculptured exterior he’s so fond of portraying to the world.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘That one of us should ask him to dance.’

‘Angela! That’s quite outrageous,’ gasped Emma.

‘Yes—but it’s fun—and I think it should be you, Eve,’ she said decisively, her eyes coming to rest with a sly, faint challenge on her friend.

Eve sat up with a jolt and stared at her in disbelief. Normally nothing Angela suggested either shocked or amazed her, but this was something quite outrageous—even by Angela’s standards.

‘Oh, no. I couldn’t,’ she whispered. ‘What you suggest is preposterous, Angela—and besides, if I am to dance at all—should Mrs Parkinson permit it—then I shall be dancing with Leslie.’

‘That’s if Leslie feels inclined to dance,’ Angela commented flatly, piqued. On seeing Eve shoot her a cross look she sighed, not to be deterred. ‘Oh, Eve—think about it. Leslie has paid you such scant attention today that I shall be surprised if he finds the time to seek you out at all—and he seems to be in no hurry to approach your father to ask his permission to marry you. He’s been dithering for weeks and you know it.’

‘That’s not true, Angela,’ Eve replied hotly, hating it when Angela took her to task over anything, but she could not deny that what she said was true. The manner in which he was dragging his feet in making any kind of commitment to her was being noticed by everyone.

‘Just think, Eve,’ Angela went on, smiling with enthusiasm, her eyes regarding her sardonically, ‘if he sees a man of Mr Fitzalan’s distinction paying you particular attention by asking you to dance, it’s bound to make him jealous and increase his intention to marry you.’

‘But if I am to do as you say, it will be me asking Mr Fitzalan to dance, not the other way round,’ she said drily.

‘Nevertheless, it could be just what Leslie needs to sharpen him up a bit. Mark my words, if he thinks Marcus Fitzalan is interested in you he’ll insist on seeking your father out immediately to ask for your hand in marriage.’

Eve frowned, uncertain. ‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course he will.’

‘But I could just as easily make him jealous by dancing with someone else. It doesn’t have to be Mr Fitzalan,’ she said, the very thought of approaching the formidable Mr Fitzalan making her stomach churn and her spirits sink.

‘But that wouldn’t have the same effect. Besides, everyone knows what good friends he and your father are. You’re far more likely to succeed with him than Emma or I. Unless, of course, you don’t think you can charm him into dancing with you—or anything else, for that matter,’ she said, in a deceptively casual way, lying back on the grass and closing her eyes with a sigh, giving the impression that she wasn’t really interested one way or the other.

But Eve was not deceived. The challenge had been tossed down and unless she wanted to look a fool she had no alternative but to take her up on it—but she had the uneasy sensation of being the victim of some secret plot. Goaded into action, she was determined to prove Angela wrong.

When a group of fiddlers started to play and the dancing began, that was the moment when Eve, having escaped the watchful eye of Mrs Parkinson, found herself walking in the direction of Marcus Fitzalan, unaware as she did so of the smug, self-satisfied smile curling Angela’s lips, and the malicious, ruthless gleam in her slanting eyes as she watched her go—like a lamb to the slaughter.

Observing the scene with his brooding gaze, Mr Fitzalan stood where a large crowd of spectators gathered. Dressed all in black, apart from his startlingly white neckcloth, he reminded Eve of a predatory hawk. She stopped short, becoming nervous suddenly, for what had started out as a silly prank no longer seemed like fun and already she was beginning to regret her silly impulse to call Angela’s bluff.

She was tempted to walk past Mr Fitzalan but, aware of Angela’s watchful gaze and the challenge she had thrown down, her pride forbade it, despite being intensely conscious of the impropriety of her actions and that her parents would be furious and deeply shocked if they were to find out.

And so it was that against the dictates of her better judgement she hesitantly stepped into the arena, feeling rather like Daniel stepping into the lions’ den, blessedly unaware as she did so that the situation she was about to get herself into would alter the entire course of her life.

She looked up at Mr Fitzalan with her heart in confusion, gazing into a pair of ice blue eyes, having no idea of the bright-eyed picture she presented to Marcus Fitzalan—a dainty, lovely image of fragility. He observed the healthy glow of her skin, how demure she looked in her high-waisted pale pink sprigged dress with its scoop neck, the delectable mounds of her young breasts peeping tantalisingly over the top.

He had seen her with her friends when he arrived, all of them in high spirits. Taking her for one of the country girls who had come to enjoy the fair—for no properly brought-up young lady would be seen watching what was about to take place—his eyes raked over her.

Eve looked up at him, taking the bull by the horns, for she would have to speak to him now. He would think it odd if she just walked away. ‘Have you only just arrived at the fair, Mr Fitzalan?’ she found herself asking.

He stared down at her in fascination, both repelled by the cool manner in which she had approached him and attracted by her physical beauty.

‘Yes. And you? Are you enjoying the fair?’ he asked politely.

She smiled. ‘Very much, thank you.’

Marcus was the kind of man who understood flirting and always found it distasteful—except when it happened to be from the right woman. But this was not a woman, this was a girl, and if she had not chosen that moment to smile he would have moved on, but it melted his bones to water and he found himself wanting to know more about her and enjoy her company a little longer. He was intrigued. Perhaps a little dalliance wouldn’t go amiss before he had to return to Netherley.

Eve felt herself begin to relax, turning to observe the event that was about to start. ‘What is going to happen?’ she asked innocently.

‘Another prize fight,’ he answered, his attention drawn to a brute of a man with a bare chest and massive shoulders prowling in the ring before them.

Eve paled suddenly when she realised she was close to the ring where pugilists were displaying their skills, accepting bets from amateurs who fancied their chances in fighting them. If she had known this was to be the attraction, she would have waited until Mr Fitzalan had moved away. Her eyes became riveted on the fighter awaiting another challenger. His fists were clenched and bloodied, his last challenger having retired with a broken jaw and bloody nose. He was powerfully built, rippling with muscles, his head covered with black patches to hide his scars.

Eve turned to speak to her companion, about to move further away, but the excited crowd closed in around them, forcing her to remain where she was, the roar that rose from a hundred throats as another challenger stepped into the ring rendering her speechless. She became dismayed and nauseated when she realised she would have to stay and watch the brutal slaughter.

Swallowing hard, she was determined not to waver, remembering Angela would be watching her mercilessly. ‘Oh—on whom do you place your money, Mr Fitzalan?’ she heard herself asking tentatively, wondering if he approved of this crude and violent sport. ‘Will it be the reigning champion, do you think, whose last opponent looks to be in a sorry state,’ she said, indicating the poor man holding his broken jaw and having a wound on his cheek sewn up at the ringside, ‘or the challenger?’

‘Neither. I’m not a gambling man. I would never bet on the obvious for I fear the challenger is destined to be the loser.’

‘I disagree,’ said Eve, studying the man who had stepped into the ring to try his luck. ‘I suspect the challenger is about to make his reputation. The champion is strong and lithe, I grant you, while his opponent is stout and not so great in stature—but he is full of fire which will give him added strength.’

Marcus looked down at her with slight amusement. ‘You speak like an expert. Do you enjoy prize fights?’

‘No,’ she replied, wincing, unable to hide her repugnance as the two men began hitting each other with their bare fists, a man holding a long staff standing by ready to separate them should blood flow. ‘I confess it is the first time I have seen one at close range. It’s horrible.’

‘My feelings entirely. The public taste for violence always appals me. Come, we don’t have to stay and watch two men knock the sense out of each other—if they had any in the first place for believing it wise to indulge in such brutality,’ he said, taking her arm and drawing her back, the crowd parting to let them through. He paused where his horse was tethered to a tree, beginning to loosen the reins.

Free of the constriction of the crowd, Eve breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you. I don’t believe I could have watched them fight to the bitter end. What a magnificent horse,’ she said, her attention caught as always when she recognised good horseflesh, reaching up to slide her hand along its silken neck.

‘Yes. He’s very special. You like horses?’

She nodded, about to tell him her father had a stable full of superb horseflesh, but thought better of it. Better that he didn’t know who she was. She became alarmed when she suspected he was about to leave.

‘You—you’re not leaving?’

‘I must. It’s a long ride back to Netherley.’

Panic washed over her as she turned briefly, seeing Angela with a smug expression on her face, watching her like a cat watches a mouse, reminding her what it was she had to do. ‘Oh—but—but I…’ she faltered, acutely embarrassed and unable to go on.

Marcus raised his eyebrows in question, waiting for her to continue, enjoying her confusion.

Eve looked towards the fiddlers and the laughing, dancing swirl of people, acutely conscience of Angela’s challenge and knowing she would have to ask him now. ‘I—I—thought you might like to dance.’

Unable to believe that she had said those words she watched him, unconscious that she was holding her breath or that her eyes were wide open as she waited expectantly for him to reply, seeing neither shock nor surprise register on his carefully schooled features at her bold request.

‘No.’

‘Oh—I see.’

Eve stepped back, ashamed and filled with mortification by his blunt rebuff, wanting to extricate herself from the awful embarrassment of the predicament she had created in the first place as quickly as possible, but she felt a stab of anger that he could have been so rude as to refuse her in such a brusque manner, and a dull ache of disappointment in her chest that Angela would crow with delight at her inability to tempt the high and mighty Mr Fitzalan to dance with her. Making a conscious effort to escape from the situation with as much dignity as she could muster, she stepped away from him.

‘Very well, Mr Fitzalan. Since you seem averse to my company I will bid you good day. Please forgive me for troubling you.’

Marcus’s hand shot out and gripped her arm. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her friends not twenty yards away watching expectantly, giggling and nudging each other in anticipation of what might happen next. His eyes narrowed and he nodded slightly, looking down at his delightful companion whose face was flushed with indignation.

He was no fool. He knew exactly what she was up to. For some reason known only to her and her friends she was playing some kind of game. He smiled slightly with bland amusement, determined to give little Miss Whoever-she-was a shade more than she had bargained for. But not here—he had no mind to be watched by two giggling girls.

‘I did not say that. On the contrary, I find your presence pleasing. Come—it’s just that I am not inclined to dance, I never do at these occasions. But perhaps you will take a walk with me along the path by the river?’

Eve stared at him, feeling her heart turn over at his unexpected request. His voice was incredibly seductive, his eyes smiling and compelling her to say yes. She felt a warmth creeping throughout her body which made her doubt her earlier conviction that she was not attracted by him. How could she not be when he looked at her like this? She was confused, the situation having become one she had not anticipated—one she was unsure how to deal with, not being experienced or worldly enough to grasp the type of man Marcus Fitzalan was.

‘Why—I—I shouldn’t—I…’

He smiled invitingly, his voice low and persuasive. ‘Come—you must say yes. It’s rather like the enticer becoming the enticed, is it not?’ he said softly, lifting a knowing eyebrow.

Eve expelled her breath in a rush, her eyes registering shock, horror and disbelief, for his look told her that he knew exactly what she had been about. ‘Oh—I wasn’t—I mean—’

He laughed softly, his teeth gleaming white from between his parted lips. ‘Does it matter?’ and he sensed victory when she began to follow him as he led his horse along the path by the side of the river, long before she realised she had been defeated.

The fact that Eve’s absence might have been noted by Mrs Parkinson, and that Leslie had returned to the group, was the last thing on her mind just then. As they walked the sun, warm and benign to lovers—and yet they weren’t lovers—slanted through the trees that lined the river bank, showing them the way as Marcus drew her farther and farther away from her friends. The air was warm and sultry, with tiny insects darting along the surface of the water, the sound of revelry and music growing ever fainter.

They talked of inconsequential things, of Atwood and the people who lived there, until Eve realised how far they had walked and began to panic. Her behaviour was completely irrational and she wondered what her parents would say if they were to find out about this. Their code of behaviour was strict and must be adhered to. She should not be alone with a man who was not her betrothed—and certainly not walking alone along a river bank, half-hidden from everyone by a curtain of trees.

They paused and Marcus let go of the reins to allow his horse to drink from the river. Leaning negligently against a tree he folded his arms across his chest, watching Eve in speculative silence through narrowed eyes. He had removed his coat and loosened his neck cloth, and beneath the soft linen shirt his muscles flexed with any slight movement he made. He exuded a brute strength and posed with leashed sensuality, a hard set to his jaw and a cynicism in his ice-cold eyes. But then he smiled, lazily and devastatingly, his teeth as white as his neckcloth.

The breeze blew Eve’s hair across her face and she reached up and absently drew it back, combing her fingers through it and sweeping it behind her ears, unconscious of how seductive the gesture was to Marcus. He stood absolutely still, watching her with a look that was possessive, and, looking at him, something in his expression made Eve flush and catch her breath, dropping her arm self-consciously. The moment was intimate, warm and vibrantly alive. His vitality at such close quarters alarmed her.

‘I—I must go back,’ she said, thrown into sudden panic, biting her lip nervously and keeping her face averted from his. She wanted to escape, to run away, and yet, at the same time, she could not move. ‘My friends will be wondering what has become of me.’

Marcus reached out and placed his fingers under her chin and turned it round to face him.

‘Look at me.’

She glanced up at him, breathing rapidly from between parted lips so moist, so soft, her wonderful liquid eyes wide and luminous, her small breasts thrusting against the bodice of her dress. She was the perfect picture of alluring innocence, but Marcus was not to be deceived. To a lustful man those magnificent eyes were proving to be far too alluring and inviting.

‘You know it’s wrong to be alone with me—that no decent young lady would dream of taking a walk with a total stranger. What makes you think you are safe?’

Eve flushed, her glorious violet eyes mist bright, knowing that now was the time she should tell him who she was, that she had never intended things to go this far, but somehow she couldn’t. She found his presence vaguely threatening and just hoped he would allow her to leave and return to the others, and in so doing forget all about her. But his eyes had taken on a whole new look, one she neither recognised nor understood, one which seemed to scorch her with the intensity of his passion, making her wonder if she was strong enough to withstand him. They burned into her, stopping all motion.

‘Clearly I am not one of the decent, well-bred young ladies you are acquainted with,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘You already know by my forward behaviour when I asked you to dance that my knowledge of protocol is negligible. I—I assumed that because of who you are—your elevated position— I would be safe. This has all been a terrible mistake,’ she said lamely, alarm bells beginning to scream through her head. ‘I—I must return to my friends. I should never have come. I—I don’t know why I did.’

Eve watched in wary alarm as Marcus moved closer, driven by an uncontrollable compulsion to possess her, her behaviour from the very start telling him that the last thing she wanted was to return to her friends just yet. ‘Don’t you? You’re here with me because you want to be. You want what I want. Don’t deny it because I will not believe you—and don’t be too eager to run away back to your friends.’

Marcus should have seen the panic in her eyes, heard the slight catch in her voice, but all he could think of was her lips and how soft and inviting they looked. Sweeping the tangle of her hair from her face, he took it firmly in both his hands and lowered his head, feeling an explosion of passion the moment he touched her. His mouth clamped down on hers, snatching her breath from between her lips before she could protest, feeling the blood pounding through his veins with the scorching heat of desire.

Eve was too stunned to do anything except let him kiss her, but when he did not feel her respond he raised his head and frowned, puzzled, slipping his hands about her waist and pulling her close, their bodies touching full length.

‘I want no chaste kiss, lady,’ he said, his voice low and husky. ‘I think you know how to do better than that.’

His hand slipped behind her neck as again he lowered his head, and with tantalising slowness he caressed her lips with his own before kissing her deeply, surprising, but not shocking her. Naïve and inexperienced, she acted purely on instinct, responding naturally to his tender assault on her lips—and it was not just her lips that began to open and respond, but her whole body as they clung to each other, becoming caught up in a wave of pleasure.

Eve was seduced by his mouth, becoming captive to his touch, his caress and the promise of things to come, secret, mysterious things that set her body trembling. She didn’t know what was happening to her. No one had told her what happened when men and women were intimate together. An inexperienced girl could not have imagined such a kiss. She had never been kissed by a man in her life, and to be kissed like this for the first time was devastating. The feelings he aroused in her, with his lips, his touch, his eyes, were irrational, nameless. But she was not so overcome with passion to know that what she was doing was wrong, very wrong, and she must put an end to it.

‘Please—you must let me go,’ she whispered, her lips against his. ‘You must not do this.’

Marcus seemed not to hear her plea and continued to seek her lips, his inquisitive fingers caressing the soft swell of her breasts. She pushed her hands against his chest and stood back, breathless, gazing up at him in helpless appeal, while wanting what he had to offer with a physical intensity which was like no other need she had ever known or imagined.

‘Please—this is not right—we shouldn’t. If anyone should find out that I’ve been alone with you—the—the proprieties—the conventions…’

Jolted back to his senses, Marcus stared at her. ‘What the devil are you talking about? Why should rules of social etiquette affect you—a doxy?’

Eve’s cheeks burned at the insult. ‘How dare you! I am no doxy.’

‘You gave a pretty good imitation of one.’

‘I am not,’ she flared, trying to still the wild beating of her heart.

‘Then who the devil are you?’

For a brief second Eve considered telling a small lie but thought better of it, knowing she would be found out—besides, she did not tell lies, preferring to tell the truth no matter what the situation. She turned as if to walk away but fury and dread at what she might tell him made him reach out and pull her round to face him. She tried to shrink away, but he held her firmly.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded coldly.

Taking a deep breath, Eve met his gaze squarely, all coquetry gone as her spirit rose to grapple with this unpleasant turn of events. The air between them had become tense and charged with an entirely new kind of emotion.

‘I—I am Eve Somerville,’ she whispered, forcing herself to look directly into his eyes. ‘Sir John Somerville’s daughter.’

Marcus stared down at her as though he had been felled. His jawline tightened, his eyes became steady and glacial, his face going as white as his neck cloth. ‘Dear Lord! What folly is this? Is this true? Are you Eve Somerville?’

She nodded dumbly, lowering her gaze, flinching before the exasperation in his voice and the cold glitter in his ice blue eyes. Never had she felt such humiliation.

‘Look at me,’ he demanded.

Unwillingly Eve raised her head and met his eyes, defiance and perturbation on her face. He glared down at her, embracing her in a look that was ice cold.

‘I never thought to meet Sir John’s daughter in a mad escapade of this kind—but it seems I was wrong. Have you no sense?’ he said, thrusting his face close to hers, the line of his mouth cruel. His hands shot out and clamped down hard on her shoulders and he shook her so forcefully that she thought her head would come off. ‘Can’t you see that it was the height of dangerous folly to embark on such a madcap scheme as this?’ he admonished severely.

‘It was a mistake,’ she said desperately, wishing he would release his vicious hold on her.

‘A mistake of your doing. The responsibility for your being here is your own. What made you seek me out?’ he demanded. ‘Come—don’t keep me in suspense.’ He fumed with growing impatience, thrusting her away from him and raking his hand in sheer frustration through his hair. ‘Why did you not tell me who you were?’

Full of shame and mortification Eve wished the ground would open and swallow her up. Never had she felt so wretched. He watched her with a deadly calm.

‘I—I meant to—but somehow—it—it was a hoax, a charade, that is all—my friends dared me to ask you to dance—’

Marcus looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. ‘A hoax? Do you actually have the impertinence to tell me this was a hoax? My God, are you shameless? Can’t you see? Has it not occurred to you that by your foolishness it is not only your own reputation that might be ruined, but also my own? And you are betrothed, are you not—or about to be—to Leslie Stephenson?’

‘Yes,’ she replied. His face was frightening, but feeling wrath and indignation rising inside her, she tossed back her head and glared at him defiantly.

‘Then let us hope he does not hear of this, otherwise any expectations you might have of him asking for your hand in marriage will have been dashed. Now go home to your mother, Miss Somerville, she must be wondering where you are. If I were your father and I heard of this little episode—and you can be assured he will for I intend seeking him out at once—then you could be sure of a sound thrashing.’

His stern rebuke inflamed a smouldering resentment towards him inside Eve. ‘Then I can only thank God that you are not my father,’ she flared.

‘You may, Miss Somerville. You may. In my opinion you are a self-indulgent, spoiled brat—the type I hold in contempt. You behaved like an accomplished flirt. You didn’t know what you were doing—what you were asking for when you so outrageously made sexual overtures to a gentleman of my years and experience with women. Perhaps you will think twice the next time you want to play games—and I strongly advise you to learn the rules.’

Eve stared at him, her mind trying to adjust to his words. No one had ever spoken to her like this before or insulted her so severely. Fury blazed in his eyes as they locked relentlessly on to hers, but she stood before him, full of youthful courage, spirit and pride. Her mind was no longer in control and she had no idea how adorable she looked with her face flushed with ire and her eyes blazing furiously.

‘And what of your own conduct? You should have known better than to take advantage of me, regardless of who I might be—unless this is how you normally behave,’ she accused him.

‘I never take advantage of defenceless young ladies—but you did not give me the impression of being defenceless. If you, Miss Somerville, are under the impression that you may sport with me in any manner you please, then let me tell you that you do not know me.’

‘And after your insulting attack on my person I have no wish to know you. It would be interesting to know how much of a gentleman you are, Mr Fitzalan—had you not found out in time who I am.’

‘Were I not a gentleman, Miss Somerville, it would not matter a damn who you are. I would behave much worse and take advantage of your delectable charms here and now. And I know by your response that, if I had not released you when I did, with a little gentle persuasion you would have yielded to me completely, flinging all caution to the four winds with no thought of the consequences. Let me tell you that I rarely refuse that which is so flagrantly offered to me, but considering your age and that you are Sir John’s daughter—who, as you know, is an extremely good friend of mine—I must decline your offer.’

Eve was infuriated. ‘Oh—how dare you speak to me like this? I know what you must think—’

‘I don’t think so, lady. If you did you’d turn and run,’ he said with menacing, murderous fury. ‘Now return to your friends before they send out a search party and accuse me of compromising you. Having met you, I cannot think of anything that would upset me more than your father insisting that I do the gentlemanly thing and marry you myself.’




Chapter Four


I n disagreeable silence Eve turned from Marcus Fitzalan, her heart heavy with shame and helpless misery. Never had she been so shaken and humiliated in her seventeen years as she was then. Hurrying back along the path, she discovered to her mortification that her indiscretion had been witnessed not only by Angela but also by Leslie Stephenson, who was staring at her in absolute incredulity.

Unable to utter a word of explanation in her defence she hurried on, too ashamed, angry and humiliated to speak to anyone—but not before she had glimpsed, through the blur of tears that almost blinded her, Angela’s look of triumph and barely concealed smile. Her features were stamped with smugness and a confidence which came from the knowledge that Eve’s association with Leslie Stephenson lay in ruins.

Left alone, Marcus was angered beyond words that he had fallen into a pit of his own making. But she was right. Before he knew who she was he’d had every reason to believe by her actions and forward behaviour that she’d had lovers before, despite her youth, and something perverse inside him had refused to call a halt to his assault on what he believed to be a willing body.

He could be forgiven for thinking that her eagerness, her very willingness to have him kiss her, had confused him into believing she was experienced in the ways of seduction, but if this was her general pattern of behaviour when she was not under the watchful eye of her parents, then it was as well they knew about it, and soon.



Marcus Fitzalan did exactly as he said he would and had spoken to Eve’s father immediately. Her parents’ anger and disbelief at what she had done made the whole thing much worse. Her future looked bleak. Aware that Atwood society neither forgave nor forgot an indiscretion, and to avoid Eve becoming the object of derision, her parents sent her to Cumbria post haste to stay with her grandmother and did not allow her to return until the whole affair had died down.

But sadly Eve never saw her mother again, for she died before Eve returned to Atwood, leaving her with a well of grief and self-reproach. Blaming herself bitterly for not being there when her mother needed her, it was something she did not get over, and she spent her days in self-imposed isolation at Burntwood Hall, ignoring Emma’s pleas to accompany her to the local assemblies and soirées in an attempt to cheer her, only venturing abroad for the odd visit to her Aunt Shona in London or her grandmother in Cumbria.

Mr Fitzalan, it would appear, was beyond reproach where her father was concerned. He held him in such high regard that he believed every word he said. It was not the first mis-demeanour his high-spirited daughter was guilty of, and he had always said that one day she would go too far. Both he and his wife had been in agreement that her wild spirits were difficult to curb. But Eve was extremely angry that they chose to ignore Mr Fitzalan’s part in the affair, making her suspect he might not have told them just how intimate their meeting had been at Atwood Fair.

And as for Leslie Stephenson, at the first whiff of a scandal he abruptly withdrew his suit and married Angela instead, just as she had contrived it.

The sheer malice of Angela’s trickery had angered Eve beyond words—all because Angela coveted the man who was considering marriage to her. Angela had made sure Eve was seen with Mr Fitzalan, and was unable to believe her good fortune when he had declined Eve’s request to dance and had disappeared into the bushes with her. When it had come out, Leslie had married Angela instead—only to die in a riding accident a year later, leaving Angela an extremely wealthy young widow.

Until that fateful night Eve had believed Angela to be her friend, and the pain of her betrayal hurt more than Leslie’s rejection. She had not seen her since, but never would she forgive her unspeakable malice and deceit. She and Emma remained close, but Angela’s name was never mentioned between them.

Eve was glad to put the whole sorry affair behind her, hoping she would never have the misfortune to set eyes on Marcus Fitzalan again. He had spared her nothing, making her see herself as fast, a flirt and a spoiled, overindulged, selfish child, but as she agonised over his cruel accusations, reluctantly she had to admit that they were close to the truth.

But no matter how resentful she felt towards him, he had awoken her desire, had left her with a strange ache rising inside her, and a sharp new hunger and need in her heart she could not explain. Looking back, she knew that that was the time when childhood had left her. She would never again be that same carefree, impulsive girl.



It was someone knocking on her door that woke Eve from her fitful sleep. With a deep sigh she opened her eyes, her mind still full of Marcus Fitzalan and that day three years ago as she rose and crossed wearily to the door, surprised to see her grandmother, who had come to speak to her before retiring for the night. Usually her presence had a daunting effect on Eve, but today too much had happened for her to feel intimidated by her grandmother. Whenever she came to visit them the house always became a different place, quiet and subdued, her presence invading every room from the attics to the cellars, and felt by everyone.

There were always the same questions and answers, the same stiff rules to be adhered to. She always demanded much of Eve’s time, commanding her to read to her for hours, and she would sit with her to make sure she did her embroidery, a task Eve found tedious at the best of times. In the past her grandmother had constantly reproached her mother for allowing Eve too much freedom to do as she pleased, and the whole household would breathe a sigh of relief when she went back to Cumbria.

‘Forgive me for disturbing you, Eve, but I must speak to you,’ she said, stepping into the room and seating herself in an armchair by the fire, the very chair Eve herself had occupied until her grandmother had knocked on her door and roused her from her melancholy thoughts.

‘Of course, Grandmother,’ Eve replied quietly, giving no indication that this was a conversation she would have preferred to defer until another time, feeling in no mood to talk to anyone.

While she waited for her grandmother to speak she moved towards the window, pushing aside the heavy curtains and looking out, aware of a feeling of gloom and despondency. The night was dark now and beyond the church she could see the warm lights of Atwood glimmering in the distance, and also, some considerable distance away from the township, stood the tall, ghostly shape of the engine house of Atwood Mine and its surrounding spoil heaps, indicative of the area and so distinctive a feature of the landscape.

Her thoughts barely penetrated the fog that clouded her mind. She was numb in mind, body and soul, unable to comprehend all that had happened that day and what it would mean to her future. Her father’s will had turned her life into an irretrievable disaster. How could he have done this to her—and why? How could he want her to marry Mr Fitzalan? The very idea horrified her.

But the thought of Atwood Mine falling into Gerald’s hands brought a great emptiness of heart. He knew nothing about mining—and even though it would still be managed by competent men, if she let it happen he would be in absolute control. It would not be long before he spent the profits and it ran into difficulties. Everything her father had worked to achieve on the estate would be eradicated by Gerald, this she was certain of, and she would hate to see Atwood Mine go the same way.

Not until today had she realised how dear, how important the mine was to her, and she wondered what had possessed her to hold it so lightly all her life. Her father had been so proud of it, so proud of its efficiency, its worth—the lifeblood of the Somervilles, he often said. He had worked hard to make it what it was, and many were the times when he had been there from dawn until dark, causing her mother to gently taunt and tease him, telling him she would find it easier to accept another woman as a rival for his affections, but a coal mine was insupportable.

She sighed deeply. To leave Burntwood Hall would be like being uprooted, but to lose the mine completely and let Gerald have the run of it would tear her heart. She couldn’t let it go. For his own reasons her father had bequeathed half of it to her—a half which would become a whole if she were to do as he asked and marry Mr Fitzalan—but that was the stumbling block. Marcus Fitzalan! There must be some other way of keeping the mine out of Gerald’s hands other than that. There had to be. She couldn’t let it go, she thought desperately. She just couldn’t.

Of course Eve knew that as a married woman she couldn’t actually be seen as the owner of the mine, in the eyes of the law, but whatever else Marcus Fitzalan was he was a man of his word. Eve felt certain he would stand by her father’s legacy to her.

She had given the matter some considerable thought all day, trying to find some way to escape the impossible situation she found herself to be in, anything, so long as she need not marry Mr Fitzalan or go to live with her grandmother in a wild and unfrequented area of Cumbria.

But as her brain had gone round and round in ever confusing circles she could see no escape. If she wanted to hold on to a part of her past—to Atwood Mine, which she was fiercely determined not to let go—then she really had no choice but to marry Mr Fitzalan. But for now she would hold out against making that decision for as long as she could in the hope that a solution to her dilemma would present itself.

‘This has all come as a terrible shock to you, Eve,’ said her grandmother at length.

‘Yes—it has, Grandmother. From my earliest memories my father’s devotion was to be relied on unquestionably. I don’t understand what has happened—why he has done this. Do you know? Did he discuss this with you? Mr Fitzalan has tried explaining it to me but still I fail to understand any of it.’

‘Yes—your father did discuss the matter with me briefly when I visited you twelve months ago.’ She looked away, awkward, suddenly.

‘So you knew what he intended all along.’

‘He wanted my opinion.’

‘And you gave it. You approved of what he intended doing—that it would be in my best interests to marry Mr Fitzalan?’

‘Yes, I did. I saw no reason not to. He is a good man and you know your father held him in the highest regard. He always admired a man who knew his own mind.’

She didn’t tell her how deeply concerned her father had been by Leslie Stephenson’s cruel rejection of her almost three years ago, or that it troubled him greatly to see that she showed no interest in marrying anyone since that time. But he loved her dearly and wanted to know she would be well taken care of after his death, and to his mind there was only one man worthy of his beautiful, spirited daughter, a man with a spirit to equal her own, and that man was Marcus Fitzalan.

He knew he had it within his power to bring the two of them together—that Atwood Mine would be used as the bait—and the idea of Eve being in the protective care of Mr Fitzalan when he was gone gave him a great deal of comfort.

‘I know this isn’t easy for you and you have every right to be angry, Eve. But what do you feel about Mr Fitzalan?’ asked her grandmother directly. ‘Will you marry him?’

‘Oh, Grandmother—how can I? I hardly know him.’

‘That will not be difficult to remedy. I would, of course, be happy to accommodate you in Cumbria, Eve, but for your own good I would advise you to accede to your father’s wishes and stay here and marry.’

Eve turned slowly and looked at her grandmother, sensing by the tone of her voice and the manner in which she spoke that she didn’t want her to go and live with her in Cumbria, which she considered strange, for she had never objected to her visits in the past—in fact, she had always encouraged them.

With her thin fingers coiled around the knob of her cane, her grandmother sat so straight and stiff she might have been armour plated. She was a woman of great dignity and had been beautiful in her time, and despite her grand age of sixty years the signs remained. But there was no emotion of any kind in her expression, no softness or gentle understanding, as she would have seen on her mother’s face before her death.

Sensing what she was thinking, her grandmother looked at her severely. ‘And you needn’t look so put out, Eve. You know how much I look forward to your visits—but that’s all they were. Cumbria’s no place for a young girl with her whole life before her, and if you were to go and live with your Aunt Shona in London you know you would not endure it for long. After the first few weeks the excitement of city life would have worn off and you would be pining to be back in the West Riding. It always happens.’

Eve sighed. What her grandmother said was true. She always looked forward to visiting London and her Aunt Shona, but the excitement of the parties and balls her aunt and cousins were so fond of attending soon wore off and she could never wait to return home.

‘But I don’t want to marry Mr Fitzalan, Grandmother. He is practically a stranger to me—which I am sure you find surprising, considering the close friendship that existed between him and my father. From what I have heard of him I do not like him. Besides, he is so old.’

‘Rubbish. Thirty is not old. My dear Eve,’ her grandmother remonstrated with undue sharpness, ‘you have to marry some time, so why not marry Mr Fitzalan? He may not have been blessed with noble blood, as you have fortunately been yourself, but there was nothing unsophisticated about him that I could see.

‘Despite his humble origins, the fact remains that through his father’s marriage to Mr Henry Woodrow’s daughter, a gentleman and wealthy businessman over at Netherley, his present credentials are admirable. He is a man of power and influence, of considerable property and business—and owner of a fine house too, I have been told, built by his grandfather. It is reputed to be very grand indeed. I am sure life would be pleasant for you living there.’

‘I dare say it would be—if I agree to marry him. Although it would appear that I am left with little choice, Grandmother,’ she said, wondering what her grandmother would say if she knew of the close familiarity Eve and Mr Fitzalan had displayed towards each other three years ago at Atwood Fair.

She spoke harshly, more than was usual when she addressed her grandmother, causing the redoubtable lady to cast an imperious eye over her, but she did not reprimand her as she would have done at any other time, for she put Eve’s irritability down to the trauma of the day.

‘However, no one seems to have considered the idea that Mr Fitzalan might not want to marry me,’ Eve said with an inappropriate lack of seriousness. ‘He might surprise everyone and decide that the mine is not so very important to him after all—although, should that be the case, I doubt another will hurry to take his place. The reduced size of my inheritance is hardly large enough to tempt any other man in asking for me.’

‘Nonsense. Two thousand pounds a year is a veritable fortune to some young men. And you forget that when I die, Eve, you will be comfortably well off—although not as well off as I should have liked to leave you, as I am the head of a large family and have other dependents scattered throughout the length and breadth of England. But that will not be for some considerable time because I fully intend living a good many years yet.

‘But I would still advise you to seriously consider marrying Mr Fitzalan. Despite what you have just said, by all accounts he would dispose of everything he owns to bring Atwood Mine back into his family—so he will not take much persuading to marry you. I am sure if you put your mind to it and do not repeat the performance of this afternoon—when you forgot your manners and accused the poor man so shockingly of contriving to obtain the mine by devious means from your father—you will get on well enough.’

‘I said nothing to Mr Fitzalan that he did not deserve.’

‘Whatever your opinions might be, they are unjust and ill-founded, Eve. You really should know better than to listen to tittle-tattle. Your outburst was unpardonable and at any other time you could have been sure of my severest reproof.’

‘But I don’t love him—and I doubt I could ever love such a man as he has been painted,’ and as I know him to be, she thought with secret shame.

Her grandmother stared at her askance. ‘Love? What has love to do with anything? You are talking nonsense. If it’s love you want then I dare say it will come with marriage. Young people of today enjoy a greater independence than was the case in my day, when marriages were arranged for the benefit of families. In situations such as ours it is expected to bring advantage, wealth and status to the prospective partners and their families. If this nation is to remain strong then it is important that distinguished families like our own continue to uphold that tradition.’

‘But this is not your day, Grandmother,’ cried Eve, unable to keep the bitterness and frustration from her voice, causing her grandmother to draw herself up and look at her severely.

‘Maybe not—and I can see that things have not changed for the better. In cases such as this, take my advice and leave your emotions behind. Marriage is too crucial a matter to be determined on such frivolous considerations as romantic love. Call it old-fashioned if you must, but I am of the belief that children should defer to their parents regarding marriage. However, with marriage to Mr Fitzalan in mind, it’s a pity your father did not think of introducing the two of you sooner.’

‘But I had no wish to meet him.’

As if sensing her wretchedness, her grandmother’s expression softened a little. ‘Despite the fact that your parents allowed you to do very much as you pleased for most of the time, running about the countryside like a young hoyden, you’re a good girl, Eve—and I am pleased to see you have become a sensible young lady at last, with far more about you than Shona’s and Mary’s girls,’ she said, referring to her two remaining daughters, which caused Eve to look at her in surprise, for this was praise indeed coming from her grandmother.

‘Listen, Eve,’ she went on, leaning slightly forward in her chair and fixing her granddaughter with a hard stare. ‘I know you think I am being hard—cruel, even, in asking you to think seriously about marriage to Mr Fitzalan—but like your father I want to see you well secured. If you stubbornly refuse, then apart from the annuity your father has left you—and your mother’s jewellery and other possessions, which are already in your possession but not worth a fortune—you will lose everything to Gerald—and there’s a wastrel if ever there was. You cannot turn your back on this chance of retaining something of your father’s estate—which to my mind is the best thing he could have left you.

‘Coming from Cumbria I have only a little knowledge of the mining of coal, but I know enough to realise that it is the lifeblood of the people in this area and one of the most important, profitable commodities in England. Its potential and economic significance is immense. I have seen for myself that mines are being sunk all the way along Atwood Valley, and your father told me himself that Atwood Mine has no rival. Trade is increasing at a rapid rate and explorations have shown there are unexploited deep seams of coal reserves. My dear girl—you would be a fool to let it go.’

For the first time Eve felt a reluctant stirring of admiration for her grandmother. The intensity of feeling in her voice and her eyes told her that she cared, that it did matter to her what became of her, and she was grateful, but she could not suppress a deep sigh. ‘You make it sound like an ultimatum, Grandmother—like some necessary evil.’

‘I don’t mean to—but you must think about it,’ she said animatedly, thumping her stick, which she was never without, hard on the carpet. ‘Let Gerald play at being Lord of the Manor all he likes—but you take control of the mine.’

‘Me and Mr Fitzalan, of course.’

‘Yes. You know your father would not have set down these conditions had he not your best interests at heart. He always wanted you and Mr Fitzalan to marry and this was his way of bringing it about. Take what is offered, Eve, and ask no questions. Had things been different he would have wanted you to marry a man of your own choosing, but knowing he would not be here to look after you, to protect you, he did what he thought was right and best for you.’

Eve’s eyes remained doubtful, but on looking at the situation with cold logic, it was with reluctance that she recognised the sense of her grandmother’s words. She was right. If she wanted to hold on to her pride and something she considered to be her birthright, then she really had no choice.

‘I promise I shall give the matter serious thought, Grandmother. At this moment I cannot say more than that.’

Gerald left for his home on the day following the funeral, leaving Eve with the knowledge that he would return to take up residence at Burntwood Hall just as soon as he had put his affairs in order.

She was alone in her father’s study, writing letters to people who had been unable to travel to the funeral, when he entered to tell her of his departure and what he intended to do. She had no choice but to speak to him, to see the mockery in his eyes and hear the lust in his voice. She shuddered at the sight of him for she disliked him intensely. The mere thought of him had the power to make her draw her breath in sharply.

If he was aware of it he seemed unconcerned and chose to ignore it. He relaxed at the sight of her, a twisted smile curving his lips, and yet his expression remained hard, his eyes alert, boldly lingering appreciatively, greedily, on the soft swelling mounds of her breasts, insolently taking in every detail. Eve met his gaze coldly. She had known ever since his last visit to Burntwood Hall that he was attracted by her—known it by the way he looked at her—and she hated him—the smile on his slack lips, the glint in his dark eyes.

Sitting in a large winged chair beside the fire, he folded his hands casually across his rapidly expanding stomach and stretched his legs out in front of him with the lazy grace of a big cat, a cold, calculating gleam in his eyes as he looked at her sitting demurely at her father’s desk.

‘Do forgive me for intruding on your privacy, Eve, but I wanted to speak to you before returning to my home. I waited until I knew your grandmother would be resting, when I would be sure to find you alone. There is much to be done, you understand. Not wishing to appear uncharitable I just wanted to tell you that you must continue to look on Burntwood Hall as your home for just as long as you want to—that I have no intention of “turning you out”, so to speak,’ he said, with feigned sympathy and generosity in his eyes.

The truth of it was that Gerald had become aware of Eve as a woman several visits ago—an extremely beautiful and desirable woman, and extremely accessible while ever she continued to live at Burntwood Hall—but more importantly he also saw her as a means of retaining Atwood Mine, which would revert to him should she refuse to marry Marcus Fitzalan, and provide him with a much needed constant source of revenue for years to come.

But he was also in the devil of a fix. Having borrowed money after losing heavily at cards at his club in St James’s, from men who knew he was Sir John Somerville’s heir—a great deal of money, thirty-five thousand pounds to be exact, with an extortionate interest on the amount borrowed—there was no possible way he could repay the loan until he came into his inheritance. Before he left London the moneylenders, having heard of Sir John’s death, had begun turning on the pressure for him to repay the loan with a terrible force. They were closing in on him, crushing him like a vice. He had to get the money. He was becoming desperate. The mere thought of what they would do to him if he didn’t come up with it made sweat break out on the palms of his hands and his heart pound uncontrollably.

These men were experts at what they did, men who would not be crossed or defied. Gerald had soon learned from their dealings with others that beneath their elegant exteriors they possessed muscles of steel combined with a ruthlessness and cruelty that stopped at nothing—tactics he would not hesitate to employ himself on others to obtain the means to repay the loan and get these men off his back for good, and only the income from Atwood Mine would enable him to obtain the kind of money he needed to do that. Sir John’s death had come as an enormous relief. He could not believe his good fortune—but without the mine his inheritance would not be enough to repay what he owed without selling off more land and property.





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