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Authors: Brenda Joyce

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BOOK: The Third Heiress
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He gasped her name, gripping her head, surging forward. And abruptly he moved away, pulling her thighs over his shoulders, going down on her, his tongue everywhere. Just as Jill knew she could no longer stand it, he reared up and thrust deep, hard and slick, wet, raging heat.
They came together in one stunning, blinding moment.
They lay still, unmoving, on the floor, except for their pounding, racing heartbeats. As the tension began to drain away from her body, Jill listened to his breathing as it slowed and evened, running her hands over his leather jacket. She still had her sweater and bra on, too—twisted up over her breasts.
Oh, my God. Her only coherent thoughts.
He kissed her on the lips, met her eyes, and sat up. Jill met his gaze, which was unflinching, also sitting up. Was there a question in his eyes? Was there regret?
Reality hovered over them. “Not now,” Jill whispered, speaking her thoughts aloud. Jill bit her lip, then tore sweater and bra up over her head and flung them aside.
He didn’t smile. His blue gaze drifted over her, slowly, until Jill felt a blush staining her skin.
“I want to stay the night.”
Jill could hardly speak. She nodded.
He smiled. And he removed his jacket, his sweater, his socks.
J
ill woke up alone.
Her small travel alarm clock buzzed insistently, annoyingly. She wanted to go back to sleep, she was exhausted—but then, instantly, her
mind flooded with memories of Alex’s lovemaking and she was wide awake. She did not move, recalling the touch of his hands, his fingers; the taste of his mouth, his tongue; the powerful, consummate feel of him inside of her; the way he’d lowered himself between her legs to lick her senseless. She thought about how he’d tasted inside of her mouth. They had not slept very much last night.
Jill groped for the clock and turned it off. She recalled setting it now because Alex had said he had a breakfast meeting at the Dorchester at eight. It was seven.
And she and Lucinda were to leave for Yorkshire at nine.
Jill sat up. His side of the bed was mussed, his pillow indented. Her bedroom door was open, as was the door to the bathroom across the hall. He was not in the bathroom, either. She wondered, with a sinking heart, if Alex had left without saying good-bye.
But wouldn’t that be for the best?
She gripped the mattress grimly. She had thought the sex she’d had with Hal to be unsurpassable. She had been wrong.
Jill was unhappy. She got up, stepping into a pair of jeans and pulling on a white T-shirt. She had loved Hal, even if it had been one-sided and a mistake. She did not love Alex. She did not know how they had achieved such passion last night.
Maybe it was due to the bizarre circumstances she found herself in, she decided. Maybe the fear and treachery surrounding her had made their lovemaking that much more intense.
She paused before the mirror above the bedroom bureau, her hand pressed against her swollen lips, her eyes growing moist. She had regrets. Her fears—and suspicions—were not really allayed. She had to consider everyone related to the family a suspect. But worse than that, she wanted to be with him, again. “Oh, God. What am I going to do?” she asked herself in the mirror.
The answer came immediately.
Find the truth.
Kate’s voice, there in her mind, so frighteningly loud and clear.
Jill glanced around, but Kate was nowhere to be seen—thank God. She was grim, uneasy. When she found the truth, she would also know the truth about Alex. She prayed that he had not been involved in anything more than wanting her paid off.
Jill heard a noise downstairs. She hesitated. If he had left, without even a good-bye, it would be both a disappointment and a relief. If he was downstairs, a part of her would be pleased—while another part of her
would be dismayed. Jill realized she was stuck between a rock and a hard place. She walked slowly downstairs, barefoot.
He was in the kitchen, on his cell phone. And the coffeemaker was brewing up a pot of fresh coffee. Its sweet, thick aroma filled the room.
He saw her and halted in midsentence. Their gazes locked.
Jill was tongue-tied, like a fifteen-year-old after the first time.
Except that she wasn’t fifteen, and someone had killed Lady E. and ransacked her home and that someone had to be a Sheldon.
Alex smiled at her, and said, “Okay. Thanks. Bye.” He flipped the phone closed. His eyes were warm.
“Good morning,” Jill said cautiously.
He continued to smile. “Good morning.”
He was staring. She crossed over to the counter and poured coffee into the two mugs, her back to him. “I haven’t forgotten that you make a great brew.” She wanted to smile back at him, but she was sane again, and her mind would not let her.
He said, softly, “I hope that’s not all that you remember.”
She felt her cheeks heat as she turned around to face him. “Last night was great.” Her tone was so calm. She did not know how she remained so composed. And her words were a vast understatement.
His gaze remained steady on hers. But his smile faded. “Yeah. You okay?”
Jill glanced away. “Yeah.”
One of the most awkward silences in Jill’s life settled abruptly between them. Jill could hear a neighbor’s dog barking, a car on the street outside, and water dripping in the kitchen sink. Finally he said, “I have to run. I forgot an important file at the office, otherwise I’d have time to have coffee with you.”
“That’s okay,” Jill said, clutching the hot mug in both hands. Stupidly, she was disappointed. Yet a part of her needed him to leave. So she could figure out what to do now—about him—about them.
He walked to her, paused. A moment passed in which he said nothing, in which he only scrutinized her. “I’ll call you later,” he finally said, sliding his thumb over her jaw.
Chills swept over Jill. How easily he could arouse her. In response, she pulled away.
“Jill?”
“Okay,” Jill said. Not telling him that she would not be home later—that she would be in Yorkshire, at Stainesmore.
He kissed her cheek, unsmiling now and even grim and maybe even hurt, and strode from the kitchen. Jill watched him go.
When he had left, the front door slamming behind him, Jill slowly sat down. Talk about a no-win situation, she thought miserably.
But there was no point in dwelling on what had happened. It had happened, and she would have to face the consequences, whatever they might be. And if she could stop thinking about Alex, she would, but right now, he was a strong presence in her mind.
Jill went upstairs with her coffee to shower, dress, and pack. At eight forty-five she was ready, and she carried her duffel outside to her rental car.
She had just opened the trunk and was heaving the duffel in when Lucinda appeared with her own overnighter. They exchanged greetings and Jill took the other woman’s bag from her and deposited it in the trunk, slamming it closed.
“Shall I drive us out of the city?” Lucinda asked. “Or would you rather? I am very good at giving directions.” Lucinda smiled.
Jill glanced at the older woman. She felt obligated to do as much of the driving as possible because of their age differences. “Why don’t I drive for the first two hours or so and then we’ll switch.”
“Thank you, dear,” Lucinda said cheerfully, getting into her side of the Toyota. “I’m not the best driver in heavy traffic, you know.”
Jill climbed in. A moment later they were on A40, traveling at a good forty miles an hour. The traffic was moderate. Jill thought that that, along with the fact that it was a clear day, was a very good sign.
Alex pushed his way into her mind. She tried to shove him out, and failed.
“There’s a light up ahead,” Lucinda remarked.
Jill had noticed the roundabout where several vehicles had stopped ahead of them, allowing cross traffic to proceed through, and was already touching the brake. To her initial surprise, the Toyota did not slow.
She stepped on the brake again, more firmly—but the Toyota continued to cruise along at forty-three miles an hour.
Jill pumped the brake, realizing in that single moment of horror that they had no brakes.
Their brakes had failed.
It was déjà vu.
They were speeding along—the huge tree looming before them—a scant instant before that heart-stopping, violent, terrifying moment of impact.
“Jill?! Slow down!” Lucinda cried as they careened toward the cars halted in front of them at the busy intersection.
“I can’t!” Jill shouted, pumping the damn brake frantically, sweat breaking out all over her body. “The brakes don’t work!”
A red car was only yards away, in front of them. The Toyota raced on. The red car bumper looming before them. It was seconds until impact …
Lucinda screamed.
JUDGMENT
SEPTEMBER 15, 1908
S
he was ill. Kate held herself, afraid to succumb to nausea, as her carriage careened down the street.
But they were not going fast enough. Kate rapped on the back of the coachman’s seat with her gloved fist. “Faster, Howard,” she demanded. “Faster!” The two bays were already whipped into a canter.
“Yes, m’lady.”
Kate told herself to breathe deeply. There must be a mistake, she thought, bouncing on the velvet squabs of the seat.
Abruptly she closed her eyes, which were filling with tears. Hadn’t she known that one day Edward would be forced to wed someone else? As easily as his wicked old father had threatened him with disinheritance if he married her, Kate, he could do the same if he did not marry the bride of Collinsworth’s choice.
But dear, dear God, Anne? Edward was to marry Anne? Her very best friend in the world?
Tears slipped down Kate’s cheeks. Pain pierced through her breast. There had to be a mistake—a vast and monumental mistake.
She opened her eyes and dabbed at them with her gloved fingertips. Two images vied for her attention in her mind’s eye. One was Edward’s striking face, his eyes soft with the love he felt for her. The other was
Anne’s face, her eyes glowing, her expression animated—and never prettier. Anne was in love with Edward.
Kate pressed her hands to her mouth to cut off a cry. This was terrible! And why hadn’t Edward told her of this? Had he decided, finally, to capitulate to his father? No! That was impossible. Kate reminded herself of their interlude just hours earlier that day, the passion and love that they had shared. Undoubtedly he hoped to spare her feelings, Kate thought.
Kate had been so upset when Anne had told her about the engagement that she had not even been able to ask the questions that now gnawed at her. Had Edward been courting her? Kate did not believe it, but Collinsworth was very powerful and who knew what he might hold over Edward’s head? And now she was trying to recall if she had seen an engagement ring upon Anne’s hand. She did not think so.
The carriage was slowing. Kate was overcome with fury, and she was about to bang on the coachman’s partition and scream at him, demanding to know why he dared to slow down, when she realized that they were turning into the drive of Uxbridge Hall. Her heart now lurched hard. And she was afraid.
She had only been to Edward’s ancestral home once, when he had brought her there after a ride in the park to give her his “grand” tour. Shortly afterward the earl had denied Edward permission to court her, much less marry her, and their affair had turned into a secret liaison. It hurt Kate’s heart to be faced with the huge and imposing stone mansion now. She could not help but think about how she would never be welcome there, not unless one day, soon, Collinsworth died so she and Edward might wed.
What is happening to me, Kate whispered, aghast, that I am waiting for an old man to die?
Oh, God, what is happening to me?
“Miss?” A servant was opening the carriage door.
Kate came to and slid her hand in the servant’s, allowing him to help her down.
“May I help you?” one of two footmen asked her at the front door.
Kate’s hand was trembling as she took one of her calling cards from her purse. She remained dazed, but she needed all of her mental acuity now and she knew it. “Is Lord Braxton at home?”
“I will make certain he receives your card,” the footman said, taking the small, printed piece of parchment from her.
“Is he at home?” Kate asked very firmly.
The footman’s eyes flickered. “I do not believe so. I will give him your card, Miss Gallagher. I am certain he will return your call.”
Kate did the unthinkable. She walked right past the servant and into the Hall’s marble-floored foyer. “Please tell Lord Braxton I must have a word with him now. It is of the utmost importance.”
The liveried footman stared at her, eyes wide. Kate knew her breach of etiquette was severe. She could not care.
“Very well,” he began, when a sharp, patrician female voice called, “Fordham. What is going on there?”
Kate trembled as the countess of Collinsworth entered the foyer, her organza skirts billowing about her.
“Miss Gallagher has called upon the viscount,” the footman began.
The countess was a beautiful, elegant, very wealthy, and very haughty woman. Kate had been introduced to her just once, and had been immediately and obviously dismissed as unimportant. Now the countess stared at her with dark, penetrating eyes. And although her eyes were brown, her hair was blond. It was a startling contrast.
“We have met, my lady,” Kate curtsied. “Please forgive me my insolence but I must see your son.”
The countess stared. Her head was held at what Kate thought to be an impossibly high angle. Finally she nodded at the footman. “Send for his lordship. But do give us five minutes, Fordham,” she called after him as he went upstairs. “Come with me.” It was a command.
Kate obeyed, following her down the corridor and into a room where a grand piano sat in the center, next to that a harpsichord, with chairs arranged in a semicircle around the instruments. The rest of the room was comfortably furnished with seating areas and card tables. The countess moved to one arrangement, a gold velvet sofa and two brocade chairs, and gestured for Kate to sit down in a chair.
Kate did not want to sit. But she did. She steeled herself for a lecture on her manners, at best. For she could only assume that if Collinsworth knew about her and Edward, then his wife did, as well.
“You have tremendous courage, coming here, as you have.” The countess stared down at her.
Kate wet her lips. “I did not feel that I had a choice.”
“Everyone has choices, Miss Gallagher,” the countess said, sitting down on the sofa and gracefully arranging her bronze skirts. A huge emerald ring sparkled on her right hand, a matching necklace glinted on her chest. “And you have chosen to pursue my son.”
Kate did not know how to respond. “Actually, my lady, and I mean no disrespect, but he pursued me, it was not the other way around.”
“I understand that you have a nice fortune.” Her eyes were piercing.
“I do. A very substantial one,” Kate said.
The countess nodded. “I do believe my husband made some inquiries—hiring runners and the sort. That is to your benefit, you know.”
Kate blinked. She was expecting an assault, but the last declaration was not an attack. “I do not seek Edward’s fortune, obviously.”
“I have no wish to address the issue of what you seek. I only wish to advise you that my husband will never allow the match, he has other plans for our son, and it would be best for both you and Edward to realize that and part now, before it becomes increasingly awkward to do so.”
It was on the tip of Kate’s tongue to tell her that it was already awkward—not just because they loved one another, but because of the child. Kate did not think that the countess knew about Peter. “I am aware of what you and the earl wish,” Kate finally said.
The countess’s regard was unwavering. She was an intimidating woman—Kate did not like their being adversaries. Finally she stood. “I only wish for Edward to take his rightful place in society—and be happy.” Her smile was faint, her gaze remained piercing. “That is every mother’s wish, is it not?”
Kate slowly got to her feet. “Yes.” Her heart drummed. “Yes, it is.” Was there a double entendre in her words? Did the countess know about little Peter after all?
“Please do not make this far more difficult than it need be,” the countess said simply. “For everyone’s sake.”
The door opened. Kate whirled. Edward stood there, eyes wide and disbelieving, upon them both. And then his gaze held hers.
“Edward,” Kate whispered, her heart twisting impossibly with the extent of her love. She knew that there was an explanation for this terrible misunderstanding. There had to be. He could not have betrayed her by becoming engaged to Anne behind her back.
His gaze went to his mother. “Madame! What is going on here, may I ask?”
The countess was not perturbed. She approached her son. “You have a caller. Please do not forget that our guests arrive tonight at seven.” She kissed his cheek and left them alone, closing the door quietly behind them.
Kate stared at Edward, feeling every ounce of the huge, crushing weight of fear. She could not speak.
As he came swiftly to her, concern covered his features, entered his eyes. “Kate? What is it? What is wrong? Oh, God! Has something happened to Peter?” He gripped her shoulders in his.
She wet her lips. It was hard to clear her throat so she might speak. “He is fine. Our son is fine.” As she looked up at him, her vision blurred.
“Thank God.” Suddenly he stared. “How could you come here? Like this? And what did my mother say to you?”
“She wants me to give you up,” Kate whispered. “How convenient that would be.”
Edward groaned. “I did not know she knew. She has never indicated that she did. I do not want to trouble her with our dilemma.”
“I have just seen Anne.”
He froze.
“Your fiancée!” She did not mean to be scathing, but the words formed themselves. “You do recall her, do you not?”
His eyes darkened. “She is hardly my fiancée!”
Kate stared, suspended between hope and futility. There was no mistaking that Edward was angry. “She said the two of you are to wed,” she began slowly. “She said you are
engaged,
Edward.”
“Kate! And you believed her?” He gripped both of her hands urgently. “I am
not
marrying her.” Suddenly he took her in his arms. “It is you I love—you I intend to marry. I offered you marriage two months ago—or have you forgotten? My offer strands.” His gaze locked with hers. It was hard, brilliant, intense.
He did not intend to marry Anne. Kate’s knees buckled in relief. “And I cannot marry you if you shall lose everything,” Kate whispered, clinging to his hands. “Anne thinks the two of you are going to wed, Edward. Are you engaged?”
His face tightened impossibly. His temples visibly throbbed. “I am well aware that Bensonhurst and Collinsworth have agreed on the union—but I have not. Dear God! I cannot tolerate the thought of marrying anyone but you—and especially not your best friend.” He pulled away from her to pace with angry strides before confronting her again. “We are not engaged. Although I suppose my father and her family consider the union to be all but a fait accompli.”
“Oh, God,” she cried, trembling. “I could reconcile myself to being your mistress, Edward, I could, and to your having a wife, another life, for that is how shamelessly I love you, but not with Anne. Never with Anne. I confess, I was so afraid.”
He came to her and embraced her, hard. “Do not worry about us, dear. Let me worry, let me plan. You are a mother now—you have our son to concern yourself with.” He kissed her cheek tenderly.
Kate gazed up at him searchingly, and what she saw in his eyes made
her love him even more. “I am so worried about Anne. She is in love with you, Edward—of course, how can I blame her? I think I must tell Anne the truth. Before she sets her hopes even higher than they are—before she comes to love you as I do. I do not want her heart broken, Edward.”
“No. You may do no such thing,” Edward said harshly. “I forbid you, Kate, to speak of us to her. Do you hear me?”
He had never used such a tone with her before. Kate was stunned. Finally she said, “Yes. I hear you, Edward. You were very loud, and very clear.”
“I apologize for my tone. But this is already so very complicated.” Worry creased his brow. “It is not easy, doing battle almost daily with Collinsworth. But”—and his smile was grim—“he cannot force me to the altar.”
“Oh, but he can force you to the altar. Haven’t you realized that?” Kate looked up at him.
He became motionless. “No. He cannot. He will not. I prefer to lose everything—so if Collinsworth thinks to blackmail me again, he shall not succeed. I will walk away—mark my words, Kate—for good.”
“Look at what I have done,” Kate cried. “Father blackmailing son. Threats and anger and even hatred between the two of you … I can see it in your eyes! You hate him!” She was more than aghast. How had their love come to this?
He held her hard. “I would not change anything, because I have you.”
Kate was not reassured. The immensity of their dilemma now struck her with brutal force. And suddenly she felt as if she were seeing the world for the very first time as it actually was—a place filled with cunning and manipulations, with fraud and deception, where the iron fist ruled over goodness and love, and she was more than afraid. Since she was a small child, she had believed in goodness and happy endings. She had believed in true love. Now, suddenly, shockingly, she was faced with the very real possibility that tragedy, not triumph, that power, not love, would decide their future, their lives.
Kate was terrified.
BOOK: The Third Heiress
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