To Dare the Duke of Dangerfield (13 page)

The sudden tension in him was like a fire bell rung in the night. Her contentment fled. She pushed out of his embrace and up onto her elbow.
 

He would not meet her eyes.
 

Behind her breastbone something jabbed and ached. “I will be able to pass Mansfield Manor onto our first daughter? Won’t I?”

Dangerfield could have cursed the grass blue. This wasn’t the conversation he’d anticipated having with his betrothed after such a cataclysmic bout of lovemaking. It certainly was not one he intended to have naked. Or while being eaten by midges and guilt. Especially the guilt. He couldn’t even look at her, fearing what she would see in his face—or what he would see in hers.
 

Gently, he set her aside and sat up.
Damn, no clothes
. He’d entered the pond from the other side.
 

He ran a hand through his tangled curls as panic and frustration rose within him. “I don’t want to have this conversation here. Let’s get dressed and I’ll take you home—to Telford Court.”

Her face paled. “What is there to talk about? I’m assuming you’ll honor my mother’s legacy now we are to be married. You could give me Mansfield Manor as a wedding gift.”

For God’s sake. Mansfield Manor? Was that all she cared about? His frustration overflowed. “Is that why you slept with me? Offered up your virginity to ensure Mansfield Manor was yours?”

The instant the words left his mouth he’d have given anything to haul them back. But it was too late.
 

Her beautiful eyes narrowed and she scrambled to her feet.
 
“If I were a man I’d call you out for that insult. I can’t believe you’ve just suggested that I’d prostitute myself to gain back my home. You’ve been around women like Larissa too long. If I’d wanted to do that I would have done so at the beginning. I could have offered myself in exchange for the house and you would have accepted.”

His cheeks burned as though she had slapped them. She was right. Jeremy’s situation would have ensured his refusal, but he would have been sorely tempted to accept. His words were uncalled for. He’d followed her to the pond knowing exactly what he was doing. If anyone was setting a trap it was him.

“Is this to do with the feud with my father?” She pulled clothes on as she spoke, in sharp, vicious tugs. “Don’t you think that since we are about to marry—if, indeed, we are—I should understand what happened all those years ago. Surely we can put any feud behind us.”

He felt ridiculous standing naked before her, about to crush her dreams into dust. “It’s complicated and, really, I think it would be better if we discussed this once we are clothed and in more civilized surroundings.”
 

He couldn’t concentrate with her curves still on display. Her small breasts rose and fell rapidly and he couldn’t help his body’s response to her nakedness. He tried to focus on something—anything—except the vision before him, but all he could think about was the driving need to taste her again.

Her tiny hands fisted at her sides. “Just tell me one thing. Will I be able to pass Mansfield Manor to our daughter?”

He hesitated. “Not exactly.”

“You bastard.” The shoulder of her dress slipped down her arm and she hauled it back up with a jerk. “You did this on purpose. You followed me here, seduced me, and made me think marrying you would be a good idea, purely to steal what is rightfully mine.” She gave a little hiccup and swiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand. “I knew this was a mistake. How could I have thought I would be happy with the likes of you?”

“That’s not how it is.” But the words were a lie. He’d originally thought it a fine solution and he was sure, once Caitlin learned of her half-brother, everything would play out as he planned.

She’d managed to straighten her dress at the front but it gaped open at the back. She didn’t seem to notice. “Well, you can forget about marriage. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth. We
will
continue with this wager. I
will
have my house—and no underhanded, manipulating rakehell is going to stop me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He felt like an imbecile standing in the open air, naked, arguing over something that was already set in stone. “I’ve ruined you. Of course you will marry me.”

She’d drawn up one stocking and was pulling up the other one. It fell back down her leg, her eyes narrowed to spitting green pinpoints and, before he could react, she rushed forward and shoved him hard. Taken completely off guard he staggered backwards, tripped, and went sprawling into the pond.
 

He came up spluttering and coughing, and ready to throttle her, but by the time he’d cleared the water from his eyes she’d gone. She’d bloody well
gone
. He could hear her scrambling into her carriage, which had been hidden from sight by the reeds.

He’d have to go after her.

Harlow swam back across the pond, a heavy weight in his chest. The pain and desolation in Caitlin’s eyes... he’d caused that. Suddenly, he wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to help both Jeremy and Caitlin but he wasn’t sure how. His solution of offering her marriage appeared to be the best he could come up with. This solution was win-win for all concerned.
 

But more than that, he wanted to tell Caitlin how getting to know her had changed him. Made him look at his life. At himself. He didn’t like what he saw.
 

He’d sworn many years ago to never again engage in the risky game of love. A true gambler understood the odds in any game, and where the game of love was concerned the stakes were astronomical and the odds were always against you. Love was a lie that carved out the heart and left a man hollow inside, with nothing left worth wagering. At least, that’s what he’d thought until recently.

Until Caitlin.
 

Was this ache in his chest, this driving need to erase the pain from her eyes, and this primal craze to possess her, love?

He’d thought himself in love once before and that had been disastrously painful. His pride, his purse, and his heart had been left in tatters.

But he’d been so enamored of Margaret Crompton that he’d been blind to her duplicity. The second daughter of an impoverished Baron and beautiful beyond measure, Margaret possessed hair the color of a brilliant, burnt sunset, a body made of curves that fitted and overflowed in a man’s hands, and a face that mesmerized anyone who saw her.

She’d certainly mesmerized him. He’d been captivated the moment he’d met her. She’d also taught him that outward beauty could hide a cankerous soul—something so ugly even demons would turn and flee in terror.

Unfortunately it had taken time for him to see her for what she was. Time when he’d been the biggest fool in England.

He’d turned twenty-four—a cynical twenty-four—and was used to women who fell into his arms and his bed. But Margaret was different. She was the first woman who didn’t chase him, the first one he’d had to work hard to catch. He’d been such a fool, working toward his own destruction.

He’d had copious competition. Half the men of the
ton
, wealthy important men, wanted her. He’d been so proud that she’d selected him above the more important men of the realm. And when he’d caught her, when he’d offered marriage, she said she was flattered but that she would think on it.
 

Think on it
. His admiration for her soared. Any other woman would have jumped at the proposal, greedy to grab the wealth and status he offered. Margaret explained that she did not feel they knew one another enough. That she wanted to get to know him… the man underneath the title.
 

They were the words he’d always wanted to hear. A woman who wanted to know him—Harlow. Not the duke. The man. He couldn’t believe his luck in finding such a beauty.

For months she kept him at arm’s length. No kisses, no touches, nothing sexual at all. It made him want her even more. His need for her raged like a fever. He’d stayed true to her, forgoing his mistress, and any other female entertainment. He almost went out of his mind with suppressed desire.
 

Finally, after months of him begging, pandering, buying her gifts, she consented to be his wife. He’d been the happiest man in the world.

Until he’d caught her fucking her father’s groom.

And her father’s gardener.

And her father’s hounds man.

At the same time.

It had all been a lie. She’d used him, despised him as a lovesick fool, like all the rest of her admirers. She preferred real men, men who took what they wanted, who liked it rough and dirty.

What was worse, half the
ton
—the older, wiser, male half—knew what she was like. It was the reason she’d been so popular. They all wanted to bed her. Most had succeeded.

He’d been so proud. He’d been such a fool.

And all for love… or what passed for it.

Harlow tugged his shirt over his torso, ignoring the ripping sound as the fine lawn stuck to his wet skin.

It was ironic that he had finally found a woman who truly did not want him for what he could provide. Who wasn’t impressed by his title or wealth. But wasn’t Caitlin still like all the others? She didn’t really know him. She only saw the title and wealth. But, unlike the other scheming females, she despised him for it. She’d rather marry a commoner as long as he gave her his heart.

Harlow was wealthy beyond measure, but he wasn’t sure he could give Caitlin his heart. It probably wasn’t worth anything anyway.

He also couldn’t give Caitlin her second desire—Mansfield Manor. Jeremy refused to release him from his promise. In addition, Jeremy had called on Harlow’s honor to ensure he tried his hardest to win the wager.
 

Now decently clothed, Dangerfield whistled for
Champers
. He didn’t know what to do. He’d been dealt a rubbish hand, and no matter what he did a person he loved—yes,
loved
—would be hurt by having their dreams shattered.

He had no choice but to continue with the wager and let fate chose the victim. But, either way, Caitlin was his. She would be his wife. He only hoped that over the coming days he could prove to her that he really was a man worthy of her. One worth the risk of happiness, life, and heart.

Caitlin egged her horse toward home as if the devil were chasing her. The gig rattled dangerously over every little stone, but she pushed on hoping the wind whistling past her would blow away her stupidity and anger. She rubbed her chest to ease the pain, furious at her wanton feelings. Even now, all she could taste and scent was Harlow.
 

How could she have been so stupid as to fall for his seduction? Reason was only now returning. She’d been played. He had fooled her by dangling marriage, and like a rat greedy for a taste of the cheese, she’d let her guard down. Now she’d lost more than a house. She’d lost in every way a woman could lose—her dignity, her pride and—a sob escaped from deep within her throat—her heart.
 

Her heart. That was the loss that hurt the most.
 

Harlow had blinded her with passion. She’d let him seduce her as easily as he would a common milkmaid. And she’d enjoyed it. Reveled in it. And would love to do it again, with him.

Damn him to Hades! She’d just given Harlow her virginity, her very being, and he’d use it to trap her. But if he thought marriage would make her give up her claim to her house, he was sorely mistaken.
 

Her anger arrowed directly to her stomach and she burned with humiliation. No, she could hardly blame Harlow. Twice he’d given her an opportunity to say no. Twice she’d not taken it. This was all her own foolishness.

He might have her trapped, but Mansfield Manor would still be hers if she won the wager. Correction;
when
she won. The house would be safe because, according to the terms of the deed, it would be in her name upon her marriage.

She swiped a hand across her face and flicked away tears. Perhaps she should have stayed and talked to him, but it was easy to see that, for some reason, he did not intend to simply give her Mansfield Manor. Why? She didn’t think the man she’d come to know was that spiteful. But did she really know him?

Another sob escaped into the wind. She might have lost her heart, but Caitlin would be damned if she lost anything else of importance to Harlow Telford, the Duke of Dangerfield.

Chapter Nine

It was six days before Caitlin returned to Mrs. Darcy’s house, and it felt as though every eye in the village was upon her as, her cloak clutched tightly around her shoulders, she made her way to the front door and knocked,

All of Bedstone already assumed she would be Harlow’s Duchess. Two days ago, her father’s Cook had informed her—during one of their cooking lessons—that the villagers were taking bets on when the betrothal would be announced. Apparently, they thought Mrs. Darcy had been commissioned to make the wedding cake.

Caitlin drew in a deep breath. She knew when any announcement would be made. It would be the day the final wager was finished… if she lost.