Helen Dickson - The Property of a Gentleman

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.’