Ann Elizabeth Cree - A Bargain With Fate

“Perhaps I didn’t phrase it quite right. You don’t need to marry me, merely become my fiancée for a short time,” he explained. “I am in need of a temporary fiancée.”

“But why me? We do not get along well together at all.”

“The strong aversion you’ve shown for my company suits me very well. I’ve no doubt you will be quite willing to leave at the appropriate time. You want your brother’s estate back-it will be done. Is a few months in my company such a sacrifice for your brother?”

“A few months! I’d rather spend an eternity in hell than a day in your company.”

Ann Elizabeth Cree is married and lives in Boise, Idaho, with her family. She has worked as a nutritionist and an accountant. Her favorite form of daydreaming has always been weaving romantic stories in her head. With the encouragement of a friend, she started putting these stories to paper. In addition to writing, and caring for two lively boys, two cats and two dogs, she enjoys gardening, playing the piano and, of course, reading.

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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 Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Whatever was taking the man so long? Rosalyn, Lady Jeffreys pushed a strand of hair off her brow with nervous fingers. She hoped Lord Stamford would soon put in an appearance, or she would be tempted to flee from his house like a common thief.

She had spent the entire morning mustering up the courage to come. If she possessed an ounce of sense, she would have turned coward and jumped back into the hackney carriage the minute she laid eyes on the imposing mansion in St James’s Square. Instead, she’d marched up the front steps, determined to confront the notorious Marquis of Stamford.

To her dismay, Lord Stamford’s butler not only indicated his lordship would return shortly but insisted on showing her into this intimidating drawing room with its pale green walls and a fireplace with the most elaborate carving she’d ever seen.

The butler had been surprisingly solicitous for such a stiff, dignified man, inquiring if she were warm enough and insisting on arranging her chair near the hearth. She had had some idea that a man of Lord Stamford’s stamp would run a household as wild as his reputation. Instead, the few servants she’d spotted looked respectable enough and went quietly about their business. The drawing room showed no signs of haphazard management. It was furnished in the height of elegance: the mahogany chairs polished to perfection, rich Oriental rugs scattered about the floor. Above the elaborately carved mantelpiece was the portrait of a darkly handsome man, his hair tied back with a riband, his hand on a sword, his cool gaze resting on Rosalyn with a mocking expression.

Rosalyn shifted uneasily. The house seemed unnaturally quiet. She heard no footsteps, no servants’ voices—only the relentless ticking of the clock. Another five minutes dragged by. It was quite apparent Lord Stamford did not intend to see her. She was miffed. Rudeness obviously numbered among his many other shortcomings.

Well, she could not sit here forever. She would have to hunt the man down and force him to see her. She stood up so abruptly her reticule slid to the ground. Its contents spilled across the floor.

‘Oh, drat!’ Rosalyn exclaimed. As she knelt on the carpet, the poke of her bonnet hit the edge of the chair, which knocked it askew. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. Could anything else possibly go wrong?

‘Lady Jeffreys?’

A pair of shiny black riding boots appeared in her line of vision. She froze. Her horrified eyes travelled up a pair of lean, muscled thighs encased in buckskin breeches, over a dark riding coat covering a broad masculine chest and came to rest on the most wickedly handsome face she had seen in her life. With his lean, dark features and midnight black hair, he could be an arrogant Italian nobleman from a Gothic romance.

His disconcerting gaze swept over her face. She flushed and dropped her eyes. Her fingers trembled as she pushed her bonnet back into place. Never had she felt at such an utter disadvantage.

‘It appears you need some help. May I be of assistance?’ the man inquired politely.

‘No, I…’ She snapped into motion, grabbed the last item and shoved it into her reticule. She started to rise, but before she could protest, the man reached down and hauled her to her feet. She backed away, even more flustered.

A small smile of amusement quirked his lips. ‘I am Stamford.’

‘Lord Stamford?’ This man could not possibly be the dissolute gamester she’d expected. Well above average height, his athletic figure proclaimed a man who spent more time in sporting pursuits than hovering around a gaming table. No lines of dissipation marred his fine aristocratic face. But most unexpected of all were the lines of humour lurking about his firm mouth.

Colour flooded her cheeks as the Marquis raised a curious brow.

‘Perhaps you expected someone else? You look rather astounded.’

‘I was merely surprised. I…I did not hear you come in, my lord.’

‘You did seem to be occupied. I am sorry I kept you waiting so long. I usually ride in the mornings and had just returned when I was told you were here. I was not expecting visitors. Have we met before?’ His eyes flickered over her face in a coolly amused manner calculated to put her firmly in her place.

She raised her chin. ‘No, we have not, my lord.’

‘So you do not intend to claim an acquaintance with me?’

‘No, why should I? I had not even heard of you until a few days ago.’

‘The last lady unknown to me who called on me in this fashion wished to renew an acquaintance which I fear I did not recollect,’ he informed her blandly.

Rosalyn stared at him. Whatever was he talking about? Then a shaft of anger shot through her as she perceived his meaning. Did he really have the audacity to imagine she had called on some flimsy pretext merely to make his acquaintance?

Suppressing the desire to let him know exactly what she thought of such arrogance, she said, ‘I am not here on a social call but on a matter of business, my lord. There is no other reason I would ever wish to call on you.’

‘I beg your pardon, my lady. I usually deal through my agent in business matters. However, in this case…’ his lazy gaze slid over her face and down her body ‘…I shall be delighted to make an exception.’

Her cheeks grew even warmer. She hated her appalling tendency to blush. ‘This is a personal matter.’

His dark brows raised a fraction. ‘A personal matter? Now I am curious, Lady Jeffreys—especially since you say we have never met.’