Patricia Rowell - A Perilous Attraction

Catherine felt the color flooding her face again. “I hope I am not so mercenary.”

“No, I don’t perceive you as mercenary—the word I would use would be desperate.” He waited patiently for a reply.

Catherine struggled with warring emotions. He was right—her situation was desperate. Still, she balked at being forced into anything, let alone a marriage she didn’t want to a man she hardly knew and had no hope of understanding. She took refuge in anger, a much stronger and more comfortable emotion than desperation.

“And you wish to take advantage of my predicament!”

Caldbeck’s expression never changed. “I simply propose a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“And what do you hope to gain?”

“Your beauty, your energy, your superb elegance. You…warm me….”

#619 BORDER BRIDE

Deborah Hale

#620 BADLANDS LAW

Ruth Langan

#622 MARRIED BY MIDNIGHT

Judith Stacy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A Perilous Attraction #621

For Judy Elise Rhodes,

my friend in this world and all others.

And for my chosen sister, Sue Harvey Harrison.

No one has encouraged me more.

And—always—for my hero, Johnny.

Prologue Prologue Yorkshire, England, November 1783 The boy stood unmoving, one hand clutching his father’s, the other held rigidly in a fist at his side. The rain beat down on the umbrella his father held above them, while the sound of sodden clods of dirt striking the casket mingled with the vicar’s words. “But thanks be to God who giveth us the victory….” The boy gritted his teeth, willing his lip not to tremble. He would not cry. He felt proud to be allowed to stand with the men of the funeral party. If they considered him old enough, he certainly did not want to disgrace himself with tears. Yet a very small, childish part of him wanted to turn and flee—back to the house. Back to hide his face in the skirts of the women waiting there, and to sob the pain away. “In the midst of life we are in death. Of whom may we seek succor…?” The child dared a glance up into his father’s face. It might as well have been carved in stone. He saw no tears. No sign betrayed the man’s thoughts or feelings, but his hand tightened encouragingly around his young son’s. “Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, immovable….” The boy took a long breath and drew himself up in emulation, schooling his own face to stern control. His father was strong. He would be strong. Men didn’t cry. The vicar finished the reading and stepped forward to murmur a few private words. Then the boy’s father turned and led him away from the grave of the woman who had been the anchor of both their lives.

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

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Prologue

Yorkshire, England, November 1783

The boy stood unmoving, one hand clutching his father’s, the other held rigidly in a fist at his side. The rain beat down on the umbrella his father held above them, while the sound of sodden clods of dirt striking the casket mingled with the vicar’s words.

“But thanks be to God who giveth us the victory….” The boy gritted his teeth, willing his lip not to tremble. He would not cry. He felt proud to be allowed to stand with the men of the funeral party. If they considered him old enough, he certainly did not want to disgrace himself with tears. Yet a very small, childish part of him wanted to turn and flee—back to the house. Back to hide his face in the skirts of the women waiting there, and to sob the pain away.

“In the midst of life we are in death. Of whom may we seek succor…?”

The child dared a glance up into his father’s face. It might as well have been carved in stone. He saw no tears. No sign betrayed the man’s thoughts or feelings, but his hand tightened encouragingly around his young son’s.

“Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye steadfast, immovable….”

The boy took a long breath and drew himself up in emulation, schooling his own face to stern control. His father was strong. He would be strong. Men didn’t cry.

The vicar finished the reading and stepped forward to murmur a few private words. Then the boy’s father turned and led him away from the grave of the woman who had been the anchor of both their lives.

London, England, October 1810

“You did what?” Catherine leaned her clenched fists on her uncle’s desk and scowled at him across it, bristling with outrage.

He winced. “There is no need to shout. I am not deaf.”

“I can only wish that I were! I cannot believe I heard you correctly.”

“Of course you heard me. I said I have accepted an offer from Lord Caldbeck for your hand in marriage.”

Catherine straightened up and stared at him in disbelief. “But, Uncle Ambrose, why? Aside from the fact that I have no wish to marry at all, I hardly know the man. I’ve danced with him a few times, but he has never shown any partiality for me. I’ve never even heard that he was hanging out for a wife.”

“Caldbeck is well known for hiding his thoughts. One never knows what he intends. The man’s an enigma.”

“An automaton, rather.” Catherine spun away from the desk, snatched her modish hat from her head and sailed it across the room into a chair. She felt her hair spring forth in its flaming halo, and ran her hands over it in a vain attempt to restrain it.

“Lord Caldbeck might as well be made of wood. He never smiles, he never laughs, he never…” Having paced the width of the library, she whirled, savagely kicking the train of her velvet riding dress out of her way, and again bore down on the desk. “What can you have been thinking? You have no right….”

Ambrose Maury’s face began to show a tinge of red as he came to his own defense. “On the contrary. As your guardian it is my duty to speak for you. It’s a damn good match. Caldbeck is as rich as Croesus. He made a very advantageous offer. I accepted it. It’s that simple.”

Catherine, who knew her uncle well, stopped her pacing midway across the room and turned to look at him, eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Exactly what sort of offer?”

Maury fidgeted a bit, blotting perspiration from his bald pate with his handkerchief. “Now, Catherine, you must understand certain things.”

“What things? What sort of offer?”

“I’ve had a bit of bad luck investing in the Funds of late.”

“Ah. And Lord Caldbeck is offering a handsome settlement. I begin to understand. But you must understand that I will not marry—I can’t! I won’t! Within six months I come into control of my fortune, and I shall no longer be dependent on your hospitality. Can’t you wait until then to get me off your hands?”

“Catherine, I can’t wait six months—not even six days.”

“Are you run completely off your legs, then?”

“I don’t know why you insist on using these cant phrases, young lady, but yes. You could say that. In fact, I haven’t a feather to fly with. Caldbeck will settle all my debts, forgive my mortgages and give me enough to emigrate to America.”