To Wed a Wild Lord (18 page)

“Then why hasn’t either of them suggested it before?”

He colored. “Lord Gabriel forced Pierce’s hand, that’s all.”

“And you are not concerned about your great-nephew’s reputation as a dissolute rogue.”

“Not as much as I am over your grandson’s reputation. Pierce wouldn’t hurt her—I’m sure of that. I can’t say the same for Lord Gabriel.”

She sighed. He was so stubborn. And so narrowminded. “You think I do not understand how you feel, but I do. You are worried about her. You both get older by the year, and you fear that if she waits much longer to marry, she will find no one and be left entirely alone.”

“It’s not good for a woman to be alone in this world,” he agreed.

“It’s not good for a man, either.”

His gaze locked with hers. They were not speaking of their grandchildren any longer, and they both knew it.

She swallowed hard. It had been a long time since a man could read her thoughts. She had forgotten how unsettling it could be.

Clearing her throat, she glanced toward the drawing room. “Why do you think I laid down my ultimatum? My grandchildren would never have married if not for that.”

“I’m sure you’re right. I would have done the same thing. But I don’t understand why you’re so bent upon having
all
of them wed, and within a year, besides. With three married and two breeding, why force the other two to your schedule?”

She had asked herself the same thing. Was she being as stubborn and willful as her grandchildren?

She thought of Gabe, throwing himself into danger to avoid feeling the pain of what he had lost. And Celia, who barely remembered her parents but still fought to be as unlike them as possible.

It was no mystery to Gran why the girl loved to shoot. Celia had spent her life believing that her mother had been fool enough to shoot her father accidentally, so she had decided to learn how to use a weapon properly, to prove to the world that one Sharpe at least had good sense with guns.

What Celia would not admit was that she liked how her shooting made men wary of her. She need not risk falling in love with a scoundrel, the way her mother had. She need never again risk being abandoned by someone she loved.

Hetty dragged in a heavy breath. “Everything else I have tried has failed. They need love, all of them, but they fear it desperately. Giving them more time will not change that. I am hoping that if their feet are held to the fire, they will make an attempt to find love instead of hiding from it.”

He snorted. “You women with your romantic notions. It has nothing to do with love. If it did, you would sit back and let Mother Nature take its course.”

“Mother Nature is a fickle and forgetful bitch,” she snapped. “She needs a helping hand, and I am trying to hurry her along for their sakes.”

He did not even blink at her coarse language. “Balderdash. You’re doing it for your own sake, so you can make sure it’s done before you’re no longer able to control matters. And you criticize
me
for encouraging Pierce’s courtship of my granddaughter. You’re no better.”

She glared at him. “You cannot possibly understand. Unlike my grandchildren, your granddaughter wants to marry. Only circumstances have prevented it from happening until now. Nor do you have a vast fortune to pass on, that must be nurtured and managed by responsible heirs.”

When he drew himself up stiffly, she regretted her sharp words. The one thing a woman should never do is attack a man’s pride. Male pride was as sensitive as a woman’s vanity.

“That’s true,” he said coldly. “If I did, Virginia would already be married and well out of the grasp of your grandson. But since I don’t and she isn’t, I make you this promise.”

He leaned close, his eyes glittering. “I will gladly hand her over to Pierce before I let her be forced to marry just to suit your needs. I may not have your vast fortune, but I do have influence with her. And I mean to use it to encourage her to marry her cousin. One way or the other, I’ll make sure that she
never
marries your scoundrel of a grandson.”

He turned and stalked off.

She scowled after him, then headed for the drawing room. “We shall just see about that, sir,” she muttered as she saw him go back into the dining room. “Because I mean to make sure that she does. And if you think that you and your unreasonable bias will prevent it, you have another think coming.”

Chapter Ten

H
ot—so hot. Perspiration poured down his back. Noon in the middle of summer was no time for a damned race, but Gabe could handle it. Despite the night’s worth of drinking that now soured in his belly, he urged his horses into a run.

Must. Beat. Roger. The refrain clamored in his ears. Must. Win. Or Roger and Lyons would never let him live it down.

Even in his cropsick state, the blood rush of the race crept in, maddening him to increase his speed. He didn’t look back to see how close Roger was, but could feel him right behind him. The boulders were closing in, heat shimmering off them, making them appear illusory.

But they were real, and Gabe was going to reach them first. Hah! He was ahead, well ahead as he drove through—

A cry sounded behind him, followed by the horrible crunch of wood against stone and the screams of horses. Looking back, he saw Roger hit the ground.

The blood rush changed to a sickening lurch. Frantically he dragged on the reins, pulling for all he was worth. He had to get to Roger! But the horses kept on. He couldn’t turn back. And now a strange new boulder loomed ahead, and he was headed straight for it, and he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, couldn’t—

Gabe woke in a cold sweat, as he always did. He lay staring at the ceiling with his heart pounding and his hands yanking on the sheets.

He struggled against his frantic breathing, and forced his hands to unclench the sheets. Then pushing himself up, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and stared out the window at the impending dawn.

His heart still stampeding in his chest, he fought for calm. He hadn’t had the dream in almost two years. Why the hell was it back?

As his mind cleared, he knew why. Because of yesterday’s race. Because of
her.
Virginia Bloody Waverly had brought it all back, blast her. He must have been daft to consider her for a prospective wife. Helping her was only stirring up the past.

He rose and went to the window, opening it to let in the cool night air, gulping it in so the chill would drive out his dream.

Gran was right. Just because he had to marry didn’t mean he had to choose Roger’s sister. He could go to any damned ball and find plenty of women who’d consider themselves
lucky
to be courted by a marquess’s son. Besides, Virginia didn’t even
want
his help. No, she wanted that fool Devonmont.

He scowled. The earl thought he could step in and make everything fine just by marrying her. And apparently she thought the same.

Do you truly love me, cousin?

Devonmont wouldn’t know love if it walked up and licked his face. How could she fall for the tripe that fool spouted? How could she possibly consider marrying that whoremongering, conscienceless
arse
?

That
titled
arse with an estate, who was going to inherit her childhood home.

He groaned. All right, so it made sense if you looked at it from that perspective. On the surface, Devonmont certainly had more to offer Virginia than Gabe did. They had a family connection, Devonmont’s fortune wasn’t dependent on the success of Gran’s ultimatum, and Devonmont didn’t have a family scandal hanging over him. Nor had he been part of the accident that had killed Virginia’s brother.

But a woman with Virginia’s passion could never be happy with Devonmont, damn it! The bastard was incapable of fidelity—he’d probably be out trawling the stews on their wedding night.

Besides, it was
him
she desired—not Devonmont.

Gabe gripped the windowsill, remembering how softly she’d looked at him after Celia had confessed to stealing the plum pudding. How sweetly she’d melted yesterday in the maze when he’d kissed her and fondled her and . . .

Blast, blast, and
blast.

He couldn’t let her marry Devonmont. He had an obligation to save her and her family—that’s what this courtship was about, and that hadn’t changed. It could just as easily have been him broken and battered on that field, and if it had been, Roger would have done his best to make amends, too. So he owed it to the man to ensure that Virginia was taken care of.

Unbidden, Devonmont’s words leaped into his head:
I at least appreciate your intelligence and spirit and good heart. Sharpe just wants to get into your bed.

That was
not
why he was doing this! It had nothing to do with how she heated his blood or made him laugh, nothing to do with how her tart remarks and concern for his safety tilted him sideways and inside out, and made him want . . .

With a curse, he turned from the window. He didn’t
want
anything from her. He was fulfilling an obligation, that’s all. Never mind that she didn’t appreciate it—it had to be done. Somehow he had to convince her that he was a better choice than Devonmont.

What had Lyons said?
She is a respectable woman, and they require finesse. You have to be able to do something more than bed them. You have to be able to talk to them.

He’d tried talking to her, blast it. Then he’d tried kissing her. Neither of those had worked. She’d still gone happily home last night without casting him a backward glance. So he needed another plan.

He gazed out the window again at the rising sun. It was too early to pay a call on her.

Then again, the woman
did
live on a stud farm. Horses had to be fed and exercised, and stalls cleaned out. No doubt she had duties as well. By the time he dressed and rode over to Waverly Farm, it wouldn’t be that early. He might catch them at breakfast.

He wasn’t sure what he would do after that, but he’d think of something spectacular on the way. He couldn’t just wait around here hoping for something to happen. Devonmont already had the advantage by staying there.

Gabe hurried to the washbasin. The one thing he
mustn’t
do is bungle things as he had in the maze. There must be no kissing and no fondling.
Definitely
no fondling. Lyons might be right about that—respectable ladies did seem to like other methods of courtship than kissing.

He’d just have to pray she wasn’t wearing another of those frilly gowns with the bodices that fastened up the front, the ones that made him imagine unfastening each little button and unwrapping her like a Christmas gift . . .

He groaned as his drawers grew uncomfortably tight. What in the blazes was wrong with him? She was a respectable female. She was
not
supposed to incite him to lust.

But he could handle this slip of a female. Perhaps he’d take some flowers from the garden. Women liked flowers. He’d take those pretty purple ones—there were plenty of them. And more was always better than less.

Gabe donned his clothes and left before his family was up. Then he rode off for Waverly Farm with the flowers in hand. So now what? He doubted that a fistful of flowers was going to make up for his perceived sins.

He must show her he wasn’t just the man she saw as her brother’s killer. That he wasn’t a reckless fool bent on killing himself, or a mercenary fellow bent on gaining his inheritance. He must show her that he could be a gentleman. That he could be a responsible husband.

But how to do that?

As he approached Waverly Farm, memories assailed him—of coming here for the funeral, sick to his stomach over the thought of seeing Roger laid into a grave in the estate cemetery. Of riding up to the house and having the general stalk out with murder in his eyes. Gabe had barely uttered a word before he was escorted from the property by two grim-faced grooms.

He shuddered. That very thing could happen again today. Waverly clearly hadn’t forgiven him. Gabe wasn’t even sure that Virginia had.

Yet he
had
to try to mend things between the families. It just seemed right. And Virginia was the key to that.

As he rode up to the manor house, he realized that he needn’t worry about the early hour. There was already a ruckus coming from the paddock beyond the stables.

He rounded the stables to find a motley group assembled beside the paddock fence. They were intently watching the general, who was approaching a horse that was viciously fighting a groom. Was the man mad? He would be trampled! Why were the others just watching, for God’s sake? Waverly was nearly seventy!

Riding up to the fence, Gabe leaped down from his mount and vaulted forward, meaning to drag the general from the paddock. But someone caught his arm.

When he shot the person a dark look, he found, to his astonishment that it was Virginia, dressed in a brown chintz morning gown with a plain white apron.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Trying to save your grandfather!” he retorted as he shrugged off her hand.

She laughed and grabbed him again. “He doesn’t need help. Just watch.”

He followed her gaze to where the general had taken hold of the horse’s halter. Ordering the groom away, he approached the stallion, speaking to him in a low voice. The stallion stopped rearing at once, though it still danced about, agitated. The old man stepped closer to stroke the horse’s neck, murmuring to him all the while.

“What the blazes is he doing?” Gabe asked.

“Have you ever heard of a man named Daniel Sullivan?” she asked.

“Our head groom mentioned him a few times. Wasn’t he that ‘horse whisperer’ fellow?”

She scowled. “That’s a nonsensical name people gave him when they saw him whispering to the horses. It wasn’t the whispering that did it—it was his methods of training.”

Sullivan had been a legend in horse circles twenty years ago for being able to calm and train horses everyone thought to be intractable. Some said he’d learned his techniques from the gypsies, but no one knew for certain. “I thought he didn’t share his methods with anyone.”