To Wed a Wild Lord (36 page)

Death had finally lost its hold over him. “For a man who once said he wasn’t adept at giving pretty compliments, you certainly know how to turn a woman up sweet.”

He flashed her that cocky grin she so adored. “Really? On the very night we met, Lyons informed me that I wasn’t good with respectable women.”

“You’re not,” she teased. “But with women who challenge men to races and have a secret yearning to be swept off their feet by scoundrels?” She looped her arms about his neck and stretched up so she could whisper in his ear. “With those women, my love, you are very, very good.”

Then he kissed her, hot and sweet and slow, and she met it with all the recklessness and yearning in her soul. Because as any clever woman knows, sometimes the only way to true happiness is to wed a wild lord.

Turn the page
for a special look
at the final delightful romance in

Hellions of Halstead Hall series

A LADY NEVER SURRENDERS

featuring the fiercely independent Lady Celia Sharpe

by
New York Times
bestselling author

SABRINA JEFFRIES

Coming soon from Pocket Books

B
ow Street runner Jackson Pinter gaped at Lady Celia, wondering how this conversation had turned so terribly wrong. The woman was clearly daft. Bedlam-witted.

And trying to drive him in the same direction. “You can’t be serious. Since when do you know anything about investigating people?”

She planted her hands on her hips. “You refuse to investigate my suitors, so I will have to do it.”

God save him, she was the most infuriating, maddening—“How do you propose to manage that?”

She shrugged. “Ask them questions, I suppose. The house party for Oliver’s birthday is next week. Lord Devonmont is already coming, and it will be easy to convince Gran to invite my other two prospects. Once they’re there, I could try sneaking into their rooms and listening in on their conversations, or perhaps bribing their servants—”

“You’ve lost your bloody mind,” he hissed.

Only after she lifted an eyebrow at his choice of words did he realize he’d cursed so foully in front of her. But by thunder, the woman would turn a sane man into a blithering idiot! The thought of her wandering in and out of men’s rooms, risking her virtue and her reputation, made his blood run cold.

“You don’t seem to understand,” she said in a clipped tone, as if speaking to a child. “I have to catch a husband
somehow
. I need help, and I’ve nowhere else to turn. Minerva is rarely here, and Gran’s matchmaking efforts are about as subtle as a sledgehammer. And even if my brothers and their wives could do that sort of work, they’re preoccupied with their own affairs. That leaves
you,
who seems to think that suitors drop from the skies at my whim. If I can’t even entice you to help me for money, then I’ll have to manage on my own.”

Turning on her heel, she headed for the door.

Hell and blazes, she was just liable to attempt such an idiotic thing, too. She had some fool notion she was invincible. That’s why she spent her time target shooting with her brother’s friends, blithely unconcerned that her rifle might misfire or the other gentlemen might shoot her by mistake.

The wench did as she pleased, and the men in her family just let her. Someone had to curb her insanity, and it looked as if it would have to be him.

“All right!” he called out. “I’ll do it.”

She halted, but didn’t turn around. “You’ll find out what I need in order to snag one of my choices as a husband?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it means being a trifle underhanded?”

He gritted his teeth. This would be pure torture. The underhandedness didn’t bother him. He’d be as underhanded as necessary to get rid of those damned suitors who didn’t deserve her. But to manage that he’d have to be around her a great deal, if only to make sure the idiots didn’t compromise her.

Still, he had no choice. So he must find something in their backgrounds to send her running the other way. She said she wanted facts? By thunder, he’d give her enough damning facts to blacken every one of those men in her mind.

And then what?

If you know of some eligible gentlemen you can strong-arm into courting me, then by all means, tell me. I’m open to suggestions.

All right, so he had no gentlemen to suggest. But he couldn’t let her marry any of her ridiculous choices, could he? They would all make her miserable. To keep her from making the same foolish mistake as his mother, he must impress upon her that she was courting disaster.

Then
he’d find someone more eligible for her. Somehow.

She faced him. “Well?”

“Yes,” he said, suppressing a curse. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

A skeptical laugh escaped her. “
That
I’d like to see.” When he scowled, she added hastily, “But thank you. Truly, I mean that. And I’m happy to pay you extra for your efforts, as I said.”

He stiffened. “No need.”

“Nonsense,” she said firmly. “It will be worth it to have your discretion.”

His scowl deepened. “My clients always have my discretion.”

“Ah, but the only client actually paying you at the moment is Oliver. I want to be your client on my own terms—especially since you must keep my plans secret from him and Gran.”

That roused his suspicions. “And why is that?”

Her expression grew guarded. “In case this doesn’t turn out how I want.”

Under his pointed stare, she flushed. Damn if it didn’t make her look even prettier.

She dropped her gaze to the jewel-encrusted bracelet she kept twisting about her slender wrist. “They think me incapable of gaining a husband, and I mean to prove them wrong. But I don’t want them knowing that I’ve been forced to stoop to such devious tactics. It’s embarrassing.” She cut a glance up at him. “Do you understand?”

He nodded. Pride was a powerful motivator. Sometimes the urge to prove people wrong was the only thing that kept a man—or a woman—moving forward.

“This conversation will stay between us,” he said tightly. “You may depend upon that.”

Relief shone in her lovely face. “All the same, I wish to pay you for your discretion. And for whatever work isn’t covered by your arrangement with Oliver.”

He was
not
taking money from her for this. “I tell you what. Assuming that all goes well and you gain one of these gentlemen as a husband, you may cover my fee with the money you’ll inherit from your grandmother.”

“But what if it
doesn’t
go well? You still deserve to be compensated for your efforts. Gran gives me an allowance. Just tell me what you want.”

What he wanted was her
,
naked in his bed, gazing up at him with a smile as she drew him down to kiss that thoroughly enchanting mouth.

But that was impossible, for more reasons than he could count. Desiring her didn’t change that.

“My clients only pay me if they get results,” he lied. “So until you achieve your goal, there’s no fee.”

She eyed him skeptically. “Come now, surely you require at least a pledge of some kind, so you’ll receive
something
for your trouble.” She unclasped her bracelet and held it out to him. “Take this. I’ll warrant it’s worth a few pounds.”

More like a few
hundred
pounds. Leave it to a fine lady to act as if it were some bauble.

When he merely stood there, she added softly, “I insist. I don’t want to be obligated to you in case this . . . doesn’t work out. You could always sell it or give it to your sweetheart. Or perhaps your mother.”

He tensed. “I don’t have a sweetheart, and my mother is dead.”

Her face fell. “I’m sorry, I forgot that your mother . . . that is . . .” She drew back the bracelet. “How awful of me to remind you of it.”

The soft regret in her voice clutched at his gut. He’d never seen this side of her. “It’s fine. She died a long time ago.”

Her eyes searched his face. “Some wounds even time can’t heal, no matter what people say.”

They shared a glance of their mutual loss, both of their mothers vilified in death as they’d been wronged in life. A lump caught in his throat.

“You live with your aunt,” she said hesitantly. “Is that right?”

He cleared his throat. “Actually, she lives with me. My uncle willed their house in Cheapside to me when he died last year, with the condition that she be allowed to live there until her death. I was going to remain in my regular lodgings, but she’s been so lonely. . . .” Realizing he was revealing more of his life than he wanted, he said, “Anyway, I moved in last week.”

She held out the bracelet again. “Then keep this as a surety and give it to
her
if our agreement doesn’t prove fruitful.”

“She could never wear that,” he countered. It was too expensive for the widow of a magistrate to sport at church or in the shops.

A flush filled her cheeks. “Oh, of course. I see.”

He hadn’t expected her to take his meaning, but her mortification showed that she had. He’d never thought Lady Celia was so perceptive. Or sensitive.

“My aunt’s wrists aren’t as delicate as yours,” he added hastily. “It wouldn’t fit her.” When relief showed in her eyes, he was glad he’d lied. “Still, I’ll accept it as a gesture of good faith on your part.” He took the bracelet from her. “Though I fully expect to be returning it in a few weeks.”

“Of course.” Her bright smile warmed him. “So, what do you think of the idea of inviting the gentlemen to the house party? Halstead Hall is large enough to accommodate a few more guests.”

What an understatement. The marquess’s seat was called a “calendar house,” because it had three hundred and sixty-five rooms, seven courtyards, fifty-two staircases, and twelve towers. It had been given to the first marquess by Henry VIII.

“And if you attend, too,” she went on, “you’ll be able to investigate the gentlemen more easily. Plus, it will give me more chances to get to know them.”

Damn. Attending a house party would mean vails to pay the servants and fine clothes for him, a definite strain on his funds. Especially now that he was trying to do improvements on the house he’d inherited.

But if her idiot suitors were going to stay at Halstead Hall, then by thunder, he’d be here, too. They wouldn’t take advantage of her on
his
watch. “We’re agreed that you won’t do any of that foolish nonsense you mentioned, like spying on them, right?”

“Of course not. That’s what I have you for.”

Her private lackey, meant to jump at her command. He was already beginning to regret this.

“We shouldn’t have any trouble tempting the gentlemen to accept our invitation,” she went on blithely. “It’s hunting season, and the estate has some excellent coveys.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

She cast him an easy smile. “Yes, you generally hunt men, not grouse. And apparently you do it very well.”

A compliment? From
her
? “No need to flatter me, my lady,” he said dryly. “I’ve already agreed to your scheme.”

Her smile vanished. “Really, Mr. Pinter, sometimes you can be so . . .”

“Honest?” he prodded.

“Irritating.” She tipped up her chin. “It will be easier to work together if you’re not always so prickly.”

He was more than prickly, and for the most foolish reasons imaginable. Because he didn’t like her trawling for suitors. Or using him to do it. And because he hated her “lady of the manor” role. It reminded him too forcibly of the difference in their stations.

“I am who I am, madam,” he bit out. “You knew what you were purchasing when you set out to do this.”

She colored. “Must you make it sound so sordid?”

He stepped as close as he dared. “You want me to gather information you can use in playing a false role to catch a husband.
I
am not the one making it sordid.”

“Tell me, sir, will I have to endure your moralizing at every turn?” she said in a voice dripping with sugar. “Because I’d happily pay extra to have you keep your opinions to yourself.”

“There isn’t enough money in all the world for that,” he said in a low voice.

Her eyes blazed up at him. Good. He much preferred her in a temper. At least then she was herself and not putting on some show.

She seemed to catch herself, pasting an utterly false smile on her lips. “Well then, do you think you can manage to be civil for the house party? It does me no good to bring suitors here if you’re going to be skulking about, making them uncomfortable.”

He tamped down the urge to provoke her further. If he pressed her too far she’d strike off on her own, and that would be disastrous. “I shall try to keep my ‘skulking’ to a minimum.”

“Thank you.” She thrust out her hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

The minute his fingers closed about hers, he wished he’d refused. Because having her soft hand in his roused everything he’d been trying to suppress during this interview.

He couldn’t seem to let go. For such a small-boned female, she had a surprisingly firm grip. Her hand was just like her—fragility and strength all wrapped in beauty. He had a mad impulse to lift it to his lips and press a kiss to her creamy skin.

But he was no Lancelot to her Guinevere. Only in legend did lowly knights dare to court queens.

Releasing her hand before he could do something stupid, he sketched a bow. “Good day, my lady. I’ll begin my investigation at once and report to you as soon as I learn something.”

He left her standing there, a goddess surrounded by the aging glories of an aristocrat’s mansion. God save him, this had to be the worst mission he’d ever taken on, one he was sure to regret down the road.

I prefer
not
to marry a fortune hunter.

With a scowl, he tucked her bracelet into his coat pocket as he walked out the door. No, she only preferred fools and lechers and sons of madmen. As long as they were rich and titled, she was perfectly content. Because then she knew they weren’t after her money.