Nicole Jordan by Wicked Fantasy Page A

Ranworth.”
    “Ranworth is a man of substance, despite his title.”
    “How do you know the earl?”
    “I performed a service for him once.”
    She raised an eyebrow, remembering Deverill saying the same thing about her housekeeper. “Did you save his life, perhaps?”
    “Nothing so exciting. Ranworth is a heavy investor in the East India Company. He petitioned the Company to commission my services this past year, to protect their valuable convoys of merchant ships from a resurgence of piracy.”
    “Mrs. Peeke told me how you saved her husband from a press gang.”
    Deverill leveled a disapproving look at her. “I never would have credited Mrs. Peeke with having a loose tongue.”
    “I persuaded her to tell me. She also said that you are a hero, that you have saved countless more lives from corsairs over the years. I wondered if that is how you came by your—” Antonia broke off abruptly, realizing how insensitive her curiosity was.
    “Wondered what?” Deverill pressed.
    “Never mind. I should not have mentioned it.”
    “Come now, Miss Maitland, are you turning missish on me?”
    “Very well, then, I wondered about your scars. Mrs. Peeke said you were captured by vicious Turkish corsairs and they . . . hurt you.”
    Antonia felt the abrupt tightening of Deverill’s grip around her hand, while a sudden darkening of his eyes further betrayed him. For an instant, she glimpsed the unmistakable flash of devastation in the green depths.
    Then just as swiftly, Deverill’s expression turned impassive. “You are damned inquisitive about something that is none of your affair, Miss Maitland.”
    Antonia remained silent. She had finally found the means to get the upper hand with Deverill, yet she didn’t like to use it. Not when it was so obvious that the subject caused him great anguish.
    “You are right,” she finally said. “Your past is none of my affair. Just as whom I marry is none of your affair.”
    That made his eyes kindle. “On the contrary, it is my affair. I am making it so. I respected your father too much to let you throw your life away on a man of Heward’s ilk.”
    “But then,” Antonia retorted archly, “you are hardly an expert on happiness in marriage. If I recall, you intend to remain a confirmed bachelor.”
    He smiled back at her with lazy, mocking eyes. “True.”
    “I knew it!” she exclaimed. “Emily thinks you are courting me, but I was certain you intended nothing of the kind.”
    The slash of dark eyebrows lifted. “No, I am not courting you, sweeting. Until recently I never even thought of you as a woman.”
    “Thank you very much,” she said wryly.
    Deverill’s grin was very male. “What I meant was, four years ago you were far too young for me. And now . . . your father would turn over in his grave if he thought I was making a bid for your hand.”
    “Then why do you appear to be following me? You mean to break up my betrothal, don’t you?”
    “I admit I want to sway your opinion of Heward. To make you comprehend that you’re making a grave mistake. You’re an intelligent woman, Antonia. You should be able to see how badly you are deluding yourself. Heward isn’t worthy of you. And he isn’t being honest if he claims he doesn’t want you for your inheritance.”
    She pressed her lips together, striving for control. “Speaking of honesty, I believe you failed to mention that your cousin was a privateer in the recent war.”
    Deverill’s gaze narrowed. “How does that matter? Brand spent the war running the British blockade—which, I might add, practically bankrupted the American shipping industry—protecting his own and other American ships. His actions were fully sanctioned
by the American government. And his privateering doesn’t change the fact that his ships were illegally confiscated by your director.”
    “I agree, which is why I asked Heward to see that they are turned over to your cousin.”
    “And your account books?” Deverill asked