The Westerby Inheritance by M.C. Beaton Page A

forget about her completely.
    Jane thrust the key into the lock and then stood irresolute. She turned. “I’m truly sorry,” she said shakily.
    My lord sipped his wine and paid her not the slightest heed whatsoever.
    “You must understand, my lord,” Jane pleaded, “I do not know the ways of the world very well. I am amazed at my presumption.”
    Silence.
    Jane bit her lip. The handsome figure in the armchair was so still that his diamonds shone and blazed without a single sparkle.
    “I had not thought I would have to fulfill my—my part of the bargain until—until you had fulfilled your part of the bargain,” Jane went on tremulously.
    Still Lord Charles did not move.
    Half of Jane’s mind screamed at her to leave, and the other half wanted Lord Charles to look at her, signify that he noticed her existence.
    Jane walked timidly toward his chair and stood looking down at him.
    He turned his head back up and looked into her worried eyes—a long, enigmatic look.
    “Then we will play the game your way,” he said. “I suppose you want a business contract drawn up?” his voice mocked.
    “Yes,” said Jane stoutly, “I would.”
    “You realize that if we are to keep this matter between ourselves, two of my servants must be the witnesses. I can vouch for their integrity.”
    He leaned back in his chair, watching the conflict of emotions on her expressive little face. The game amused him. One cold part of his brain, not affected by the amount of wine he had drunk, assured him he had no intention of making Lady Jane keep her part of the bargain. He was too old to seduce a child almost half his years. But her very youth and innocence were extremely seductive, he thought cynically, and if he did not pull himself together, he would be in danger of becoming an old lecher.
    He knew of Mr. Bentley and that gentleman’s penchant for fleecing young men—or old fools, like the Marquess of Westerby, who did not know how to hold their drink.
    Jane looked down at the handsome face below her and came to a decision. She would
force
herself to fall in love with him, and, that way, what she was doing would not be so terrible. He was probably kind and—and not so black as he had been painted.
    “I will trust you,” she said firmly. “But I do not wish anyone to know of my part of the bargain, in case I should wish to become married. I don’t suppose…” she went on hopefully.
    “No,” said Lord Charles in a flat voice. “If I have escaped marriage this long, I am not likely to fall into parson’s mousetrap now.”
    “Oh,” said Jane weakly. All in that instant, she had wildly hoped that he might offer to make a respectable woman of her. His face looked very hard and cynical, but she resolutely put that thought aside, determined to fall in love with him at all costs. While he rose and crossed to an escritoire in the corner, she bent her whole mind to this end.
    When the document had been drawn up by Lord Charles, read and approved by Lady Jane, and witnessed by two wooden-faced servants, dawn was beginning to streak the sky.
    “Now I will take you home,” said Lord Charles, picking up his hat and cane.
    Jane opened her mouth to refuse. All she wanted to do was flee away into the cold dawn, away from this terrifying stranger. But this was the man with whom she was going to—going to—well, going to do whatever one had to do with a man, an he should win the game. And she was madly in love with him—
madly
, she told herself severely. So she meekly allowed him to walk the short distance to Huggets Square with her while the chill dawn pearled the sky and the watchman on the corner dismally swung his rattle and informed the polite world that all was well.
    Number Ten was shuttered and quiet. Not a breath of air moved the sooty trees in the square.
    Their walk had been a silent one. Now he turned and looked down at her, taking her hand in his long fingers.
    “Then you shall hear from me as soon as I have won your game