Andrea Kane (15 page)

The question was, why? Had Anastasia said or done something to give the marquess food for thought? Because Lord help her if she had. She’d already caused more trouble than she was worth, standing between him and Henry’s assets, then embarrassing the hell out of him by approaching his guests for money to pour into some idiotic venture in the States. And now, this unexpected affinity between her and Sheldrake. It was trouble, any way you viewed it. Either the marquess was intrigued by her business ideas—or worse, by her.

Neither was acceptable.

But he’d find out exactly what was going on.

Then, he’d stop it.

T
HE CRACK OF A
pistol brought George’s head up.

Crompton, he thought, turning in the direction of the sound. He must be nearby.

Striding forward, he found himself hoping that the viscount might at least have spied Sheldrake. Hell, who was he kidding? That self-absorbed loon probably hadn’t noticed a bloody thing. No doubt he was too caught up praising himself over his incomparable aim.

At that moment, he spied Crompton, standing in a clearing and reloading his pistol, his stance every bit as arrogant as he.

George approached quietly, coming up behind the viscount as he raised his head and surveyed a line of trees.

“Do you see that cluster of oaks over there?” Crompton inquired conversationally, never turning around. He smoothed his gloves more snugly into place, then gripped the handle of the pistol and raised it. “I’d judge them to be about a hundred feet away. See that center oak—the short one that’s dwarfed by the others? There’s a good-sized knot about halfway down. You can see it if you look closely. I’m going to hit that knot directly in the center.” So saying, he aimed and fired, striking the knot dead-center.

“Excellent,” George commended, wondering if Crompton was talking to himself or if he actually knew someone was behind him, given that he’d yet to look. And, once he realized he had company, did he plan on launching into an endless lecture on the fine art of marksmanship; or worse, recounting long-winded stories of his years in the infantry, fighting the French, the Americans, and whoever the hell else he’d fought?

“Thank you.” The viscount turned, his lean, tanned face relaxing into a smile. “Ah, Medford. I thought you might show up, acting as a good host and checking to see if I’m enjoying myself. Well, I am. And I must say, it’s nice to have an appreciative audience.” He sighed, waving his arm, presumably in the direction of the gentlemen who were out hunting. “I grew tired of shooting pheasants with amateurs. Anyone can strike a fat, slow-moving bird. It’s mastering difficult targets that makes one feel truly accomplished.”

George was in no mood for small talk, and less in the mood for Crompton’s eccentric babbling. “I’m sure that’s true. Actually, I can’t stay and join you, much as I’d like to. I need to find Sheldrake. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Crompton flexed his shoulder, relaxing his lanky but well-muscled build for a moment. Despite the fact that youth had long since passed him by, extensive military training had left him as fit as a man twenty years his junior. “Sheldrake stopped by here a short while ago, said he was taking a walk.” A knowing gleam. “And this time he was actually alone— not with that beautiful niece of yours.”

A knot formed in George’s stomach. “Why would you comment on that?”

“Oh, come now. Surely you saw the amount of time Sheldrake spent dancing with Anastasia last night. And they went riding early this morning. I saw them on their way back. They were laughing and joking like old friends. At first I thought it might be Breanna—I’ve heard rumors that you were encouraging a match between those two. But then I overheard snippets of their chatter: financing, business endeavors, and the like. Not to mention the woman’s less clipped articulation. And I realized it was Anastasia.”

In one smooth motion, Crompton reloaded his weapon. “Maybe she managed to convince Sheldrake to invest in that bank of hers. She certainly tried to convince me.” A definite shake of his head. “But I have other ideas for how to increase my assets—ideas that can be furthered right here in England. And once those assets are mine, I’ll deposit them in the bank of the very man you’re looking for. He went in that direction, by the way.” Crompton pointed toward the gardens on the south side of the estate. “He’s a shrewd man, that Sheldrake. Smart as a whip.”

“I agree.” George was already walking. “That’s why I need to find him. I’ll catch up with you later, Crompton.”

“Fine.” The viscount adjusted his gloves, raised his pistol, and resumed his target practice.

Unaware he was being discussed, Damen continued along the path that led through the southern gardens. Hands clasped behind his back, he was lost in thought, scarcely noticing the colorful array of flowers at his feet.

His rule about never allowing anyone to surprise him more than once had long since fallen by the wayside. And the person responsible was the same person he couldn’t seem to get out of his mind—not for a minute, not since she’d first confronted him in Fenshaw’s office, fire burning in those beautiful jade-green eyes as she’d battled her resentment over finding out that he’d been appointed her financial administrator.

Anastasia.

Damen paused, staring out across the manicured lawns beyond the garden, marveling at the unprecedented effect this one woman had on him. While he was definitely a man of passionate views and commitments—and an equally passionate sense of adventure—he was not a man given to sentiment, nor was he particularly romantic in nature. He enjoyed women, their company and their charms, as they enjoyed his. But as for anything deeper, more significant—no woman had ever inspired that sort of response from him.

Then again, Anastasia was nothing like any other woman he’d ever known.

She was beautiful, yes, but her beauty was just the outermost layer of something far more compelling. It was like the sugar drizzled over a tantalizing confection: initially, it lured you over, made you want a taste. And yet, having sampled one, you suddenly realized that the icing was but the finishing touch on a cake that was distinctively luscious unto itself.

God, he was thinking like either a starving man or a romantic. And since he’d already eaten, that left the latter alternative.

So much for his lack of sentiment.

Damen stopped, leaning against a tree and contemplating the facts, if not the emotions, of the situation, with the careful deliberation he applied to investment matters.

Anastasia was drawn to him. She was too open to hide that. She was also enthralled by his knowledge, his contacts, and his influence in the financial community. She enjoyed his company, whether on the dance floor or on horseback, and she especially enjoyed matching wits with him, a fact that kept both their conversations and their arguments vibrant and interesting.

He, for his part, was fascinated by her quick mind, her untainted spirit, and her determination to overcome impossible odds—namely, becoming a successful businesswoman in a world dominated by men. He was impressed as hell by her intelligence and insight; it had been her absolute belief in their banking venture that had provoked him into doing additional research and, ultimately, into reversing his decision.

On a more intimate level, he was aroused by her boldness and her fire—aroused, he reminded himself ruefully, to the point of behaving like a rash schoolboy. Bad enough that he’d overstepped his bounds with last night’s kiss. This morning, he’d all but devoured her— and that was nothing compared to what he’d wanted to do.

She hadn’t pulled away, he reminded himself. Quite the opposite, in fact. She’d come alive in his arms, responded to his kiss—no,
shared
his kiss—with an intensity that had nearly brought him to his knees. And the bewilderment he’d seen in her eyes afterward: awe and pleasure combined with reluctance at having to stop, that only served to heighten the already unbearable ache in his loins.

He’d known her less than a fortnight, yet he wanted her to the point of distraction. He wanted her ardor, her innocence, the wealth of untapped passion he yearned to ignite, then go up in smoke with.

On a completely different note, he was also touched by the tender-hearted side of her; the side that wanted to shield Breanna, to recapture the past, to change and shape the future. He was moved by her unwavering loyalty and commitment to her cousin; to the entire Colby family, actually. He’d seen the sadness in her eyes that first day in Fenshaw’s office, watched her reaction during her father’s will reading. She’d been heartbroken by the loss of her parents—something that no inheritance could abate.

And she’d adored her grandfather.

Figuring out what made people tick was one of Damen’s finest abilities—an ability that made him damned good at his profession. He’d watched Anastasia carefully as Fenshaw told her about the six hundred thousand pounds; first noting her zealous refusal to produce her coin, then perceiving her inner turmoil as she struggled to understand just what her grandfather had wanted of her and Breanna, what he’d hoped to accomplish with his elaborate provisions.

And last night, when he’d come upon her on the balcony, when she’d spoken of a Medford Manor that no longer was—the late viscount was the person she’d been speaking of, the person she’d been missing.

Obviously, Anastasia’s grandfather had been very close to his granddaughters—far closer than he’d been to his sons.

But George and Henry Colby were very different people, not only from their father, but from each other. And given George’s unfeeling nature—well, there was no doubt in Damen’s mind that Anastasia saw herself as Breanna’s protector.

The question was, did Breanna need a protector?

“Sheldrake. At last.”

The very man Damen was about to ponder headed toward him.

“Hello, George.” Damen turned, arched a quizzical brow. “I assume you were looking for me.”

“Indeed I was.” George stopped alongside the tree where Damen was lounging, mopping his brow after the exertion of his walk. “I was beginning to fear you’d left Medford Manor entirely.”

“Why would I do that?”

A stiff shrug. “It’s just that no one knew your whereabouts. Wells said only that you’d taken a stroll, and it became clear to me that you did so alone. Is everything all right?”

Damen’s eyes narrowed. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

George hesitated, as if he were trying to decide how to phrase his answer. “I was concerned that someone might have offended you.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“To be blunt, yes. My niece.”

“Anastasia?” Damen feigned surprise, although he’d been expecting something like this. “Why would you think that?” A flicker of supposed realization—and a chuckle. “Do you mean because of her preoccupation with business? You know me better than that, George. I’m not bound to convention. Your niece is a very bright young woman.”

“But she
is
a woman,” George returned, his tone crisp. “And many of my guests were put off by her inane chatter about investing in an American bank.”

Damen smiled, idly adjusting his cuffs. “Then your guests are fools. Because the notion is an excellent one. I’ve looked into it and I fully support Anastasia’s efforts.”

George’s jaw looked as if it might drop into the peonies at his feet. “Are you saying you’re allowing my niece to squander away a portion of Henry’s money on a bank? In the States?”

“It’s Anastasia’s money now, George,” Damen reminded him.
“All
of it. And, yes, I’ll be authorizing the release of the necessary funds. In fact, I’ll be doing more than that.”

His complexion turning a sickly shade, George wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. His heart raced frantically as he tried to fathom just how much of Anastasia’s inheritance was about to be lost to him forever. “You aren’t suggesting …” He broke off, falling deadly silent as the final part of Damen’s statement sank in.

Abruptly, the knot in his gut tightened to the point where he could barely speak. “More than that?” he repeated woodenly. “Are you suggesting that, on top of wasting Henry’s funds, you’re considering aiding Anastasia, acting as her backer in this absurd venture?”

“Her backer? No, I’m not considering that.”

A tinge of relief crept into George’s veins. “Thank goodness. You had me worried for a minute. I actually thought you were going to allow her to commit a large chunk of her inheritance to this, then make up the difference by loaning her your own funds …”

“I’m her partner,” Damen interrupted. “We’ll be investing equally in our new bank.”

Another lethal silence.

Then: “You aren’t serious.”

“Oh, I’m very serious. The papers are being drawn up as we speak.”

Unable to hide his outrage, George straightened, his eyes green chips of ice. “Why wasn’t I consulted on this matter?”

Damen tensed ever so fractionally. “Because it wasn’t necessary. If you recall, your guardianship doesn’t extend to Anastasia’s finances.”

A flinch, the anger wavering a bit. “How much will each of you be investing?”

“That’s not your concern either. Not unless Anastasia wants to share that information with you. The choice is hers.” Damen’s eyes narrowed on George’s face. “Why does this bother you so much, George? It’s not as if it’s
your
money Anastasia is committing.”

Sucking in his breath, George brought himself under rigid control. “You’re right. It’s not. But she is my niece; Henry’s only child. And I worry that she’ll squander the funds he provided for her future. Surely you can understand that?”

“Oh, I understand perfectly.” A meaningful pause. “But don’t lose a moment’s sleep over Anastasia’s financial security. I take my role as her administrator very seriously, just as Henry intended. I’d never allow her to compromise her inheritance.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.” Damen’s pointed tone found its mark, and George flushed, cleared his throat. “Why don’t we just drop the entire matter? I spoke without thinking. Of course my concerns are unfounded. With you managing Anastasia’s assets, she’ll never want for anything. I’m just glad you weren’t offended by her rather forthright nature.”