Andrea Kane (8 page)

“None of it.”

Anastasia’s head jerked around, and she stared at the marquess. “Pardon me?”

“Your father’s cash assets total close to two hundred thousand pounds—
none
of which is available to you.” Calmly, Lord Sheldrake unfolded himself from the sofa and came to his feet. “My job is to advise you—and to manage your funds. I can’t, in good conscience, allow you to squander away your inheritance.”

Twin spots of color stained Anastasia’s cheeks. “Are you saying you’re refusing me access to my own money?”

“No, I’m merely saying I’m refusing to let you invest that money in an American bank.” He regarded her intently, clearly aware that she was angry and, therefore, trying to soften the blow. “I’m not doing this to be cruel or tyrannical. I hope you believe that. But if you don’t…” A shrug. “… that’s something we’ll both have to live with. I won’t compromise my integrity just to convince you that my intentions are honorable. Think of it this way: I can’t stop you forever. Starting in October, you’ll be overseeing your own funds, and you can invest as you choose. I only hope that three months gives me enough time to influence your thinking; that, with a little financial guidance from me, you’ll have regained your senses by then.”

“Or perhaps I’ll have used those three months to influence other businessmen, those who aren’t afraid to try something new by financing my venture,” Anastasia shot back, feeling angry and frustrated and resentful— more so because she wasn’t wholly sure where those emotions stemmed from. Oh, she was furious at being thwarted, at having someone else in control of her life. But she was also bothered by Lord Sheldrake’s rejection, more bothered than she’d anticipated. And she couldn’t help but feel a grudging surge of admiration at his utterly principled way of doing business—even if she did loathe the outcome.

So who was she angry at, him or herself?

An intrigued spark had lit the marquess’s eyes. “You intend to seek out other investors?”

“Given your negative response, yes.”

His lips twitched. “I wish you luck.”

Damn, the man was arrogant.

“This meeting is over, my lord.” Anastasia gathered up her skirts and started to walk by him. “I appreciate your time, and your integrity. I
don’t
share your opinions.”

Unexpectedly, he caught her arm as she passed. “And I respect your passion for this venture. Can we agree to disagree, or is that too unconventional a notion, even for you?”

Anastasia froze, uncomfortably aware of the strong hand gripping her forearm, more aware of her own powerful, if confusing, reaction to it. Half of her wanted to yank herself away, the other half to stay precisely as she was, to explore the odd sensations elicited by Lord Sheldrake’s touch. Both reactions were too extreme, too irrational, given the inconsequence of the contact, the casual nature of their acquaintance. Perhaps it was just the fervor of their discussion, the intensity of their differing opinions. And yet…

Slowly, her gaze lifted to meet his. “No, my lord,” she replied, trying to read his thoughts, and to understand her own. “It’s not too unconventional for me. As of now, we agree to disagree.”

“Excellent.”

Was it her imagination, or did his grip tighten? She wasn’t certain. What she was certain of was that his gaze narrowed, probed hers, and that despite the finality of his tone, he made no move to release her.

A heartbeat later, he spoke. “I, in return, promise that I won’t interfere with your efforts to win over England’s businessmen. If you find someone eager to invest—wonderful. I not only won’t stand in his way, I’ll applaud your abilities of persuasion.”

Anastasia felt an unwilling smile tug at her lips. “Is that a challenge, my lord?”

His teeth gleamed. “And if it is?”

“Then I accept.” Her gaze shifted back to her arm, where she could actually feel the warmth of his fingers seeping through her gown, singeing her skin with an unknown and strangely disconcerting heat. “We’d best go to lunch,” she suggested, her tone oddly strained.

Slowly, he nodded. “Yes. We’d best.”

L
UNCH WAS AN HOUR
and a half of delicious food, fine wine, and tension so thick you could cut it with a knife.

It wasn’t for lack of conversation. George saw to that. Seated at the head of the table, he scarcely let a moment pass before directing yet another financial question at Damen Lockewood. The marquess, seated on George’s left, answered every question, his gaze politely encompassing not only George but Breanna—who sat directly across the table from him—and occasionally Anastasia, seated to her cousin’s right. For his part, George never spared a glance at either girl, keeping his body angled toward the marquess, and his eyes, which seemed overly bright, glued to him as well. George’s voice and expression were strained, and Anastasia suspected he was still peeved that he hadn’t been privy to her financial advisory session.

She stifled a smile. How relieved her uncle would be if he knew he’d missed nothing of consequence. No grand business ventures had been planned, no innovative ways to invest her inheritance had been explored. To the contrary, other than learning the value of her father’s estate and having Lord Sheldrake shoot down her investment plans, the entire meeting had been immaterial.

She looked up at that moment, met the marquess’s scrutinizing gaze, and instantly averted her eyes.

Perhaps not
entirely
immaterial.

“Before we finish dessert, I have a bit of news I’d like to share.” George leaned forward, for the first time addressing everyone at the table. “I’ve given Anastasia’s situation a great deal of thought. It was Henry’s wish that I bring her out, introduce her to all the right people. I’ve decided to do just that.”

With a tight smile of self-approval, he continued. “I’m going to host a house party—a
substantial
house party— in Anastasia’s honor. Several hundred people will be invited. It will include two or three days of diversions, including a grand ball to introduce Anastasia to high society. My niece will be brought out in true Colby style, with all the grace and distinction Henry would have wanted.”

Anastasia started. This was the
last
thing she’d expected, especially knowing her uncle as she did. His mind was preoccupied with business, not parties, and his motives were never selfless—even if he was using her father’s money to pay for all this. The bottom line was, what possible benefit could holding an event of this magnitude have for him?

“Uncle George,” she responded carefully. “That’s really not necessary. I appreciate your sentiments, but I don’t think Papa expected …”

“Nonsense.” George waved away her protest. “You’re the only daughter of my only brother. I insist.” He turned to Damen Lockewood, who was watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. “What do you think of the idea, Sheldrake?”

The marquess cleared his throat. “I think it has merit. After all, Henry set aside ten thousand pounds for this occasion. So there are more than enough funds available, as I’m sure you know.” A pointed pause ensued— enough to make Anastasia wonder if Lord Sheldrake was thinking along exactly the same lines as she was. “When did you want to hold this party?”

George shifted in his chair, noticeably flustered by the marquess’s reference to his source of capital. “As soon as possible. In a week, perhaps. I’ll send out the invitations this very day.”

“A week?” Anastasia echoed. “Isn’t that a little ambitious? From what I recall, Mama and Papa used to receive invitations to parties of this size at least a fortnight in advance. That was the only way to ensure none of the balls would conflict.”

“During the Season, that’s true,” her uncle returned. “But the Season is long past. So we don’t run the risk of such conflicts.”

“Yes,” Damen agreed. “Which brings up a different problem. Much of the
ton
is either in Brighton, Bath, or traveling abroad. Why not wait for the fall when everyone is back?”

“Because by then, Anastasia will have endured two months of loneliness and grief,” George replied with a generosity of spirit that nearly made Anastasia gag. “This way, she’ll remember her first summer here as a joyous one, filled with laughter and festivities.” He gave a careless shrug. “The majority of those I know have remained in England for the summer. As for Brighton and Bath—neither are too far from here to travel.”

“I suppose not.” Lord Sheldrake brought his wineglass to his lips, savoring the final drops. “Fine. A house party it is.”

“Excellent.” George sank back in his chair. “I’d appreciate your advice with regard to the guest list. I want the most influential members of society here.”

“Influential—does that include businessmen?” Anastasia came abruptly to life.

“Yes.” Her uncle shot her an odd look. “Of course. Businessmen, nobles, landed gentry. Everyone worth meeting.”

“It sounds wonderful,” she declared, interlacing her fingers in her lap to curb her excitement. “Thank you, Uncle George.”

Lord Sheldrake coughed—a cough that sounded suspiciously like smothered laughter. “Of course, Medford. I’d be glad to advise you on your guest list. We’ll include prominent noblemen, respected gentry … oh, and affluent businessmen, of course.” He tossed Anastasia a quick, wry grin—one she pretended not to notice.

“Good.” Uncle George was oblivious to the exchange. Instead, he was scrutinizing his knife and fork, visibly preoccupied by another detail yet to be addressed.

Anastasia soon found out what that other detail was.

“Ah, Sheldrake.” George abandoned his silverware, casually refolding his napkin. “You will do me the honor of escorting Breanna to the ball.”

“Father.” Hot color rushed to Breanna’s cheeks, and she lowered her eyes, torn between embarrassment and fear of defying her father. “I don’t think …”

“It would be my pleasure to escort Breanna to this grand ball of yours,” Lord Sheldrake interrupted, giving Breanna a warm smile. “Together, she and I will see to it that Lady Anastasia enjoys her first taste of English society.” He slanted a look at Anastasia, a decided twinkle in his eye. “In fact, I personally vow that between her own efforts and ours, your niece won’t be bored for a moment.”

“What did Lord Sheldrake mean by that last comment of his?” Breanna demanded as she and Anastasia enjoyed a late afternoon stroll through the gardens.

“H-m-m-m?” Anastasia shaded her eyes from the sun, drinking in the vibrant colors and intoxicating scents of Medford’s flowers. The goldenrod, the honeysuckle, the wild roses—she’d missed this most of all. England’s glorious countryside, unhurried and unrivaled. The beauty of nature, the freedom to walk for hours and never reach a destination, the sense of peace and adventure all rolled into one.

Lord, it was good to be home.

“Stacie?” Breanna prompted.

Smiling, Anastasia paused at a massive oak, whose profusion of branches overhung the lawns and headed up a grove of now-blossoming trees that lined the estate’s south gardens.

“Remember this tree?” she asked Breanna, caressing the trunk. “It’s the one I climbed when we were four. I wanted to be taller than anything else, so that nothing could impede my view of the grounds.”

“I remember,” Breanna returned dryly, folding her arms across her chest. “You fell out, caught your gown on one of the branches, and slashed the top of your thigh. You bled for half an hour—it took three of Grandfather’s handkerchiefs to stop the bleeding.”

Anastasia chuckled. “I still have the scar.” Her smile faded. “I remember how frightened you were, and how much the gash hurt. I even cried—no, I sobbed—and you know how seldom I do that. But I also remember how incredible it felt, for one fleeting instant, to stand on top of the world. And do you know what? It was worth it. Tears, pain, scar and all. It was worth it.”

“Stacie, are you going to tell me what Lord Sheldrake was alluding to or aren’t you?” Breanna interrupted her cousin’s reminiscing. “For that matter, are you going to fill me in on what happened at your meeting this morning? Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been
too
dire. You and the marquess seemed to be getting along reasonably well at lunch; certainly better than you were yesterday.”

Anastasia wasn’t sure why, but she had the sudden urge to sidestep her cousin’s question—at least that part which dealt with her attitude toward Lord Sheldrake.

“That’s probably because I was too taken aback by Uncle George’s surprising announcement about his ball in my honor,” she replied instead. “A costly frivolity like a party? Hardly typical of your father.”

“I agree,” Breanna said. “It stunned me, as well. And then to insist that Lord Sheldrake escort me …” She flushed. “I’m sure that was part of Father’s plan. I assume he wants to make a grand display of some kind, to show the
ton
that the Colbys are still every bit as influential as they ever were—despite Grandfather’s death, and now Uncle Henry’s.”

“You have a point.” Anastasia tucked her gown around her and lowered herself to the grass. “Either that, or perhaps he’s in the midst of a business deal he feels will progress faster in a social setting.” She patted the large, flat stone embedded in the earth beside her. “Let’s sit for a while, savor the sunshine. You can use this as your chair. That way, you won’t get grass stains.” A mischievous twinkle. “I assume soiled garments still enrage Uncle George.”

Breanna’s lips curved at the memories Anastasia’s comment elicited, but there was a kind of sad resignation in her eyes. “Everything enrages Father,” she replied. “Some things more than others—such as soiled gowns.” Gingerly, she gathered up her skirts and perched at the edge of the stone’s clean surface.

That all-too-familiar fist of worry knotted Anastasia’s gut, worry she’d known since childhood but had been too afraid to address.

Now she did.

“Breanna—he doesn’t hurt you, does he? Physically, I mean.”

Her cousin stared out across the grounds. Then, she slowly shook her head—a half-hearted gesture that looked suspiciously like she was shading the truth, trying to keep Anastasia from worrying. “No. Not really. Not yet.” A pause. “He’s always been volatile. You know that. But most of the time he expends his anger by lashing out verbally. Once or twice it’s gone beyond that—usually when I question his decisions at the wrong times. I usually know when those times are, and I make myself scarce. But sometimes I approach him before I have time to recognize the signs.”