One Dangerous Desire (Accidental Heirs) (13 page)

“Are you well, Your Grace?”

The man’s laughter had waned to a few wheezy chortles. “I’m well, young man.” He waved a hand toward Rex again. “It was merely the coincidence that struck me as amusing.” He broke into a momentary fit of laughter again and then patted his chest as if to tame the impulse. “You come here out of concern for Miss Sedgwick, and yet I have just had a most intriguing visit regarding that young lady this morning. And then you show up to withdraw from our wager. I wonder, have you heard a rumor?”

“I’ve heard no rumors regarding Miss Sedgwick.” The news of Sedgwick’s financial difficulties had been glossed over in the London papers. Beyond her public outings with Devenham, May wasn’t a magnet for the London scandal rags. Yet Ashworth knew something, and judging by his flushed cheeks and twitching grin, he was bursting to tell it.

“You’ll be concerned about your hotel if she wins the wager. Let me reassure you, Mr. Leighton. I’ve been intrigued by you from the start, and I
will
invest in the Pinnacle. Your figures are sound, and your success since arriving in London has been nothing short of astounding.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Rex nodded and relief unfurled in his chest like a constraint finally unbound. He could see the Pinnacle in his mind’s eye, ablaze with light and activity. Then a sickly queasiness built in his gut.

“You mentioned Miss Sedgwick winning the wager, Your Grace?”

Ashworth took a rare moment to pause, perching at the edge of his desk. “You see, the humor of it is that just an hour before you arrived to forfeit, I had a visit from the Earl of Devenham.” His smile revealed two slightly crooked front teeth, larger than all the others. “The man plans to ask May Sedgwick to marry him, Leighton.”

“No.”

“Oh yes. Devenham called little more than an hour ago and asked for a ring that has been in the family for centuries.” Ashworth pointed at the portrait of the amber-eyed beauty on the wall. “Considered giving it to my own wife once, but she preferred another bauble.”

Like the flip of a switch, Rex was that wild boy he’d been the day they deposited him at the orphanage. All anger and instinct and fear, wishing only to snarl. To bite the nearest bystander and lash out at his fate. Except now his ire was for a man whose money could bring his goals to fruition. And the man’s horse-loving relative. So he stood still, every muscle in his body coiled, listening to Ashworth and his abominable talk of May marrying into his family and bearing the Devenham earldom’s heir. The duke spoke of it as one might discuss the practically of choosing a well-fitted carriage. As if Devenham hadn’t chosen a bride but a particularly fertile mare at market.

Rex curled his fingers into his palms and resisted the urge to strike Ashworth. Tried not to imagine how much he’d enjoy wrapping his hands around the duke’s throat to shut him up.

May is mine.
He couldn’t hold his urges at bay and construct fancy words at the same time. He’d never be capable of sweet, tamed gentlemanly emotions where May was concerned. One drumbeat repeated in his mind, telegraphing to every nerve in his body.
May is mine.
She was meant for him and he for her, and the Earl of bloody Devenham could go to the devil.

“I can see you doubting, Mr. Leighton. Yet surely you’ve seen the interest Devenham has taken in her.” He wagged his finger at Rex with no notion how close he came to losing the digit. “She’s certainly encouraged the boy. He has every reason to expect her to accept his offer.”

“May won’t marry him.”

“Such a match would prove advantageous to both of them. He can give her a title, and the Devenham estate will benefit from her dowry. She came to London for no other purpose. Her father is a practical man. I suspect he’s raised a practical daughter. She will accept him.”

“No, Ashworth, she will not.”

Ashworth crossed his arms and frowned.

She does not love him.
She’d admitted as much to Rex the previous evening.

Sedgwick wasn’t nearly as practical as Ashworth thought him to be, but May
had
been raised for the fate of becoming a titled lady. Perhaps she would feel compelled to accept Devenham out of duty, but Rex knew her heart. Knew she was a willful, passionate woman who’d once been audacious enough to consider a very different kind of marriage. She’d readily agreed to start a life with him when he had nothing but a few dollars to his name. When it would have meant forfeiting her jewels and pampered life.

After having May in his arms again, Rex knew a practical marriage to anyone else wouldn’t do. Could she truly put her feelings aside to claim a title?

“Come, Leighton.” The duke had resumed his pacing, then stopped in front of Rex. “You were acquainted with Miss Sedgwick long ago, were you not? Surely you can take pleasure in the lady’s success now.”

The duke spun on his heel, arms outstretched, and then turned back to Rex. “She’ll soon have these walls transformed. What a pleasure it will be to have a countess with a beautifying eye in the family.”

The more Ashworth spoke of May as an object his family would soon acquire, the more Rex’s blood heated in his veins.

“She’s won the wager, and you’ve secured my backing for your hotel. The least you can do is wish them well.”

“Wish who well, Papa?” Lady Emily stood in the library doorway, darting her gaze from Rex to her father. “Mr. Leighton, I didn’t know we were expecting a visit from you today.”

“I am completely unexpected, my lady.” Rex attempted a grin, but it proved difficult while he was still gritting his teeth after Ashworth’s revelation.

“Well, you’re welcome nonetheless.” Lady Emily shot him a look that echoed the naked interest he’d seen in her eyes the first day they’d met.

That’s when it struck Rex, cutting through the haze of jealousy and anger. Once he’d spoken to Sullivan of Lady Emily Markham in the same mercenary way that Ashworth had referred to May. Been motivated by selfish strategy, just like Devenham. He’d considered wedding Emily, not for her kind heart or cleverness but for what benefit such a match could bring. And unlike Devenham, he couldn’t even offer a woman a title.

Hadn’t May spent her whole life wishing for a title? She’d announced it the first day he’d met her.
“My mother plans to make me a duchess one day.”

“Luncheon has been laid, Papa. Would you care to join us, Mr. Leighton?”

“No, thank you, but I’ll leave you to it.” He offered the duke a stiff nod. “Your Grace. Good day, Lady Emily.” Rex strode out before Emily could stop him with a polite offer of tea or Ashworth could turn his stomach with more talk of May. He wanted nothing to do with Ashworth anymore—not the man’s money or his desire to see May become Countess of Devenham.

After dismissing his driver, Rex stomped past the fashionable townhouses of Belgravia. One realization consumed his thoughts. After all he’d done to achieve success, all the goals he’d ticked off his list, Devenham’s plans forced him to face the great irony of his life.

May was the only objective worth pursuing, and yet he’d given up on her six years ago. Now decency dictated he do so again. A gentleman would step aside and allow her to become the titled noblewoman she’d always dreamed of being.

Trouble was, he’d never been decent a day in his life, and he only played at being a gentleman.

Chapter Fourteen

M
AY DASHED AND
daubed, pressing hard, then swiping lightly, blending and building up layers until her arm began to throb. She’d been struggling over an attempt at oil painting in the sunny parlor for hours. With splashes of color and streaks of light, she tried to capture the kind of movement Mr. Turner had been able to achieve. Her first art teacher had emphasized neatness and realistic paintings, but the more she played with color, the further outside the edges of her pencil outline she ventured.

She liked painting outside the lines, pushing the boundaries. At least in her art. Now if she could just achieve such boldness in her carefully charted life.

After rolling her wrist and swinging her arm back and forth as far as the tight stitches of her tailored morning dress allowed, she scooped a bit of raw umber into a stripe of Venetian red, piling them onto her brush. Just as she touched color-laden bristles to canvas, a thundering series of knocks sounded at the townhouse’s front door. Her paintbrush skittered from one blob of color into another.
Dratted Turner!
It was her new favorite curse.

She heard Mrs. Campbell greet the visitor, then an exchange in muffled tones. Curious—they rarely had callers so early in the morning, aside from the Entwhistle girls, and it wasn’t their day for a lesson.

Wiping paint from her fingers, May approached the parlor door. “Mrs. Campbell, who is . . . ” Her voice faded as Rex stepped into view. Actually, he dominated the view, the entire hallway, towering over Mrs. Campbell and wearing a strange expression, somewhere between hunger and a frown. As if he’d come to her door uncertain whether he wanted to argue with her or devour her.

“Mr. Leighton, you weren’t expected.” She didn’t bother mentioning that he’d overtaken her morning.

The sky she’d developed on her canvas veered stubbornly toward the verdigris green shade of his eyes, rather than the Prussian blue she intended. And every brown she attempted to mix on her palette ended up tinted auburn, much like Rex’s hair when the sunlight hit it just so.

“You’re the second person to say that to me this morning.” His rough voice matched his scowl as he took in her paint-splotched fingers and smock besmeared with a mishmash of colors. “I guess I have a bad habit of not waiting for an invitation.”

All the etiquette her mother drilled in over the years made May itch to clasp her dirty hands behind her back, but she resisted. She’d never hidden her love for art from him.

“If you’ll wait in the drawing room, I’m sure we can convince Mrs. Campbell to bring us tea.” May glanced at the housekeeper, who offered her a wary nod before starting back toward the kitchen. Mrs. Campbell frowned on gentleman callers when May’s father was not at home. “I’ll just go and clean up a bit.”

“Why? I like you as you are.”

“Perspiring and covered in paint?”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t the grandest compliment she’d ever received. Perhaps he hadn’t intended it as a compliment at all. But it felt like one. May had heard enough false praise and fawning to last a lifetime, but none of it sent warmth rushing through her like Rex’s unadorned approval.

“Very well.” She started toward the drawing room door.

“Why not the room you came from? Won’t you show me what you’re working on?”

“It’s not finished.”
And it’s dreadful.
Oils were never going to be her medium, she feared, despite how much the bold, vibrant colors appealed to her.

“Let me see. Please.” He’d never pleaded with her for anything. In fact, he often left the word off in conversation, when others knew to add it as a polite nicety.

“As long as you don’t judge too harshly.” She tried for a light, teasing tone, but he watched her so intently, her voice wobbled instead. “Just this way.”

She retreated into the parlor, aware of how closely he followed behind. The edge of his trouser leg brushed the back of her skirt. Today, his scent was more woodsy than spice but not a jot less appealing.

He moved to stand before her easel, leaning in closer than most did to appraise art. “You’re dreaming of the English countryside and an elaborate estate, I see.”

No compliment there regarding her artistic efforts. Not that she’d expected one. Effusive praise had never been his way.

“That house isn’t a dream. It’s in Berkshire. I visited just last year, and I’ll have you know it’s quite charmingly dilapidated.” The piece, if she managed to finish it, depicted Hartwell, the country estate of a viscount she’d come to England to meet and marry. In the end, Viscount Grimsby had given his heart to a lovely suffragette bookseller. May had attended their wedding the previous year and the painting was to be a gift for Lord and Lady Grimsby.

“I recognize the estate. I’m acquainted with the man who owns it.”

“Are you?” May couldn’t imagine the two men in the same room. Lord Grimsby always struck her as painfully restrained, while Rex, despite his fashionable attire, exuded a kind of untamed magnetism.

“Lord Grimsby invested in a factory and housing project I own in Berkshire.” He made the admission in a low monotone, as if speaking of his commercial success unnerved him.

“My goodness. I had no idea your business interests were so diverse.” It seemed he’d been very busy in the years since they’d parted.

After turning away from the painting, he stalked toward her, drawing almost as close as he had to inspect her artwork. She thought he might touch her, kiss her. He vibrated with some barely leashed emotion. But he didn’t reach for her, and a moment later he’d swept all the tautness from his face. He wore that arrogant, practiced look he’d given her in Ashworth’s drawing room the day they’d met again after years apart.

“I learned from men like your father. He never relied on Sedgwick’s profit alone to earn his keep.”

“Yes, I know.”
And thank goodness for it.
After his initial gloom-and-doom predictions, Mr. Graves recently assured her that despite the uncertain future of their storefronts in Chicago and New York, investment income could keep her father comfortably solvent for years—provided he stopped squandering money on chorus girls and losing at gaming tables. “He’s not here, in case you were hoping he’d join us for tea.” She grinned nervously, both to cover concern for father and to ease the tension that seemed to hang between them like a thundercloud.

Finally, inch by inch, the tightness around his lips eased and a smirk crept across his face. One corner of his mouth tilted up, hinting at the crease in his cheek she knew would emerge if he truly let himself smile. “What a shame. It’s time your father and I put the past aside.”

May laughed, a nervous titter at first and then a deep, freeing chortle. Just the kind of laugh Mama would have rapped her knuckles for when she was a girl.

Surely, he was joking.

Yet he wasn’t. He was glowering at her.

“You’re serious?” She swallowed her last waning chuckle when one dark eyebrow arched high on his forehead, as if he was offended that she found his comment amusing.

“Of course. Six years is long enough.”

A strange tickling sensation started in her chest, a little seedling of hope burrowing into her heart. When he spoke to her father this time, he wouldn’t be a penniless shop clerk. Rex Leighton was a man of substance. A man her father couldn’t dismiss as he had Reginald Cross. But why did he wish to speak to him at all?

Mrs. Campbell’s arrival with a tray of refreshments gave May an excuse to ignore the fluttering under her breastbone and busy herself with serving tea. Rex watched her hands, taking care not to meet her eyes, as she performed the familiar ritual. Then, after she poured fragrant Oolong into his cup and offered it to him, he stared at the steaming liquid a moment before awkwardly taking the delicate porcelain in hand.

“Not much of a tea drinker, Mr. Leighton?”

He finally looked at her directly, kicking that tickle in her chest from frolic to frenzy. He narrowed his eyes as he took a tentative sip. “You know I prefer coffee, Miss Sedgwick.”

“Still? You’ve been in England so long, I would have thought you’d adopted their love for tea over that muddy brew you liked back in New York.”

“Never. I’ll take my muddy brew every day of the week, thank you very much.”

Mercy, she’d missed this. Sitting with him. Talking with him. Having him near. It was far too easy. One smirk and that teasing tone in his voice, and he had her on the precipice, ready to tumble into any adventure he proposed.

Well, almost ready. Apart from the one question that tattooed in her mind, nagging at her like Mrs. Campbell’s chastising glances. Could she trust him again? With her future, with her heart. Her romantic musings might have nothing at all to do with why he’d called at their townhouse.

“Why have you come?”

“I didn’t intend to.”

And . . . she was a fool. The dancing energy in her chest diminished, and the little seedling of hope shriveled up and slid down, just like her shoulders. When her corset began to press in under her arms, she straightened up to correct her unladylike slump.

He slammed his teacup on the table between them, and it clattered noisily against its saucer. “What I meant to say is that I found myself at your front door, and I gave in to the desire to see you. No reason. Nothing rational about it.”

“Against your will, then? This rogue desire to see me finally beat out your better judgment?” Sarcasm had never been her strong suit. She hadn’t mastered the right tone.

“I fight it every day,” he said in such a raspy whisper that she leaned in to catch it. “The desire to see you.”

May gulped the sip of tea she’d intended to take. She spluttered as the liquid seared a trail to her belly, firing her body until it was as hot as her cheeks.

“I’ve been in London for many months, Mr. Leighton. Your desire can’t be so formidable.”

He shifted on the settee across from her so that his leg pressed against her skirts.

“I assure you, it is.”

She wanted a bit of cool water, a snowflake, perhaps an iceberg to ease the heat coursing through her. Drinking more tea wouldn’t help, but she did it anyway, in a desperate attempt to deflect the intensity of his gaze and the effect of his admission.

“Perhaps it was a burning desire to make amends with my father that brought you here today.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, he winced. Apparently, he still hadn’t reconciled himself to the prospect.

“I called on Ashworth this morning.” He watched her, searching her face as if he might find some answer there, though he hadn’t asked a question. “He conveyed an interesting bit of news.”

“Did he?” May felt as if she was being quizzed and had failed to study for the examination. “You have business dealings with him, don’t you? Was it to do with your hotel?”

“Partly.” He nodded but added nothing more, as if he needed her to fill the silence.

“Tell me about your hotel. Emily mentioned your plans, but I’d rather hear them from you.”

The question set him in motion. He shot up from the settee and began pacing the rug in front of the fireplace. “What would you like to know?”

May frowned. Something was amiss. In her experience, men who developed their own businesses were happy for any excuse to discuss their ventures. Back in New York, her father had famously put a dinner guest to sleep by prattling on about his plans to expand Sedgwick’s offerings.

“Why a hotel?”

Rex swept a hand along the edge of the elaborately carved Italian marble fireplace mantel. “So I can live like this. Or better.”

“Surely your townhouse in Berkeley Square is every bit as luxurious.”

“It’s not mine.” He barked the words loud enough to make his abandoned teacup rattle. “I want something of my own. And not some rambling pile in the country.” He nudged his chin toward her portrait of Hartwell. “If I am to live in a house of a hundred rooms, I want them filled. With light and life, and earning me money at the same time.” When he turned toward her, his blue-gold eyes had darkened to stormy gray. “Do you remember the Hoffman Hotel? My mother and I often walked past it. She tried for a job there as a cleaning lady. They turned her away because of her cough. She dreamed of making that grand hotel our home. Now I want a place of my own just like it.”

The bereft quality in his voice hit May like a blow to the center of her chest. Right where all that pleasure had bloomed a moment before. “You should have that. You deserve a place you can call home.” She stood to approach him, but his gust of laughter held her in place.

“We don’t get what we deserve in this life.” She’d never heard such bitterness in his tone. Worse was the way he looked at her, as if she was still that naive girl he’d known back in New York. His eyes held the same hollowness that Devenham’s had when he told her they’d each marry for practical reasons, rather than following their hearts.

Rex stepped forward and reached for her hands. “You still believe in happy endings, don’t you?”

Only with you.
She had only ever truly imagined
her
happy ending as one that included him. “Does that make me a fool?”

“No.” He reached up to skim the backs of his fingers across her cheek. His hand trembled as he caressed her. “It makes you who you are. You’ve always been full of light, May. Good and kind and led by your heart.” As he spoke, he slid his hand down to press his heated palm to the bare skin above her square-necked gown. “What a gift to hope as you do.” He no longer trembled, but May had begun to shiver, not from cold but him. Rex was warm and so tantalizingly near, and she’d never wanted to be less good in her life.

Good girl. Spoiled girl. Rich girl.
All the names they called her—her mother, her social-climbing friends, even the newspapers that reported every measure and misstep of million-dollar heiresses. She wasn’t a girl anymore, and being good had never gotten her anywhere. Pressing up onto her toes, she slid an arm around his neck, buried her fingers in his thick hair, and urged him down. Breathless with need, she only managed, “Kiss me.”

And he did, lowering his head just enough to slide his lips against hers, as if he’d tease her. But she was done with teasing and playing at flirtation in claustrophobic drawing rooms. In that moment she knew with utter clarity what she wanted, who she wanted, and how she wanted him to touch her. She pressed up taller, leaning into him until he reached an arm around to brace her. She didn’t wait to be kissed. Opening to him, touching her tongue to the seam of his lips, she felt him melt against her. Then he took control, using his hand to angle her head just so, using his arm to press her firmly into the hard, sheltering length of his body.