Bought for Revenge

She bit her lip and glared at him. He thought that if they had not been in Lady Rishworth’s drawing room she would have stamped her foot. He laughed suddenly and held out his hand to her. ‘Come, madam, your father likes me. For his sake, cry friends.’

She hesitated. Slowly, her hand crept up and into his. ‘Not friends, sir,’ she said quietly, ‘but for my father’s sake, not enemies.’

They did not speak again and later, when he lay down on his bed at the Red Lion, Lucas went over the events of the evening. He had enjoyed himself. Moreover, he had enjoyed the verbal sparring with Annabelle Havenham, so much so that when she had at last given him her hand he had felt a surge of pleasure.

He shifted uneasily. Havenham was a gentle, scholarly soul. In other circumstances he would have liked him, but it was not part of his plan to grow too fond of Samuel Havenham. Or his daughter. Lucas turned over and prepared for sleep, seeing again in his mind’s eye Annabelle’s clear eyes, the slight blush tinting her cheek during their last encounter.

On the other hand, it would do no harm at all if Annabelle Havenham grew too fond of him. Perhaps he should revise his plans. To force her to marry him to save her father would, of course, have its merit, but how much sweeter would his revenge be upon Samuel Havenham if Annabelle was to fall in love with him?

Chapter Three

Mr Havenham was sanguine about the invitation he had issued to Mr Monserrat to dine at Oakenroyd, but Annabelle could not rest. She knew her father would enjoy the evening, so she stifled her own misgivings and set about preparing a sumptuous dinner to show their new neighbour that Oakenroyd was a household of some standing in the neighbourhood. She made several journeys to the housekeeper’s room to change her mind about the dishes they should offer their guest, until at last the housekeeper, Mrs Wicklow, gently but firmly refused to discuss it any further.

‘Cook has been in charge of the kitchens for the past twenty years, Miss Belle, as you very well know, and if I tell him that you have changed your mind again he is likely to pack his bags and go off in high dudgeon, and then where should we be?’ She ushered Annabelle to the door. ‘Now, miss, I suggest you take yourself for a nice walk around the gardens while the sun is shining. The roast beef and cod loin will do very well, then we have a fine ham and apple dumplings, and I am sure we will find a few dainty sweets for when the covers are removed. Don’t you worry, my dear, your guest will not be disappointed.’

A similar indecisiveness struck Annabelle over what to wear.

‘I am mistress of this house,’ she muttered to herself as she pulled out and discarded various gowns. In the end she chose a high-waisted robe of pale-green silk, cut low across the bosom and with tight-fitting sleeves to offset the chill of a March evening. One of her many cream-muslin gowns would have been more suited to a young unmarried lady who had not yet attained her majority, but following their previous meetings she wanted Lucas Monserrat to see her as mistress of her father’s house, composed and in command.

Their guest arrived promptly and was shown into the drawing room by the butler. He was again dressed in the regulation dark coat and tight-fitting breeches, and his manner of greeting was just as it should be. She met him coolly, alert for any sign of insolence in his manner, but he was perfectly polite. Relieved, but not yet wholly convinced, she took her embroidery to a chair by the window and left her father to entertain him.

The winter weather took its toll on her father’s health and he was not able to enjoy the local society as much as he would wish, so by the spring he was always ready for company. Despite their distance from London, her father was well informed and the two men conversed easily together on a wide range of subjects, leaving Annabelle free to set her stitches and listen to their conversation with growing interest. Perhaps the evening would not be too much of a trial after all.

The good mood continued throughout dinner. Mr Monserrat directed his attention towards his host. Their discussions ranged from politics and the price of corn to the recent war. As the meal progressed Annabelle found herself relaxing. She forgot her previous animosity and even interjected her own comments into the conversation upon occasion—it was hard to remain coldly aloof with a guest who entertained her father so well.

At the correct time she excused herself and left them to their port, but it was not long before they joined her in the drawing room. Darkness had fallen and the shutters were closed. She had ordered the log fire to be built up and a quantity of candles burned steadily about the room. Annabelle glanced around her with satisfaction. No hostess could be displeased with such comfortable and elegant surroundings.

‘Mr Monserrat has great plans for the manor, my dear,’ remarked her father as she helped him to his favourite chair beside the fire. ‘He intends to restore it, very much as it was.’

‘That is admirable, sir.’ She favoured their guest with a faint smile. ‘I hope you succeed.’

‘I intend to.’ His dark eyes rested on her, cool and considering. ‘I succeed in everything I undertake.’

A frisson of disquiet ran through her, but she tried to ignore it.

‘How fortunate for you.’

‘Fortune has little to do with it.’ He waited until Annabelle was seated, then lowered his long frame into a chair. ‘I make my plans and stick to them.’

Her father chuckled. ‘But you are a young man still, if you do not mind me saying so. Life has a way of upsetting the best-laid plans.’

‘Not yours, sir, surely.’ Those dark eyes flickered about the room. ‘You look to be very comfortable here. Everything you need to make you happy.’

‘Not quite everything.’

Annabelle was immediately aware of her father’s sadness. It was in the slight droop of his shoulders and the faint change to his expression, imperceptible to a stranger.

‘Papa.’ She flew out of her chair and dropped down at his side. ‘Do not talk of it if it makes you unhappy.’

He placed one gnarled hand upon her head while he addressed his visitor.

‘I lost my wife when Belle was born, and my son died of a fever some years ago.’ He raised his eyes. ‘So you see, young man, I too have had my share of sadness. Belle is now my only joy.’

The silence following his words was broken only by the faint tick of the clock and the logs crackling in the fireplace. Belle expected their guest to say something, to murmur a word or two, of comfort, perhaps, or at least sympathy, but he said nothing. His face was impassive, the dark eyes thoughtful. She sought for something to break the silence, but within moments her father had roused himself and was smiling again.

‘We have a painting of Morwood Manor, Mr Monserrat. A watercolour. Perhaps you would like to see it.’

‘I would indeed, sir.’

‘It hangs on the landing. Annabelle, my love, perhaps you would accompany our guest? It is at the top of the stairs, you see, sir, and my legs are not what they were.’

‘I quite understand and would be obliged if Miss Havenham will show me the way.’

Annabelle wavered, wondering whether to suggest viewing it another time, in daylight, but that would require a further invitation. No, better to get it over with. She rose.

‘Of course, sir. Let us go now.’

She picked up a branched candlestick as they crossed the hall, explaining that they would need the extra light to see the painting properly. Her spine tingled as she led the way up the stairs, aware of his presence, the faint whisper of his footstep behind her, his warm breath on her neck—or was that her imagination? Surely he was not that close. She forced herself not to look around.

When they reached the landing she stopped by a small painting in a plain wooden frame.

‘Here it is.’ She lifted the candles higher. She had seen the painting many times before. It showed a long stone-built manor house with a slate roof and a gabled wing at each end. It had been painted in high summer. The creamy stone glowed against the backdrop of dark trees, and where there was now only rough grass and young saplings the artist had lovingly painted a sweeping drive curling between manicured lawns. ‘We keep it here on the upper landing so that it is out of direct sunlight and will not fade so quickly.’

He stepped closer to study the picture and Annabelle found herself looking at his profile, the hawkish nose and strong jawline, the lines of his face, so harsh they might have been carved from stone. In the dim light his hair was black as ink, his colouring so dark that even though his cheek was freshly shaved it bore a faint shadow. A man of dark thoughts, not one given to smiling. Strength emanated from his powerful frame. For all his fine clothes and good manners, he was not a man to be crossed.

Suddenly she was uncomfortable being here alone with him. The gloom and stillness were unnerving. She shivered and a few droplets of hot wax dripped on to her hand, making her gasp.

‘Here, let me hold that.’ He took the candlestick from her, his fingers brushing her skin and causing her to suppress another shiver, this time at the shock of his touch. She began to chatter to cover her nervousness.

‘This was painted just before the manor burned down. It is one of my father’s most prized possessions.’

To her relief he turned his attention again to the painting.

‘It is a good likeness.’

‘Is it? I have never seen another painting of the manor, so I cannot tell you.’

‘Who is the artist?’

‘I do not know…’

‘There is a signature.’ He held the candles closer and she peered at the faint scrawl.

‘I have never thought to look before…M.M.B…’

‘Maria Blackstone.’

She blinked. ‘Blackstone was the name of the family who lived there. Look—’ she pointed ‘—there is a small figure on the lawn.’