Chapter 25
twenty-five
The house was in turmoil the next morning as Effie tried to have breakfast in the sunroom. She’d believed that Papa had overreacted about the situation of their finances, but he’d been right.
Tristan’s aggressive attack was quickly bringing her family to its knees.
Papa’s bank accounts had been frozen overnight.
Letters of complaints from business associates kept pouring in like confetti at a wedding.
The footmen were talking about searching for new employment.
A maid had already left, and even Doyle was worried.
In the midst of the chaos, Papa was deeply asleep, thanks to one of Dr. O’Neil’s sleeping potions.
She had no time to waste.
Tristan’s revenge had to stop before her family was completely destroyed. Her father would have another fit once he woke up. She would find something to bargain with if Tristan listened to her.
After changing into a dark green morning dress, she slid out of the house almost without anyone noticing.
The crisp air turned into mist around her mouth, and a strong gust of wind slammed against her chest as if it wanted to shove her back home.
Her determination wavered. She might not be able to make Tristan see reason. Perhaps she was overestimating her influence on him, but they understood each other a little. He wouldn’t be completely unsympathetic to her pleas.
She walked at a fast pace along the pavement. Her determination kept floating up and down with each step. But the closer she walked to his house, the less frightened she felt. She wouldn’t leave his house until she spoke to him.
Harris didn’t look surprised to see her when he opened the door. “My lady.” His tone was apologetic.
“Is Lord Montcrest receiving calls? Please.”
Harris must have pitied her because he showed her to the drawing room and exhaled. “Please wait here, my lady.” He loitered. “His Lordship is a good man. Please, my lady, don’t believe he isn’t.”
“I know his heart. I do.”
With another sigh, he left her alone in the room that smelled of beeswax. Maybe it was Papa’s suddenly uncertain financial situation, but the austere furniture and heavy drapes seemed to close in on her.
She paced between the Italian dark silk sofa and a sophisticated Louis XVI-style table, needing to steel herself for the imminent confrontation.
“Effie.” His deep voice sounded calm and composed, the opposite of how she felt.
Despite her state of agitation, a shiver ran down her back upon seeing him again in all his masculine charm. He was the same, yet he’d changed.
His facial muscles were more defined. Well, all his muscles were more defined if the way his jacket stretched across his shoulders was any indication. But the tension in his neck enhanced his dark-circled eyes.
“I’m not surprised to see you here.” From his flat tone, she couldn’t understand if he was glad or annoyed to see her.
“Thank you for seeing me.” There was no point in not being polite. Attacking him immediately wouldn’t end well.
He stretched out an arm towards the sofa. “I guess the reason for your visit has to do with your father.”
“You guessed right.” She ignored the seat. “Please, Tristan, stop. We can’t take any more of your attacks. My father is the shadow of himself. He had a fit yesterday. I thought he was dying of a heart attack.”
He remained deadpan. “He’s responsible for a bombing.”
“He isn’t a murderer. He should have gone to the police, yes, and he didn’t do it, but not because he wanted to hurt people. That’s what you refuse to understand.”
“His action, or in this case, inaction, has consequences.”
“You’ve punished him enough. You’ve made your point. Stop.”
His icy blue eyes didn’t show any mercy. “Rowan might not recover the full use of his left leg. Tell me, Effie, what’s the price of a boy with a permanent limp?”
“I’m sorry about Rowan. I’m devastated by what happened to him.” She shook with emotion. “My heart breaks for him. But being ferocious to my father won’t change anything.”
“The police don’t want to prosecute him. Someone must teach him a lesson.”
“Someone who? You?”
“Yes!” His upper lip curled up in a snarl.
They stared at each other, their breathing uneven.
“What do you want from me? What can I do to convince you to stop?” she asked. “Name your price.”
He didn’t answer.
She took a step closer, desperate to cause a reaction from him. Anything. Even anger would be better than his coldness. “I’m ready to give you anything you want to make you stop.”
“What? Money? I don’t need it.” Deep lines appeared on his brow.
“There must be something. You’ve always liked me,” she added in a clumsy attempt to remind him he’d wanted to marry her. He was supposed to listen to the woman who would be his wife.
Perhaps she wasn’t so different from her father. She was using his feelings towards her to get something in return.
His frown deepened. “Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“Well…” She tried not to lose her composure as she racked her brain for words. “Surely, you can think of something you would be happy for me to do for you.” She winced inwardly. That sounded as convoluted as her messy thoughts.
“I want to marry you. You know that.”
She straightened but hesitated before talking. “Then you can have me.”
The offer had slipped out of her mouth before she could think it through. It came out wrong like everything else she’d tried to say in the last five minutes. Although why not? He’d shown interest in her. He’d wanted to marry her. If she could use that to save her family, she would.
Finally, his cold mask cracked, and emotions slipped through. His sapphire eyes widened, and she could swear a light blush coloured his cheeks. Had she shocked him? She forced herself not to lower her gaze or to shiver.
“You don’t mean it,” he said, lacking his usual confidence.
“I do.” She jutted out her chin. “I would do anything to make you stop this absurd revenge on my father, and I know you have plenty of money. I don’t have much to offer aside from myself.”
He had the decency to lower his gaze for a moment.
“So here I am.” She stepped closer. “You can have me,” she said again, sounding more confident after seeing his composure crack.
A tendon in his neck ticked. “What do you mean exactly? Are you proposing a marriage?”
“No.” She didn’t hesitate in her answer. Nothing good would come from a marriage born under duress. “I propose…”
Now her confidence wavered. Her offer was born on the spur of the moment, and the details were rather blurred.
What exactly was she offering? To become his mistress? No, that wouldn’t suit her. Besides, he’d told her he didn’t want a mistress. Then what? A single night of passion? She doubted that would be enough for him. A month, perhaps, or a week.
“I’ll provide for you once I finish with your father,” he said with shocking honesty when she didn’t add a word. “You don’t have to do this. You’ll never starve.”
“I don’t want your charity.”
“There’s nothing wrong with accepting charity. I did it.”
She should be more careful with her words. “I want you to stop torturing my father.”
He straightened, gaining a few inches of menace. She had never negotiated a deal, and she was competing with a honed businessman in a field where negotiation skills were everything. Great plan so far.
“No marriage, so you want to be my mistress.” He looked puzzled.
That made two of them.
“No.” She wrung her hands but stopped quickly; the gesture would make her look weak.
He gave the slightest shake of his head. “What do you offer then?”
“A short affair.” That sounded sensible.
“How short? Are we talking about a month, a year, or what?”
She forced herself not to fiddle with her hands. “A week.” Even more sensible. But she was overestimating herself. Her body for a week might not be so valuable to him.
“A week.” He folded his arms over his chest. “And what are we going to do during that week exactly?”
Did she really have to spell everything out for him?
She waved a hand. “It’s clear, I suppose.”
“No, it isn’t. I have no idea what you have in mind. What am I allowed to do? What am I not allowed to do?”
“Well…” She searched around for inspiration, but the rural painting on the wall and the cherubs on the ceiling didn’t offer much.
“Be specific.”
Curse him. She needed to sit down. Her legs were quivering.
He sat in front of her on the armchair, his elbows on his knees and his intense stare completely focused on her. He didn’t look less intimidating because he was sitting, and now she understood how a gazelle had to feel in front of a hungry lion.
She cleared her throat. “We can sleep together during that week.”
“Every night and day of the week?” His voice lowered, and she didn’t find it unpleasant.
“Yes,” she said. “I mean, seven days.”
“Seven days, not necessarily in a row.”
“Yes.”
“Seven days of us in bed together.”
Said like that, it sounded rather improper, because it was. But in for a penny, in for a pound. “Yes.”
“What can we do in bed?” His tone was challenging now. “Can I have you anytime I wish?”
She shifted, not sure what to say. “I don’t have a lot of experience, so answering this question can be difficult.”
She knew something. Things she’d learnt from books, friends, and horses, but she’d never tried anything.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You don’t want to do this. It’s obvious. You’re only desperate.”
“I may be desperate, but I am offering you a deal. Take it or leave it.” She wouldn’t be treated like a child. She was a woman capable of making her own choices, even though she had a vague idea of what those choices implied.
He studied her, drumming his long fingers on the armrests. She wondered if he had the same warrior-like expression whenever he negotiated a deal.
He stretched out his hand. “We have a deal.”
“You stop bothering my father right now, and I’ll be your mistress for a week, and we’ll do things I’m comfortable with,” she said, not taking his hand.
“No, the deal was that we slept together for seven days.”
She didn’t see the difference. “Yes.” She stretched out her hand, but it was his turn not to shake it.
“And if we do only things you are comfortable with, we’ll hold hands all the time and nothing else.”
“Are all negotiations so complicated?”
A corner of his mouth curved up. “Worse than that, but never as pleasurable.”
She huffed. “I mean, we will, of course, do the deed. No, I won’t be specific,” she added in a rush when he opened his mouth. “Let’s say we’ll see each time what we choose to do.”
“It’s not much of an assurance, and the whole deal is rather vague, but I’ll take it for now.” He offered his hand again.
She shook it, feeling the hardened skin on his palm.
“When do we start?” He released her hand immediately.
“Tomorrow evening at seven, but you stop harassing my father today.”
He leant back in the seat, his eyes darkening with desire. “Consider it done.”