Chapter 1
What sort of man paid to have his sister’s heart broken?
Lord Christian Haukinge tossed the parchment aside, and reclined deeper into the leather desk chair, contemplating the inconceivable notion.
He didn’t bother considering the issue it raised: What sort of man accepted such a proposal? He already knew the answer to that one.
The scribbled letter before him bore no salutation—a deliberate rudeness, a flagrant omission of his title—courtesy though it may be—and his demeanor, as he retrieved the parchment, shifted from indifference to keen irritation. His gaze skimmed the page once more, settling upon the last paragraphs.
... as she seems to have convinced herself no other beau will do, save you, fatuous as it seems, and she has set her face against the new contract I have put before her, clinging to your annulled betrothal simply to defy my wishes, I am forced to offer this proposal.
Please consider the above remuneration for your services; the amount is more than adequate for your brief employ, and, indeed, should prove quite useful in the refurbishment of your newly purchased estate.
As to that, please accept my condolences.
I am certain you shall wish to begin with all due haste, and look forward to your timely response in this matter.
The sooner she has been suitably disillusioned, the sooner you might be compensated for your troubles.
For the greater good, I do hope we might overlook the nature of our past relationship, and endeavor to assist each other in persuading my dear, misguided sister in choosing the right-minded course.
The advance will assure you see it my way.
Accept it in good faith. I shall enlighten you further when we are face-to-face.
Signed simply, Westmoor.
For the greater good?
Bloody bastard.
Christian’s lip curved with contempt—and then a thought occurred to him: If Westmoor knew he’d purchased Rose Park, doubtless his own brother had gotten wind of the fact, as well.
Philip was likely choleric with rage, having to discover something of that nature second-or even third-hand.
Damn… Christian might have given much to glimpse the expression on his brother’s face when he’d been informed of the fact.
Gazing out from his office window, at the unkept garden, a rueful smile touched his lips. What a family he had; the elder a greedy thief, the younger a contrebandier.
With a sigh he reached back to rip out the satin tie that bound his hair, and then thrust his long fingers through the unpowdered length of it, muttering sourly beneath his breath.
Hell, at least he had no qualms over admitting the fact.
Though it might seem appropriate to bear some measure of guilt…
too bad he couldn’t muster the sentiment.
In fact, he’d burn in hell before he’d regret a damned thing.
And that in itself should have disturbed him, he supposed.
But it didn’t. Not in the least. He was what he was, and he felt absolutely no remorse for his.
.. enterprising. Supplies were needed in the colonies, and he simply transported those goods.
Nor had he any falsely noble incentives to declare.
His motives were quite simply self-indulgent.
He wanted money.
Aye, and he wanted respect.
He wanted land.
He wanted more than anything for the sons he intended to sire to all have equal shares of the empire he would build for them.
Damned if he’d leave one alone to fend for himself in a world such as this.
And nay, it was not so much the lack of title he abhorred, for he might truly have been happy in most any situation—save the one in which he found himself. Youngest son, nonentity.
All that disdain without anyone having known of his greatest social flaw, even. His wry smile deepened. What a field day the gentry would have if they were to discover his bastardy.
All those years he’d settled for what little his father had cared to give him.
Which was nothing, not even a momentary-lapse pat on the head, a “good show, son.” Nothing.
The only one thing he’d counted on, was his bequest of Hakewell, his mother’s dower land.
It was to be hers, until her death, and then it was to go to Christian.
And God’s truth, he’d been perfectly content to bide his time, however long that should be, for he cherished his mother and would have her live an eternity were it possible.
But he had counted upon that estate someday.
And then he’d been offered a betrothal with Westmoor’s young daughter, and he’d found himself with such great expectations, such dreams. Security for his heirs.
Shattered, all of it shattered upon his father’s death. The old man hadn’t been gone more than a single month when Philip had set in motion Christian’s disinheritance. All very discreetly done, of course. He’d finagled possession of Hakewell through legal loopholes and treachery.
Certainly Christian knew he could contest it, for Hakewell was his mother’s to give, but Philip—the son of a bitch—had resorted to extortion, knowing Christian would never sully his mother’s good name.
And then he had run to Westmoor to inform him of the transfer of property, and with his bequeathal gone, Westmoor had annulled the betrothal at once; as the sole reason for the contract to begin with was Hakewell.
Without that parcel of land, Christian was worth no more than a brass farthing.
In the blink of an eye, everything had been stripped away, and like a man caught in the throes of a riptide, he’d been helpless to do anything but let it bear him away.
No more.
He was helpless no more.
And never again.
His gaze returned to the letter in his hand, and his fingers closed about the parchment, crumpling it. He slammed his fist down against the hardwood desk.
By damn, he wanted revenge.
The certainty of it struck him full of force.
Despite that he’d sworn himself against it—even after what had happened before—he wanted it, with a bloodlust that was almost palpable.
Cold fury seized him and he determined, instead, to give the cocky young duke his due.
The idiot had offered him a ridiculously low sum for this insulting task, as though he were a green boy fresh out of Eton with a bulge in his breeches and little in his purse.
But that was not what rankled most. Rather it was the snobbery and contempt at the heart of the insult offered.
One too many from the almighty Westmoor.
Not good enough to wed the man’s sister, was he? But good enough to—what? bed her?
So he would have his sister disillusioned… for the greater good?
Christian wondered what, precisely, that entailed.
From the letter, he’d gotten the distinct impression that Lady Jessamine Stone was not too receptive to her brother’s choice of husband.
He supposed it was her bastard brother’s intent that once her little heart was duly crushed, she would more easily bend to his will.
But to what end was Westmoor willing to go?
And why choose him, save to rub salt into his wounds?
Christian’s eyes narrowed. God’s truth, he had no wish to do Westmoor any favors, but there was some sense of justice in that he would be paid now to avail himself of what should have already been his.
Poetic justice.
Aye, he’d do it, all right, but if Westmoor thought he meant to honor the letter of the agreement, he was more fool than Christian supposed.
His cobalt blue eyes glinted with ruthless determination.
The truth was that Christian had already ruined the father.
.. He now fully intended to finish the business—and he didn’t give a bleedin’ damn who was brought down along the way, the virginal little sister included.
He didn’t bother to scribble a return note; it wasn’t worth the effort to attempt to put words together. He peered up at the figure standing quietly in the doorway, awaiting his return message, and said with barely suppressed virulence, “Tell him my answer is yes.”
And then tell him to go straight to hell, he added silently, and rose from his desk.
God help him, right or wrong, he was about to court Lady Jessamine Stone.
For the greater good.