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  “Yes, you’ve been very clear, so why keep trying?”

  “I had to scrape the bottom of the barrel with her. She’s doesn’t have any family to object.”

  “I thought her father was your close friend.”

  “Ah...ah...”

  His lie exposed, George flushed with chagrin, but he quickly recovered and drew himself up to his full height—which was many inches shorter than Lucas’s six-feet.

  “By God,” George thundered, “you will wed Miss Hubbard or I’m through with you!”

  “So she is a possible bride. You’re admitting it?”

  “Yes. I arranged the match, and I won’t apologize for it.”

  “And I won’t shackle myself to her, so why torment me? Why torment yourself?”

  “I am your father! You will do as I say!”

  “I haven’t yet.”

  “No, you never have, and look what’s become of you.”

  It was an old argument that had no resolution.

  From Lucas’s earliest memories, he and George had butted heads. If George said the sky was blue, Lucas would say it was yellow merely to be contrary. They’d never understood each other, had never gotten on or felt any bond.

  No matter how Lucas succeeded, how he thrived, it was never enough for George. Lucas had been belittled and berated and condescended to for so long that it was ingrained in his nature to prove himself a sloth and ingrate.

  He’d spent the prior decade in the army, forced to join at age fifteen when he’d stupidly fought a duel and had wounded another student at school. They’d been quarreling over a married woman—a professor’s wife—and it was a scandal that still shocked people and was the reason, all these years later, that no reputable family would hand over a daughter to be Lucas’s wife.

  George had pulled a dozen strings and pushed Lucas into the army rather than his being prosecuted for the duel. His military service was supposed to have calmed his more despicable tendencies but, unfortunately, no character alteration had occurred.

  He was just as lazy, insolent, corrupt, and immoral as ever, his experiences as a soldier simply honing his more shady propensities.

  “What is your plan, Lucas?” his father seethed.

  “I have no plan.”

  “You’ve resigned your commission in the army. You’re back in England. What are you hoping to do?”

  “I’m not hoping to do anything.”

  Actually, he was to have left for India with his best friend, James Talbot, but James had stunned Lucas by suddenly deciding to wed. So the trip to India was cancelled, and with the journey off the table, Lucas was at loose ends and trying to devise a path that didn’t involve employment or penury or matrimony.

  “You have no income,” George nagged. “You have no prospects.”

  “No, not a one,” Lucas blithely concurred.

  “I’m told you can’t show up in London. There are too many creditors chasing you.”

  “It is a nuisance,” he agreed.

  “You’ve slithered home, which means you’re expecting to ingratiate yourself so I’ll pay your bills.”

  “No, I slithered home because you demanded I visit. I came to see what nonsense you’d concocted this time.”

  “Marriage is not nonsense!” George bellowed.

  “It certainly is in my book.”

  “You require a steadying influence, Lucas. A wife will provide you with stability and purpose so you’ll carry on in a normal fashion.”

  “I have no desire to carry on normally. It’s not in my nature—as you’ve pointed out on a thousand previous occasions.”

  “The marriage with Miss Hubbard is contracted. The dowry has been tendered, the contacts signed. You will wed her—or else!”

  “Or else what?”

  “You will be disowned and disavowed.”

  “Disowned?” Lucas laughed. “You’ve never helped me. How could my situation grow any worse?”

  A sly expression crossed George’s face. “However, if you marry her, there will be no need for a breach between us. In fact, I’ll reward you quite handsomely.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes. I’ll square your debts, and I’ll give you the family property in Surrey. The two of you can retire there, so you’ll be away from the temptations of town. You’ll have a fine living from the proceeds of the estate.”

  Lucas snorted with disgust. “I’ll become a gentleman farmer? Is that the future you see for me?”

  “A married gentleman farmer.”

  “Oh, gad,” Lucas sighed. “I don’t know why I ever come to Sidwell.”

  “You come because I am your father, because I am your lord and master. You will do as I say! And you will do it gladly.”

  “That top-lofty tone works with Aaron”—Aaron was Lucas’s perfect and faultless brother—“but it doesn’t work with me. I can’t figure out why you imagine I’ll be swayed by it.”

  “Aaron understands his place. Aaron understands his role.”

  “Yes, yes, Aaron is so bloody wonderful.”

  “You will not denigrate your brother! Not in this house where he has always exhibited the utmost deference to me.”

  Lucas heaved out a heavy breath.

  Aaron was Lucas’s only sibling and George’s heir apparent. At age thirty, Aaron was just five years older than Lucas, but he seemed decades more mature.

  He was courteous and obedient and completely biddable in ways Lucas had never been able to be. As Aaron’s star had risen in their father’s eyes, Lucas’s had plummeted until it was difficult to remember that he and Aaron were even related.

  Lucas liked Aaron well enough, although sometimes, he wanted to grab him and shake him and say, Wake up and live your life! Stop being so obsequious to the pathetic fool.

  But Aaron was simply too polite to ever act up or misbehave.

  “If we’ve stooped to your waxing on about Aaron,” Lucas told his father, “this conversation is over.”

  “We are not finished.”

  “We are.”

  Lucas spun and started out.

  “Where are you going?” George practically screeched the question.

  “To London.”

  “You don’t have my permission to leave.”

  “Really, my lord? You think I need your permission?”

  “You’ll will stay here and wed Miss Hubbard.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You have one month to change your mind.”

  “Or what?” he asked as he had earlier.

  “You’ll see,” George solemnly stated. “You enjoy mocking me, and you suppose I have no power over you. But by God, you’ll see what I can do.”

  “Don’t command me, my lord. You can’t.”

  Lucas stomped out, his father shrieking with offense, but Lucas ignored him and kept on.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Hello, Miss Hubbard.”

  Lucas smirked. His voice, unexpected and coming as it was from inside her sitting room, made her jump.

  She whipped around. “Mr. Drake! What are you doing in here?”

  “Your door was open.”

  “So you felt free to waltz in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you any manners at all?”

  “No, none.”

  “Were you raised by wolves in the forest?”

  “Worse. I was raised by my father.”

  Actually, he’d been raised by nannies and governesses and tutors and servants. The main blessing of his childhood had been the rare encounters with Lord Sidwell. Whenever George had shown his smug face at the estate, the experience had always been unpleasant.

  “I hardly know you,” Miss Hubbard snottily said, “and despite our scant acquaintance, you denigrate your sire to me. It’s contemptible behavior, but your comment doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Why is that? Oh, that’s right. You’ve already learned that I’m a wretch.”

  “Of the most despicable sort.”

  “It us
ually takes a female weeks or months to recognize my true nature. How is it that you figured it out so quickly—and so accurately too?”

  She assessed him, her impertinent gaze starting at the top of his head, then traveling down much as he’d done to her earlier in the parlor. Her evaluation was so blatantly rude that he was flustered by it.

  “I’m an excellent judge of character,” she jeered. “It’s easy to see that you’re shameless and vile.”

  “Vile!” He chuckled. “I must say, Miss Hubbard, it’s been awhile since the word vile was used to describe me. Disgraceful, yes. Appalling, yes. Dreadful, yes. But we couldn’t have arrived at vile so soon in our relationship.”

  “I don’t have the time or energy to waste talking to you. Go away.”

  With that arrogant retort, she spun on her heel and pranced into the bedchamber, effectively dismissing him.

  He went to the door, a foot in the hall, the other in her suite, and he dawdled, having no idea why he’d stopped to speak with her. His own suite was at the end of the hall, and he’d been walking to it when he’d passed by her open door.

  He’d specifically chosen his rooms because they were in an isolated wing of the mansion. His visits to Sidwell Manor were few and far between and always contentious. If he called on his father, he liked to have his own space, one that was removed from the rest of the family and their many absurdities, so there was never anyone housed nearby.

  Clearly, his father had placed Miss Hubbard in close proximity to Lucas in the ludicrous hope that he would be intrigued by her. As if Lucas could be interested in such a grumpy, petulant spinster!

  He’d dabbled with every type of female—short, fat, old, young, rich, poor, homely, pretty—and his frequent forays into passion had left him unequivocally bored with innocents and spinsters. Give him an experienced trollop, and he was happy.

  Still, he was aggravated by Miss Hubbard’s disregard. Normally he couldn’t care less about a woman’s disdain, but for some reason, hers rankled.

  For all his foibles and faults, he was an earl’s son. Every lowborn fiancée his father had found in the past—and there had been over a dozen—had been eager to marry into such an exalted family. Lucas was the one who declined the matches. The women never refused—well, at least not until they met him.

  Miss Amelia Hubbard was the only one stupid enough or brave enough to rebuff him. He was a very proud man, and her rejection galled him as nothing had in ages. He wasn’t about to let her have the last word.

  He marched over to the bedchamber. She was by the bed, folding a dress and putting it into a battered portmanteau.

  “You’re really packing your bags?” he asked. “I thought you were joking.”

  “Are you still here?” She didn’t bother to turn around. “I could have sworn I told you to go away.”

  “I never listen to women.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  He blustered over and peered into the bag. She had a tiny pile of personal belongings: two plain gray dresses that were exact copies of the one she was wearing, some faded undergarments, a scuffed pair of winter boots, and a drab nightgown with flowers embroidered on the bodice.

  “You have the most pitiful collection of clothes I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  She pushed him away and kept on folding. “I apologize that I can’t live up to your lofty standards. No doubt the trollops in your life are much more extravagant.”

  “Yes, they are.” He wouldn’t deny that he dabbled with trollops, wouldn’t pretend he was anything but what he was. “You’re attired like a vicar’s daughter or a schoolteacher.”

  “That’s because I am a schoolteacher.” She scowled. “Or I was until your father lured me to this madhouse.”

  He laughed aloud. “A schoolteacher?”

  “Yes. What’s so funny?”

  “He’s finally stooped to the bottom of the barrel. He could never get a woman of any rank or family to have me, so he’s been climbing down the ladder, until now, it appears we’re on the very last rung.”

  “And you, Mr. High-And-Mighty-Drake, assume you’re too grand to marry a schoolteacher?”

  “Absolutely too grand—as well as too disinterested. I’m a confirmed bachelor, Miss Hubbard.” He gave a mock shudder. “The very mention of a leg-shackle makes me break out in hives.”

  “As if any sane female would have you,” she grumbled.

  “You’re very free with your insults.”

  “I’m simply listening to you and replying in kind.”

  “Where did you develop your sharp tongue?”

  “Where did you?”

  “Are you always so curt and uncivil?”

  “Are you?”

  “Gad,” he scoffed, “I feel as if I’m talking to a ten-year-old.”

  “So do I.”

  She whipped around to face him, but he was standing much closer than she’d realized. Her shift of position thrust her body directly into his.

  Suddenly, they were forged fast, chests, bellies, thighs, feet. She was just the height he enjoyed, five-foot-five or so, and with his being an avowed libertine, he couldn’t help but notice she was very shapely. And very pretty.

  The women in his world were mostly blond, but she was a brunette, the dark shade enhancing the emerald of her bright green eyes, eyes that widened with dismay as she grasped that she was leaned against him.

  She moved to step away, but before she could, he slipped a palm onto her back and kept her right where she was. He couldn’t figure out his purpose, but with their abrupt contact, there was a very strident, very stirring jolt of desire flowing between them.

  With her being such a pedantic shrew, he was perplexed as to why he’d suffer any reaction at all, but the desire was there, as potent and tangible as an animate object.

  She was so impertinent and priggish that he expected her to slap him, but she was made of sterner stuff. She glared, shooting him a look that probably scared her students to death.

  “Unhand me, you fiend,” she seethed.

  “No.”

  “You’ve barged in where you’re not welcome. You’ve denigrated me, my clothing, and my profession. I don’t like you, and I won’t have you within a hundred yards of my person. How dare you take liberties?”

  “Liberties?”

  “You’re touching me. In my book, that counts as a liberty.”

  “Not in mine.”

  “Of course not. This little escapade means naught to you.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “So why are you in here? I’ve inquired previously, but I don’t have an answer.”

  “I’m so curious about you.”

  “About me? You couldn’t possibly be.”

  “I am. Women usually despise me, but it’s never an immediate dislike. It normally takes awhile for detestation to set in. Yet you loathed me on sight.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “A fair question, but as you’ve hurled as many insults as I, I believe I’m entitled to know why I’m so abhorred.”

  She still hadn’t moved away, hadn’t slapped him in umbrage. She was gazing up at him with those shrewd green eyes of hers. She seemed very astute, as if she could see details she shouldn’t, as if she’d delved to his core and hadn’t found any redeeming qualities.

  He didn’t have any redeeming qualities, so the realization shouldn’t have bothered him, but he was exceedingly vexed and didn’t like to ever feel that a woman was getting the best of him.

  “Why are you abhorred?” she caustically spat. “You truly wish I’d tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you even washed?”

  “Washed...since when?”

  “Since your carnal tryst ended. When was that? A half-hour ago?”

  “My carnal tryst?”

  “Yes. You tumble the maids—”

  “How the bloody hell do you know that?”

  She ignored him and kept on with her chastisement. “Which I find t
o be completely predictable for a cur of your low character. But nevertheless, the behavior is reprehensible and not the sort I would tolerate in any man, particularly not one who has been betrothed to me.”

  She shoved him away, and they stood, scowling, as if they’d gone toe-to-toe in the boxing ring and she’d won every round.

  “You were watching,” he accused.

  “Yes. I was passing by in the hall, and I heard a woman cry out. I entered the room to see if she was in distress.”

  “How long were you there?”

  “Long enough to learn everything about you I ever need to know.”

  A montage of erotic images flashed through his mind. The two housemaids were slatterns who’d taught him fornication as an adolescent. When he visited Sidwell, he always cavorted with them. They were always enthusiastically ready, and he was always a tad stressed to be home. Why shouldn’t he avail himself?

  Still, his cheeks heated with what might have been shame—if he’d ever been capable of shame.

  “You certainly got an eyeful,” he mused.

  “I certainly did.”

  She was sanctimonious and smug, and if she’d been a man, he’d have knocked her to the ground just to wipe that haughty expression off her face.

  She raised a snooty brow. “Now then, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone so I can pack my bag.”

  “You actually assume you’re leaving? You suppose you can thwart Lord Sidwell?”

  “There’ll be no thwarting. I simply mean to go. I traveled here with good intentions, but I’ve spoken with my betrothed, and it’s clear I was horridly deceived.”

  With that rude remark, she stomped to the sitting room, yanked the door open, and gestured to the hall. He was stunned that she had the audacity to toss him out. It made him eager to stay merely to prove how boneheaded he could be.

  But he truly didn’t like her and still couldn’t fathom why he’d stopped to chat. She was very beautiful, but she was also discourteous and insolent and unpleasant. Lord help the fool who eventually ended up wed to her.

  Taking his time, he sauntered toward her, pretending he was departing because he wanted to and not because she’d insisted. On arriving next to her, he halted and stepped in, positive that—finally—he’d unnerve her but, apparently, he couldn’t. She glared at him, her look scathing and impossibly astute.