‘Marry me.’

Eleanor froze. A thousand disconnected thoughts flew through her brain. A huge part of her screamed that this was the miracle she’d been longing for. Lord Whittonstall had asked her to marry him. But she also knew she didn’t want him offering out of pity. She had her pride.

‘I wasn’t begging you for help. I was attempting to explain.’

‘Is there something wrong with marrying me?’ Ben stared at Eleanor Blackwell. He had not intended to ask her to marry him when he arrived at Moles, but now, seeing her here and hearing her story, he knew it was the right thing to do. The perfect solution to his problem and to hers. Mutual assistance.

She pulled away from him. ‘You have no reason to want to marry me. Don’t patronise me. I can’t stand it.’

Ben watched the crown of her head. Her bravery impressed him, but he also wanted to touch her hair. His desire to kiss her had grown, not diminished. Most unexpected. He desired her.

AUTHOR NOTE

This book had two major inspirations. First, it amazed me when I learned that the finest swords in England during the Regency Period were manufactured in Shotley Bridge, County Durham. Second, I have been intrigued for a number of years by successful Regency businesswomen—women like Eleanor Coade, whose factory made the famous Coade Stone statues which so evoke gardening in this period, and Sarah Child Villiers, Lady Jersey, who inherited Child and Co from her grandfather because he disapproved of her mother’s elopement.

Lady Jersey served as the senior partner from 1806-1867. She never allowed the men in her life to take an active part in the bank, and retained the right to hire and fire all the other partners. Lady Jersey was also the Lady Patroness of Almack’s, and was responsible for popularising the French Quadrille—the precursor to traditional square dancing.

In 1812 in England fourteen women literally held licences to print money because they were senior partners in a variety of private banks. The two wealthiest bankers in London in the 1820s were the Peeresses—Lady Jersey and the Duchess of St Alban’s, who was the senior partner at Courts. However, for some reason Regency businesswomen have often been ignored or overlooked in the history books, and it is hard to find more than snippets about them. The sole biography of the Duchess of St Alban’s dates from 1839. One of the best books on the subject that I have found is Women Who Made Money: Women Partners in British Private Banks 1752-1906 by Dawes and Selwyn (Trafford Publishing, November 2010).

Hopefully you will enjoy my story of Eleanor Blackwell as much as I enjoyed writing it.

As ever, I welcome all feedback from readers.

Michelle

About the Author

Born and raised near San Francisco, California, MICHELLE STYLES currently lives a few miles south of Hadrian’s Wall, with her husband, three children, two dogs, cats, assorted ducks, hens and beehives. An avid reader, she became hooked on historical romance when she discovered Georgette Heyer, Anya Seton and Victoria Holt one rainy lunchtime at school. And, for her, a historical romance still represents the perfect way to escape. Although Michelle loves reading about history, she also enjoys a more hands-on approach to her research. She has experimented with a variety of old recipes and cookery methods (some more successfully than others), climbed down Roman sewers, and fallen off horses in Iceland—all in the name of discovering more about how people went about their daily lives. When she is not writing, reading or doing research, Michelle tends her rather overgrown garden or does needlework—in particular counted cross-stitch.

Michelle maintains a website, www.michellestyles.co.uk, and a blog, www.michellestyles.blogspot.com, and would be delighted to hear from you.

Previous novels by the same author:

THE GLADIATOR’S HONOUR

A NOBLE CAPTIVE

SOLD AND SEDUCED

THE ROMAN’S VIRGIN MISTRESS

TAKEN BY THE VIKING

A CHRISTMAS WEDDING WAGER

(part of Christmas By Candlelight) VIKING WARRIOR, UNWILLING WIFE AN IMPULSIVE DEBUTANTE A QUESTION OF IMPROPRIETY IMPOVERISHED MISS, CONVENIENT WIFE COMPROMISING MISS MILTON* THE VIKING’S CAPTIVE PRINCESS BREAKING THE GOVERNESS’S RULES* TO MARRY A MATCHMAKER

*linked by character

And in Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks:

THE PERFECT CONCUBINE

His Unsuitable

Viscountess

Michelle Styles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my mother-in-law, Mary Styles.

Chapter One

May 1811, Durham County

What were the precise words you used when proposing marriage to a rake? Not necessarily the polite ones, but the words guaranteed to get results?

Miss Eleanor Blackwell paced Sir Vivian Clarence’s library, banging the newly forged rapier against her palm.

Proposing to Sir Vivian had seemed straightforward back at the foundry. In fact the ideal solution to her current dilemma. She needed a husband and Sir Vivian had debts to clear. But as she waited for Sir Vivian to appear doubts warred with desperation and she fought against a rising sense of panic.

Even if she did succeed in her proposal, was Sir Vivian the sort of man she wanted to be married to?

Eleanor glanced up at a particularly lewd painting of a woman reclining on a bower of flowers while two men fought over her with swords. She rolled her eyes and made a disgusted noise. The painter had made a mistake with the swords. No one would ever be able to fight with their bodies contorted in that fashion. Physically impossible.

Staring at the painting did nothing for her already jangled nerves. She needed to sort her speech out. Once she’d heard the words out loud she’d know if they were right or if they needed to be altered.

‘Sir Vivian,’ she began, turning her back on the painting. ‘Our previous acquaintance has been confined to business matters, but unfortunately my stepfather has died.’

Eleanor paused. There was nothing unfortunate about the manner of his death, brought on by eating far too many eels in direct defiance of the doctor’s orders. The world was a better place without his selfish ranting and fits of extreme temper.

The unfortunate part was the wording of the will—a will she could not challenge as being unenforceable without causing hardship to people she loved and rewarding her stepfather’s odious nephew, Algernon Forecastle. What was worse, she’d discovered that her stepfather had left instructions for Algernon on how to challenge Eleanor’s marriage should the unthinkable occur.

Even thinking about the clause and what failure would mean to so many hard-working people made a hard knot grow in her throat, and she found it impossible to continue with her speech.

Eleanor clenched her teeth. This was far from good. In order to propose marriage she had to be able to speak.

She tightened her grip on the sword. A new start with far less potential for emotional outbursts from her was needed. With the specifics about what she wanted and why. Facts and not feelings. This marriage was to be a business transaction without pretence to sentiment.

‘My great-great-grandfather founded Moles Swords. Sword-making is in my blood. I have made Moles Swords into what is today. However, my mother remarried in haste, without a proper settlement, and under English law all her possessions belonged to her new husband. At my mother’s deathbed my stepfather promised I would eventually inherit Moles. But my stepfather’s will declares that unless I marry within four weeks I will lose everything. Being a man of honour…’

Her eyes were drawn back to the painting. This time she noticed where the woman’s hands were. A profound sense of shock shot through her and her cheeks flamed.

What sort of man gave that sort of painting prominence?

Even the porcelain vases seemed more appropriate for a brothel than a gentleman’s residence. Did men of honour display such things in public rooms?

A severe pain pounded behind Eleanor’s eyes. She was doing the right thing, coming here and demanding he honour his word. The note she’d found yesterday stated: Name your price for your latest rapier and I will happily pay it, dear lady. She would hold him to it. Her price was marriage.

The marriage made sense. He had debts. She had money. She would ensure a proper settlement which would allow her to control the business. It could be done in time. Just.

All she needed was the courage to put the proposal in a way that Sir Vivian would accept.

Eleanor thrust forward with the sword. Death to all doubts!

‘Sir Vivian, it is imperative that I see you today. There is a matter which cannot wait.’

‘Alas, Sir Vivian is unavailable, Mrs Blackwell,’ a deep voice said. ‘I’m his cousin, Lord Whittonstall. Please accept my regrets for any inconvenience.’

She gaped at the man who strode into the library. With his curly black hair, olive-toned skin and hooded eyes, he was one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen. More a Greek statue come to life than an actual human being. The only flaw she could see was a tiny scar under his right eye.

‘Unavailable?’ she whispered, and her heart plummeted. Panic threatened to engulf her. How much had Lord Whittonstall overheard? It had to be very little or she’d sink to the ground in shame. Eleanor thrust the sword forward. ‘He has to be available. He simply must be.’

At Lord Whittonstall’s surprised expression she brought her hand down abruptly. The sword arced out of her hand, flew through the air and narrowly missed a particularly ugly Ormolu vase, landing with a clatter on the threadbare Turkish carpet. Eleanor stared at it in disbelief, biting the knuckle of her left thumb.

How could that happen to her today? Of all days?

She wanted the floor to swallow her. Or more preferably to be any place but here. But she knew she had to remain here and endure the humiliation. Without a successful marriage proposal her life would be worthless.

Lord Whittonstall briskly crossed the library and reached the sword before she had a chance to retrieve it.

‘It is a Moles rapier. The latest model,’ she said at his questioning glance. ‘My grip must have been off. I had something else on my mind. It has never happened before.’

‘I know the type of sword you make, Mrs Blackwell. Your reputation precedes you.’

His hooded gaze held hers. Dark with a guarded quality. It would be possible to drown in those eyes.

‘Which is?’ Eleanor asked. Her shoulders relaxed slightly. Everything would be fine. Lord Whittonstall knew who she was, had even used the courtesy title of Mrs, and no doubt held the swords her company made in the highest regard. She gulped a welcome breath of air.

‘Swords for the sort of gentleman who wants his sword to be noticed rather than used in combat. For someone who is more concerned about style than the actual substance of the thing. I have seen your advertisements—”a sword for the truly refined”. Nowhere do you mention its practicality.’

All thoughts of drowning in his eyes vanished. Eleanor struggled to retain a leash on her temper. He made it sound as if her swords were mere playthings. Didn’t he understand how hard everyone had worked to make them? What good was a sword if you couldn’t use it?

‘Moles are the sword of choice in seven regiments,’ she said, with crushing dignity. ‘They combine practicality with aesthetic beauty. And perhaps a little fun. A Moles gentleman is someone who enjoys novelty.’

His thin lips turned up into an arrogant smile. ‘They are your creation. You shape them, forge them from your own hands, and are therefore blind to their faults.’

‘I don’t actually make the swords,’ Eleanor explained, aware that her cheeks flamed. She could count on one hand the number of women who were successful in a business such as hers. ‘It is a common misconception.’

‘Indeed. My mistake. You are the figurehead.’

‘I run the business,’ Eleanor said firmly. ‘I know every inch of it. Each sword is the result of many men’s labours, from the humblest coal-picker to the master cutler sharpening the sword. Each design goes through rigorous testing and modification. A sword which is merely for show has no purpose. Everything needs to have a purpose. A good sword can save your life, whatever amusement it might provide at other times. Now, may I see your cousin, please? I have an appointment.’

‘With regret, my cousin remains unavailable. Your purpose must wait for another time.’

He obviously expected her to make her apologies and go. If she went Eleanor knew she’d never work up the courage to return. And the will specified her marriage had to take place within four weeks of its reading. That was in twenty-six days’ time. The settlement would take time to finalise. It was today or never.

Eleanor dug into her embroidered reticule, searching desperately for Sir Vivian’s note. ‘I have an appointment with Sir Vivian. It was confirmed in writing. Yesterday.’

She shoved the crumpled note towards him and willed him to relent.

‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but alas that is my cousin. Wonderful company but the attention span of a gnat.’

‘But …’ Eleanor looked at Lord Whittonstall in dismay. Tears of frustration pricked at her eyelids. After all her careful planning, it came down to Sir Vivian forgetting? All her plans for the future? Everything? Gone?

Her throat worked up and down but no sound came out.

‘You may leave a note for him,’ Lord Whittonstall said in a slow voice, as if he were speaking to a child. ‘I will personally ensure he receives it on his return.’

‘I need to see him in person.’ Eleanor hated the way her voice squeaked on the last syllable. Lord Whittonstall couldn’t turn her away—not while her goal was so close. And the entirety of her scheme was dependent upon her making her appeal in person. Leaving a note was impossible. She pulled her shoulders back and looked at him with her best closing-the-sale gaze. ‘How long will he be?’

‘Impossible.’

‘But he will return. I understand he is in residence? I’m willing to wait.’

Lord Whittonstall tilted his head. His dark eyes assessed her, sweeping from the crown of her black feathered bonnet to the hem of her black silk gown. His frown increased. ‘A respectable woman in a single gentleman’s house?’

‘Lady Whittonstall is not here?’ Eleanor asked, grasping for an amicable solution, and then winced silently. His entire countenance had changed, becoming remote and forbidding. She had chosen the wrong words.

‘My wife died years ago and my mother is elsewhere.’

‘I’m sorry. Truly I am.’

If anything Lord Whittonstall became more granite-like, and Eleanor knew only some vestige of politeness prevented him from throwing her out of the house.

‘You never knew her,’ he said, in a voice which would cut through steel. ‘What is there to be sorry about? Mawkish sentimentality is one of the more depressing features of modern society.’

The pain in Eleanor’s head became blinding. She wanted to escape and hide under the bedcovers, start the day again. On a day that she needed everything to go right, everything was going wrong.

‘An expression of politeness is never out of place.’ She took a deep breath and hated how her stomach knotted. She couldn’t afford any more mistakes. ‘And it is never easy to lose someone who is dear to you. No matter how long it has been, it still hurts. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my grandfather and his wisdom.’

She finished with a placating smile and hoped. The ice in his eyes softened.

‘Your expression of sympathy was far from necessary, I assure you. A tragic accident—or so they told me.’ He inclined his head but his mouth bore a bitter twist. ‘I thank you for it. I believe that is the response you require. Will you now depart?’

Eleanor kept her chin up. She refused to be intimidated and quit the field. ‘If I go, the sword goes. You might discount Moles swords, but Sir Vivian is a keen customer. He wants the sword. Desperately. He wrote to me, begging for it.’

He balanced the sword in his hand before making an experimental flourish with it. ‘Despite the workmanship of the hilt, it seems barely adequate. This sword would fly out of your hand in a trice—as indeed it did earlier.’

‘Your grip is wrong.’

He raised an arrogant eyebrow. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You will lose your sword in combat if you are not careful, but it is a matter that can be easily solved.’ Eleanor swallowed hard. She’d done it again. Spoken before she thought. Said the wrong thing. But she had started now. He deserved it for being pompous—and his grip was appalling.

She glanced up at him. There was a gleam of speculation in his eye. It was a small opening, a glimmer of a chance. She needed to capture his interest if she was going to remain in this house until Sir Vivian returned.

‘You would lose any sword if your opponent possessed even a modicum of skill,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady as her mind worked feverishly.

‘Excuse me?’ His smile became withering. ‘You sent this sword flying through air without any provocation and you are telling me that my grip is wrong?’

‘If someone comes at you with a counter-lunge you will struggle.’ She gave a small pointed cough. He hadn’t thrown her out yet. She had to take this one chance to convince him to allow her to stay. And in doing so, if she improved his technique, so much the better. ‘They will be able to send the sword spinning out of your hand if they do a moulinet.’

‘A moulinet is slow, and easy to twist out of if you know what you are doing. I doubt anyone could disarm in that fashion,’ he said, as if he were addressing a child rather than the owner of the best sword manufacturer in the country. ‘I must assume you know precious little about swords and the actual art of fencing, despite your position.’

White-hot anger flashed through Eleanor. Who did he think he was? ‘Is that a challenge? Do you want me to prove my assertion?’

‘If you like …’ He shrugged out of his velvet cutaway coat and put it on the back of an armchair. ‘Never let it be said that I am unwilling to accept criticism.’

Her hands undid her bonnet and tossed it on a table. The black feathers kept falling over the brim, making it impossible to see straight. And taking it off would make it more difficult for him to get rid of her.

‘That sword is made to be held in a certain way and you are curling your fingers incorrectly,’ she said, returning to his side.

‘Indeed?’ He arched one perfect eyebrow.

She stood beside him. His scorn was not going to intimidate her. His crisp scent rose around her, holding her, making her aware of him. Why did he have to be so beautiful? Eleanor swallowed hard and attempted to concentrate.

‘Show me.’ He held out the blade with the faintest trace of a smile. ‘What is the correct grip, my dear Mrs Blackwell?’

Eleanor froze. Was he flirting with her? Or mocking her? Men like him didn’t flirt with women like her. She knew her shortcomings. Her stepfather always catalogued them when he’d taken port—too tall, too thin, a strong chin and eyes far too big. No, Lord Whittonstall was being condescending, thinking to humour her and get her out of here.

‘I’m not your dear,’ she muttered finally.

‘A mere figure of speech.’ He looked at her through a forest of lashes. Men should not have lashes like that—particularly not arrogant aristocrats. ‘I shall remember not to call you that.’

‘You need to put your hand like this,’ she said concentrating on the hilt of the sword rather than on his eyes. ‘It is the slightest of adjustments but it makes all the difference.’

‘As simple as that?’ He curled his fingers about hers. ‘I want to make certain I am doing this properly. I’d hate to think I’ve been holding my sword incorrectly for all these years.’

‘You seek to mock me, sir.’

‘Nothing could be further from my mind. I wish to learn and further my skill. Help me to understand, Mrs Blackwell, why your swords are held in such esteem.’

She focused on the sword rather than on how his fingers had accidentally brushed hers. ‘A simple mistake, which is far too common amongst swordsman of a certain type for my liking.’

‘A certain type?’

‘Ones who failed to listen to their instructor.’

‘Do I have it right now?’ he asked. His voice flowed over her like treacle. ‘I fail to see how this particular grip can make the slightest difference. Perhaps it is all in the pressure. Is that what you are attempting to say, Mrs Blackwell? I will inform my cousin when I see him.’

She let go of the sword so abruptly that it would have fallen to the ground had he not had his hand on the hilt. He placed it on the table next to her bonnet with a smug look on his face. He thought she was trying to flirt with him in order to stay! He wasn’t taking her seriously.

Eleanor clenched her jaw. Very well. Lord Whittonstall deserved his comeuppance.

‘Do you have another sword? Perhaps I could demonstrate, as my word is clearly not enough,’ she said, striding away from him. Her body quivered with indignation. He wasn’t taking her seriously. ‘It is perhaps better that you see how it operates in actual practice. I can make any sword fly out of your hand in a few heartbeats.’

A muscle jumped in his jaw and she knew she’d hit a raw nerve. ‘If you wish. But you should be aware I am considered to be one of the top swordsmen in the country. The great Henry Angelo considers me to be his equal.’

‘Modesty is such an uncommon virtue that it takes my breath away when I behold it. I know the wrong sort of grip when I see it.’

‘Allow me to get my weapon of choice. I can’t allow such a challenge to go unanswered.’

Lord Whittonstall strode out of the room, his footsteps echoing down the corridor. Eleanor put a hand to her head.

What had she done? Gone mad? She’d challenged Lord Whittonstall to a duel with no certainty of winning.

She picked up the sword intended for Sir Vivian and balanced it in her hand. Holding the blade made her more confident. She should be able to do it. She had to do it—to wipe the arrogant look off his face and find a way to stay here until Sir Vivian appeared.

‘Shall we see, Mrs Blackwell, who knows what they are about?’ Lord Whittonstall asked, coming back into the library, carrying one of her competitor’s swords. From the way he held it, she knew that he was far from a novice.

‘I look forward to it.’ She tucked an errant strand of black hair behind her ear and tried to quell her nerves. She knew how to fence. Better than most. And she could take advantage of his mistakes.

‘May the best … person win.’

‘You need to learn. En garde, my lord.’

Benjamin Grayson, the third Viscount Whittonstall, glowered at the black-shrouded creature standing before him, daring to lecture him on the inadequacy of his grip and challenging him to a duel. Did she actually think she’d win, or was she merely trying to prolong the time she was here, hoping to encounter his cousin?

If so, she was in for a shock. He’d defeat her in short order and the price of her defeat would be her departure.

The larger question, though, was why she was here at all. Had his cousin ignored the appointment, knowing it was going to be trouble, or had he truly forgotten?

He knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was about more than the sword Mrs Blackwell defiantly held in her hand. She had gone beyond the bounds of decorum to stay, and there was a faint air of desperation in her manner.

If he were a gambling man he’d be willing to wager a considerable sum that Mrs Blackwell’s need to see Viv had to do with the wretched state of Viv’s finances.

Viv and he had been close as boys, but had grown apart. His aunt’s latest missive had entreated him to come and discover what the true situation was. The trip made a welcome relief from his mother and her increasingly strong hints about his duty to provide an heir and preserve the dynasty. She ignored the fact that he had tried once and lost his wife. Tragic accident? Maybe one day he’d believe it. Maybe one day he’d stop blaming himself.

What he’d discovered up north gave him pause. Viv needed funds. Unless something was done it was only a matter of time before the bailiffs came knocking and Viv had to flee the country. And he did not intend that to happen. Viv had helped Ben in his hour of need at Eton. Fighting his corner. Ben would repay the favour now. He’d solve the mystery before Viv woke from his port-induced stupor and teach Mrs Blackwell a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget into the bargain.

‘Shall we have at it, Mrs Blackwell?’ he asked softly.

‘Whenever you are ready.’

Their swords clashed. He parried easily and did a counter-lunge, blocking her move. She took a step backwards. A tiny frown appeared between her brows and she slightly readjusted her grip.

‘Not as easy as you thought, Mrs Blackwell?’ he said in a withering tone. ‘You will see my grip needs no improvement. I am not a swordsman who wishes to have his sword disguised as a walking stick or festooned with frills, but a swordsman who spends hours practising my skill.’

‘You are worse than I imagined,’ she replied with the faintest trace of a smile. ‘Do try to put up a fight, Lord Whittonstall.’

She half-turned and countered his move with a parry, forcing Ben on the back foot. He missed his stroke and it was only through sheer instinct that he blocked her sword.

‘You do need some pointers. You have become complacent,’ she said with a tiny laugh.

Ben stared at her, seeing her for the first time as a person rather than as an object of pity or a woman to be indulged. A brain existed behind those grey eyes. She knew how to fence and in all likelihood was better than him. He rejected the thought. As good as he was.

‘Complacency? An interesting accusation,’ he said finally, moving a step closer to where she stood, ready for the next onslaught. Their swords crossed. They circled around each other. Their breath intertwined. Their faces were no more than a few inches apart. He was suddenly aware of the magnificence of her grey eyes and the determination of her chin.

‘But a true one. You play with skill but lack the heart. Every truly good fencer combines skill with a zest for life. Do you know where your heart is?’

Ben missed his step. He knew exactly where his heart lay—buried in a coffin with his wife and their baby who had never breathed. He remembered everything about the day when they had buried Alice and he had stood at the graveside, watching as the dirt slowly buried the coffin, listening to the sounds of sorrow, knowing that he’d never be whole again. Even the heavens had wept for his loss. He accepted that, but this—this had become about proving this woman wrong.

‘I beg to differ. This has nothing to do with hearts and everything to do with skill.’

‘An observation. But to truly rank among the greats you must fence with passion and fire.’

He redoubled his efforts, to show her that she was wrong. All it would take was his considerable technical skill.

She twisted her hand at the last possible instant. Sharp and to the right. His sword slid harmlessly past her shoulder, barely ruffling the black tendril of hair that had snaked loose from her bun.

He clenched his jaw. A mistake could happen to anyone at any time. The unpredictability was one of the things he loved about swordplay. But he had enough confidence in his ability to recover.

He concentrated on his next stroke. It was only a matter of time before her luck ran out and she made a mistake. Over-confidence would be her undoing.

She parried and then paused. Her long lashes swept down over her eyes, making dark smudges on her bright pink cheeks. The exertion of the match had transformed Mrs Blackwell from a colourless mouse into a vibrant creature.

He missed a step and barely recovered before he was forced to retreat backwards. He glanced over his shoulder as the table dug into his thighs. But he used it to propel himself forward and forced her on to the back foot. This time it was her sword which missed.

‘You appear to be losing. Do you wish to ask for quarter?’ he asked.

‘Never!’

Ben stared at Mrs Blackwell. A series of ringlets had formed about her forehead, making her appear far more womanly than he’d first considered. She might have the advantage now, but he would regain it. It was a matter of concentrating on the sword rather than on her parted lips or her grey eyes. No more distractions.

‘As you wish … I believe the time has come to end our bout.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

She lunged forward, twisting the sword and performing a perfect moulinet.

Ben moved his arm to block it a heartbeat too late. His grip shifted. He clung on—barely.

With a twist of her sword and the faintest hint of a smile she completed the move.

His sword arched out of his hand, landing embedded in her hideous coal scuttle of a bonnet.

Chapter Two

Ben stared at the sword where it lay. Disbelief swiftly followed by horror coursed through him. He went over the moves in his mind. It should have been impossible, but the evidence stared at him, quivering in the black bonnet. Mrs Blackwell had not boasted. He’d lost his sword.

He glanced at her, ready for tears or possibly hysterics at the loss of a bonnet. A small infectious bubble of laughter escaped from her covered mouth, swiftly followed by another larger one.

To Ben’s surprise, a laugh loud and long exploded from him in response to the joyous sound of Mrs Blackwell’s mirth. The sound made him pause. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spontaneously laughed with a woman. Probably before Alice died. He hadn’t laughed much since then, and certainly not this all-consuming belly laugh.

‘Oh, dear.’ She dabbed her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It couldn’t have happened to a nicer bonnet. You should have seen your expression when the sword flew out of your hand. Priceless.’

He sobered immediately. He’d misjudged her and over-estimated his own skill. He pulled his sword out of the now ruined bonnet. ‘I owe you a bonnet and an apology. I was insufferably rude and pompous. It was uncalled for.’

She shook her head. ‘The bonnet was far from my favourite, but it seemed appropriate to wear it. You owe me nothing and I thank you for the apology.’

‘Appropriate to wear?’ Ben eyed the hat. Rather funereal. The back of his neck prickled. What did Mrs Blackwell want to see Viv about?

‘One must look proper when one makes an important business call.’

Ben regarded her upturned face, flushed from their exertions. Her eyes sparkled and her lips shone the colour of port. Mrs Blackwell was far more attractive than he’d first considered. He should send her away right now. It was the correct thing to do. But she intrigued him. He wanted to learn her secret. Why was Mrs Blackwell desperate, and why was Viv the only person who could help her?

‘Viv remains, alas, unavailable. Can I assist you with this mysterious matter?’

Eleanor gulped. Lord Whittonstall’s words pounded through her brain—can I assist you? She wasn’t even going to think about confessing her predicament to Lord Whittonstall. Or asking for his help. She had nothing to offer him.

‘It must be Sir Vivian,’ Eleanor said, her stomach clenching. She hated the way she felt as if an opportunity had slipped past. ‘It has to be him and no other.’

‘You are doomed to disappointment.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Then we must agree to disagree.’

Eleanor bit her lip. She had said the wrong thing—reminding him about the meeting, about why she was here. That moment of camaraderie and laughter they had shared vanished. And she wanted it back. She had to find a way before he manoeuvred her out through the door and her chance to ask Sir Vivian slipped away for good.

‘Shall we fight again?’ she asked as brightly as she could. ‘Best out of three? Give you a chance to prove that it was luck on my part?’

‘I know when to admit my mistakes.’ He raised his rapier in a gesture of respect.

She returned the gesture, ending the bout. She searched her mind for another excuse to stay, but she seemed fresh out of ideas.

‘I must congratulate you, Mrs Blackwell. You are a worthy opponent. And your swords are far more than mere decoration for the well-dressed gentleman.’

He took a step closer to her. Her sword would have dropped to the ground if he had not taken it from her slack grasp. He placed it beside his.

‘We won’t need these.’

‘Yes. I believe I have proved my point.’ Her voice sounded husky to her ears.

He stood a few inches taller than she was, but not too tall. His eyes were not coal-black, as she’d originally supposed, but full of a thousand different colours from the deepest black to light grey and every colour in between.

Her heart pounded in her ears and she knew she was far too breathless, far too aware of him as a man rather than as an opponent.

‘You are a far better swordswoman than I considered possible.’ His voice held a new rich note that flowed over her, warming her to the tips of her toes.

‘Fancy that. You admitting defeat so easily.’ She attempted a little laugh but it came out far too high. She winced and studied the folds of his cravat. Intently.

‘I never hesitate to admit my mistakes. It is part of my charm.’

Charm? He was trying to flirt with her after she’d bested him? Eleanor struggled to get her breathing under control.

‘Is it?’ she whispered through aching lips.

This had been all about proving that Lord Whittonstall had underestimated her rather than a prelude to flirtation. But right now all she could think about was him and the way his lips moved. All she had to do was move forward a pace and she’d be in his arms.

She lifted her eyes.

Their gaze locked. He lifted a hand and touched her forearm.

Somewhere a door banged, bringing her back to reality.

Eleanor jumped backwards. Shocked. She had nearly stepped straight into Lord Whittonstall’s arms and destroyed everything she held dear.

Her proposal to Sir Vivian needed to happen. It was her best chance of securing Moles’ future. Everything would be lost if she was discovered in this man’s arms. Her employees—the men who literally sweated over an open fire to make the swords—depended on her getting this right. Saving the company. This marriage was not about her; it was about giving them a future. Guilt washed over her. How could she have forgotten what was at stake for a single instant?

He stood staring at her, not moving a muscle.

She bent her head and pretended great interest in the hilt of the sword. Pointing to it, trying to get back to some semblance of normality, she said, ‘Lord Whittonstall, as you can see, I had the correct grip and the sword has stayed in my hand.’

‘Is fencing all you can think about?’

His voice sent a warm tingle coursing down her spine. She ruthlessly ignored it. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t interested in her. Men never were. If her stepfather were to be believed she possessed no sense of refinement and all the charm of a rogue bear.

‘It will do for now.’

‘And for later?’

She tried not to think about Lord Whittonstall drawing her into his arms and kissing her thoroughly. She’d accepted her fate a long time ago.

‘Are you seeking a rematch, Lord Whittonstall? A chance to prove you can learn from your mistakes?’ She lifted her head.

His dark gaze held hers. ‘When the time is right. I want to see if there is anything else I need to learn.’

She found it impossible to look away. He was going to kiss her. Every fibre of her being told her so. Against everything logical, he was going to do it. He was going to actually kiss her and she wanted him to.

‘Do you believe me now … about the grip?’ Her voice sounded far too breathless and reedy. ‘How that subtle change can transform your prospects of success?’

‘You have challenged a number of notions today. And I will accept your word on the swords. I had misjudged them.’

His hand smoothed a curl from her forehead before brushing her skin—a feather-light touch, but one that sent an unfamiliar jolt of heat through her. She wanted him to lean forward and … She flicked her tongue over her lips.

‘What is going on here?’ a high-pitched male voice asked, and she froze. ‘Why wasn’t I informed that there was swordplay in the library? My library?’

‘Nothing is injured, Viv. All things in moderation,’ Lord Whittonstall said, smoothly moving away from her.

‘Yes, but my Ormolu vases! My carpet! I might not read, but I like my books to look as if I do.’

Lord Whittonstall’s dark eyes shone with mischief. ‘Everything survived except for Mrs Blackwell’s bonnet—and that was her own fault.’

Lord Whittonstall retrieved his black velvet cut-away coat and put it on, becoming utterly correct again. The moment of intimacy slid away as if it had never been.

Eleanor struggled to fill her lungs. Saved from scandal. She was here for a purpose, a business transaction. Not some sort of tryst where she’d end up humiliated. Her hands shook slightly.

She should be relieved, but a stab of disappointment went through her. Lord Whittonstall wasn’t going to kiss her.

She shook her head. Desiring to be kissed had no part in her plans. All it did was make her look as ridiculous as her unlamented bonnet.

She grabbed her ruined bonnet and twisted it. One of the feathers snapped in two.

‘Is this what you mean by moderation in all things, Ben—duelling in my library?’

Eleanor half turned and saw her true quarry—Sir Vivian Clarence. Her heart sank. With reddened eyes and a sallow cast to its skin, his face showed distinct signs of hard living. An odour of stale wine hung about him—a stench that reminded her of her stepfather. Worse still were Sir Vivian’s voice, his mincing gestures with his hands, and the overly fussy way he wore his cravat. And he had the beginnings of a bald patch. He repulsed her. Utterly and completely repulsed her.

She could not imagine why she had ever thought he might be a suitable candidate.

How could she have forgotten his voice and his mannerisms? Why had she focused solely on his offer?

She could not even imagine asking him to escort her across the road, let alone become her husband and all that entailed.

It simply showed what a foolhardy scheme it had been in the first place. It should make her feel better, but somehow it didn’t. Her problem remained. She needed a husband desperately—but not that desperately. She wasn’t going to suffer her mother’s fate.

Eleanor gave Lord Whittonstall a panicked look. What if she begged him to marry her? He was a widower. They would have kissed if Sir Vivian hadn’t come in.

Instantly she rejected the idea—why would he accept her, or her proposition? And to be turned down would be far too humiliating. She had little desire to know if that moment when she’d thought he was about to kiss her had been real or not.

Neat footwork was required here. There was no way she could put her proposition to either of them. There had to be another way to find a bridegroom. Giving up and allowing her stepfather and Algernon Forecastle to win was not an option.

It was there on the edge of her brain, just waiting. She kept her eyes on the stone floor and concentrated, but her mind remained frustratingly blank. All she could think about was how Lord Whittonstall’s breath had fanned her cheek. She needed to return to being the sensible businesslike Mrs Blackwell this instant.

‘I was merely attempting to see what was so wonderful about Moles swords. Mrs Blackwell has made me a convert.’

She glanced up, startled. Lord Whittonstall made a bow and held out the sword. His eyes challenged her. The time to deliver the sword had arrived. She had to explain why she’d been so insistent that the interview take place.

Eleanor put her hand to her throat but no words came out.

‘The sword is a gift from you, cousin?’ Sir Vivian’s cheeks became tinged with pink. ‘You should have said, Ben. I thought you only wanted to berate me for spending my money like water and you’ve bought me a top-drawer sword. We will have that talk—the one I have been avoiding. I need to do you the courtesy of listening.’

‘Not from me,’ Lord Whittonstall said, inclining his head. ‘From Mrs Blackwell. But her purpose in giving it remains a mystery. She insists on speaking to you and only you. The mystery has me flummoxed.’

‘From Moles … for your birthday,’ Eleanor said quickly, before she gave in to her impulse to flee. This whole thing had turned into a nightmare. How could had she have blocked Sir Vivian’s voice from her memory? She should have remembered it from their previous meetings. And the fact he drank port to excess!

‘But you were duelling in my library!’ Sir Vivian squeaked, turning a strange shade of puce.

‘Lord Whittonstall believed that Moles’ swords were mere flash.’ Eleanor kept her voice steady. If she skated around the reason why she was even here at Broomhaugh Hall she might be able to think up an acceptable excuse, something she could believe in. Anything but the unvarnished truth. ‘I sought to change his view. I regret that you were caused even a moment’s discomfort about the contents of your library.’

Sir Vivian pursed his lips. ‘And did you succeed in changing his view? My cousin’s views are notoriously steadfast.’

‘I relieved him of his sword. It became embedded in my bonnet.’ She held up her bonnet and wiggled her fingers through the gash.

‘Ben lost his sword?’ Sir Vivian shook his head. ‘Impossible. You are seeking to make fun of me.’

‘But true,’ Lord Whittonstall commented. ‘Mrs Blackwell accomplished it, proving the value of her sword design and the defects of my sword grip. I humbly apologise, Viv, for thinking your choice of sword was more to do with fashion than function.’

A warm glow filled Eleanor at Lord Whittonstall’s unexpected words.

Sir Vivian raised his quizzing glass. ‘Ben is the best swordsman I know. Equal to the great Henry Angelo. The last time you lost a sword was at Eton, Ben.’

‘Just afterwards. In Bath. Exaggeration does no one credit, Viv.’

Lord Whittonstall made a bow while his eyes danced. Eleanor wondered why she had thought them cold and lifeless. Or lacking in passion.

‘Mrs Blackwell will tell you that I made elemental mistakes with my grip and anyone who knew could exploit the weakness. Mrs Blackwell does possess more than a modicum of skill.’

‘I saw an opportunity and took it. Luck.’ Eleanor shrugged. ‘Once you correct your grip you will be a formidable opponent.’

‘Luck had nothing to do with it. It will be the sword.’ Sir Vivian rubbed his hands together. ‘Will I have a chance of beating my cousin as well?’

‘It is Moles’ latest design,’ Eleanor said, suddenly knowing what she had to say—and why. ‘It combines practicality with a certain flair for the discerning gentleman, such as yourself.’

‘Why give it to me for my birthday now? My birthday isn’t for another two months.’

Eleanor winced. That long? ‘I know what … what an influential figure you are. How people look up to you and admire your taste. I hope you will help spread the word about our new design, and I wanted to take the opportunity of your thirtieth birthday to ask for your assistance … with the matter. Personally. While you are still up here in the north. Rather than sending a note which might get mislaid when you are in London.’

‘You want me to use this sword and give your creation the exposure it needs? Like the great Beau does for his tailors?’

‘Yes, precisely.’ Eleanor kept her head up as sweat started to trickle down the back of her neck. He’d accepted her explanation. There was no need to linger. She could go and never see Lord Whittonstall again. Never know if he would have kissed her or if it had been a figment of her imagination. ‘I know how much influence you have with those who really matter. A number of people have mentioned your name when they have purchased one of our swords.’

She breathed slightly easier. Not exactly a lie, but not the whole truth either. Sir Vivian had been influential in getting some custom in.

Sir Vivian turned the sword over in his hands. His cheeks went quite pink. ‘You best be on guard, Ben. I shall beat you every time now. No one will believe a harridan like Mrs Blackwell gave me a sword! But she has, and she has entrusted me to spread the word.’

Lord Whittonstall coughed. Pointedly.

Sir Vivian hung his head. ‘Sometimes my poor tongue gets ahead of my brain, my dear Mrs Blackwell. Far too much port last night. You could never be a harridan. It is simply your reputation that is quite fearsome. It is not every day one encounters a woman sword-maker—a woman who forges swords with a delicate hand.’

Eleanor forced a smile. So she had a reputation as a harridan? At least she’d been saved from suffering the biggest humiliation of her life. All she wanted to do now was slink off and lick her wounded pride. Tomorrow she’d puzzle out some suitable man to marry her. ‘Now that I have said my little piece, I should go.’

Lord Whittonstall’s large hand clamped about her elbow, pinning her to her spot. ‘And this is all you came to say?’

‘Yes. As Sir Vivian has quite clearly said, he would not have believed it if I left the sword. I had to have his agreement, and now I have it.’

His gaze became more hooded and a muscle jumped in his jaw. Eleanor had the uncomfortable feeling that he saw through her tale. That he’d heard her rehearsing her proposal when she’d thought she was alone.

‘And you will show me the move that bested my cousin?’ Sir Vivian asked. ‘Before you depart?’

‘I can show you that,’ Lord Whittonstall said. ‘We have undoubtedly delayed Mrs Blackwell for far too long.’

‘I do have a business to run.’ Eleanor paused in the doorway. ‘Good day to you both.’

‘Mrs Blackwell, there will be a rematch. I have my reputation to think of.’

Eleanor ignored the tremor of excitement. Fencing with Lord Whittonstall was off the agenda. It would only lead to heartache. She had other more important things to think about. And she would never forget her quest again.

Ben watched Viv march around the terrace, making various lunges at unsuspecting bushes.

‘Would you mind telling me what is going on? You avoided my questions all over luncheon. Fobbing me off with nonsensical answers.’

Viv completed his lunge. ‘I am sure it is as Mrs Blackwell indicated. She has seen how much business I have sent her way and wants me to help her.’

‘You may drop the pretence. How bad are your finances?’

Viv made a disgusted noise. ‘We don’t all have your financial acumen, Ben. If you weren’t my cousin I’d hate you. What with your title, your fortune and your excellent looks. Plus a reputation for lively and intelligent conversation.’

‘That would be the side of me the public sees. My father died before I was born and my pregnant wife in a tragic accident. My fortune was squandered by rapacious financiers that my mother mistakenly trusted. I worked hard to rescue it.’

Viv dropped his gaze. ‘My debts will be paid some time. I have never not paid a debt of honour. Temporary cash problem.’

‘Is it that bad, Viv?’

‘My luck has changed, Ben.’ Viv poured two glasses of port and held one out to him.

Ben shook his head. Viv downed both of them in quick succession.

‘Mrs Blackwell came here for another purpose,’ Ben said, tapping his fingers together. ‘Her pretty speech about you being a rival to the great Beau was concocted on the spot. Nobody could take that assertion seriously. Before she knew I was there I overheard her practising a speech to be directed at you. And when I tried to send her on her way she insisted it was imperative she see you today. She thought that wearing a coal scuttle bonnet was appropriate for her task.’

‘The sword was obviously for me.’ Viv held it out. ‘See—on the blade she has had my name engraved. You must have misheard her.’

Ben turned the blade over and saw the engraved name. He had dismissed it earlier as fancy scrollwork. Eleanor Blackwell had planned to give this sword to Viv, but it didn’t make him believe the explanation she’d given—her colour had been too high and her manner too abrupt. Everything about her had been too much at odds with her desperation before they’d fought. Was she in some sort of trouble? Why did she need Viv’s help in particular? And, more importantly, what had changed her mind?

He handed the sword back to Viv.

‘Mrs Blackwell did intend to give it to you. But your birthday is not for another few months. She could have come back any day. But it had to be today that she saw you. Why?’

‘You have far too cautious a mind, cousin. I’m London-bound at Mrs Blackwell’s specific request. Going to meet my destiny.’ Viv rubbed a hand along his stubble and belched. ‘And while we are there you can introduce me to all the heiresses that your dear mama has lined up for you. She possesses a certain flair for discovering heiresses. Don’t deny it! My mother constantly writes of the despair you cause your mother.’

Ben knew precisely what Viv meant. Every season since Alice’s death his mother had made it her mission to sniff out a possible replacement. She liked to pretend that the way Alice had died had no bearing. A tragic accident, best forgotten.

No matter where he went in London she arranged for accidental meetings with women she deemed suitable. While all the while remaining deaf to his arguments that he wanted to choose his own bride in his own time, or indeed that he had a good enough heir in Viv. Every time he rejected one of her protégées she’d sigh and remind him how his father would want him to do his duty if he were alive, and how as his mother all she wanted was the best for him.

The truth was, none of the debutantes excited him. And what was the point in indulging in a meaningless affair with some piece of Haymarket ware? He knew what he’d shared with Alice. He also knew that it was in spite of his mother rather than because of his mother that he’d fallen for Alice. And he’d vowed that any bride of his would not have to suffer what he’d inadvertently caused Alice to suffer. Never again. He could not make it up to Alice, but he could prevent it from reoccurring.

There had been a spark, a flash of chemistry between him and Mrs Blackwell. And he could have murdered Viv for interrupting him. He’d wanted to see if it was real. If her lips did taste as sweet as he’d imagined.

‘Is there a Mr Blackwell?’

‘I’m speaking of the bright lights of London and pretty heiresses and you want to discuss Mrs Blackwell?’ Viv gave him a quick indulgent smile. ‘Well, I believe she is an ape-leading spinster. Her father’s name was Blackwell. He was alive when Papa bought me my first sword. Now, enough of the woman. I’m much more interested in strategy. Do I wear my plum waistcoat or my emerald-green with the sword?’

‘Strategy?’

‘When Mrs Blackwell placed this sword in my hands I knew I was accepting her trust and admiration. I plan to fulfil her request. This sword needs to be seen and it will be—with all the bravado I can muster.’

Ben tapped his finger against his lips. His sense of unease increased.

Why the pretence? What had been Mrs Blackwell’s true intention in coming here today?

He forced his mind away from the duel they had shared. If Viv had not interrupted she would have been in his arms, looking up at him with her marvellous eyes. That jolt of energy coursed through him again at the mere memory. He’d thought that part of him dead, but it was there and alive. And she was the cause.

‘You are sure you know of no other reason why Miss Blackwell would seek you out?’ he asked.

‘Relax, cousin, and accept good fortune when it comes your way.’ Viv made another flourish with his new sword. ‘It might seem a large thing, even insurmountable, to Mrs Blackwell, but it is something I am delighted to do.’

‘You’re mistaken. She needed your help with something else, but after she spoke with you she changed her mind.’

Viv rolled his eyes. ‘You can believe what you want. It is my sword now, and I shall enjoy it. You’re bad-tempered because she chose me over you. Because someone proved you were merely human at fencing. You had to lose some time. Be grateful it was in private. Face it. Mrs Blackwell did us both a favour.’

He stalked off with the sword tucked under his arm, leaving Ben standing there.

‘We are far from finished, Eleanor Blackwell,’ Ben muttered, reaching for his walking stick. ‘Whatever trouble you are in, giving Viv that sword has only increased it tenfold. You must trust me on this.’

‘I failed, Grandfather.’

Eleanor regarded her grandfather’s portrait, which hung next to her great-great-grandfather’s sword in the office at the foundry. Always when she re-entered the office she spoke to the painting. It made her feel as if she wasn’t the only one left who cared about the company.

Ever since she’d returned from Sir Vivian’s she’d been trying to work up the courage to come into this room. In many ways the office still felt as if it belonged to her grandfather and she was only borrowing it, even twenty years after his death. Her father had lacked the courage to change it, and Eleanor had never wanted to. She always found inspiration and peace in the old leather chair, the walnut desk and the various swords hanging on the walls. But today everything stood in mute rebuke. Even the Villumiay clock her grandfather had won just before he died seemed to pause and frown, as if it knew how far her failure extended. She’d lacked the courage even to ask.

Eleanor had always considered herself the saviour of the firm, the protector of its heritage. She was the one who had rescued it when it had been on the brink of collapse after her father died. She was the one who had made the business what it was today—thriving, and one of the biggest employers in Shotley Bridge. She had kept her stepfather out of the day-to-day running of the company and ensured it flourished. But today she’d learnt it was all an illusion. When it really counted she’d put her personal aversion to Sir Vivian before the needs of the company.

She hadn’t even asked the question! Hadn’t given him a chance to refuse!

‘I failed today, Grandfather, but tomorrow I will find another way.’ She blinked rapidly, keeping back the tears. Whatever happened, she refused to give in. She wouldn’t feel sorry for herself. She enjoyed challenges. She thrived on them. ‘I will succeed. This company is my heritage, not anyone else’s.’

‘Ah, there you are, Eleanor. I have been searching everywhere for you. It was most remiss of you to go off without informing me.’

Eleanor dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. Just what she needed—the Reverend Algernon Forecastle, her stepfather’s nephew, making an appearance. He slithered into the room and deposited himself at her grandfather’s desk.

‘When I am in charge of this benighted company one of the first things I’m doing is sacking that man in the patched waistcoat and frayed trousers. He is not the sort of person we want representing Moles. He told me to mind my business and go and practise my sermons on the cows, sheep and other animals in the field, rather than bothering honest folk who were going about their daily business. The cheek of the man! I only preach on Sundays.’

Eleanor breathed deeply and reminded herself that getting angry with Algernon wouldn’t help anyone. He wasn’t responsible for her failure. She was. But he made it sound as if running a business was easy, when she had dedicated her life to making sure that it didn’t fail. Even now, despite all her success, she woke up in a sweat, having dreamt that somehow her actions had destroyed the company.

‘That man is Mr Swaddle, who is in charge of steel production,’ she said steadily. ‘He always wears his lucky clothes when he is trying out a new method of tempering steel. Something that requires immense concentration and is of untold value to the company. We are very close to discovering the lost formula that my great-grandfather used.’

‘That doesn’t matter. He is making the entire place look untidy.’ Algernon put his boots on top of the walnut desk. ‘You should get rid of him immediately. You make it sound as if running a company is difficult. It’s not. You don’t have to do much—just issue orders. Uncle was far too soft.’

‘Your uncle was quite happy for me to run the company as I saw fit.’

‘Uncle never properly applied his mind to the problem. If a woman can make this company prosper, just think of what a man could do on a few hours a week. It is not you, Eleanor, that made this company. You simply take the credit unnecessarily. You have ridden your luck. That’s all.’

‘Thankfully, for the future of Moles, I remain in charge.’ Eleanor crossed her arms. If she needed any further proof that Algernon was completely and utterly unsuitable for running the company, this was it. Who cared about a few patches on his clothes when Mr Swaddle was a genius with steel? At least her stepfather had understood why Moles made money and who made it happen. ‘And, given Mr Swaddle’s expertise, he can wear whatever he likes. Moles is the better for having him as a foreman.’

Algernon blew on his nails. ‘So you say.’

Eleanor rested her chin on her hand. There was something more than pleased about Algernon Forecastle today. He couldn’t know about her failure with Sir Vivian, so what was it? ‘What are you doing here, Algernon?’

‘I demand to see the latest ledgers. It is my right.’

‘Your right?’ Eleanor stared at him in astonishment. ‘You have no rights here. This company does not belong to you. You ought to go and compose a sermon. Won’t your parishioners want to hear one this Sunday?’

He gave her a pitying glance. ‘I bought a complete book of sermons, and I am only halfway through the third reading.’

‘How resourceful.’

‘Yes, it was.’ Algernon began to preen like the prematurely balding otter that he was. ‘I learnt about the book from a classmate at Oxford. It means I can spend my time doing other more important things.’

‘Visiting the poor and the sick?’

‘You must be joking, Eleanor.’ Algernon paled. ‘The great and the good. The poor can fend for themselves. And I’ve no wish to come down with some horrible disease.’

Eleanor forced a smile. She should have remembered that Algernon had a hide tougher than most forms of steel and seemed impervious to sarcasm. ‘That may be so, but you still don’t possess the right to bother my employees, to demand the ledgers or to put your muddy boots on my great-grandfather’s desk. Remove your boots from there immediately.’

He made a show of wiping the dirt off with his linen handkerchief. ‘Satisfied? I plan to replace this with something more modern when I take over.’

‘I doubt that will ever happen.’

‘Miss Varney says it is about time I stood up for myself and became actively involved.’

‘And who, pray tell, is Miss Varney?’ Eleanor asked.

‘Miss Lucinda Varney is my intended.’ His sneering gaze travelled up and down her. ‘You didn’t think I would marry you? Despite what my uncle counselled.’

‘I take it that my stepfather remained in blissful ignorance about your matrimonial plans?’

‘Uncle would not have understood. I need a truly refined wife—one who will be in keeping with my new station in life.’

His words about refinement stung far more than they should. Eleanor gritted her teeth. She knew why she’d turned her back on parties and balls. The reasons were all around her and in the very air she breathed. She was proud of her accomplishment, even if it was far from what was expected of a lady. And even if the company was not the bustling family that she’d dreamt of when she was a young girl.

‘I hope you and Miss Varney are very happy,’ Eleanor said when she trusted her voice. ‘But you must relinquish all notions of inheriting the business or any of its investments.’

‘My uncle put that codicil in to tease you. What sort of man would marry you?’ Algernon’s smile grew oilier. ‘My uncle even left me instructions on how to challenge your marriage if necessary. He did specify banns, Eleanor. Do you have the time?’

‘I never doubted that for an instant.’ Eleanor kept her back ramrod-straight. ‘But the fact remains that until you do inherit, the company belongs to me and I shall run it as I see fit.’

‘You have twenty-six days left. Banns take at least twenty-one days. Ordinary licences take the same.’

‘There are always special licences.’

‘Do you know how difficult it is to get a special licence? They are called special because you must give an excellent reason.’ Algernon stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat. ‘I wonder what reason you will give, Eleanor? To the Archbishop of Canterbury, no less. Did you know that I know his son? What connections do you have? Or indeed do you have a man who would wish to marry you?’

Eleanor fought against the rising tide of panic. She refused to give in. ‘I have twenty-six days, Algernon. At the end of that time, if you inherit, you may do what you like with the ledgers and my grandfather’s desk. You may even sack valuable members of staff and cut this company’s throat. But until that time keep your boots off the desk and your fingers off the ledgers. And your opinions of my employees to yourself!’

‘You will regret this.’

‘I think not.’

‘Mrs Blackwell.’ One of the junior clerks rushed in with a panicked expression on his face. ‘There is a gentleman here to see you. He wants to see you now.’

‘I don’t have any appointments—’ Eleanor began.

‘We have unfinished business, Mrs Blackwell,’ Lord Whittonstall said, coming to stand beside the clerk. ‘And it will be completed today.’

Chapter Three

Eleanor pressed her hands to her eyes and counted to ten, hoping that Lord Whittonstall was some apparition or fevered fantasy.

When she opened her eyes he remained standing in the doorway to the office. He looked positively immaculate in a frock coat and sand-coloured breeches, with a top hat perched on his head. Every inch the London gentleman.

Eleanor was very aware that she hadn’t taken any time to change and remained in the same hideous black gown that she’d worn earlier. Worse, her hair, instead of staying firmly in its bun, had come loose and several tendrils now fell about her shoulders. She must look like some demented creature rather than a respectable businesswoman.

Of the bad outcomes that could possibly happen, this beat everything hands-down. Lord Whittonstall stood before her, glowering. He obviously hadn’t accepted her garbled explanation to Sir Vivian, and Algernon was right behind her, listening to every word.

‘And you are …?’ Algernon asked rudely.

‘Benjamin Grayson, third Viscount Whittonstall.’ Lord Whittonstall’s gaze pierced Algernon’s. ‘I take it from your attire you are a vicar?’

‘Of this parish.’ Algernon’s smile became oily and ingratiating as Lord Whittonstall’s identity slowly penetrated his brain. ‘I do hope we will have cause to see each other on Sunday.’

‘Your flock undoubtedly requires your attention. I wish to speak with Mrs Blackwell alone on a matter of urgent business.’

‘This entire company will belong to me within the month. My uncle ensured it with his will.’ Algernon narrowed his eyes and puffed out his chest. ‘You may wish to deal with me instead of Miss Blackwell. I am sure all you require can be provided for. Moles does enjoy an excellent reputation for its business dealings. How can I assist you?’

‘What are you doing, Algernon?’ Eleanor cried.

Algernon flushed. ‘I was merely trying to apprise Lord Whittonstall of the true situation. So he isn’t inadvertently misled into thinking you have something to do with Moles’ future.’

‘My business is with Mrs Blackwell,’ Lord Whittonstall said evenly. ‘I don’t believe a third party is necessary.’

‘Our business is concluded, Reverend Forecastle,’ Eleanor said pointedly. ‘Should the need arise, I will inform you of the outcome of my discussion with Lord Whittonstall. But until this company actually belongs to you, pray remember I am in charge.’

‘Very well. I’m going.’ Algernon jammed his hat on his head. ‘Eleanor, remember I am wise to your tricks. I, too, have friends in high places.’

Eleanor’s insides seethed. As if she’d stoop to game-playing!

‘ Does Mrs Blackwell play tricks?’ Lord Whittonstall asked, in a quiet but deadly voice.

‘Normally I despise game-playing. The truth always comes out. One way or another,’ Eleanor replied steadily. ‘You may leave us, Reverend Forecastle. I am safe, I assure you. Lord Whittonstall is a gentleman who is held in the highest regard by all who know him.’

Algernon shook his head. ‘And you wonder why any decent, respectable man would refuse to marry you, Eleanor. You wilfully engage in intimate conversation with strangers. Alone. I fear for you.’

Eleanor waited until she heard the outer door slam. Every particle of her was aware of Lord Whittonstall. How much had he heard? And guessed? She wasn’t attempting to play some game with him. It was simply that he did not necessarily need to know the whole truth.

‘I suppose I should thank you for getting rid of the Reverend Forecastle in such short order.’ Eleanor smoothed the pleats in her black silk gown. ‘I had feared that he intended to spend the afternoon here, going over the ledgers and generally disturbing the staff.’

‘He believes he is the new owner of Moles?’

‘He isn’t. The Reverend Algernon Forecastle has no connection with Moles and he never will,’ Eleanor said pointedly, hoping to end the discussion. ‘You must trust me on this. He would ruin it in six months—nine at the outside. I refuse to allow it. I will fight with everything I can to avoid that situation. The employees of Moles look to me to save them.’

‘And who will save you?’ Lord Whittonstall asked softly.

Eleanor’s heart thudded in her ears. She must have misheard the words. She shook her head, attempting to clear it.

‘I don’t follow.’

‘You are prepared to fight to your last gasp of breath. I suspect if your employees feel the same way about you as you do about them they wouldn’t want you to suffer that fate.’

‘You are talking fustian nonsense.’ Eleanor gave a quick smile. But his words filled her with a warm glow. She hated to think how long it had been since anyone other than her employees had asked about her welfare. ‘I know what I have to do. And I intend to do it. The Reverend Forecastle will be disappointed, but life is full of disappointments.’

‘That is good to know.’

She gestured to a chair and he sat down, crossed one leg over the other, displaying immaculate black riding boots that barely contained his muscular calves. Here was a man who didn’t spend his time lifting cards and drinking port to excess, but instead rode and fenced. Why did he have to look like that? And make her pulse leap?

‘About this business you claim is unfinished …’ Eleanor shifted uneasily on her chair. What did he think unfinished? Their fencing? Or the kiss they had nearly shared? She firmly dragged her mind away from the tingle of awareness. That had only ever been in her imagination. ‘I must disabuse you of any notion you have. Everything has been concluded between us. Your cousin has his sword and that is the end of the matter.’

‘If your stepfather has left the Reverend Forecastle the workings in his will there is little you can do,’ he said, watching her through narrowed eyes. ‘Particularly if he is your stepfather’s next of kin. Even if you succeed in challenging the will it must still go to him. I take it that Moles did belong to him?’

‘You give legal advice?’

‘It is best to know how the law works. False hope leads to bitterness.’

Eleanor put her hand on her stomach. Somehow it made things harder, having Lord Whittonstall being concerned. Right now all she wanted to do was to crawl home, go to bed and pull the covers over her head. Tomorrow she’d begin her fight back with a new and better plan.

‘Yes, if you are interested. Moles did belong to my stepfather. My mother neglected to make a proper settlement when she married. Everything became his when they married. Still, we had an arrangement.’

‘An arrangement?’

‘My stepfather enjoyed spending money rather than making it. He permitted me to run Moles as I saw fit and to invest the profits. I did so on the understanding …’ Eleanor held up her hand as she struggled to keep her voice calm. ‘No, on the expressed promise at my mother’s deathbed that he’d leave me the company when he died.’

His eyes widened with astonishment. ‘Your stepfather broke his promise? Wasn’t he an honourable man?’

Eleanor clasped her hands together. The last thing she wanted was to break down in front of Lord Whittonstall. ‘My stepfather has left me Moles and all its investments provided certain conditions are met.’

‘And they are …?’ He waved a hand, inviting her confidence.

Eleanor bit her lip. Did she dare confess? With his warm eyes regarding her, the temptation grew. She glanced up to where her grandfather frowned down. One didn’t air one’s troubles to strangers. One kept them in the family. She drew a deep breath and wrapped her pride about her.

‘Of no concern to you. But they will be met.’

‘The Reverend Forecastle seems to believe otherwise.’

‘Algernon is an ass. Always has been. Always will be. Hopefully his new wife will make something of him.’

‘He is getting married? Was that something your stepfather envisaged?’

‘I am sure you came here for reasons other than to discuss the terms of my late stepfather’s will or his nephew’s matrimonial status, Lord Whittonstall.’ Eleanor picked up her fountain pen and pretended to make a notation. She’d regained control of the situation now. She’d moved the conversation away from the dangerous shoals of the will and back to the less dangerous one of why he was there and what he wanted. ‘Shall we discuss your business? I am sure it is far more interesting.’

He leant forward. His eyes sparkled with hidden fire. ‘Why did you give my cousin that sword? What was so desperate that you had to see him today? What sort of trouble are you in, Mrs Blackwell?’

‘I explained that at the house.’ Eleanor set down the pen with a shaking hand. It was as if they were fencing again, but this time she was the one with a poor grasp of the rules. She’d given her excuse. He should have accepted it rather than coming here and asking questions. ‘For his birthday. Sir Vivian understood.’

‘His birthday is not for another two months. It is unusual to give such a gift early.’ Lord Whittonstall lifted a solitary eyebrow.

The heat crept up Eleanor’s cheeks. If she kept calm he might ignore the blush. Please let him ignore it. Confessing the whole truth would be a lesson in abject humiliation. The more she thought about it, the more pathetic and naive she had been even to try. She hadn’t understood how wrong it might have gone. What a mistake she’d nearly made. And how could she explain about that moment when she’d thought Lord Whittonstall was going to kiss her? No. Anything but that.

‘I wished him to take it to London,’ she said, when she considered that she’d mastered her emotions. Those few extra heartbeats had helped her to formulate the perfect answer. ‘To show it off. If I had waited for his birthday he would have departed. Gentlemen such as your cousin never stay long in these parts.’

‘Until you gave him the sword my cousin had no plans to quit the county. He’d retired up here with his tail between his legs. A gaming debt. But I don’t think your visit had anything to do with his finances. It had something to do with you and your current predicament.’

She shuffled paper about the desk. Against all reason she wanted to lay her head on his chest and confess. She shook her head. She could just imagine his recoiling from her, and that was a thousand times worse. The last thing she wanted was pity from him.

‘It was a straightforward request, Lord Whittonstall,’ she said briskly. ‘I don’t see why you think it a mystery.’

‘Have you given swords away before?’ he asked, tilting his head to one side.

‘It is a new initiative.’

‘How new?’

‘Very new.’

Eleanor pushed away from the desk, stood up, and began to pace the room, stopping in front of her grandfather’s portrait. The compulsion to confess grew with each passing heartbeat. But she simply couldn’t. It would be opening up a Pandora’s box of questions. And she might inadvertently blurt out how she’d wanted him to kiss her. She bit her lip. How much she still wanted him to kiss her. She couldn’t remember ever being this aware of a man before. And she’d met hundreds during her fifteen year tenure running Moles.

‘A sudden inspiration,’ she said, in a tone that few within Moles would question. ‘I’m so pleased and relieved your cousin agreed to the scheme. It solves a multitude of problems.’

‘How good to know that my cousin was the first to receive your largesse in this manner.’

Eleanor glanced over her shoulder and he gave her an ironic bow.

‘A genuine request from my heart, Lord Whittonstall,’ she said, putting her hands on her hips. ‘I believed when I went to his house, and I still believe now, that Sir Vivian can help this company to succeed. All he needs to do is show off the sword, hold it in combat as I taught you, and the rest will follow.’

She drew a breath. She had told the truth in a roundabout way. Nothing to be ashamed of. She waited for him to concede the point.

‘You were desperate for his help—so desperate you were prepared to risk your reputation. You even challenged me to a duel so that you could remain in that library. Then Viv arrived and you made your milksop request. What did you truly want from him? What were you afraid to ask for?’

Eleanor stopped and faced her grandfather’s portrait. His stern features frowned down on her. She hated the feeling of being judged and found wanting. She had never considered that Lord Whittonstall would be so perceptive.

‘It no longer matters because all I want from him now is to publicise the new sword.’ She turned and smiled triumphantly. Her point was the killer blow.

Lord Whittonstall took a step towards her. Their eyes met and she became intensely aware of him—his long fingers, the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck and his scent. Especially his scent. Extract of masculinity. Her pulse increased its speed and she knew her cheeks flamed. But it didn’t matter. She’d won. He’d have to back down.

‘I believe it had to do with your stepfather’s will. You wanted help with the conditions your stepfather has imposed. But once you saw Viv you changed your mind and invented this scheme.’

Eleanor stared at him, astonished. He’d accomplished the verbal equivalent of sending her sword flying through the air. ‘How did you know?’

‘I am far from unintelligent, Miss Blackwell. The truth, if you please. Why did you go to see my cousin? How did you think he could help you? And why did you decide he couldn’t?’

Eleanor stared at Lord Whittonstall. He’d guessed, but he couldn’t know everything. For a wild moment she considered lying but knew she couldn’t. It would only make Algernon’s accusations true. And she had no wish to play those sorts of games with Lord Whittonstall. Only the entire humiliating truth would do.

‘I went to see your cousin to ask him to marry me, but I decided against it once I had met him again. We would not suit.’

‘You would not suit,’ Lord Whittonstall agreed. A dimple played in the corner of his cheek. ‘Why on earth did you think you would?’

‘I was desperate.’ She clasped her hands together and tried to keep the panic at bay. ‘Absolutely and completely desperate. Your cousin had sent a note, begging for the new sword. It fell out of a ledger when I came back from the reading of the will. Serendipity, I thought. I suspect I wasn’t thinking clearly or I wouldn’t even have tried. I am sorry if you were caused any discomfort by my feeble attempt to solve the problem. I should have known better.’

He gave her a sharp glance. ‘What does marrying my cousin have to do with your stepfather’s will? Start at the beginning, Miss Blackwell, and perhaps I will understand.’

‘In his will my stepfather gives me Moles and all its investments provided I marry. If not, everything goes to Algernon. He also left instructions for him on how to challenge any marriage.’

Lord Whittonstall’s eyebrows drew together. He was puzzled more than angry. ‘Why would he do that?’

‘To taunt me and keep me in my place. To create the illusion of keeping his promise.’ Eleanor gave a light shrug to show that she was over the hurt. ‘He knew my feelings on the subject of marriage and the inequities that women can suffer. I’m not very good at holding my tongue, but he tolerated me because he enjoyed the prosperity I brought to Moles and his purse.’

‘You are not overly enamoured of marriage?’ He gave a little nod of understanding. ‘Perhaps he was acting for the best. Most parents want their children or indeed their stepchildren to be secure within the confines of marriage. Perhaps he had your best interests at heart and chose to show them in a unique fashion.’

‘I saw how my stepfather treated my mother.’ Eleanor caught her bottom lip with her teeth. There was no need to catalogue her stepfather’s verbal cruelties. He might have abstained from physical violence after she’d threatened him with a sword but his tongue had been razor-sharp and he had had the unerring habit of finding weakness.

‘That is a shame.’ He regarded her with sorrowful eyes.

After this interview she doubted if she’d ever see Lord Whittonstall again. But his pity was the last thing she wanted or required.

‘Until my stepfather’s will was read I was determined never to marry. I wanted to put my energy into the family firm, rather than into hating him.’

‘Not all men are beasts like your stepfather,’ he remarked, his face becoming resolute.

She knew then that he understood.

‘I am sure you will find someone. But what is the hurry? Why did you rush out and contact my cousin? The instant after you returned here from the will-reading you must have sent the note. It is the timing, Miss Blackwell.’

‘You would make a good detective. One final twist.’ Eleanor clasped her hands together and struggled to keep her voice even. ‘I have to marry within the month.’

Lord Whittonstall’s eyes had opened wide. Thank heavens! He finally understood the truly shocking nature of the will. All the nervous energy flowed out of her.

‘There would not be time for a proper settlement if you had to marry within a month,’ he said. ‘Lawyers are notoriously slow about such things. They often take longer than posting the banns.’

‘You appear remarkably well informed.’

His lips turned up in a smile. ‘I’ve a variety of cousins. Some of my female cousins are more headstrong than others and have wanted to marry quickly out of devotion to their fiancés. But it would be financial suicide. Their interests have to be protected. Fortune-hunters are ten a penny in London these days.’

A warm glow filled Eleanor. Against all hope or expectation Lord Whittonstall understood the obstacles she faced.

‘I see you appreciate the crux of the problem. I know only too well what happens when there is no proper settlement.’

‘You do?’

‘My mother married too quickly. I think she wanted to erase the shame of my father’s death from her conscience. She was the sort of woman who wanted to be married and have a home.’

Eleanor bit her lip. All her mother had wanted to be was petted and admired. A decorative object rather than something useful. Eleanor’s strength was her brain rather than her beauty, and therefore she trod a very different path from her mother.

‘But why did you stay if you found the situation intolerable? Surely you could have started a new company? Or, failing that, found a job elsewhere.’

‘I gave a promise to the employees when my father died,’ she said, needing him to understand her reasoning. ‘I promised them that if they stuck with me and the company I would give my all for them—and I have. Moles has more than prospered in my tenure.’

‘These men are all skilled. They could easily find jobs elsewhere. Would they do the same for you?’

‘A promise, Lord Whittonstall, is a promise.’

‘And you were prepared to compromise your life for a business?’ His eyes showed his incredulity.

Eleanor pressed her hands together and held back a frustrated scream. It wasn’t just a business. It was her heritage. Something that had been built with the sweat and blood of her forefathers. It was the only thing of her family’s that she had left. She was the last one. It was the only place where she truly belonged.

Suddenly she knew what she had to do. She had to make him understand. Then he’d see why she’d changed her mind, and that it had nothing to do with her reaction to him.

‘Come with me. See the forge. Meet the men who work here and then you will understand.’

‘I doubt I will.’

‘You doubted I could best you at swords.’

He gave a sudden barking laugh. ‘I stand corrected.’

Giving in to her impulse, she led him out of the office and gave him a brief tour of Moles. She showed him where the iron was kept, how it was made into steel, and then how the swords were made. All the while, whenever they encountered anyone, she introduced him to the men who made Moles—from the most junior errand boy to Mr Swaddle, who was busy with his experiments. To her great relief Lord Whittonstall asked intelligent questions and didn’t patronise her. He seemed genuinely surprised to learn how long some of the men had worked there, and of their hopes for the future.

‘There,’ she said, when the tour was done and they had stopped outside the office building, underneath the apple tree that her great-grandmother had planted. The blossom was late this year and had just started to open. ‘Do you understand now?’

‘They certainly hold you in high esteem. When the blacksmith needed you to inspect the latest shipment of iron Mr Swaddle took me aside to explain about how you had single-handedly rescued this company.’

‘Mr Swaddle is given to exaggeration. We worked together. Everyone did. The men did the physical labour. I simply did the accounts and worked to get the swords where they would be appreciated. If a fifteen-year-girl could do it, how hard could it have been?’

She found it hard to keep the bitterness from her voice. She shook her head. Algernon’s pompous pronouncements had affected her more than she’d thought possible.

‘And you have continued to do it for the last fifteen years?’

‘It has become a habit.’ She ducked her head. ‘I enjoy my work and enjoy working with the men. Mr Swaddle, for all his eccentric dress, is a genius with steel.’

‘He doesn’t like Algernon Forecastle. Doesn’t trust him. He made that quite clear.’

‘These people depend on me. I can’t allow Algernon to ruin their lives.’ Eleanor drew a deep breath. ‘I went to see your cousin to secure their future. I went to offer to pay his debts in return for a marriage on paper. But I couldn’t do it. And I shall have to live with my selfish decision for the rest of my life. When the time came I was a coward and couldn’t even say the words. So I asked your cousin for his help in another way. It may do some good. There—now you know the truth and my reasons. I hope you are satisfied.’

‘You care a lot about these people?’

‘Yes, I do.’ She stood with her feet firmly planted on the ground and dared him to make a derogatory comment.

A light breeze blew a strand of hair into her mouth. She pushed it away and still he looked at her.

He put a hand on her arm, keeping her there. His brows drew together and his eyes darkened to coal black. ‘Marry me.’

Eleanor froze. A thousand disconnected thoughts flew through her brain. A huge part of her screamed that this was the miracle she’d been longing for. Lord Whittonstall had asked her to marry him. But she also knew she didn’t want him offering out of pity. She had her pride. ‘I wasn’t begging you for help. I was attempting to explain.’

‘Is there something wrong with marrying me?’ Ben stared at Eleanor Blackwell. He had not intended to ask her to marry him when he’d arrived at Moles, but now, seeing her here and hearing her story, he knew it was the right thing to do. The perfect solution to his problem and to hers. Mutual assistance.

She pulled away from him. ‘You have no reason to want to marry me. Don’t patronise me. I can’t stand it.’

‘It is far from a joke.’

A deep frown appeared between her delicate brows. ‘But why would you want to marry me?’

‘You mean I’m no wastrel and therefore don’t need your money?’

She bent her head and picked at her glove. ‘Something like that.’

‘I took an irrational dislike to the Reverend Forecastle.’

‘Enough to marry someone to spite him? I doubt it.’

Ben watched the crown of her head. Her bravery impressed him, but he also wanted to touch her hair. His desire to kiss her had grown, not diminished. Most unexpected. He desired her. ‘You want the truth?’

Her grey eyes met his. ‘I find it best. You could marry anyone. Why me? Why now?’

How to answer her? He could hardly explain about the spark and his desire to pursue it. It remained far too new and tenuous. In any case, this marriage was not about desire or romance; it was about the possibility of companionship and duty. A new start—one in which he’d atone for old mistakes. He didn’t want to make false promises.

He pushed the unwelcome thoughts away and concentrated on the apple tree behind her.

‘Like you, duty drives me. In this case my mother has impressed upon me the necessity of marriage. I need a wife. You need a husband. It is quite simple. For my part, it solves a multitude of problems which show every sign of increasing rather than diminishing.’

‘Things are never that simple.’ Her brow furrowed as if she was trying to find a hidden flaw.

‘I’m a widower, Miss Blackwell,’ Ben said slowly. ‘I loved my wife, but she died before we had children. I have an heir in Viv but my mother keeps pressing me to marry. Her demands are growing in strength with each passing year.’

‘And you listen to your mother? You hardly seem the type.’

Ben paused. After her revelations, she deserved an explanation. She didn’t need to know about Alice, or the way she’d died. All that was in the past. However, he could explain about what drove his mother.

‘My father died before I was born. Mama devoted her life to raising me. Within reason I try to listen to her. And each year the season has become more intolerable as she artfully arranges for me to meet more eligible young women. Each year the age gap grows and I find less and less in common with her protégées.’

‘Why don’t you tell her to let you choose your own bride in your own time?’

He captured Miss Blackwell’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘You are very alike in your determination. Do your employees say no to you after all you have done for them?’

She withdrew her hand and moved away from him, turning her back on him. Her black dress hung limply about her body, emphasising her slender angularity and the straightness of her back. Ben found it impossible to discern what she was thinking. Silently he willed her to accept his offer.

‘And you would agree to a settlement in which I keep control of Moles?’

‘It will be hard to do within the timeframe, but I have no objection.’

‘And you want it to be a paper marriage? If you find someone else we could part amicably. It can be done.’

‘It won’t be,’ Ben said shortly. He tore his mind away from the past. There would never be another woman like Alice. He wasn’t looking for that heady feeling. That part of his life had finished five years ago, and he knew ultimately whose fault it was.

Her cheeks went pink. ‘I am well aware that this will be a business arrangement. I want you to understand that I wouldn’t stand in your way … should it happen.’

‘Is it settled? Will you stop being stubborn?’

‘But you don’t live here. And I can’t leave Moles.’

‘That will solve another problem. Viv needs funds. I have no wish to return to Leicestershire. I will purchase his property. That should put you near enough for those times when you are needed.’

He waited. Suddenly tense. This was far removed in many ways from the manner in which he’d proposed to Alice all those years ago. Then he had laughed and kissed her. She’d asked him what had taken him so long before throwing her arms about his neck. He glanced at the apple tree in front of the office building. Funny, the apple trees had hung heavy with blossom then as well. He suspected Alice would have approved, even if this marriage was to be unorthodox.

She held out her hand. It trembled under his fingers. ‘Then I accept with gratitude. You have been more than kind, Lord Whittonstall. You have saved my company from an awful fate.’

‘Please call me Ben … as we are to be on intimate terms, Eleanor.’

Her tongue wet her lips, turning them the colour of unopened apple blossom. ‘Intimate?’ she whispered.

‘Try it.’

‘Ben.’ She gave him a level look. ‘We are speaking about a marriage on paper. I have no expectation of anything else.’

He reached out and pulled her firmly into his arms. As her body collided with his he registered the fact that she was less angular than he’d supposed. He lifted her chin slightly and regarded her face. The more he looked at her, the more he found to appreciate.

He brushed her lips with his, intending it to be a quick demonstration. But the instant his mouth encountered hers he knew that he wanted more. He gathered her more firmly in his arms and drank. She parted her lips. When his body thrummed with desire he put her away from him. They both stood there, chests heaving and blood pumping far too fast.

‘It will be a proper marriage, Eleanor. My mother expects an heir and I have no intention of denying her.’ He put two fingers to his hat. ‘Good day to you. The banns will be posted. You will meet your stepfather’s conditions.’

Eleanor wandered back into her office. The men studiously avoided her gaze, pretending interest in the ledgers and other bits of paper.

Her fingers explored her mouth. Lord Whittonstall … Ben … had kissed her in full view of everyone. Put his mark on her. She’d never dreamt a kiss could be like that. Heart-stopping. Exciting. And absolutely meaningless to him. He’d been trying to prove a point.

Eleanor hugged her arms about her waist. A real marriage. With the possibility of children. Someone to carry on after her. She’d not bargained for that. She’d never even considered it. Ever since she was fifteen she’d concentrated on Moles, and now this … the domestic side of things and all it entailed. It shook her.

She carefully closed the door behind her and glanced up to where her grandfather frowned down at her.

‘I must make a success of it, Grandfather. How hard can it be? To be a viscountess and all that entails? If I can run a company, I can do that. I have to. I’ve given my word.’

Chapter Four

Any task was much simpler when its components were written down. More straightforward, less daunting.

Eleanor surveyed her latest list—the seventeenth she’d penned since she woke. Only half-past eleven and she’d already crossed off five items. Progress at speed.

Sleep had been next to impossible, so she’d worked through the night. She’d gone over Moles’ accounts and made lists and schedules of everything that had to be done in the next few weeks. Her appointment with her solicitor was scheduled for tomorrow. His reply had arrived with the first post.

She’d already sent over an outline of what she wanted, and once she knew it was in hand she’d arrange for the banns to be posted.

Eleanor tapped her pen against the table. Could she trust Algernon to fulfil the duties of his office and read out the banns? Did she even want to be married in his church? The thought of Algernon officiating at her wedding made her nauseous. She put a big question mark beside ‘banns’ and regarded the next item: ‘find a suitable dress’.

‘What do you think you are playing at, Eleanor?’ Algernon said, pushing past Jenkins the butler and coming into the breakfast room. ‘I’m not one of your suppliers who gives you extra time to pay because you sigh and bat your eyelashes. Or one of your competitors who feels sorry for you when the new furnace doesn’t arrive on time. Oh, yes, you needn’t look so surprised. Uncle told me all about how you saved Moles and why. They pitied you, Eleanor.’

Her butler gave her an apologetic look when she raised an eyebrow. The last thing she needed today of all days was an interruption from Alger non.

Why couldn’t he be like normal vicars and be interested in his parishioners, or failing that some esoteric academic study? Why was he coming to plague her—and so early in the day?

One would think he’d have the decency to wait until the afternoon, or better not even to appear without sending a note round. And, from the belligerent set of his jaw, it appeared he intended to stay awhile.

‘Ah, Algernon,’ Eleanor said, forcing her voice to stay calm and pleasant. ‘I see you have inherited my stepfather’s bad habit of twisting history. It had nothing to do with my feminine charm—something that you always accuse me of lacking. It is precisely because I pointed out the financial opportunities to Mr Smith and Mr Oley that Moles flourished and became the company it is today. Moles bought all of Mr Smith’s iron ore until he retired and then we bought his business. We continue to share transport with Mr Oley—only now his swords are shipped with ours, instead of the other way round. It saves costs and benefits everyone. Business, not pity.’

She finished with a brilliant smile.

Algernon opened and closed his mouth several times as he went his special shade of puce. ‘I will take your word for it.’

‘Why are you here, Algernon? I feel certain it is not to go over my various triumphs in business. However, if you insist, I must warn you it will take some considerable time.’

‘Francis Percy, the curate at Broomhaugh, contacted me about your pathetic scheme this morning.’

The back of Eleanor’s neck prickled. Her life needed fewer complications, not more. ‘Who is Francis Percy, and why should he contact you about me? Does he wish to purchase a sword? If so, I would suggest he go through the proper channels. We do have a backlog of work and cannot make exceptions … even for your friends.’

Algernon jabbed his finger at her. ‘There has been a query about posting banns for one Eleanor Blackwell.’

‘Has there?’ Eleanor laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them. It would appear Ben had wasted no time. She should have thought of holding the wedding at the Broomhaugh church. It would solve a multitude of problems. ‘Fancy that.’

Algernon stuck his nose in the air. ‘Merely posting the banns with some unknown does not mean you will fulfil Uncle’s will. I have instructed Percy to ignore the request.’

‘You have instructed him to ignore the request?’ Eleanor gripped the table and struggled to breathe. Was she going to have to fight everyone for this wedding? ‘Will he do so?’

‘I have every reason to suspect he will. He thought the enquiry a bit unusual, as the man was unknown to him and you don’t live in the parish. He asked for my advice, and I was happy to give it.’

Eleanor’s heart thudded. If Ben had waited she would have had it all organised and done before Algernon started creating complications. ‘Your advice was worthless. Do you know what you have done?’

‘It may surprise you, Eleanor, but I’m held in the highest regard in certain circles. My advice is actively sought. Even the bishop—’ Algernon stopped and tapped the side of his nose. ‘Your ploy is painfully obvious.’

‘Ploy?’ Eleanor stared at him. ‘Why would making an enquiry about posting banns be a ploy? I am attempting to follow your reasoning here, Algernon.’

‘You intend to plead a broken heart,’ he said with a huge sigh. ‘Left at the altar in the last moment and therefore in need of more time. However, I have hardened my heart and I intend to enforce the will to the letter. The very letter. You need to post banns and marry like a good Christian woman—in the church where you intend to worship.’

Eleanor stared at Algernon. Was it just her or did he think that all women lacked intelligence?

‘What happens to members of the clergy who wilfully refuse to post genuine banns? What sort of sanction is sued against them?’

‘That is not the case here.’ He gave an insufferable sigh. ‘I know you went over to that area yesterday. And Percy has indicated that it was a note, rather than an actual face-to-face meeting. He has no knowledge of the intended bridegroom. Neither you nor this phantom bridegroom lives in that parish. Why should banns be posted there?’

Eleanor choked back angry words. Algernon was a duplicitous snake, but becoming angry with him would not solve her problem. Calm. Cool. Collected. Her grandfather had always told to hold her temper. Knowing about a problem was halfway to solving it.

‘It is good to know that you are having me watched and are so busy blackening my name, but it was my intended who made the enquiry, not me,’ she said finally, when she’d mastered her emotions. ‘He currently resides with Sir Vivian at Broomhaugh Hall.’

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