My Reckless Surrender - Page 117

Burnley gave a soft chuckle. Ashcroft hated that this man lorded it over him. His father? He’d prefer to think pond scum had spawned him.

“You had the advantage of youth and vigor.”

Aha, that didn’t sound like Burnley. Burnley never surrendered the smallest quotient of power. Siring his heir definitely counted as power.

Ashcroft surveyed his father. The man seemed twenty years older than when he’d last appeared in Parliament. Right now, triumph lent Burnley energy, but long illness and exhaustion marked that sharp-boned face.

Only one explanation made sense. It was harsh but fitting.

Papa must be impotent.

Satisfaction surged. How it must smart to know the marquess’s only chance of continuing his line was via the bastard he scorned.

For the first time since Burnley had interrupted his embarrassing marriage proposal, Ashcroft felt a smile curve his lips. “I should thank you for the pleasure you’ve given me in the last weeks. How sad that you’ll never find out just what pleasure, Papa.” He injected a world of derision into the last word. “The trull’s a fine ride. One of the best I’ve had.”

The best he’d ever had, but he denied Diana the reward of knowing she was unforgettable, and not just because she’d led him down the garden path.

Great Jehovah, he was a dolt. Even now, after all he’d discovered, the misery in her expression made him want to reassure her, to take her in his arms and protect her.

What from? She got just what she wanted, the faithless jade.

He had to forget those transcendent hours at Perry’s mansion. They’d been lies, with no more substance than soap bubbles blown from a child’s pipe.

Lies, lies, lies. Every single instant she’d spent with him.

The repetition didn’t convince his heart.

Damn his heart. His heart had led him disastrously wrong, and he intended to treat it as a stranger from now on.

Diana shifted closer. For a forbidden instant, he closed his eyes as the sweet, fresh scent of apples flooded his senses. She didn’t smell like evil and betrayal. He wished to Hades she did.

She curled her hand around his arm and bent her head after casting a surreptitious glance at Burnley. Her voice shook with remorse. False remorse, of course. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I’m sorry you had to learn such a man is your father.”

“I’ll survive,” he said dryly. “I’ve lived till now without dear Papa’s loving care. I’m sure I’ll continue to thrive. You’re the one marrying the toad.”

“What are you talking about?” Burnley called rudely.

Diana ignored him, which said a great deal for her bravery. Once she married Burnley, she’d be at his mercy, and he was a man who didn’t know the meaning of the word. Ashcroft bit back sick fury at all her lush, passionate femininity allied to this dry, vicious old man.

Oh, let me hate her. Dear God, let me hate her.

“You can’t despise me more than I despise myself.” She sounded like regret scalded her. If only he believed her. “When you hear why I cheated you, you’ll hate me even more.”

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“Highly unlikely.” He wished she wouldn’t sound as if his bad opinion was a tragedy. She must know he was awake to her machinations. He drew her farther away from Burnley and kept his voice down, although she didn’t warrant such consideration.

She spoke in a muffled whisper. “I’m marrying him for the house.”

“The house?” He frowned in confusion. Did Burnley threaten to turn her and her father out of their home? Then he realized what she meant, and he sucked in a shocked breath. “You want Cranston Abbey.”

His voice was rough with contempt. Briefly, stupidly, he’d imagined she offered a valid excuse for inflicting this excruciating punishment.

“Yes.” She raised her chin and stared directly at him, owning her sins without prevarication.

He bared his teeth in a sardonic smile although he didn’t feel remotely amused. “Three weeks in my bed in return for the richest acres in England? You’re one pricey whore.”

She recoiled before a proud mask fell over her pale face. “I’ve loved the estate since I was a child. I’ve run it for years. I’m chatelaine in all but name.”

Tags: Anna Campbell Historical
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