Improper Pleasures (The Pleasure Series #1) (3 page)

“Is this the only copy of the document?” she said quietly.

“No, there is a duplicate. Also written by your late
husband.”

“He was…quite weak at the end. I had no idea he had the
strength to inscribe such a detailed letter. It must have taken him days.” She
spoke to her lap, and James toyed with the idea that he should offer her some
sherry, some kind of appropriate condolences even though it would not help his
argument. Abruptly, she lifted her head. “Surely you don’t intend to withhold
what is due me because an ill man was unable to execute the final arrangements
of his last wishes?”

“Things are more complicated than that. I’d be more than
willing to provide for your inheritance from Eastlan’s surplus, if there were
such a thing.” James paused, stopping himself from blaming the sickly Lowell
for the ruin of the estate, though if he’d interpreted properly, the books
certainly pointed to that. He wondered if some part of her knew. Perhaps that
was the mystery she exuded. “Eastlan is in serious danger of collapsing under
its own debt.” If she didn’t know, now she did and part of him winced at the
fact that the bad news had to come from him.

For a moment, she stared at him in wide-eyed silence. “My
lord,” she finally said with a touch of crisp contempt, “I have lived in the
shadow of Eastlan’s grandeur my entire life. That I’ve had the honor to be her
mistress for these last years is a sacred trust, not only to the Keane family,
but to the people who live from her bounty.”

She took a shaky breath. “Perhaps you should lift your
head from the balance sheets and look around you. Stroll the grounds. Visit the
holdings. Eastlan is thriving.” She abruptly stood, clutching the folded papers
to her chest. “If you think for a moment I’ll let you disregard Lowell’s last
wishes and deprive Lark and I, as many a new lord is wont to do, you are
mistaken.” Her whole body trembled, but she raised her chin and met his gaze.

This woman was indeed an unexpected element in the challenge
being presented to him, and he admired her mustered strength. Still, he needed
to keep his focus on what must be done to prevent bankruptcy, somehow manage to
care for everyone at the estate, then decide how he might secure the future of
Eastlan. He hoped he could gather his own strength, and a resistance to her
appeal. Surely it would only distract him from the duty and decisions that lay
ahead.

The one thing she did need from him was the truth. By her
demeanor, he decided she could handle it. Though part of him hated the fact
that he was the one to bring her the sad truth of the state of affairs.

He took a deep breath, hoping he could deliver the facts
in the best possible way. “Maybe if someone
had
looked at the balance
sheets, Eastlan wouldn’t have thirty thousand pounds in unpaid bills. And
that’s just from this year.” 

“That’s not possible.” She gripped the back of the red
brocade chair with one hand. James couldn’t help wondering how much he could
get for the intricately carved piece of furniture.

“Perhaps you should take a look around you, Lady Keane.”
James picked up the crystal goblet, glanced at the red velvet drapes that
perfectly matched the color of the chairs. Perhaps she didn’t understand how
different her world was from his. “I’ve never seen such luxury. A single bill
from your dressmaker for that dress is probably more than many men earn in a
year in America.”

“We have been in mourning. The cost of new gowns was
hardly a luxury but a show of respect.” Her tone was part defiance, part surprise.

“And what of the beeswax candles?” James blew out all but
one of the candles on his desk just to make his point. He then went around the
room extinguishing the candles on the mantle and the standing candelabrum that
dripped with sparkling hand-cut crystals in the corner. “If you love Eastlan as
much as you say, you’ll have no problem actually living off her fruit, and
lessening the opulence in order to do so. Or are mutton, wool and tallow not to
your liking?”

“Do you expect Lady Phillina, the daughter of a duke, a
woman who has buried a husband and two sons, to end her days living like a
pauper so you can fatten your purse? Are you that much of a selfish miser, my
American cousin? And what of Lark, Lowell’s only offspring?”

“There is no money to fatten anyone’s purse. Eastlan is
broke.” He ground his jaw at her insults but didn’t blame her for her
conclusion. Apparently she’d been sheltered from the state of Eastlan’s
affairs. He meant to change that. “Ask Wesley if you don’t believe me.”   

The shadows cast by the lone candle intensified the
hollows under her eyes, draining the spark from her fierce gaze. He expected a
great deal from her and of course she was empathetic about the others who would
be affected by his decisions.

“I have no wish for you or your daughter to suffer,” he
said, deliberately softening his tone, “but the truth is that there are no
funds for your settlement. And that is a fact I can’t change.” James stared
into her eyes, watching for the recognition she understood the dire straits
they all were in, then strode back to his chair.

“I cannot imagine what the wilds of America must be like,
but here in England, we have laws. You may not withhold my inheritance and toss
your predecessor’s family to the wolves.”

“I never said I was tossing anyone out.” James sank into
his chair weary from the strain of the conversation.

“No, you just intend to treat us all like indentured
servants, prisoners to your will, starve us of our creature comforts, humiliate
us until we flee for our lives.” She remained standing, stiff as a statue, but
her face had paled considerably. He wondered if she were in shock.

Clearly, her fear was winning out. Perhaps he’d said too
much. “The hour is late.” Her reference to prisons, starvation and humiliation returned
him to cool yet polite detachment, a skill he had mastered to survive the
harshest of circumstances when no more than a teen. Perhaps those lessons would
serve him well with the challenges before him. Especially Astra. He’d grown
very used to wanting things he couldn’t have and biding his time.

“We can discuss this further another day,” he said. “I
just thought you should know the particulars of your situation as soon as
possible so you may make decisions regarding your future.”

“You won’t be allowed to deprive Lark her due.” She said
the words with a breathy determination that even seemed to surprise herself. “I
will retain an attorney and we will let the courts decide my fate. I have no
doubt I’ll fare far better with a jury of my peers than I ever would with you.
Good evening, Lord Keane.” She strode to the door without a backwards glance.

“Astra! Lady Keane, please let’s—” He jumped to his feet,
not liking how the exchange had ended. He’d only made her angry with the truth.
In hindsight, he probably should have waited, or at least not told her
everything at once.

The door slammed on his plea for reason. James hung his
head between his braced arms and considered her threat. Her peers, no doubt,
were the House of Lords. He’d been warned that any dispute involving his inheritance
would be heard by them. James sank in his chair and reached for the brandy he’d
kept on the desk once he’d done his first assessment of Eastlan’s ledgers. An
image of the wronged widow railing in front of a stuffy, white-wigged tribunal
blurred his vision.

He filled his glass with brandy and took a swallow,
focusing on the burn it trailed down his throat. At least discovering the
mysterious woman in black’s identity cooled his lust so he could better focus
on the financial recovery of his estate. James rubbed his eyes.

Unfortunately, in this case, fact proved so much more
fascinating than mere fantasy. He had to admit she intrigued him. Telling her
the truth had been difficult, but learning of her dire financial situation had
to be devastating. If only she wasn’t who she was…the bereaved widow. If only
she was an ally, someone who could collaborate with him, rather than oppose
him.

Lady Astra Keane was a complicated mix, shrouded in
secrets that he would dearly love to unveil. Or undress. The very image he
wished to banish only increased his lust with bold detail.

Astra tugged on the oleander’s thick trunk with both
hands. Despite the poorly drained soil that had turned the sapling leaves a
sickly yellow, the roots had wrapped around the stone border, holding onto a
home that would surely kill it. The prospects for her own future hardly proved
better.

She needed to consider the worst case. Her empty threat of
legal action had been just that. She needed to face the truth, and the truth
was that leaving Eastlan would be painful enough for both her and Lark, but
with no funds, how would they survive? She certainly couldn’t rely on her
mother for help. Her mother hadn’t had a permanent residence in years,
preferring to exist as social flotsam and jetsam. Always eager for the next
entertainment or invitation. Astra had hated being forced to live in constant
insecurity after her father had passed away, always waiting for a distant
relative to invite them for an extended stay. The very idea that Lark would
have to grow up so unmoored squeezed Astra’s heart painfully.

No, she must think of something, anything to prevent it.

“The estate’s records show that we employ a gardener by
the name of Jack Morton, if I remember correctly. Is Mr. Morton not doing his
job?”

Astra jolted at James’s voice, landing her squarely on her
behind as she let go of the plant’s trunk. The chill from the stone path seeped
through her threadbare gown, reminding her that she was dressed in her worst.
She stared at James Keane in stunned silence.

His coarse wool jacket and tan breeches tucked into
scuffed riding boots were better suited to a common laborer. Unfortunately, his
distressed attire did little to put them on any kind of equal footing. He was
still the new lord of Eastlan, and she needed to remember that.

He offered his hand to help her to her feet, saying, “I
didn’t expect you to start digging around in the dirt after our disagreement last
night. I wasn’t at my best.  Maybe I said some things I shouldn’t have.”

“Forgive me, but I’m a mess,” Astra said, completely taken
aback by what she suspected might be his uncivilized version of an apology.
“Usually, I am quite alone here.” She peeled off her mud-caked gloves and
discarded her wide-brimmed straw hat that had long ago begun to unravel.
Finally, she had no choice but to place her hand in his since he still extended
it to her.

His warm grip closed around hers and he pulled her to her
feet in one easy tug, his physical strength serving to unnerve her along with
his touch. The skin to skin contact sent her heart racing. His hand was rough
yet invitingly warm. Even though the early spring morning had left the tip of
her nose chilled, she suddenly found herself uncomfortably hot. The fact he had
such an effect on her unnerved her even more.

He released her hand and stepped back. She immediately
missed his warmth.

“I assure you Eastlan’s gardener earns his keep,” she said
as she brushed back a loose tendril, damp from her exertion. Hopefully he would
attribute the flush in her cheeks to the same end.

He waited, perhaps for more explanation, holding her gaze
with his own interested stare.

“Most of these plants were imported from abroad,” she
began. “Lowell’s father, your uncle”—she dropped her gaze, suddenly feeling as
if the simple exchange was too intimate, somehow—“commissioned the garden for
Lady Phillina. This one’s Mediterranean.” A simple glance at the yellowing
plant reminded Astra of her own withering predicament. She caught herself
before she said more. How could this money-hungry young American understand the
value of a romantic token beyond the monetary? “I enjoy tending them, though
they are often more trouble than they’re worth.” She lifted her gaze back to
his face, noting how the bright sunlight made his hair even more fair-colored.

“Perhaps I should feed them to the sheep then.” He shifted
his stance, appearing so casual and relaxed, his thumbs caught in the pockets
of his worn breeches.

“Oh, no! The oleander is quite poisonous and the azaleas as
well. I forbid Lark to even play…” His grin alerted her that he was teasing.
That he understood her underhanded insult unnerved her at the same time it
earned her grudging respect. She clasped her hands in front of her. “It’s quiet
in this part of the garden. I find it relaxing. It would make me sad to see it
die of neglect. Mr. Morton has far too much to do keeping up with the roses and
rhododendrons.”

“I noticed the bouquets in the hall, and the dining room.
The butler claimed they were your doing.” Thankfully, he didn’t specifically
mention the one in his sitting room she’d dropped off the day before. “I am
impressed.”

“Lady Phillina enjoys the flowers. She’s been unable to
venture into the garden for some time.” Astra was not sure what to make of his compliment
and even more surprised that he even noticed her wild arrangements spilling
over Eastlan’s numerous urns. Was he trying to flatter her into submission, to
see if she was going to simply stand by and allow him to do whatever he felt
right?

“Lady Phillina is bedridden, isn’t she? I’ve yet to meet
her. Perhaps you could do the honors and make…the proper introductions.”

Her heart fell. Based on her own encounter with James, she
wondered if Lady Phillina would even survive meeting the new lord. She lifted
her chin, her intention to do her best to keep the two apart as long as
possible.

“I pray you don’t wish to send Lady Phillina away from the
home she has known for most of her adult life.” Astra’s stomach clenched with
the growing dread that his foray into the far reaches of the garden was by no
means an accident. Perhaps he’d sought her out to find out what might help him
in his own pursuits. “The dowager house has not been inhabited for the last two
generations. It’s in dire need of repair.”