Improperly Wed (6 page)

B
elinda glanced around the elegantly appointed Mayfair town house. Her visit was like her last…with one important difference.

The town house no longer belonged to the Wentworths, as it had for generations, but was merely on loan. Despite the illusion of permanence afforded by the decor of family antiques, everything was ephemeral.

Her uncle continued to reside here at the Marquess of Easterbridge's pleasure. Uncle Hugh could have the heirloom Persian rug pulled out from under him at any moment.

“Tell me it isn't true.”

She said the words without preamble after appearing unannounced in the library. She knew this conversation was too important to have over the phone. She'd arranged a flight to London as soon as she could, right after flying back to New York from Vegas without making any progress on an annulment.

Uncle Hugh regarded her from behind his desk. “Whatever are you talking about, my dear?” He shook his head. “I didn't even know you were in London. You do lead the peripatetic existence these days, don't you?”

“I just arrived this morning.” Belinda glanced around her. “Tell me you did not sell this house.”

After a moment, Uncle Hugh visibly crumbled. “How did you find out?”

“Does it matter?” she responded.

After she'd taken off from the hacienda, she'd considered that Colin might call her uncle himself to mention their meeting in Vegas and to reveal himself as the cloaked buyer. She'd dreaded that he'd go public with the news. But judging from her uncle's reaction, he hadn't done anything—so far.

Upon reflection, she realized that she should have known Colin would leave it to her to make the shocking revelation to her uncle that his buyer was the Marquess of Easterbridge.
Of course.

Still, she wondered what it signified. Did Colin intend to derive every satisfaction from vanquishing her uncle, including having Belinda confront her relative, or did he think it was more merciful for her to deliver the news rather than for him to reveal it himself?

“I was assured of discretion,” Uncle Hugh said, his tone defensive. “I am continuing to live here and at the estate in Berkshire, and nobody needs to be the wiser about the change in ownership.”

Belinda looked at him with a sinking heart. “Assured of discretion for how long and by whom? The Russian billionaire to whom you thought you sold the property for investment purposes?”

Uncle Hugh nodded. “The agreement was for me to
continue to live here for years.” He paused. “How did you find out? If you know, then—”

“You fell into a trap. A layer of corporate entities obscured his identity, but the buyer is none other than the Marquess of Easterbridge.”

Uncle Hugh looked flabbergasted and then bowed his head and clasped his forehead with his hand.

“Why didn't you tell me the family finances were so dire?” Belinda demanded.

“There's nothing you could have done.”

“How did we reach this pass?”

She had a right to know, especially since she was on the spot for getting them out of this quagmire. At least, the smaller of the Berkshire estates remained in Wentworth hands, so her family would never be completely without a home, but their identity was tied up in the properties that they no longer owned.

Her uncle glanced up and shook his head, his look beseeching. “Our financial investments have not done well in the past few years. There are also family members with significant allowances. Your mother…”

Neither of them needed to say more. Belinda was well aware of her mother's lavish lifestyle. She made no mention, however, of Uncle Hugh's own expensive tastes. Of course, her uncle would not view them as such. After all, what was the cost of a bespoke suit to one who had worn them for all his adult life?

As for herself, Belinda supplemented her modest salary at Lansing's with a small trust fund that her grandparents and father had left her, so she had not needed to draw an allowance. If she had known the specifics, however, she would have gladly turned over her trust fund to save the family ship from sinking. At the same time, she doubted
it would have done much good aside from buying them a small amount of time.

Belinda studied her uncle. He'd always loomed large in her life—someone to look up to. She'd grown up under his roof. But now he appeared diminished by more than merely his years. The shoe was on the other foot now, and Belinda felt uncomfortably like she was chastising a child.

Uncle Hugh bent his head. “It's all ruined.”

“Not quite.”

She knew what ruin felt like—her wedding day had been a disaster—so her heart went out to her uncle. At the same time, she stopped herself from pointing out that while she had been castigated for marrying a Granville, Uncle Hugh had sold the family estates to one, albeit inadvertently. Who had committed the greater transgression?

Her uncle glanced up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Colin is reluctant to grant me a divorce, though he ultimately may not have a choice.” Nothing was ever quite as lost as one believed, she was discovering.

Uncle Hugh brightened. “We may have some leverage.”

“I knew you'd think so,” she commented drily.

“Yes, yes.” Her uncle looked more animated by the second. “You must stay married to him.”

Belinda bit her lip. Stay married to Colin? She'd avoided dwelling on the possibility since leaving Vegas.

Uncle Hugh sat up straighter. “Tell him that you'll stay married on condition of his signing over the properties to you.”

“What?” she asked, sliding into a seat because she didn't like the direction this conversation was taking. “What possible motivation would he have for doing so? He'd likely think I'd divorce him as soon as I had the deeds to the properties, and he'd be right!”

“Then negotiate,” her uncle replied, setting his hands on his desk. “Have him turn over the properties one by one.”

Belinda's stomach felt as if it were a roller coaster. “A postnuptial agreement?”

“Exactly.” Her uncle nodded. “It's done all the time.”

Belinda worried her lip. Why was it up to her to save the family fortunes?

Colin was right—this
was
her chance to be the rebel and the dutiful child all at once. But she never would have dreamed that Uncle Hugh would latch on to the idea with such enthusiasm. This is the most her family had ever asked of her. It was all preposterous and outrageous. Yet she found herself considering it.

“Why would Colin want to stay married to me?” she rejoined.

Her uncle looked at her keenly. “Now there's a question for the marquess. You're an attractive girl. And perhaps he wants to save face with society. After all, you did almost marry another man while you remained his wife. If you and the marquess live as man and wife for a period of time, it'll stamp out the taint.”

Belinda felt her shoulders slump. She didn't believe Colin cared a fig about society—after all,
he
was the one who had generated a scandal by interrupting her wedding. But soothing the blow to his pride? Yes,
that
she could believe. She had rejected Colin after their Vegas wedding. She'd fled, fearful of what she'd done, and had beat a hasty retreat down the reckless path she'd traveled in one night.

If she had instigated Colin's drive for revenge, wasn't she responsible for rectifying the fallout?

The thought swept through Belinda's mind. Her world
was no longer a neat painting but one streaked with bold and unexpected new colors.

She was no longer faced with the relatively simple matter of dissolving her marriage to Colin. The Wentworth heritage was in Granville hands. And the responsible streak in her wouldn't let her walk away without making an effort to save it, especially if she'd had a hand in bringing about the current situation.

Still, even if she was responsible, could she play a high-stakes game with a seasoned gambler?

Her cell phone buzzed, interrupting her thoughts, and she fished it out of her handbag to glance down at a text message.

Meet @ Halstead—DH

Belinda's mind churned. The message could be interpreted as a summons, a request or a question. Halstead Hall was the family seat in Berkshire of the Marquess of Easterbridge. Though Belinda didn't recognize the phone number, there was no mistaking whom the text was from. Colin had cleverly signed himself as
DH—darling husband
in text parlance.

There was one way to find out the answer to the question of whether she was up to the task of saving the Wentworth family fortune.

Her campaign would be if not exactly snatching victory from the jaws of disaster then at least surviving to fight another day.

 

“I'll remain married to you.”

Belinda felt like a defeated army general being summoned for the signing of a peace treaty, all of whose terms had been dictated by the other side. Her job was to salvage what she could.

In a nod to the nippy March weather, her armor was a cowl-neck sweaterdress and knee-high boots.

Colin stood beside the fireplace in a drawing room of Halstead Hall. He wore a knit pullover over wool trousers—typical English country-gentleman attire.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I have certain conditions, however,” she said from a few feet away, having declined a seat.

She tried not to look around, because she feared she might be daunted. She'd never been inside Halstead Hall before, but of course she was familiar with the house and surrounding estate. Together they formed a Berkshire landmark, and she'd grown up literally next door.

The house was an immense monolith with a beauty all its own. It had been started in the sixteenth century and added onto ever since. There were enough turrets, arched entries and paned windows to impress the most discerning
cognoscenti,
let alone the typical tourist.

Belinda had found it almost comical to be greeted at the door by the housekeeper and addressed as Lady Granville. Obviously, Colin had informed his staff about what to expect after she'd texted him back and accepted his invitation to meet—or perhaps, more accurately, set down arms—at Halstead Hall. To her credit, the housekeeper had acted as if Belinda's arrival at the front door was already an everyday occurrence.

Belinda knew she had taken on quite a bit by meeting Easterbridge in his bastion. But if nothing else, their recent encounters had shown her that negotiations would take place on his terms. The ball was, quite literally, in his court.

If the outside of Halstead Hall was an impressive testament to centuries of wealth and power, then the inside
bore witness to the current occupant's money and prestige. Everything had been updated for modern comfort but was still in keeping with the house's history and majesty. The whole vast interior had central heat, twenty-first century plumbing and insulation and barely a creaky floorboard.

There were finely wrought plaster ceilings, and antique furniture and marble busts. She recognized paintings from Rubens and Gainsborough, among others.

It was all in depressing contrast to the Wentworth properties. She'd grown up with her great-grandmother's Victorian china, but not wealth of the caliber that existed at Halstead Hall. She knew that Downlands needed a long-overdue modernization of its plumbing and heating, and the Mayfair town house required a new roof.

“Of course you have conditions,” Colin said smoothly. “Would one of those be having a wedding ceremony that does not involve a Vegas chapel?”

“No, definitely not.” She didn't appreciate his sardonic humor. It was bad enough that she had come back to him with proverbial hat in hand. “I said I'd stay married to you—not that I'd marry you again.”

She'd already survived an elopement and a wedding. She didn't want to push her luck. Because let's face it, she and the altar had a love-hate relationship.

His reaction wasn't what she'd anticipated. It was cool and calculating, despite a certain intensity in his gaze.

“There's a difference?” he asked mockingly.

“Of course,” she replied. “Can you imagine what our two families would do if they had to sit across a church aisle from each other?”

“Make peace and attribute it to divine intervention?” he quipped.

“Quite the opposite, I'm sure.”

“It might make for a good show.”

“I'd rather take my chances with an Elvis impersonator.”

“You almost did.”

“Don't remind me.” She'd declined—just barely—the offer of an Elvis wannabe to witness her elopement.

“So what are your conditions?”

“I want you to sign over the Wentworth properties to my name.”

“Ah.” Colin's eyes gleamed, as if he'd been expecting her demand.

Belinda raised her chin. “It's a fair bargain. After all, they are what is keeping this marriage alive.”

Colin tilted his head. “Considering how weak your bargaining position is, it's an impressive demand. After all, your only bargaining chip is to threaten to dissolve our marriage, but then you wouldn't necessarily wind up with the Wentworth estates anyway.”

Belinda felt her face heat but stood her ground.

She'd learned a few things during her years as an art specialist. One of them was to start bargaining by asking for more than one could possibly hope to get. It was up to him to make a counteroffer.

“And more than that,” Colin continued, “what assurance do I receive that you won't go running off to Vegas for a dissolution the moment that I do sign the properties over to you?”

“You have my pledge.”

Colin laughed. “You're delectable, but you are a Wentworth.”

Belinda ignored how her pulse skittered and skated over the word
delectable.
“And you're a Granville.”

“It does come down to that, doesn't it?”