Free The Wagered Miss Winslow by Kasey Michaels

of my enemy. But it is the most logical solution to our problem. Ours would be a marriage of convenience, a partnership born out of mutual love for this estate and a motive for rendering Niall Winslow toothless forevermore, as I am convinced that he has not made you comfortable with this odd division of ownership which you have shared for—what? Five years?”
    Rosalind bit her bottom lip, finding it difficult to deal with this sudden change from Irish brogue to precise, convincing English. “A marriage of convenience?”
    Beau hid a smile, a triumphant smile that would have lost him the work of a half hour and set back their negotiations for weeks. “Strictly platonic, Miss Winslow, as I believe the Greeks termed such arrangements. We don’t know each other, do we? I am not totally without scruples, even if I have been known to make a fortune or two at the gaming tables. You are a young woman of refinement and gentle tastes, I am sure, and I would rather give up my claim to this land than to frighten you with demands I would be a cad to make at this point in our acquaintance.”
    Rosalind’s chin began to wobble as tears threatened to engulf her. She had been alone since her father’s death, alone and sometimes lonely. Niall had been less than no help to her, draining money from the estate and steadfastly refusing to deed it over to her even though they both knew that her father had wished that he do just that.
    It wasn’t easy, running an estate, and although she loved it, there were times when she wished sne could run away to London for a while, mix with Society during the Season, renew old friendships that had drifted away as one by one her girlhood friends had married, borne children, and become involved in their own lives.
    Not that she spent her days repining for what she did not have. There was plenty for her to do at Winslow Manor besides the duties inherent in the daily running of the place. She had her reading, of course, and her painting, and, most recently, her research into the antiquities of Winchelsea. How she loved digging in the old ruins, discovering snippets of the everyday lives of the earlier inhabitants of the area, cataloging her findings, creating interesting histories for all she’d found. She even harbored hopes of one day publishing her writings.
    She couldn’t leave Winslow Manor. She just couldn’t. And she doubted that Beaumont Remington would be any more willing than she to turn his back and walk away from the home into which he had been born, only to have that same home gambled away without his consent or knowledge while he was still in his infancy.
    Oh, no. Not Beaumont Remington. Not this tall, strong, almost overpowering man who stood above her now, blocking out the sun, his presence taking possession of her house even before he had been on the premises above an hour. He was as determined, and as stubborn as she—possibly more so. He certainly was proving to be more inventive.
    Why, if she were to turn him down now, refuse his offer, he would probably pitch a soldier’s field tent in the east garden, just outside her window—as would be his right—and then greet her each morning with a cheerful wave and some ridiculous Irish greeting, wearing away at her until she ran, screaming, from the estate.
    Another thought struck her, stiffening her chin and her resolve. He had offered a strictly platonic relationship, a marriage of convenience. She couldn’t bring herself to believe his assertion that he had never planned to marry. Didn’t he wish for an heir? Had he gone to the trouble to wrest Winslow Manor from Niall only to let the Remington line die?
    Perhaps, contrary to what he’d told her, he had indeed planned to marry and have children—straight up until the moment he had felt he must barter away his proposed dynasty in order to secure the house as well as the estate. Or—even worse—was the thought of theirs ever being a marriage in deed as well as in name so repugnant