Free Lord Deverill's Secret by Amanda Grange

buying it,” he said, lurching towards her.
    She smelt the alcohol on his breath.
    “You must see my lawyer—”
    “Come now, no need for lawyers. Thought we could fix it up between the two of us. Just you and me. Thought I could come round and see it. I could come to night,” he said tapping his nose with his finger, or at least attempting to, for he was too drunk to accomplish the feat. “No one the wiser. Come when the servants are in bed. See the whole place. See the drawing-room. See the bedroom,” he leered.
    “Mr. Bradley, you’re drunk,” she said with a sigh.
    “Not too drunk to know a pretty girl when I see one,” he said, making a lunge for her. He snaked his arm round her waist and pressed his face close to hers. She turned away in disgust, unwrapping his arm as she did so.
    “No need to be like that. No shame in needing money. Well, I’ve—hic!—got it. You can name your price.”
    “The house will be offered—”
    “I’m not talking about the house. I’m talking about the house with you inside it.”
    “I don’t understand you,” she said, drawing herself up and hoping her cold tone would return him to his senses.
    “Oh, you understand me all right. I’ll set you up there as my…my mistress,” he said, swaying precariously. “You can have anything you want.” He waved his arms. “Anything. Pair of matched bays. Four matched bays. Six matched bays,” he said expansively, almost toppling over. “A carriage. Fine clothes. All the clothes you want.”
    “Mr. Bradley, I’m going back to the drawing-room now,” she said firmly.
    “What about a little kiss?” he said, leaning towards her.
    “Absolutely not,” she said.
    His face became belligerent, and for the first time in the encounter she began to feel uneasy. His ridiculousness was fast wearing off, to be replaced by something uglier. She was not ignorant of drunkards and their moods and she could sense something menacing behind Mr. Bradley’s manner. She edged round him, hoping to get past him and go through into the drawing-room, for she felt it was time to bring the episode to a speedy end. But he moved surprisingly quickly and he cut her off.
    “Just a li’le kiss,” he said.
    Cassandra edged over to a pot which was displayed on a console table and contained a small palm. It would be very useful for crashing down on Mr. Bradley’s head. But before she could reach it he flung his arms round her and they closed round her with surprising strength. He thrust his face into her own and fastened his lips on hers. She turned her head and fought him off. Breaking free, she ran to the door, but he reached it before her and slammed it shut. His face broke into a leer. He rubbed his hands together.
    “A bit of a—hic!—game.”
    Unable to get past him she made for the pot, grasping it firmly in both hands and lifting it over her head. She was just wondering whether she should go towards Mr. Bradley menacingly or hope her actions would warn him to stay away when the door opened, knocking Mr. Bradley off balance, and glancing towards it she saw Lord Deverill.
    “What the devil’s going on here?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow. But beneath his light tone there was a note of steel.
    “Mind your own damn business,” said Mr. Bradley. “Miss Paxton and I were just having a bit of fun. You’re not welcome here, Deverill.”
    “A pity,” he drawled, “because I’ve a mind to stay.”
    Mr. Bradley lunged at him but he stepped aside and then, seizing a vase of flowers, he removed the flowers and flung the water in Mr. Bradley’s face.
    Mr. Bradley started backwards, rubbing the water out of his eyes.
    “You bloody—”
    He started to advance on Lord Deverill, who raised one eyebrow. Mr. Bradley hesitated.
    “I think you owe Miss Paxton an apology,” said Lord Deverill.
    “What for?” asked Mr. Bradley belligerently.
    “For insulting her.”
    “Never did anything of the kind,” muttered Mr. Bradley