Free Love's Promise by Cheryl Holt Page B

Michael was extremely stubborn, so he had to tread cautiously.
    “I can’t stand her,” Michael said resentfully.
    “So? What husband can stand his wife? Even the couples who start out cordial end up loathing each other. It’s the way of these things.”
    Michael scoffed with disgust. “You are such a cold-hearted bastard.”
    “Must I remind you that we need her money? We need it!”
    “Yes, we do.”
    Michael rose and poured himself another drink, then he went to the window and stared outside. He was pensive, weary, sipping his liquor, reviewing his options.
    “What happened while you were away?” the Duke pried. “Why has this arrangement suddenly become so unpalatable to you?”
    “She should have been John’s. He wanted her, but I don’t, and you’re trying to foist her off on me anyway. I can’t force myself to be glad about it—and I don’t care how accursedly rich she is.”
    “John couldn’t bear her,” the Duke said. “If he told you otherwise, he was lying.”
    The Duke was quiet, worried over what had occurred while Michael was in the country. Michael hadn’t been keen on the match, but he hadn’t been mortally opposed either. Something must have transpired to leave him so ambivalent.
    “Michael”—he spoke to his son’s stiff back—“you know you have to wed and sire an heir as quickly as you’re able. You know you have to. I allowed John to debate and delay, but I’m out of time. I don’t frivolously ask this of you.”
    Michael whipped around, his temper barely controlled. “I’m a grown man, Your Grace, and I am well aware of my duty. You don’t have to remind me of it.”
    “Well, you don’t act as if you remember. John’s been deceased for six bloody months already! How much longer will you dither? What if you’re killed in an accident tomorrow? What if you come down with the putrid sore throat and perish next week? What will we do?”
    “I’ll try my damnedest to stay alive,” Michael sneered.
    “Don’t be smart with me,” the Duke scolded. “I’m tired of this pointless and idiotic rumination. If you don’t want Rebecca, then who the hell do you want? Name another girl who’s suitable and available. Name her, and we’ll make an offer this afternoon.”
    He sat, drumming his fingers on the desktop. Waiting. Waiting.
    The moment spun on forever, the Duke on tenterhooks, and as Michael pondered his dwindling choices, he appeared very grim.
    “Fine,” he ultimately fumed, “I’ll marry her.”

CHAPTER SIX
    “I wondered when you’d be back.”
    Camilla studied Lord Henley with a jaundiced eye.
    When he’d shown up a few weeks earlier, she’d recognized him, and she’d been intrigued as to why he’d hidden his identity. She’d played along, being curious over his subterfuge and where it would lead. As she’d suspected, they’d finally come for Thomas.
    The Wainwrights—for all their money and pomp—were an infertile lot. The Duke had been married four times, but only his first wife had ever conceived. Of his three adult children, only John had sired a son. Thomas was worth his weight in gold.
    “May I sit, Miss Carrington?” His emotions were carefully masked, but he couldn’t completely conceal his distaste for the surroundings.
    “By all means.” She gestured to the chair opposite.
    “Is your sister here?”
    “No. She should be gone until supper.”
    “And Thomas?”
    “He’s out in the yard.”
    “Good. I don’t want him upset while we talk.”
    “I think I know your purpose, so I’ll be blunt.” She assessed him, calculating how many pounds he might be coerced into coughing up. “I’m open to any offer you’d like to extend, but I must advise you that my price will probably be much higher than you’ve estimated.”
    He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “My father, Duke of Clarendon, has instructed me to bring Thomas to London. To live with our family.”
    “Forever?”
    “Yes.”
    “What are the conditions?”
    “You’ll