CHAPTER TEN

 

E. Forrest Wainright straightened the knot of his cravat and cursed as he brushed the flecks of dandruff off the stark blackness of his frockcoat. He could scarcely believe he had heard his houseman correctly: Amanda Courtland Jackson was requesting an audience with him and was waiting in his parlor this very moment.

The name, when Bentick had first said it, had sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine. That had been half an hour ago and while the initial shock had passed, the pleasure had not. It had grown proportionately with each minute he delayed, each step of his personal toilet he prolonged in order to organize his thoughts and—perhaps—unsettle hers.

He did not want to appear to be either eager or expectant. Curious, yes, for she should surly have known her appearance here, without a chaperone, on a bright church-going Sunday morning would rouse nothing less. No doubt she had been sent by that arrogant, upstart brother of hers to plead yet again for more time. If that was the case, she would be sorely disappointed, for he had about expended his patience with the Courtland family. All of them. He had offered to buy the land outright and the offer had been thrown back in his face. He had made a sincerely genuine offer of marriage and that too had been slapped back in his face. If she had come to beg, he would let her. It would, in fact, give him the greatest pleasure on earth to see her humble and meek, her hands clasped in supplication, her eyes filled with tears. Perhaps he would even test her, see how far she was prepared to prostrate herself in order to save her precious brother’s pride.

Wainright cast a critical eye in the mirror, tipping his head this way and that, and smoothed an errant lock of copper-colored hair over his ear.

He had come a long way in the last seven years. Enlisting in the Army had probably been the smartest thing he had ever done, for when they had discovered his talents for scrounging, bartering, and outright stealing supplies and munitions for his outfit, he had been transferred into the quartermaster corps—a veritable gold mine of goods he had sold for ten times, fifty times its worth on the black market.

He had come out of the war a rich, rich man and had come South with the rest of the insightful investors, knowing the devastated towns would need supplies to rebuild, and suspecting the shattered Southern aristocracy would be hungry to buy goods and luxuries that had been denied them during the long years of blockades. Wainright now owned four sizable plantations, several businesses, and held solid investments in shipping and banking. He had initially wanted Rosalie for both its prestige and location, although the latter had lost some of its appeal lately, what with the extensive flooding and damage to the crops. He might even have walked away from it, turned his eye to some other plum prospect, had the Courtlands not risen above the normal level of arrogance he had encountered, spitting at his offers, laughing in his face!

No one spat at E. Forrest Wainright. No one laughed in his face. No one bested him at his own game, and no one—no one humiliated him and walked away unscathed. He was determined to have Rosalie now if only to let it stand empty and rot to the bare floors.

He would see Amanda Jackson. He would hear her out, nod in sympathy, commiserate with her tales of woe and tragedy. In the end, however, he would slap her down as coldly, as cruelly, as thoughtlessly as she had rebuked him.

It was a shame, really, for they would have made a magnificent couple. Her beauty, her elegance, her refinement would have removed the taint of cheap speculator from his profile. With her by his side, he would have been invited, no, welcomed into the best homes in Natchez. With a beautiful Southern wife on his arm, he might have aspired to the governor’s office, or even higher, attaining heights of power and influence that made him dizzy just to think about it.

He could have had the other one—the sister—for a song. But then so could every other warm-blooded stud in trousers. He had gone that route once, falling for a whore who opened her thighs to any man who waved a coin. He didn’t mind using whores, he just had no desire to be married to one. The lovely Widow Jackson, on the other hand, was a lady. She would have brought out the best in him, he had no doubt, and helped rid him of the taint of his northern roots.

He swelled his lungs with a final deep breath and strode out of his dressing room, glancing at the imported Louis XIV canopy bed as he walked past.

“This shouldn’t take too long, my dear,” he said. “You will strive to keep everything warm for me?”

The woman blew a kiss and stretched, the motion causing both breasts to rise free of the sheets. Wainright returned the smile and closed the bedroom door behind him, making a mental note to bring a bottle of champagne back with him.

The sound of his boots descending the uncarpeted stairs kept the thin smile on his lips. A drum could not have produced a louder echo in the vaulted, paneled hallway, and he hoped Amanda was listening, losing her concentration on whatever little speech she had had prepared. He could imagine the agony of fear clouding her face, the pale delicate hands twisting in dread, the blue eyes rounded and staring at the twin mahogany doors, waiting …

He paused a moment to set his expression into one of grim forbearance and pushed the doors open before him.

Amanda was standing in front of the circular window, watching the carriage traffic pass by out in the street. The light was behind her, blooming soft and golden, turning her hair into spun silk and her profile into an artist’s envy. She looked amazingly calm. In fact, she looked as if his sudden appearance was as much of an intrusion as Bentick’s knock had been on the bedroom door earlier.

“Mrs. Jackson? I trust you will be neither offended nor surprised if I say that of all the people I might have expected to see on a such a glorious Sunday morning, you were well down from the top of the list.”

“In that case, I hope I am not disturbing you. The list must be very long indeed.”

Wainright smiled tightly as he closed the parlor doors behind him. “Your sister’s wedding went well, I hear?”

“As well as she expected.”

“She is happy?”

“I presume so.”

“And the groom?”

The false pleasantries were grating, and, she suspected, amusing him no end. “Deliriously so.”

Wainright saw her annoyance and crossed to the sideboard. He took the stopper out of a decanter of brandy and poured himself a small glass.

“May I offer you something? Tea? Coffee? A little wine, perhaps?”

“No, thank you. My business will not take long and I have several errands to run before returning home.”

“Business? How intriguing,” he said coldly. “After our last meeting, I assumed you had nothing more to say to me. You and your brother were most insistent, in fact.”

“Ryan has been under a great deal of pressure lately. I … did not even tell him I was coming here today; he probably would have stopped me.”

Wainright lifted his glass and sipped. So, the brother didn’t know she was here. Did anyone know she was here, dressed in what was probably her best frock—the lavender muslin he had so admired on his visit to Rosalie—putting herself in the lion’s den with only her own misguided expectations of Southern chivalry to protect her?

He laughed softly and took another sip of brandy. “I should warn you, Mrs. Jackson, if you’ve come to plead your brother’s case before me—”

“I haven’t come to plead,” she insisted calmly. “And believe me, if there was any other way out of the dilemma we find ourselves in, I would not be here at all.”

Wainright lounged against the edge of a writing table inlaid with gold marquetry and crossed his arms over his chest. “So why are you here, Mrs. Jackson? I confess, you have me intrigued.”

Amanda showed the first small fault in her composure as she ran the tip of her tongue across her lips. “I have come— assuming you are still interested—to accept the terms of your offer.”

“Offer?” Wainright’s bewilderment was genuine. He had made no offers aside from the purchase of Rosalie, which she would not be empowered to accept one way or the other, or …

The glittering hazel eyes widened and despite himself, he stiffened in surprise. “Are you referring to … the offer of matrimony?”

Amanda returned his gaze steadfastly. “Yes. I am.”

“You wish to become my wife?”

“No. I do not wish to become your wife, sir. I merely find I have no other alternative but to do so.”

“How flattering,” he mused.

“But honest. If I had answered any other way, would you have believed me?”

He stared at her thoughtfully for a long moment. “No. Probably not. At the same time, I would want an equally candid answer if I asked what you would expect in exchange? If there were any conditions, verbal or … physical in nature?”

Amanda met his gaze steadfastly. “If I married you, sir, I would agree to comply with whatever would be expected of me as your wife.”

“And in exchange?”

“In exchange, I ask only that you allow Ryan the time he needs to repay the loan on Rosalie.”

“In other words,” he said quietly, “exactly what I offered you before.”

“Yes,” she agreed hesitantly.

“When you slapped me in the face for my impudence.”

Amanda’s gaze did not waver or falter. The only sign of the extreme stress she was feeling was the thin blue vein that beat so rapidly in her temple, it appeared to keep the surrounding flesh as drained and pale as wax.

“What makes you think I would still want you, Mrs. Jackson?” he asked, his voice a low and ominous throb in the silence. “And if I did, what makes you think I would take you on the same terms?”

She returned his stare without answering, without moving, and he knew she had come to him fully prepared for his sarcasm, his anger, his contempt. It was a gift, he thought with a kind of wonder. A gift he could take and use whenever he wanted or needed to remind her of his generosity, his forgiving nature, his complete and utter possession of her.

Wainright tipped his glass to his lips and tossed back the entire contents in a hard swallow. Keeping his eyes on Amanda, he went over to the sideboard again and poured himself another drink.

“What about your hot-headed brother? What is to keep him from shooting me out of hand before we ever make it to an altar?”

“He mustn’t know. Not until it’s too late to do anything about it.”

His eyebrows shot up at that. A furtive, late-night ride to a preacher’s doorstep was not exactly what he had had in mind as a way of establishing himself as a respectable member of the community. “Are you suggesting … an elopement?”

“I couldn’t guarantee your safety any other way,” she said matter-of-factly. “But if you would prefer to stand in an open churchyard …?”

He laughed and held up a hand. “No. No, an elopement is fine. Romantic, even. It’s just that I was under the impression most brides craved the pomp, the ceremony, the opportunity to show themselves off to the world. Especially,” he added softly, “if they were marrying someone who would relish the opportunity to do a little bragging and boasting himself.”

The thought of Alisha’s extravagances brought a hint of color into Amanda’s cheeks, and she lowered her eyes for the first time.

“I would be content with a simple exchange of vows,” she said. “The rest … does not interest me.”

Wainright set his glass down with more care than the act required. He went over to where she stood and waited until she raised her eyes to his again.

“I have already told you,” he murmured, “I want someone by my side who will make me the envy of Mississippi. I want a wife I can lavish with jewels and spoil with furs and silks and gold pins for her hair. And I will be utterly, absolutely honest with you when I say I want a wife who will stand by my side, wherever that might be, whether it is here, the county seat, or the governor’s mansion—and be able to convince everyone who sees her that she is more than just content to be there.”

Amanda’s heartbeat slowed noticeably. It thudded in her chest like a fist, reminding her why she was here, what she had to do to ensure the safety and future happiness of her family. Her own didn’t matter. She was desperate and she was sick at heart, but she would do almost anything at this point, agree to almost anything in order to protect Sarah and William, Ryan and Dianna, and most of all, Verity. She would still have to deal with Michael Tarrington and find some way to appease his thwarted vanity, but there again, if she was married to Forrest Wainright, she would be buying herself a measure of protection. From what she already knew about Wainright, he would be a dangerous man to challenge.

All of this went through her mind between one heartbeat and the next. None of it showed in her eyes, which were round and clear and luminous with her resolve. None of it showed in her manner either, which was suddenly imbued with all of the sensual innuendo that had brought men to their knees in her guise as Montana Rose.

“I will be more than content,” she promised, the movement of her lips dragging his focus and his concentration downward. “If you take me for your wife, Mr. Wainright, and fulfill your part of the bargain, I will do everything in my power—verbally and physically—to ensure you do not regret your decision for a single moment.”

Wainright found his mouth suddenly too dry to form an answer right away. All of his cocky plans to leave her groveling and humiliated vanished with the thought of those lips soft and pliant beneath his, those eyes jewel-bright with her determination to please him.

“When?” he asked huskily. “And where?”

Amanda’s mind raced ahead. Tomorrow was impossible with Tarrington coming to dinner, but if she waited too much longer, she might find a thousand reasons not to go through with it.

“Wednesday night. After dark.”

He nodded. “I will bring a carriage to the foot of the avenue at Rosalie. Shall we say midnight?”

“Midnight,” she agreed. “I’ll be there.”

“Alone,” he insisted. Seeing the quick narrowing of her eyes, he added, “It is little enough to ask that we have a day or two on our own—to become better acquainted—without the distracting needs of a child to tend to.”

She hadn’t considered … hadn’t even thought of the likelihood of having to leave Verity behind for any length of time, however short.

“Rest assured, Amanda—I may call you Amanda now, may I not?—rest assured I am quite fond of children. Other people’s children up to now, of course, but hopefully, in time, that too will change.”

Amanda felt her knees begin to buckle. She certainly hadn’t given any thought to children, and the notion of bearing a child with carrot-red hair and brown eyes made her stomach rise precariously high in her throat.

“I—I should go now,” she stammered. “I will be missed.”

He raised a hand and brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheek. Her eyes flickered for a moment, but she did not pull back, not even when he cupped his hand under her chin and angled her face up to his.

“In most business ventures, things that come with a high price tag are usually sampled first, just to prove to the prospective buyer he isn’t being sold a bill of goods without substance … or potential.”

When she neither balked nor made any attempt to prevent him from doing so, he bent his lips to hers, taking them lightly at first, wary of any delayed sense of propriety or indignation. They were cool—a little stiff, he thought, with just enough of a tremor to guard against any further intimacy.

He did not press his intentions, although there was a definite stirring of interest to know what she would have done had he insisted on more. After Wednesday, there would be plenty of time to test the strength of the earnest promises she had made. After midnight Wednesday, she had best not deny him anything, or she would find out the true meaning of humility.