Betsy was disappointed to find Michael absent from the breakfast room the next morning. Maggie was there however, and wearing a cheeky grin.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” Maggie greeted Betsy.
“Good morning,” Betsy returned with a small smile. Just what was her sister about?
Betsy crossed to the sideboard and served herself a small portion of eggs and bacon. Settling herself across the table from Maggie, Betsy inquired after her parents.
“They’ve already eaten,” Maggie informed her.
Relief washed over her.
“What are you about this day?” Maggie asked her.
“When I awoke, I had thought to go riding,” Betsy answered, downhearted. “But I’ve since changed my mind.”
Maggie nodded. “Why don’t we retire to the parlor after breakfast to see to our needlework?”
Betsy agreed, happy for the diversion. Her appetite returning, she ate her meal and followed her sister into the parlor.
Mary joined them there, ready to try her hand at some new stitches Betsy had shown her. She was nearly thirteen years old and greatly resembled both her sisters, possessing both Maggie’s golden hair and Betsy’s big blue eyes. She affected a ladylike pose and settled herself on a settee by the window, her needlework in her lap.
“Mother says Lord Templeton will be here tomorrow,” Mary said offhandedly.
Her sisters exchanged a worried glance. Betsy flushed at the suspicion in Maggie’s eyes and lowered her own.
“That will be most pleasant, won’t it Betsy?” Maggie asked.
“Yes,” Betsy said, her eyes still on the square of linen in her lap.
“He’s too old,” Mary stated.
Betsy raised her head and stared at her little sister. “Why do you say that, Mary?”
“He’s nearly Father’s age, Betsy,” Mary said as if she were simple. “I wouldn’t want a husband so old.”
Betsy swallowed her own opinion. Her thoughts weren’t on Lord Templeton for very long, however. She recalled all that had transpired the previous evening, of Michael’s passion that was evident in both his embrace and his words. A warm flush spread through her as her lips curved into a small smile. She finally looked up, her eyes widening as she recognized Maggie’s renewed interest in her.
“Betsy,” Maggie whispered, her eyes sparkling. “What’s going on?”
Betsy quickly shook her head, most relieved as Maggie took her cue and changed the subject. Betsy was grateful for Mary’s presence. No doubt Maggie would have pressed her until she admitted she had strong feelings for Michael.
Thankfully the morning passed in a pleasant fashion, the three sisters chatting amiably about the weather and the like. Mary demanded they tell her all about the races, as she was too young to accompany them. She complained for what must have been the hundredth time about spending all her time upstairs in the nursery.
“But I’m vastly relieved to know you are abovestairs with Cecilia and Alexander,” Maggie put in, referring to her adorable children.
Mary and Betsy shared a smile then. Cecilia, at age eight, was every bit as obstinate and willful as the other Bridgewater women. Philip indulged her, of course, and she was a handful. Alexander was three years old and the very picture of his father. He was already showing Philip’s penchant for getting into mischief as well.
Mary shrugged “I do feel very grown up with those two to look after.”
Betsy laughed, dropping a complicated stitch on which she was working. As she pulled on the threads, her head down, Mary stared out the window.
“Ooh, there is Lord Balsam!” the girl cried. “My, he’s handsome.”
Betsy started, pricking her finger with the needle. She yelped in surprise, putting the finger in her mouth to soothe the injury.
“He’s the man Betsy should marry,” Mary said.
Betsy shifted nervously in her seat. Maggie must have seen her distress.
“Now, Mary,” Maggie said, clicking her tongue. “You’re far from knowledgeable of such things.”
Mary squared her shoulders. “Maggie, I’ve seen Betsy with him when they go riding. He likes her very much.”
Betsy’s heart gave a tiny flutter. “Mary,” Betsy began, struggling to keep her voice even. “What makes you think so?”
“He stares at you, Betsy,” Mary said. “His eyes get all sparkly like Philip’s do when he looks at Maggie.”
Maggie laughed gaily and Betsy’s flush deepened, but she couldn’t keep a smile from curving her lips. She shook her head at Mary, who had already returned her attention to the needlework in her lap. Maggie smiled widely at her sister, biting back her laughter at last.
Soon it was time for Mary’s lessons with her tutor, and she left Maggie and Betsy to their own company. Betsy took their seclusion as an opportunity to learn more of Michael.
“Maggie,” Betsy began in what she believed was an offhanded manner. “What do you know of Lord Balsam?”
“I know he’s very gifted with horses,” Maggie said. “Philip was most pleased he agreed to work with him. Their partnership promises to be most advantageous.”
“But, why would one titled gentleman work for another?”
Maggie set her work aside and folded her hands in her lap.
“I believe Lord Balsam has had a bit of difficulty since his father passed away last year. There was something of a missing fortune, perhaps? Philip isn’t sure of the particulars himself.”
“But, his title, his estate. What of those?”
“They remain intact,” Maggie answered.
“How confounding.” Betsy clicked her tongue. “Poor Michael.”
Maggie arched a brow at her familiar use of his given name.
“Betsy, are you in love with him?”
Betsy gasped. “I’m betrothed to another.”
“I don’t believe that matters,” Maggie said simply. “It’s obvious you have feelings for Lord Balsam.”
Betsy shook her head, but found she couldn’t keep up the pretense in front of her sister. She gave a tiny nod.
“I do, Maggie” she admitted in a whisper, wringing her hands. “Oh, what am I going to do?”
Maggie looked quickly to the doorway to ascertain that Betsy’s mother wasn’t about. Apparently satisfied, she leaned toward Betsy.
“Tell him how you feel,” she said softly. “I believe he cares for you.”
Betsy shook her head. “I can’t,” she stated. “I mustn’t permit myself to feel such things.”
“What things?”
“Passion,” Betsy whispered.
Maggie blinked. “Why not?”
“It’s wrong.”
“Betsy.” Maggie took her hand in hers. “What you feel, what your body and your mind is telling you.”
“I know, I know,” Betsy cut in. “What my body wants and what my mind wants can be two different things.”
“Who told you that?”
“Michael,” Betsy said. “He was simply trying to make me feel better, but I know I’m wicked.”
“You’re not,” Maggie said firmly. “Don’t say such things.”
Betsy sniffled and wiped away her tears.
Betsy held up a hand. She couldn’t talk about this any longer. “I will put aside my feelings for Michael and concentrate on readying for Lord Templeton’s arrival.”
Maggie studied her, her brow knit. Then she seemed to bow to Betsy’s wishes. They continued on their tasks in uncomfortable silence.
***
Michael sat in his office behind the tack room that afternoon, brooding. He’d thought long and hard that morning about Betsy and his growing feelings for her. He knew she was merely fond of that old man to whom she was engaged, but that did little to change the fact she belonged to him, not Michael.
He raked his fingers through his hair, once more puzzling over his financial situation. He’d been satisfied when Gusty had placed at the Derby, and doubly pleased when she won at Ascot. His share of the combined purses allowed him to send quite a lot of money to his solicitors. The repairs to Balsam Manor were still a concern, but he pushed the thought of them from his mind. He had but one concern at present: winning Betsy from the Right Honorable Earl of Templeton. His finances were far from adequate to make an offer for her himself.
A flash of blue drew his attention to the office doorway. There stood Betsy, her hands wrapped around the handle of a basket. He couldn’t help but smile at the pretty picture she made in her light blue day dress. Her hair was upswept but loose curls framed her beautiful face.
“Betsy.” He came to his feet. “To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”
Betsy blushed prettily, lifting the basket. “You missed the nooning meal, Michael,” she said. “I thought you might be hungry, so I had Cook prepare a basket.”
“I could eat something,” he said with a nod.
Betsy crossed to the desk and rested the basket there. At her insistence, he sat behind the desk once more. She withdrew from the basket an assortment of cold meats, cheeses, and summer fruits. A loaf of crusty bread rounded out the meal. Although he hadn’t realized he missed luncheon, he was suddenly ravenous. He set upon the bounty with relish, consuming a fair amount before returning his attention to the lovely girl perched daintily on the small chair opposite.
He leaned back in his chair and smiled, patting his stomach. “That was a wonderful repast, love.”
She’d obviously caught the endearment, but he wouldn’t take it back. She was a love. Tempting but sweet. She offered him some grapes from the basket. He popped a few into his mouth and chewed.
“Aren’t you eating?” he asked.
“I’ve eaten.”
“You must try these grapes.” He stood and leaned across the desk to bring one to her lips. “They’re very sweet.”
She opened her mouth to him. He rubbed the fruit over the curve of her lower lip before popping it into her mouth. She closed her eyes for a moment and chewed.
“Sweet,” she agreed softly.
He stared at her lips for a long moment. He couldn’t resist. He skirted the desk and brought his mouth to hers, tracing his tongue over her lips. Betsy parted her lips to him. At her soft welcome, he pulled back quickly, letting out a sigh. She blinked up at him, apparently startled.
“Sorry,” he said.
Betsy averted her eyes and busied herself in packing up his leavings. When she was finished with her fidgeting, she set the basket aside and leaned against the desk. “Where do you live, Michael? When you’re not here at Bridgewater?”
It wasn’t an unusual question, but he did wonder what she might be about.
“My estate is situated in Cornwall.”
“Cornwall!” Betsy clasped her hands. “Cornwall is just lovely. So wild and beautiful.”
He smiled at that. “Yes. I daresay you would fit in quite well there.”
“Oh, I would so love to ride along the cliffs.”
“Balsam Manor is quite close to them,” he told her. “And nearly as ancient.”
“Truly?”
He nodded. “The manor was built more than three centuries ago,” he went on. “It has stone parapets and battlements, a large courtyard and an even larger great room. It’s quite the medieval castle.”
“Hmm. Is there some problem with your family fortune?”
He started. “My father left a bit of unfinished business behind him.”
“Yes,” Betsy nodded. “The mystery.”
“What mystery?”
“Maggie told me of the strange circumstances that took your fortune but left your title and estate intact.”
His belly clenched. Why was Betsy was so interested in his estate? He wouldn’t speak of it. Not to her. He took a deep breath to calm himself before responding.
“That’s no concern of yours,” he bit out. “Pray, refrain from commenting on it in the future.”
“But, surely there must be something that can be done.”
“Do you think I haven’t done everything I could?” he challenged, coming swiftly to his feet. “Do you think me a fool?”
“No,” she answered, backing away from him. “I merely thought if we put our heads together perhaps we—”
“We?” he cut in, his lip curled. “What on earth could a spoiled little girl like you do to help me?”
Betsy held her hands in fists at her side as she glared up at him. “How dare you speak to me so. I am not spoiled!”
“Aren’t you?” he asked, towering over her. “Surely your main concern is a man’s fortune and what it could buy you.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then what reason would you give for selling yourself to a man more than twice your age?”
She raised her hand and delivered a stinging slap to his cheek. Michael brought his hand to his cheek.
“That was uncalled-for,” he said evenly. “I merely spoke the truth.”
Betsy fairly shook with her anger. “The truth as you see it,” she said, her voice low.
He raked his eyes over her.
“Tell me, then,” he said. “Tell me why you would consider shackling yourself to that old man when it is most obvious you wish to gift me with that luscious little body of yours.”
When she raised her hand once more, Michael reached out and deftly grasped her wrist. He brought his face close to hers.
“I think not,” he warned in a growl.
Betsy’s breath came fast as she fought to free her arm from the iron grip of his hand. She trembled. He sensed the change in her from anger to fear and he released her.
“My God,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Betsy.”
Betsy shook her head frantically and backed away from him. He quickly closed the gap between them and gently cupped her face with both hands.
“Forgive me, love,” he said, brushing her lips with his. “Ah, Betsy.”
He kissed her then, tenderly. His tongue delved inside her mouth, teasing her until she returned the kiss. She reached up and ran her fingers through his hair as he pressed even closer to her. He nuzzled her ear, nibbling on the lobe. Betsy leaned her head to the side to give him better access to the sensitive skin.
“Michael,” she breathed, running her hands over his back.
Michael placed his hands on her round bottom and held her tightly to him, sending shivers through her body. He was certain she could feel the evidence of his arousal pressed against her. She looked at him in astonishment.
“God, how I want you,” he rasped. “Can you feel how much I want you?”
She nodded. He unfastened the few hooks at the back of her dress and tugged at the shoulders. His hand reached into her bodice and cupped her breast. She arched toward him, moaning low in her throat. The little sound set him on fire.
“Do you want me, Betsy?” he whispered, caressing her nipple through her thin chemise.
“Yes.” Her voice was soft. Hungry.
“Tell me,” he said, reaching beneath her skirts. “Tell me you want me.”
“Yes, Michael,” she breathed. “I want you.”
Michael nodded his satisfaction as he caressed her through her drawers. He could feel the heat of her on his fingers and nearly lost himself. He brought his mouth to her breast. Her nipple puckered beneath him, through her thin chemise.
“Tell me you won’t marry that old man,” he ordered softly. “Tell me you’ll be mine.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
He lifted his head to stare at her.
“What did you say?” he asked.
She opened her eyes. “I can’t break my engagement.”
He pulled away from her, leaving her to lean against the wall. They stared at each other for a long moment, both struggling to catch their breath. Michael favored her with a look of utter disgust.
“Why, you mercenary little chit!”
Betsy reached a hand toward him. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly, Lady Elizabeth.” He stepped out of her reach. “You wish to have things precisely to your liking.”
“No.” She shook her head. “My parents, Michael. My mother is pushing for the match.”
“No. You wish to have Templeton’s fortune and my passion. Well, in this you won’t have your way.”
Betsy shook her head again, tears gathering on her lashes. Michael fought to steel himself against her, finding the task nearly impossible with both her passion and her vulnerability so clear. He raked his eyes over her, taking in her tousled hair, her kiss-swollen lips. Her dress hung open, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of rosy nipples through her damp gauzy fabric of her chemise.
“Michael,” she said softly. “You must understand my position.”
Her softly spoken command strengthened his resolve. “Your position? Your position as the promised bride of a wealthy earl, I suppose.”
“Michael.”
“I suggest you adjust your dress, Lady Elizabeth,” he said coldly. “You look like a common trollop.”
Betsy sharply drew in a breath. Quiet sobs racked her small frame as she readjusted her clothes, her eyes averted from his. She slipped past him and exited the office.
Michael watched her leave through hooded eyes. He sat behind his desk, eyeing the basket she had left there. With a growl, he sent both the basket and its few remaining contents spilling to the floor.
Burying his face in his hands, he cursed himself for ever setting eyes on the girl.