The Property of a Gentleman. Helen Dickson
as he watched, his brown eyes, glittering with menace, darting from her to Marcus Fitzalan. They were filled with such hatred that her heart skipped a beat. His slack lips were set in a slight smile that was not pleasant; in fact, there was something about him that reminded her of something sinister and evil.
Her eyes shifted from Gerald and travelled across the room to meet the cold, pale-blue implacable stare of Marcus Fitzalan, where he still stood with what she could only describe as lounging insolence. He seemed so cool, so self-assured, while she felt as if she were falling apart.
Chapter Two
M arcus Fitzalan’s expression was unreadable, but Eve suspected he must be feeling every bit as shocked and horrified as she was. Or was he? she asked herself. It was no secret that her father had been an ill man, whose health had deteriorated rapidly over the last few months. The doctor had given him another twelve months to live at the most, and being such close friends, was it possible that this had been contrived by Mr Fitzalan in order to get his hands on Atwood Mine? After all, there wasn’t a man or woman in the whole of Atwood or Netherley who didn’t know how much he wanted it returned once more to his family. A wave of sick disgust swept over her.
‘Did you know about this?’ she demanded, having to fight to keep her anger in check, the horror of that first dreadful shock having left her eyes. ‘Did my father discuss this with you?’
‘No, he did not,’ he said crisply, giving no indication of the initial rush of gratitude that had washed over him towards Sir John for making it possible for him to own his father’s mine once more, for sentimental reasons rather than profit—the enormous wealth he accumulated from his other mines and business ventures provided him with more than adequate profit to enable him to maintain Brooklands and live comfortably.
The condition that he marry Sir John’s daughter did not pose a problem—providing she was agreeable. He was confident that despite the hostility she so clearly felt towards him she could be persuaded, for he seemed to have a power over women that often puzzled him. They had a way of retaining him in their minds and once met he was never forgotten, but no woman had ever managed to push him over the edge and into marriage—the love of his life being his work. But with Atwood Mine being offered to him he was prepared to adhere to any conditions Sir John had made.
Eve stared at him with angry, bewildered eyes. This was too much. Her father should have called Marcus Fitzalan out and shot him over his disgraceful behaviour towards her, after he had degraded and humiliated her so shockingly. How could he have been so audacious as to arrange a marriage for her with him when he had almost ruined her? The very idea was unthinkable—impossible.
‘I cannot possibly agree to this,’ she said furiously, beginning to lose control of her precariously held temper. ‘What can my father have been thinking of to ask this of me? He should not have done it. Why did he not tell me what he intended?’
‘Perhaps he would have—but for the accident,’ said Mr Soames. ‘It was very sudden.’
‘Nevertheless it is quite preposterous. Let me make it quite plain here and now that I will never agree to conditions such as these.’
Marcus remained silent, but roused from his complacent stance by the window he moved towards the table.
‘Shouldn’t you at least consider it?’ said Mr Soames. ‘When you get over the shock and weigh up what it will mean to you both—is it really so preposterous as all that?’
‘Yes, it is—to me. It was quite outrageous of my father to expect me to marry on these terms. I have been troublesome in the past, I know, but I have done nothing to contribute to his decision to treat me so shockingly. Clearly he was sick in mind as well as body—or it was done for some malicious reason of his own. He seems to have thought of everything.’
Marcus shot her an angry look. ‘Hasn’t he just. But your father was not insane and nor was he a malicious man, Miss Somerville—and you do him a grave injustice by accusing him of such. Being a man of honour and integrity, a man who considered the well being of others before his own throughout his life, I am sure he thought this over very carefully before laying down conditions that are clearly so abhorrent to you,’ he said coolly, in defence of her father, fixing her with an icy, hard stare.
Eve’s own eyes snapped back at him, angered that he of all people should have the temerity to reproach her like a naughty child, although she did regret using the word ‘malicious’, which was spoken unintentionally and in the heat of the moment. Mr Fitzalan was right. Her father had been a caring and gentle man and as honest as the day is long, and could not be accused of being ‘malicious’, but she did not need the likes of Marcus Fitzalan to tell her so.
‘And you would know, wouldn’t you, Mr Fitzalan?’ she said heatedly, accusingly, blinded with wrath, standing up and lifting her head imperiously, meeting his gaze boldly and squaring her chin in her proud challenge to his authority.
‘From the amount of time the two of you spent together you must have got to know my father very well. Knowing what little time he had left, was it your intention to wheedle your way into his good graces in an attempt to persuade him to transfer the lease of Atwood Mine back to you? After all, everyone knows how keen you are to get your hands on it once more.’
Her accusation bit deep, causing Marcus’s own temper to rise. His lean face darkened and his metallic eyes narrowed furiously, warningly, and Eve felt the effort it was costing him to keep his rage under control.
‘I refute that. I have been accused of many things, Miss Somerville, and have been the subject of much gossip and speculation over the years, but let me make it clear that, contrary to what you might think of me, it is not in my nature to stoop so low as to acquire anything by flattery or guile. I held your father in the highest regard and knew he was a very sick man—but not how sick. We were friends, good friends, and I thought—and hoped—him fit for a good many years to come.’
His lip curled scornfully across his even white teeth as he spoke softly and with a menacing calm. ‘At any other time—and if you were a man—I would take you to task for such an insult, but this is neither the time nor the occasion for doing so.’
‘That is extremely civil of you, Mr Fitzalan. But I do not retract what I said,’ Eve retorted, trying to speak with the utmost composure while growing more and more angry by the second.
‘That is your prerogative. I understand that you have justifiable reason to be shocked by the contents of your father’s will and that you are naturally quite distraught by your tragic loss—which I shall put down to being the reason for your outburst—so I shall take no offence and will ignore the affront to my character.’
His voice sounded calm, giving everyone the impression that he was not in the least put out by her insulting remark, but Eve was not deceived for his mouth hardened and his eyes flared like molten quicksilver, daring her to say more. But she refused to cower before him. Her eyes flashed defiance and her face assumed an expression of hardened resentment.
She opened her mouth to challenge his statement but the expression in his eyes made her close it quickly. With her lips clamped together she averted her gaze, considering it prudent to let the matter rest—for now.
Everyone present had listened to the angry altercation between them in astonishment and silence, amazed that Eve could have been so outspoken and unable to think of anything that could justify such behaviour, but, like Marcus, they put it down to her being overwrought and her dispirited and anxious state of mind. Only Gerald remained watchful, a ruthless gleam lighting up his eyes.
Marcus chose to put the matter from his mind—hoping that everyone else would do the same—but it was not forgotten.
‘What happens to the bequest if we do not marry?’ he asked, prising his eyes away from Eve’s stony expression and fixing them on Mr Soames, trying hard to ignore the burning hatred in Gerald Somerville’s eyes as they bored into him. He knew how Gerald had coveted Atwood Mine and how cheated he must be feeling on discovering that the estate had been creamed of its most lucrative asset—an asset Gerald