Heiress Without a Cause

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Ferguson was turning into his father after all. The night before proved it - when Madeleine refused his proposal, his first instinct was to kidnap her and drive straight for Gretna Green. Or, even easier, drag her to Salford, still wrapped in his coverlet, and prove that she needed to marry him. She was lucky he was still new to his inheritance. His father would have forced the issue before she even left his bed.

But he wasn't quite his father yet, and he had tamped down the desire to claim her long enough to let her flee. After he watched from a window until she safely crossed the alleyway, he returned to their bed, still warm from their bodies, and stared at the ceiling as he waited for sleep to take him. He couldn't let her go, couldn't lose her. He would just have to find a way to win her.

That would require finding out why she said no. When he had awoken to sunlight streaming through the windows of their little house, he realized he hadn't even asked her for a reason.

He cast another glance at the clock across from his desk and sighed. After coming home and changing clothes, he had succumbed to duty and met his London steward for their daily exercise in overseeing the vast estate. They were in his father's study, and the clock, like every other object in the room, was intimately familiar to him - either from his boyhood, when his father used to let him play with the exotic objects, or later, when he stared at anything but his father during the endless lectures. He swore the clock was rigged to make time seem like it had stopped - and it still felt that way, even though he was the master.

Berrings, the steward, coughed discreetly. Ferguson sighed. The London house's steward also oversaw the duchy's city holdings. If Ferguson could concentrate, there was more than enough work to distract him from the topic of Madeleine.

"What are your thoughts on the lease for Legrand's Theatre, your grace?" Berrings asked. "Have you thought any more about the establishment?"

The man had a knack for raising controversial subjects in the blandest possible voice. He surely knew how well Ferguson was acquainted with the place. Anyone smart enough to survive nearly two years in the old duke's service would pay close attention to his master's actions.

"You must know I've attended, but the proprietress did not seem nervous about my presence. Does she not know I own her theatre?"

Berrings shook his head. "Places of that ilk are leased through a subsidiary so that your grace's name is not besmirched by their entertainments."

At least the gossips did not know of Ferguson's ownership. It would look positively feudal for him to sample the charms of the theatre's top performer. "We can leave the theatre alone for now, but I may wish to revisit the matter at the end of the season," Ferguson said. At least he would have leverage if Madeleine continued to refuse him.

He winced. That was exactly what his father would have thought.

Berrings made a notation in his ledger. Then he looked up, awaiting more orders. He was nondescript, a man with a medium build, standard brown hair, and a moderate tone of voice - the type who would blend into the backdrop and work himself to death without complaint.

"How do you feel about your work, Berrings?" Ferguson asked.

The man carefully set his pen on the traveling desk he used to the left of Ferguson's chair, and his face paled as he looked up from his writing. "Have I done anything to displease you, your grace? I know we've not worked together for long, but I assure you I hold your interests dearer than my own."

"No, you've pleased me quite well. With your knowledge, I would be a fool to cut you loose."

Berrings's shoulders slumped just slightly, like a man given a reprieve he did not expect. "You are very kind, your grace."