The Outrageous Belle Marchmain. Lucy Ashford

cool breeze chilled the perspiration on his back. He said, ‘I believe Mr Davenant bought this land a year ago, quite legally.’

      She tossed her head. ‘Money will buy anything, and anybody. And—legally? Some would think otherwise.’

      Hell! This time Adam felt the heat surging through his blood. If she’d been a man he’d have floored her for that!

      But she was a woman all right. Her face was piquant even in defiance, her body all slender curves …

      Damn it. This was no time to be distracted. Adam said, ‘Are you querying his right to this land?’

      She faced him coolly. ‘I assume you probably work for him, so I’ll limit my words. I’ve not met Mr Davenant, but I’ve heard enough to know that he was not born to wealth and it shows.’

      Adam hissed out a breath. ‘Tell me. As a matter of interest, if you did chance to meet Mr Davenant, would you use those words to his face?’

      She shrugged her shoulders, but he noticed she’d gone a little paler. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘He is no friend to my family. What else have I to lose?’

      The sun passed behind a cloud; the moorland grasses shivered. ‘You’ve clearly not lost your pride, ma’am,’ Adam said at last. ‘May I escort you on your way?’

      ‘I know my way very well, I assure you!’

      He clenched his teeth and said with icy politeness, ‘Then will you—condescend to let me help you mount your horse? Or are we going to stand here till the sun goes down?’

      She hesitated. ‘My thanks.’

      His mouth pressed in a thin line, he put his big hands round her waist and lifted her easily into her saddle. Then he went to check her mare’s bridle—and give himself time to cool down.

      She was feather-light. She was icy with damned arrogance. She’d set his pulse racing with rage—and a flicker of something else even more dangerous.

      He looked up at her and patted her dappled mare’s neck. ‘All set,’ he said flatly. ‘You’d best be off.’

      She nodded her head in curt thanks, then without a backward glance she rode swiftly and competently down the path.

      Adam Davenant shrugged on his coat and watched her go, his gaze narrowed.

      How her pretty green eyes had glittered with contempt when she spoke his name. Mr Davenant has no more right to this land than those black crows circling above the trees.

      She hadn’t recognised him. But one thing was very clear—she hated Adam Davenant like poison. He’d already guessed who she was. If his guess was correct, she had a brother who was heading for big, big trouble. With him.

       Chapter Two

       London—two months later

      Belle Marchmain rather distractedly picked up a length of pink ribbon from the display on the counter, then put it down again in the wrong place. Apprehension shadowed her dark-lashed green eyes as she said at last, ‘I’m sincerely hoping this is some foolish jest of yours, Edward.’

      Outside in the Strand the May dusk was starting to fall and lamplighters with clanking ladders were hurrying about their business. Normally Belle relished this time of quiet after a busy day. Once her shop’s doors were locked she would wander possessively amongst the bright lengths of silk and taffeta, herself resplendent in one of the boldly extravagant costumes that were fast making her one of the most talked-about modistes in London.

      But just now, her current attire—a striped jacket of black and green over a matching taffeta skirt, with green satin ribbons adorning her luxuriant black curls—seemed ridiculously flippant. Futile, in fact, in the face of approaching disaster.

      Belle was twenty-seven years old and had learnt to cope with much in her life. The humiliation in slow, steady steps of her once-proud family. The death of her husband five years ago. But now sheer, blind panic threatened to close in.

      It had been no surprise to see her brother, of course, at her glass-paned door, ringing the bell impatiently. She’d known he was in London for two weeks, staying at Grillon’s Hotel in Albemarle Street—’catching up on business and old friends,’ Edward had told her blithely when he called on her a few days ago.

      He’d certainly been spending money. Grillon’s was expensive and so were the new clothes he was sporting: new boots, a new silk waistcoat, a new coat of blue superfine and smart yellow pantaloons. And now he perched on the end of her counter, full of casual confidence in his older sister’s ability to sort out his latest mess.

      ‘You can help me, can’t you, Belle?’ he cajoled. ‘This little shop of yours is doing mighty well, I hear!’

      Just then a young woman with curly brown hair burst in from the back room. ‘Madame, should I tell the girls—excuse me, I had no idea you had company!’

      Gabby—Belle’s French assistant—bobbed a curtsy to Edward, whose eyes, Belle noted with exasperation, lit up at the sight of her. Belle replied, more curtly than she meant to, ‘I’ll be with you shortly, Gabby. Yes, send Jenny and Susan home by all means, and thank them for all their hard work today, will you?’

      ‘Of course, madame! But there is something else—’

      Belle interrupted, ‘Tell me later, would you?’

      Edward watched Gabby go, then started talking again. ‘I just need a little more money, Belle.’

      ‘To pay your hotel bill? To pay for yet more new clothes? Edward, I am not doing well enough to repay your debts as well as my own.’ Belle had sat rather suddenly in one of the dainty gilt chairs her customers used.

      ‘But your business is thriving. You must be plump in the pocket!’ Edward, who was two years younger than she was, eagerly pulled up a chair to sit opposite her—admiring, she noticed, his own reflection in a nearby mirror. He was slenderly built and with the same shade of green eyes as she, the same raven black hair. But there was a hint of wilfulness, of weakness about his mouth. ‘You have clients galore,’ he went on, ‘you have servants! And dash it, Belle, you’re being as ratty as when you came back from Sawle Down that day in March, all of a stew about something.’

      If Edward had been in any way perceptive, he’d have seen how his sister’s cheeks became a little paler. ‘I was saying goodbye to the land that was once ours,’ she said quietly. ‘As for my servants, Edward, as you call them, I have Gabby, two assistants and a manservant—Matt—who works for me a few hours a week. That’s all.’

      Edward shrugged. ‘Yes, but you live the high life, sister mine—you’re always being invited to routs and parties. And when you stayed with me and Charlotte you said you were even thinking of setting up another shop in Bath!’

      ‘It came to naught,’ she answered rather tightly.

      ‘Hmm.’ Bored already, Edward was picking up a little silk fan. ‘Nice trinket, this.’

      Belle snatched at it and put it down with something of a snap. ‘Edward—’ she was gazing directly at her younger brother ‘—Edward, I think you’d better tell me everything.’

      So he did. And Belle’s heart sank almost as low as she’d known it, while Edward recounted the entire sorry tale. In which everyone in the world was at fault, except, of course, himself.

      At twenty-one Edward had inherited the Hathersleigh family’s estate near Bath—or what remained of it—and within the year he’d married his sweetheart, Charlotte. By the time of their wedding Belle was living in London. And whenever she saw Edward he was forever telling her how the estate was thriving, and, of course, how clever he was.

      Just over a year ago he’d announced to