A Bargain With Fate. Ann Elizabeth Cree

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      “BETROTHED TO YOU! YOU MUST BE MAD!”

      “Perhaps I didn’t phrase it quite right. You don’t need to marry me, merely become my fiancée for a short time,” he explained. “I am in need of a temporary fiancée.”

      “But why me? We do not get along well together at all.”

      “The strong aversion you’ve shown for my company suits me very well. I’ve no doubt you will be quite willing to leave at the appropriate time. You want your brother’s estate back-it will be done. Is a few months in my company such a sacrifice for your brother?”

      “A few months! I’d rather spend an eternity in hell than a day in your company.”

      Ann Elizabeth Cree is married and lives in Boise, Idaho, with her family. She has worked as a nutritionist and an accountant. Her favorite form of daydreaming has always been weaving romantic stories in her head. With the encouragement of a friend, she started putting these stories to paper. In addition to writing, and caring for two lively boys, two cats and two dogs, she enjoys gardening, playing the piano and, of course, reading.

      A Bargain with Fate

      Ann Elizabeth Cree

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      Contents

       Chapter One

       Chapter Two

       Chapter Three

       Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter One

      Whatever was taking the man so long? Rosalyn, Lady Jeffreys pushed a strand of hair off her brow with nervous fingers. She hoped Lord Stamford would soon put in an appearance, or she would be tempted to flee from his house like a common thief.

      She had spent the entire morning mustering up the courage to come. If she possessed an ounce of sense, she would have turned coward and jumped back into the hackney carriage the minute she laid eyes on the imposing mansion in St James’s Square. Instead, she’d marched up the front steps, determined to confront the notorious Marquis of Stamford.

      To her dismay, Lord Stamford’s butler not only indicated his lordship would return shortly but insisted on showing her into this intimidating drawing room with its pale green walls and a fireplace with the most elaborate carving she’d ever seen.

      The butler had been surprisingly solicitous for such a stiff, dignified man, inquiring if she were warm enough and insisting on arranging her chair near the hearth. She had had some idea that a man of Lord Stamford’s stamp would run a household as wild as his reputation. Instead, the few servants she’d spotted looked respectable enough and went quietly about their business. The drawing room showed no signs of haphazard management. It was furnished in the height of elegance: the mahogany chairs polished to perfection, rich Oriental rugs scattered about the floor. Above the elaborately carved mantelpiece was the portrait of a darkly handsome man, his hair tied back with a riband, his hand on a sword, his cool gaze resting on Rosalyn with a mocking expression.

      Rosalyn shifted uneasily. The house seemed unnaturally quiet. She heard no footsteps, no servants’ voices—only the relentless ticking of the clock. Another five minutes dragged by. It was quite apparent Lord Stamford did not intend to see her. She was miffed. Rudeness obviously numbered among his many other shortcomings.

      Well, she could not sit here forever. She would have to hunt the man down and force him to see her. She stood up so abruptly her reticule slid to the ground. Its contents spilled across the floor.

      ‘Oh, drat!’ Rosalyn exclaimed. As she knelt on the carpet, the poke of her bonnet hit the edge of the chair, which knocked it askew. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. Could anything else possibly go wrong?

      ‘Lady Jeffreys?’

      A pair of shiny black riding boots appeared in her line of vision. She froze. Her horrified eyes travelled up a pair of lean, muscled thighs encased in buckskin breeches, over a dark riding coat covering a broad masculine chest and came to rest on the most wickedly handsome face she had seen in her life. With his lean, dark features and midnight black hair, he could be an arrogant Italian nobleman from a Gothic romance.

      His disconcerting gaze swept over her face. She flushed and dropped her eyes. Her fingers trembled as she pushed her bonnet back into place. Never had she felt at such an utter disadvantage.

      ‘It appears you need some help. May I be of assistance?’ the man inquired politely.

      ‘No, I…’ She snapped into motion, grabbed the last item and shoved it into her reticule. She started to rise,