Page 12 of Crying Wolfe
“Rosaline is clever, but she’s been…well…sheltered. In fact, I would suggest keeping this a marriage in name only and arranging other—relationships.” Morley studied the amber liquid settling into the grooves of crystal with undue interest. “I imagine she’d be amenable to that.”
Eli eyed his friend with rank skepticism, reading a secret behind his opaque gaze. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“What Iamtelling you is to be gentle with her, or I’ll murder you and get away with it.” Morley pushed himself out of his chair with a huff. “Pity me, my friend, I have to go smooth things over with Lady Brackenfeld.”
Eli clapped his hand around Morley’s wrist. “There’s really no other way? We can’t bribe this old cow to keep quiet?” It was as close to begging as he’d ever come.
“It will get out,” he replied with absolute certainty. “This family is too influential and this gossip too sensational. If you don’t marry Rosaline, these deals go sideways. Granted, you’ll go back to America to wipe your tears with your undeserved vaults of money. And poor Rosaline will be consigned to a miserable, lonely life.”
“Then I’ve no pity to spare for you as I’m spending it on my damn self.” Eli swigged the rest of his drink like it was a cool glass of water on a hot Nevada afternoon before unfolding from the chair with a groan. “I did say I’d commit murder to see this deal signed.”
“So you did.” Morley rested his hand on Eli’s shoulder, giving a few sympathetic pats.
“Only because I couldn’t imagine anything worse at the time.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow. We’ll work through the particulars.” Morley opened the door to the office and followed him through it. “Oh, and Eli?”
“Hmm?”
“Best you button your shirt and leave through the front door.”
CHAPTER4
Rosaline’s body had gone pathetically numb.
She perched on a velvet settee next to her brother in the lavish sitting room that adjoined Cresthaven’s finest guest chamber, clenching and unclenching her hands. It took all her effort to pay attention to the extremely important conversation taking place, rather than to give over to the panic.
When would she be able to feel her limbs again?
Maybe never.
Perhaps she’d be struck so disoriented and limp that she’d forget how to inflate her lungs and her heart would no longer pump blood to her useless extremities.
At least she wouldn’t be such a bother anymore.
Glancing around the room done in soft hues of robin’s egg blue and muted sage, she watched delicate beams refract through the crystal prisms hanging from the lights on the wall. Better that than to witness the misery she’d caused displayed on the faces of every person she cared about.
Emmett, a new Baron and a man nearly thirty years of age, sat as quiet and cowed as she. He allowed a man of lesser rank and incomparably more influence to fight this battle on her behalf.
Rosaline didn’t blame him. Any fighting spirit had been broken before they’d left the nursery…and dear Emmett’s more than anyone’s.
He didn’t deserve this, not when he had so much to contend with. She couldn’t allow her monstrous, vile demon to bring ruin to her family. To her poor, gentle brother.
No. She’d do what she must. Even if that meant the life sentence of marriage to an uncouth American gunslinger.
Across from them, Emmett’s fiancée, Lucy, sat serene and vibrantly beautiful as a monarch butterfly by the cozy fire. Her wild red hair was contained in what must have been an uncomfortably tight braid, and the only impression of emotion was the way she ceaselessly twisted the engagement ring on her finger.
Morley and Lady Brackenfeld squared off in the middle of them all, their battlefield a splash of expertly woven rugs from the Mideast.
The older woman stood like a brigadier general in a lace cap. “I was ready to overlook the scandalous bigamy of Emmett’s father, as the outcome meant that Cresthaven Shipping and Storage still had a man at the helm rather than a female heir. But this?Thisis too much!”
The female heir she’d referenced was Rosaline’s half-sister Felicity, who currently toured the Mediterranean on a continental Duchesse’s luxury yacht with her twin sister, Mercy.
Felicity had been named the heir in their father’s will, until it was revealed that Clarence Goode had married two wives and divorced neither. Emmett, Rosaline, and their elder sister, Emmaline, were products of Goode’s first and legally legitimate marriage. As all parents involved had passed, a legal battle of epic proportions might have ensued if Felicity hadn’t generously relinquished her hold on the business and the property to Emmett, in favor of galivanting around the globe with her and Mercy’s delightful Monegasque husbands.
Rosaline yearned to be with them now as she watched Morley’s eyes glint dangerously in his handsome face.
“Lady Brackenfeld,” he said, his carefully regulated inflection heroically unchanged. “When I said this was a comical misunderstanding, I truly meant it. Mr. Wolfe is from an oblique part of the West rife with, shall we say, charming little rituals akin to some of those our own country-dwellers cling to. Truly, this is just as harmless and forgivable as a May Day celebration in Hampshire.”
