Page 8 of Sinfully Mine
“And while I am certain of your talents in regards to Blackbird Heath,” Sinclair continued. “I have a counterproposal.”
She deflated somewhat into the seat of her chair. Determination stiffened her shoulders.
Sinclair reached inside his pocket and withdrew an envelope. “The sum I would receive from the sale of Blackbird Heath, invested over the next ten years with interest, would far eclipse any income you could derive from this estate. And that is if you could avoid diseased animals, plant blights, or other natural disasters.”
Hester refused to back down. “I disagree.”
“You are free to do so.” He opened the envelope and spread the document before her. “I did my research before arriving here, Mrs. Black. I’m well aware of Blackbird Heath’s worth, the success of which is due to your excellent stewardship.” A smile flashed at her.
“How kind.”
“Upon you vacating Blackbird Heath, I mean to sell the estate orfarm.” Another charming grin. “You would receive a sizable percentage of the sale.” He tapped the document. “I’ve been more than generous. I can take the sum and invest it for you, if you like. You’ll be comfortable for the rest of your life. You can travel. See the world. Visit London.”
Hester snorted. “Until the right card game comes along, isn’t that the case? I’ll find my accounts stripped bare and left with nothing. What a kind offer, Mr. Sinclair. But I must decline.”
“You think I would take—” The smile fled from his lips. “Fine. You receive the percentage outright and do what you wish with it. I was only involving myself as a courtesy.”
“A courtesy would have been not to come here,” she snapped, all pretense of being polite dropping at his words.
“The fact remains thatIown Blackbird Heath, Mrs. Black,” he shot back. “No matter how much you may wish I do not. I am not going to disappear simply because you will it.”
“More’s the pity.” Sinclair, like every other man she’d ever known, saw no value in the land or the people, just the bloody coin he could wager in a hand of cards. Blackbird Heath was worth far more than a game of dice. The people here depended on her. This was her home. How dare he reduce it to nothing more than a business transaction.
“I cannot allow you to stay here indefinitely.” Anger sharpened his previously polite tone. “In the hopes that I will change my mind or Mr. Godwick will find a way to overturn your husband’s will.”
“Yet according to my husband’s will, Mr. Sinclair, that is exactly whatyoumust do.” She gave a disgusted sigh. “Go back to London. Find a game of cards to entertain yourself. Indulge in your usual pleasures.” Disdain curled her lip. “I’m not leaving Blackbird Heath to your tender care. Nor can you force me to.”
Chapter Four
Harridan.
One with an incredible mane of auburn hair, but still—
Termagant.
His proposal made perfect sense. Anyone could see it except for the shrew defiantly dismissing him from her parlor. Mrs. Black’s percentage from the sale of Blackbird Heath was overly generous. Kind.
Bloody obstinate woman.
Blackbird Heathwaslittle more than a glorified farm. As if some minor lord had once built a lovely manor house and decided, after a bit, he’d rather be a country squire. The entire property wasn’t designed to be a workable farm. You couldn’t even see the barn or other outbuildings from the drive. He was offering Mrs. Black a comfortable living for the remainder of her days, and she wanted to be his land manager.
The idea was absurd.
Mrs. Black was supposed to be an ancient crone with a cap of lace on her head and dressed in widow’s weeds, not a strident spitfire with an abundance of copper hair.
Good Lord. Why did she have to be a redhead?
Fortunately, Mrs. Black possessed the personality of a mule, a sparse bosom, from what Drew could see and less than generous curves. All of which was more than enough to quell Drew’s initial interest in her.
Yet his cock still twitched in her direction each time she spoke.
The damned red hair was at fault.
Patchahoo, in the limited time he’d been given, had done an excellent job on researching the value of Blackbird Heath, though he’d failed in the assessment of Mrs. Black. The land surrounding the estate was fertile but underutilized. Yes, Mrs. Black had fabulous wooly sheep grazing in the pasture, but the herd wasn’t large. She lacked labor and modernization, both of which cost money. So, while Blackbird Heath seemed incredibly prosperous, most of the profits were being driven back into the farm to keep it operating. A large investment would be required to truly expand operations at Blackbird Heath, funds Drew would rather use to form a partnership with Worth, not turn into bloody cabbages and turnips. Or god forbid, a thresher.
Patchahoo had made several discreet inquiries to some of the large landowners in the area, all of whom failed to mention Mrs. Black wasn’t an elderly widow. There was a great deal of interest in the town of nearby Horncastle over Blackbird Heath. Joshua Black had been pressured to sell many times, but his wife always dissuaded him. The farm was worth a small fortune, at least to the other landowners in Lincolnshire.
Mrs. Black, fists clenched in her lap, had tilted her chin in his direction, fairly demanding Drew throw her out. She wasn’t beautiful. Pretty, maybe. Her nose was not the pert button of so many London beauties, but long and thin. Skin the color of a peach with a wealth of freckles across the bridge. Lithe. No curves, but Drew imagined firmly muscled thighs and calves beneath her skirts.
