Page 5 of Wicked Rivals
I do not believe in such coincidences.
Once again he imagined a chessboard in his mind. A game was in play, the League versus Waverly, and the clock was ticking down to each move and countermove.
Chapter Two
Hands sliding up her outer thighs, raising her gown, warm breaths soft against her cheek, bright blue eyes aflame with wicked desires and the fall of pale-blond hair…
“Lady Melbourne?”
Rosalind Melbourne came back to herself. She was sitting in a cozy armchair in a sunny parlor with blue walls. Three sets of feminine eyes were focused on her, all a little concerned. A moment ago, she’d been listening to her hostesses talk about the latest scandals and political intrigues when the conversation had turned to marriages and the men in their lives. It was only natural for her thoughts to turn to Ashton when his friends had been mentioned. And that had led to memories from the last time she’d seen him…at the opera…when they’d both lost control.
I should never have allowed that man to kiss me, nor should I have touched him. It was a mistake.
She reached for the cup of tea nearest her on the table. “I’m sorry. I was woolgathering.”
“It’s quite all right,” Lady Sheridan said, smiling again. “We’re so happy you’ve had a moment to meet with us.”
Rosalind smiled back at her. Anne was one of the few women in thetonshe tolerated. Most of the simpering fools did not particularly like her either. As a Scottish lady having come from a crumbling castle with three wild brothers, bless them all, she’d had no chance of ever fitting in with normal London society, even when she’d married Lord Melbourne, God rest his soul. The man had been in his sixties when he’d asked for her hand.
That day was never far from her mind. Whenever her brothers hadn’t been around, she’d caught her father’s attention, and he’d taken his anger out on her. On that last night she’d run from Castle Kincade, almost blind with pain. She’d walked nearly two miles barefoot to the nearest village. Her father’s blows still burned her face and back.
She’d stumbled into a tavern in the village and fell into Lord Melbourne’s lap when she’d tripped over a loose floorboard. He’d taken one look at her face and with a scowl had said, “No one should treat a lady thus.”
He’d insisted on buying her dinner at the tavern. After he’d seen that she was warm and fed and wearing a new pair of boots he’d bought from a barmaid, he’d taken her straight to a blacksmith and married her that night.
Poor Henry. Such a sweet man.
After her marriage to Henry, she’d moved into her new London home, and he had died in his sleep only a year later. It had been a long time coming, but now she was the mistress of her own destiny. The dear man had tutored her in the ways of business strategies and banking. She’d always had a natural knack for it, but he had helped foster in her a confidence and knowledge that left her strong and able to stand on her own after his death. His companies had become her empire and would remain hers unless she remarried. Under English law, it would then transfer to her new husband, and she would become property herself.
My life wouldn’t be mine ever again.
She had no intention of letting that happen. Being a powerful widow was preferable to being a married slave.
“Lady Melbourne, I understand you have a number of shipping companies?” the Duchess of Essex queried before sipping her tea.
The duchess, who had insisted on being called Emily, was a lovely creature with violet eyes, auburn hair and a smile full of mischief and cunning.
“Yes, that is correct,” Rosalind replied. “I took over my late husband’s company and have been growing it by acquiring other shipping lines as they go on the market. Sea trade can be a risky endeavor, but it has proved fruitful so far.” She smiled a little, happy to be talking about business. It was one of her joys in life, the pursuit of companies, the acquisitions, the shipping. The mental challenges of running the companies that formed her fortune had always been vastly rewarding.
The other two ladies, Anne, Viscountess Sheridan, and Lady Rochester, who insisted on being called Horatia, exchanged glances. Rosalind wasn’t daft. The three women had been doing this from the moment she’d come inside the Sheridan household for tea. She suspected they’d invited her to Curzon Street for some purpose, and she wished they would simply come out and ask her whatever it was they were interested in.
“Do you do any business with Lord Lennox?” Horatia asked. Her cheeks had gone pink, betraying the direction Rosalind had feared the conversation was headed. Given their husbands’ close friendships with Lennox, she had been expecting this.
Rosalind sighed. “Lord Lennox…” The infernal baron had an uncanny way of coming up. It was he who had been on her mind moments ago. The man who’d ruthlessly kissed her in a theater alcove. He’d been out to punish her for her interference with his business, but that chastisement had turned to an attempt at passion, no doubt with the intent of leaving her alone and longing for him.
She had to fight hard to contain the little smile at that particular memory. She’d seen through his ploy and turned it against him, and he’d been defenseless against her. She remembered dropping her glove at his feet, a parting challenge before she’d left him to handle the problem of his stained trousers.
Lennox would no doubt be planning something to obtain his revenge; his ego would not allow otherwise. But these ladies were married to friends of his, so she would need to answer carefully.
“Well, our business interests, while shared, tend to put us in direct competition.” She hesitated to say more. It was possible that anything she told these three women would make its way back to him through their husbands. The secret behind her success came from the subtle balance of obtaining information from others and keeping it away from indiscreet ears.
On more than one occasion, she’d come across the jilted lovers left in Ashton’s wake—widows, daughters or unhappy wives of those he was in competition with. They had provided him with information over the course of an evening, often in bed, and he had used it to his advantage.
But he had also left a fair number of women who were willing to talk abouthimand his tactics as well. Rosalind had used that information to her own advantage and had been able to track his movements and strategies, even anticipate his business goals and outsmart him on more than one occasion.
Emily nudged Horatia’s elbow. Horatia spoke up.
“I’m sure you must think we are spies on behalf of our husbands, but I assure you that is not the case.” Horatia set her teacup down. “The reason we are asking is to protect you, if we can.”
