Apparently the stories were very, very true.

"What am I to do, Miles?" she asked. "Tell me that, would you?"

"Honestly, Portia. Why would you have to do anything?"

"If you don't win your game with Mr. Drummond-and I have to apprise you that I am very skeptical about it-what will happen?"

"You know me. I always land on my feet."

"I only thought I knew you. Imagine my surprise to discover you are the sort of wastrel who would fritter away his home."

Rage clouded his eyes. "There's no need to be snippy, Portia."

"Isn't there? Would you excuse me? I have to talk to my father."

"About what?"

"I don't see how our engagement can continue."

"At the first sign of trouble, you'll cry off? That's rather fickle of you."

"This isn't the first sign of trouble. I believe the calamity has been building for quite a while."

She started off, and he snapped, "Portia! I am not done speaking with you!"

"Well, I am done speaking with you." Sarcastically she added, "I'll be on pins and needles until I hear how your card game ends."

She huffed away, her ire sparking to such a hot degree that she could barely breathe.

Miles was to have been her savior. Miles was to have rescued her from the fiscal catastrophe that was plaguing her own family. She was to have been his wife, to have been mistress of Kirkwood where she would have lorded herself over the whole neighborhood.

He didn't realize it yet, but her dowry was gone, her father having spent it to keep her brother out of debtor's prison. They hadn't told the Marshalls, having hoped that she could somehow skate through the wedding without their learning she couldn't bring money to the table.

What a conundrum! She wouldn't marry Miles if he was bankrupt, but if she didn't wed him, she'd have to look for someone else, but she had no assets to exchange. Spinsterhood suddenly reared its ugly head, and she had a vision of herself at forty, still dawdling at home with her aging, decrepit parents.

She hurried across the garden to the barn where her carriage was waiting. As she approached, a man who had to be Mr. Drummond strolled toward her, and she cringed.

Although she understood that Miles had gambled away the estate, that Mr. Drummond had simply bought it when Miles couldn't pay his debts, she blamed Mr. Drummond for taking advantage, for wrecking her future.

"Hello, Miss Smithwaite," he said as she neared.

"Sir." She nodded, declining to indicate she'd guessed who he was.

"We haven't been introduced."

"No, we haven't."

"I am Damian Drummond."

"I'm aware of who you are."

He was tall and dark, brooding and mysterious, in a way that some women would probably find attractive. His clothes were very fine, perfectly-tailored and sewn from expensive fabric.

"You've been visiting Augusta Marshall," he said.

"Yes, I have."

"Did she fill you in on the gory details? If not, I'd be happy to enlighten you."

"I've been informed of what transpired, Mr. Drummond."

"Are you crying off from your betrothal?"

She was astonished by his crudeness. "Mr. Drummond! What an inappropriate comment! My engagement to Miles is none of your business."

He ignored her remark. "If you haven't cried off, I certainly suggest you consider it."

"Why would I?"

"He's beggared."

"I don't believe he is," she loyally stated, but from what Augusta had revealed, Mr. Drummond was telling the truth.

"You should believe it. I'm the man who beggared him so I know of what I speak."

Drummond was so smug, so confident, and she yearned to bring him down a peg. "Miles has a plan in the works, and Kirkwood will eventually be his once more."

"It's quite a plan, isn't it?" Drummond chuckled. "Gambling over the estate again? The arrogant cur actually thinks he can wager with me and win. What's your opinion? Can you envision him beating me at any endeavor?"

"Why couldn't he? Miles is very clever, and Kirkwood is his whole life."

"If Kirkwood means so much to him, Miss Smithwaite, why has he casually tossed it away?"

She had no answer to that, and in fact, it was a question she'd asked herself. How could he be so careless? So irresponsible?

"It was lovely chatting with you, Mr. Drummond, but I must be going."

She tried to push by him, but he put a hand on her arm, halting her paltry attempt at escape.

"I'll stop by tomorrow to talk to your father," he said.

She frowned. "On what topic?"

"I have a proposition for you."

"What sort of proposition?"

"I own Kirkwood, and I'll be looking for a bride."

She was so stunned she was surprised she didn't faint. She was positive she'd misconstrued. "You'd like me to be that bride?"

"Yes. I told Miles that I intend to take everything from him. The instant I heard he had a fiancee, I decided I'd take her too."

"You're awfully vain to assume I'd be interested. I'm engaged to Miles, and I haven't given up on him. I'm not convinced he's beyond redemption."

"Your fiance is a pauper who's about to be tossed out on the road, and I am rich as Croesus. It would thrill me to wed you as Miles watches."

She studied him, then shook her head. "You're mad."

"Not mad. Just determined to possess whatever belongs to the Marshalls."

"Who...are you?" she stammered. "Why are you so obsessed?"

"My grandfather was a kind old fellow named Walter Drummond. Ask your father what Miles did to us."

"You're insane, Mr. Drummond. Please don't call on me."

He ignored her again. "We'll discuss my fortune and a possible marriage."

"I'm not interested," she insisted, although she had to admit she was.

She'd been fretting over her meeting with Augusta, wondering how she'd find a wealthy spouse to replace Miles. And here, almost as if by magic, a wealthy candidate had stepped in her path. Who would have ever guessed?

Still though, she shouldn't appear too eager.

"You may confer with my father," she said, "if you're set on it, but I must warn you that you're wasting your time."

"I'll be there at eleven. I expect you'll be sending Miles a letter, won't you? To notify him your betrothal is over?"

"Well..."

"Trust me. Once you explain the situation to your father, he'll demand you end it. But tell him not to worry. There is a much richer, better choice waiting in the wings."

"We're not acquainted in even the slightest fashion, Mr. Drummond. How can you be sure you want me as your bride?"

"Women are not a mystery to me, Miss Smithwaite. I know precisely what I'll be getting with you."

"Meaning what?"

"Good afternoon," he said in reply. "Hurry home, would you? Give my regards to your parents."

He left, and she tarried in the stable yard, feeling as if she'd been pummeled with a club. Every bit of the day, from the moment she'd sat down with Augusta, had been hideous and bizarre.

A marriage proposal? From a stranger? Why would he suppose she'd entertain his suit? He was very pompous, pretentious, and imposing in a way Miles had never been. What would it be like to have such a handsome, dashing man as her husband?

She couldn't begin to imagine.

She staggered to her carriage, climbed in, and leaned against the squab. As the driver clicked the reins, as they pulled away, they passed by the manor.

It was such a magnificent property. It would really be devastating to lose it, especially when-for so many years-she'd counted on it being her own. She grinned, curious as to the offer Mr. Drummond would tender and also curious as to what her father's opinion would be.

CHAPTER NINE.

Damian was in his dressing room when the door to his suite opened. He'd been washing and was wearing only his trousers, his shirt off, his feet bare. His hair was damp, water dripping onto his shoulders. He grabbed a towel, dried himself, and stood very still, listening.

It was late, his pointless card game with Miles having ended hours earlier. Damian hadn't even had to cheat to beat him.

Sane people were in bed, and for a moment he wondered if it might be Miles sneaking in to kill him. But he couldn't imagine Miles mustering the courage to commit murder. He might hire someone to slay Damian, but he'd never attempt it himself, and since he was penniless he didn't have a farthing to hire an assassin.

Still though, Damian slid a pistol off his dresser. He was always armed, knives and other weapons stuck in every discreet spot. A man never knew when he might be attacked and need to defend himself.

He was in England now, and things were very different from where he'd spent most of his life. In order to better acclimate, he'd tried to set aside his past behaviors, but he was used to having a loaded gun nearby and would likely always be that way.

He was about to tiptoe closer when a woman very quietly said, "Mr. Drummond, are you here?"

He scowled, laid the pistol down, then walked into the sitting room. "Miss Fogarty?"

"Hello."

"What do you want?"

"I have to talk to you."

"It couldn't wait until morning?"

"No."

She looked so miserable, but pretty too, even prettier than she usually was. Her lush auburn hair was down and brushed out, pulled back with a ribbon. She wore a blue gown cut low in the front to expose quite a bit of enticing bosom.

He was surprised by the sight. Normally she was too busy to fuss with her clothes, and she donned functional attire that was comfortable and sufficient to her demanding schedule. She was always covered from chin to ankle like a governess or nanny. Her choice of wardrobe ran to gray, brown, and black so she didn't stand out, so she didn't draw attention to herself.

He was aggravated by her arrival, by her apparent belief that she could simply barge in after he'd warned her to stay away. She had such a strange effect on him, and he wouldn't encourage it to flourish so he'd absented himself from any spot where he might encounter her.

She was struggling to keep her gaze locked on his, to keep it from wandering down his torso. He guessed she was being overwhelmed by all the male flesh he was displaying, and she asked, "Would you put on a shirt?"

"No."

"Please? It's distracting, and I probably shouldn't see you in this condition."

"You probably shouldn't be in here. You need to go."