An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,34
here for revenge? Shall I hide the knives?”
She gestured to a lone butter knife on the table between them.
He smiled wryly. “I deserve that.”
“Yes. You do. Are you? Or perhaps you are here to confess your nefarious plans just before you expire, in the way of all storybook villains.”
“I’m young, in good health, and have no aspirations to be a villain.”
“I could have poisoned the tea,” she said. “I’m not saying I did. Just that I could have.”
“Maybe we ought to have a chaperone after all. To protect myself.”
“You’re safe. It’s one thing for me to be a divorcée, a murderess would be going a touch too far, don’t you think?”
“One hopes. As it happens I’m here in a somewhat professional capacity.”
“Oh? If you’ve come to talk me out of the store or make me an offer for sale, you can take it and yourself right back downtown.”
“And miss the spectacle? Prodigal daughter returns home, disbands with drunken brother, and attempts to bring faded department store back to life? I wouldn’t dream of missing that. I’ve come to even the playing field.”
Beatrice eyed him suspiciously.
He appeared to be earnest. It was a good look on him. Drat the man.
“I’ve come to give you this,” he said as he reached into his jacket pocket for a slip of paper that he offered to her.
Beatrice took it. Looked at it. Her anger flared. Instantly.
“This is a check for three thousand dollars.”
“It is.”
“If you think you can just buy me off—” she said hotly. If he had to make her an insulting overture he could at least give her a decent sum that recognized her worth. Three thousand dollars! From the man who had the third greatest fortune in New York. Why she ought to have poisoned the tea or resorted to some violence—
“Three thousand dollars is the amount of money your parents gave me to disappear. The amount of money they gave me which I used to start my first business selling imported Irish linens and lace. This—along with hard work and a decent amount of luck—was what I made my fortune out of. I thought it only fair you get the same.”
“Oh.” She felt herself deflate. She took a moment to make sense of it. Her rival was here to be fair?
“But I’m also giving it back because I have not disappeared and I have no intention of doing so.”
“Ah, I see. You are no longer going to abide by the original terms. This is to be a fight, but a fair one. You have no other motive.”
“None. See what you can do with it. Make no mistake, this is not an attempt to woo you.”
“Good.”
“I am compelled by honor. Notions of fair play.”
“How noble of you.”
“I have no intentions of resuming any intimacies or feelings we might have once had,” he said, and her vanity had thoughts about that.
“I, as well.”
“So please, don’t romanticize it too much. It will make my inevitable revenge all the more sweet to know that it was something of a fair fight.”
His gaze connected with hers. Blue eyes hot and fixed on hers. She understood. He loved the fight. He loved the challenge. He loved the fire of fury and that was what kept him up at night and powered him through the day. Maybe he was after revenge, or maybe he just wanted to be the best. This was not an attempt to woo; she would not be wooed. This was not meant to insult her, either. He was raising the stakes.
Well. Two could play at that game.
Beatrice handed the check back to him.
“My parents gave you three thousand dollars sixteen years ago. If one adjusts for inflation this should be more.”
His eyes flashed.
She didn’t try to hide her smile.
“Not just a pretty face, am I? But do go on thinking so. It will make my work so much easier.”
Dalton stood just then and Beatrice turned to see that her mother had swept into the dining room. Her lips were pinched together and her eyes asked what the devil the likes of him was doing sipping tea at her dining table at this hour.
“He’s here on business, Mother. He’s paying us back. I do believe you and Papa gave him three thousand dollars to go away. As you can see, he has not. So he has come to return the money.”
The tension in the room was thick. Because while Manhattan might not know his past, or not care about it, Mrs. Goodwin knew. She