words a caress. “Of course I won’t regret it. You’re the love of my life.”
Fred was up from his seat in a flash. He paced to the mantel. “An affecting scene.” He turned to confront Maggie. “I’ll never approve of you marrying him, you do realize that? And without my approval, you may bid goodbye to Beasley Park.”
“I’m aware,” Maggie said.
Allendale stood. “And why won’t you approve a marriage between my grandson and Miss Honeywell?” he demanded in a growl. “You can’t hope for a better match for the gel.”
Fred drew himself up. “Miss Honeywell is going to marry me.”
“I’m afraid she isn’t,” St. Clare said. “You had best accustom yourself to the fact.”
“No, I’m not,” Maggie agreed. “I never promised to marry you, Fred. You only assumed I would because of Papa’s will.”
“Two suitors to choose from,” Miss Trumble’s aunt said. “Who, pray, is the second lad? The ginger-haired fellow?”
“Mr. Burton-Smythe,” Miss Trumble replied. “He lives on the neighboring estate.”
“Who, dear?”
“Mr. Burton-Smythe!”
“As romantic as this all is,” Mr. Beresford said, rising from his chair. “Madre and I must excuse ourselves.” He made for the door.
Mrs. Beresford sprang up to follow her son. “Quite right. We have matters to attend to. Our departure to arrange and so forth. We won’t remain where we’re unwelcome.” She bobbed her head to Allendale as she passed. “My lord.”
The pair hastily took their leave, frantically whispering to each other as they exited the room.
“Probably trying to catch the post before all those letters of theirs go out,” St. Clare murmured to Maggie.
Her mouth curved. “They shall have to be quick about it.”
A footman appeared at the door, narrowly avoiding a collision with the exiting Beresfords. He cleared his throat.
“Yes, Salter?” Maggie asked. “What is it?”
“Dinner is served, Miss Honeywell.”
“Splendid.” Allendale offered his arm to Miss Trumble’s aunt. “Shall we go in, ma’am? Give the betrothed couple a few moments of privacy?”
“An excellent idea, my lord.” She took his arm, permitting him to escort her from the room. Miss Trumble accompanied them, stopping only briefly to offer a word of congratulation to Maggie.
“This is a rum business.” Sir Roderick’s voice faded as he departed the drawing room with the others. “Can’t say I approve of the way it’s transpired.”
Maggie gazed up at St. Clare. She looked as though she might say something, but he forestalled her with a subtle shake of his head.
They weren’t yet alone.
Fred hadn’t gone in to dinner with the rest of the party. He remained by the mantel, his face contorted in a frightening mask of hatred. “I expect you believe you’ve won.”
St. Clare drew Maggie closer to his side. He knew Fred, even after all these years. Knew that he was at his most dangerous when he believed himself to have been humiliated.
“I’m not a prize to be fought over, Fred,” Maggie said. “I’m a grown woman with thoughts and feelings and opinions of my own.”
Fred didn’t seem to hear her. He was too incensed. “I would have done anything to have you. I’d have treated you like a queen. But all you cared about was Seaton.” He bit out his words as though he might choke on them. “The two of you, with your secret meeting places and your private jokes. Always laughing at me behind my back.”
Maggie shook her head.
“You were a bully then,” St. Clare said. “Just as you are now.”
“I was your better,” Fred retorted.
“Is that what you call it? To beat a servant boy—a boy who couldn’t fight back?”
Fred was unrepentant. “Someone had to put you in your place.”
“I’m in my place now, aren’t I?” It wasn’t a good idea to provoke him, but St. Clare couldn’t seem to help himself. “Despite all your scheming, all your machinations, Maggie and I are together.”
“Are you? Are you? I still hold power here, Margaret. Over this house and over your fortune. If you marry him—”
“Enough, Fred,” Maggie said. “Enough. I’m not going to marry you, not even for Beasley Park. I don’t think of you that way. I never have, not in my entire life.”
“Because of him. If he wasn’t here—”
“You’ve already tried to get rid of me once,” St. Clare said. “That didn’t work out so well for you, did it?”
Fred’s brawny frame quivered. “I could have killed you that night.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you to hang. And worse.”
St. Clare’s brows lifted. Worse?
“I wanted you to see what it was like to be entirely alone,” Fred told him. “Abandoned, with