“We both know his reasons, Mr. Perry. And if I cared for Mr. Thompson, I’d make it right. But I’m sure he hates me just as much as the rest of Trescott.”
Mr. Thompson certainly didn’t counsel Christian restraint to my father when he banished me from home.
“The man should have known my father better,” I continue. “He crowed so much about his son that it would have sickened a man not half as jealous and bitter as my sire.”
“Mr. Saintsbury is quite right for it anyway,” Mr. Perry says, studiously avoiding the content of my speech. “I would hate to see him displaced.”
I study my steward. Why is he insisting upon Mr. Saintsbury? Perhaps he worries I will dismiss him.
In truth, I am considering it. I would love to dismiss Mr. Alfred Saintsbury and leave the post empty, but I have notquite resolved to do it, even after yesterday. I am not sure why.
I invited him to tea to get the measure of him.
I found him pompous and self-important.
And unfortunately, I discovered that, in other respects, he is exactly the type of man I like.
Green eyes, curling hair, slanting, slightly disapproving mouth. He is handsome, but also pretty, far prettier than he needs to be in his profession. Men like Saintsbury never seem to know what to make of their prettiness. But I always do.
I clench my hand, a pulse of desire threading through me. His pretty, clumsy movements over the teacups—I liked it too much. When he spilled his tea onto the tray, when he stuttered and stammered, all I thought of was himspillingin other ways, of how he would stutter and stammer when I gave him pleasure. I have always been that way about a nervous man. I don’t know why.
Many women, I know, dream of men who never show an ounce of uncertainty.
But not me.
When I bedded confident types who were puffed up on themselves, I felt nothing.
But a shy man who is vexed at the idea of his own desires, whose hands shake over teacups and who stammers out apologies—it does something to me. It makes me want.
Perhaps I want such men because I have enough ruthlessness in me for two people.
Maybe more than two.
In a way, that was my problem with my father. He wanted his children compliant. My brothers were yielding. They were happy to be the heirs my father wanted. But not me. And my sire never forgave me forit.
When I left Trescott Abbey at sixteen, I made my way to London. There I built up my counting house. I acquired a reputation for taking big chances in business—investing in risky outfits and ventures—and winning.
When I inherited Trescott Abbey two months ago, I already had more money than Croesus.
Thus, I am used to being powerful. To having the men that I want. In London men do not refuse Annabelle de Lacey anything—in or out of the bedchamber.
I smile, the resolution coming clearly into my mind. My mind is a wonderous thing. It works at a problem tirelessly, even when I am only half-aware of it. Give my mind enough time and it will always come to a solution.
I have everything that I want in this life—money, power, influence.
There is only one thing I lack.
For years, it has nagged at me.
One question.
To whom will I leave this empire?
It may seem an odd desire for a woman like me, but powerful men hunger after the same thing. Why would I be different?
I want an heir of my body, of my own flesh and blood, who will carry out what I have begun when I am gone.
And now that Trescott belongs to me too—well, the need is all the more pressing.
