Chapter Eighteen
Ramsey stood up beside his study desk at Temptations the moment the knock sounded at the door.
He had been waiting.
It was only a matter of time, and honestly, he was shocked it had taken as long as it had.
Sure enough, like an executioner headed for duty, Heathcliff walked into the room, his expression unreadable.
Ramsey took a breath, already knowing that he wouldn’t fight back. No. He’d taken the past few hours to resign himself to the fate that awaited him.
He’d do the honorable thing. He’d marry the girl; he would have to do it. Honor demanded it, and more importantly, he’d done the stupidest thing in his life—well, almost the stupidest thing in his life—and kissed his best friend’s ward when he was supposed to be protecting her from the other rogue.
Well, he’d made his bed, and it was his turn to lie in it. Hopefully, Heathcliff would not bloody him up too much; if he were to suffer through a wedding, he didn’t want to wear two black eyes for the occasion. He lifted his chin just slightly, waiting, bracing for the blow that was surely only moments away.
Heathcliff approached the desk and frowned. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Ramsey was about to answer, even though he couldn’t find the most articulate response. He wasn’t sure what had come over him in that forbidden moment when he’d kissed Miss Grace. What excuse did he have? Insanity? Desire? Need? All were true, and all were bloody worthless as far as excuses.
“Are you well? You look as if you’re about to be violently ill.” Heathcliff took a step back as if expecting Ramsey to cast up his accounts that very moment.
It was Ramsey’s turn to be confused. “Pardon?”
“I told cook to stop making the tattie scones with those green potatoes. Makes me sick every time too. Sit down, it’ll pass.” Heathcliff gestured to Ramsey’s chair and then took a seat as well on the opposite side.
Ramsey sat dubiously, wondering when the thunder would take place.
“So, what did you find out about Grace and Westhouse?” Heathcliff asked casually, crossing his ankles as he leaned back in the chair.
But was it too casually? Ramsey couldn’t figure it out. Didn’t he know? Didn’t Miss Grace tell him what had transpired between them? He was certain she’d at least confide in Heathcliff’s wife, but . . . maybe he had assumed incorrectly.
It wouldn’t be the first time. But it would certainly be surprising.
Curious.
Heathcliff arched his brows, encouraging Ramsey to answer.
Ramsey cleared his throat and relaxed his rigid posture. “He was moving in for the kill when I arrived, bloody bastard. Needless to say, my intrusion broke up the tender moment.” Ramsey’s chest felt tight. He wasn’t lying to his friend, but he damned well wasn’t telling the truth either.
“Bastard,” Heathcliff swore under his breath.
Ramsey also left out the portion that would implicate Miss Grace in accepting Westhouse’s attentions. No need to draw attention to that portion of the conversation; it would only lead to more questions.
Ones that he really didn’t want to answer, especially if Heathcliff wasn’t aware.
The last thing he wanted was another wife. And that’s certainly what he would end up with if Heathcliff knew the truth.
Or at least, the whole story.
“What do you suggest we do now? Do you think he’ll stop his attentions or do you think you just encouraged him to fight harder?” Heathcliff asked, sitting up and leaning over his knees, tenting his fingers as he leaned against his hands in query.
“He’s not going to just walk away. There’s a reason for his intrusion; we just don’t know it yet. Have you found anything on your end? Has John uncovered any leads?” Ramsey frowned as he concentrated on Heathcliff’s words.
“Just confirmation of what we already knew. He’s not suspected to be after a wife, and he’s not deep enough into debt to be a fortune hunter. He’s financially stable, but reckless in his personal life. The rumors are that the women on staff at his London home are more courtesan than parlor maid. At least that part of his character is already well known to us.”
“Not shocking,” Ramsey remarked, agreeing.
“Indeed. So, if he has so many other women to feed his fantasies, why turn to my ward?”
