he said gently, not letting her drop her outraged gaze, ‘to discover the circumstances of your inheritance. And I have eyes in my head. I may not be that familiar with English country houses, but a pot-holed drive, masonry that is crumbling below the roofline, grounds that could do with several more gardeners...’
He took a mouthful of coffee, setting the cup aside on the table her father had used to lay his daily newspaper on. Looked at her directly again.
‘It makes sense of your interest in Toby Masterson,’ he told her. ‘A man with a merchant bank at his disposal.’
Again, outrage seethed in Diana—even more fiercely. Her voice was icy. ‘Mr Tramontes, I really think—’
He held up a hand to silence her. As if, she thought stormily, she was some unruly office junior.
‘Hear me out,’ he said.
He paused a moment, studying her. She was dressed casually, in dark green well-cut trousers and a paler green sweater, with her hair caught back in a clip, no jewellery, and no make-up he could discern—a world away from the muted elegance of her evening dress. But her pale, breathtaking beauty still had the same immediate powerful impact on him as it had when she’d first caught his eye. Her current unconcealed outrage only accentuated his response.
‘I understand your predicament,’ he said.
There was sympathy in his voice, and it made her suspicious. Her expression was shuttered, her mouth set. Her own coffee completely ignored.
‘And I have a potential solution for you,’ he went on.
His eyes never left her face, and there was something in their long-lashed dark regard that made it difficult to meet them. But meet them she did—even if it took an effort to appear as composed as she wanted to be.
He took her silence for assent, and continued.
‘What I am about to put to you, Ms St Clair, is a solution that will be a familiar one to you, with your ancestry. I’m sure that not a few of your forebears opted for a similar solution. Though these days, fortunately, the solution can be a lot less...perhaps irreversible is the correct term.’
He reached for his coffee again. Took a leisurely mouthful and replaced the cup. Looked at her once more. She had neutralised her expression, but that was to be expected. Once he had put his cards on the table she would either have him shown the door—or she would agree to what he wanted.
‘You wish—extremely understandably—to retain your family property. However, it’s quite evident that a very substantial sum of money is going to be required—a sum that, as I’m sure you are punishingly aware, given the current level of death duties and the exceptionally high cost of conservation work on listed historic houses, is going to stretch you. Very possibly beyond your limits. Certainly beyond your comfort zone.’
Her expression was stony, giving nothing away. That didn’t bother him. It made him think how statuesque her beauty was. How much it appealed to him. The contrast of her chilly ice maiden impassivity with Nadya’s hot-blooded outbursts was entirely in Diana St Clair’s favour. She was as unlike Nadya as a woman could be—and not, he thought with satisfaction, just in respect of the ice maiden quality, but in so much more—all of which was supremely useful to him.
‘As I say, you’ve clearly already considered—and rejected—Toby Masterson as a solution to your problem, but now I invite you to consider an alternative candidate.’
He paused. A deliberate, telling pause. His eyes held hers like hooks.
‘Myself,’ he said.
Diana’s intake of breath was audible. It scraped through her throat and seemed to dry her lungs to ashes.
‘Are you mad?’ came from her.
‘Not in the least,’ was his unruffled reply. ‘This is what I propose.’ His mouth tightened a moment, then he went on. ‘I should make it clear immediately, however, that my relationship with Nadya Serensky is at an end. She was a woman I wanted two years ago—now I want something, and someone, quite different. You, Ms St Clair, suit my requirements perfectly. And I,’ he continued, ignoring the mounting look of disbelief on her face, ‘suit your requirements perfectly, too.’
She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, but no words came. What words could possibly come in response to such a brazen, unbelievable announcement? He was continuing to talk in that same cool manner, as if he were discussing the weather, and she could only listen to what he said. Even while she stared at him blankly.
‘What I want now, at this stage of my life,’ he was saying—perfectly calmly, perfectly casually, ‘is a wife. Nadya was quite unsuitable for that role. You, however...’
His dark eyes rested on her, unreadable and opaque, and yet somehow seeing right into her, she felt with a hollowing of her stomach.
‘You are perfect for that part. As I,’ he finished, ‘am perfect for you.’
She could only stare, frozen with disbelief. And with another emotion that was trying to snake around her stunned mind.
‘We would each,’ he said, ‘provide the other with what we currently want.’ He glanced once more around the library, then back to her. ‘I want to be part of the world you inhabit—the world of country houses like this, and those who were born to them. Oh, I could quite easily buy such a house, but that would not serve my purpose. I would be an outsider. A parvenu.’
His voice was edged, and he felt the familiar wash of bitterness in his veins, but she was simply staring at him, with a stunned expression on her beautiful face.
‘That will not do for me,’ he said. ‘What I want, therefore, is a wife from that world, who will make me a part of it by marrying her, so that I am accepted.’ Again, his voice tightened as he continued. ‘As for what you would gain...’ His expression changed. ‘I am easily able to afford the work that needs to be done to ensure the fabric of this magnificent edifice is repaired and restored to the condition it should enjoy. So you see...’ he gave his faint smile ‘...how suitable we are for each other?’
She found her voice—belatedly—her words faint as she forced them out.
‘I cannot believe you are serious. We have met precisely twice. You’re a complete stranger to me. And I to you.’
He gave the slightest shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘That can easily be remedied. I am perfectly prepared for our engagement to provide sufficient time to set you at your ease with me.’
He reached to take up his coffee cup again, levelled his unreadable gaze on her.
‘I am not suggesting,’ he continued, ‘a lifetime together. Two years at the most—possibly less. Sufficient for each of us to get what we want from the other. That is, after all, one of the distinct advantages of our times—unlike your forebears, who might have made similar mutually advantageous matches, we are free to dissolve our marriage of our own volition and go our separate ways thereafter.’
He took another draught of his coffee, finishing it and setting down the cup. He looked directly at her.
‘Well? What is your answer?’
She swallowed. There was a maelstrom in her head: thoughts and counter-thoughts, conflicting emotions. Swirling about chaotically. This couldn’t be real, could it? This almost complete stranger, sitting here suggesting they marry?
Marry so I can save Greymont—
She felt a hollowing inside her. That had been exactly what she herself had contemplated—had told Gerald Langley that she would do. She had seriously contemplated it with Toby, then balked at making a life-long commitment to a man she would never otherwise have considered marrying.
But Nikos Tramontes only wants two years.
Two brief years of her life.
Sharply,