law.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“The rightful owner is the first to record the deed,” Blackwood said. “I recorded the deed with the Hertfordshire Registrar the day I purchased the manor. There was no mention of your deed in the books, and I carefully examined them. I questioned the clerk as well, and he was unaware of another owner or resident. So you see the legality of my deed is no longer in question.”
A cold knot formed in Bella’s stomach. She’d had no idea she was expected to record the deed. She had believed all was legal when Sir Reeves had scrawled his signature on the deed and handed it to her. But this man, this duke, was trying to steal her home from beneath her based on a legal technicality that was ethically wrong. She refused to be bullied by him.
She had purchased Wyndmoor Manor first!
Bella stalked forward, glaring up at him. “For someone who claims to have been a barrister for over ten years, you were duped alongside me.”
He flinched, and she suspected she had struck a nerve.
“There is a simple way to resolve our dilemma,” he said. “We have to find Redmond Reeves. He told me he planned on departing Hertfordshire when he sold me the place. Nonetheless, one of the barristers with whom I share my chambers has access to some of the best investigators in the business. I will retain his services to search for Reeves straightaway and see that your money is returned. If he is not found or has spent the money, I will personally reimburse you.”
“Why would you do that?” she asked.
“This manor has great significance to me. It belonged to my father, the old duke, before he recently sold it to Reeves before his death. I intend to reclaim it. That being said, I do not believe it will be difficult for the investigator to locate Reeves. He cannot have gone far, and I will ensure he returns your money.”
Bella did not like the direction he was taking. “To the contrary, Sir Reeves has run off with your money. You should locate him and argue the matter with him.”
He shook his head. “I do apologize for frightening you last night. I’ve noticed you have only one servant here, an elderly woman. I will instruct my servants to assist yours in packing your things.” He looked around haughtily as if he were an appraiser at a foreclosure sale. “I trust it will not take longer than a week. I’m perfectly willing to sleep at the Twin Rams Inn until Reeves is found and your belongings packed.”
She glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes. He had her future meticulously planned and probably never once doubted her cooperation.
Just like Roger.
Were all men so selfish and manipulative?
Fury almost choked her, and her breaths came in ragged gasps. She had spent too many years living in fear, capitulating to the whims of a cruel, controlling man, to fall victim once again. She wanted peace, the freedom to run her own life and resume her writing ambitions, and this isolated country manor offered her the perfect respite.
Every curve of her body spoke defiance as she pointed to the empty stone fireplace. “You can burn your document before you leave. It means nothing to me. I purchased Wyndmoor Manor first. I moved in first. I am the rightful owner. You may have recently inherited your title, but you are no gentleman. You are nothing more than a bully trying to oust a widow from her home. I trust you can see yourself out, Your Grace.”
But the Duke of Blackwood, as he now was, stood unmoving. His eyes narrowed, and a muscle flicked angrily at his jaw.
His voice, though quiet, had an ominous quality. “I think not, Mrs. Sinclair. You are the one that must leave. I had planned on acting the gentleman by residing elsewhere until the matter is resolved in consideration of your reputation. I have since changed my mind. I intend to live here until that time.”
“You’re insane! I’m living here. You are now a duke. Surely you have vast estates to choose from in the country and in London.” She was aware of the faint thread of hysteria in her own voice.
“Yes, that’s true. But as I explained, I intend to reclaim this place. Now I’ll ask you again, do you have anywhere else to go? What of the home you shared with your husband? His family?”
She felt icy fingers travel up her spine. The thought of returning to Plymouth and facing the suspicions and hatred of its townsfolk made her gut clench. “I’m not leaving.”
They glared at each other across a sudden angry silence.
“Then you will have to reside with me until we locate Reeves and retrieve your money,” he said. “Do you truly wish to live with a bachelor? Your reputation will be shredded beyond repair.”
Little did he know, Roger had already successfully destroyed her reputation. Since she never planned to marry again, she cared naught for society’s cruel and unjust opinions.
She met his gaze without flinching. “As I said, you may have inherited a dukedom, but you are no gentleman.”
He stepped forward, appearing tall, broad, and compellingly male. His eyes traveled her face, and he leaned close—so very close—yet he did not touch her. She raised her chin, her eyes flashing with outrage. Then he reached out to finger a wayward auburn curl resting on her cheek, twisting it leisurely between his fingers.
Her heart hammered in her chest. She could smell a hint of sandalwood in his cologne and feel his warm breath on her cheek. She wanted to slap his hand away, resist his unexpected touch, but a ripple of awareness passed through her limbs, upsetting her balance.
Raising her eyes, she was struck by his sardonic gaze, full of challenge and amusement, as if he enjoyed her struggle to maintain her composure and knew his effect on her senses. Knew he exuded a potent sensuality.
She pulled away, momentarily abashed.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, “and I’m no gentleman. I’ve always had a weakness for the fair sex. I seem to find most attractive women irresistible, even widows with tongues that can clip tin. Who’s to say I won’t behave ungentlemanly and pay a nightly visit to your bedchamber should we live under the same roof?”
Shock and embarrassment yielded quickly to fury. “Bastard!” she cursed, not caring how unladylike she sounded. “If you so much as come near my bedchamber, you’ll find me armed with the poker—and I won’t waste my efforts on your skull!”
Grasping her skirts, she spun on her heel and slammed the door on her way out.
Chapter 4
What was it about the woman that made James’s iron-clad control slip? Had he actually threatened to come to her bedchamber? In all his years of debauchery, he had never forced himself on a woman. It had never been necessary. Bella Sinclair had rightfully called him a bastard.
And until recently, he’d believed the same of himself.
James sighed as he stood in the center of the drawing room. Bella Sinclair was a beautiful woman with a glorious shade of auburn hair that matched her volatile temper. When she’d entered the drawing room, head held high, dressed in a gown that accentuated her generous curves, his blood had pounded in his veins. Memories of the night before returned, and he recalled her dark red tresses loose about her shoulders, whereas today her hair was bound in a tight knot. His fingers had itched to pull the pins from her hair and see the true color in the sunlight. Her gown had enhanced her magnificent green eyes, and he suspected she had carefully chosen her attire.
James knew women, knew all their ploys and virtues, and Bella Sinclair had walked into the room with every intention of throwing him off balance.
She had succeeded.
Bloody hell.
He had to put a stop to his carnal thoughts and consider her as an adversary barring him from what he coveted. She was a female, no different from any other, and James had yet to encounter a woman he couldn’t charm and seduce. How difficult