Wilham strode to the small study off the main hall with long strides. He was trailed by a young, flustered footman who hurried to announce him. "T-the Duke of Ellesmere."
Schelldon was seated before a fire place, his large girth weighed down by jewels and a ceremonial sword at his waist. Wilham doubted the man had ever used a sword for its intended purpose in his life. His graying hair and wrinkled skin were a familiar sight, but there was a sunken paleness about his features that had not been there before.
"Ellesmere," Schelldon acknowledged, waving him to a nearby seat. Wilham remained standing and refused the whiskey offered. He would have refused Schelldon's summons also had he not possessed something Wilham wanted. And they both knew it.
"Trenton's made a favourable offer for Kellendale."
Wilham stiffened imperceptively. Schelldon was well known for his games, in and out of the bedroom. Kellendale was Wilham's mother's family home, and held great sentimental value to her. Even though unentailed, Kellendale had been in her family for seven generations. His brother had lost it in a bet with Schelldon two years past, and Schelldon had taken great delight in dangling Kellendale out of Wilham's reach ever since.
"I'm considering it," Schelldon added when no response was forthcoming.
"Then I'll leave you to your deliberations. My last offer was more than generous."
Wilham pivoted on his booted foot, but Schelldon flung out a hand.
"I'm dying."
Wilham's eyebrows rose. Schelldon never showed weakness. To him it was the worst sin. That he did so now meant only one thing. He wanted something. "My last offer still stands," Wilham said over his shoulder.
"Money means little to me where I am going."
"Then what is it you want?" Wilham asked curtly, turning to face the him. Any sign on pity on Wilham's part would only be viewed by with scorn.
"I have no sons. Upon my death my entire estate passes to my nephew, who is an intolerable fool, and so too is his whore of a wife."
"I fail to see-."
"I want an heir."
"Again, I fail to see how I can be of assistance. This is something only a wife can provide."
"Your grandfather got four sons on his wife, three of which reached maturity. You have eight male cousins, whom many have sons of their own."
Wilham frowned.
"My first three wives failed in their duty. My fourth is healthy and ripe for a child."
"Then surely why waste time talking of such matters to me?"
"I want you to get a male child on her."
Wilham stepped back, stunned. "You want what?"
"As soon as she is breeding, I will sign Kellendale over to you."
"What makes you think I would pay such a high price? To beget a child on some stranger then walk away, leaving my child to fend for itself without the protection of my family's name?"
Schelldon cut the air with his hand. "All I ask is two things. That you do not speak of this to anyone."
"My silence is assured. What of the other?" Wilham's disgust was obvious.
"That you meet my wife before making your decision."
"Even if she could suck the wind from my sails with an expertise that would make a courtesan envious, my answer is still be the same," Wilham said crudely.
"Then there is no harm in meeting her for the sake of a dying man."
Schelldon's attempt to manipulate was laughable. "Does she know of your intention to sell stud rights?"
"No, nor will she."
"Is she such an imbecile that she would mistake her husband in the dark for another? Or is she in the habit of taking lovers?"
"She is no imbecile. I will make the necessary arrangements." Schelldon rose unsteadily and moved to the window overlooking the terrace. "She is there."
Of their own accord Wilham found his feet moving to the neighbouring window. Curiosity, he told himself. Rumours had circled several years ago about the hasty marriage between Schelldon and a country lass of no standing. Many had believed Schelldon to have been caught dallying with the young chit and forced to wed her. When it became apparent that Schelldon never intended presenting his young bride to court, or of allowing her to leave his country estates, the gossip escalated.
Wilham brushed the velvet curtain aside. And felt as though he had been kicked in the gut by a horse. She was tiny, with silvery blonde hair curling around a delicate heart-shaped face dominated by large blue-gray eyes. It was those eyes that caught and held his attention. They shone with life and laughter, their sweetness exuding none of the familiar jaded disinterest of ladies of his experience. She wore a simple peach silk gown that covered any hint of cleavage and the womanly curves beneath, and a single rope of creamy pearls at her throat. When she smiled as a servant poured her tea from a silver pot, a tiny dimple appeared in her right cheek, and he itched to trace it with his tongue.
Her shining innocence astounded him. Married to a devil like Schelldon since she was fourteen, and now barely nineteen if he could recall, Wilham had expected some of her husband's enjoyment of certain bed sports would have lent her an air of... what? Experience? Maturity?
As Wilham gazed upon her, the thought of her in Schelldon's hands grated excessively. What could her parents have been thinking, to marry her off to a decrepit old man old enough to be her grandfather? A man who enjoyed whipping young boys for his pleasure no less. Was her delicate skin marred beneath her gown? Wilham dragged his eyes from her and reached for the bottle of whiskey on the bookshelves and poured it into a glass tumbler. He took a large swallow, knowing Schelldon watched him, savouring his reaction. Hell.
The rumours were false. Wilham suspected the wily devil had kept her under lock and key for a wholly different purpose. He took another swallow as he imagined her tiny figure smothered beneath the pressing weight of Schelldon as he bedded her. His knuckles turned white where they gripped the glass.
What Schelldon proposed went against Wilham's every moral fibre. Yet he could not deny that the thought of giving her pleasure, perhaps for the first time, and showing her young body how to please him, teased his jaded appetite. He felt himself stir at the thought of stealing into her melting warmth, of planting his seed in her womb.
Hell and damnation he thought, slamming down the glass. Schelldon was a treacherous bastard. Wilham's eyes slid back to the exquisite angel. Perhaps she had not a thought in her brain, and giggled incessantly? Would it matter once he silenced her with his kiss? Fury, disgust and lust twisted in his gut.
"No," Wilham ground out as he strode from the study.
~*~
Thomasyn watched from beneath lowered lashes as the dark stranger strode toward her where she sat on the stone bench, her papers and charcoal at her side. He was impossibly tall and broad, his hair black as night. His eyes, green jewels, flashed with the heat and vibrancy that emeralds lacked. He was rugged and manly, unlike the pretty men that always seemed to flutter around Henry on her rare visits to Hauxley.
He bowed low before her, and she spied Henry hurrying toward them over his shoulder.
"I thank you for your hospitality, my Lady. I am Wilham, Duke of Ellesmere."
