Private Arrangements Read Free

if Michelangelo's Adam had leapt off the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, robbed a Savile Row bespoke tailor, and come to make trouble.
    She caught herself. She was staring, as if she was still that nineteen-year-old girl, devoid of depth but full of herself.
    “Hullo, Camden.”
    “Hullo, Gigi.”
    She had allowed no man to call her by that childhood pet name since his departure.
    Forcing herself away from the door, she crossed the length of the library, the carpet beneath her feet too soft, a quagmire. She marched right up to him, to show that she did not fear him. But she did. He held powers over her, powers far beyond those conferred by mere laws.
    Even though she was a tall woman, she had to tilt her head to look him in the eye. His eyes were a dark, dark green, like malachite from the Urals. She inhaled his subtle scent of sandalwood and citrus, the aroma she had once equated with happiness.
    “Are you here to grant me the divorce or to be a nuisance?” She got to the point right away. Trouble that was not confronted head-on always circled around to bite one in the bum.
    He shrugged. He had taken off his day coat and his necktie. Her gaze lingered one second too long on the golden skin at the base of his neck. His shirt of fine cambric draped over him lovingly, caressing his wide shoulders and long arms.
    “I'm here to set conditions.”
    “What do you mean, conditions?”
    “An heir. You produce an heir and I will allow the divorce to proceed. Otherwise I will name parties to your adultery. You do know that you cannot divorce me on grounds of adultery if you happen to have committed the same sin, don't you?”
    Her ears rang. “Surely you jest. You want an heir from me? Now?”
    “I couldn't stand the thought of bedding you before now.”
    “Really?” She laughed, though she'd have preferred to smash an inkwell against his temple. “You liked it well enough last time.”
    “The performance of a lifetime,” he said easily. “And I was a good thespian to begin with.”
    Pain erupted inside her, corrosive, debilitating pain she'd thought she'd never feel again. She groped for mastery and shoved the subject away from where she was most vulnerable. “Empty threats. I have not been intimate with Lord Frederick.”
    “How chaste of you. I speak of Lord Wrenworth, Lord Acton, and the Honorable Mr. Williams.”
    She sucked in a breath. How did he know? She'd been ever so careful, ever so discreet.
    “Your mother wrote me.” He watched her, evidently enjoying her mounting dismay. “Of course, she only wished for me to fly into a jealous rage and hurry across the ocean to reclaim you as my own. I'm sure you will forgive her.”
    If there ever existed extenuating circumstances for matricide, this was it. First thing tomorrow, she'd set loose two dozen famished goats in Mrs. Rowland's prized greenhouse. Then she'd corner the market on hair dyes and force the woman to show her graying roots.
    “You have a choice,” he said amicably. “We can resolve it privately. Or we can have sworn testimonies from these gentlemen. You know every word they utter would be in all the papers.”
    She blanched. Freddie was her very own human miracle, steadfast and loyal, loving her enough to willingly take part in all the hassle and ugliness of a divorce. But would he still love her when all her former lovers had testified to their affairs on public record?
    “Why are you doing this?” Her voice rose. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Any emotion she displayed before Tremaine was a show of weakness. “I had my solicitors send you a dozen letters. You never responded. We could have had this marriage annulled with some dignity, without having to go through this circus.”
    “And here I thought my lack of response adequately conveyed what I thought of your idea.”
    “I offered you one hundred thousand pounds!”
    “I'm worth twenty times that. But even if I hadn't a sou, that's not quite enough for me to stand before Her