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A ruthless moneylender…
Cedric Sharpe, illegitimate son of a duke, is among the most feared men in London. Through sheer force of will, Cedric rose from poverty to build a lucrative empire based on a single principle: that one must always pay their debts. And so, when presented with the opportunity to settle his score with the father who scorned him, he is determined to seize it at any cost. That the pristine Lady Rose Wilkins should come with the bargain only serves to sweeten the deal…
A gentle debutante…
Rose, with her gentle nature and effortless grace, is the perfect debutante with a single caveat: she has no dowry. When her wastrel brother places their family in dire financial straits—and his very life in the hands of one of London’s most ruthless men—she finds herself paying a price far beyond anything she'd ever imagined to save them: her hand in marriage to a man that frightens and excites her in equal measure.
A marriage of convenience…
But to their mutual surprise, what begins as a marriage of convenience soon develops into a consuming passion. As Cedric and Rose slowly learn that there is more to callous usurers and sheltered debutantes than meets the eye, they realize that they may end up losing far more than either of them bargained for…
Excerpt from the scoundrel’s score
Just as she was about to break the silence with an explanation for her presence, Mr. Sharpe executed a perfect bow. “A pleasure, my lady,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice that would not have been out of place in any Mayfair drawing room. “How may I be of service?”
Rose blinked. In truth, she’d expected a crude man with whom she’d need to pull generously from her reserve of haughty coolness to facilitate a negotiation. She had not expected the sort of gentleman she could easily have met at any dinner party or ball. The sort that could have called upon them at their home on North Audley Street without stirring suspicion.
“Mr. Sharpe, I do not wish to insult either of us by pretending that the reason for my visit is not obvious.”
He tilted his head. “Forgive me, my lady, but I find nothing about an unmarried young woman of your station calling upon my private residence unaccompanied, and in the dead of night, obvious.”
Her cheeks heated at the veiled admonishment in his words. But, despite her discomfort, she welcomed the reminder that there was more to a gentleman than his fine clothes and crisp vowels. No gentleman of her acquaintance would have sought to so cruelly humiliate her by pointing out her faux pas the way this Mr. Sharpe character seemed delighted to.
“As you are likely aware of the fact that my brother owes you a great deal of money in a short period of time, I find it difficult to believe that you cannot discern the reason for my visit, Mr. Sharpe,” she said, taking pride in the unshaken coolness of her tone.
“Ah. And is Lord Asbury aware that you are here on his behalf, Lady Rose?”
The sound of her given name on his lips, the intimacy of it despite the use of her title as a precursor, unsettled her. There was something about the way he strung the letters together, the way they were expelled by his deep baritone, that elicited an unfamiliar warmth deep in her belly.
“He is not,” she admitted, pushing the odd feeling aside. “In truth, he has not been… well.”
If Mr. Sharpe had any particular feelings about the suffering of one of his clients, his expression gave no indication of it.
Rose swallowed before she said, “I have reason to believe that the pressure he feels at the prospect of having to pay back an exorbitant sum that he does not currently possess in so short a time has much to do with his current state.”
“An exorbitant sum in so short a time?”
“Do you deny that the terms of the loan dictate an outrageous fifty percent interest rate, Mr. Sharpe?”
“My lady, Lord Ashbury seems to have omitted several crucial facts regarding the loan and its terms. Namely, the one where he was exceedingly pleased with said terms—the interest rate included—when they were initially drawn.” Mr. Sharpe paused. “But then, I suppose being handed an exorbitant sum to do with as one pleases shines in comparison to having to pay the piper after you’ve spent the sum in question.”
“Please, you must understand. Lord Ashbury has been under a great deal of pressure since our father’s passing. The estate and its upkeep, the tenants, the house here in London—and then there was that dreadful plague two years past—he was not prepared to come into it all so soon, you see…”
The rest of the words died in her throat as she saw the faint smile on Mr. Sharpe’s lips. There was no mirth, no warmth, to be found in the expression. It existed solely to mock her and her family’s struggles, and she would have given anything to wipe the offending expression off his handsome face.
What did he know of struggle, this man who made his fortune on the backs of others? On their desperation and misery?
“Pressure, you say? My lady, please do be seated. No doubt you will need to do so before this night is through.”
She remained standing, and her obstinacy elicited that mocking smile yet again. “Very well, though I warn you I’m not one who can boast a great deal of patience for swooning debutantes.” He said the words lightly, but the contempt in his tone was not lost on her. “Your brother inherited an earldom that, while not precisely prosperous, was far from the dismal state in which his four-year reign has left it. When I took Lord Ashbury on as a client, the estate in Wiltshire was of modest health, and the earldom boasted an unusual number of unentailed properties—country houses, arable lands, and the like—scattered throughout the country. In short, he was a considerably promising investment at the time, even with his existing debts factored into the equation.”
Something deeply unpleasant lodged in her throat.
He is lying. He must be, for it could not be true that the brother she loved so dearly, that Aunt Edith doted upon with more care than she would have if he were her own son, could single-handedly destroy in four years what it had taken a line of men centuries to build.
It could not be true that even her negligent father, who had disdained anything devoid of London’s sophisticated diversions, had taken greater care with their fortune and their futures than Samuel.
Any yet… the new gowns that had arrived every year like clockwork, never to see the inside of a London ballroom until they were well past their prime, had stopped coming the year after their parents’ deaths. The trained lady’s maid, the seasoned under-butler, and even a few of the footmen had gone a couple of years later. Several choice pieces of their mother’s coveted jewels—priceless diamonds, bold rubies, and clear sapphires that shimmered like glass—had disappeared the next.
It was all far too coincidental.
She shut the door on her despair before it could get the better of her, and firmly turned the key to face down this man who cared little for the disappointment she felt in the brother she still—despite it all—loved. Now was not the time or the place to explore her revelations. Not as this man watched her carefully all the while, his pale green eyes raking her features with a cool interest that revealed little of the thoughts that lay in their depths.
Not when there was now a predatory quality about his gaze, a sharpness that made her want to turn away from him and seek a safer point of focus. It took more effort than she was ever likely to admit to keep from doing just that.
“Be that as it may, the facts as they are still stand. We do not possess the sum you seek. However, if you would be willing to extend the due date on the loan, I am certain that Lord Ashbury will do everything in his power to see that he honors his end of the new bargain. And he would be exceedingly grateful to you.”
“And what of you, my lady? Would you be grateful to me?”
She felt the heat rising to her cheeks yet again at the quiet words, despite the seemingly innocuous question they posed. It was no small wonder that this man, for all his icy reserve, managed to keep her cheeks flush with color.
“Yes, I would be most grateful to you, Mr. Sharpe,” she forced out the words, instinctively knowing they would please him.
His eyes flickered, the change so brief she almost thought she had imagined it. “And what do you do when you’re grateful, Lady Rose?”
The words were a low rumble, as dark and dangerous as the man who uttered them.
What would she do? For her brother, for her aunt, for the hundreds of men and women who depended upon the Ashbury name for their livelihoods and their own families’ prospects?
“What would you have me do, Mr. Sharpe?”
The words shocked him as much as they did her. She saw it in the way he blinked, in the way he turned away from her for the briefest of moments before fixing her with his cool gaze once more. “I would have you consider my proposition.”
Her heart sank at the soft words.
Though she did not consider herself a worldly woman by any stretch of the imagination, she knew without a doubt where his proposition would lead. After all, there was only ever a single price the villain of the novel sought to exact from the virtuous heroine.
“And what would this proposition entail?” she asked, taking strength from the rush of pride she felt at the steadiness of her words despite the rapid beating of her heart.
“Unless I am mistaken, I do not imagine that Lord Ashbury has been able to provide you with a dowry befitting a young lady of your breeding?”
The words were blunt, posed as a question to which he obviously knew the answer. She saw no need to respond.
He was not deterred by her silence. “I suppose that has made things rather… difficult for you, has it not? After all, it’s no secret that few peers can afford the luxury of a wife that does not come with a considerable dowry.”
“No, I don’t suppose it is.” She did not doubt that he sought to unnerve her with his vulgar talk of the monetary realities of the marriage mart. And she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing his goal met.
“Let us be frank, my lady—”
“Have we not already been so, Mr. Sharpe?”
Her words, testy and bitter, shocked them both yet again.
Rose could not recall a single instance in the entirety of her twenty-two years of existence during which she had interrupted a gentleman’s speech. If the ticking muscle in Mr. Sharpe’s firm jaw was any indication, he was no more accustomed to having his speech interrupted than she was to interrupting it. That did not surprise her in the least. This was not the sort of man who would take kindly to being waylaid.
Oh Samuel, just what have you gotten us into?
Mr. Sharpe inclined his head. “Yes, I suppose we already have. Very well, let us go on as we began.”
He paused, and she had a distinct impression that he was weighing his next words carefully. She was overcome with the urge to demand that he simply spit them out. After all, it was not every day that one faced their impending demise and, as Aunt Edith was likely to say, it never did to linger over such things.
That said demise would be delivered by a tall and handsome stranger with piercing green eyes—the very opposite of the greasy, hook-nosed villains that littered many a cautionary tale—did little to negate her dread.
“There is little use in sugar-coating the fact that your family is in desperate need of funds, my lady. Funds that I am in a position to provide.”
Though she knew it was impossible, the ticking of that dratted clock grew louder in the brief silence that followed his statement.
“And what would you expect in exchange for those funds, Mr. Sharpe?”
It was as if the words had been spoken by another, for Rose had no desire to hear what Cedric Sharpe expected in exchange for his generosity. She had no need to hear it, for there was only one thing a girl like her could give a man like him in exchange for it. There was only one thing a girl like her had ever been advised to guard as closely as she would her very life, for without it, her life, her future prospects—her very being—would be devoid of all value. Would she willingly surrender it to Mr. Sharpe in exchange for the lives of her family and those who depended upon them?
Like so many questions that had arisen since her arrival in London, she had no real desire to learn the answer to that one.
“I would expect to gain an advantage equal to the one I will grant.”
“I’m afraid I do not follow?” she said as her brow furrowed slightly in confusion. It was not the response she had braced herself to receive from him.
“In exchange for my forgiveness of Lord Ashbury’s debt, and my willingness to bestow upon your family a sum generous enough to restore the earldom’s coffers, I wish to gain what my money cannot buy. Namely, open invitations to some of the loftier drawing rooms in London.”
He paused as if waiting for her to point out the futility of his desire. Or to laugh at its sheer absurdity.
Mr. Sharpe did not strike her as the sort of man who harbored delusions. In fact, everything about him suggested that he was very much the opposite of such a man. And yet, surely he knew just as well as she did that no self-respecting member of the peerage would open their home to a known usurer—let alone one with a reputation such as his. At least, not if such a thing could be helped.
However, having no desire to offend him, Rose kept her uncharitable thoughts to herself. Instead, she asked, “And what do you believe my family can do to aid you in achieving that goal, Mr. Sharpe?”
“I do not believe that your family can aid me in achieving that goal, Lady Rose. You, on the other hand, can aid me a great deal.”
“Mr. Sharpe, if you wish for a sponsor, I would be happy to suggest any number of well-respected—”
“I do not wish for a sponsor. I wish for a wife with enough blue blood to open even a fraction of those closed doors.”
“A wife?” she echoed. A sense of foreboding slowly crept up her spine like the light brush of chilled fingers. Surely he could not mean what she suspected he meant?
He inclined his head in agreement. “Yes, a wife.”
Her throat worked. “Do you have a lady in mind for the role?”
“Indeed I do.” He took a small step towards her, and she instinctively stepped back. To his credit, her involuntary movement stopped him in his tracks.
But there was no stopping the calculating gleam in his eyes, or the way they took in every nuance of her expression.
In that moment she realized that he did not only look at her in a way that no man before him had. He looked at her in a way that no one in her entire life—man or woman—ever had. Mr. Sharpe watched her as though he sought to read every thought and feeling she possessed. As though he sought to consume every inch of her.
To her horror, she could barely suppress a shiver of what she could not entirely claim was fear at the thought.
“Lady Rose, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
Copyright© 2019 Mara Shaw. All Rights Reserved.