“It mightn’t be a boy,” she said for what felt like the hundredth time since he’d broached this scheme.
However he chose to ride roughshod over her uncertainties, Lord Burnley’s ambitions faced enormous stumbling blocks. “If it’s a girl, you’ll still be rich beyond your wildest dreams. And the girl gets all my property that’s not entailed.”
“I mightn’t get pregnant.”
He glowered. “You’re damned gloomy for a woman with a fortune in her sights. Don’t forget, it’s not just you in the lap of luxury, but your father and that Gypsy slut as well.”
She liked to tell herself her father’s future had weighed heavily in her decision to cooperate with Lord Burnley. But in her heart, she knew it was the lure of this house that made her betray everything she believed in.
She still remembered her astonished elation when Burnley suggested the scheme. The interview had been awkward, difficult. A man who never admitted weakness had to explain he was riddled with cancer, and one irreversible effect of the disease was impotence.
At last, she’d comprehended Burnley’s deep anger since the fire. It wasn’t sadness for so many lives lost. It was frustration that he was in no position to spawn a new heir.
To secure the succession with a child of his blood, he needed a woman willing to whore herself to his bastard son. The bastard son Burnley despised and who remained ignorant of his heritage. The woman had to be of otherwise unimpeachable virtue and discretion because once she fell pregnant, she’d become Lady Burnley.
His bailiff’s widowed daughter was perfect on all counts.
God help her, she’d agreed within a day. Presented with the promise of taking over the running of Cranston Abbey, she couldn’t say no.
Weak, greedy Diana.
But the risks had seemed so minor and the rewards so princely. As marchioness, Diana had no ambitions to cut a figure in society. Instead, she intended to live quietly, raising her son to love the estate as she did. After all, the Abbey would be his when he turned twenty-one.
The chances of running into Lord Ashcroft once the affair ended were minimal. He’d have no reason to assume the child she gave Lord Burnley was his.
Unless he calculated the months…
Unless he was suspicious…
Unless the child looked like him…
Before she’d met him, she’d assumed Lord Ashcroft wouldn’t care about eventual consequences. She’d since discovered he cared deeply. After today, one thing was starkly clear. If he ever found out she’d deceived him and stolen his child, he’d be furious.
Burnley watched her with his reptilian regard. “Does he want to see you again?”
“Yes.”
“The ruffian is a connoisseur of the petticoat brigade. You have hidden talents, Mrs. Carrick.” He spoke the last words with a sarcastic edge as if reminding her she’d lost any claim to virtue.
She hardly noticed. He couldn’t castigate her more than she castigated herself. Her honor was gone. She could never claim it back.
“Don’t wait long.” Burnley shifted in his chair and fleeting pain contorted his face. “The more he uses you, the more likely his seed takes. We can’t assume once is enough.”
She cringed at his frankness although she should be accustomed to it. His plan wasn’t that different to mating a prize sow to get a litter of fat piglets.
With every moment, the old man looked more drained as his elation faded. His assertion that she didn’t have long to achieve her aim wasn’t his usual bullying. It was true.
If she was any judge, Edgar Fanshawe would claim his seat in hell well before winter.
Timing was everything.
In a little over three weeks, she should know if she was pregnant. Otherwise, she’d have to wait into September. After that, the fashionable hordes returned to London. Her chances of concealing her scandalous liaison would diminish. She also acknowledged the undeniable risk that Lord Ashcroft would tire of her. She might have decided he possessed unexpected qualities, but facts spoke for themselves—he never stayed with a woman long.
“I’ll return to London in the morning,” she said, rising. “I’d like to see my father before I go.”
“If you must.” Burnley paused to catch his failing breath.
She didn’t like this man, she feared him, she knew how cold and manipulative he was. But simple humanity made her protest that he sat up working when he needed his bed. “My lord, why don’t you rest?”