Chapter 16

Six months, Lady Margaret."

Six months?" The dowager duchess could find no fault with the figure presented to her. Fury's either for that matter. "My goodness. At last."

"Yes. Alas, Thomas lived only just long enough to know of the great joy that was going to be his. It has been a sad time for all. But, now I am home at Ravenhurst, with this tiny reminder of him, his child, his hopefully-to-be son and heir, how can my fortunes fail to improve?"

Fury's eyes pinged open before she could discover whether her fortunes improved or not. Her gaze shrank from the sunlight filtering through the shutters, and she realized one thing. The dream was over. The nightmare was still before her--beside her, actually, sprawled out over three quarters of the bed while she huddled, trying to get a snatch on the edge.

Even as she tried to clear her head, crockery clattered.

"Good morning, madam." Susan set a tray down on the dressing table. "Or would you prefer it in bed?"

"What?" Last night she'd thought she might.

"Breakfast."

Fury sat up. Coffee steamed in a silver pot. Was that fresh bread? When they hadn't a halfpenny to their names?

"Where did you get " Her gaze skittered sideways. She didn't want Flint knowing her straits were so tight it was a wonder she could breathe through them.

At least he was still here. At least he hadn't run in the darkness. Was that something or not, though?

"Don't worry. I pawned the salon candlesticks, madam. We can get them back before Signor Santa-Rosa finds out. But you'll need to feed him." Susan lifted the coffee pot. "Now "

Fury swept her hair out her eyes. She could see the tanned oval of Flint's face behind the disheveled corn-hued hair. She could even hear him breathing. To think she'd been forced to lie on top of the same bed as him all night, while he just slept.

Did Susan think the deed was accomplished? Was that why she'd not only pawned the candlesticks, she'd brought breakfast in bed? Did she think that was where Fury would be spending the day? With this bastard? Nausea flooded her stomach. And she wasn't even pregnant.

Didn't Susan see the fact she was still fully dressed? Or the cinders dusting the dressing table? The markers of Fury's own stupidity?

"Just leave the tray there, will you? I'll get it in a minute."

"Madam, is everything all right?"

"It couldn't be better. What makes you think it's not? Thank you for pawning the candlesticks. I'm ashamed I didn't think of it myself."

"I didn't think you'd mind. But you'll need money if you're going to keep him."

Money. It was how her life revolved. The bitter need of it. What did Lady Margaret know of that, safe in Ravenhurst? Why, even in Fury's dream she'd had that horrible, you-are-dirtier-than-dirt expression, and had seemed gobsmacked Fury was pregnant.

Fury would be gobsmacked herself, the night she'd just spent.

James Flint Blackmore, lying next to her again, after seven years.

Fury had been at great pains to keep a foot free in the middle of the bed, as she lay staring at the ceiling. As for not thinking of pawning the candlesticks? What kind of a woman was she? Susan smiled.

"Well, you can't expect a gentleman to pay for himself in the circumstances."

A gentleman? Fury paced across to the dressing table, battling her annoyance.

"He's not a gentleman. But let's not go into what he is, since the snake is probably listening. Just go, will you?"

She lifted the cup of scalding coffee to her lips, waiting on stretched nerves for the door to close. It was morning, by God, and she needed to put an end to this charade.

She'd allowed herself, with good cause, to be drawn into making that contract. He'd responded, as he always responded, by grabbing the upper hand. But now she stepped back and thought.She hadn't made these rules to keep him away from her body, had she? She'd made them because she'd thought mistakenly and misguidedly the damned dog still had a place in her heart, when he didn't. What he had was the cheek to blackmail her into this and then renege on the deal.

So now, she needed to face the fact this was a business agreement and the sooner it was undertaken, the better. The man was a privateer. Privateers had rules. He wanted his ship. She wanted the Beaumont heir. No matter how last night had happened, surely he understood that?

And really, if these rules were troubling, she should rescind them. Not because she liked him. Because she'd made them in a moment of folly. A moment only destined to show him one thing. She somehow feared having sex with him, because he was so indescribably brilliant in bed, she'd be slavering all over his booted feet.

As if.

"Wake up. Coffee." She set the tray down on the bedside cabinet with a clatter.

"Hmmm?"

"I'm sure you heard. But do let me say it again, in case you're deaf to add to your many drawbacks, and because nothing would surprise me. Coffee."

Cursing, he dragged the pillow over his head.

"And hot rolls."

"What the hell would I be wanting hot rolls for this time in the morning? You lost your head?"

The bad temper wasn't feigned. He'd been asleep. Last night she'd thought he'd planned to bolt. No doubt he was furious he hadn't.

"No. But we do have work to do."

"You know what they say all work makes."

"Perhaps you'd prefer rum? I can send Susan."

He took his head out from under the pillow, his eyes narrowed in a way she'd never seen before. What the hell had been inflicted on the man to make him look shocked that anyone would offer him anything? Or did he seriously think she couldn't be reasonable? About the rum? About all of this?

"Coffee's fine. As long as you never poisoned it. How did Thomas die, anyway?"

"He just did. Now, James, you know if I said otherwise, you'd never believe me." She reached for the butter knife. "Now then, some butter, some apricot preserve on your rolls?"

"What?"

"Some "

"I heard." He grabbed a hunk of dry bread and stuffed it in his mouth. "Dry's fine."

She looked at him without flinching. The time had come to start.