“You can’t be serious.”  Sloan Weatherfield turned from the window to face Percival Miller, a scowl marring his otherwise handsome face.  “Marriage? As a condition of my inheritance? Perhaps you misinterpreted…”

Percival Miller pushed his thin spectacles back up on the bridge of his beaklike nose and eyed the younger man wearily.

“I’ve been in your aunt’s service since before you were born. I’ve learned to interpret her impeccably. She was very clear, Sloan. She means for you to settle down. Either you marry by Yuletide or you will not get one dime.”

Sloan glared and turned back towards the window, rubbing the back of his head in frustration. “I’m not ready to marry.”

“I should think not, what with maids and lords’ daughters alike so quick to spread their legs for you.” Miller’s voice dripped with disdain. “But Her Ladyship is remiss to hand over her estate to anyone exhibiting so little self control or interest in his personal future. Not even a beloved nephew.”

Sloan was tempted to rise to the bait. He clenched his fist as he swallowed his retort. Percival was one to talk, with his string of young male lovers. Sloan was tempted to tell his aunt’s foppish secretary that he should be credited for being selective. Was it his fault that he’d not found a woman who’d captured his fancy enough to even consider marrying?

“What are you waiting on?” Percy asked, as if reading Sloan’s mind. “You could have your pick of any well-bred female in the land, and accomplished ones at that. Many are schooled in languages and arts. All have been taught to be docile and are more than eager to produce an heir for you to leave what’s left of your aunt’s fortune to after you squander it, as you most likely will.”

Sloan rounded on Percy. “Exactly what do you have against me, Percy? I would think you’d exercise a little more self-preservation by holding your tongue. Aunt Grace is ill; she won’t be around much longer. We both know that. And don’t think you skill as secretary will persuade me to keep you on. Continue with your jibes and you’ll be out in the cold. Do you understand?”

Sloan was satisfied to see some of the color drain from the secretary’s face.

“I did not mean to offend.” Miller’s tone had turned solicitous. “But your aunt is serious, and if she disinherits you…”

Neither wanted to think of the possibility. Percival Miller needed Sloan Weatherfield to be the heir, for even given his threat to the secretary, Miller was a good financial manager. And if Sloan did not inherit, his estranged Uncle William would, and he would not see that happen.

But to marry? The secretary was right; there were plenty of well-bred, docile females to be had. But they were vapid despite their schooling, and boring as the color grey.

“Your aunt will want to discuss this matter with you over dinner,” Percy continued. “She told me to inform you that you are expected at her table.”

“Of course,” Sloan said. “He never refused Grace Weatherfield’s requests for his company, and it wasn’t because he stood to inherit her massive fortune. His aunt had been there for him when he’d lost his beloved parents to a tragic carriage accident. He’d been just twelve when he’d awakened to find her at the table where he’d come for breakfast.

“Aunt Grace,” he’d said. “Mummy and Father did not tell me you were coming to visit.”

“Your parents are dead child,” she’d said in her blunt way. “There’s no easy way to say it. On the way home from the Falstead’s party their carriage horses spooked at a fox and went over the embankment. They were killed on impact. I’m sorry. You are to live with me now.”

His father had taught him to be stoic and it was the one time Sloan failed the man he’d admired so much. He staggered for a moment and slumped to the floor. His aunt came over and wrapped her shawl around him. She held him awkwardly, as she’d never had children and really didn’t know how to comfort one. But no one could have comforted Sloan then, and after long minutes of wailing his grief, he was ordered to stand and dry his eyes.

“Your parents taught you to be strong,” his aunt said. “Honor them now.”

So he went with her and while she was never the warmest person he’d known, there was no doubting that she cared. She funded his education, his pursuits and was quick to give him guidance and direction. Even now at age thirty-two, Sloan Weatherfield was still subject to that direction and wasn’t about to defy her. He loved his aunt, but he knew it would be a stupid move to risk his future by refusing to marry. He’s have to settle for some boring highborn lady who would expect him to gush over her clothing or embroidery skills and hope she would remain docile if he strayed from the sheer boredom of imposed monogamy. Sloan contented himself with the knowledge that he would not be the only Lord who took mistresses. Most did, and most wives made the best of it.

Even though the notion of an imposed marriage irritated him, Sloan was more resigned to the idea by the time he entered his aunt’s drawing room. She was sitting in a wing-backed velvet chair studying a new painting of herself wearing her mother’s jewels. The woman in the painting looked much younger than the woman in the chair.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” she said. “I commissioned that Frenchman to do it. He captured me quite perfectly, don’t you think?”

Sloan smiled, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. “It’s a wholly accurate depiction,” he said.

Grace Weatherfield looked up at her nephew and smiled. “Sweet liar,” she said with a grin. “I believe the Frenchman was eager to gain my business again. But flattery is a strong inducement and since I’ll be soon dead I prefer to be remembered like this.” She waved a slightly palsied hand towards the portrait.

“Auntie, don’t say such things,” Sloan said, his heart twisting with sadness. “You’re going to be around for a long, long time.”

She patted his hand.

“Sweet lad. Were that it could be so. But I think not. Which is why I must insist that you marry. I assume that my loyal Percy has spoken to you of my wishes.”

“He didn’t frame them as wishes,” he said.

She chuckled. “Percy knows me well. And you are correct. I would be devastated if you did not inherit, but you will not if you do not begin the process to take a wife. Not a week goes by that some acquaintance does not angle to arrange a meeting between you and his daughter. You are a prize, Sloan, both in form and fortune. Marriage will settle you.”

“You never married, Auntie,” Sloan observed.

“No,” she said. “I did not. And I have regretted it. I would have regretted it more had it not been for your company. I was able to be a mother, or as close to one as I imagine I ever could be…”

“You’ve been a good one,” he said, kissing her powdered cheek.

“Yes, but I’ve missed the benefits of having someone to share my life, to enjoy the fruits of my wealth. A partner….” She sighed. “That would have been nice. Very nice indeed. This house is a big place to rattle around in alone. The years roll by quickly, my dear nephew. I would like to see you start now to live outside yourself a bit. A good wife will help you learn to do that.”

She stood. “Walk with me to the table.”

He took her arm and they began to stroll towards the dining room. Sloan could already smell the odor of dinner wafting towards them - goose, cranberries, fall greens, roasted apples in wine.

“It’s an unfortunate business about poor William Rudolph, don’t you think?” she asked.

“What business?” Sloan shot his aunt a puzzled glance.

“He’s gravely ill with consumption, and the physician says he’ll be dead in a fortnight. And him with no more family than that headstrong Rosalie. He’s determined not to leave his holdings to her. She’s stubbornly refused to marry for years now and at twenty-five no man will have her, not with her temper. And it’s a shame, too, because she is such a beauty.  Lord Rudolph has informed her of his intent to send her to the convent, whether she likes it or not.” Grace Weatherfield dropped her voice as two servants walked past. “My trusted servant Rebecca’s sister works in the Rudolph’s home. She said there was quite a row when he announced his decision. It would seem that Rosalie is a firebrand.” She chuckled. “The good sisters of St. Mary’s will have quite a problem on their hands once Rosalie joins them.”

Rosalie. Sloan had vague memories of the young woman attending parties at his parents’ home. She had dark eyes and a tangle of black hair that flew behind her as she rode her pony pell mell over the moors. Even as a child she had a reputation that bordered on scandalous. Rumos of her various engagements were followed by rumors of her locking herself in her room and refusing to go to the altar. The one time she was drug there by her father who hoped to wed her to an affluent business associate ended with the prospective groom having a heart attack before the ceremony ended. Witchcraft, some whispered. But the family’s good name and rank protected Rosalie from too much scrutiny.

Sloan had not given the beautiful, eccentric young noblewoman much thought after that. He’d glimpse her from time to time riding on the moors, but had decided along with his neighbors that she was mad at worst or incorrigible at best. It was a shame, for she was a comely thing.

“I hope you don’t mind if we have guests tonight.” His Aunt Grace’s statement pulled his attention back to the present. “I’ve taken initiative given the matter at hand had arranged for Lady Prudence Harker to join us. I daresay you’ll find her more interesting and lively that most women in the region.” They walked into the hall, where a reed-thin blond woman with pale blue eyes and a rosebud mouth was waiting to greet them. She dropped into an elegant curtsy when Sloan and his aunt entered.

“Lady Weatherfield,” she said to Sloan’s aunt. And then to Sloan. “Sir, it’s so good to see you.”

Sloan swallowed his distaste. He’d never been one for blondes, especially simple ones like Prudence Harker. The girl was nice enough, but earlier in the year when he and his aunt had been a guest at her parent’s home he was subjected to her off-key singing for half the evening and her inane babble for the other half. This evening was no different. Prudence breathlessly described her trip to the city where she saw the latest fashions, droned on about the upcoming season’s various balls and detailed her latest embroidery project to both Sloan and his aunt.

Sloan tried to smile. He tried to feign interest. But inside he felt frustration coiling on itself and tightening like a spring. Was his aunt daft? Did she really find this simple female interesting or lively? He tried to imagine endless functions with her at his side, boring his guests and friends with her rambling platitudes. Affairs could only keep him away for so long; he’d have to see her daily at the breakfast table, bed down with her at night, listen to that lisping voice profess love, and be force to profess it in return. And why? Because it was expected of him?

“Sloan, are you even listening?” Aunt Grace’s voice was suddenly harsh in his ear.

“Yes,” Sloan said, turning his attention away from the port swirling in his glass and back to his female companions. “You were telling me about the lovely gowns you saw in London.” Sloan hoped that was right; it was the last thing he remembered her saying.

“Actually, I was talking about the lovely silk thread father brought back for my needlepoint, but I can see why it would be easy to confuse the two,” Prudence said with a smile. “Clothing is made of thread.”

Sloan stood. “I apologize. I find myself overtired. I am not fit company for such an engaging conversationalist. Aunt Grace, would you take offense if I took my leave early?”

“Not at all,” Aunt Grace said, “unless you promise our sweet guest that you will call on her tomorrow at her home.” His aunt’s stare was hard. “It’s the least you could do after abandoning her.”

“Of course,” Sloan said, effecting his best fake smile. He walked over and took Prudence’s hand and pressed it to his lips. She smiled up at him as he kissed it. “I shall think of nothing else until we meet again.”

Aunt Grace nodded. He’d pleased her, which meant he did not have to worry. But as Sloan exited he was already feeling the weight of dread. He was boxed in, and desperate for a diversion. And he knew just where to find it.

Mary Stiles was where they usually rendezvoused, a spot just north of the stable where she’d go on the pretense of gathering kindling for the kitchen fire. She went every evening on the chance that Sloan would come for her. On this evening he looked about briefly, and after assuring himself they weren’t observed pulled her roughly into the carriage room.

Mary looked at him with a challenge in her eyes as he reached for her bodice. She slapped his hand away and Sloan pulled her to him, his eyes lust-glazed as he growled in warning.

“How dare you resist me, girl…”

Sitting down on a nearby trunk, he pulled her over his lap and raised her skirts. Her plump bottom was pale in the moonlight streaming through the window. Sloan raised his hand and brought it down, delighting in her half-squeal, half moan of pleasure pain. Mary wagged her bottom at him, inviting more punishment. Sloan loved the look and feel of a firm female bottom, and reddening a willing one was one of his greatest pleasures. He began to spank Mary now, gauging her cries as they went from mewling little whimpers to yelps to little sobs as her buttocks began to turn first red and then reddish purple.

“Please, sir. No more!” she cried, her voice raspy and broken. Sloan wondered if he’d gone too far this time, but he realized as he dipped a finger between her thighs that, no, he’d gone just far enough. Slipping his fingers into her was like sliding them into liquid silk. He was eager to sink more into her, and he roughly pulled her to her feet and this time Mary did not resist as he freed her heaving breasts from the bodice. Sloan’s mouth devoured first one nipple, and then another, suckling insistently and hard as his hands rhythmically squeezed her sore buttocks. His mouth remained latched on a breast as he freed his cock from the restraint of his breeches and brought Mary down on it hard. She felt so good, so hot and he tried not to think of marriage to a highborn woman who’d likely be taught that sex was a duty and not something to be reveled in. But Mary was no highborn woman. She was a servant and loved sex. She jogged up and down on him now, dispelling the illusion that he was in control at this point. Sloan tried to control himself and managed it just briefly before feeling himself pump into her. Mary smiled, triumphant.

“You’ll pay for that,” he said.

She laughed at stood up, dropping her skirts. “Aye, I hope so,” she said with a wink. “But not tonight. Mrs. Filbert really does need that kindlin’, and if I don’t return she’ll be angry with me.”

“Run along then, lass,” he said, and tossed her a silver coin. “Tomorrow buy yourself some ribbons or a pint, whatever suits your wicked fancy.”

She waved and giggled and was gone and Sloan was left again with his own thoughts. He walked from the carriage house into the main aisle of the barn, where the horses’ heads emerged from the stalls to investigate who was about at this hour. Sloan walked over to one large black horse and stroked him absently. The horse’s mane was long and black. The mane reminded him of Rosalie’s hair.

Rosalie. He stopped petting the horse and smiled. And then he laughed.

“My god, why did I not think of this before?” he asked aloud. It was perfect, absolutely perfect! A man who did not want to marry but would do anything to please his aunt. A woman who did not want to marry but would do anything to avoid the confines of a religious order. Would it be worth the gamble? Would Rosalie pretend to have him if he pretended to have her? He did not want to mislead his Aunt Grace, but Sloan was not ready to condemn himself to a life of matrimonial misery. He could do them both a favor; they’d only have to pretend until his dear Aunt passed away. Or if she did not, they could marry and the part afterwards. He could have his freedom and his fortune, and he would reward Rosalie for her role with a comfortable stipend that would pay for her cooperation and continued silence.

For the first time that day, Sloan felt the spring return to his step. It was a wonderful plan. Now all he needed was to arrange a meeting with Rosalie. He hoped that she wasn’t truly mad, but just willful. Madness he could not deal with but willfulness? Just how willful could a woman be?