Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

“No, really,” Sarah said. Her voice was forced; her eyes were wary. “What did you say would happen?”

Hugh fought the urge to dig his thumbs into his temples. His head had begun to pound, and he was fairly certain the only remedy would be the cheerful strangulation of Daniel Smythe-Smith. For once, everything in Hugh’s life was looking up—looking bloody perfect—and Daniel had to butt his head in where it was not wanted. Where it was not needed.

This was not how Hugh had meant to have this conversation.

Or maybe he hadn’t meant to have it at all, a small voice within tried to say. He hadn’t so much as thought about it. He’d been so infatuated with Lady Sarah, so utterly entranced by the bliss of falling in love that he hadn’t given a thought to his “agreement” with his father.

But surely—surely she could see that he’d had no other option.

“Is this a joke?” Sarah demanded. “Because if it is, it’s not funny. What did you really say would happen?”

“He’s not lying,” Daniel said.

“No.” Sarah shook her head, aghast. “That can’t be true. It’s preposterous. It’s mad, it’s—”

“The only thing that could ever convince my father to leave him alone,” Hugh said sharply.

“But you didn’t mean it,” she said, desperation in her voice. “Because you lied to him, didn’t you? It was just a threat. An empty threat.”

Hugh didn’t answer. He had no idea if he’d meant it. He’d had a problem—no, he’d been battered by a problem—and he had finally seen a way to solve it. In all honesty, he’d been pleased with himself. He’d thought his plan was brilliant.

His father would never risk losing Hugh before Hugh could see to it that a new generation of Prentice men roamed the land. Although once that happened, Hugh mused, all bets were off. If the marquess had a healthy grandson or two under his power, he likely wouldn’t blink if Hugh went and offed himself.

Well, he might blink once, if only for the sake of appearances. But after that Hugh would be just so much water under the bridge.

Oh, it had been grand when he’d presented his father with that contract. Maybe he was a sick son of a bitch, but the sight of his father so poleaxed, so utterly without recourse or retort . . .

It had been magnificent.

There were advantages to being thought such a loose cannon, Hugh had realized. His father had ranted and railed and upset the tea tray, and all the while Hugh had just watched him with that detached, almost clinical, amusement that never failed to infuriate the marquess.