Improperly Wed (Aristocratic Grooms #3)(10)
Author: Anna DePalo

Colin tilted his head and contemplated her. “You didn’t even tell him that you already had one wedding behind you. Were you afraid of what an Old Etonian like Dillingham would think of the quick Vegas elopement in your past?”

“I’m sure he would have been bothered only by the fact that the groom had been you,” she retorted.

“Right, competitive,” Colin said, nodding even as he twisted her meaning. “But then there’s the fact that you lied on your marriage license.”

Belinda’s flush deepened.

It was true that she had omitted to list the Las Vegas ceremony when applying for a marriage license in New York. Her union with Colin had been a marriage of brief duration that had been contracted in another state and, she believed, had ended in an annulment.

Didn’t an annulment usually mean that a marriage had never existed?

Belinda rallied her reserves.

“You know quite a bit about dissolving a marriage even if you haven’t accomplished it successfully yourself,” she retorted. “Have you talked to a lawyer already?”

“You have. Why shouldn’t I?” he returned rather cryptically.

“That’s the difference between you and Tod. He hasn’t spoken with an attorney.” The last thing she needed was for the Dillinghams to resort to legal means to recoup their costs for the wedding fiasco.

Colin twisted his lips. “Pity. Because if he had, his lawyer would have told him just what my lawyer told me. If I choose to fight your divorce suit, you’ll remain my wife for quite a while longer.”

“So you plan to fight it?”

“With everything I’ve got.”

“I’ll win eventually.”

“Maybe, but I’m sure the Wentworths won’t appreciate the notoriety.”

He was right, Belinda thought with a sick feeling. If this scandal deepened, her family would be horrified. And she felt ill just thinking of the Dillinghams’ reaction.

“You’re the Marchioness of Easterbridge,” Colin said, driving his point home. “You might as well start using the title.”

Marchioness of Easterbridge. She was glad her ancestors weren’t around to hear this.

“It’s a good thing you chose to keep your surname on the Nevada marriage license,” Colin continued. “Otherwise, you’d have been erroneously representing yourself as Belinda Wentworth rather than Belinda Granville for more than two years.”

“I remember choosing to keep my name,” she shot back. “I wasn’t so completely off kilter that I don’t remember that detail.”

Somehow, it had been acceptable to marry Colin but not to take the Granville name.

Belinda Granville. It sounded worse than Marchioness of Easterbridge. Easterbridge was simply Colin’s title, whereas Granville had been the surname carried by his devious ancestors.

“Why are you doing this?” she blurted. “I can’t understand why we shouldn’t have a civilized divorce—or better yet, annulment.”

He sauntered toward her. “Can’t you? Nothing has been civilized between the Wentworths and the Granvilles for generations. The ending of our…encounter in Las Vegas is further evidence of it.”

Her eyes widened. “So it all goes back to that, doesn’t it?”

He stopped before her. “I intend to make a conquest of the Wentworths once and for all—” his gaze slid down her body “—beginning and ending with you, my beautiful wife.”

Disaster preparedness.

He’d laid the groundwork, Colin thought. He’d spent two-plus years planning for this moment, making sure he’d anticipated every likely contingency.

“Excellent,” Colin said into the phone. “Did he ask many questions?”

“No,” his deputy responded. “Once he knew you were willing to meet his price, he was pleased.”

And now, he was satisfied himself, Colin thought.

“I believe he assumed you were a Russian oligarch looking to make a prime purchase.”

“Even better,” Colin replied.

If he knew Belinda, in the past few weeks she’d been quietly working to find a way to disengage herself from their union with as little fanfare as possible. But now he held a trump card.

After ending the call, he looked up at his two friends. When his cell phone had buzzed, and he’d seen who was calling, he’d been too impatient for answers to ignore the call despite the presence of company on a Thursday evening.

From their seats in upholstered chairs in the sitting room of Colin’s London town house, Sawyer Langsford, Earl of Melton, and James Carsdale, Duke of Hawkshire, exchanged looks. They all happened to be in town at the same time and had met for drinks. Having removed their jackets, they all sat around with loosened ties.

Like his two fellow aristocrats, Colin had had a more peripatetic existence than most, so his accent was cosmopolitan rather than British. Still, despite all being well-traveled—or maybe, because of it—he, Sawyer and Hawk had become friends. Thus it seemed oddly appropriate that the three of them would become romantically entangled at the same time.

Sawyer had unexpectedly gotten engaged to Tamara Kincaid, one of Belinda’s bridesmaids. Hawk was intently pursuing Pia Lumley, Belinda’s wedding planner, in an effort to smooth out his bumpy history with her.

Both of his friends were enjoying rather more success romantically than Colin at the moment—though unsurprisingly, Belinda’s friends had proven challenging to woo, as well. Colin had an advantage in that Belinda was already his wife. Yet the fact that she now refused to communicate with him except through lawyers was a decided obstacle.

But no matter. He and Belinda were still married, and with his business deal today, she’d have to deal with him sooner rather than later.

“What game are you playing, Easterbridge?” Hawk inquired.

“A rather high-stakes one, I’m afraid,” Colin said in a faintly bored tone. “I’m sure you want no part of it.”

Hawk raised an eyebrow.

Sawyer shrugged. “You’ve always played your cards close to your chest, Colin.”

“Simply doing my best to burnish the Granville surname.” And what better way to varnish it than to be responsible for finally vanquishing the family foes, the Wentworths?

Colin hadn’t given much thought to his fellow Berkshire landowners over the years. This was the twenty-first century, after all, and civility toward one’s neighbors, barring direct provocation, was the norm. Besides, in his rather small aristocratic world, it was considered downmarket to openly not get along.