Chapter One

Trent followed the short, frail looking man who had introduced himself as Boyd, or Boyce, or something Trent did not care to try to remember through the halls of the Benson mansion. He towered over the butler, so he could see the bald spot forming on the top of the man's head, and he smirked. Even the man's hair wants nothing to do with him, he thought wryly.

Each footstep echoed on the brilliantly polished marble floor. He had not met many viscounts of incredibly vast wealth. But the gold trimmed dressers and tables, the satin curtains and sparkling gold chandeliers told Trent that Lord Benson's reputation and fortune was in a class that rivaled his own. He smiled again, albeit dryly, to himself. It appeared that any dealings he had with the viscount would be most profitable. And that was all that Trent cared about.

He was so busy admiring the well-maintained and furnished mansion that he was looking up as he and the butler rounded a corner. He did not see the young woman until his chest was stinging and she lay sprawled out on the ground before him. For a moment, she was nothing but ruffling pink skirts and short gasps, and Trent shook his head, scowling at her. He locked eyes with her, boring into her with icy eyes and a disapproving stare that seemed to render her speechless, even as he waited for an apology for her incompetence and clumsiness.

"Why were you not watching where you were going?" he asked, direct with his irritation and distaste.

The young lady, brushed strands of golden hair out of what he could then see were brilliant, hazel eyes, which were widening as her face turned pink with embarrassment.

The butler knelt down beside her, looking at her with a fatherly concern that made Trent's stomach churn.

"Are you all right, Miss Arabella?" he asked.

Trent frowned. Arabella? He pondered. Is that not the name of Lord Benson's eldest daughter? Or am I mistaken?

He watched as the young woman tried to speak. But any words that might have come from her gaping lips were silenced by another booming voice.

"For heaven's sake, Arabella," a tall, round man in a well-tailored red suit said, looking at her with a disgust that made even Trent shudder. "Compose yourself and conduct yourself as befits the daughter of a viscount."

Trent looked away, his earlier thought confirmed. She was, indeed, the eldest daughter of the viscount, who he presumed was the tall man glowering at the woman on the floor.

As if reading Trent's mind, the man gave him a slight bow.

"Please, excuse my insubordinate daughter," he said, shooting the young woman a bitter, sideways glance. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace. My name is Isaac Benson. I do regret that we are meeting under such humiliating circumstances, however. I hope you can forgive my family for this indiscretion." He turned to his daughter, who was being helped off the floor by a very anxious looking butler. The short man would look at no one, even as his master glared at him.

"Are you sure you are all right?" he asked her again.

The viscount stepped between the smaller man and Miss Arabella, shaking his head with a brow furrowed so deeply that Trent almost felt sorry for the young woman.

"I am sure you are perfectly fine," he said, addressing his daughter rather than the butler. "You are twenty years old, and far too old to be running through the house like an unruly child. This is utterly mortifying, Arabella. And if your insolence was not bad enough, you embarrass me in front of a duke."

Trent shivered again, his earlier irritation weakening. He was not thrilled that a young lady had behaved so carelessly, as one of them could have been seriously injured. But as he listened to the Viscount Benson lecture his daughter in front of a perfect stranger, he wished for the encounter to end. Best that it all be forgotten so that they could get back to the business at hand, after all. He would have forgotten all about the woman and the incident in a matter of hours, after all.

Miss Arabella smoothed out her pink shirts, the trembling in her hands evident when she would struggle with a particularly creased pleat. Her shoulders slumped, and Trent suddenly had the impression that he was watching her wilt under the gaze of her disapproving father right before his eyes.

"Well?" the viscount asked as his daughter tried to straighten herself. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Trent winced. This was hardly a matter to settle in front of any form of company. It was making him more uncomfortable by the moment, and he wished the woman would just leave.

"I beseech your forgiveness, Your Grace," she said suddenly, with the softest and sweetest voice that Trent had heard in ages. "My actions were most egregious and thoughtless, and I am sincerely contrite."

Trent nodded curtly. He did not know what to say, so he remained silent. But not other words were necessary, because Miss Arabella gave him a quick curtsey, after which Trent noticed that her cheeks were redder than ever and streaked with tears, then she hurried off, seemingly in a bigger hurry than she had been when she had bumped into him.

For the first time in years, Trent felt a pang of sympathy. The guilt and shame on the young woman's face, the cringing under the weight of harsh words from a parent and the compounding of what Trent was sure was soul-crushing embarrassment for the woman by her father was something that Trent understood very well. There was clearly no displayed love or affection for the viscount's children, and it melted some of Trent's annoyance.

"Forgive me," the viscount said again once his daughter was out of sight. "That shall not happen again, I assure you. Now, if you would please, follow me."

Trent gave him a polite smile and a nod.

"Very well," he said, silently following the viscount. As they walked the remaining distance to the study, Trent forced the brief distraction from his mind. He did not care about the young lady, or about the viscount's feelings about her careless mistake. All that mattered to him was the business at hand. That was where he put all his focus.

The viscount poured them both drinks, which Trent politely accepted. He sipped delicately during business meetings, until the point at which he and any other man present came to a mutually beneficial arrangement. That day was no exception, despite the residual feelings from the encounter with the eldest Benson daughter. He watched the viscount pull out some papers, rifling through them before handing them to Trent.

"As you can see, there is quite a market here for imported silks," he said.

Trent flipped through the few pages in his hands, appearing disinterested.

"Naturally," he said. "All of high society wears the finest silks. But from whence will these silks be imported? What makes them so much more appealing than those currently readily available?"

The viscount grinned, showing Trent an uncanny resemblance to his own father.

"These will be imported from the Far East," he said, handing Trent another page. "I have already itemized the costs of importation from there, including the payment of any employees who must be hired and those of purchasing the silks in bulk shipments. I also calculated the projected profits, and the rate at which the profits can expect to increase, as well as by what margin, over the next five years."

Trent nodded, looking at the papers with more care. It seemed that Lord Benson did have a keen mind for business and making money, after all. But what was the trick?

"I see," Trent said, keeping his voice hard and indifferent, despite the already obvious advantages to the arrangement. "And how would you suggest that we share in these profits?"

The viscount's expression lit up in a cold, satisfied light.

"Well, naturally, as the head of this arrangement, I am entitled to seventy percent of the base profit," he said. "Not including my percentage of the profits from the sales in the regions where our silks are being sold."

Trent snorted, shaking his head. It was true what they said about Lord Benson. He was, indeed, ruthless, as well as cunning. And perhaps, under different circumstances, and with other men, he would be correct in his calculations. But he failed to remember one thing.

"I am a duke," he said matter-of-factly. "And as a duke, I have far more influence in many industries. Despite your wealth and reputation, my name being involved in this agreement will garner far more interest, many more clients and much more of a profit margin. Thus, I will settle for no less than sixty percent of the base profits, plus forty percent of the sales profits."

The viscount blanched. Trent knew that he himself had proposed a higher profit margin than he likely deserved. But what he had said about his status and its impacts on the business dealings was true, and the expression on Lord Benson's face told him that he knew it. However, the viscount would not be so easily deterred.

"However true that may be, I am still entitled to more than half the base profits," he said. "I am bringing in more business connections than you are."

Trent smirked again, giving the viscount a patronizing shake of his head.

"That is also false," he said. "Thus far, you have secured two potential investors. I have secured three in writing, and two more are reviewing the final drafts of the agreement I proposed to them and will be returning it to my attorney by the end of the week."

Once more, Lord Benson looked defeated. Trent could be as merciless as necessary. But the drooping of the viscount's eyes told him that testing his wit would not be necessary.

"Very well," Lord Benson said, nodding. "I agree to your terms. However, I retain the right to renegotiate if I should surpass you in secured connections in the future."

Trent gave the man a slow smile and nodded. That was next to impossible, he knew. But he was already well ahead in the deal. And the viscount knew that even with his lesser percentage reception, the arrangement would still be exceptionally profitable for his own family, too. Thus, he gave Trent the smile of a satisfied businessman as he refreshed their drinks.

"Now, shall we get to the paperwork drafting?" he asked, raising his glass to toast Trent.

Trent nodded, touching his own drink to the viscount's.

"We shall," he said.

As the men outlined their agreed upon terms for the drafting of the document that would eventually seal their business arrangement, Trent's thoughts wandered back to his encounter with Miss Arabella.

He had initially presumed her to be a frivolous and superficial young lady of the ton, the sort whom he found utterly intolerable.

But in her eyes, he had seen a flicker of warmth and life, something completely opposite from everything he had ever known. Particularly in his world of calculation and soulless business transactions. It was the precise thing he had sworn to avoid after Millicent destroyed his heart. And yet, he could not stop thinking about Miss Arabella.

Hours after reaching their verbal agreement, Lord Benson at last had a draft of the terms prepared. Trent read over each page painstakingly, aware that men who allowed themselves to become complacent in this part of business transactions ended up robbed of earnings or rights that were rightfully theirs. But the viscount, however cunning in his ways of negotiating financial gain, was a man of his word. Every word in the pages precisely matched their spoken terms. Trent folded the papers, tucking them in the pocket of his coat.

"I shall take these to Lawrence, as we agreed before this meeting, and we shall return them to you shortly with our signatures," he said, offering his hand.

Lord Benson grinned, clearly satisfied with himself and the agreement. He took Trent's hand, giving it a tentative shake.

"I look forward to working with you, Your Grace," he said, bowing.

Trent mimicked the bow, giving his new business associate another slow, cold smile.

"As do I, my lord," he said.