Kitabı oku: «The Blackmailed Bride», sayfa 4

Chapter Five

The next morning, Olivia rolled over in her bed, looked at the open drapes over the window and groaned. The bright sun streamed into the room, and she squinted against the light. All she had to do was roll over again and bury herself beneath the blankets, but sleep seemed far beyond her reach.

“Sarah?” she said to her maid, whom she heard bustling in her wardrobe.

“Yes, my lady?” the young girl asked.

“What time is it?”

“Time for you to get ready for church.”

“I’d really rather not,” Olivia grumbled, pulling the blanket over her head. It was a futile attempt to stop the inevitable; before long, Marcus would enter and drag her out of bed.

Sarah stopped at the head of the bed, and Olivia didn’t have to pull the cover down to see the look of indecision she knew would be on the young girl’s face.

“My lady?” Sarah asked.

“Yes?” The covers muffled the word.

“His lordship wanted me to come and help you dress for service.”

“I don’t feel well,” Olivia hedged. In truth, she felt sick to her stomach, though she knew it was an illness no amount of rest would cure. It had been years since she had been truly at peace with church attendance, but she had always borne through it for Marcus’s sake. Yet now, the idea of attending services in the church where Finley would likely expect her to stand as she pledged her life to him…no, she could not bear it. Not yet. Not today.

“Do you wish for me to inform the earl?” Sarah’s voice plainly begged her to say no.

“I’ll tell him when he comes in.” Olivia suppressed a smile at the girl’s sigh of relief.

“Thank you, my lady.”

Olivia didn’t have long to enjoy the sanctuary of her bed before Marcus came striding into the room.

“Wake up,” he said unceremoniously.

While Olivia was contemplating feigning sleep, her brother moved closer.

“I see Sarah has failed in her duties,” he said from directly above her. “I suppose I shall have to dismiss her.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Olivia said as she flung back the covers. She looked around, ready to stop her maid from leaving. But Sarah was already gone.

Marcus smiled. “I could, but I won’t. I just wanted to prove you were awake.”

“Hateful,” she muttered.

“So you say.” He picked up her cup of chocolate and handed it to her. “You had best hurry or we’ll not make the service in time.”

“I have a headache,” she said, trying to convince him to let her stay home.

“Convenient.” He dismissed her imaginary illness without another thought. “Now get out of bed. I shouldn’t have to fight with you as though you were still twelve.”

Olivia pursed her lips. “Fine, I’ll be downstairs shortly.”

“Sarah will return to help you dress,” Marcus said on his way out of the room.

Two hours later, Olivia sat between Marcus and the Marquess of Huntsford on the church pew. If there were a God, surely He was laughing at her now.

Both men barely noticed her presence once the minister began his sermon, but every other eye in the building was firmly fixed on the back of their heads. The congregants were, of course, used to seeing the earl and his sister, but this new visitor was something altogether different. Olivia didn’t have to turn around to know nearly every woman eyed the marquess speculatively. It didn’t help that Lord Huntsford walked in the chapel as though it were something he had been doing every Sunday of his life. His self-confidence and total lack of discomfort were aggravating.

Almost as aggravating as his cheery facade first thing in the morning.

“I trust you rested well,” he had greeted her with a beaming smile once she descended the stairs.

She had inclined her head, but nothing more.

And now, nearly two hours later, she was irrevocably stuck with him. Lord Huntsford was planted firmly on her right, Marcus on her left. Olivia wished she had sat on the aisle, so she wouldn’t feel so confined by the two large men. Not that either of them was aware of her distress.

The congregation stood, singing one last hymn, and Olivia, as usual, only mouthed the words. The marquess’s voice, however, sang loud and true—his clear baritone rising high into the chapel. She tried not to listen to him, tried not to think about how inevitably soon her voice would fill this very space as she pledged herself to Baron Finley as his wife.

It had been years since church had symbolized any sort of refuge for her, but now it seemed to represent the trap she’d fallen into that would bind her for the rest of her life. The very idea made her feel truly ill. So instead of dwelling on the horrible future that awaited her, Olivia devoted her attention to the meticulous counting of panes in the glass windows.

By the twelfth pane, she could barely hear the singers through the suddenly shrill ringing in her ears. The noise was so deafening she almost clapped her hands over her ears to stifle it. Olivia stopped herself when she realized that probably wouldn’t help at all.

At twenty-eight, her stomach roiled, and she forced herself to resist the urge to sit back on the pew.

At fifty-seven, she swayed, luckily catching herself in time before she pitched forward into the people in front of her.

Something was sitting on her chest, cutting off her air sup ply. The pressure was a vise. Her heart beat an irregular rhythm, and Olivia tried to ignore the thump, thump, pound sensation. Her lips were still moving, still attempting to appear as though she were singing, but Olivia doubted anyone, if he were to look closely, would be fooled.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Lord Huntsford leaned over and whispered in her ear.

She shook her head.

He grunted in disbelief, and while she didn’t dare venture a look at his face, she knew he’d look skeptical.

Olivia hardly cared to try and convince him. She was still trying to hold the impending feeling of panic at bay—and was failing miserably.

Lord Huntsford might have still been singing, but Olivia could feel his eyes firmly on her. And when she swayed—just the smallest bit of unnatural movement—his hand reached out to steady her.

“Come with me” was his whispered order. He set down his hymnal and took her by the elbow.

Her protests were irrelevant, and Marcus, so engrossed in his singing, didn’t notice the two of them leaving.

Olivia held her head high as they exited toward the rear of the sanctuary. Her eyes were trained ahead, avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze. She could hear the whispers as she walked by, but the man at her side didn’t seem to mind them, so she supposed she could stand the scrutiny for a few seconds.

Lord Huntsford led her outside, guiding her to a stone bench nestled in the church’s garden.

She resisted the urge to take large, gulping breaths once outside in the fresh air. The gasping would only confirm Lord Huntsford’s suspicions. She couldn’t even thank him for his help without admitting that she’d needed the escape he’d offered.

“Are you unwell?” he asked gently, kneeling beside her.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, but her voice was breathy.

She sank back farther into the bench. Outside the walls of the church, the ache inside began to abate. And now, inhaling deeply the scent of roses and gardenias, her heart wasn’t pounding so fiercely.

“You looked quite ill in there,” he persisted. “Are you certain you’re feeling better?”

“The closed space made it hard to breathe,” she said, hoping he would let the matter rest. Olivia concentrated on the pace of her breathing, trying to steady the gasps so he’d not have any further reason to be suspicious.

“Sometimes I feel that way when I’m hiding, too.” His voice was barely a whisper, and he could easily have been speaking solely to himself.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” But she tried to offer a smile in gratitude so the words didn’t sound harsh. He was being very conciliatory, after all. And she had the oddest feeling that he did understand. That he sympathized with her struggle and disillusionment. But surely that was just a cruel trick of her imagination, fooling her into believing she wasn’t quite so desperately alone. “Feel free to return inside—I just need a moment.”

“I’ll sit here with you…if you don’t mind,” he added as an afterthought.

But Lord Huntsford gave her no chance to answer. She stilled as he took up the remaining space on the bench, afraid if she moved the slightest fraction of an inch, she might brush against him.

“I really think some time alone would help me feel better,” she ventured. Regaining her composure was impossible with him sitting in such close proximity.

“I have no intention of leaving you out here alone.” His crossed arms declared he would brook no argument.

Fine.

She would simply pretend he wasn’t there. Something that, in theory, seemed relatively easy. But as he sat beside her, also in silence, Olivia found her eyes involuntarily moving to watch him. Each time, she would wrest her gaze away. Not that it did any good, of course; she was certain the marquess realized each time she did so.

“Did you see the two of them?”

The whispered question floated on the wind to Olivia and Nick, and both immediately straightened.

“How could you not see them? Shameful. And in church, no less.”

“Now, Josephine,” came a third voice, “they were hardly doing anything shameful. They were sitting in front of God and the whole congregation.”

“Well, where are they now?” one of the other women— Olivia assumed it was Josephine—shot back.

Silence followed. Apparently this question stymied the other two ladies.

Olivia started to rise, prepared to step from behind the shelter of the towering rosebushes and into the women’s path, but Nick laid a hand on her arm, stilling her. His touch scorched her skin. But she didn’t recoil from it.

“Well,” the third woman, who Olivia was beginning to think of as her champion, began, “I’m sure they both have a perfectly innocent explanation. Perhaps Lady Olivia had a headache,” she offered.

One of the other women made a ribald joke, and Olivia cringed. Humiliation alone was bad enough, but humiliation in front of the marquess was unbearable.

“Well, I’m not surprised,” another voice returned. “The marquess has quite a way with women, at least that’s what I heard from Eleanor at the dressmaker’s.”

Their advocate scoffed. “The man was in church.”

The cynical woman laughed. “Probably looking for an innocent woman to corrupt.” She made the statement as calmly as one might if she were suggesting he’d gone to the market to select produce.

Judging from the fact that the voices had stopped wafting to her from different points down the path, Olivia knew the women were standing not too far from where she and Nick were sitting.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” one returned. Olivia was beginning to lose track of who was speaking. “Alfred was telling me all sorts of lurid tales of the marquess’s exploits in France. Shocking,” she added unnecessarily.

“Well, he won’t be able to parade about in polite society for long. He’s no better than his parents. And his bad blood will out eventually.”

Lord Huntsford’s grip on her arm tightened, and she looked at him in surprise. His jaw was clenched, and while Olivia didn’t know him well enough to be able to decipher his moods with any accuracy, he looked furious.

What would he do? Charge out from behind the bushes and defend her honor? Defend his? But the marquess had been correct in the beginning; it was best they remain undiscovered.

She laid her hand atop his, hoping to both comfort and subdue him. It was the least she could do after he’d set himself up for this sort of slander just by helping her out of doors. Besides, it certainly wouldn’t do for the three women to happen upon them. Or for him to step out and confront them.

Once Lord Huntsford felt her touch, he turned to look at her, and his pursed lips and set jaw were the only visible signs he was warring with indecision. Casting another glance to where the women had resumed strolling by, he sighed. As he looked back at her, his face softened. He ventured a tentative smile, and Olivia couldn’t help but return it.

She wondered how he had managed to so completely erase the anxiety and panic she’d felt only moments earlier. Yet even with a feeling of peace and contentment stealing over her, a small voice in the back of her mind cautioned against softening toward him and warned that she’d have to double her efforts to stay away from the marquess.

Chapter Six

Later that evening, past the time when everyone should have been abed, Olivia opened the door to the hallway, looked down both sides to make sure neither her brother nor the marquess were loitering about and stepped out. She pulled her wrapper tighter around herself and padded on bare feet down to a scarred wooden door that remained closed at the end of the hall.

Her father’s study.

She approached it with a sort of reverence, as though the room she was about to enter was holy in its own right.

With her hands braced on the frame, she leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the door.

Breathe, she instructed herself.

How many years had it been?

Five, already…

And she still felt the fear and uncertainty of the past, while only standing outside.

She pushed the door open and didn’t immediately notice there were a few candles burning in the room.

Her mind was too consumed with other images. Brief, fleeting pictures from that night, ones she couldn’t banish from her memory—no matter how hard she tried to erase them or dull their influence.

Olivia sank into a chair, one closest to the door. She noticed the faint light in the room now but didn’t give much thought to why it was there.

What thoughts had her mother had that evening five years ago? Olivia couldn’t begin to imagine.

They’d all been mired in grief. Her father had passed away from a sickness a few months before her mother decided she couldn’t live anymore. Her devotion to her husband so complete, she couldn’t bear to part with him—even in death.

And Marcus, the earl for three short months, had to assume another role…her guardian.

Most of the room was still cast in shadows, making the memories more eerie than she’d thought they’d be. No one ever asked why she avoided the room. The assumption was that fear kept her away. Of course, to hear everyone talk about it, this was the room the countess was murdered in—by an intruder who had only upended some drawers and strewn around some papers before he left the dead countess sitting at the desk.

Olivia was surprised anyone had believed that.

The story had been as flimsy as a gossamer thread.

But it had held.

And Olivia had to live with not only the lies and deceptions, but also the weight of her mother’s crime.

“Oh, Mama,” she choked. She put her fist to her mouth, stifling the sound. She wasn’t sure if it was a plea or a condemnation…perhaps both.

“Olivia?” a voice echoed from the shadows.

She jumped. Her brother sat forward. He’d obviously been reclining, and neither had noticed the presence of the other.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt.

“I don’t know,” Marcus confessed.

She squinted into the darkness at him, rose from her seat and crossed to sit with him. He obligingly moved his legs off the settee, so she would have room. “I don’t know, either.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” he asked after a few minutes of silence.

“What is?”

“That the one room that holds such grief for us is the one we can’t stay away from.” He stared off and around the room, as though looking at something only he could see.

Olivia doubted it was anything like what she could see when she closed her eyes.

Olivia lost track of how long they sat together. Eventually, she rested her head against his shoulder, and he put his arm around her. For a minute, they were not the Earl of Westin and Lady Olivia Fairfax. They were a brother and sister who hurt.

More than either of them knew.

Olivia felt her eyes growing heavy-lidded. She was relaxed with drowsiness and knew she should return to bed. But she wanted to talk to Marcus. Wanted to in some way prepare him for what was going to happen.

She roused herself enough to lift her head and look at her brother. She was surprised to find he didn’t look the least bit tired.

“Do you mind if I ask a question?” Olivia began, driven by some courage she didn’t realize she had.

In spite of the dim lighting, she could tell his look was wary. “I suppose.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Finley had approached you to ask for my hand?”

Marcus tensed as an immediate reaction to her words. “Finley told you that?” Although it wasn’t asked with a very questioning tone.

She nodded, knowing he could feel the movement against his arm.

“I gave him my answer and I didn’t think you needed to be bothered with the matter,” he said.

“You’ve always consulted me in such things. Why didn’t you see fit to so much as mention it?” she pressed. Maybe he would tell her something that would allow her to nullify Finley’s threat, such as proof that the man was truly a pirate with a bounty on his head. Or a traitor to the Crown.

Either would work for her.

“I didn’t see the purpose.” He was using a tone she’d only heard a few times. It was the tone that suggested—strongly—she let the conversation drop.

She wasn’t going to. “Why do you dislike him so much?”

“I have many reasons” was the curt reply.

His discomfort was no match for her current burst of tenacity. “I would like to spend some time with him. To see if we suit,” she said on a gulp.

Had the situation been less serious, she might have laughed aloud at her brother’s appalled expression. “Are you jesting?” he managed after several moments of his mouth hanging wide. His voice was strangled, as though invisible hands were wrapped around his neck.

“No.”

“I forbid it,” he sputtered.

Olivia leapt to her feet, her tiredness seemed a thing of the past. If they were going to quarrel, she’d rather not do it sitting down. He followed to his feet soon after.

“I’m afraid that would make me very unhappy.” She strove to keep her voice level.

He was flummoxed. “You’ve never shown the slightest bit of romantic interest in him. Why now?”

“I’ve known him for a long time,” she began, searching for something complimentary to say that wouldn’t make her choke. “He was very, ah, attentive after mother’s death.” Too attentive, obviously, she added to herself.

“Gibbons was attentive as well, do you wish to marry him?” Marcus asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.

“I could say the same to you.”

She slammed her hand down on a nearby table in frustration. “I’d hoped you would be reasonable about this. I can see my faith in you was misplaced.”

She could tell the words stung, but her brother didn’t let the hurt dissuade him. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not changing my mind about this.”

Of course he wouldn’t. It would be far too much to hope that this aspect of the deed would be done swiftly and without quarrel. Why did Marcus have to make this more difficult? Was it not enough that what she had to do made her skin crawl? Could she not at least have had no interference from the one person whose good opinion she desired above all others?

“I am an adult,” she informed him quietly.

A muscle in his jaw ticked furiously.

“And I’d rather this not become an argument,” she continued before Marcus could lose his temper. His clenched hands, narrowed eyes and set jaw were all omens of an impending explosion.

“And I’d rather not issue any ultimatums. So I will simply advise you to stay away from him, or…” He didn’t finish the threat. His voice had risen to a near yell.

Hers wasn’t very quiet, either. “Or what, Marcus? Will you disown me? Cast me out on the streets to fend for myself?” She knew she should lower her voice, help calm the situation. At this volume, it wouldn’t be long before their guest, and probably Gibbons, would be coming in to see what was amiss. But she couldn’t bring herself to back down.

Marcus scoffed. “Now who’s being ridiculous?”

“Well, you’re being obstinate,” she snapped.

His answering sigh was heavy and heartfelt. “I’ve no wish to fight with you. Do you not trust me enough to at least obey me on this? You know I would only say no if I had a good reason to do so.”

Olivia said nothing. She couldn’t give him the words he wanted to hear, but she refused to make the moment worse by saying something to needlessly hurt him.

When she didn’t answer, Marcus eyed her. “You will stay away from him,” he said, resolved.

“What if I love him?” she asked in a whisper.

The horror on his face stung. “Do you?”

She vacillated between honesty and the lie that would perhaps, in some small way, make her brother more reasonable.

She opted for honesty. “No, I don’t.”

His relief was palpable.

“That doesn’t change anything, though.” As soon as she spoke the words, Marcus’s face fell back into its stern mask.

“You know my feelings on the matter,” he said, striding to the door of the study. “I trust you’ll make the right decision. Good night.”

As the door swung shut behind him, she said, “Don’t trust me too much,” knowing he wouldn’t be able to hear her.

“You would be my second if I required it, would you not?” Marcus asked Nick the next morning after Olivia had left the dining room. The trio had plans to return to London later in the day, and while Olivia had been subdued at breakfast, he didn’t credit her absence with anything other than a desire to relax before they left.

But his friend’s odd question had him wondering.

“Whom are we planning on dueling?” Nick asked.

“Julian Finley. Perhaps you remember him.” Marcus raised an eyebrow. He knew well that Nick had not forgotten the rogue.

Nick grumbled in response. “When would you like me to have your pistols ready?” He was only partially joking.

In spite of the obvious stress, Marcus couldn’t suppress a grin. “Don’t you wish to know why I would challenge him?”

“Since it’s Finley, I can only imagine what new dastardly business he is up to. But also, since it’s him, I don’t have any doubt your claim is valid.”

“He wants to marry Olivia,” Marcus answered, as though Nick had indeed asked the question. Nick laughed.

“I’m serious,” Marcus said.

Nick had to force himself to stop chuckling. “What did he say when you told him no?”

Marcus shrugged. “What you would expect from him. He ranted and finally stormed out of the house.”

“At least Gibbons didn’t have to throw him out.” Nick allowed himself a moment of silent amusement, envisioning the scene.

Marcus flashed an immediate smile in response, but he quickly sobered.

Why was Marcus so despondent? “You know you made the right decision,” Nick assured him. “There’d be no inducement that would convince me to let Finley pay suit to any woman under my protection.”

“I know that.” Marcus scrubbed his hand over his face.

“What’s the problem then?” Nick asked. “Finley has asked, and you have refused. There should be no more to say on the subject.”

Marcus laughed, but it held no amusement. “You make the mistake of thinking Finley would abide by my decision. He has not. Instead, he has approached Olivia directly with his suit.”

Something seized in Nick’s gut. Anger, certainly, was there. Including the ne’er-do-wells he’d met while in France, Nick couldn’t think of many in his acquaintance he had a lower opinion of than Finley. But another emotion tumbled with his rage, fighting for precedence. One that was harder to name. Or perhaps he merely didn’t want to identify it.

“Well, has he desisted at her refusal?” Nick asked.

Marcus said nothing for several moments. Nick stared at the mantel clock and tried to convince himself he wasn’t personally interested in what Olivia had to say. Other than for the sake of his friend, of course.

“She has not refused him,” Nick said for Marcus. The nod of acknowledgment from his friend was unnecessary.

It was inconceivable. Nick couldn’t reconcile the headstrong, viscount-disabling woman he’d met with someone naive enough to fall for Finley’s guiles.

“Did you explain your position on the matter to her?” Nick asked.

Marcus nodded again. “For my life, I can’t understand why she won’t listen to me. But, as I’m sure you’ll agree, I can’t allow the two of them to wed. It would be disastrous.”

A large understatement.

“He’s a snake in the grass,” Nick agreed.

And Nick knew both he and Marcus were thinking about an earlier incident involving Finley. When the three of them had been away at school, Finley had seduced a professor’s daughter. When everyone discovered she was with child, Finley refused to marry the young woman, even though the protection of his name was the one thing that would save her from public ruin.

Finley’s father had been prepared, those years ago, to force his son’s hand. Unfortunately for the young girl and her child, the elder baron died in his sleep before he could do so.

An attack of the heart, they said.

And no amount of persuasion from the professor or tearful pleas from his daughter could change Finley’s mind. He’d left the woman, alone and ruined, and didn’t appear to feel the slightest pang of remorse.

No, Olivia couldn’t be allowed to wed someone who would treat a woman so callously, who would most likely not be faithful to his marriage vows, who enjoyed spirits and questionable amusements far too much.

“I attempted to remove her to London after Finley broached the subject of their marrying. I’d hoped the distance would hinder him,” Marcus said into the silence.

“But he followed you instead,” Nick finished. “That was why you agreed so quickly to leave London when you learned that he had called upon Olivia there.”

A curt nod was Marcus’s reply.

“Why is he so willing to garner your displeasure? I can’t believe he loves her—simply because I don’t believe him capable of the emotion.”

“I have to agree,” Marcus said. “My guess is Olivia’s dowry is the reason for the dogged pursuit. My sister has much to recommend her, of course, but I’ve heard Finley’s been liberal with the funds his father left for him.”

Money. Of course that would be the baron’s motivation. But what about Olivia? What reason would she have to want to marry him?

“What foolishness has possessed her?” Nick ranted aloud. “Why would she want to be married to a wastrel of a man who will eventually break her heart?” Nick knew his fury was out of place. Why should he care if Lady Olivia was determined to ruin the rest of her life? But he did care. More than he was going to admit.

“Olivia and Finley have known each other for years,” Marcus explained. “After our mother…” He paused for a moment. “Once mother passed away, Finley was very attentive to her. More so than I was, I’m ashamed to admit.”

Nick could sense his friend’s guilt. “So she thinks he’s a dashing, compassionate gentleman?”

“I don’t know what she’s thinking.”

It was fairly obvious to Nick that she wasn’t thinking…not at all. But she had to be under the delusion that Finley was something other than a snake. He could almost understand her defying her brother if she thought her suitor was honorable and supportive. Of course Olivia, who was naive in the motivations and thinking of men, would have tender feelings for a man who feigned sympathy in the time of her despair.

But Nick knew the man better. Knew what kind of hidden viper he was.

“What are you going to do?”

Marcus splayed his hands in front of him. “What can I do?”

“Forbid the match.” Nick made the statement as though the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

Marcus almost smiled. Almost. “I know you don’t think Finley would care what I decree. And well, you’ve met my sister.”

Nick thought about the feisty young woman who’d intrigued him so effortlessly. And he had to concede that she wouldn’t be deterred because her brother said no. The couple could run to Gretna Green at the earliest opportunity, and it would be too late for Marcus to do anything.

“You need to keep her away from him,” Nick said, thinking to limit the likelihood of an elopement.

“Do you have any brilliant ideas as to how?” Marcus snapped. But he immediately apologized. “Forgive me, Nick. My anger isn’t toward you. I’m only frustrated. There’s no place I can take her that he won’t try to follow. I thought re moving her to London would send a message. But what does he do? Follow us. If we remain at Westin Park, he will trail after us again.”

“So what will you do?” Nick asked, unsure of which option he would choose were it his decision to make.

“There is more to do, more to occupy her in London.” Marcus sighed. “Perhaps she will meet with some other gentleman who is more suitable.”

Nick found himself bothered by that thought as well. He shook off the errant aggravation.

“Finley will shadow her every move,” Nick warned. His time as an agent of the Crown had taught him to think ahead, to anticipate the enemy.

Finley was definitely the enemy.

Marcus leaned back in his seat. “I know I’ll have to be glued to her side to be certain Finley doesn’t worm his way in.”

Nick saw the flaws immediately. “That won’t work. You are just one person. You can’t be with her at all times. Acquaintances will seek to talk to you, she’ll have dance partners…” He let the statement trail off. An idea was forming in his mind. Nick wasn’t an impulsive man. He was levelheaded, meticulous and cautious.