Brenda Joyce Read online

  “Apparently Miss Layton cannot do without you,” Arlen said, staring. “Sir John has been most laudatory about you, my dear. How he sings your praises. But he is quite worried about his own daughter, rightly judging her as having not one whit of sense, and he is afraid she will disgrace herself in these next few months before the wedding if left to her own devices.” He watched her very closely now.

  “What are you implying?” Olivia asked with real trepidation.

  “You are to be his daughter’s anchor in this stormy sea of her impending matrimony!” Arlen chuckled. “You are going nowhere, Olivia.”

  Olivia was stunned. “Surely you do not deny me the right to go home?”

  “I do.” He was smiling.

  Olivia’s heart fell. The full extent of her predicament was only just becoming obvious. “Arlen, I cannot.”

  “You can, and you shall.”

  “You are punishing me,” she said, becoming angry, “for coming to town in the first place.”

  Arlen shrugged. “I do not care what you think. I only care how you conduct yourself.”

  Olivia stiffened. Was that another innuendo aimed at her last encounter with the viscount of Caedmon Crag? No. It was impossible. If he had heard about her and De Vere, they would not be discussing Susan Layton right now. “You know how loyal I am,” she said stiffly, pierced with guilt and hating her own lie.

  “Do I?” he said, his unpleasant smile remaining upon his handsome face.

  Olivia could not respond. Her near adultery prevented her from taking up her own defense.

  Arlen came closer, bent, and put his face so close to hers that his nose almost touched her cheek. His breath, when he spoke, was foul, reeking of gin and tobacco. And Olivia did not miss the exotic yet familiar perfume wafting from his clothes. “You asked for this, my dear. You asked to come to town, and now you are here—and here you shall remain.” He smiled. “Now you too shall play the game. Keep Miss Layton in line. Walk her to the altar if need be.”

  Arlen gave her a condescending glance and walked briskly away, leaving Olivia shaken and dismayed and staring not at the wall, but at De Vere. She gasped, wondering how long he had been standing there, watching her argue with Arlen—watching Arlen mistreat and abuse her. Their gazes were locked. His was frankly penetrating. And Olivia had the oddest urge to go to him and seek his strength—as if he could help her.

  But he was the cause of her misfortunes. Unable to bear up for even another moment, her mind whirling in confusion, Olivia lifted her skirts and hurried away, this time upstairs to the sanctuary of her own bedchamber.

  “Ashburn.”

  Arlen paused. He had just entered the billiards room, and it was the earl of Stanhope seeking him out. He stiffened. Because of what had happened eleven years ago, Arlen harbored ill will toward Stanhope. They were not friends, would never be more than wary acquaintances. Arlen was alert. Why would Stanhope seek him out?

  Bows were exchanged. “Congratulations, my, lord, on a propitious alliance,” Arlen said politely.

  “Thank you,” Stanhope said flatly. “We are all very pleased with the union.”

  Arlen felt like laughing but did not. Any idiot could take one look at Caedmon and see that the man detested his bride and the engagement, if not all of society in general. “My sister was just commenting the other day that it was about time your son came home and did his duty,” Arlen said, a previous evening flashing through his mind. Actually Elizabeth had had quite a bit to say on the subject of Caedmon’s return and engagement, but he was not about to reveal that conversation to Stanhope.

  “The marchioness has always been one of the few women I admire for more than her beauty,” Stanhope said smoothly. “How rare it is to find great beauty and vast intelligence.”

  Arlen knew that Elizabeth raised most men’s brows, and he bristled, but inwardly. “My sister is undoubtedly a great rarity. Everyone admires her.”

  “And you most of all?” Stanhope said, smiling pleasantly.

  But it was a blow, and Arlen felt it as such. He stiffened.

  Stanhope continued to smile, saying, “I think it very admirable that you guard and protect your sister so well, Ashburn.”

  Arlen managed, “Thank you.” He wet his lips. “I have been her entire family, as well as her guardian, since she was ten years old. I take my familial duties very seriously.”

  “Perhaps, Ashburn, you should guard and protect your wife as well.”

  Arlen was so disturbed by Stanhope’s previous innuendos that he was now thrown entirely off guard. “Olivia?” Incredulity laced his tone.

  Stanhope’s smile faded, and he stepped closer, grim now. “My son is headstrong. And incapable, I think, of exercising the least bit of decorum. Perhaps it was a mistake, eleven years ago, for me to allow him to leave England.”

  Arlen stared. What the hell was coming?

  “Truthfully, he has not changed. He is filled with disrespect, and he remains, I believe, a child who thinks to thwart me.”

  Arlen nodded carefully. “He does seem the same,” he finally said. “Headstrong, and exceedingly eccentric.”

  “I wonder how many people saw him with the countess in the park a few minutes ago?”

  Arlen was in shock. “Olivia? My wife was outside with Caedmon?” He did not believe it, not for a moment. Olivia was a meek country mouse. She had no nerve, no initiative, and ice ran in her veins instead of hot red blood. How well he knew.

  “Sometimes, it is not the best idea to ignore one’s wife for too long. I know women. They do not want our attentions on the one hand, but if we leave them be, they become bitter and angry and defiant.” Now Stanhope smiled, nodding quite sagely. “A man, it seems, just cannot win, not where the female gender is involved.”

  Arlen’s pulse pounded. Olivia was a mouse. A country mouse. If a man like Caedmon blinked at her, she would run away in terror. Of that he had no doubt. Or did he?

  “My lord, did you yourself see my wife in the park with your son?”

  Again a grim smile. “I did. Ashburn, I suggest you keep a close rein upon her. A very close rein. My damnable son was pursuing her. There is not a doubt upon my mind. I witnessed the entire event.”

  Arlen stared, speechless. When his mind came to, he just knew that Stanhope had not seen anything illicit. It was an impossibility. Olivia was not a woman of passion.

  Before Arlen could find his tongue, Stanhope said, smiling, “Let them do as they will after the nuptials.” And he bowed, then walked briskly away.

  After the nuptials? Arlen gazed after him, beginning to shake, wondering what, exactly, Stanhope had seen. His shock had incapacitated him, when he should have demanded a precise account. He had the urge to go after Stanhope and ask him now just what he had seen, but his pride forestalled him. He felt his own cheeks beginning to burn.

  And he had an image of Olivia in Caedmon’s arms, an image that infuriated him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Three months. Those two words drummed in Olivia’s brain as she held Hannah’s hand the following day and wandered through the crowd at St. Bartholomew’s fair. Miss Childs strolled at their side. A huge, festive throng from all walks of life had gathered at the city fair, one of London’s largest. They had only just arrived, but Olivia barely paid attention to the crowd, the performers, or the booths. Arlen would force her to endure the city until after the wedding, which was three months away—unless something drastic happened to change his mind.

  “Mama, why are you squeezing my hand so tightly?” Hannah protested. But her head was cocked to the side. She was absorbing all of the sounds around her.

  Olivia came to her senses, relaxing her grip and managing a smile, the latter for Miss Childs’s benefit. “I am sorry, dear. I was lost in thought.”

  “I smell gingerbread,” Hannah said as shouts suddenly rang out around them. “What is happening? Is it a fight? Are they boxing?”

  “There is a wrestling match to our right,” Olivia explained as
they paused, not attempting to penetrate the ring of spectators screaming at two wrestlers, both young, brawny men stripped to their waists. In the crowd cheering and jeering the two young men were finely dressed gentlemen and equally splendidly attired ladies, farmers, dairy maids and other country folk, merchants and their apprentices, domestic maids, and even a pair of friars in long dark robes. A Scotsman was playing bagpipes not far from where they stood, contributing impossibly to the excitement. A fiddler and his monkey were adding to the cacophony as well; the swarthy musician played while the monkey danced about on a long leash, to the delight of several ragged, laughing children gathered around them.

  “A tuppence to see the freak, a tuppence to see the freak,” another man was crying behind them.

  Olivia and Hannah turned. A spindly-legged elderly man stood outside of a painted booth that advertised the world’s ugliest man, less human than beast. The drawing on the poster did indeed show the monstrous form of a hunchback with twisted features, which immediately hurt Olivia. No man should have to suffer so. Behind the old man, inside the booth, the poor being could be seen seated upon a stool, clad in rags, his head hanging down. For once, Olivia was glad Hannah could not see.

  “Mama, let’s go see the monkey,” Hannah said, tugging on her hand in the direction of the small animal and his owner.

  Miss Childs, who had stepped away from them for one moment, handed them all gingerbreads. “Thank you,” Olivia said, taking a bite. But the spicy sweet flavor could not help her shake off her unhappy thoughts. What if she spent an entire summer chaperoning Susan and De Vere? The thought terrified her.

  But matters were becoming far worse. Olivia was starting to feel real dismay whenever she thought about their wedding—a dismay she had no right to.

  They moved toward the fiddler, undoubtedly a Gypsy. Laughter and giggles surrounded him. Then the other children saw Hannah and their amusement faded as they stared at her, realizing that she was blind. Olivia tensed, her grip upon Hannah’s palm tightening. “Eh,” said one of the children with an unkind snicker. “Lookit the blindie!”

  Olivia pulled Hannah to her side, but before she could even speak, much less turn to go, the two other urchins were laughing and pointing at her daughter.

  Hannah was no longer smiling. Tears filled her eyes.

  Olivia felt for her daughter, reduced in that instant some twenty years to her own anguished childhood. “She’s coming! She’s coming! Hide!” the village children shrieked and screamed as Olivia wandered down the meadow path. The half dozen children raced away, leaving her standing alone in the meadow, absolutely bewildered, absolutely alone.

  They hated her. They were too young to fear her yet.

  And then a small stone landed on top of her head. Olivia flinched, glancing up through the branches of an oak, and saw one skinny boy scrambling down the trunk, laughing. Before he turned and ran, he stuck his tongue out at her. And then he was gone.

  A tear slipped down her face.

  “Eh, lookit the monkey! ‘E’s doin’ a real dance, by gawd!”

  The boy’s shout jerked Olivia out of the past and she saw the monkey continuing to hop around, looking adorable in his little frock coat and top hat as the Gypsy played. The children had forgotten Hannah. The two scruffy boys and the ragged little girl giggled again, and beside Olivia, Hannah also laughed softly.

  Olivia looked down at her beautiful daughter, treasuring her smile. The pain of the moment was gone. But it was moments like this last one that made Olivia prefer the country to anywhere else—the country and the safe, impenetrable confines of Ashburnham. “He is dancing,” Olivia told Hannah. She cleared her throat. “And quite well, too. One skip one way, two another, and a perfect little bow.”

  “I know. What is he wearing?” Hannah asked eagerly.

  “A red frock coat and a gray top hat,” Olivia replied.

  “His leash and collar are gold.”

  “Is he brown?” Hannah asked. “Brown and furry and soft?”

  “Yes.”

  The children squealed with laughter as the monkey did a somersault; Hannah laughed, too.

  Olivia allowed herself to drift mentally as Miss Childs stepped into the breach, describing the monkey’s antics for Hannah. She glanced around to decide where to take her daughter next, remarking the shooting match soon to take place and a puppet show already in progress. There were booths offering jewelry and plate, others offering scarves, ribbons, and lace. A peddler was hawking toys. On the far side of the square was the Priory, where inside, hundreds of merchants were exhibiting some of the finest cloth in England. But buying a beautiful piece of silk was not on Olivia’s mind.

  Since she had met him, he was almost all she thought about. And she did not want to be consumed this way. Why wouldn’t De Vere leave her alone? And what was wrong with her?

  “Mama, look!” Hanna cried happily.

  Olivia realized that the monkey had come close to Hannah and was now regarding her with unblinking curiosity. Olivia did not move, watching as Hannah squatted, holding out her hand trustingly. Olivia, though, was tense, and she looked up. As if reading her thoughts, the Gypsy said, “He doesn’t bite, madam.”

  Olivia hadn’t thought so, and in any case, Hannah had a very special way with animals, some kind of unique, inexplicable bond. The monkey crept closer. Hannah murmured to it. Suddenly it leapt right into her arms, where it clung to her neck.

  Hannah cradled it close, smiling. “He is soft!” she exclaimed.

  Its master came over to them. “I’ve never in my life seen him do that.”

  Olivia hoped the monkey was not diseased. “Hannah, that is enough,” she said quietly, wishing she did not have to interrupt.

  “Mama …,” Hannah turned in protest.

  Olivia said not a word, and Hannah put the monkey down reluctantly. It scooted over to its master, climbing quickly up the man to ride his shoulders. Olivia reached into her purse and handed him a guinea. His eyes widened and he bowed. “Thank you, my lady, thank you,” he said.

  “Shall we go to the puppet show?” Olivia asked, again taking her daughter’s hand.

  Hannah nodded somberly

  But Olivia’s feet failed to move. Standing watching the wrestlers was none other than Garrick De Vere.

  His back was to them, but Olivia would know him—feel him—anywhere. She was aghast and she abruptly reversed direction. “Let’s buy some cloth for a new dress for you, dear,” she said, pulling Hannah back the other way. Suddenly aware that she was perspiring, Olivia opened and fluttered her fan.

  “Ow,” Hannah cried. “Mama, you’re hurting me.”

  “Lady Ashburn, are you all right?” Miss Childs asked with concern.

  Olivia imagined that her cheeks were red hot. But they must flee. “Come,” she snapped, tugging on her daughter. But as she did so, she half turned to glance at him one more time.

  And De Vere was staring at them. With all-toopenetrating eyes.

  Her heart dropped like a weighted sack of bricks. And Olivia could not move.

  His gaze holding hers, he started toward them, apparently in no rush. Unlike the other evening, he wore his hair unpowdered and pulled back. His dark blue frock coat, while cut from fine cloth, was not ostentatious, and neither was the dark gray waistcoat he wore beneath it or his softer gray breeches. Yet as unfashionably drab as he was, he was still the most striking man Olivia had ever beheld. Then she realized that a large red setter was at his side.

  He paused in front of her and bowed. “Lady Ashburn.” His gaze went to Hannah and Miss Childs … and back to Hannah again.

  Her heart beat hard and fast. She knew she would never control her temper if he was condescending or disparaging toward her daughter. Olivia curtsied quickly and pulled Hannah closer. “My lord, good afternoon.”

  He tore his gaze from Hannah’s face with her unseeing, unblinking eyes. “This is unexpected,” he said.

  She almost said, “Our meeting or my daughter?” Instead sh
e smiled, the expression forced. “My daughter enjoys fairs, as do I. This is my daughter, Hannah. And her governess, Miss Childs.”

  De Vere bowed again. Hannah smiled at him and curtsied. “I also enjoy fairs,” he said to Hannah. “It has been many years since I have been to one.”

  “Why?” Hannah asked.

  His smile was rueful and brief. “I do not live in England. I live on a little island far away, in the Caribbean Sea.”

  “Why would you live there? Aren’t you English? Your accent is English, and my mother called you ‘my lord.’”

  Olivia was trying not to gape. Hannah rarely spoke to adults, and never to strangers. Indeed, her world was restricted to Olivia, Lucy Childs, and some of the staff at Ashburnham. It was a small, isolated world, but one that suited them perfectly. For in their world there was no condescension, no fear, no harsh, overriding judgments.

  But now she was conversing with De Vere as if they were old friends.

  “I prefer Barbados to my native land, for many personal reasons,” Garrick was saying very easily now.

  “What an interesting name, Barbados,” Hannah replied. She held out her hand. Garrick’s setter, until now standing motionless by his right side, suddenly stepped forward and shoved its pointed nose into Hannah’s palm. His brown eyes were warm and friendly.

  “Treve, sit,” Garrick said, a sharp command.

  The setter sat.

  “Oh, have I upset you? I love dogs,” Hannah said quickly. “Is he beautiful? What color is he?”

  De Vere suddenly faced Olivia, and she felt his eyes piercing right through her breastbone. “He is gentle, Lady Ashburn.”

  Olivia nodded. “I assumed as much. May my daughter pet him?”

  Garrick nodded. His gaze remained on Olivia. But when he realized that Hannah had not moved, unable to see his nod, he started. “Please, Hannah.” And he snapped his fingers and pointed at her. The setter stood and stepped forward, his expression alert, his tail wagging.