Brenda Joyce Page 13

  Hannah touched his wide forehead, then stroked behind his long, floppy ears, then bent and hugged him. “He is so big and so soft,” she whispered.

  “He is a setter, dear,” Olivia said, her tone constricted. Why did she feel the urge to weep now? Why was this sight undoing her? “He is red, a fiery golden red. He is very beautiful,” she ended in a whisper. And she looked up to find De Vere staring at her again.

  He said, his gaze fixed upon her, “Treve is an Irish setter.”

  Hannah straightened, her hand still on the dog. “I wish that I had my own dog.”

  Now Olivia avoided Garrick’s eyes. She was still perspiring, but the day was somewhat warm. Her pulse beat far too fast. “We have a cat, dear.”

  “Surely you have hounds at Ashburnham,” Garrick said.

  “But they belong to my father, and they are for sport, not for pets,” Hannah said. “His sister doesn’t like animals in the house, and that is that. I am lucky to have Thomas.”

  Garrick’s jaw was flexed. “I see. Well, Hannah, you may borrow Treve whenever it suits you. He is a good companion, very neat, and very obedient. And he will not chase Thomas if you tell him not to.”

  “Really?” Hannah’s eyes were shining. Her expression was ecstatic. “Really, my lord?”

  “Yes. Until I return to Barbados, for then Treve comes with me.” He smiled, his eyes soft.

  Olivia hugged herself, his sense of humor not lost upon her in spite of her distress. This was not fair. He was wooing her child, and it seemed so right. But surely he was not kind like this—surely he sought only to influence her through Hannah. A heavier weight seemed to settle upon Olivia’s shoulders, because gift or no, she knew that De Vere was not by nature a cold or mean man.

  “And when do you leave England, my lord?” Hannah asked with bold innocence, still fondling the dog.

  Olivia tensed, and to cover her intense reaction to such a simple question, she bent and patted the setter, too.

  “I have yet to decide,” Garrick said. Olivia could feel his eyes on the top of her head. “Have you seen the puppets?” he asked.

  “No.” Hannah shook her head.

  He slowly faced Olivia. “Lady Ashburn, may I escort you and your daughter and Miss Childs? Surely you do not wish to miss the next show.”

  Olivia straightened, finally meeting his intense regard. Many replies raced through her mind. They had to leave, they had another engagement, Hannah had her lessons. Arlen was waiting for them at Vauxhall. But all were false, and she would be caught by her daughter and Miss Childs in an obvious lie. She would probably be exposed by De Vere as well. She failed to smile. “If you insist.”

  The look he gave her was queer. “I do.”

  And the entourage set off, the two women, the child, the man, and his red dog.

  The puppet show needed little explanation, not once it had begun. The puppets argued and fought, danced insanely and played tricks upon one another, causing Hannah to laugh merrily along with the rest of the crowd. Olivia, however, could not concentrate, for De Vere stood on her left side, his strong arm pressing against hers. Powerful and warm. She knew he was preoccupied, too. From the corner of her eye, she was aware that he kept looking at her instead of ahead at the small, colorful stage.

  Suddenly his mouth was near her ear. “Let’s walk. She will be fine here with Miss Childs.”

  It was as if numerous arrows sailed straight into Olivia’s heart. She shook her head, not looking at him.

  His hand closed on her elbow. “I wish to speak with you,” he said, a whisper in her ear again.

  She shivered. His breath had feathered her lobe, causing all kinds of unwanted sensations to rush along the many pathways of her body. How could a simple whisper make her think of last night’s kiss … and more? Olivia glanced at him, about to tell him it was not a good idea. But their gazes locked, his oh-so-golden and commanding, and she nodded. Olivia knew her cheeks were flushed.

  Garrick stepped over to Miss Childs, on Olivia’s other side, Hannah between them. “We are going to inspect the clothes in the Priory. We will meet you back here in a half hour. Treve, stay.” And he took Olivia’s arm firmly and guided her through the standing audience back toward the center of the square.

  Olivia did not look at him as he navigated their way through the crowd. Her heart drummed. She was afraid to know what he wished to discuss, yet she was compelled by far more than curiosity.

  They paused without entering the Priory. “I am sorry I lost my temper last night,” Garrick said abruptly, releasing her arm.

  Olivia rubbed it, her gaze helplessly fixed upon his strong, striking face. “I am sorry, also,” she said.

  He winced. “Most women would simply accept the apology. But I should know better than to expect platitudes from you.”

  “Yes,” Olivia said. “Is that all?”

  His expression darkened. “No, that is not all.” He paused, grim, looking now over her head.

  Olivia waited.

  Finally he met her gaze. “Can I drive you in the park sometime?”

  She was speechless.

  He glared. “I am not asking for a rendezvous.”

  “Is your fiancée invited as well?”

  “No, she is not,” he growled.

  “Then I think I must refuse,” she said, already filled with regret.

  Suddenly he gripped her arms. “Olivia, why not do what you wish to do? Or do you enjoy being victimized by your husband and society’s mores?”

  Olivia tried to step away from him. Dear God, if only he knew how accurate his words were! And she was afraid of him, more so than ever. “Let me go. You do not understand.”

  “No? You are not happy. That is obvious. I am trying to court you, damn it.”

  As he still held her, Olivia thought he was about to shake her. “Release me,” she said, and added, her tone strained, “Please.”

  For one more heartbeat his fingers dug into her arms. Then he obeyed, stepping back slightly.

  She crossed her arms tightly. “You are trying to seduce me,” she said. “And I would have you know that I am hardly unhappy, not that that is your affair.”

  His single raised eyebrow was mocking.

  “I have a wonderful child and a wonderful life at Ashburnham. And if once in a blue moon I must come to town, why, that is hardly the end of the world.” She knew her tone was too high—passersby were turning to look at them.

  “My, how you do protest,” he said, not kindly.

  “Stop it.”

  “If you are so happy in the country, then when do you plan to return?” His tone was demanding.

  Olivia stared, thinking frantically, unable to tell him the truth—that Arlen would punish her and make her remain in the city until the wedding. She was also recalling that he’d vowed to follow her to Ashburnham if she went. “Susan needs me,” she finally said, and that was part of the truth.

  His laughter was scathing. “Indeed she does! God!” He threw both hands into the air, an uncharacteristic gesture, Olivia thought. “Well, perhaps your character will, eventually, wear off upon her.” He sounded bitter and angry.

  “She is a kind, sweet girl,” Olivia cried.

  “I have no use for kind, sweet girls, as you put it,” he ground out. “Will you, or will you not, drive with me in the park?”

  “No.”

  His eyes were frightening. “Will you join me for the theater and supper?” His tone was extremely low now.

  Olivia shook her head as she fought to speak. “You cannot court me. You are not an eligible man.”

  “A day at Bath?” he demanded.

  “No,” she managed, a whisper.

  He stared, clearly fighting a huge temper, clearly enraged.

  “I cannot,” she said.

  He continued to stare. “And if I were not engaged?”

  “I am married. I am not eligible,” she said.

  He was disgusted. It was written all over his face, mingling with his anger.
And Olivia’s heart went out to him in spite of his ceaseless pursuit. She touched his coat sleeve. “This is not meant to be,” she whispered.

  His gaze flew to, and collided with, hers. He did not speak.

  She became light-headed immediately, in her mind’s eye seeing them naked and entwined. And that voice, that damnable voice, said, It is meant to be, and you know it all too well.

  Olivia was frozen.

  “I disagree,” he said finally. “This, surely, is meant to be. Otherwise I would not want you so badly.”

  Olivia inhaled, hard. “Stop,” she began, trembling.

  He cut her off. “I do not admire your integrity,” he said. His gaze pierced right through her. “You see, I do not admire self-sacrifice.”

  De Vere insisted upon driving them home. Olivia’s protest died, because Hannah was thrilled by his offer. Olivia hoped it was because of her instant attachment to his dog and not to the man himself. That would be, she thought, the very final straw.

  They had taken a hansom to the fair anyway, because the two larger Layton vehicles had been in use and the smaller, open curricle would have been too crowded, but now, standing at the curb as his coach drove up, Olivia was sorry she had not suffered the slight inconvenience. And it was not merely because being in De Vere’s presence was so difficult. For a part of her, foolishly, wished to prolong the afternoon. But she was sane enough to worry about being seen with him just the day after the Laytons’ party. Tongues would surely wag another time. No one would believe it to be an innocent encounter. Especially because last night there had been little innocent about the brief moment of passion they had shared.

  The Stanhope coach, a black lacquer affair, pulled up at the curb, four white horses in the traces. Her hand in Hannah’s, De Vere and the setter on Hannah’s other side, Olivia reminded herself they had not done anything wrong and her anxiety—and guilt—was misplaced. But was it? And were heads turning their way even now? She glanced around them as a footman rushed to open the carriage door. A pair of exquisitely dressed ladies were openly regarding her and the viscount of Caedmon Crag from the curb.

  “Lady Ashburn?” Garrick drawled, having handed in both Hannah and Miss Childs. “Are you looking for someone?”

  Olivia quickly turned to him. “Am I imagining it, or have we been remarked?”

  His smile was wry. “I have been remarked, madam.” He gestured at the bold coat of arms painted on the coach’s doors in silver and blue. “I was remarked from the moment I arrived. The price one pays for returning from a long exile—or failing to wear a wig.”

  It was his second humorous remark of the day, and this time Olivia did smile. “Too often fashion fails its followers, my lord, and turns the wearer into a fool.”

  His brows lifted. “At last, a woman of common sense as well as intelligence and beauty.”

  She flushed, taking his offered hand. “Most men wear wigs, my lord, because they are bald. And I do think the women admire your hair.”

  He laughed, handing her into the carriage. His laughter, warm and rich and so very rare, wrapped itself around Olivia like a warm cocoon. De Vere followed her inside. The door was shut smartly by the liveried footman, while Garrick instructed the driver to take them to the Layton residence. He had settled himself beside her, facing Hannah and Miss Childs, and he leaned toward her. “Are you one of those women, my lady?” he asked too softly.

  Would her schoolgirl blushes never cease? “You do not strike me as the kind of man to search out compliments.”

  He sank back against the velvet squabs, arms folded, eyes bright. “You are right. I withdraw the question,” he said.

  Olivia realized how attentive her daughter and the governess were to their exchange, and she promptly faced the window, gazing outside. She began to worry anew.

  This was hardly a good idea. She could only console herself with the fact that Hannah was so happy, inseparable, it seemed, from the setter, and that the afternoon had not been prearranged. And the Laytons were not, thank God, at home.

  The roads were congested, and the journey back to the Laytons’ took a full half hour. In that time, Hannah asked De Vere numerous questions about his dog, including how it had been trained and where, one day, she might find an Irish setter for herself. That amazing conversation—and Olivia was amazed—veered once again onto the subject of Garrick De Vere’s island home. Again, Hannah was stunningly inquisitive. Garrick finally began to regale her with the latest methods of planting sugar cane, a subject that would put most grown men, much less a child, to sleep. To Olivia’s absolute bewilderment, Hannah was a rapt listener.

  “What kinds of animals are there on the island, my lord? Are there monkeys and elephants?” Hannah asked when the viscount had finished describing the grueling labor involved in planting a field of sugar cane.

  De Vere smiled, and it reached his eyes. “We do have monkeys, but I am afraid there are no elephants. But there are parrots, as well as many other kinds of beautiful, exotic birds. And our sea is filled with all manner of fish. Have you ever heard of a dolphin?”

  Hannah shook her head as the carriage stopped in front of the Laytons’ brick town house. “We are here,” Olivia exclaimed, tearing her gaze from De Vere’s relaxed, smiling face. She was fanning herself now. This day had been a disaster. She had learned far too much about the viscount; she was becoming far too involved. She was beginning to like him.

  “Are you warm, Lady Ashburn?” Garrick drawled as the door was opened for them.

  Olivia intended to reply. But before she could do so she saw, past the footman, Lady Layton appearing on the stoop in front of the house. She froze. And then her fan began a rapid-fire movement. What were they doing home?!

  He shifted to follow her gaze. “Ah, the woman who shall soon be my mother-in-law.” Sarcasm did enter his tone.

  Olivia could hardly think. “Well,” she said, her tone odd and high, “thank you for the afternoon. Hannah, Miss Childs, come.”

  “Mama, are you sick?” Hannah asked as Miss Childs climbed out first and then turned to help Hannah down.

  “Of course not,” Olivia said brightly. But her heart was sinking like a stone, for Lady Layton was coming down the steps and approaching the carriage. Her smile was false and plastered on her face. Everyone suspects, Olivia thought wildly. And then, but nothing has happened yet!

  “Lady Ashburn, you are back early. How was the fair?” Lady Layton asked.

  “Wonderful,” Olivia said, stepping from the coach.

  “Lord Caedmon, this is a dear surprise,” Lady Layton said, her smile now genuine.

  He stepped down from the carriage himself, as was only proper, and bowed over her hand. “Lady Layton. I, too, was at the fair. When I saw that Lady Ashburn and her daughter had no means of transportation, I offered to drive them home.”

  “That was so kind of you,” Lady Layton exclaimed as Olivia froze. But Lady Layton must have been extremely distracted, for she did not appear to have heard Garrick’s remark. “Please, do come in. Susan and I were about to have tea. We are thrilled that you are here.”

  “I am afraid I must decline your offer, madam, as I have several pending engagements. I shall try to call on Miss Layton in a day or two,” he said, barely smiling.

  Lady Layton’s face fell, but then she quickly smiled. “Well, on the morrow, then, perhaps, my lord.”

  He bowed and climbed back into the carriage. Olivia stood self-consciously behind Lady Layton, holding Hannah’s hand, trying to stare at the pavement as if it were truly mesmerizing. But nature forced her to look up, just in time to meet his suddenly inscrutable eyes. Or was amusement lurking there? He nodded at her, and the carriage rolled away.

  Lady Layton turned.

  Olivia knew that guilt was written all over her face.

  Lady Layton said, strained, “Shall we have tea, Lady Ashburn?” And her tone was filled with tension and worry.

  The reconstruction of the Houghton Place was finally over. Stone masons a
nd bricklayers, carpenters and smiths, had been working feverishly for five years on the two new wings that Elizabeth had insisted upon shortly after her marriage to the marquis of Houghton, and only a month ago had they finished. Now the mansion took up most of the square upon which it was located. Six years ago Elizabeth had insisted that their neighbors vacate the adjoining premises in order that she might build the two new wings. Their neighbors, a baron and a well-to-do merchant, had resisted at first, but in the end the marchioness had prevailed through sheer force of will and a touch of social ostracism. As she had said, moving two families was mere child’s play. After all, in order to construct her new country home in Kent, a Palladian villa that, she said, far surpassed the old Elizabethan home her husband had inherited, the entire village of Woodbridge had had to be relocated so as not to obstruct the new villa’s views of the valley. Of course, the peasants had hardly objected to the move.

  Arlen was glad the reconstruction in town was finished. He was a frequent guest at his sister’s, and for years the noise of the hammers and saws had driven him crazy. Now, as he waited for Elizabeth to descend from her suite in the brand-new east wing, he looked around, admiring the huge, palatial proportions of the grand salon where he stood. The salon, and the entire wing, were magnificent enough to rival the duke of Marlborough’s new home. That, of course, had been Elizabeth’s intention. How highly Arlen thought of her judgment.

  She swept into the room, shocking Arlen because she was clad in the same pale pink gown he had seen her in at a tea earlier in the day. Dismayed, he walked to her, immediately remarking that she was upset and angry. Her sapphire blue eyes were flashing, her mouth hard and tight. “Dear, we have planned a quiet supper, just the two of us,” he said, his pulse racing swiftly now. “Or did you forget?”

  She extended her hand, which he kissed. “I have not forgot, but I have no interest in dining out tonight. If you wish, we can dine here, as the marquis is in the country.” She whirled and paced, face set.

  Arlen followed her, relaxing a little. “Are you certain he will not return home?” he asked.