Brenda Joyce Read online

  Perhaps, when this tempest had died down, she would try to have a reasonable conversation with him … despite the fact that they had ceased having any kind of reasonable exchange nine long years ago.

  “Yes, I will go and supervise my maids.” Olivia managed to smile and left the room, her strides as brisk as she could gracefully make them.

  It was raining. It had begun the night before and continued unabated all that day. The rain ran down the windowpanes in thick, solid sheets. Outside, the day was gray, dismal, and cold. Inside the salon, a fire blazed beneath the carved wooden mantel of the hearth. Lady Layton had pleaded a headache and retired to her rooms shortly after dinner. Sir John was at his club. Hannah was finishing her last lesson of the day, and Olivia and Susan sat alone in the parlor, Susan working a piece of embroidery, Olivia silently reading Shakespeare’s sonnets. They had arrived in London three days ago.

  Susan suddenly set her embroidery aside. “I do not understand. He is in town. But he has not called. The betrothal was announced in all the newspapers, and he has not even bothered to make my acquaintance. I do not understand!”

  Olivia laid her book down. She did not understand, eithere. “He has not been home in many years,” she said, finding herself automatically defending the subject of their conversation—a subject that still, somehow, managed to occupy a good portion of her waking hours—and some of her restless nights as well. “I am sure he has had many affairs to see to.”

  “I am glad,” Susan said vehemently, a slight sheen to her eyes. “As everyone knows, he is a horrid man, and I am glad to postpone for as long as possible finally meeting him in the flesh!” She shivered.

  Olivia leaned forward. “Susan, perhaps it would be best if you started thinking more kindly of the man you will one day wed? Perhaps he is not all that they say?” She had made up her mind that she would not interfere in this disastrous match. She had become genuinely fond of Susan in just a few days, and the fact was, for Susan, a brewer’s daughter, it was a magnificent union. One day Susan would be the countess of Stanhope.

  “Olivia, I have tried, truly I have, but everyone says he murdered his older brother. My God!”

  Olivia stiffened. “That is a horrid rumor, one I do not for a moment believe.”

  But Susan continued as if she had not even heard. “He was, they say, the last person to see his brother, and of course, with his older brother gone, he became the heir. Who else would have done away with Lionel De Vere? And last night at Almack’s I overheard two ladies saying that he has become a savage, truly, for he walks around sans wig, sans powder, a good deal of the time in hacking clothes, and then they said it was no surprise, because his father has begged him to return for many years—but he prefers the sugar islands—because he is a savage! Then I heard Lady Camdon saying he had seduced a fine young woman just before his banishment—in 1750, she said, it was a huge scandal—and that it was his refusal to marry her when it was his duty to do so that caused his own father to send him to the West Indies in the first place.” Susan shuddered. “It just gets worse and worse!”

  Olivia had also heard the gossip since arriving at the Laytons’. “I find it intolerable to condemn a man without actual proof of his guilt.” She was angry.

  “Olivia, you are just too kind,” Susan said, eyes dampening. “But do they not say that if there is smoke, there is a fire?”

  Olivia sighed. “Yes, that is an old adage. Susan, many years have passed since all these supposed crimes were committed. Perhaps he has sincerely changed, repenting his ways, if he has been responsible for some of the deeds.” But she knew he was not a murderer. Perhaps a seducer of innocence, perhaps a savage, but not a murderer. Of this she had not a doubt.

  Susan did smile. “You are the kindest person I have ever met. Let me only say I hope you are right!”

  Olivia smiled in return, turned, and reached for her handsomely bound volume of sonnets on the Chippendale end table. And there he was. She froze, her gaze on the window. He was stepping down from a huge lacquer coach, a coat of arms emblazoned in blue and silver on the door, liveried footmen swinging it smartly shut behind him. Olivia did not have to identify the coach or the arms to know that it was he. In spite of the rain, he was tall, muscular, and dark, and she knew, she absolutely knew, this was Garrick De Vere, the viscount of Caedmon Crag.

  Susan cried out, apparently having seen their caller as well, her embroidery slipping to the floor. “Oh dear Lord! Oh dear Lord, it is he!”

  Olivia could not speak. Her own pulse pounded now with erratic force as she watched him hurrying up the block, the cape he wore swinging about him. His calves, she saw, were very muscular, and she did not think he wore padding, because his thighs, visible as the cape flapped open, were every bit as solid, hard, and defined. Olivia wet her lips. Her reaction to his sudden appearance was inexplicable. She had no reason to be so unnerved.

  And she had not incorrectly imagined his appearance. It was exactly as she had thought it would be.

  “I need salts,” Susan cried in a whisper. “I am going to faint.”

  Olivia felt rather light-headed and in need of air herself, but now was not the time to give in to female vapors—which she had never before suffered from. She stood, bent, retrieved Susan’s embroidery, and handed it to her. “You will do no such thing. Start sewing.”

  Susan, starkly white, blinked at her, tears appearing in her eyes, and she nodded. Studiously she began to sew.

  “Susan, at all costs, do not cry,” Olivia said. Susan nodded again as Olivia quickly returned to her chair, picking up the book. She opened it, saw it was upside-down, and corrected the error. She did not see a single word on the page as she strained her ears for the sound of his approach. Footsteps finally became evident, growing louder still. Olivia stared at the blurred words on the page, her pulse more wild now than before. She felt her cheeks burning.

  “Ladies, Lord Garrick De Vere, the viscount of Caedmon Crag,” a footman intoned from the doorway.

  Olivia looked up, as did Susan. Garrick De Vere stood on the threshold, as tall and powerfully built as he had first appeared through the windows. He stared across the room, not at Susan, but at Olivia. She slowly rose, setting the sonnets aside, aware of trembling. Somehow, their gazes had locked. And his was as golden as she had imagined.

  Olivia curtsied, peripherally aware that Susan was doing the same. De Vere bowed.

  Silence reigned in the room. Olivia became aware of it—worse, she realized she was staring openly at him—and that he was doing the same to her. She fought for control of her rioting senses. What was wrong with her? He was only a man, even if he was many inches over six feet tall and striking in his appearance. Had he not been wearing a dark green frock coat, a silver waistcoat, a fine silk shirt with lace cuffs and cravat, pale wool breeches, and paler stockings, she would have sworn he was a savage colonial, and that assessment had less to do with his unpowdered hair than the feral, frank way he moved and continued to stare at her.

  Olivia stepped forward. “My lord, we are so pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

  Amusement glimmered in his eyes as he came into the room. “Indeed.” He made no effort to continue the conversation.

  Olivia took a breath. “We have eagerly awaited this moment, have we not?” She turned to look at Susan, whose eyes were wide, bright spots of pink marring her cheeks. Susan managed to nod.

  He folded his arms, eyeing Olivia.

  Olivia’s temper rose—could he not at least comment upon the weather? “In truth, we expected you several days ago.”

  His bow was slight. “I apologize for my tardiness.” He paused. Olivia thought he would lapse into silence again, but he said, “Had I known what awaited me here, I might not have been so tardy.”

  Olivia shifted, because he continued to stare at her, not at Susan. Had he mistaken her for his fiancée? “My lord,” she said, uneasy now, “might we offer you some refreshments?”

  He shrugged. “If you wish
. What are you reading?”

  His question took her by surprise. “Shakespeare. I am fond of his sonnets. Do you like to read?”

  “I read poorly,” he said flatly. A hint of color appeared high up on his striking cheekbones.

  She was surprised. She knew he was a man of great intelligence, could not imagine why he would read poorly, and saw that she had discomfited him, which was not her intention.

  “But I should like it if you would, sometime, read to me,” he said bluntly.

  He thought she was Susan. Olivia was at once elated and depressed. “My lord, perhaps Miss Layton might wish to read to you,” she said a bit hoarsely.

  He jerked, his eyes flying to Susan, who remained standing tensely and, it appeared, as yet incapable of speech. “I see I have made a vast mistake,” he said, his eyes darkening. “Miss Layton.” He bowed.

  Susan, still speechless, curtsied ever so slightly. A tear seemed to shimmer upon her pale lashes.

  His gaze moved to the embroidery she had left on her chair. “How pleasing,” he said, his tone scathing.

  Olivia flinched. She did not think him pleased at all. “Susan is also a very fine dancer. And she plays the harpsichord quite well.” That was an exaggeration, but Olivia was not sure what else to say.

  The viscount faced her rather coolly. “So you are her champion?”

  Hotly Olivia said, “I am her friend.”

  His gaze held hers, softening. “How fortunate for Miss Layton.”

  Heat, red hot, streaked through Olivia’s body. It was carnal. She was in shock.

  He turned back to Susan. “And are you, also, fond of reading?” he asked.

  Susan stared, appearing very desperate and quite mesmerized.

  Olivia looked at her and prayed she would find her tongue.

  “Miss Layton?” Garrick De Vere asked very imperiously.

  “No,” Susan whispered. “In truth, I do not like to read.”

  He nodded, as if her words came as no surprise. “What do you like to do? Other than embroider, dance, and play the harpsichord?”

  Her blush heightened. “I …” She trailed off.

  “Surely you have interests?” he queried.

  “I enjoy the parks,” she said, her small bosom heaving, “here in London.”

  His brows lifted. “Do you ride?”

  She clutched her skirts. “Not well, sir. But I do enjoy a daily drive.”

  “I see.” He remained unsmiling. “And what else occupies your time?”

  Susan stared at him as helplessly as a bird about to be devoured by a cat.

  “Well? Surely I must learn these things if I am to please my bride.”

  Olivia did not think he had any intention of ever trying to please Susan.

  Susan swallowed. “I enjoy gardens.”

  “Gardens?”

  “Vauxhall,” she whispered.

  “Then we shall go,” he said, not kindly. In fact, he looked truly put out and annoyed.

  “Yes,” Susan whispered, her voice quavering. And Olivia crossed her fingers, praying she would not burst into tears. “As you wish, my … my lord.”

  “Are you about to cry?” he asked with sudden amazement.

  Susan burst into tears, and with a sob, she raced from the room, tripping over her huge floral skirts.

  Olivia was furious. Her blood burned as never before. Why had he tormented sweet Susan that way? So implacably? So ruthlessly?

  He turned to Olivia. “She is exactly as I thought she would be,” he said savagely. Then his searing gaze held Olivia’s, and his tone changed. “And you, madam? Might I learn your name?”

  Olivia fists were clenched. Even when she saw his gaze move quickly to her hands, she did not relax them, nor did she force a smile. “I am Olivia Grey, the countess of Ashburn,” she said stiffly. “And you, sir, need a lesson in manners. How could you treat Miss Layton that way?!”

  He stared, eyes wide, as if he had not heard her last sentences.

  “My lord, sir, Miss Layton is a dear girl,” Olivia began again, somewhat less heatedly.

  “I am sure that she is,” he said. “You are Lady Ashburn?” There was amazement in his tone.

  “Is that cause for concern?” she asked, having no choice but to retreat from the topic of his badgering Susan. It was too intimate and unseemly a subject as it was.

  He stared, his golden eyes intent. “So you are married to Arlen,” he said quietly, as if to himself and not to her.

  “You know my husband?” Olivia asked, surprise mingling with anxiety.

  His smile was not particularly pleasant; in fact, Olivia found it menacing, although why, she could not say. “Let us just say that once; long ago, we knew one another,” De Vere replied.

  A frisson of dread swept over Olivia. What was happening here? His anger was obvious. Clearly he and Arlen were not friends; perhaps they were even adversaries of sorts. And he was betrothed to Susan, yet his presence was consuming her now in the flesh as it had, before this meeting, in her mind. And Olivia felt the presence of danger, there in the room with her. It was so strong, so overpowering, so sudden and unexpected, that her knees turned to jelly and she almost stumbled.

  “Are you ill?” he asked suddenly, his gaze keen.

  Briefly she could not speak, her gaze locking with his. What danger, and where? For whom—and when? The questions vied violently for her attention, but she was afraid by what she had felt and could not find any answers. Did it have something to do with Garrick De Vere’s prior relationship to her husband? Or was it about him and Susan? Surely it had nothing to do with her!

  “Lady Ashburn,” he said sharply.

  I am so overcome by this man that I am imagining things, Olivia told herself firmly. She forced a smile. “I am fine. Thank you.” But she remained shaken.

  He scowled and walked away from her, to stare out one of the salon windows into the pouring rain. Olivia studied his broad back. The rain drummed on the glass panes, loud and rhythmic. She did not think he padded his coats as some fops did—as Arlen did. Suddenly Olivia saw herself walking up behind him, placing her hands firmly on his back, pressing her body there, laying her cheek there—and she was appalled with her errant mind.

  He turned abruptly—as if cognizant of her thoughts. This time their gazes collided wildly. Olivia had to look away. Thank God he had no gift, she thought desperately. How ashamed she would be if he could guess her thoughts.

  “I would still like you to read to me,” he said suddenly.

  Olivia started. “Perhaps that would not be proper.”

  He smiled with amusement, eyes gleaming, and stalked forward. Oddly enough, Olivia’s heart skipped and she backed up several steps, until a sofa blocked her way. He did not stop advancing until he stood inches in front of her—so close, in fact, that her skirts, held out by wide hoops, covered his legs from knee to toe.

  “I am from an uncivilized island. I care little for propriety,” he said.

  She did swallow. “Well, that is fine for you, my lord, but I live on this particular island, where one does conform to a certain code of etiquette.”

  He smiled. “How prettily that was said.” His eyes continued to gleam—settling on her mouth.

  Her pulse was out of control. Was he going to kiss her? Her brain became so scrambled, she could hardly think. “You need not flatter me, my lord,” she whispered.

  “Why not, my lady? You are an exceedingly interesting woman.”

  Her gaze shot to his. “I am ordinary.” She almost choked on the stupendous lie.

  “You are far from ordinary,” he said firmly. “You are the least ordinary woman I have ever met.”

  “Do you jest?” She was disbelieving.

  “You know I do not.” His smile had faded. “Truthfully, I did not return to England out of any real desire to do so. But now”—his gaze slid over her features, one by one—“I find myself exceedingly pleased to have done so.”

  Olivia was in shock. He was engaged to her
friend, yet she was certain he was about to make some kind of illicit advance toward her. “You should be pleased,” she said frantically, “for your bride is a lovely young woman.”

  “You,” he said flatly, “are a lovely woman.”

  Olivia was finally rendered speechless. When was the last time anyone had called her lovely? She was quite certain that she had not been told that she was lovely since she was a young child—not since her gift had become apparent.

  He stared at her for a long time.

  “I am the Laytons’ houseguest,” she finally whispered. “I must plead a headache. I must retire.” She curtsied quickly, inelegantly, about to fly past him. But he caught her wrist. And his huge, callused hand did not merely dwarf her arm, it seared her, like the red-hot brand used on poachers, convicts, and thieves.

  “You stay here? And not at Ashburn House? Is Arlen here with you?” he demanded.

  She was not compelled to answer such intimate questions, but she said hoarsely, “Arlen stays at Ashburn House, my lord. Now, would you please release my arm?”

  He ignored her, continuing to hold her firmly in place, shifting his weight so he leaned toward her. “I want to see you again,” he declared. “When will that be?”

  “You are mad! Insane! It is not possible,” she cried.

  “It is done all the time.” He pressed forward. Olivia began to bend backward over the couch. “Or do you love, honor, and remain faithful to your husband, Lady Ashburn?”

  She did not have to answer him, she told herself frantically. “Let me go. Please!”

  “Are you afraid of me?” he said, backing up a step.

  But Olivia did not breathe more easily, even if she could now stand upright. Dangerous, she thought. He is dangerous. “Yes,” she whispered.

  He released her..His expression had changed, ardent intention replaced by displeasure and disbelief. Too late, Olivia realized he had misunderstood—thought she was afraid of him for all the reasons society would have closed its doors to him had he not been Stanhope’s heir. “My lord,” she began.