Brenda Joyce Read online

  “Do not bother to apologize,” he said scathingly. His gaze raked her from head to toe. “I am sure our paths will cross again. Next time, I will try to restrain myself from overstepping all bounds.” His smile was tight and angry.

  And he was walking away from her, without even a parting bow. Olivia wanted to call him back, explain—worse, she almost ran after him, to halt him with physical force. But she did no such thing.

  He was going to marry Susan. And she had never even contemplated an affair.

  But her heart was hurting her now, the feeling sickening, pervasive. Olivia bit her lip, hard, so as not to call after him.

  A moment later she went to the window and pressed her nose to the glass. Immediately it began to fog. She rubbed violently at the window and saw him pause in the downpour outside, about to step into the carriage, the liveried footman patiently holding the door open for him. Then he turned fully and stared not at the house, but directly at her, through the window and the rain.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Olivia turned away.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was Lady Layton who summoned Olivia to her rooms.

  Barely half an hour had passed since De Vere had left. Olivia had remained in the salon, seriously at a loss. The encounter—every detail of it, every spoken word—remained engraved upon her mind. She was very shaken. She must, she knew, leave London immediately; coming to town had been a mistake.

  The door to Lady Layton’s private sitting room was ajar. Instantly Olivia understood why she had been summoned upstairs. Susan was reclining upon the green velvet settee, sobbing into a handkerchief. Her mother was at her side, stroking her hair, looking extremely distraught.

  Before Olivia could knock, Susan saw her and cried, “Tell her! Tell Mother that I cannot marry such a miserable, mean man!”

  Olivia was actually in agreement with Susan for once. Having finally met Garrick De Vere she had no doubt that it would be a terrible match, with devastating consequences for the young girl. Of course, she could say no such thing. Olivia forced a smile and entered the room. Lady Layton stood, her relief obvious.

  “Susan is easily given over to hysterics, but this time she is truly distressed. What happened, Countess?” Lady Layton asked, wringing her small hands.

  “It was a difficult interview,” Olivia said carefully.

  “I cannot marry him!” Susan cried.

  “It is all arranged,” Lady Layton said with dismay. “Oh, Susan, he will one day be the earl of Stanhope. You will be a countess. One day, darling, your son will be an earl—and all of your children will be lords and ladies of great rank and consequence.”

  Susan collapsed into tears.

  Olivia felt terribly sympathetic, and she went to her. “Susan, his manners were definitely lacking, but he is very handsome, is he not?” she tried.

  Susan stared. “He is a savage! He looks like a … an … American Indian! His hair wasn’t even powdered! I did not find him attractive at all.”

  “Oh, dear,” Lady Layton said anxiously. “Do you think he might powder his hair for the betrothal party?”

  Olivia did not think so. “I am sure he will,” she said brightly. “Susan, I do not think he is a purposefully mean man. I think he has suffered greatly in his life, I think he is terribly unhappy.” The words came from her unbidden. She had not reflected upon De Vere’s true nature yet; she had been far too disturbed by their exchange and her overwhelming reaction to him. But now she was stunned by her own words, for the truth was so obvious. How unhappy he was.

  “He doesn’t like me, not at all,” Susan said, sniffling. “And even if he is unhappy, that is hardly cause to make me so miserable.” The tears fell again, and she dabbed at them with her linen handkerchief. By now her pale skin was blotchy, her nose strawberry red. Susan was not a woman who cried gracefully.

  “His manners could be improved upon. He was hardly nice to me, either,” Olivia said with caution. Dear God. The viscount of Caedmon Crag had made it clear that he wished to dally with her. At the mere thought, Olivia’s heart lurched. What was happening? She had not thought herself to be a woman interested in matters of the flesh. Or was her reaction to a singularly attractive man a direct consequence of having been cloistered for such a long time?

  She hid her hands in her skirts so no one might see that they were shaking.

  “I think he was rather taken with you,” Susan said, interrupting her thoughts.

  Olivia paled.

  “He could not take his eyes off you,” Susan amended, “but then, you are so beautiful, I am sure that most men stare.”

  Olivia felt herself blush. “I am hardly beautiful.”

  Susan shifted and faced her mother. “Mother, please, tell Father I cannot marry that horrid man.”

  Lady Layton hesitated. “My dear, your father’s mind is made up. And the contracts have been signed, the betrothal announced in all of the newspapers. Oh! I do not know what to do. If you did not marry the viscount, whom would you wed? It would not be such a spectacular match.”

  “But I want to be happy,” Susan cried. “Mother, you are happy. Father loves you and you love him.” Lady Layton flushed and started to speak, but Susan rushed on. “Oh, I know it is not fashionable to love one’s spouse, but at least one must be friends, one must respect the person one is married to. Am I asking for too much? I only want a portion of what you and Father share.”

  Lady Layton sighed. “No, dear, you are hardly asking for the world, but maybe, if you give Lord Caedmon a chance, you might feel some friendship for him—and he might feel some fondness for you—and it would all turn out in time.” She brightened.

  Olivia almost choked. That scenario, she knew, was wishful thinking at its best. Yet what should she do now? She had promised herself she would not interfere, had even been trying to persuade Susan to accept the match. But the urge to interfere was overwhelming.

  “May I come in?” Sir John asked from the threshold, smiling. “Or am I interrupting?”

  One and all turned toward the robust knight. Olivia did smile. His huge wig, a few years out of date, was askew. His silver waistcoat was buttoned incorrectly, and one of his stockings was slipping. But his smile was as warm as his heart, and she was glad to see him.

  “Please, John, do come in,” Lady Layton said nervously.

  His smile faded. “My dears, what is going on? Susan, you are distressed,” Layton declared.

  “Father, he finally called. That despicable man. It was the most horrid audience I have ever had,” Susan said in a rush.

  “What horrid man?” Layton asked benignly.

  “Why, my fiancé,” Susan cried. She held the handkerchief to her eyes again, sniffling quite loudly.

  “Dear, I am afraid they did not get along very well,” Lady Layton said. “But I am sure their relationship will improve.”

  “I despise him! And he despises me, things will not improve, I am quite sure. I cannot marry him!” Susan said loudly.

  Layton was grim. “My dear, the contracts have been signed, the banns are being read, an announcement in the weekly Times has been published. I have garnered a magnificent match for you, and you should be thankful, instead of abed.”

  Susan’s face crumpled. She wept.

  Layton sighed and skewered Olivia with his usually friendly gaze. Now it was piercing. “Have you met His Lordship?” he asked.

  Olivia was nervous. “Yes, my lord, I did.”

  “Is Susan exaggerating?”

  Olivia hesitated as Susan stopped weeping to stare at her. “It was a difficult interview, my lord. The viscount has been abroad many years, and his manners are not what we are accustomed to. Susan was rather discomfited by his forthrightness.”

  Layton turned to his daughter. “Susan, I have pampered you your entire life, with real pleasure. But it is time for you to grow up. You are too easily distressed, my dear, you must become stronger. I have arranged a great match for you, and I expect you to be grateful.”

/>   Susan gazed at her father tearfully but did not speak.

  “You have little choice in this matter,” Layton continued seriously. “Daughters do not decide such matters in any case—why should you be an exception? I expect you to wed Lord Caedmon, and I expect you to be a dutiful wife. I expect you to come to admire him, if that is the best you can do, in time. I do not expect complaints. Most women would die to be in your place.”

  Olivia winced at his choice of words.

  “I would rather die than marry him!” Susan said vehemently.

  Layton’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?” he said stiffly.

  “I am sorry, Father,” she said hastily, sniffling now. “But I will never admire him, never!”

  Layton sighed. “I was warned that he was difficult and eccentric. But there are far worse things, let me assure you.” He turned to his tiny wife. “Lady Layton, I expect you to coach your daughter in the affairs of the world. Explain to her how a marriage can be made a success, or how it can be made a failure. Above all, you shall inform her of her duties and role as a bride and wife. Susan is sweet and pretty. Garrick De Vere is a man. Perhaps eccentric, but he will not be averse to my daughter when all is said and done—if all is said and done correctly.” Layton bowed, spun on his heels, and departed the room.

  Olivia regarded Susan, who was dismayed but no longer in tears as she stared glumly after her father. Lady Layton came over to her. “Well, my dear, that is that. I do think we are going to have a long talk this afternoon.”

  “Father isn’t going to change his mind, is he?” Susan asked.

  “No,” Lady Layton replied. “He usually knows what is best, my dear,” she said gently.

  Susan pouted. Then, “He will be an earl.” She sighed.

  “You should think about that, and all the other wonderful benefits of marrying the Stanhope heir,” Lady Layton said quite cheerfully. “And just think, in another two days there will be that wonderful soiree to celebrate your betrothal. You have been waiting to wear that beautiful rose gown—and I have heard the ring he will give you is worth a fortune in itself. It is a family heirloom, you know.”

  Susan did smile, just a bit. Then she said, “If only he were not so big, not so dark, and just a bit more well mannered!”

  “And that is what we shall discuss,” Lady Layton said. “How a woman like you brings a man like that to heel.” She walked to the bell pull and rang it. “It is going to be a long afternoon, so we shall need tea and cakes.”

  Susan slid her slippered feet to the floor and smiled at Olivia. “I suppose I should apologize for my behavior. It was terrible, was it not?”

  “But I do understand,” Olivia said gently, thinking that the Laytons were seriously deluded if they thought Susan could ever tame a man like De Vere. “I am glad you are feeling better now.” A sick feeling was welling up inside of her, one she recognized but wished she did not.

  Susan hesitated. “You weren’t frightened by him, were you?” Anxiety tinged her tone.

  Olivia hesitated. De Vere had frightened her—but not in the way Susan meant. “No, my dear. He did not.”

  “It will be a wonderful party,” Susan said, smiling again. “And surely he will be less surly—and surely he will powder his hair.”

  Olivia closed her eyes. The sickening feeling was far more intense. And there was no avoiding the voice in her mind. Nothing was going to go as planned, because of her, Olivia. Chills swept over her, and she begged to be excused.

  How he hated these evenings.

  At Sugar Hill it was different. With the setter sprawled at his feet, he would sit on the whitewashed verandah of the square, four-story plantation house, sipping rum as the sun turned into a flaming red ball, streaking the Caribbean sky with rainbow hues, lowering itself gently over the fertile green plains of his sugar cane fields. Beyond the last of the fields he could see a strip of pearly white beach and the placid, shimmering jade green waters of Sugar Hill cove.

  “So. You finally called upon your fiancée,” the earl said flatly. There was censure in his tone. The criticism could not have been clearer had he finished his thoughts by saying, “And it was about time.”

  Garrick kept his expression absolutely neutral as he turned to his father. He had not come home to argue with him, by God. Yet neither had he returned to be talked down to—he was no longer a child. He sat with the earl and countess at one end of the long rosewood dining table, waiting for supper to be served, the earl at its head in his silver periwig, rolled and tied back in a queue, and a dark crimson frock coat, an ice blue waistcoat, and an exquisitely ruffled white silk shirt. Garrick himself had indifferently donned the new clothing his mother’s tailor had so quickly made up for him.

  Huge silver candelabra graced the center of the table, making it hard for everyone to see one another. Garrick thought it preferable that his view of the earl was interfered with. Overhead, three large crystal chandeliers flickered with the candlelight of hundreds of white candles. He toyed with his crystal wineglass, finally taking a sip of fine French Bordeaux. “I did.”

  “And?” the earl demanded. “Have you come to your senses at last?”

  “No, I have not come to my senses,” Garrick said flatly.

  The countess, clad in a brilliantly gold gown à la française. interjected quickly, “She is not only a pretty girl, she is very sweet, too, dear.”

  Garrick smiled without mirth. “I did not notice.” He stared at his father. “Oh, yes, she was the plump brunette. I suppose she is passable enough.”

  The earl grimaced, the countess immediately reached for her wine and sipped it, and silence briefly reigned. “I will ignore that, as you wish only to provoke me. It certainly took you long enough to call upon her. I can only say I hope it was a pleasant call.”

  “Oh, it was quite pleasant—considering the fact that Miss Layton is insipid, spineless, and a fool.”

  Again Eleanor reached for her wine.

  “I am sorry, Mother,” Garrick said. “But I refuse to pretend to be enamored of Father’s choice.”

  “She is a nice young lady,” his mother whispered somewhat desperately.

  The earl cut his wife off before she could continue. “Have we not already discussed this? One does not choose one’s bride for the attributes one prefers. As it is, most women, Garrick. in case you have not noticed, are as insipid as they are foolish. Just spend an entire evening at Almack’s. Miss Layton will be the perfect wife—imminently pliable.”

  Garrick glanced at his mother, but she was studying her plate, clutching her wineglass with one hand. “Once again, we are in complete disagreement,” he said harshly. “And do you not think you should clarify your statement? For surely you do not include your wife in your judgments?”

  “Garrick”—Eleanor finally glanced at him, her smile brief—“your father has not insulted me.”

  And Garrick thought, but he should have.

  “What does your mother have to do with this?” Stanhope was annoyed. “We are discussing your fiancée. As usual, you misunderstand me completely—but I think you do so on purpose. Layton has three sons, and Miss Layton shall undoubtedly birth you a healthy heir,” the earl ended with real satisfaction. “That is what is important, and little else.”

  “A foolish woman like that, one whose first recourse is to resort to tears, will make me gray in a very few short years,” Garrick growled.

  Eleanor finished her glass of wine. It was promptly refilled by a servant.

  “It was not easy finding you a bride. I did the best for you that I could, Garrick, considering that the entire ton thinks you responsible for Lionel’s murder.” Stanhope slammed his hand on the table.

  Garrick was on his feet. “Oh, so now it is murder? And do you really think I give a damn what the peerage thinks about me?”

  Stanhope was also on his feet. “You have already proven that you do not give a damn about anything or anyone but yourself.” He was practically shouting.

  The
countess gasped. “Please! Please stop! Both of you!”

  “Be quiet,” the earl snapped, not even looking at her. He glared at Garrick. “Your duties lay here, with me, yet you ran away years ago, for we both know the truth—I never meant to banish you! And to refuse to come home when you are my only son! And now you will fight me about this marriage? Have you no honor, Garrick? You are a fool, far more so than Miss Layton.”

  Garrick was so angry that he was shaking. “I have never been good enough for you, have I? Everything I said and did was always wrong. I have never won your approval, so why should anything change now? My only regret is that I did not leave England right after Lionel vanished, that I waited four more years. And as far as duty and honor go, Father, you are right. I have no honor. But then, this has never been a real home, so how can you blame me for not giving a damn about this earldom?”

  The earl’s face turned white.

  “Garrick!” the countess cried. “I know you do not mean that.”

  “Father believes he is infallible, and I cannot change how he thinks of me. Nor do I wish to try.” Garrick flung his linen napkin on the table in absolute disgust. Yet there was hurt rising up inside of him, along with the anger, because a part of him had hoped that maybe things had changed—that maybe the earl had changed, becoming more reasonable in his old age. But nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. He was a cunning, ruthless, powerful old man—and until he died, he would reign his kingdom like a tyrant.

  “I am usually right,” the earl said, recovering his ability to speak. He was furiously grim. “And I am right about this. Your disloyalty to the family is shocking.”

  “I have never ceased shocking you, now, have I?” Garrick said with real bitterness. He bowed to his mother. “I am afraid I have thoroughly lost my appetite.” And with hard strides he left the room, aware of the tension-laden silence he was leaving behind.

  At the table, the countess began to cry.

  The earl threw down his fork, stood, and exited the room.

  In the salon, Garrick opened the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass of brandy. As he drank it, he felt some of the tension easing inside of him. How wonderful it was, he thought mockingly, to be home.