by Cheryl Holt
Olivia strode toward the house but, in order to reach her destination, she took a circuitous route through the vast gardens. She'd caught a glimpse of Margaret on the
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verandah and desperately wanted to avoid her stepmother.
Margaret would want to hash out the details of the pending evening—what jewelry and dress Olivia should wear to supper, what she should do with her hair—when Olivia couldn't bear to discuss any of it.
She'd taken to riding each afternoon, which was an acceptable activity, and it gave her the perfect excuse to dally with Phillip. But the trips were too short, and passed much too rapidly, and after her thrilling hour lollygag-ging with him, she couldn't abide Margaret's blathering over Edward and the potential nuptials.
What was she to do?
It was more and more apparent that she couldn't follow through on her promise to entice Edward Paxton. While Margaret was counting on her, and they had no other options, she couldn't save them in the fashion Margaret demanded.
If she became Edward's wife, there would be a long string of wretched Sunday dinners, neighborhood gatherings and socials, and she'd preside over all of them, knowing that his son was out in the stable, watching from afar.
Whenever she went into the yard, or needed to use a carriage, she might run into Phillip, and she could envision no greater torture than to be in proximity to him but unable to act upon their nearness. She couldn't go through life as Edward's spouse, pretending that Phillip didn't exist.
As opposed to most girls, she'd never ruminated about being a bride, had never dreamed about her wedding, or fantasized as to what her husband would be like. When Margaret had explained their plight, Olivia had stoically agreed that a hasty wedding was the sole alternative, but she hadn't given the actual concept of marriage much consideration.
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Since meeting Phillip, she'd brooded over the mysterious arrangement. She now knew something of ardor and physical desire. There was a unique side to matrimony of which she'd been unaware, and she couldn't disregard it.
There was a bawdy, lustful aspect to her character that she'd never noted before. She was entranced, excited and bewitched, by the exploits he'd shown her, but she could only perform the naughty antics with someone for whom she harbored deep feelings.
Which ruled out a typical aristocratic match.
As she had to have the income a husband would supply, she couldn't marry Phillip, but she couldn't marry Edward, either. She couldn't fornicate with a man she didn't love. Not even if he possessed all the wealth in the world. Not even if her dear family was about to perish.
She simply couldn't do it.
How had she stumbled into the middle of such a debacle? Why had she allowed herself to become entangled with Phillip? Previously, everything had seemed so easy, her future had been set in stone, her mind made up, yet she'd taken one look at him and had cast caution to the wind.
By flirting with him, she was courting disaster. If she went to Margaret and confessed her sentiments, she couldn't predict how Margaret might respond. The woman could be vicious, and she might resort to threats or vengeance that would force Olivia to accede in her scheming.
Conversely, if she approached Edward and admitted her reluctance, he would accept her decision, then send them home straightaway. She'd never be with Phillip again, and that notion made leaving too painful to contemplate. They would have to separate, but she couldn't
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reflect upon that moment, and she couldn't do anything that would hasten the dreadful day.
She could only carry on, feigning a budding affection for Edward, placating Margaret with half-truths and evasions, while making sure she didn't gape at herself too closely in the mirror. An absolute coward, she couldn't stand to see the woman who stared back at her.
What folly! What naïveté and lack of sophistication! She'd believed herself to be so smart, so experienced. How had she gotten herself into this mess?
As she strolled along, the thick hedges shielded her from view. She rounded the corner, and much to her surprise, almost bumped into Winnie.
"Winnie, hello." She smiled, though no reciprocal gesture was forthcoming. "What are you doing out here all by yourself?"
"I might ask you the same question."
She laughed at Winnie's pointing out the obvious. "I'm hiding."
After a lengthy hesitation, Winnie acknowledged, "So am I."
Olivia inspected her. She couldn't recall ever witnessing Winnie distraught. Winnie was constantly serene, tranquil, and obliging. In a domicile where Olivia was surrounded by Helen's awkwardness, and Margaret's and Penny's vitriol and carping, Winnie was an exemplary companion, a breath of fresh air. She never complained or fussed, was amenable to any idea or plan, was cheery and optimistic—however vile the circumstances. Yet of a sudden, she was extremely tormented.
Plainly, she'd been anxiously pacing in the secluded spot, and the realization was so bizarre that Olivia was shocked and worried.
What could have transpired that would have thrown Winnie into such a mood?
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"Are you all right?"
"Yes." She turned away and gazed toward the manor, studying it as though she could peer through the walls. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"You seem very upset."
She continued to assess the mansion, and the silence became unpalatable. Olivia took a step toward her, then halted, baffled by Winnie's distress and uncertain of what comfort to offer.
Winnie spun to face her. "You'd forgive me, wouldn't you, Olivia?" she queried. "If I did something terrible to you?"
"Well, of course I would."
"I'd never intentionally hurt you."
"I know that." She gripped Winnie's hands in her own. "What is it, Winnie? What has put you in such a state?"
Tears flooded Winnie's eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. Winnie had lived with them for twelve years, and Olivia had never seen her cry before.
"I want to go home," she said.
"Why? What's happened? Has someone insulted or offended you?"
"No, no."
"Then what is it?"
"I'm so tired of having to rely on others. Just once, I wish I could make my own decisions."
Evidently, the matter of her departure was vital. "Have you spoken to Margaret?"
"Yes, but she insists we can't afford it."
"Maybe the earl would—"
"No!" she interjected. "I would never impose on him."
"Please tell me how I could help you."
"There's nothing you can do," she claimed. "You
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have no more money than I with which to purchase a ticket."
"No, I don't, but if I had a single penny, I'd give it to you."
"You've always been so kind to me, when I've done so little to deserve it."
"Winnie! My goodness!"
"Oh, don't mind me." She tried to shrug away her misery. "I've been so desperately unhappy. It's tumbling out. I can't control it."
How long had Winnie been disconsolate? Was it due to a recent incident or had it been fermenting? From how agitated she was, her desolation appeared to have been mounting, and something had brought it to a head.
Her tears flowed, and as Olivia hugged an arm around her shoulder, it occurred to her that, while they were very cordial, she hardly knew Winnie. Their relationship skimmed along on the surface, filled with frivolous conversations about the day, and the weather, and the latest dress styles, but what did she really know about her?
Apparently, not much. How could this person of whom she was so fond be suffering without Olivia having the slightest clue that she was afflicted or any hint as to the cause?
The discovery made her feel petty and small. Was she so detached from those around her? Did she shut herself off and shun intimacy? Of was it Winnie? Had Winnie built walls to keep them divided?
Olivia had been so absorbed by her own dilemma that she'd been ignoring others. She was at Salis
bury to assist her family, yet one of its members was in total anguish, and Olivia had been oblivious to her plight. If she hadn't chosen to walk through the garden, she still wouldn't be cognizant of Winnie's agony.
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How heedless! How cruel! Then and there, she vowed to herself that she would be a better friend.
"Let's get you back to the house," she suggested.
"No, I don't want to go inside." Her vehemence made her seem almost afraid.
"Hush, now," Olivia soothed. "You need to calm yourself. We'll order a scented cloth for your eyes. Perhaps a draught so you can relax."
Olivia had a kerchief stuffed in the cuff of her jacket, and she tugged it out and dabbed at Winnie's tearstained cheeks. "Pull yourself together—just till we're in your room. You don't want anyone to stumble upon you in this condition."
"Especially Lord Salisbury. Don't let him see me."
It was a strange remark. Olivia wasn't aware that Winnie had spent enough time with Edward for his opinion to signify. "I won't." Quietly, she explained, "We'll take the servants' stairs. I know the way. Can you make it?"
"Yes."
Holding hands, they started off.
Chapter Eleven
Phillip stared across the dark yard as Olivia, once again, risked all to sneak to his cottage. He'd pleaded with her not to come, had ordered her to desist with her craziness, but without much energy in his admonitions.
Her previous sojourn, when he'd introduced her to passion, had been his undoing. He'd managed to circumscribe his behavior so that he hadn't pilfered her virginity, but he wasn't certain that he could act so gallantly a second time.
He wanted her. Without restriction or restraint. Without regard to the consequences. His need spiked beyond what he knew or understood about himself. She was the most unattainable female, like an angel in heaven who, for a fleeting moment, had deigned to grace his pitiful life, but she could never be his. This fact was an absolute truth, yet his mind refused to heed its reality.
What was to be done?
Though she hadn't visited since that prior, significant night, she tortured him daily by showing up at the stables, obligating him to accompany her as she rode down the sun-drenched lanes of the estate. Like a besotted boy, he escorted her, following behind as her groom.
The humiliation of trailing after her should have convinced him of the recklessness of his course, for there was no better way to accentuate their differences. Where she was concerned, not even his pride mattered. He didn't care that he had to tag along as the faithful employee. He
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didn't care that wealth and status divided them. He'd grown to anticipate their forays, until his yearning to be with her superseded all else, particularly his ability to do his job.
Throughout his unending mornings, he'd pine away, anxious for afternoon and the sound of her slippers as she entered the barn. Until the instant that he saw her pretty face, he could concentrate on no other topic.
He couldn't focus, couldn't pay attention to his assistants. Often, they had to repeat themselves over and over before they could garner a response to any question. To him, the only subject of import was Olivia.
For endless hours, he speculated as to where she was, what she was doing. Like a homeless pauper, he would gaze at the manor, perusing the windows, the verandah, eager to catch a glimpse of her as she went about her day.
He was frantic to discover what she was wearing, what she'd had for breakfast, how she was occupying herself and if—by the slightest chance—she might be thinking of him, too.
Their regular rides were producing a dangerous bond that was steady and true, and try as he might, he couldn't discount how much he liked her. The tidbits she'd revealed about herself fueled his ruminations. He was frightened for her, her dire straits worried him, and he aspired to remedy her dilemma.
She'd confessed all: her financial plight, the cantankerous association with Margaret and Penelope, the melancholia she'd suffered after the deaths of her father and brother. She'd even told him about her niece, Helen, the illegitimate daughter of her brother, and how the girl's mental difficulties were creating dissension among the adult women.
Duress was driving her to Edward, and Phillip's frustration was greater than ever. How he wished he had the
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fortune to aid her! In a heartbeat, he would sweep her off her feet and cure her problems.
The saddest realization was that her vision of the future was so similar to his own. She wasn't chasing after the grand estate Edward offered, or the opportunity to be a countess. She'd be content with a cozy house, where she could read and paint, where she could mother Helen and, perhaps someday, her own children.
When he shut his eyes, he could see the two of them, blissfully wed, residing in a snug rural locale, where he could train and sell horses, while she puttered and fussed in their comfortable abode.
The dreams were so authentic, and so wrenching, that he couldn't bear to contemplate them.
His inadequate options had him so distraught that he'd considered approaching his father, to demand either a financial settlement, or a piece of property and some of the animals as a starter herd. In his reveries, he'd use the business to support Olivia—though how such a modest venture could sustain a group of five females and the children he and Olivia would have, or how they could all cohabit in any sort of harmony, was a mystery, and emphasized the preposterousness of his fantasies.
Yet even though he knew it was absurd to hope, he couldn't put aside the notion that he should try. He'd never begged Edward for a penny. His enormous arrogance wouldn't have allowed it. Everything he'd received had been earned through diligent effort, and his willingness to demean himself highlighted how befuddled he was.
What would he say to Edward if they did talk? I'm having a clandestine affair with the woman you 're courting ? I'd like you to endow me with a fortune so that I can marry her in your place?
The ludicrousness washed over him, and he shook
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his head. There were no answers. There was no viable conclusion.
He peered around at the small dwelling where he'd lived for years, at the stables across the way. This was home. When he'd been lying in that dusty foreign field in Spain, his blood oozing into the dirt, he'd prayed that he'd survive long enough to return to this special spot, and he eventually had.
He'd recovered his health, had resumed his employment. But would the situation endure? Though Olivia was insisting she couldn't wed Edward, what if she did? What if she decided she had no alternative?
If she married Edward, Phillip couldn't remain at Salisbury. He couldn't spend his life gawking at the manor, and imagining her in his father's arms, in his father's bed. He'd have to leave, but where would he go? What would he do?
He glanced around, at the familiar grounds, at his cherished house, and he pondered whether these were the last few days he'd be surrounded by the chattels to which he was so attached. By falling in love with her, had he wagered not only his heart, but his security, too?
In love...
The words echoed past. Was that what he'd done? Had he fallen in love?
"Oh, God," he moaned, unable to fathom the depth of his idiocy, but he had no occasion to reflect.
She was there and reaching out to him, and he hustled her into the cottage and closed the door.
She'd worn her cloak, and he dipped under the hood, capturing her mouth in a torrid kiss. He'd never been one to do anything halfway, and if this was to be the end of the world as he knew it, he intended to go out in a blaze of glory.
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When their amour was over—terminated badly, he had no doubt!—he would neither rue what had transpired, nor regret what might have been. He would revel in every delicious assignation he could arrange, until ill luck or circumstances forced a halt.
His hands were everywhere, on her shoulders, her back, her bottom. Gripping her buttocks, he lifted her, whirling her around and carrying
her to his bed. He laid her down, still swathed in the cloak, and joined her, stretching out, pushing her into the mattress. He was inflamed by the contact, ardent and ready for whatever he might attempt, and for once, he anticipated that he would attempt quite a lot.
"I want you naked." Yanking at her wrap, he untied the hood and tugged it off.
"I missed you, too," she said, laughing.
"If I don't have your clothes removed in the next ten seconds, I can't predict what 1 might do."
"By all means, then. Help yourself."
Beyond delay, he was desperate to nibble on her breasts, to lick her womanly core. He unbuttoned her dress, and jerked it down. Her nipples were pert, erect, and he bent over and sucked on one of them as he continued on, exposing her abdomen, her mons.
Finally, she was unclad, except for her shoes, and he wrenched them off, tossing them on the floor where they landed with a muffled thump.
Kneeling between her legs, he assessed her body, and she withstood his scrutiny well. Only the blush on her cheeks indicated that this was a new experience for her. She was perfectly formed, wide at the shoulders, thin at the waist, wide again at the hips. Her breasts were full and round, her thighs curvaceous and smooth.
The sight of her, nude, and awaiting his pleasure, thrilled and incited him.
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Elevating her feet, he massaged his thumbs into her arches, as he spread her legs, baring her center. She didn't like this novel exhibition, didn't care for the awkwardness of being on display, and she tried to press her legs together, but he couldn't be dissuaded.
"Don't deny me, Livvie. Let me do this."
"It's too strange. It embarrasses me."
"Well, it arouses me. I want to see all of you." He stroked up her ankles, her calves. "Do you remember the book you were studying when we first met?"
"How could I forget? A Feast for the Senses."
"You asked me why it was painted, and I told you because men like to look at nude women. I'm no different." Rubbing his crotch, he strove to ease some of the building pressure. He was so hard for her that he felt he might explode in his trousers like a callow boy of thirteen.
