by Cheryl Holt
He gawked around the shadowed chamber. Had he ventured into the wrong room? Had he been plunged into some grotesque, mutated dimension?
This couldn't have happened!
"Lady Olivia?" he stupidly inquired.
"Yes." She was becoming conscious of her surroundings. "What is it? Is something amiss?"
Without warning, she sat up, and because he was so near to her, their lips were inches apart. Her blue eyes were alert and inquisitive, and she appeared rumpled, adorable. She was clad in a thin, summery nightgown, with tiny straps. Her shoulders were bare, her blond hair unbraided, and it rippled in a golden wave.
The pose was sexy, provocative, for both of them. Their torsos were almost touching, the covers at her waist, and she lurched to grab them, shielding her bosom.
"Pardon me. I... I..." A sensation of peril swirled over him, and he started to disentangle himself, but it was too late.
Behind him, the door was opening, and he knew his fate was sealed. Propriety required that he vault off the bed, but there seemed no point to denials or disavowals.
Like the biggest fool, he'd walked into a carnal trap. Had Margaret set it to snare him into matrimony? If so, she was much more shrewd and insidious than he could ever have surmised, and though he was sick over what would come next, he had to congratulate her.
If she'd ambushed him, she was a master at cunning. If she hadn't, she'd still managed to bumble into the
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most opportune, fortuitous conclusion of which any family could have dreamed.
It was all Winnie's doing. She'd enchanted and captivated him beyond his limits, had enticed him as no female ever had. Like one of the Sirens of old, she'd seduced him to ruin, and a ripple of fury swept through him that she had gulled him into the predicament.
He wanted to lash out, to yell and rail at the injustice that was about to be leveled upon him—all because of her—yet he swallowed down his outrage. He declined to let Margaret Hopkins perceive how duped he felt, how powerless to save himself from a destiny he couldn't abide. The result couldn't be changed or altered. The only task that remained was to pick up the pieces and manipulate the debacle so there would be minimal scandal.
Was Lady Olivia an innocent or an accomplice? Was she playing her role in the scheme? Doing her best to paint herself the ravished maiden? Or was her agitation genuine?
Narrowing his focus, he evaluated her, and from what he could distinguish, he didn't assume she was culpable. She seemed downright terrified, and he didn't suppose anyone could feign that amount of alarm.
She was faultless, little more than a girl, and he couldn't let her character be soiled or besmirched because he'd acted the imbecile. For what was impending, he had no one to blame but himself.
Margaret traipsed in, clutching a lit candle. She was accoutered in a nightgown and billowy robe, a mobcap over her hair, floppy slippers on her feet. Lady Penelope trailed after her, also garbed in her nightclothes.
He winced. If Margaret had been the lone witness, he might have wheedled his way out of the fiasco, but with
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the younger sister observing all, the outcome was carved in stone.
"Olivia," Margaret said, "we heard a noise. We decided to check on you and—" She halted, her brows flying up in astonishment. "Edward Paxton! My lands!"
"Hello, Margaret," he replied, resigned.
"Mother," Lady Penelope piped up from the threshold, "is that Lord Salisbury with Olivia? Why is he in Olivia's bed? She's not dressed."
Margaret used her body to block the aperture so that Penelope couldn't enter, and Penelope was straining on tiptoe, trying to peek over her mother's shoulder.
"Penny," Margaret barked, "go to my bedchamber, and wait for me. I'll be with you shortly."
"But what's going on? Tell me!"
"Penny!" Margaret whipped around and stepped into the corridor, pushing Penny so that she was prevented from viewing the ignominious sight.
They had a torturous, lengthy conversation, with a great deal of hissing and exclamation, and Penelope stomped off in a huff. Then Margaret joined him and Olivia.
Edward had clambered off the bed and was perched next to it. Olivia was under the blankets, trembling, but she hadn't budged.
Margaret's umbrage was scarcely controlled. "I'll not ask what you're doing in here."
"Calm yourself," Olivia counseled. "This isn't what it looks like."
"Really?" Margaret jeered. "It looks like Edward has just visited you in your bed."
"I'm positive he has a perfectly valid explanation." Olivia glanced at him, imploring him to salvage the mess. "Don't you?"
He saw no reason to quibble and make the dreadful
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incident worse. What was he to utilize as a defense? / came to tryst with Winnie, but stumbled on Olivia by mistake?
It was a pathetic justification, and he wouldn't embarrass himself by raising it. Nor would he drag Winnie into it.
"I have no comment."
"No, no," Olivia frantically interjected, "I'm sure you don't mean that."
"Shut up, Olivia!" Margaret snapped, concentrating her attention on him. "Edward, I never would have expected such behavior from you. I'm shocked!"
"My apologies."
She approached, the flicker of the candle accentuating the stark lines of her face, causing her to appear pitiless, grim, relentless. "Is there something you'd like to say to Olivia?"
"Certainly." He turned to Olivia, ready to speak, when she interrupted.
"Margaret, please. Don't force him into this. I'm begging you."
"Be silent," Margaret ordered.
"Margaret!" she tried again.
"Your sister beheld this spectacle, Olivia. Should we leave her with the impression that such licentious conduct is permissible?" Margaret glared at Edward, her wrath evident, giving no hint that she might have ambushed him. "Let's put this hideous episode behind us. Get on with it!"
"Lady Olivia," he formally pronounced, spitting out the bitter words, "would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
Olivia was horrified, tears glittering in her eyes. A portentous, unvoiced argument flashed between her and Margaret, filled with hidden significance he couldn't
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begin to decipher. For one, insane moment, he thought she would humiliate him by refusing. Her lips were pursed, mutinous, and she was loam to respond.
The encounter grew awkward, and Margaret snarled, "Olivia! Do you truly wish to spurn Lord Salisbury? Should we go back to London without your marrying him, just think of the consequences that could ensue."
Margaret assessed Olivia, another secret communication passing between them. It was as though they were parleying in a clandestine code, for which he did not have the key. Whatever the covert interpretation, Olivia understood the implications to which her stepmother alluded.
Worry and panic surged through her, and he presumed she was being reminded of their financial quandary, about which he wasn't to have been apprised. She was in no position to reject his proposal.
Gazing at her lap, she plucked at the blanket.
"Well, Olivia?" Margaret goaded. "What's it to be?"
"Yes, Edward. I'll marry you."
Margaret heaved a sigh of satisfaction. "Fine, fine." Beaming, she clapped her hands, making the candle wobble. "Considering the circumstances, I suggest a hasty, small ceremony, here at the manor. How about this Friday?" She didn't delay for his opinion. Apparently, it wasn't necessary. "I'll send out the notices tomorrow morning. I trust you can arrange the special license?"
Five days, he mused, calculating the time. Five days to come to terms with the indemnification Margaret had had every right to demand. Five days to persuade himself that Olivia would be a wonderful wife. Five days to adjust to the notion that he was about to commit himself to another loveless marriage.
After meeting Winnie, he'd hoped for so much more.
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"I'll dispatch a messeng
er directly to the archbishop," he said. "It can be achieved by Friday without any problem."
"Marvelous," Margaret crooned.
He frowned at Olivia. She was ashen, shivering, pale with trepidation and repugnance, and he was so annoyed. What did the damned girl want? She'd traveled to Salisbury, seeking a husband, and his head had been served to her on a platter. Any female in England would have sacrificed an arm and a leg to be in her shoes.
What was the matter with her? She should be jumping for joy, not slumped in a heap, ready to sob.
Chomping down on his aggravation, he recollected her age, her overt astonishment at the stunning debacle they'd fallen into through his negligence. He patted her shoulder.
"Don't fret, Livvie," he consoled, intending to be friendly and supportive, but on hearing the pet nickname, she lurched as if he'd struck her.
"Don't ever call me Livvie," she asserted, much too sharply.
"As you wish." He nodded. "It will work out. Don't trouble yourself."
"I won't," she groused.
"Now then, Edward," Margaret said, "if you'll excuse us?" Exuding authority, and dismissing him, she gestured for him to exit.
"Of course. I'll confer with you in the morning to finalize the plans."
"I look forward to it."
Staring at Olivia, he was daring her—practically pleading with her—to acknowledge him, but she was coolly, maddeningly removed, reluctant to display any courtesy.
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What was vexing her? Hadn't she wanted the union? Had Margaret coerced her into it? Well, it was too bloody late to quibble. Their path was set, and there could be no retreat.
His pride dented, he spun on his heel and stalked out, much more angry than he should have been, and he pulled the door closed with a determined click.
Across the hall was Margaret's bedroom, and Penelope was standing on the threshold, gawking at him. In the dark, her eyes seemed to glow, a weird green, like a feral cat's. Her auburn hair gleamed, too, as though it were afire.
She was grinning, her teeth white and straight, but it was a peculiar, insidious smile, as though she'd gotten just what she wanted and was eager to let him know it.
Did you have a role in this charade? he nearly roared. And, Where the hell is Winnie?
Was she secluded with Penelope? A participant? A prisoner? He was too furious to care.
Penelope continued to watch him, so eerie that she resembled a witch, or perhaps a witch's familiar, and his skin crawled.
Tamping down a shudder, he strolled away without remarking or glancing back, but he could sense her studying his every step. The corridor was a gauntlet that went on forever, and as the distance between them expanded, she came into the hall so that she could spy on him the rest of the way.
If she'd started to cackle, or spout incantations, he wouldn't have been surprised, and when he strode into his suite and slammed the door, he sagged with relief.
The girl terrified him, and bizarre as it sounded, he grabbed the key and rotated it in the lock, sealing himself in—and her out!
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Betrothed, how galling, he thought. To be wed in five days. To a woman he didn't even especially like. Feeling ill, he stumbled to the bed and lay down. Blindly, he pondered a chink in the ceiling, the long, arduous night stretching ahead.
Chapter Eighteen
Olivia strolled the estate grounds, arm in arm with Edward. Attractive, stylishly-dressed, poised and assured, they were a handsome couple. People stared as they walked past.
A straw bonnet, with an extra wide brim, shielded her face, and she was glad for the protection it offered. She'd hardly slept a wink, and she was wan and pale, exhausted and achy. The sun shone down, making her eyes throb and water, and her knees wobbled so badly that she could barely take the next step.
Word of their betrothal had spread rapidly and far— Margaret had seen to it—so that by the time she'd dared to show herself downstairs at noon, her engagement wasn't news to anyone. Her destiny was winging toward her, and she was too paralyzed to jump out of the way.
When she'd been merely Edward's bridal candidate, the servants had been polite and helpful, but now, they were in awe of her new status. They studied her keenly, eager to please.
Soon, she would be their countess, and they all sought her favor. Wherever she went, employees stopped to congratulate her, with respectful bows and curtsies, exclaiming their joy over the pending nuptials. Edward took it in stride, cordially and generously thanking everyone for their felicitations, but she was terribly uncomfortable.
She felt like an impostor, that she'd earned the coming distinction through default.
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Her mind was spinning over what had happened. How was it that, in a few short hours, she'd gone from incarceration in Winnie's room to being plighted to Edward?
Margaret had orchestrated the debacle—Olivia was certain of it—but how she'd accomplished the deed, and with so little fuss, was a mystery that had Olivia perplexed.
How had Margaret done it?
The bedchamber door had been locked. She knew because, over the interminable evening, she'd repeatedly tried the knob, hoping against hope that Margaret would make a mistake, that she would be able to sneak out.
She'd been desperate to send a letter to their housekeeper in London, inquiring as to Helen's whereabouts. Margaret had sworn that she'd dispatched Helen to an institution. Was it true? Or was it a lie Margaret had concocted to coerce Olivia into submitting to her scheme?
Was Helen safe at home? Or was she abandoned in some godforsaken place?
The grim prospects tormented her.
She'd wanted to speak with Phillip, to tell him about Margaret's threats, to seek his advice and assistance. In a crisis, he was the logical one to consult. He'd have traveled to the city if she'd asked him, and she'd intended to, needing proof as to Helen's location, but whenever she'd checked the door, she'd been imprisoned.
Fatigue had finally forced her to bed, and she'd dropped into oblivion, so that when Edward had entered, she hadn't had any idea. After he'd awakened her, several seconds had elapsed before she'd realized it was he.
How had Margaret lured Edward to her? How had she arranged it so that he'd appeared just when the door had been unlocked?
The questions were like an annoying sliver she couldn't extricate. They jabbed and poked at her, giving
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her no relief. Yet. what did it signify if she unscrambled the puzzle?
She couldn't change what had transpired. Couldn't roll back the clock so that Edward hadn't intruded, or that Margaret and Penny hadn't followed him in. Nor could she alter the conclusion Margaret had executed. She could only trudge forward, trusting that she could survive her wedding day—and night!—without embarrassing herself.
Oh, Margaret, she wailed silently, how could you have done this to me?
Margaret had always been a cold, reserved individual, with a temperament that didn't lend itself to spontaneity or whimsy, but Olivia had never understood how ruthless, how calculating and crafty, she was.
To the point of obsession, they'd haggled over their financial affairs, and Margaret had lamented their grave circumstances, as well as how serious she was about resolving their dilemma. But in a thousand years, Olivia couldn't have imagined that Margaret would go to such lengths to garner the resolution she desired.
Olivia felt as if she were a goose that had been cooked and served up as the main course in Margaret's machinations. She was bitter, furious, grieving, fearful, but she had to keep her agitation bottled up inside. By all accounts, Edward was a marvelous catch. There was no reason for her to be disconsolate, and she couldn't let him know she was distressed. He'd been naught but kind and courteous, and he definitely didn't warrant her rancor or disappointment.
She was dying to ask him why he'd been in her bedchamber. She had no clue, and curiosity was eating her alive. He hadn't been bent on ravishment, so for what other purpose could he have come?
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If he'd wanted to propose—which, from his despondent, perfunctory attitude, he clearly hadn't—he could have done so any afternoon they'd socialized. Had he been looking for Winnie? It was her room. But he was scarcely acquainted with Winnie, so why would he have trespassed?
She remembered him whispering a remark to her, but she'd been slumbering so deeply that she couldn't recall what it was. She recollected opening her eyes and being shocked, but before she'd made sense of his arrival, Margaret had barged in.
How could she interrogate the man she was about to marry as to why he had deposited them in this predicament?
He wasn't any happier than she was. His reticence and melancholy were palpable, but he was too much of a gentleman to insult her by implying that he was less than ecstatic, and he was doing his best to hide his feelings.
She needed to confide in someone, to unburden her conscience, and voice her astonishment and incredulity. The world had suddenly speeded up, and it was whirling so quickly that events were evolving faster than she could track them. At the same time, she was moving in a type of dream state, where her conduct was slow and leaden. She was so confused and overwhelmed!
Phillip was the sole person to whom she could vent her woes, but she was praying she wouldn't run into him.
Ever since Edward had stormed out of her bedchamber, she'd been trying to deduce a method of contacting and warning him. But Margaret had confined her the entire night, and after she'd been released in the morning, she hadn't had any privacy. Either Margaret or Edward had been with her, so there'd been no opportunity to slip away, or pen a hasty message.
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During their last, poignant, exceptional tryst, she'd sworn to him that she would never marry his father. She'd promised! Yet, not twenty-four hours later, she and Edward were engaged.
Had Phillip been notified?
She and Edward had been parading about the property, and Edward had maneuvered them away from the stables, as though he too was fretting over Phillip's reaction.
