by Diane Farr
He had proposed marriage. He must think her a complete fool. And why not? She had been behaving like one.
He held her close, his lips in her hair. “Olivia,” he said gently. “Ivy. My darling girl. This is what you need.” He kissed her forehead. “It’s what you want. Can’t you feel it, sweetheart?” His voice sank to a whisper as his mouth traveled down toward hers. “Trust me,” he murmured. “Please, Ivy. Please.” And his lips moved to take another kiss.
He sounded drugged with passion, almost as if he could not help himself. As if he had abandoned all his scheming and was acting on instinct alone. As if he wanted her so badly that he was throwing caution to the winds. But she must not forget who he was! Even as she felt her body’s traitorous response to his touch, too powerful to deny, it all struck her as too good to be true. He was too good at this. It seemed . . . it must be . . . practiced.
Anguished, she jerked herself out of his arms as if his touch suddenly burned. It wasn’t possible to walk away, unfortunately. Her knees had gone a bit wobbly somehow. So she hung on to the ledge provided by the fountain’s bowl and struggled to regain her composure, turning her back to George. She felt she would crumble into bits if she looked at him again.
The air was chilly now. She shivered in her thin gown. Her gloves lay before her on the lip of the fountain, their empty fingers splayed in a painful stretch toward nothing. She picked them up and tried, with shaking hands, to put them back on.
“Allow me,” said George quietly. Olivia had little choice but to comply. Hating her helplessness, she let him take her hands and work her gloves over her fingers and up her arms, then button them against her wrists.
“Thank you,” she said woodenly. She stole a glance at him. His expression was unreadable. His features were harsh and forbidding as he pulled on his own gloves. She felt a ridiculous impulse to apologize, as if she had hurt his feelings with her bald rejection. But that was impossible, of course. He was the hardened rake, she the gullible innocent. His expression probably indicated only anger at himself for misjudging the moment. He had underestimated her resolve. Well! That was not her fault.
Anger stirred within her and she clutched it in relief. “Why is it,” she asked crisply, smoothing her gloves, “that every time a man kisses a woman he assumes she has tumbled into love with him?” She forced a laugh and tried to look arch. “After all, men are expected to kiss women without losing their heads. Why can’t a woman do the same?”
She saw his jaw tighten and knew she had struck a nerve. “No reason in the world,” he drawled, as polite and bored as if they were strangers.
Olivia felt her arch smile waver a bit. The contrast between the bliss she had felt three minutes ago and the wretchedness she felt now was dreadful. She shivered again. What a ninny she had been, going off into the night air half-dressed. The zephyr shawl she had brought was back at the supper box.
“You are cold,” he observed. She saw his eyes gleam and the mockery return to his expression. “I should have known you would be cold.”
It seemed to Olivia that he was referring not to the temperature, but to her nature. Stung, she hugged herself and said stiffly, “The night is chillier than it was a while ago.”
“Yes, it is,” he said flatly. “And the music is not as sweet.”
Her throat suddenly tightened again. She was fighting back tears. Tears! What was the matter with her? Furious and frightened, she clutched herself harder. She must stop the shivering before it became uncontrollable. “Nonsense. The music is the same as ever it was,” she said bracingly. “I like it.”
He was watching her from under hooded eyes, his expression still harsh and unreadable. “How many men have you kissed like that?” he demanded.
The suddenness of his rude question, and its personal quality, shocked her. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“The question is simple enough. Or have you lost count?”
Her brows snapped together as the blessed anger returned to stiffen her spine and rescue her. “You are insolent. I have never been free with my favors. How dare you imply such a thing?”
One brow flew up. His mouth twisted down. “What makes you think I am implying anything? You just said that a woman should be able to kiss a man without emotional consequences. And I agreed with you.”
She pounced on this. “Then do not read me a lecture. I would never dream of asking you how many women you have kissed.”
“I didn’t ask how many you have kissed. I asked how many you have kissed like that.”
“Like—like what?” She stammered, confused.
“I was admiring your technique, my dear. I never guessed that you felt nothing. You had me completely fooled.” He leaned lazily against the fountain, still watching her. “I suppose it takes a great many rehearsals to achieve such a convincing performance.”
Her eyes flashed and her chin lifted. “Yes, I suppose it does,” she said frostily. “But you would know better than I. I am a rank amateur at . . . feigning emotion.” She swallowed hard, willing the tightness in her throat away. She would not cry. She would not.
“Very good,” he said admiringly, as if applauding. “Now tell me you have never attempted it before.”
“I haven’t!” She heard her voice rising in fury. “I am not a seducer of innocents! I am not a fortune hunter! How dare you sneer at me? The only other man I’ve kissed was—” She almost bit her tongue in her haste to avoid blurting out his name. Appalled, she covered her mouth with one hand.
George had a gleam in his eye like a cat at a mouse hole. “The man you loved. The fortune hunter. When you were eighteen.”
She nodded miserably, then dropped her hand and took a shaky breath. “I am sorry I spoke so . . . sharply,” she said unsteadily. “But you made me angry.”
His teeth flashed white in the darkness. “I needed to. No, don’t scold me! It was the only way to get the truth out of you.”
“The truth, as you call it, is none of your business!”
“I mean to make it my business.” He reached out and carelessly flicked her cheek with one gloved finger. “For a moment there, you had me rattled. It won’t happen again.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.
He grinned. “I believed—fleetingly!—that you might be rather more experienced than I had originally thought. But you aren’t.”
“Don’t be so sure of that, my lord,” she said darkly. “I may surprise you yet.”
His grin widened. “Really? I hope so.” His eyes flicked over her face and his features softened. “But then, you already have.”
The man had a talent for turning her insides into mush. Olivia felt herself blushing and could only hope that the darkness hid it from George. She was steeling herself to suggest that they return to the supper box when his hands closed over her upper arms in a gentle, but inexorable, hold.
“Olivia. Do you know what life is like for a gamester?”
She met his eyes warily. “Of course not.”
He looked very serious. “You and I live by different rules. But I want you to know that although my rules are different from yours, there are rules, and I abide by them. I never cheat.”
She tried to smile. “I daresay if you did, your career would be at an end.”
“Quite right. So I am telling you, my dear, that I am an honest man—in my way. Do you believe me?”
“Ye-es,” she said cautiously. “I don’t think you cheat at cards, if that is what you mean.”
“I also do not cheat at love.”
She dropped her eyes, fearing he would see how much his words hurt her. He spoke of love as if it were just another game. A game with rules, where winning was suspect—because winners sometimes cheated. And honest people lost.
But he was right to speak of it that way, she reminded herself drearily. Luke’s face, so long forgotten, flashed vividly in her mind’s eye. She winced from the image. So sincere. So passionately fond of her. Oh, she had believed it a
ll. He had wept real tears as he held her, begging for her love, and she had given her heart gladly. What a dunce she had been.
But George’s steady, soothing voice continued, unaware that its very note of sincerity was ringing alarm bells all through her. “You are so innocent. You may believe that whenever a man and woman touch, sparks fly. You are not experienced enough to know how rare and wonderful this is.” His hands—gloved now, thank heaven—moved caressingly over her arms. “There is something special between us, Olivia, and I am loath to give it up.”
She did not resist as he pulled her back into his arms. This time, however, she also did not respond. She stood, passive, while he cradled her head against his chest. Bitter memories were flooding her. For the first time in years she welcomed them, not trying to shut them out or turn her mind away from the suffering.
How could she have forgotten? This was what it was to have one’s heart stolen. This was how it felt to trust a scoundrel. She remembered. She remembered it all.
She closed her eyes and shuddered. George held her closer, murmuring endearments, but she did not hear them. She heard Culpepper’s voice, soft and distressed, begging forgiveness for inflicting pain upon her, protesting that it was for her own good. She was eighteen again, staring in disbelief at the letter he had handed her, Luke’s letter, intercepted on its way to his brother. It had been full of idle gossip and mundane matters, with the exception of three fateful sentences:
. . . My courtship of O.F. progresses well tho her family mislikes it and I grow weary of playing the lovesick swain. I cringe when I think of facing those hobgoblin eyes over the b’fast cups forfifty years, but heigh-ho! Beggars can’t be choosers. . . .
The words had burned themselves into her brain. When she first read them, unmistakably written by Luke’s beloved hand, she had fainted for the only time in her life.
George must have noticed her passivity. He took her face in his hands and gently lifted it, trying to force her eyes to meet his. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Nothing,” she mumbled. Her lips were stiff with cold and suppressed hostility. “I would like to return to the supper box, if you please. I—I need my shawl.”
His brows snapped together in swift concern. “Something’s amiss. What is it? I’ll not drag you to the altar unwilling, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“Won’t you? You are all consideration, my lord,” she said coolly. “I suppose you would call such tactics ‘cheating,’ and therefore beneath you.”
“I would.” His eyes gleamed down at her. “But I warn you, madam, that I do not consider it ‘cheating’ to try to change your mind.”
“I see.” She studied his face for a moment. “You will have to pardon my ignorance, George. I am a novice at this . . . game. What are the rules of engagement? Or are there any?”
“Rules?” His arms tightened behind her. “They say all’s fair in love.”
She nodded. “And war.”
He chuckled, apparently not recognizing the edge in her voice. “Shall I give you the outlines of the game?”
“If you please. I should like to know what the object is before we go any further.”
“The object of the game—of any game—is to win.” His grin flashed. “Reduced to its simplest terms, our game is this: I want to marry you. You want to stay single.”
“Then despite what you say, your objective is, in fact, to drag me to the altar.” She felt another gust of wrath, but his next words surprised her.
“Not quite.” He touched her face in a caress that was almost tender. “My objective is to meet you there. To make you want to marry me. By whatever means I can.”
She resisted the impulse, strong though it was, to lean into the hand that cupped her cheek. “Then my objective must be to repulse you.”
“Nothing so simple.” He chuckled again. “Your objective is to spice up your spinsterhood—without losing it.”
“And for how long do we play this game, sir?” she asked politely. “How will we know when it ends?”
“It ends when one of us wins. I win if you agree to marry me. You win if—” He frowned. “You win if I give up.”
“That hardly sounds fair,” she pointed out. “We need a rule that will enable me to win cleanly. A time limit, say. If you haven’t won my consent, you must retire voluntarily from the lists. I shall give you until . . . Christmas.”
“Easter.”
Her eyes narrowed as she thought. “Candlemas.”
He paused, then nodded, seeming amused by her seriousness. “Five months? If I cannot win you by then, I daresay I never shall. And I’ve no desire to hang about if there is no hope. Done.”
Five months. All she need do was keep herself from saying yes for five months. And in the meantime, she would have Lord Rival dancing attendance on her. She could have as many of his kisses as she could handle, all his delicious wooing, everything she wanted. She could glut herself on him, knowing that at the end of five months she would be safe. He would press her no more. The prospect made her dizzy with delight. Five months of heaven!
But he was bending down to her again.
“What are you doing?”
“Sealing the bargain, my dear.”
Very well. A kiss to seal the bargain. She could allow one more kiss, having allowed so many. She kept a tight rein on her emotions this time, ensuring that the kiss was brief. Sweet, but brief.
His warm hands cradled her face again, and when he pulled his face back and gazed into her eyes, she could have sworn she saw genuine caring there. “This is a new experience for me, you know.” He smiled. “I have never before kissed a woman I intended to marry. It’s actually a rather liberating experience—having honorable intentions.”
Honorable! She felt her jaw clench. There was nothing honorable about his intentions. It was a game to him. A filthy game, where he tried to make her love him—so he could get his hands on her inheritance. Such marriages were commonplace, and even an unhappy marriage was considered respectable, but a fortune hunter’s machinations were not honorable. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
He had felt her stiffen as she withdrew from him. “What’s this?” he murmured teasingly. “You can’t be regretting a stolen kiss or two.”
She backed out of his arms, attempting an airy laugh. “Oh, no! I regret nothing. I wanted a little excitement tonight, and you provided it. But the night grows cold, and it’s getting late.” She smiled brightly at him. “May we go?”
He stared at her in the dim light, head lowered and muscles taut. He seemed to be straining to make sense of her mood. “Certainly. I can take a hint,” he said. His tone was carefully casual.
“Good.” She turned to walk away, but he caught at her arm, compelling her to face him again. All trace of lightness had vanished from his demeanor.
“Most women who run from a rake’s embrace have excellent reason to be afraid,” he said, his voice low and tense. “But you, Olivia, do not. You know I will not seduce and abandon you. I have made plain to you what it is I want.”
“Yes, Lord Rival, indeed you have.” Her eyes sparkled with unshed, angry tears, and her smile was fierce. “You want my money.”
She abruptly pulled out of his slackened grip and fled, blindly, back toward the light and noise of Vauxhall.
14
On the twenty-ninth of September Olivia, as was her habit, went early and alone to the city. Ignoring the hostile stares and muttered jibes she always encountered in that male bastion, she completed the quarterly banking for the Fairfax School and returned to her home to await Culpepper. This quarterly ritual chafed her. Her defiant trip to the bank was exhilarating, almost like going into battle—which rendered the subsequent interview with Culpepper all the more annoying. He brought her her income punctually, but it was humiliating to wait for him in her morning room, then have her money handed to her in anonymous gold rather than bank notes. It made her feel like a child receiving an allowance.
She alw
ays took comfort in handling the school’s payroll while she waited, neatly counting out and stacking the money for each employee, folding it into a sheet of foolscap with the employee’s name jotted on the front, and noting the date and amount in the payroll ledgers. It was the only set of school ledgers she kept at her home. She handled the quarterly payroll precisely because it gave her a dignified occupation while awaiting Culpepper’s arrival with her own income payment. Besides, there was something satisfying about forcing Culpepper to view, quarter after quarter, a desktop full of evidence of her competence at handling her mother’s legacy—just as he was doling out pieces of her father’s legacy under circumstances that were decidedly demeaning. He generally succeeded in patronizing her, but at least she made it as difficult as she could.
The school had new money this quarter, an infusion into her mother’s trust from Aloysius Beebe’s estate. She sent up a grateful prayer, smiling as she toyed with the stack of notes. George had suggested that half of it be reinvested while they drew up plans for a modest expansion. His suggestion was excellent and she had taken it, but there was still a tidy sum left over for improvements to the existing facility. New bedsteads for the littlest girls. Wallpaper. A new roof for the east wing. Improvements to the water pipes; they had been a popular experiment. And meat, she decided. The children would have meat twice a week, not just on Sundays and holidays.
And Lord Rival would be paid.
She felt a flutter of excitement and dread as she counted out two hundred pounds and folded it in one of her neat paper packets. What would his reaction be? And what would he do with the money? The man must have frightful debts, if eight hundred pounds per annum was, as he had said, insufficient for his needs. Would he repay his creditors? Or would he gamble the money away? Doubtless that was how he had incurred the debts in the first place; it was an old, old tale, too common among the aristocracy. Odd that the fever would afflict even a man with George’s demonstrably sound business instincts.
She was affixing his name to the packet when Culpepper’s tap sounded on her door. He came in, his leather satchel pressed firmly beneath his arm and a look of almost painful anxiety pursing his bony face. He hovered uncertainly near the doorway, as if screwing up his courage before approaching her.
