The Blackmailed Bride

by Mandy Goff

  But he knew that for the stalling tactic it was.

  No longer was he the frightened five-year-old boy, jumping at shadows and cringing at the jeers and leers from his father’s friends. Nor was he the twelve-year-old, convinced he was a man already, who had to confront the truth that his mother’s appetites for deviance were no more refined than her husband’s. Nick wasn’t even the angry twenty-three-year-old who’d stormed from the house in a cloud of disgust and righteous indignation.

  So why hadn’t he been back?

  He wasn’t sure.

  Perhaps he worried that his parents had desecrated the place of his childhood beyond redemption. Would he be able to walk down the halls and through the rooms without feeling that the lewd images of “parties” and drunken festivities had been imprinted on the very fabric of the house?

  Maybe before he went back, he should hire a decorator to strip everything inside and refurnish the house.

  And it was in the midst of his internal debate over what to do with his inherited estate that he heard two voices coming from the other side of the trees. The man’s voice was unfamiliar, but the woman’s voice was immediately recognizable. Lady Olivia.

  Perhaps it was badly done of him, but there remained too much of the spy in Nick for him not to still immediately and remain absolutely quiet to hear what was being said.

  What struck him, immediately upon overhearing the exchange, was that Lady Olivia’s words revealed a young woman who was hurt, angry and no longer trusting of God’s goodness. His heart ached for the bitterness and pain laced through each word she spoke. As before, he felt the uncommonly strong urge to reach out and comfort her. But within moments, the opportunity slipped away as the lady began walking back in the direction of the house.

  Nick’s feet were moving before his mind fully recognized what he planned to do. Crashing through the brush and foliage, no longer caring to conceal his presence, he went after Lady Olivia. Nick couldn’t see her any longer, but he took a few steps on the worn path, figuring she must have been walking back home.

  “Hello, there!”

  Nick turned around and barely managed to stifle his grimace at being interrupted in his quest. He’d completely forgotten about the vicar once he’d seen Lady Olivia in tears.

  “Hello,” Nick returned, striding back to where the minister stood in the middle of the path. He introduced himself, waiting impatiently while the Reverend did the same.

  “What has brought you to Westin Park?” the older man asked. His eyes were full of genuine curiosity.

  “I’ve come with my friend Marcus. I’ve only recently re turned to England and wanted a bit of time away from London.”

  The minister smiled. “There seems to be quite a bit of that going around.”

  Nick wasn’t sure what else to say. He never used to have a difficult time making conversation, but with Olivia’s flight weighing on his mind, his concern was finding out what was wrong.

  He figured he might as well ask.

  The worst Reverend Thomas could do would be to not answer his question.

  “Was that Lady Olivia I saw leaving?” he asked.

  Reverend Thomas smiled, but his eyes still look worried. “Yes.”

  “Was she unwell?” he asked.

  The older man looked as if he wasn’t going to answer the question. Nick was quickly losing the tenuous hold he had on his patience. Trying not to think of his friend’s little sister crying somewhere in the woods by herself, he waited for the minister’s answer.

  “Lady Olivia has had a difficult time adjusting to leaving home,” he finally said.

  Nick already knew that, and he thought he understood part of the reason why. Judging from the snippet of conversation he’d heard, however, Olivia sounded as though she had more to worry about than just being homesick. Marcus’s sister genuinely sounded bitter…and upset with God.

  But Nick knew the family confidant wouldn’t tell him anything further than the surface truth. For all he knew, Nick was a stranger, and had no right to ask anything about Lady Olivia.

  And he was suddenly, and surprisingly, disappointed to realize that he had no right at all.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, Olivia rolled over in her bed, looked at the open drapes over the window and groaned. The bright sun streamed into the room, and she squinted against the light. All she had to do was roll over again and bury herself beneath the blankets, but sleep seemed far beyond her reach.

  “Sarah?” she said to her maid, whom she heard bustling in her wardrobe.

  “Yes, my lady?” the young girl asked.

  “What time is it?”

  “Time for you to get ready for church.”

  “I’d really rather not,” Olivia grumbled, pulling the blanket over her head. It was a futile attempt to stop the inevitable; before long, Marcus would enter and drag her out of bed.

  Sarah stopped at the head of the bed, and Olivia didn’t have to pull the cover down to see the look of indecision she knew would be on the young girl’s face.

  “My lady?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes?” The covers muffled the word.

  “His lordship wanted me to come and help you dress for service.”

  “I don’t feel well,” Olivia hedged. In truth, she felt sick to her stomach, though she knew it was an illness no amount of rest would cure. It had been years since she had been truly at peace with church attendance, but she had always borne through it for Marcus’s sake. Yet now, the idea of attending services in the church where Finley would likely expect her to stand as she pledged her life to him…no, she could not bear it. Not yet. Not today.

  “Do you wish for me to inform the earl?” Sarah’s voice plainly begged her to say no.

  “I’ll tell him when he comes in.” Olivia suppressed a smile at the girl’s sigh of relief.

  “Thank you, my lady.”

  Olivia didn’t have long to enjoy the sanctuary of her bed before Marcus came striding into the room.

  “Wake up,” he said unceremoniously.

  While Olivia was contemplating feigning sleep, her brother moved closer.

  “I see Sarah has failed in her duties,” he said from directly above her. “I suppose I shall have to dismiss her.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Olivia said as she flung back the covers. She looked around, ready to stop her maid from leaving. But Sarah was already gone.

  Marcus smiled. “I could, but I won’t. I just wanted to prove you were awake.”

  “Hateful,” she muttered.

  “So you say.” He picked up her cup of chocolate and handed it to her. “You had best hurry or we’ll not make the service in time.”

  “I have a headache,” she said, trying to convince him to let her stay home.

  “Convenient.” He dismissed her imaginary illness without another thought. “Now get out of bed. I shouldn’t have to fight with you as though you were still twelve.”

  Olivia pursed her lips. “Fine, I’ll be downstairs shortly.”

  “Sarah will return to help you dress,” Marcus said on his way out of the room.

  Two hours later, Olivia sat between Marcus and the Marquess of Huntsford on the church pew. If there were a God, surely He was laughing at her now.

  Both men barely noticed her presence once the minister began his sermon, but every other eye in the building was firmly fixed on the back of their heads. The congregants were, of course, used to seeing the earl and his sister, but this new visitor was something altogether different. Olivia didn’t have to turn around to know nearly every woman eyed the marquess speculatively. It didn’t help that Lord Huntsford walked in the chapel as though it were something he had been doing every Sunday of his life. His self-confidence and total lack of discomfort were aggravating.

  Almost as aggravating as his cheery facade first thing in the morning.

  “I trust you rested well,” he had greeted her with a beaming smile once she descended the stairs.

  She had i
nclined her head, but nothing more.

  And now, nearly two hours later, she was irrevocably stuck with him. Lord Huntsford was planted firmly on her right, Marcus on her left. Olivia wished she had sat on the aisle, so she wouldn’t feel so confined by the two large men. Not that either of them was aware of her distress.

  The congregation stood, singing one last hymn, and Olivia, as usual, only mouthed the words. The marquess’s voice, however, sang loud and true—his clear baritone rising high into the chapel. She tried not to listen to him, tried not to think about how inevitably soon her voice would fill this very space as she pledged herself to Baron Finley as his wife.

  It had been years since church had symbolized any sort of refuge for her, but now it seemed to represent the trap she’d fallen into that would bind her for the rest of her life. The very idea made her feel truly ill. So instead of dwelling on the horrible future that awaited her, Olivia devoted her attention to the meticulous counting of panes in the glass windows.

  By the twelfth pane, she could barely hear the singers through the suddenly shrill ringing in her ears. The noise was so deafening she almost clapped her hands over her ears to stifle it. Olivia stopped herself when she realized that probably wouldn’t help at all.

  At twenty-eight, her stomach roiled, and she forced herself to resist the urge to sit back on the pew.

  At fifty-seven, she swayed, luckily catching herself in time before she pitched forward into the people in front of her.

  Something was sitting on her chest, cutting off her air sup ply. The pressure was a vise. Her heart beat an irregular rhythm, and Olivia tried to ignore the thump, thump, pound sensation. Her lips were still moving, still attempting to appear as though she were singing, but Olivia doubted anyone, if he were to look closely, would be fooled.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” Lord Huntsford leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  She shook her head.

  He grunted in disbelief, and while she didn’t dare venture a look at his face, she knew he’d look skeptical.

  Olivia hardly cared to try and convince him. She was still trying to hold the impending feeling of panic at bay—and was failing miserably.

  Lord Huntsford might have still been singing, but Olivia could feel his eyes firmly on her. And when she swayed—just the smallest bit of unnatural movement—his hand reached out to steady her.

  “Come with me” was his whispered order. He set down his hymnal and took her by the elbow.

  Her protests were irrelevant, and Marcus, so engrossed in his singing, didn’t notice the two of them leaving.

  Olivia held her head high as they exited toward the rear of the sanctuary. Her eyes were trained ahead, avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze. She could hear the whispers as she walked by, but the man at her side didn’t seem to mind them, so she supposed she could stand the scrutiny for a few seconds.

  Lord Huntsford led her outside, guiding her to a stone bench nestled in the church’s garden.

  She resisted the urge to take large, gulping breaths once outside in the fresh air. The gasping would only confirm Lord Huntsford’s suspicions. She couldn’t even thank him for his help without admitting that she’d needed the escape he’d offered.

  “Are you unwell?” he asked gently, kneeling beside her.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, but her voice was breathy.

  She sank back farther into the bench. Outside the walls of the church, the ache inside began to abate. And now, inhaling deeply the scent of roses and gardenias, her heart wasn’t pounding so fiercely.

  “You looked quite ill in there,” he persisted. “Are you certain you’re feeling better?”

  “The closed space made it hard to breathe,” she said, hoping he would let the matter rest. Olivia concentrated on the pace of her breathing, trying to steady the gasps so he’d not have any further reason to be suspicious.

  “Sometimes I feel that way when I’m hiding, too.” His voice was barely a whisper, and he could easily have been speaking solely to himself.

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” But she tried to offer a smile in gratitude so the words didn’t sound harsh. He was being very conciliatory, after all. And she had the oddest feeling that he did understand. That he sympathized with her struggle and disillusionment. But surely that was just a cruel trick of her imagination, fooling her into believing she wasn’t quite so desperately alone. “Feel free to return inside—I just need a moment.”

  “I’ll sit here with you…if you don’t mind,” he added as an afterthought.

  But Lord Huntsford gave her no chance to answer. She stilled as he took up the remaining space on the bench, afraid if she moved the slightest fraction of an inch, she might brush against him.

  “I really think some time alone would help me feel better,” she ventured. Regaining her composure was impossible with him sitting in such close proximity.

  “I have no intention of leaving you out here alone.” His crossed arms declared he would brook no argument.

  Fine.

  She would simply pretend he wasn’t there. Something that, in theory, seemed relatively easy. But as he sat beside her, also in silence, Olivia found her eyes involuntarily moving to watch him. Each time, she would wrest her gaze away. Not that it did any good, of course; she was certain the marquess realized each time she did so.

  “Did you see the two of them?”

  The whispered question floated on the wind to Olivia and Nick, and both immediately straightened.

  “How could you not see them? Shameful. And in church, no less.”

  “Now, Josephine,” came a third voice, “they were hardly doing anything shameful. They were sitting in front of God and the whole congregation.”

  “Well, where are they now?” one of the other women— Olivia assumed it was Josephine—shot back.

  Silence followed. Apparently this question stymied the other two ladies.

  Olivia started to rise, prepared to step from behind the shelter of the towering rosebushes and into the women’s path, but Nick laid a hand on her arm, stilling her. His touch scorched her skin. But she didn’t recoil from it.

  “Well,” the third woman, who Olivia was beginning to think of as her champion, began, “I’m sure they both have a perfectly innocent explanation. Perhaps Lady Olivia had a headache,” she offered.

  One of the other women made a ribald joke, and Olivia cringed. Humiliation alone was bad enough, but humiliation in front of the marquess was unbearable.

  “Well, I’m not surprised,” another voice returned. “The marquess has quite a way with women, at least that’s what I heard from Eleanor at the dressmaker’s.”

  Their advocate scoffed. “The man was in church.”

  The cynical woman laughed. “Probably looking for an innocent woman to corrupt.” She made the statement as calmly as one might if she were suggesting he’d gone to the market to select produce.

  Judging from the fact that the voices had stopped wafting to her from different points down the path, Olivia knew the women were standing not too far from where she and Nick were sitting.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” one returned. Olivia was beginning to lose track of who was speaking. “Alfred was telling me all sorts of lurid tales of the marquess’s exploits in France. Shocking,” she added unnecessarily.

  “Well, he won’t be able to parade about in polite society for long. He’s no better than his parents. And his bad blood will out eventually.”

  Lord Huntsford’s grip on her arm tightened, and she looked at him in surprise. His jaw was clenched, and while Olivia didn’t know him well enough to be able to decipher his moods with any accuracy, he looked furious.

  What would he do? Charge out from behind the bushes and defend her honor? Defend his? But the marquess had been correct in the beginning; it was best they remain undiscovered.

  She laid her hand atop his, hoping to both comfort and subdue him. It was the least she could do after he’d set himself up for this sort
of slander just by helping her out of doors. Besides, it certainly wouldn’t do for the three women to happen upon them. Or for him to step out and confront them.

  Once Lord Huntsford felt her touch, he turned to look at her, and his pursed lips and set jaw were the only visible signs he was warring with indecision. Casting another glance to where the women had resumed strolling by, he sighed. As he looked back at her, his face softened. He ventured a tentative smile, and Olivia couldn’t help but return it.

  She wondered how he had managed to so completely erase the anxiety and panic she’d felt only moments earlier. Yet even with a feeling of peace and contentment stealing over her, a small voice in the back of her mind cautioned against softening toward him and warned that she’d have to double her efforts to stay away from the marquess.

  Chapter Six

  Later that evening, past the time when everyone should have been abed, Olivia opened the door to the hallway, looked down both sides to make sure neither her brother nor the marquess were loitering about and stepped out. She pulled her wrapper tighter around herself and padded on bare feet down to a scarred wooden door that remained closed at the end of the hall.

  Her father’s study.

  She approached it with a sort of reverence, as though the room she was about to enter was holy in its own right.

  With her hands braced on the frame, she leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the door.

  Breathe, she instructed herself.

  How many years had it been?

  Five, already…

  And she still felt the fear and uncertainty of the past, while only standing outside.

  She pushed the door open and didn’t immediately notice there were a few candles burning in the room.

  Her mind was too consumed with other images. Brief, fleeting pictures from that night, ones she couldn’t banish from her memory—no matter how hard she tried to erase them or dull their influence.

  Olivia sank into a chair, one closest to the door. She noticed the faint light in the room now but didn’t give much thought to why it was there.