by Mandy Goff
Nick nodded in satisfaction. While he tried not to let the ridiculous stories and speculations disturb him, he was gratified to hear his friend believed in him wholly.
“I shudder to think of what Olivia will say if she finds out what we’re up to,” Marcus said by way of an agreement.
“I guess we’ll have to take the chance,” Nick said, wondering why he’d assumed the mantle of responsibility so quickly but knowing he was loath to remove it. Something about being involved with the siblings made him feel a little less lonely.
And something about being near Olivia appealed to him immensely.
Chapter Seven
Olivia turned the page of the latest Mrs. Radcliffe novel. And she muttered to herself about Danfield’s pronouncement that she read too many books for a lady. Nothing was wrong with seeking innocent entertainment.
But that didn’t stop her from shoving the book under a cushion when she heard someone approaching. Really, couldn’t she finish a whole chapter without some sort of interruption?
She looked up guiltily, expecting to see her brother, but was startled to find the Marquess of Huntsford before her. She hadn’t seen him since they’d returned to London three days earlier.
His presence and her discomfort made her grumpy.
“Hiding something?” he asked with a hint of a smile.
“Of course not,” Olivia retorted. But she flashed a quick look at the cushions to make sure she had not left a corner of the book poking out.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked ungraciously, wondering where Gibbons was. Most likely asleep.
“I thought you might enjoy a ride.” Lord Huntsford seemed unperturbed by her hostility.
She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“I’ve brought you a gift,” he continued, pulling a wrapped package from his coat.
Olivia took the present with the reluctant stirrings of curiosity. She was used to men bringing her flowers, but this was something new.
She tore the wrapping off gently, gasping in delight when she saw what lay beneath the paper.
“A copy of Twelfth Night?” she asked, trying to keep the excitement from her voice. The play was her favorite of Shakespeare’s. She had read her own copy so much it was tattered and falling apart.
He smiled at her. “Do you like it?”
She nodded, not quite trusting herself to say more.
“How did you know?” she asked finally.
“I noticed you had a copy sitting on the table at Westin Park. It looked as though it was in dire need of retirement, so I thought you would appreciate a new edition.”
Olivia cradled the volume in her hands, enjoying the feel of the cool leather binding. The thoughtfulness of the gift overwhelmed her.
“Thank you.” She forced herself to meet his eyes.
“My pleasure,” he replied, and when Lord Huntsford said the words, she believed them.
She wanted to rise from her seat, uncomfortable with him towering over her. His nearness was unsettling. The marquess was too attractive for his own good. And the well-chosen gift also showed him to be perceptive and kind. All of that made for a heady—and dangerous—combination. It would be best for her to keep her distance, in every way. But he was too close for her to stand without brushing against him, so she remained seated.
“Are you sufficiently grateful to accompany me to Hyde Park?” he asked.
It would be best for her to refuse. Reason dictated that nothing good could come from pretending she could be a normal woman and enjoy the company of a charming man.
Her mind clearly didn’t care about reason. “Let me fetch my bonnet,” she said, ignoring the fact that Nick suddenly looked like he had single-handedly defeated Napoleon at Waterloo.
As she was walking toward the door, Gibbons intercepted her. His eyes were still bleary with sleep. “My lady, the—” he squinted at the card in his hand “—Marquess of Huntsford is here…again, it would seem.”
“I noticed,” she said, her hand perched on her hip.
“Well, I see there was no need to rouse myself then,” he mumbled as he left.
“I’ll return in a moment,” Olivia said to the marquess, following after the butler, but she was unable to resist stopping at the doorway and giving Lord Huntsford one more smile.
Nick had smiled back, pleased she had, if just for the moment, softened toward him. He’d been nervous in bringing her the book but wanted to give her something. And no, he didn’t stop to analyze his motives.
“Sorry for the delay, my lord,” Lady Olivia said, standing in the doorway, ready for their outing. He was struck again by how beautiful she looked. The pale pink of her morning gown complemented the creaminess of her complexion, and her dark hair made her eyes have even more of an impact.
“I hope you’ll forgive the impropriety if I say you were worth the wait.” Nick smiled at her, and he led her out to where his curricle awaited. Several carriages slowed down, and the occupants inside craned their necks to get a glimpse of him and Olivia.
Once she was seated, he moved to climb aboard himself.
Nick didn’t notice something else held Olivia’s attention until he heard her speak.
“There’s Lord Finley,” she said, watching as the man strolled down the sidewalk toward her house. The baron caught sight of her, and his mouth formed an O of surprise.
Nick wavered between staying the horses and slapping the reins to leave Finley standing behind, watching them drive off.
He slapped the reins.
“That was badly done of you,” she chided as she held fast to her seat.
“What was?”
She gave him a look.
“Oh, that,” he said. “I was just ensuring that my plan for a drive with you remained uninterrupted. In my line of work, proper planning means the difference between life and—” Nick stopped himself in mid-sentence, hoping she had not been listening to him. He could have kicked himself for not guarding his tongue.
Luck wasn’t with him.
“Your line of work?” she echoed. “I didn’t think powerful lords worked.”
“We don’t,” he said somewhat hastily. “I simply meant my responsibilities with the estates and such. Your brother is one of those powerful lords, too.” He looked at her out of the corner of his eye to see if she believed him. “Surely you know how much effort he puts into his own lands and the people there.”
“Of course I do.” But her tone was too light for Nick’s comfort. “Forgive me, I simply thought since you had only just returned to England you wouldn’t have had time to assume all your responsibilities.”
She was clever; he would give her that much. “Yes, well, I was able to learn from my father before I left.”
It was the only thing of value the old Marquess of Huntsford had taught him, and the only lesson he’d been willing to learn. The rules of seduction and debauchery, ever his father’s favorite pastimes, had fallen on deaf—and disgusted—ears.
“Why did you leave?” Lady Olivia asked then, and Nick couldn’t help but feel he had dodged one bullet only to be struck by another.
“For exploration.”
“Exploration of what?”
“The world.”
“I should think your father would have had numerous reservations about allowing you to go on such a venture. You were, after all, the sole heir to the marquessdom,” she said.
While he admired her tenacity, he could not claim he was comfortable with the direction their conversation had taken. There were things—particularly things in his past—he would rather not discuss with her. She should never be touched with anything so sordid as his memories of his father.
“I can’t say he was happy to see me go.”
An understatement.
Nick still carried the small, upraised scar on his forearm where his father had attacked him with a knife after his pronouncement. The old man had stood between Nick and the door, waving his weapon erratically and th
reatening to kill him. But Nick had been faster and not muddled by liquor. He’d managed to disarm his father with only the minor injury. The scar reminded him of the depths to which the old marquess had fallen.
And his own determination to escape.
“I believe my brother was also upset by your abrupt departure,” she confessed, and Nick felt the guilt piling on him again. Had he been a decent friend, he would have stayed to help Marcus deal with the loss of his own father and mother.
The elder marquess’s lunacy had grown so pronounced, however, that Nick had feared being murdered in his bed if he had stayed. His father had dismissed the entire staff, hiring new servants who felt no loyalty to his son. He had tried to isolate Nick from all of his friends. Marcus had been the only one to stick beside him.
“I hoped your brother would understand,” he said finally. Marcus knew, like few others had, of his father’s depravity. And while Nick left without bidding anyone farewell, he’d prayed that he would be forgiven by his friend when he returned.
“He did.” Olivia rushed to reassure him, making him wonder how much information she had been privy to. “But it was still a difficult time for him.”
“Was it not for you?”
She squared her shoulders and clenched her jaw, as though she could hold at bay the bad memories. “I am not my brother.”
Her comment confused him. “I certainly wasn’t trying to make that insinuation.”
“What I mean is,” she said on an exhale, “it didn’t shatter me, because I’m not so foolish as to believe life is perfect.”
“And you think Marcus does?”
She twisted her reticule between her hands. “I think he allows his misplaced belief in his God—” she said the word with a sigh “—to convince him that all things work for the good.”
“You disagree?”
“I’m sure it is nice to believe that.”
He wasn’t certain what to say but felt as though he should say something. Should argue with her and try to convince her that faith made one strong—not weak. But he doubted, after hearing her conversation with Reverend Thomas, she would listen. And the last thing he wanted was to sound pious and cause her to retreat into her shell.
Help me find a way to reach her, Lord, Nick prayed. For Your sake, and for hers.
“I do have a question,” Olivia said after a long silence between the two of them.
“Yes?”
“It’s about what the ladies at the church were talking about.”
He merely nodded.
Olivia sighed. He obviously wasn’t going to make this any easier for her. “Was any of what they were saying true?” She knew how offensive she was being just by asking the question, so she rushed on. “I normally would never bring up such a matter, but I’ve been wondering…” She trailed off. She was making a muck of it.
“What do you think about the things people are saying?” But the statement wasn’t a challenge, a gauntlet thrown at her feet. He seemed genuinely curious.
“I think they’re lies,” she said after a thoughtful pause.
He rewarded her confidence in him with a dazzling smile.
“And I think you are uncannily astute,” Lord Huntsford re turned.
“But why would people be saying those kinds of things anyway?” Olivia knew that some of the ton lived for scandals…some even manufactured them for entertainment. But was there any particular reason the marquess had been singled out? Any suspicious evidence? Or was it simply the unfounded ramblings of people with too much time and too little scruples?
Lord Huntsford pulled his curricle to a stop and turned to look fully at her. “Sometimes, Lady Olivia, things aren’t what they seem. Sometimes, they aren’t even close.”
The answer mystified her. “Then why don’t you put a stop to the rumors? I wouldn’t be surprised if the lies have spread through half of London.”
“It’s not worth the waste of time it would take to discredit. I know the kind of person I am. God knows even better. That’s good enough for me.”
God again, she thought with a small measure of disgust. “Aren’t you worried someone will actually believe the drivel?”
“I can’t stop the ladies at church—or anyone else—from believing it. So why should I bother?”
Olivia’s frustration rose with his very nonchalant remark. “Don’t you understand? You could be ostracized if those rumors became common knowledge?” This was the very dilemma she faced with the ton knowing about her mother. The very reason she’d gone to such lengths to protect Marcus. His title would be worthless if he didn’t command the public’s respect. Lord Huntsford’s would be as well.
“I’m not overly worried about that. Truth be told, I don’t much enjoy balls and parties.”
“But you’re in the House of Lords now. There are your peers to consider.”
“I don’t understand why you are so upset about this,” he said. “The rumors, while completely unfounded, would hurt only me.”
“I’m upset because it’s just not fair,” she cried. “You shouldn’t have to be punished for something you didn’t do!”
His face softened. “I have faith eventually my character will speak for itself.”
She digested his words. What kind of person thought so little of the opinions of others? He seemed to believe God would reward his silence by revealing the truth eventually.
And maybe, she mused, God would.
She wished she could test the theory for herself.
Chapter Eight
Several days later, Nick waited for the butler to open the door and grant him admittance to the stylish Mayfair House. And he tried to quiet the unease he felt standing outside. Five years had passed since he’d been here.
Who knew what reception he’d receive?
A staid-looking butler opened the door, and a slight lift of the eyebrows was the only indication the servant was surprised.
“Smithson,” Nick greeted with a smile.
“My lord.” The butler inclined his head and motioned for Nick to come in the house.
“If you’ll wait just a moment, my lord,” Smithson said. Turning to grab the attention of a hovering footman, the butler dispatched the other servant.
Nick was then ushered into a decidedly feminine drawing room. He smiled at the frills and profusion of lace covering nearly every available surface.
“Nicholas!” a woman cried as she walked into the room.
He turned at the voice. “Aunt Henrietta,” he greeted.
The older woman embraced him in a swirl of perfume. Nick wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. And the memories he’d feared would assault him upon seeing her stayed on the periphery, enough out of sight that he wasn’t bothered by them.
“Your uncle will be sorry he missed you,” Nick’s aunt said as she took a seat and motioned for him to do the same. “But he had a meeting with his solicitors this morning.”
Nick nodded in understanding.
Then he stared at his aunt. The last five years had been kind to her, but then again she’d been the beauty of the family from the beginning. A fact that had always needled his mother. Oh, there was some resemblance between his deceased mother and his aunt—they were sisters, after all. But anyone who had seen the two while both were living would have to concede his aunt had inherited the loveliness of the Holbrook family.
While her face still retained much of its youth, however, her wardrobe left a great deal to be desired. Her morning gown was a garish orange, which was accompanied by a bright purple feather bobbing from an otherwise fashionable green turban.
It was an ensemble to make a man’s eyes bleed. But it was quintessentially Henrietta. Her love for bright colors in shocking combinations was her one departure from the good sense and good taste she showed in every other respect.
“I would ask how long you’ve been in town,” his aunt said as she dispatched a footman for a tea service, “but I already know.”
Nick smiled. “I’d
be surprised if you didn’t.”
“I have my spies all over London.”
Nick stiffened at the innocent remark. His aunt and uncle knew about his wartime excursions, but the issue of his occupation had never been openly discussed. Was this his aunt’s not-so-subtle way to steer the conversation? It took only a moment to realize he was being edgy and foolish.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come by to visit sooner, Aunt,” Nick said. “I’ve had quite a lot to occupy me.”
Her smile turned speculative. “I’ve heard things about that as well.”
The tea service arrived then, sparing Nick from having to comment right away. Aunt Henri didn’t ask for a reminder of how he took his tea. She dropped two sugars in the cup and handed it to him.
“I’ve missed you, Aunt Henri,” Nick admitted.
Her face softened. The eyes lost their teasing glint and instead shimmered with unshed tears. “I wrote you many letters while you were gone. But I never knew if you got them.” Her face was hopeful.
He hadn’t gotten them. Never had been in one place long enough to receive any correspondence. Even if his missions and contacts didn’t have him constantly on the run, his cover wouldn’t have withstood a barrage of missives from his family. Pretending to be a defected Englishman was difficult enough without explaining constant letters from family he supposedly no longer had contact with.
“I was busy while I was gone,” he hedged.
Silence stretched between them. He could tell, by reading his aunt’s face, there was something she wanted to say to him.
“Go ahead,” he prompted with a smile.
She didn’t bother to ask what he was talking about. “Your uncle and I saw your father before he died.”
Nick clenched his hands. Some pithy remark waited on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. Was he supposed to ask, hopefully, if his father had experienced a deathbed conversion? Or to see if his son’s name had been on his lips before he passed? He didn’t know what kind of reaction Aunt Henri wanted—if she wanted any—from him, so he said nothing.
