by Lily Maxton
But Olivia had been mistaken if she’d thought she was safe. Mr. Cross placed his hand on the back of her chair as he leaned down to speak to her. It made her feel rather crowded and warm. “I’ve been to Eastwold Abbey many times and I’ve never spotted any mole hills. If you are going to continue lying, Miss Middleton, I would suggest you practice.”
Then he straightened, flashed her a dazzling smile, and strode out to join the game of lawn bowls.
She sat there, stunned.
Charming, indeed.
Chapter Two
It seemed Lady Sarah wanted the best of both worlds. As Olivia observed her that night after dinner when they were all gathered in the drawing room—in which the chairs were plump and a nice pale green that matched the walls, so Olivia wasn’t certain why they required updating—Lady Sarah would flirt with Mr. Cross, and then Lord Ashworth, and then go back and do it all again.
Obviously, as the daughter of an earl whose finances were rumored to be declining, Lady Sarah was hoping mostly for wealth, but still wanted a title, even if it was a lesser one. Lord Ashworth would be perfect in that regard. But Olivia supposed she viewed Mr. Cross as a challenge and wouldn’t be against making him fall in love with her before she married the baron.
If Olivia had been more charmed by Mr. Cross, she might have felt a bit sorry for him. But she hadn’t been charmed. And he was the one who went around breaking female hearts. It would serve him right if someone broke his, in turn.
But even with Lady Sarah’s antics, it didn’t take Olivia long to grow bored and start thinking wistfully of the book that awaited her when she retired. To pass the time, she turned to the mantel and examined the figurines placed there. The one nearest was a porcelain cow. Rather ugly, she thought, as she lifted it and turned it over in her hands.
“Searching for ghosts?”
She jumped, and the cow flew out of her hand.
Mr. Cross deftly caught it in midair and set it back on the mantel where it would be safe from her. “Still skittish, I see.”
“And you are still sneaking up on me,” she said. She hesitated. “Please stop.” Goodness, that was the best she could do? Please stop in that wavering, wilted voice? Anne would be disgusted.
He stared down at her for a moment. She was on the tall side for a woman, but he still had an inch or two on her. In the half-light that emanated from the drawing room’s wall sconces and the candles set out on various tables, his eyes were the color of chocolate. It might sound a bit strange, but she had always thought brown was a lovely color—deep and unfathomable. Mysterious and vital, like life itself.
“Forgive me,” he said gently. “I hope you don’t think I delight in scaring young women.”
“You’ve done it twice,” she pointed out, trying to sound firm.
“I’m not usually this cumbersome.” He smiled at her and leaned his shoulder against the mantel, turning in, as though he were her own private wall.
She stared back at him, startled. When he spoke, his voice was low and caressing. “Please don’t take offense at my forwardness, but you have the most extraordinary eyes, Miss Middleton. Like liquid silver.”
Her mouth opened. She drew in a breath. She couldn’t help it—she laughed. His soft expression hardened into a frown. “I always thought they were gray,” she said.
There it was again, appearing almost as quickly as it had vanished—an intent expression she would almost call “swoony.” He leaned closer. “Gray pales in comparison. Gray is a dull rain cloud. Your eyes are brilliant, like—”
“Like the moon on a winter night,” she offered good-naturedly. “How was that? Or is the moon more of a white?”
He straightened abruptly. “You don’t have a romantic bone in your body, do you, Miss Middleton?”
She straightened, too, a little offended. “I most certainly do, I just don’t find…” She stopped, worried about offending him even further. She realized suddenly that she didn’t feel shy anymore. Not with him spouting such silly compliments, at least.
“What?”
“I don’t find you…” she trailed off helplessly.
“Don’t say it,” he said. “I can tell you’re thoroughly unimpressed.”
“Perhaps you’re trying too hard,” she said.
He shot her a sour look. “Other women like my company. You may not believe this, but they actually seek me out.”
“That could be the problem,” she mused. “You’re too certain of your reception.”
“Very well. What does the unimpressed Miss Middleton find interesting?”
“Oh,” she faltered, not feeling anywhere near as certain as before, now that the conversation had turned back to her. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know,” he echoed. His gaze slid to the cow on the mantel and back to her. “Ghosts, perhaps?”
“Not really,” she muttered.
“That’s a shame—there’s a gruesome, scandalous, completely dreadful ghost story associated with Eastwold Abbey.”
She tilted her head, trying and failing to appear uninterested. “Is there?”
“Were you lying again?” A half smile curved his lips. “If you keep this up, I won’t know if you ever tell the truth.”
“I’m not in the habit of lying,” she said. “And you must lie all the time! You can’t possibly think gray eyes look like liquid silver.”
He paused, mulling it over. “The difference is that my lies are inconsequential. I like to make women feel admired. You lie to conceal yourself.”
Her lips parted on an angry gasp. The nerve of the man! But the more she thought about his words, the more she wondered if they held a kernel of truth. She didn’t like him probing, uninvited, into her psyche, so she turned the conversation back again. “I wouldn’t call the breaking of hearts inconsequential.”
He sighed. “No one’s heart has been broken. It’s mere infatuation.”
She dug her fingers into the fabric of her dress, annoyed. “If that’s what you want to tell yourself. In any case, it occurs to me that if you spend all your time telling women their gray eyes look silver, you’re not revealing much of yourself, either.”
“I don’t think I like this conversation,” he said sardonically.
“Nor do I. But you sought me out.”
“Indeed. Should we get on with the ghost story or shall we part ways with what little pride I have left still intact?” he asked.
She hesitated, then spoke. “I’d like to hear it, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“I wouldn’t mind.” He gifted her with a slow, intimate smile, and this time, she was ashamed to admit, her heart did flutter a little.
And for the next few minutes, they were cocooned in such intimacy that she forgot there were other people in the room. When he spoke, his rich voice thrummed a strange rhythm that reached every hidden part of her body, and she almost lost herself in the darkness of his eyes.
“It was Lord Ashworth’s grandparents,” he began. “They preferred the country to Town, and they spent most of the year residing happily in this very house. But Lord Ashworth was a horrible husband, though Lady Ashworth wasn’t aware of that because he always treated her with perfect kindness and the pretense of fidelity. But though he acted smitten with his wife, he had a fondness, shall we say, for the governess. Lady Ashworth might never have known, but her husband made the mistake of keeping a love note the governess had written to him. She found it in his coat pocket and flew into a horrible rage.
“Everyone came out to see what was happening—the servants, the children, the governess.
“So everyone witnessed it when Lady Ashworth gave him a mighty shove from the top of the stairs. He tumbled the whole way down and broke his neck. She might have murdered the governess, too, but before she got the chance she was subdued and carted off for murder. The children were raised by relatives until they came of age and the current Lord Ashworth’s father claimed the estate.
“But things weren’t quite the same here after that. It’s wh
ispered that the old Lord Ashworth roams the house late into the night, trying to find his wife. But no one knows if he’s seeking her to plead for forgiveness or to wreak his revenge.”
He stopped, opened his mouth to speak, but then smiled as he gazed at her. “Now you’re impressed. I should have known it would take nothing less than murder and scandal.”
With a start, she realized she’d leaned in closer to him during the story. She straightened, wondering what they must look like to the outside observer.
“It’s because of the book I’m reading—The Monk. I’ve been on something of a gothic turn, as of late,” she said, a little self-deprecatingly. She knew what some men thought of women who read novels, particularly horrid novels like The Monk.
But Mr. Cross obviously wasn’t some men. “That explains it. Unabridged, I hope?”
His response warmed her. “I wouldn’t read it any other way.”
He chuckled, and she was a bit disturbed at her body’s response to his quiet laughter. She was quite sure her pulse had just quickened. The problem was that he could be charming—when he stopped trying to charm her, that was.
But she didn’t want to be charmed at all—not by the man who had broken hearts all over London and claimed his victims were merely infatuated.
Her mother’s voice reached her then, and for the first time in her life, she was grateful for it. “My dear, can I pull you away for a moment?”
Olivia sent Mr. Cross an apologetic smile. At least, she hoped that’s what it looked like—it felt more relieved than anything else.
Her mother grabbed her arm and yanked her to the other side of the fireplace. “I don’t know why you’re spending so much time with Mr. Cross. It’s good that you’re practicing your conversation, but the man doesn’t have a title. Practice on someone else.”
Olivia pressed her fingers to her forehead wearily. “I think we’re still within hearing distance, Mama.”
She could see Mr. Cross past her mother’s shoulder, watching them with an expression of amused interest. He lifted his eyebrow when their gazes caught.
Her mother ignored her. “Practice on Lord Ashworth. Or even the baronet—what was his name?”
“Sir George,” she muttered.
“Yes, of course. Remember, Anne married an earl.”
“I don’t think I could possibly forget.”
Mr. Cross’s grin widened.
“Very good.” Her mother pointed to the other end of the room with a muffled exclamation. “They’ve brought out the cards. Go sit by Lord Ashworth and play.”
“I don’t like cards,” she started to say but didn’t finish. Her mother put a hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her in their direction. Olivia stumbled forward several steps, one of which landed hard and sort of crashed. The movement shook one of the paintings on the wall and caught the attention of nearly every person in the room.
Lord Ashworth looked up from shuffling the cards, perturbed by the noise, but then, to his credit, his face smoothed into perfect politeness. “Miss Middleton, would you like to play?”
“Yes,” she forced out, wondering if her face looked as red as it felt.
“And I’ll join in,” Mr. Cross said, right behind her shoulder.
She jumped, unaware that he’d followed her.
“How delightful,” Lady Sarah said. But the look she sent Olivia was decidedly chilly. “It will be just the four of us, then.”
No doubt she’d wanted to keep the two men to herself. She could have them, for all Olivia cared.
After a moment of discussion, they decided on speculation, and Lord Ashworth dealt the cards.
“How are your sisters?” Lady Sarah asked Olivia.
She nearly blanched under the young woman’s cool, razor-like gaze. “Perfectly well.”
“Did you know, Mr. Cross, that the Earl of Thornhill courted Miss Middleton’s oldest sister before he married the second?”
“I’d heard something to that effect,” he responded neutrally.
“Don’t be coy. It was quite the scandal.” She smiled. It was a bit like watching a cat bare its teeth.
“Probably not a topic for polite conversation, then,” Mr. Cross pointed out. Olivia didn’t look at him; instead, she kept her face down and her finger traced the cards she’d been dealt.
“Nonsense, we’re among friends.” The other woman continued, “Your sister was ruined, wasn’t she?”
“The countess, you mean?” Olivia responded, drilling a hole into her cards with a focused stare. Her skin felt like it was burning.
Lady Sarah laughed lightly, as though the tepid warning had sailed right over her, and changed topics. “And how is the oldest? It must be quite an adjustment to be married to a bookseller.”
“She’s very happy with Mr. Cameron,” Olivia said.
“And you are a lover of books, are you not?” Mr. Cross said cheerfully. “It seems serendipitous to have a bookseller as a brother-in-law.”
“Yes.” Olivia smiled for the first time since she’d sat down. Mr. Cameron was too generous; he let her take any book from his shop that she wanted.
Lord Ashworth turned to her. “What do you think of the collection here?”
It was Lady Sarah’s turn in the game; she flipped over a card and gazed down at it. Her lips were set in a thin mulish line—probably because the men were actually speaking to Olivia instead of listening to thinly-veiled insults directed toward her family.
“It’s…impressive.”
Mr. Cross glanced at her, his gaze intent. “That sounded qualified.”
“Would anyone like to buy my card?” Lady Sarah asked, lifting and flashing a ten.
“I’ll take it,” Mr. Cross said, tossing down a fish-shaped chip. He didn’t take his eyes from Olivia during the entire transaction.
It was her turn, but she was having trouble focusing. “What do you mean, my answer sounded qualified?” she asked
“It’s impressive, but…?”
“I didn’t say that,” she said.
“Are you going to look at your card?” Lady Sarah snapped at her. The amiable Lord Ashworth frowned at such waspish behavior.
“In a moment,” Mr. Cross answered for Olivia. “The truth this time,” he murmured, soft and intimate, as though they were sharing their own private jest. And perhaps they were.
Olivia swallowed. “It could do with…with more female authors.” She sent a troubled glance at Lord Ashworth, who, to her surprise, was grinning. “That is just my opinion, though,” she rushed to add. “I’m not really an expert.”
Ashworth held up his hands. “Don’t worry about offending me. I’m not much of a reader. When I wanted to build up the library here, I simply sent a note to Mr. Cross, who responded back with a list of authors so long it took up both the front and back of half a foolscap. Of our group of friends at Eton, he was always the one who read the most. And he would write all the time, too, scribbling things down on any scrap of parchment he could find.”
Mr. Cross looked like he wanted to strangle his friend.
“You are a writer?” Olivia asked, her curiosity piqued.
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
“Yes, he is,” Lord Ashworth responded jovially. “He just doesn’t admit it.”
“Well,” Lady Sarah said. “I don’t understand how anyone could prefer reading to playing games with friends. How dull.” She was eyeing Olivia as she said it.
Olivia wanted to ask Mr. Cross more about his writing, but it was quite obvious he didn’t want to speak of it. So she ignored her curiosity and flipped over her card, and the game continued. But for the next hour, her attention strayed to the man next to her far more often than she would have liked.
What was it about him that intrigued her so?
Chapter Three
Eastwold Abbey made entirely too many sounds at night. The ancient house creaked and groaned, and the windows rattled when the autumn wind gusted. Three times Olivia had been falling asleep,
only to be jolted awake by some mysterious noise.
She had to admit, reading gothic novels right before bedtime probably wasn’t the most intelligent thing to do.
When she heard something that sounded like a creaking footstep, she sat up straight in bed. Was it the ghost of the old Lord Ashworth, searching for his murderous wife?
Olivia waited to hear another sound, but was met with silence.
She plucked at her braid for a minute, then swung her legs over the bed. She would never relax contemplating a ghost wandering about the place. Perhaps a boring selection from the library would help—articles on botany, for instance, always put her to sleep.
She padded softly across the room in her wool stockings, shrugging on her dressing gown as she went. Then she lit a candle with kindling from the dying fire. The candle was held out straight in front of her like a weapon as she moved through the dark hallways. She determinedly ignored what might be hiding beyond its small ring of light.
The trip between her bedchamber and the library seemed to take an hour. But that was because she startled each time the house groaned, and she wondered if she should go back, hesitating in the shadowy corridor until she bit her lip and took another cautious step forward. She breathed a very ardent sigh of relief at the library door.
When she heard a vigorous scratching beyond the door, she paused with her hand on the doorknob. Did they have a mouse problem? As much as she disliked the creatures, she fervently hoped so. The alternative was— But could ghosts scratch? Did they have nails?
With her heart in her throat, she turned the knob and pushed into the room, half expecting to be molested by Lord Ashworth’s murdered grandfather.
What she saw startled her almost as much. Mr. Cross sat scribbling away under the light of short, fat candles. Wearing nothing but his trousers and shirt.
There was ink on his hands, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. Fascinated, she watched the rippling play of muscles in his arm as he wrote.
She told herself to leave, to turn and reach for the doorknob and flee before he saw her. She’d just taken a step backward when he glanced up, arrested by the movement. The quill clattered on the surface of the round table.
