by Lily Maxton
His hand jerked toward her, but she stepped back. Touching would just muddle her thoughts. She felt too safe in his arms. And that was all a lie.
“Olivia.” And the way he said it—almost as a rush of air instead of a real sound, with an undercurrent of helpless anger—it made her wonder if he loved her in return. But wondering about it wouldn’t do anyone any good unless he accepted and acknowledged it.
“No,” she said tiredly, heartbrokenly. “No. Please, just leave me in peace.”
He stared at her a moment longer, his eyes flickering over her face, before he silently granted her request. She stood in the center of the room until the bedchamber door shut behind him, and then, in one of her more dramatic moments, she flung herself on the bed, wrung the pillow between her hands, and cried until there were no more tears left.
…
William left Eastwold Abbey before they did. Olivia watched him step into his carriage on an overcast, humid day that threatened rain. She stood silently as the clopping of horse hooves drifted to her. She willed him to look back, willed him to show some sign that he felt something.
Anything.
He didn’t.
The carriage turned past the trees and disappeared from view.
She sagged, feeling like the weight of the world had come to rest on her shoulders. She was surprised when Lord Ashworth drew her aside for a private word before her family departed. He was the only one still speaking to her—everyone else had turned away, gossiping and staring and keeping several feet of distance.
She tried to pretend she didn’t hear their words, didn’t feel their stares, but heat rose in her chest and throat.
“You cannot imagine how horrible I feel about all that has happened,” Lord Ashworth told her.
She looked up at him. Under his mess of sullen hair, his eyes were kind. “Nothing about this was your fault.”
“No, but I noticed William had taken an interest in you, and I didn’t discourage him. I thought…” His words trailed off.
“What?”
“I thought you might be the one. The love match.”
“Ah.” She forced a smile that tasted bitter. “I wasn’t.”
He met her gaze. “Even if he cares for you, he might not admit it to himself,” Ashworth said, surprising her. “I feel as though I’m prying into business that’s not my own, but you should know—William’s mother abandoned him when he was only twelve. I think it left a scar that never quite faded, made worse by the fact that his father was so devastated. He’d been devoted to his wife, more in love than any man I’d seen. Neither of them were quite the same after she left.”
Olivia had known William wasn’t on good terms with his mother, though she hadn’t known the specifics. He’d spoken fondly enough of his father, but when she asked about his mother, he would simply say they didn’t see each other and change the subject.
She hadn’t pried at the time because she’d thought he would gradually open up to her. But he was gone, and if Lord Ashworth wanted to volunteer the information, she wouldn’t turn it down.
“Where is she now? Is she still alive?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “She lives in Spain with her lover. The same one she left them for. I’m not certain if that makes it better or worse for William. Worse, I imagine. If she flitted from lover to lover, he could simply say she was fickle. But she had love to give, it seems. She was simply unable or unwilling to give it to the man she married, or their son. William would never say this himself, but I think if that happened to me as a child, I would wonder what fault resided within me that caused her to leave.”
Olivia shook her head. It might explain his fear, but it changed nothing. He was a grown man. And yet he would let his mother’s specter destroy his own chance at happiness. She had withdrawn her love, so he wouldn’t accept any other. If he were in front of her right now, she would grab his coat and shake some sense into him.
But he was gone. She’d only be shaking air.
“It’s of no consequence,” she murmured.
Lord Ashworth smiled sadly.
He handed her up into the carriage when it pulled in front of them, squeezing her hand before letting her go. She sank back into the plush seats and stared across at her two agitated parents as the equipage began to shake and move.
They browbeat her the whole way to Middleton Hall, not allowing her a moment’s worth of rest. But she didn’t budge. Not when her father threatened to lock her in her room until she agreed to marry Mr. Cross. Not when her mother said she would burn all of the books in the library. Olivia could be as stubborn as Anne when she wanted to be.
As soon as the carriage stopped, Olivia spilled out from it. She shoved open the door and leaped down without waiting for the footman. She drew in a lungful of fresh air after the two hour ride, feeling a faint drizzle on the top of her head.
Then she heard her name called, and she looked up to see Anne and Elizabeth running out from the front door of Middleton Hall.
“We came as soon as we heard the rumors,” Anne said. “Is it true?”
“That depends. What did you hear?” she asked cautiously. Goodness, gossip traveled quickly.
“That you and Mr. Cross were discovered on the floor of the library in Eastwold Abbey, in the middle of—”
Elizabeth sent her sister a warning look.
“Well, you know. In flagrante,” she finished.
“No. It’s not true,” Olivia said. They both looked relieved. “We were found just after,” she clarified. “And we were leaving the library. Not on the floor.”
“Olivia!” Anne exclaimed. “I never guessed you could behave—”
“As scandalously as you?” she said sharply.
She was never sharp. Her sister eyed her a bit warily.
“Let’s all go inside,” Elizabeth suggested. “We’ll drink tea and everything will be sorted out.”
Olivia followed them into the sitting room where Mr. Cameron and Lord Thornhill waited, lounging on opposite sides of the room. They both stood when she and her sisters entered. Her mother and father swept in behind them.
Lady Middleton gave a brilliant curtsy to Lord Thornhill, then glanced across the room at Mr. Cameron and barely inclined her head. “I see you’ve invaded our house,” she said, directing her words to Mr. Cameron. When she glanced back at the earl, she said, “Of course, you’re welcome whenever you wish to visit, my lord.”
Anne rolled her eyes.
“Have you all been apprised of the scandal Olivia has brought down upon our family?” Her mother sniffed.
Lord Middleton sighed. “I need a brandy.” His footsteps were heavy as he stalked out the door.
“I can find the man and wring his neck for you,” Elizabeth’s husband said helpfully.
“That’s not the way to solve this,” Thornhill responded.
“Then how would you do it, Thornhill?”
“A duel is typically the way these things are ended,” he suggested.
“Forgive me, I forgot. The civilized aristocracy,” Mr. Cameron said drily.
“I would never let you fight in a duel, Michael,” Anne pointed out.
Mr. Cameron smirked at the earl. “How long has it been since you married—two months?”
“Are you suggesting I’m henpecked?”
Mr. Cameron shrugged.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “I think, at the moment, Olivia is our main concern, not whether Thornhill is henpecked. Which I find rather insulting to begin with.”
“I didn’t use the term.” Mr. Cameron flashed her an apologetic smile.
She shook her head, her lips twitching slightly in response before she turned to Olivia. “What would you like us to do about this Mr. Cross?”
Olivia stood with her arms wrapped around her middle, wanting to shrink down and disappear so she wouldn’t feel their questioning eyes upon her. What did she want them to do? There was nothing. Nothing to be done.
“You are under the impression that Wil— Mr. Cross,
did not offer for me,” she began in a voice that wasn’t quite steady. “He did offer. I refused. I simply—” She breathed in, then out. “I wish to be left alone.”
She couldn’t bear it any longer. She couldn’t bear to see the four of them—her sisters with their husbands, the love that was so clear between them, the happiness she would never find.
She spun with the hem of her dress swishing around her and darted from the room, not stopping until she’d reached her bedchamber and slammed the door behind her.
She ate dinner on a tray that one of the housemaids brought up. Her mother wouldn’t have thought of it—one of her sisters must have ordered the food be sent to her. Between picking at the greasy mutton, staring at the ceiling, and trying to read a book, Olivia contemplated how much things had changed.
When she was young, she’d thought life would be the same forever, that she’d always be the girl trailing after her older sisters and hoping not to be left behind. But the point of life was that it wasn’t static. It was evolving constantly, and her sisters had gone in their own directions, and she couldn’t follow anymore.
But through all the change was one constant—love. Love bound them together, stronger than anything that separated them.
William had never had that constant. He’d only had a selfish mother and a father whose pain had overshadowed his son’s childhood. She almost felt sorry for him.
She still wanted to shake him, though.
A light rap sounded at the door.
“Yes?” she said, sitting up on the bed with her legs crooked under her.
“It’s Elizabeth. May I come in?”
She made a noise of assent, and Lizzie stepped in cautiously.
“Are you angry with us?”
“No. I’m angry with myself, I think,” she said.
Elizabeth sat down next to her, looking at the sad, torn apart piece of mutton on her plate. “Not enjoying your dinner?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Her sister took her hand in a warm, reassuring grip. “You can talk to me about anything, dear.”
“I know.”
And they left it at that. Olivia wasn’t the type to spill all of her deepest secrets and desires at the merest indication of a listening ear, and Elizabeth wasn’t the type to pry.
Just then, Anne poked her head around the door. “What is this? A gathering I wasn’t invited to?”
“Olivia doesn’t wish to speak about Mr. Cross,” Lizzie said.
Her other sister sighed. “Oh, very well. Although I’m a bit put out that I’m so close to the scandal of the year and I really don’t know anything about it.”
“Surely what happened to Olivia isn’t the scandal of the year,” Elizabeth responded.
Anne raised her eyebrows.
Their older sister fell silent.
“We could place a wager,” Anne suggested. “How long do you think Thornhill and Mr. Cameron will last with our parents before fleeing to find us?”
Olivia felt a smile curving her lips. The first time she’d smiled that day. “Two minutes.”
Anne shook her head. “Michael will last longer. He’s too well-bred.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t just insult my husband,” Lizzie drawled.
“It wasn’t an insult,” Anne protested with a laugh. “It simply means Thornhill will be wishing he could leave, but he won’t actually do it.”
They all laughed when, about two minutes later, they heard a disgruntled Mr. Cameron walk by in the hallway, muttering something about mad mothers-in-law.
…
During the next week, William discovered there were some things a man couldn’t get foxed enough to forget. Such as the way Olivia had looked when she’d turned down his offer—fragile but defiant, with something elusive in her eyes, flickering past the sheen of tears.
He’d dwelled on that expression all week, trying to figure out what it was. It had come to him one night as he’d lain awake, alone in his bed, wishing Olivia was there beside him, for he’d grown used to her presence next to him, the warmth of her body curled into his.
It had been disappointment.
She had expected more from him, and he’d let her down.
But he’d asked her to marry him, something he’d never thought he would ask any woman, and she hadn’t even considered the possibility because he couldn’t bring himself to say the words she wanted to hear. She’d had no right to look at him that way. So hurt and disappointed. He should be the hurt and disappointed one.
That’s what he tried to tell himself. It was just that, sometimes, he felt as though he’d let himself down, as well as her.
He tipped back the last of the night’s brandy, left some coins on the dirty, scratched-up tavern table, and stumbled unsteadily to his feet. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his greatcoat, braced himself against the chill in the air that signaled the approach of winter, and stepped out into the street.
Everything exploded into chaos. He heard a shout, the shrieking whinny of a startled horse, the thud of hooves.
He didn’t realize it until later, but in that one flash of grim expectancy, it was Olivia’s name that had been on his lips. Her face in his mind. A silent prayer.
He threw himself backward, and a coach shot by, missing him by mere inches. He could smell the overworked animals, feel the air that whipped him as the vehicle barreled past. His teeth rattled from the vibrations.
He scrambled back onto the pavement and nearly retched. It took a long time for his racing heart to settle. When it did, he sat there—or more aptly sprawled there—and tilted his head to look at the night sky.
No stars in London. They were drowned out by the soot and the gaslights.
The realization came to him gradually—perhaps because he couldn’t accept it all at once—that he had nearly died just now. If he hadn’t reacted quite as quickly, he would have been flattened by that carriage, his life snuffed out in an instant.
And what would his legacy have been? What had he accomplished in his nearly thirty years? What would his life, and his death, have meant?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
And that answer had him stumbling to his feet and racing toward his townhouse. He had no idea if Olivia could forgive him, and he probably didn’t deserve it. But he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t try to win her back.
Chapter Seven
The calling card embossed with William’s name trembled in Olivia’s hand. “He’s here,” she whispered.
But why? Surely, they didn’t have anything to say to one another. Unless he’d changed his mind… But she didn’t want her heart to hinge on the whisper of that hope.
Elizabeth knew instantly whom she meant. “Do you want us to stay?”
Olivia stared at her, barely able to understand what she was saying. Then she shook her head. “No. Thank you.”
Under her oldest sister’s charge, her entire family filed out from the sitting room as obediently as soldiers, leaving Olivia by herself. She rested her hands in her lap, looked down at the pattern of small roses that dotted her muslin dress. And forced her thundering heart to slow.
She didn’t hear him come in, but the toes of his Hessian boots came into view. She glanced up. Her gaze flicked from his bloodshot eyes to the stubble that lined his jaw, to the disheveled appearance of his clothing. “You look dreadful.”
His lips curved humorlessly. “I feel dreadful.” He held something out to her, something a bit bigger than her hand, and rectangular, wrapped in brown packaging.
She took it and untied the string, revealing a book with dark leather binding. She frowned at the title.
Poems
by William Cross
“Open it,” he murmured.
With trembling hands, she did, pausing at the inscription on the next page.
For Olivia
And the inscription had her flipping through the book to see what exactly he’d written for her. Her lips
parted as she read the first lines of one of the poems—
Breathe into Me
Let me steal your breath
And your life, and your heart, and your hands, and your kiss
Let me be yours
As bound to you as the earth to the sun
She continued reading as he waited, flushing hotly at some of the more explicit lines, barely able to draw breath at the lines that were so tenderly romantic that her pulse quickened and a lump formed in her throat. Finally, she had to stop, even though she wanted to read straight through to the last page. She shut the book gently, set it carefully down on the end table next to her as though it were something more breakable than glass.
She stared up at him, at a loss for words.
“There’s only the one copy,” he said. “I paid a small fortune to borrow a printing press.”
“How did you find time to write this and print it?” she asked.
“I’ve had very little sleep in the past week. Which you can probably guess by looking at me,” he added drily.
She remained silent. Waiting.
He cleared his throat—a nervous gesture. William nervous was foreign. It made her chest ache and her fingers itch to touch him.
“I don’t know if you can forgive me,” he said. “I wouldn’t blame you if you cast me off. I’ve made a damnable mess of things. But I needed you to know, Olivia. Every word is true. Even if you don’t want me anymore. I didn’t—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t let you think I don’t love you. And I want to be your husband—if you’ll still have me.”
He looked as though his whole world was hanging by a thread, and her next words would either break it or secure it. Olivia choked back a strangled sob. To be honest, she wasn’t sure how to respond. She forced herself to be brave and ask the questions that would either break or secure her heart.
“Are you certain you trust me not to leave you? Or…are you worried that you’ll be the one who leaves?” At his startled expression, she added, “Lord Ashworth told me about your mother.”
“I worried about both,” he finally admitted. “But I’ve realized there’s nothing in life that says we are doomed to repeat the mistakes of our parents. You’re not like my mother. I’m not like her. And I’m not like my father, either. I’m not giving my heart and soul to someone who won’t keep them safe. I’m giving them to you.” The ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “Already given,” he corrected. “I’m yours. All of me.”
