The Earl's Irresistible Challenge

by Lara Temple

  Time and time again I wonder what would have happened had old Lord Buxted not taken a hand in our affairs that day. If we had spoken the truth—that it was empty jealousy on George Buxted’s part and childish foolishness on Ada Mallory’s part that the duel ever took place, and that poor Howard Sinclair had no more amorous interest in her than in any of the women who sighed about him.

  The poor fellow didn’t even notice them, let alone encourage them, and so all the vicious slander Lord Buxted set about after the duel was as empty as my soul has felt since...

  She looked up, trying to gauge his reaction but he said nothing and she continued.

  Sometimes I marvelled at Sinclair’s naiveté...a strange quality for any member of that family. Some matters flowed past him and others inflamed him without reason. I will never understand why George Buxted’s accusation of cowardice blinded him to all our exhortations to reason.

  Still, that makes it all the more heinous that Lord Buxted set it about it was Howard that discharged before the drop of the handkerchief when it was George Buxted who did so, though to be fair it was an act of clumsiness and fear, not malice.

  I should have brought a constable, not Lord Buxted. But my sins truly began when I said nothing to counter him spreading those lies, painting that ludicrous picture of Howard Sinclair as a lecherous Lothario who set out to seduce Miss Mallory.

  Only now that I have heard of the death of Lady Sinclair have I thought of the impact of those tales on his family...

  ‘He goes on to ask Mr Eldritch to advise him about sending you and your siblings a letter. I presume he died before he acted on his conscience.’

  Lucas watched as she placed the letter on the table with all the care of a mother laying a sleeping child in a crib.

  ‘What will you do, Lucas?’ she asked and her question forced him to the surface.

  ‘What can I do? It is too late to do anything. Lord Buxted himself died two years ago and the current Lord Buxted is a boy of sixteen. Do you expect me to ruin his life as well?’

  ‘No, but you will at least tell your brother and sister, won’t you? They have a right to know.’

  He stood and moved to the window. The snow was gathering, thick enough to render even the grey and brown of London beautiful. He tried to understand what he was feeling about her discovery and failed. All he knew was that he wanted her to come to him, do something unconnected with her quest and his past, unconnected even with the passion they shared that afternoon. But she remained seated, hands folded in her lap, and he thought again of Chase’s assessment of her inscrutability. She was tied to him irrevocably, but he still had no clear idea whether she needed him. He tried to push the fear away. She was right about one thing—Chase and Sam had a right to know.

  ‘Yes. I will tell them. I need to speak with Sam myself which means I must go to Oxfordshire.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I will be as quick as possible and when I return we will begin the formalities. You can have your man of business draw up whatever legal documents you feel are necessary to protect your interests. I won’t interfere with your business concerns in any case. We shall also have to discuss my own...activities at some point.’

  ‘With your uncle?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t intend to continue as before, but I can still assist. You might even prove to be useful.’ His smile was a little forced, but she smiled back, her eyes sparkling with interest. He would introduce her to Oswald and see what his uncle said. Probably nothing repeatable in polite company, at least initially. He changed the subject.

  ‘Can you keep out of trouble while I am absent?’

  She finally came to him and pinched the fabric of his sleeve between her fingers, giving it a little tug. ‘Can you? Will you be careful? This weather is not suitable for travelling.’

  He took her hand and pressed it between his, waiting for his lungs to make room for breathing again. The thought that this was how it could be, this concern, the right to touch her, small moments that he had no idea could mean anything let alone make life worthwhile...

  ‘I am used to travelling in worse,’ he answered, feeling foolish. ‘I am more concerned about leaving you for a few days here in London. Perhaps I should stay until the gossip settles...’

  Her hand turned to clasp his and her other curved about his nape as she rose to press her lips against his. It was a fleeting, almost shy kiss, in sharp contrast to the passion she had exhibited that afternoon, but it melted him. He pressed his hand into the warmth of her hair, holding her there, keeping the kiss hovering on the edge of the chasm he felt yawning below him. He wanted to say the words so badly. He wanted to go down on his knees and beg her to say them back.

  When he finally left he was aching with holding everything inside, but he was glad he had. While he was at Sinclair Hall he would begin to make it ready for her. She would need her own study, with plenty of room for her lists and her Walls of Conjecture. And when he returned he would take his time wooing her. He had rushed her into this engagement and she had rushed him into physical intimacy, but from this point forward he resolved he would not allow these new emotions to set the pace. He did not want to ruin this. It was too precious.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The smell of baking hit Lucas full force as he opened the area door in Spinner Street and the tension that had been plaguing him since he left London three days earlier dropped a notch, but remained somewhere around chest level.

  ‘Good morning, Nora. Pottle informed me Miss Silverdale and Lady Phelps were here.’

  Nora watched him wipe his boots with a judicious eye. ‘Miss Olivia and Lady Elspeth are at the dressmaker’s, but they’ll be here any moment now so you can wait in the study. We’re almost done with packing. You’d be amazed how much nonsense can accumulate in just a few weeks. Once the bannocks cool I will send Jem with a plate. Off with you, now.’

  Lucas went upstairs obediently, but inside he felt anything but tame. He had wanted her to be here. He had needed her to be here. He hadn’t known it was possible to miss anyone so much after a mere few days. Despite his need to tell Sam the revelations about their father, he had wanted to turn around the moment he drove his curricle out of London with Chase. Or at least take Olivia with him. It was her gift after all. She had wanted to give the Paytons back the man they thought they knew and instead she had given him and Chase and Sam back the man he had been so certain they knew but lost twenty years ago. He could see his father more clearly for it—still flawed and weak and naïve, but loving, caring, conscientious. His father.

  Even Sinclair Hall appeared different this time. Good memories peeked out from the corners like timid but hopeful children waiting to be coaxed out to play. He would be making new memories there now. New life even. The thought of Olivia with him there...their children...

  He finally allowed it to take possession of him. Not just the love and need that had been creeping up on him for the past few weeks since she summoned him, but hope.

  In the doorway to her study he stopped abruptly. The bareness of her Wall of Conjecture was almost like an open wound. She had removed everything and the whole room rang with its absence. He pressed his hand to the bare felt. The only remnants of her plotting were the tiny pinpricks in the fabric and a stray colourful shawl from her Madame Bulgari days still draped over her chair.

  He wandered over to her desk and picked up the shawl, running it through his hands. A new trunk stood in the corner and on the desk were neat piles of papers, lists, and arranged on top of the wooden box she had bought him was a piece of brown paper on top of which lay the remaining pencils and bundles of coloured strings removed from her spider’s web. He inspected the collection on the desk, his memory bringing back an image of the wall—intricate, demanding, begging for answers. Rather as if someone had tried to sketch Olivia’s mind itself. He smiled. She would not appreciate the comparison. Or perhaps she
would.

  He sighed and glanced at the clock. He wanted the quiet of those first days in Spinner Street back. He should have appreciated it while he had it. As soon as it was decently possible he would marry her and take her somewhere where they could be alone, somewhere warm where she could raise her face to the sun. Somewhere...

  The thought died as his gaze settled on a stack of lists at the corner of the desk.

  Lord Sinclair. Characteristics.

  He did not immediately look away and by the time he did the entries were seared into his mind.

  Arrogant

  Overbearing

  Opinionated

  Selfish

  Handsome and well aware of it

  Cares only for himself

  Needs to be coaxed and led

  Bait—curiosity?

  He turned the small collection of lists over before that very bait of curiosity made him read further. The packet of lists was practically branding itself into the palm of his hand as he pressed down on it. There must be at least five long strips of paper there. What other expletives, complaints and machinations had she jotted down at his expense?

  Not that it was any of his business. She could, and would, think whatever she liked of him.

  He picked up his hand and the bottom list clung to it. He shook it free and it fluttered face up on to the desk. There were only five words on it: he is lost and sad.

  He stared at it, his heart thumping as if he had just gone a bout with Gentleman Jackson.

  It was true. As in everything she had dissected him with brutal accuracy, extracted the core and put it to use for her aims.

  It hardly mattered. It shouldn’t matter.

  It certainly shouldn’t hurt.

  What had he expected? Eulogies? Admiration? Some girlish expression of attraction?

  Idiot.

  She had never made a secret of what she wanted from him. She was attracted to him, that was obvious—for someone as passionate as she the physical fascination was a powerful allure. And he had proven useful, hadn’t he? Clearly useful enough to compensate for being ‘lost and sad’. She had taken everything she learned about him and used it to achieve her ends, to manage him like a tethered bull.

  Certainly he should introduce her to his uncle Oswald, master manipulator. They were clearly two of a kind. Of all his faults, which she so accurately penned on her list, he had never considered himself naïve, but clearly he was as much a fool as ever his father had been, blundering after her, trusting her with his weaknesses just as he wanted her to trust him with hers.

  He had called her relentless, but he had not known the half of it...

  A knock at the door roused him.

  ‘Mrs Jones’s bannocks, my lord,’ Jem said, placing the plate on the table. The warm smell spread through the room and, irrationally, Lucas’s resentment burned even brighter.

  ‘Take them back, Jem. I won’t be staying.’

  Jem’s response was cut off by a knock at the door and Lucas strode towards the back stairway, but not quickly enough. Jem had already opened the front door and Olivia and Lady Phelps hurried inside. Olivia’s eyes widened as she saw him and she stepped forward, but then her smile doused like a candle dropped into a puddle.

  ‘Lucas? What is wrong?’ she asked.

  He forced himself to answer. ‘Nothing. I cannot stay.’

  ‘Lucas...’

  ‘We will speak later.’

  Lady Phelps and Jem melted past them as he headed towards the front door, but Olivia caught his arm.

  ‘Lucas. I can see something is wrong. Has something happened? Tell me.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with your investigations, if that is what concerns you.’

  ‘No, that is not what concerns me. Has something happened? To your brother or sister?’

  ‘No. I will speak with you later.’

  She slipped between him and the door. ‘You are angry with me.’

  ‘I am not angry.’

  She grasped the lapels of his coat, crushing them in a manner that was certain to give Tubbs palpitations. She stared up at him, her eyes searching his. ‘I don’t understand. What have I done?’

  He tried prying her hands from his coat. He was so tempted to press her back against the door, capture her face, kiss her until she was panting with need, until she was begging for the only thing she valued in him. And then he would tell her to go to hell...

  ‘Nothing. You have done nothing but be honest, as always. Now there is an overvalued quality. Still, it is better than any quality you managed to ascribe to me in your charming little list, so I should keep my peace.’

  He tried to move her out of his way, but she flattened back against the door, her hand closing on the knob, her eyes flashing in the direction of the study and widening in realisation. The blush was so sudden and violent he could almost feel the rush of blood upwards through her body.

  ‘My lists...’ It wasn’t a question. ‘You read my lists?’

  ‘I didn’t read them. They were on your desk. If you must denigrate me, I would prefer you at least do it to my face rather than leave lists around for all to see.’

  ‘I didn’t... It isn’t... You weren’t meant to see that...’

  ‘Evidently. I really don’t wish to speak with you just at the moment, Olivia. Surely you should know better than to try to placate someone as overbearing and selfish as myself.’

  She shook her head, looked a little bemused. ‘You couldn’t possibly have read them through.’

  ‘Acquit me of that fault at least. I turned them over once I realised you were dissecting me. I am all too aware of my failings; I don’t need anyone else listing them for me. My vanity is becoming accustomed to being crushed into the mud since I met you, Olivia, but there are limits.’

  She pressed her hands against her cheeks. She looked shocked and scared, like a child caught in flagrante delicto. He turned and headed towards the servants’ door, but she grabbed his hand.

  ‘Lucas, please. I began writing them the first day you came here, before I knew you. But you didn’t read all of them...’ She looked flushed and miserable, but that only made him feel worse and he pulled his hand from hers. That must have been quite a list of abuse for her to be so guilty. Did she really think so poorly of him? ‘They aren’t all failings.’ Her voice was muffled, hushed.

  ‘Thank goodness for small mercies. I imagine there must be something in there about my utility and how easily I am dispatched on errands.’

  ‘Lucas...’

  ‘I feel I should be apologising for imposing my arrogant, opinionated and uncompromising self on you, but if you find me so objectionable, you have only to say the word and I will be on my way. Unless you are concerned I might become lost without your superior guidance?’

  ‘Lucas, listen to me.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve done enough of that.’

  ‘Lucas, I love you...’

  She moved forward, her eyes beseeching, her hand outstretched, and he felt such a welling of anger and pain at the blatant manipulation he reacted before he could think. He took her hand, his other hand closing round her nape, pulling her towards him.

  It hurt, the first brush of his lips on hers, struck through him like an icicle being shoved into his flesh. Like the time he had been pushed overboard in the Baltic Sea. Everything contracted, focused on a pain so sharp it felt it would shred him, turn him first to glass and then shatter him.

  Her body pressing against him, as if she already sensed his descent into the cold and was trying to revive him as they did frozen soldiers with body heat. He clung to that warmth, the lie of it. To her passion. Whatever she thought of him, this she couldn’t deny.

  He felt something break, spread. It was like watching cracks form on the ice cover of the Baltic, the faint white line snapping off at wi
ld angles, rushing towards collapse as black water seeped upwards. The words were almost out of him before he stopped them.

  I trusted you. You made me hope.

  ‘Go to the devil, Olivia.’

  He turned and left.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘The Honourable Charles Sinclair,’ Pottle announced and stood back as Chase entered. As at the opera, Olivia felt the momentary surprise at the similarity to Lucas; they looked more like twins than brothers, even with the slight difference in colouring. There was something harder about Chase’s face or perhaps that was simply that she was already familiar with Lucas’s expressions and could see beyond the stony façade to the complex clockworks beneath.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Sinclair.’

  ‘I couldn’t resist the summons. I am impressed you succeeded in having Jem hunt me down; the Tubbs clan does not usually lend themselves to infringing on Sinclair privacy.’

  ‘I can be persuasive when I must. Where is Lucas? Jem tells me he has left London.’

  ‘My brother is his own master, Miss Silverdale. Why do you believe I know where he is?’

  ‘I would be exceedingly surprised if you didn’t, Mr Sinclair.’

  ‘Even if I did, why do you believe I will tell you?’

  ‘Because however much Lucas may hate me at the moment, he must still consider himself betrothed to me and he would not appreciate if I were to do something foolish behind his back. If he knew you were aware that I was contemplating such a course of action and did nothing to prevent it, he might be angry with you as well.’

  ‘Do you know, it is usually advisable to spend a little longer making a polite appeal before you go on the offensive. What precisely are you contemplating?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but I assure you it will rank as foolish. Take your pick.’

  ‘Ah, I see. We are negotiating.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And your terms?’

  ‘You tell me where Lucas is.’

  ‘You clearly do not have a clear concept of the notion of negotiations. They are based on give and take. I am already aware of your objective, but you must offer me something for that information aside from your vague threat.’