by Diane Gaston
She shook her head. She wore a long white nightdress that showed the silhouette of her body when she stood in front of the fireplace. ‘I have had enough. We—we perhaps should sleep, like you said.’
She was nervous, he could tell. She had taken quite a chance in coming to him and trusting he would not make love to her.
‘Come to bed, then,’ he said, taking her hand.
They climbed into his bed and he spooned her against him, his arms around her.
‘This is nice,’ he said. Nice? It was perfect.
‘Mmm-hmm,’ she said.
Gradually he felt her body relax.
Why should this have to end? he wondered. Why could they not continue this way? Why not really be a family? He could give the child his name. He could make the child legitimate, something he would never be. He and Cecilia could spend every day together. And every night.
‘Cecilia?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Remember when I said I wanted us to go on this way?’
She stiffened and pulled away, rolling over to face him. ‘Do not, Oliver. Do not speak—’
He cut her off. ‘I mean marriage, Cecilia. Marry me. We will be a family.’ He was never so sure of anything as he was of this.
* * *
Cecilia panicked. ‘Marriage?’
‘Marriage.’
She jumped out of the bed, her heart racing. ‘No, Oliver. No marriage. I won’t marry you!’
She loved him. She had no doubt of that. She’d even been considering staying with him. But marriage? Marriage changed everything.
He rose from the bed. ‘Why not, Cecilia? I love you. I—I believe you have some regard for me. We could be happy together.’
She hugged herself. ‘No marriage, Oliver. I don’t want to.’
He’d control her. She’d be his property.
His whole body tensed. ‘Is it because I am a half-caste? Half-Indian? Too dark for you?’
Too dark? His complexion, his dark hair, only made him more handsome.
‘Of course it is not that,’ she retorted. ‘Do you not know that?’
‘Then it is because I am a bastard.’
‘Do not be ridiculous,’ she shot back. Why would she care about that?
‘Then tell me why you do not care for me,’ he challenged.
How could she explain?
‘I care for you.’ She more than cared for him. She loved him. ‘But I won’t marry. I won’t!’
His eyes flashed in pain. ‘Consider the baby, then. You profess I am the baby’s father—’
She lifted her chin. ‘You are the baby’s father.’
‘You make that hard to believe, Cecilia.’ His voice turned hard.
‘It is true.’ Had they not moved past this?
He leaned towards her. ‘I do not care if the child is mine or not. I am offering to be his father. Or her father. To give the child my name. Would you deprive this child of a father?’ His anger was growing; she could tell. ‘You would rather the child go through life being called a bastard?’
‘He won’t be a bastard,’ she shot back. ‘I plan to tell everyone I am a widow, which I am.’
‘You’ll pretend that the baby’s father was your husband? The man who beat you?’ He scoffed. ‘Wonderful legacy. Father was a wife-beater. What happens when the child discovers his supposed father died before he was ever conceived?’
There would be records, certainly, but would her son or daughter ever see them?
‘That won’t happen.’ She felt uncertain, though.
‘Let me tell you what that child’s life will be like, Cecilia.’ He stood, arms akimbo, naked from the waist up. ‘He will be ridiculed, ostracised, bullied. Servants will consider him beneath them. Tutors will treat him with disdain. No matter where he is, he will never quite belong. Is that what you want?’
Her anger flared. ‘I’ll tell you what I do not want. I do not want a husband telling me what to do and when to do it. A husband forbidding me, restricting me, confining me. Hitting me if I displease him. I will protect my child.’
‘Protect your child?’ His gaze pinned her. ‘Do you truly believe you will be able to protect your child? I know I can protect you both. I do not want you out there alone.’
‘You promised to support us, Oliver. That is all I need.’ She’d take her chances on being a woman alone. She’d managed in Paris. She could manage in a small village somewhere in England. ‘I have been married. I know what it did to me. I know what it does to my mother. Maybe even my sisters.’
His face flushed with anger. ‘I am nothing like your husband. I am nothing like your father.’
She edged towards the door, fearing his escalating anger. ‘But you could become like them.’
* * *
Oliver was losing her.
The familiar ache of loss started deep within him and spread until it hit every part of him.
She put her hand on the door handle. ‘I am leaving.’
He would not stop her.
She opened the door, but hesitated, turning back to him. ‘In fact, I think it best that I leave completely. Return to the hotel. I should not stay here any more.’
A knife in his gut could not have hurt more.
‘You do not have to go to a hotel, Cecilia,’ he said. ‘We can live separately. I’ll stay at Vitium et Virtus, if you like.’
‘No.’ She looked frantic. ‘I need to leave completely.’
She would never allow him to love her, to belong to him. She would always have left him.
He nodded. ‘As you wish. I’ll have Irwin arrange a room and payment with the hotel.’
She frowned. ‘I would pay if I could.’
He held up a hand. ‘I gave you my word I would support you and I will. I’ll arrange the funds for you and the child.’ The child who now would never be his.
‘Thank you, Oliver,’ she murmured.
She walked out and closed the door behind her.
Oliver strode over to the table where his decanter of brandy stood. He threw it into the unlit fireplace.
She did not want him. He loved her and she did not want him. All he could do now was provide for her and make certain she and the child would want for nothing. Rather than accept him, she’d choose a harder life for herself and especially for the child.
He’d lived that life, a life of loss and exclusion. Even Vitium et Virtus was falling apart. Nicholas was gone and Frederick and Jacob were making their own families.
At least the women they loved had been happy to marry them.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The next morning Oliver rose early. As he walked down the stairs to the hall, Cecilia’s bag was already packed and ready to go. Her maid had just carried it down.
‘She says she is leaving today and won’t take any of the dresses you bought for her.’ The maid frowned. ‘Just what she came with.’
Foolish gesture. He was going to pay for her clothes for the rest of her life, why not now?
‘Can you contrive to pack the new dresses as well?’ he asked.
‘I believe so,’ she said.
‘I’ll provide a bag to pack them in. We’ll send them with her whether she wants them or not.’
The maid nodded. ‘Very good, sir!’
He returned to his room and found a bag for Mary to pack the dresses in. As he brought it into the hallway where Mary was waiting, he spied the items he’d purchased the day before, wrapped in paper.
His Christmas gifts.
He wanted Cecilia to have them, no matter what. If he handed them to her, she’d likely refuse them as she’d refused the dresses.
‘Here, Mary, this should do, should it not?’ He handed the bag to the maid.
/> ‘I’ll make them fit,’ she replied in a determined tone.
He returned to his room, pulled out pen, ink and paper from a drawer and quickly wrote a note, drying the ink with sand. He gathered the gifts and note and brought them downstairs with him.
Irwin stood in the hall, looking grim.
Oliver nodded to him. ‘You have heard that Mrs Lockhart is leaving this morning?’
‘Indeed, sir.’ Irwin frowned. ‘Very bad news, sir.’
Oliver agreed. ‘Well, it is what she desires. I need you to go to Grenier’s Hotel and arrange a room for her and bring her two bags with you—Mary is packing the second bag right now.’
‘As you wish, sir,’ Irwin said.
‘And if you would be so good as to bring me my topcoat and hat before you leave.’ Oliver intended to escort Cecilia to the hotel, something she probably would not want.
Mary brought down the second bag.
‘That was quick,’ he remarked.
She smiled. ‘I am quick!’ She curtsied and left the hall to go below stairs.
Oliver opened the second bag and placed the packages and note on top.
Irwin returned with coats, hats, gloves and scarves. ‘It is cold outside today.’
Oliver took his things and placed them on a nearby chair. He gestured to the second bag. ‘I placed two packages and a note in the bag. When you are in her hotel room, take them out and place them where she will see them.’
‘As you wish, sir,’ Irwin responded while donning his topcoat. He wrapped a woollen scarf around his neck. ‘Are you certain of this, sir? I thought—’
Oliver waved a dismissive hand. ‘It is what she wants.’
The butler sighed. ‘Very well, sir.’ He put on his hat, opened the door, picked up the two bags and stepped out.
Oliver walked over to close the door for him. Outside the sky was grey and fat flakes of snow fluttered to the ground, not yet sticking to the pavement, but tingeing the tops of the wrought-iron gates white.
Oliver and Cecilia might have strolled through the snow to St James’s Church on Piccadilly to attend Christmas services. He would have liked that. Afterwards, they could have returned to the town house and stayed cosy and warm inside and shared Christmas dinner together.
He did not close the door until Irwin disappeared through the thickening snow, heading to the hotel on Jermyn Street.
Oliver lowered himself into a wooden chair in the hall and waited for Cecilia.
* * *
Cecilia stood in the servants’ hall, Cook, Mrs Irwin and Mary surrounding her. She’d given Mary the pretty fabric for a dress and gifts of money to them all.
‘Yours is to share with Irwin,’ she told the housekeeper.
‘Did I hear my name?’ Irwin’s voice came from the corridor. He popped his head in the servants’ hall and saw Cecilia. ‘Are you in need of me, ma’am?’ His eyelashes glistened and he smelled of being outside.
‘I am just saying goodbye,’ she said, her throat tight.
The butler nodded. ‘I know it. Your room at Grenier’s is all arranged and your things are already in it. Mr Gregory’s orders.’
How unexpected. ‘I should go, then.’
Both older women were wiping their eyes with their aprons.
‘You cannot stay for Christmas dinner?’ Cook asked.
Cecilia shook her head. ‘I will miss your cooking very much, though.’
‘Then I’ll pack you a basket! You should have some pudding—’
Cecilia lifted a hand. ‘No. No. Do not disturb the pudding. I will be very cross if you do.’
Cook scowled. ‘I’ll find something else to give you.’ She hurried back to the kitchen.
‘How will we know about the baby if you leave?’ Mrs Irwin asked. ‘You should stay and let us take care of you.’
‘I must go,’ Cecilia insisted. ‘But I will send word about the baby. I’ll—I’ll write you a letter.’
Mrs Irwin tried over again to convince her to stay. Cecilia wished she could. She’d loved being in this house, cared for by these servants.
And Oliver.
Cook returned with a basket. ‘I’ve packed some bread and cheese and some of my jam.’
‘That will be lovely.’ Cecilia’s voice cracked. She’d known them such a short period of time, but leaving them was turning out to be painfully difficult. She turned to Mary, who’d been silent during this exchange. ‘I must go.’
Mary blinked rapidly. ‘I think you are acting like a witless ninny!’
‘Mary!’ Mrs Irwin scolded.
‘Well, she is!’ Mary protested. ‘Mr Gregory is a nice man! He loves you. Any fool can see that.’
Cecilia shook her head. ‘I—I cannot explain. I simply must leave.’
She gave Mary a quick hug, grabbed her cloak and rushed away, climbing the stairs to the hall. When she entered the hall, things only became worse.
Oliver was there.
‘Irwin arranged the room,’ he told her, his voice stiff. ‘I have the key. Your things are already there.’
She could not look at him. ‘Thank you, Oliver.’ She put on her cloak and pulled on her gloves. ‘I’ll be leaving then.’ She put her hand out for the key.
He did not give it to her. ‘I will escort you. See you safely there,’ he said. ‘One last time.’
She wanted to grab the key and run out, but that seemed childish. What harm in having him walk with her?
He donned his coat, hat and gloves and opened the door for her.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘It is snowing!’
The pavement and street were white with about an inch of snow, making everything look new and clean.
‘Hold my arm,’ Oliver insisted. ‘It will be slippery.’
This would be her last time to touch him.
He did not talk to her, except to caution her about a slippery spot or to warn of a curb. The street was empty of people and carriages and the scent of Christmas cooking wafted from kitchens along the way.
She’d be alone this day and so would he.
She could not marry him, though, and she could not stay, because all she wanted was to be with him. It was a splendid trap, loving him, but being shackled with velvet ribbons would still mean being shackled.
They reached the hotel, and she released his arm.
‘I am seeing you to your room,’ he said to her.
She took his arm again and they entered the hotel. He announced her to the clerk in the hall of the hotel, the same man who had been so unhelpful to her when she’d needed to search for Vitium et Virtus. The clerk directed them to her room on the first floor, one flight up.
Oliver put the key in the door and opened it. ‘I will say goodbye to you here.’
She looked up at him, words failing her.
He turned quickly and walked away. She waited until he descended the stairs.
Her last glimpse of him.
She swung back to the doorway. It was better this way. She was better for being free.
She entered the room and removed her cloak and gloves. This room was much more lavish than the one she’d rented before and much more than she needed. Oliver was generous. She fingered the pearl she still wore at her throat. He’d been generous that first day she met him.
Two bags were in the room. She opened the one that was not hers and saw all the dresses Oliver had purchased for her, more reminders of his generosity.
On a table nearby were two small packages and a folded piece of paper. She picked up the paper and unfolded it.
A note from Oliver.
Dear Cecilia,
Do not refuse these gifts. I want you to have them to remember me. They are trifles. The dresses, too. Those are yours. My man of business wil
l be in touch with you within days. You and the baby will be comfortable. I promise.
I beg a promise from you. If you are in any need, send word to me. I will come. I want no harm to come to you or the baby ever. Do not hesitate to ask for my help.
Remember that I love you and that fact will not change.
Yours, O.
A tear slid down her face.
She tore open the larger package, opened the box and gasped. Inside was a teething rattle. Not just any teething rattle. The finest sort, made of exquisitely engraved sterling silver with silver bells all around and a red handle of coral for the baby to teethe on. The other side was a whistle. She placed it on her mouth and blew softly, producing a shrill sound. It was the finest object she’d ever possessed and it was for her baby.
Oliver’s baby.
She put the rattle down on the table and picked up the smaller package, untying the string and removing the paper. Its box was covered in blue velvet. She opened it. Inside were two pearl earrings, a match to her necklace. Not precious. Not even as valuable as the rattle, she guessed, but so personal a sob escaped her mouth.
What sort of man would do this? Send gifts after she rejected him, such dear, perfect gifts? What sort of man would make certain she had a comfortable room after she’d walked out of his? Or agree to support her and a baby he did not even believe was his? A baby to whom he offered to give his name?
Ever since she met Oliver, he’d been kind and generous to her, unfailingly so. He’d been there for her when she confronted her father. When she saw her mother. He’d protected her from Bowles—
She inhaled sharply.
He’d protected her. He’d fought Bowles for Flo’s protection. Twice. And was stabbed for it.
He wanted to protect her and the baby. He did not want to confine or control her. When had he ever tried to control her? He’d always given her the choice.
She stared at the rattle and the earrings. She read the note again.
If you are in any need, send word to me. I will come...
Even after she’d rejected him, he’d come to her aid.
She lifted the paper in which the gifts were wrapped. What of her gift to him? It was still in the drawer in the sitting room. She’d hurriedly grabbed Mary’s gift from the drawer, but not Oliver’s.
