by Eva Shepherd
‘So your father taught you that love doesn’t exist and my father taught me that when it comes to love and to men, I can’t trust my own judgement. What a great married couple we make.’
Oliver lifted his wine glass. ‘In that case, shall we toast our fathers, the old scoundrels.’
‘Our fathers.’ She laughed and clinked her glass against his.
The footman arrived, removed their soup bowls, replaced them with the fish course and began serving out the vegetables.
‘Just leave them, thank you,’ Oliver said. ‘We can serve ourselves.’
With a bow the footman departed.
‘But your mother loved your father?’ Arabella asked as she served vegetables on to their plates.
‘Yes, she did. And in her case love was very, very blind.’
She looked up at him, a spoonful of carrots suspended in mid-air. ‘So how many mistresses do you think your father had?’
Oliver frowned. That was a question he couldn’t possibly answer. ‘I don’t know. I doubt if I could even take a tally of how many he had each year.’
She nodded; her face thoughtful. ‘So, they were all short-lived affairs?’
‘I suppose some lasted longer than others, but none for very long. They only lasted until the next pretty face caught his attention.’
She bit the edge of her lip. ‘And how many children did he have, apart from you? How many half-siblings do you have?’
‘At the last count there were eighteen.’
‘Eighteen.’ The serving spoon clattered back into the silver terrine and she stared at him with wide eyes.
‘Yes, but I suspect there are more. I have people investigating to see whether there are any that I have missed, so that I can make sure they are supported by the estate and not left to try to cope in poverty.’
‘And what about you, Oliver? Do you have any children?’ she asked quietly, picking up the serving spoon and clenching it tightly.
‘No,’ he stated emphatically.
She tilted her head, as if waiting for him to prove why he was so certain. Oliver coughed, unsure how he should explain, without going into details that might embarrass her, the precautions he and his mistresses took to avoid pregnancy. ‘I know I have no children because there are things a man can do to prevent such things happening. And the women I am involved with have their own methods of...’ He waved his hand in the air. Was it her embarrassment that he was trying to prevent or his own?
‘I see,’ she said, colour tingeing her cheeks. ‘So why did such techniques never work for your father?’
Oliver laughed, a humourless laugh. ‘Because he didn’t use them. He didn’t care. It was as simple as that.’
‘Oh, I see.’
Oliver hoped that was the end of her questioning. With most of the women he associated with the conversation could quickly get downright bawdy and he would be far from embarrassed, but discussing how to prevent pregnancy with Arabella was a decidedly disconcerting experience.
They ate their meal, with only the sound of silver cutlery on porcelain breaking the silence. Once the fish course was over the footmen served the dessert. Oliver waved it away, but Arabella’s face lit up at the sight of the strawberry tart and cream. She ate the sweet treat with obvious enjoyment, occasionally closing her eyes and licking her lips, causing Oliver to smile.
When she had finished, she looked at him and winked. ‘Delicious.’
As if by sixth sense the footman reappeared and removed her plate. Oliver refilled both their glasses and sat back to look out over the estate. He took in the long shadows cast by the plants and topiary in the formal garden and watched as a group of swallows dived and swooped in the soft early evening light, as if putting on a show for their benefit.
He smiled again at Arabella and she smiled back.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had done this, just sat outside and watched the last of the sunlight disappear. It was such a pleasant evening he was pleased he could enjoy it with Arabella. But such pleasure was just an interlude before their real lives recommenced.
‘Hopefully you will hear from the Limelight Theatre soon,’ he said. ‘Then you can get back to doing what makes you happy.’
‘Hmm, and what about you, Oliver, what makes you truly happy?’
She waited for his answer, then colour exploded on her cheeks and she looked away. She had obviously answered the question herself.
Oliver smiled. ‘I take it from your blushes you think you know exactly what makes me happy.’
She picked up her glass and took a nervous sip. ‘Well, I wouldn’t know about that.’
He stifled a laugh. ‘But there are other things that make me happy, too.’
‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought you’d have the time or energy for anything else.’
He laughed lightly. ‘I suspect my reputation far exceeds reality.’
‘Well, I should hope so.’ She placed her glass firmly on the table, the wine nearly spilling over the rim. ‘Just so I don’t experience any surprises, how many good friends do you actually have at the moment?’
‘At this precise moment?’
She nodded.
‘None. I know you have a poor opinion of me, but I’m not quite the rascal you think I am. And I do have some rules that I live by, you know. I’m not a complete cad.’
She shook her head, her lips pursed. ‘Rules? What sort of rules?’
He took another drink, not sure if he liked the direction the conversation was going, but she deserved to know about the man she was now tied to. ‘I’ve already told you I only get involved with women who want to have fun with no commitment and that is almost invariably married women who are unhappy with their husbands for various reasons. But I also have a rule that I never seduce anyone, ever.’
‘You never seduce anyone?’ She gave a small, fake laugh and a deeper blush tinged her cheeks. Her discomfort at this conversation was obvious, but despite that she continued. ‘You can’t be much of a rake if you don’t seduce women—isn’t that the very definition of a rake?’
‘I never said I was a rake. And, no, I don’t seduce women. I would never take a woman to my bed unless she was more than willing.’
Her lips pinched into a narrower, more disapproving line. ‘So, is that your only rule? You never seduce anyone?’
He shrugged. ‘No. I have another rule, I never bed virgins.’
The colour on her cheeks burned a deep crimson red. She picked up her wine glass, put it back down on the table, then picked it up again, her hand clenching the stem. ‘That rules me out then, doesn’t it?’ she said with another false laugh. ‘I might be a married woman, but I’m a virgin and I guess I’m going to stay that way.’
It was Oliver’s turn to feel embarrassed. He looked over at her, both shocked and surprised by her frank statement. ‘I’m sorry, Arabella. This situation should not have been forced on you. You should have been allowed to marry whomever you wanted. To marry a man who loved you.’
‘I thought you didn’t believe in love, said it didn’t exist.’ She looked up at him, a challenge in her eyes.
Oliver squirmed in his seat. ‘I don’t, but I suspect you do. All I’m saying is, don’t give your virginity to just any man. Wait until you think you are in love.’
‘Well, that’s hardly your business, is it?’ She stared at him defiantly. ‘If I don’t object to whom you take as a lover, you can hardly object to any man who becomes mine.’
Acid burned up his throat at the thought of Arabella with another man. His hands clenched into tight fists, as if he wanted to commit an act of violence on this unknown lover. ‘You’re right, I’m hardly in a position to object,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Well, I’m pleased you have accepted that,’ she said, her voice sounding anything but pleased. ‘So, perhaps you can find a s
uitable lover for me, one who doesn’t live by your rules.’ Her false laugh now had a jeering quality. ‘A man who doesn’t mind seducing married virgins.’
Her words were like bullets fired straight at his heart. Rage boiled within him and blood pulsated in his ears. He stared at her in shocked disbelief, hardly able to believe what she had just said. He knew she had a low opinion of him, but this...? This was sinking to lower depths than even he was capable of plummeting.
He glared at her; his jaw so tense it ached. ‘I...will...do...no...such...thing.’
Chapter Fourteen
Arabella stared out at the garden, seeing nothing. She had gone too far. But his so-called rules had made her angry. How could he have rules when it came to women? This one he could take to his bed, but not that one. It was outrageous. And it didn’t help that all this talk of bedding and seduction had caused a decidedly unsettling reaction deep within her. All those women he had bedded, they knew what it was like to be held by him, to be caressed by him, to be desired by him. Something she would never experience.
There was no denying she did desire this man, her husband. The way her heart beat faster every time he looked at her told her that, loud and clear. But it was a desire she should not be feeling. And it was a desire he did not feel for her in return. She was a virgin. She might be his wife, but she was against the rules.
But her anger at his ridiculous rules did not excuse what she had just said. She had wanted to shock him, and the anger flashing in his eyes showed that she had succeeded.
Perhaps she was acting so out of character because last night she had hardly slept a wink. Instead, she had tossed and turned in her bed all night, unable to get comfortable, unable to stop her mind from going over and over everything that had happened during their time together. When she wasn’t tossing and turning, she was lying on her side, staring at the closed door that separated them, thinking about the man behind it.
No wonder she was tired. No wonder her nerves were strung as tight as a long bow. No wonder she was so quick to become offended. But still, that didn’t excuse what she had said.
She took a tentative sideways glance in his direction. His strong jaw was clenched so tightly she could see the bulge of muscles at the side of his face. He, too, was staring out at the garden, but she doubted he was taking in the scenery and his hand was gripping the wine glass so tightly he was in danger of breaking the stem.
Only the sound of the birds tweeting in the trees interrupted the uncomfortable silence stretching out between them.
She had to put this right. She had to apologise for saying something so offensive to him.
‘I’m sorry, Arabella,’ he said, still staring straight ahead. ‘I should not have reacted so strongly to what you asked.’
He was sorry? He had nothing to be sorry about.
‘No, Oliver. I’m the one who should apologise. What I said about...’ She waved her hand in the air, not wanting to repeat the words. ‘I didn’t mean it. And I should not have said it.’
He turned slowly to face her. Despite his apology, rage still burned in those dark brown eyes. ‘So, I take it you don’t want me to find you a lover?’
She swallowed and shook her head.
He held her gaze and heat burned brighter on her already flaming cheeks. She swallowed again, aware that there was only one man she wanted as her lover and he was staring at her right now.
The realisation hit her, hard. She struggled to breathe, her eyes grew wider and her heart thumped so wildly she could feel its pulsating rhythm throughout her body.
It shouldn’t be true, but it was. She wanted Oliver, not just to be her husband, but to be her lover. How had she let this happen? She hadn’t wanted it to happen, had been determined that it wouldn’t happen, but it had and she couldn’t deceive herself any longer.
She lowered her eyes and dragged in a breath to try to slow the turbulent beating of her heart.
This was an impossible situation. He was a rake, for goodness sake, a man who moved from one woman to another without a backward glance. And she wanted him. Desired him. Had her experience with Arnold Emerson taught her nothing? It would seem not. She was once again falling for the wrong man.
‘No, I don’t want you to find me a lover,’ she stated with all honesty. The only one she wanted was sitting beside her, glaring at her with his hard, brown eyes.
He looked back out at the garden and took a sip of his wine. ‘Good.’
‘Obviously that would be an inappropriate role for a husband.’
He laughed without humour. ‘Obviously.’
‘When I take a lover, it will be a man of my own choosing.’ But how was any other man going to match the man she was married to? Arabella shook her head and looked up at Oliver.
His grip on the wine glass intensified and those clenched muscles at the side of his jaw reappeared. He breathed out slowly and deeply, then drained his glass in one long draught.
He was still angry. But why should he care who she took as a lover? Was it simply because she was his wife, his possession and, even if he didn’t want her himself, he didn’t want any other man to have her? Would he be so petty? Nothing about him had suggested he was a petty man.
But there was no denying that he was enraged. Was there a possibility that the thought of her with another man was making him jealous? His reaction to her taunt that she wanted him to find her a lover could have been due to his pride, but his obvious anger at her statement that she could find her own lover, that was different.
Or was it merely wishful thinking on her part? If he was jealous, did that mean he desired her, wanted her?
A footman appeared with a lamp and placed it on the table. Arabella had hardly noticed that the last of the twilight had faded and they were now surrounded by darkness. The lamp cast an arc of yellow light around the table, enclosing them in an intimate circle.
Slowly Oliver turned towards her. ‘Arabella, you are a free woman,’ he stated in a clipped monotone. ‘I have said it before, but it is worth restating. I will do nothing to interfere in the way you live your life. But I know men. You should be careful whom you get involved with.’
She stared him straight in the eye, determined not to be cowered by the turbulent emotions that were waging a war within her.
‘So, do you think I should also compile a list of rules for choosing a lover the way you have?’
She watched his reaction carefully. His jaw clenched tighter as he gripped the now empty wine glass. ‘Perhaps,’ he said in that same monotone.
‘Well, obviously they will have to be different from your rules,’ she said ruefully.
‘And whatever those rules are, Arabella, they are ones you are going to have to compile yourself. I have no interest in helping you.’
He stared down at her, his unflinching eyes making it clear that this conversation was over. Arabella was now seeing a completely different man from the brazen one who had rushed into her dressing room and taken her in his arms, or the man with the mischievous smile and devilish sense of fun.
This man was serious. He saw nothing funny in her taunting.
And nor did Arabella. She did not want any rules. She did not want a lover. She only wanted him.
‘I shall leave you to think about your list. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it is getting late. It is time to retire for the night.’ He stood up and bowed formally. ‘I believe you can find your own way to your room.’ With that he departed, leaving Arabella sitting alone, staring out at the dark estate.
* * *
Oliver never retired early, at least not alone. But he could not remain in Arabella’s company a minute longer. Not if she insisted on discussing her plans for finding a lover. That was more than any man should be expected to endure. It was a form of torture that could rival the medieval rack.
He reached the foot of the stairs and stopped. After underg
oing such torture the likelihood of him being able to sleep was extremely remote. He turned and headed along the corridor, down the back stairs, through the kitchen.
As he passed through the servants’ area, he waved his hands, palm down, to signal that they should remain seated and ignore his presence.
Once outside he breathed in deeply to relieve the constriction in his chest and began walking, briskly. This was another first. When had he ever been forced to take exercise to rid himself of his reaction to a woman? Never. But his pent-up energy had to be expended somehow and, for once, it would not be in a bed with a willing lover.
He walked along the dark avenue of trees, shimmering in the light evening breeze. This situation really was impossible. It would be funny if it wasn’t so damn tragic. He wanted to bed his wife. Under normal circumstances that was a perfectly acceptable thing to want to do—more than acceptable, it was expected, it was part of the marriage contract. But these were not normal circumstances. He had known his bride for a few short weeks. They had married against their will. And she deserved so much more than to lose her virginity to a man like him, a man who was incapable of commitment. She did not deserve to live the life that his mother had been forced to live, sharing a man with a multitude of other women. He would not subject any woman to such a life, particularly Arabella.
Not to mention that bedding her would break two of his cardinal rules.
He increased his walking pace, heading into the woodland area. But that was something he did not want to think about. The sooner Arabella left Somerfeld Manor and returned to her life in London the better. Then he wouldn’t be tormented by that bewitching face, that gorgeous body, or that silky skin, and the memory of those creamy breasts rising and falling above the bodice of her beautiful yellow gown.
Crashing through the thick undergrowth, Oliver knew that he most definitely had to get all thoughts of Arabella out of his mind.
