Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  Sadly, all of it signaled that she could not be herself. Olivia-the-deserted-wife felt only frustration, anger, and regrets for the former lover who still haunted her dreams. She would have to play another role. But what? She had no script to follow. She only knew that she had to keep him from discovering An Honest Gentleman’s identity, and Mentor would expect her to use every wile in her considerable arsenal, be it anger, or sympathy, or even—though she hoped it would not come to it—seduction.

  She looked over her shoulder. Harrison followed, as silently as Eurydice had followed Orpheus out of Hades. But unlike Orpheus, when Olivia looked over her shoulder, Harrison did not disappear. He only glared at her.

  Sighing, she unlocked the drawing room door. “I have used this room as a study.”

  “You keep it locked?” He examined the room.

  “It allows a little privacy. The scholars wish to celebrate when they make a discovery. If this room doesn’t suit, you might prefer the estate office, once it’s refurbished.” Though she would have preferred to sit at the desk, she chose instead the chaise longue, leaving him a nearby chair.

  “Refurbished?” He pulled the chair closer to the chaise, positioning himself closer than an acquaintance, but not so close as a friend. A perfect distance, she thought.

  “You will find answers to any question about the estate in those green morocco volumes on your right. Every six months, I’ve had the weekly reports bound. ‘Bind final reports’ is an item on my list, if you wish me to take care of it.”

  “List?” Harrison raised one eyebrow.

  “Loose ends to tie up before you take over.”

  “What loose ends?” Harrison sounded flippant, like a rake just woken after a night of carousing.

  “The footmen have grown too tall for their livery; a lightning strike damaged the roof of the lodge; dry rot destroyed many window frames in the guest wing. Do you even read my reports?” She stared at him, both confused and annoyed.

  He said nothing, only turned the tiger’s-eye between his fingers.

  “I suppose you will learn soon enough.” She breathed out slowly. “Might I see it?”

  “What?”

  “The stone.” She held out her hand, and he placed it in her palm. She ignored the warm brush of his fingers against hers. “I thought I’d lost it.”

  “I shouldn’t have taken it. I wanted . . .” He paused. “I’m not sure what I wanted.”

  She pulled a tiger’s-eye drop necklace from beneath her chemise. “When I discovered mine was gone, your father found me this one. Professor Martinbrook told me that tiger’s-eye is a pseudomorph—a class of minerals which appear to be something other than they are or which change their composition without changing their appearance.” She turned the stone in her hand toward the light. “My father gave me this stone before he left. I always thought it might be a clue.” She realized the moment the words had left her mouth that she had revealed too much. But what did it matter? Whatever relationship they might have had was already ended.

  “Forgive me. Had I known, I wouldn’t have taken it.” His apology sounded sincere. When she met his eyes, blue as the sea, she felt them pull her into a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. “A clue to what?”

  She dropped her gaze and focused on the stone. “A child who loses parents early always has questions about family and place.”

  “I thought your father and mine were old friends.”

  “Of a sort. My father disappeared when I was young, but he left me in Sir Roderick’s care. Your father sent me to school, made sure I had the means to support myself, helped me find employment as a governess. It was more than many men would have done.”

  “I had no idea you were one of his foundlings. Did you marry me out of a sense of obligation to him?” His voice was soft, almost sincere, but something in it made her wary. Or perhaps he made her wary.

  “I have done many things out of a sense of obligation, but marrying you was not one of them.” She breathed out slowly, waiting for his response. Her story about her father’s relationship with Sir Roderick was true as far as it went, but it would not bear too much scrutiny. Nor could she explain why she had married him. If she’d told him honestly I needed the safety that marriage to an earl provided, he would have demanded to know what she had done. And that past was better left buried.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Harrison watched her turn the stone in the light, and he felt pleased. He had taken the tiger’s-eye all those years ago on a whim—a memento, but of what he hadn’t been sure. Yet it had turned out to the good. By returning the stone to her, he had created a sense of trust. Already she had confided in him about her father. After their wedding, he had been too busy discovering the delights of her body to engage deeply with her mind or her heart. But knowing she was an orphan—that gave him an opening, some ground on which to respond to her stance on their marriage.

  His goal was simple: to gain some time. He didn’t need for Olivia to remain his wife for long; only until the end of Parliament’s special session. After Peterloo, the tide in Parliament was turning toward reducing the freedoms enjoyed by free Englishmen. Though it was unlikely that the Whigs could stem that tide, Harrison had to try, and any hint of a personal scandal would justify the opposition in ignoring his appeals. Olivia had already waited half a dozen years. What could a few months more matter? Surely he could keep his longing for her under control for that short a time.

  He had already mapped out an argument to convince her to wait. Though his wife was clearly intelligent, she’d been educated at whatever middling boarding school his father had chosen. Her weekly estate reports showed that her mind leaned toward numbers in columns, toward ensuring the estate held adequate fuel for the winter or sufficient feed for the stock. But she was not philosophically or theoretically inclined, leaving him an avenue to use his debating skills to his advantage.

  First he would build a greater rapport. Clearly Olivia found the scholars a burden—she’d been inattentive during their presentations, she locked them out of her study, and she had recoiled at Smithson’s experiment. He would play to that, offer to lighten her load by removing the scholars. Having shown that he had both her best interests and those of the estate at heart, he would turn the discussion gently to their marriage, to why she needed his support to make a claim of invalidity. He would assure her he was amenable to a separation and even a settlement. He might even, if she remained agreeable, pay her price. But his sticking point would be the timing. No action could proceed until after the special session. She would have her separation; he would have his parliamentary special session, and it would all be reasonable and pleasant.

  As long as he could keep his mind off the parson.

  “I must admit that I’ve been enjoying my masquerade. Mr. MacHus has already learned much that Lord Walgrave would never have been told. But one thing baffles me: How did my father’s house come to be an asylum for mad scholars?”

  “I assure you they are all quite sane.” Olivia did not look up from the stone.

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “All of this was well explained in your father’s letters— or did you not read them as well?” Olivia set the stone down.

  “Why do you think I haven’t read your letters or my father’s? Have I not provided you with answers in a timely fashion to your questions?”

  “Through your agent.” Olivia sat still, with her hands folded in her lap, distant, even aloof. He was surprised by her posture. A tiny voice in his head started to wonder if he’d made a mistake.

  “No, I believe I am aware of everything.”

  “Then why ask me to repeat what I’ve already written?” She furrowed her brow.

  “I learned in war and Parliament that one gains different information from letters than from conversations, and vice versa.” Harrison extended his hands in a gesture of openness.

  She shook her head slightly in disbelief. “In the arenas of war or politics, a single sente
nce can doom a campaign or a vote. But when one is discussing the parish church’s need for a new roof, there is little need for concealment.”

  “Indulge me: How did the scholars come to the estate?”

  “You were gone. Your father needed something to distract himself.” Her sentences were clipped and direct. “He found amusement in collecting. Books, papers, manuscripts, even instruments, as I’m sure your midnight revels in the music room have revealed to you.” She paused, watching him for a confession.

  “Guilty as charged. But proceed.”

  He could see the objection in her face, but she shrugged it off. “News of his collection spread, leading him to open the library.”

  “He must have hated all those people underfoot.”

  “At first, perhaps, but he soon found a way to manage it. He built the scholars’ lodge to give everyone privacy; he established a schedule for using the library; and he gave even the most engaged scholar an incentive to retire for the evening by having dinner served promptly and just as promptly taken away.”

  “I still can’t imagine why he opened the library at all.”

  “He missed having a family, and he found one with the scholars. With Otley, he debated the nature of man and governments. He and Quinn spent months trying to develop a better method of predicting comets. He and Nathan sang ballads every day.” She smiled, a soft, gentle smile. “His favorite was about a ram with enormous horns.”

  “I remember that one. My father would sing it in a booming baritone.” Harrison had never imagined that a silly song could evoke his grief so poignantly. He looked at the floor so she could not see him blinking away tears. “What he lacked in ability, he made up in exuberance.”

  “He was a man of enthusiasms, and he reveled in the scholars’ interests. When he was too ill to leave his bed, they kept his spirits from lagging. Nothing short of your presence could have made him happier. As a result, each year when the Seven apply for readmission, I approve them all.”

  “And when they succeed in destroying the property?” Harrison asked, hoping to encourage her to confess her annoyance with the scholars.

  “The estate is almost uniformly better for their help. Martinbrook’s experiments in the kitchen garden have increased our yields enough to share with the cottagers. With Smithson’s help, we’ve built more cottages for the tenants, and he has stabilized many of the more precarious abbey ruins. The expense of their room and board is negligible against their contributions.”

  “Even so, I will have to consider my father’s expectations for the scholars and whether the current system meets his goals.”

  Her voice grew cold. “If you were concerned about the scholars destroying your family home, you could have intervened when they were setting up their experiment. Or, perhaps better, you could have revealed yourself as lord of the manor when you arrived, and taken up your responsibilities. I must wonder, then, what your game is, and to what I owe the . . . pleasure . . . of your company.”

  “If I said I wished to see my family home . . .”

  “I would think you were lying. Since I’m sure that you did not come here to impersonate a scholar, you must have received the paperwork from my solicitor.”

  He walked to the window and looked out. That had not gone as well as he’d predicted. He decided to try a different tack. “Do you hate me?”

  She looked puzzled. “Why would I hate you? You made it clear that you had no wish to be married, and you have refused to be married in every way that matters. Hating you would be foolish, for it would mean that I refused to acknowledge what you have made perfectly and repeatedly clear.”

  “Then if you do not hate me, what are your feelings?” Perhaps he could gain some insight into her motivations, since he had miscalculated her thoughts at every turn so far. Not in all his years in Parliament had he felt so out of his depths.

  “My feelings are my own. If we were married, I might feel obligated to share them, but we are not married nor have we ever been.”

  “What if I wish to share my feelings?”

  “You may do as you wish, but it does not require me to reciprocate.”

  “You have grown into a hard woman, Olivia.” He realized this with some sadness.

  “I was always a hard woman. You simply didn’t realize it.”

  “Ah, how can that be? The Olivia I remember was sweet, open, dutiful.”

  She shook her head, rejecting his words. “I have long credited you with greater skills of observation than you apparently possess. I was even then a woman of many secrets. You simply were uninterested in knowing them.”

  “What if I would like to know them now?” Harrison was surprised at how true that question was. He’d known he would have to fight his physical attraction when he saw Olivia again, but hadn’t been prepared to be so interested in the woman herself.

  “You had six years to discover all you wished. You only want to know them now because I have refused to be convenient. That has captured your attention. Believe me, sir, like indigestion, this interest will pass.” She looked at him with clear disdain. “Accept that we are not married. It frees us. You may follow your interests, I mine. It’s all very civilized.”

  “I may well come to that acceptance, but for now, I have many questions. Most concern the estate and its management, but others concern how you imagine this separation would proceed.” He shook his head. “To be blunt, you can’t pursue the court case without my help. I can hold any judgment up for years, simply by refusing to pay any solicitor’s fees. I have all the power in this situation, so why not be reasonable?”

  “I am being reasonable, as you put it. Let me explain the situation as I understand it. But since I have not studied for the bar, as you have, you may correct me where I go astray.”

  “That seems fair.” Harrison fought a smile. Now he was back on solid ground. He almost felt sorry for her, but he would be gracious and correct her missteps gently. “Please, begin.”

  “We face two problems here: one of my legal status and the other of money. If we are married, I—as your wife—do not have any legal standing as a person before the law. Any money I might make from some venture—say, if, like Charlotte Smith, I chose to become a writer—that money would be yours, not mine. Any money or property I brought to the marriage became yours the moment we were wed. The only exception would be the monies provided to me through our marriage settlement, my pin money. Am I correct thus far?” She paused, waiting for his comment.

  Harrison nodded, growing increasingly aware that he had underestimated his “meek, compliant” wife. “That’s correct. As Blackstone’s Commentaries say, ‘A man and a woman are one person under the law, and that person is the man.’”

  She inclined her head with exactly the right amount of noblesse oblige. “If we are married, I may use my pin money as I wish. But I cannot use my pin money to hire an attorney to represent me, because I—separate from you—do not exist. If we are not married, however, I cannot use my pin money because pin money exists in the context of a marriage settlement.”

  “Correct. If no marriage has occurred, then you have no pin money.”

  “But if I am not married to you, then I have the right . . . to exist. I can have my own money, and, as a legal entity, I can use that money to hire a solicitor to petition the courts on my behalf. I can do this even if I am petitioning to have my invalid marriage declared invalid.”

  “Yes, all that is true. But practically all you have proved is that for you to have any money at all to pay a solicitor, it must come from me.” Harrison felt a hum of energy from their debate.

  “I paid my solicitor with the remainder of the funds your father gave me to consider marrying you. I have a deed of gift from your father, making that agreement explicit. I also have the marriage settlement, where you agreed to exclude that gift from your possessions. And so, I have it both ways: If I am married, you agreed the funds are mine; and if I am not married, the funds are mine. So my using them in any way I wi
sh poses no problem. And I wish to petition the courts to declare our invalid marriage invalid.”

  “Damn it, Olivia. We stood before a parson and took vows. We are married.”

  “A marriage is more than vows—there are forms, conventions, that must be observed. We did not observe them.” She raised her hands palms up, then dropped them to her sides. “But putting that aside, I am merely setting forth a proposition and its logical conclusion. If . . . then. That is the way that you prefer to think, is it not? Rational, detached, logical.”

  “What does how I think matter?” He felt the skin at the back of his neck tighten as it did only when he was facing his most accomplished opponents in Parliament. And even they could not twist him in knots quite like this. He wanted to chalk it up to distraction caused by his desire for the woman in front of him, but in truth, he had simply been outmaneuvered.

  “For years, I’ve read your parliamentary debates in the London Times and other periodicals. As a sort of game, I began to predict what you would argue before I read the summaries.”

  “How often were you successful?”

  “Almost always.”

  “Then you are unusual. My fellow MPs rarely anticipate my arguments. If they did, I would lose far more often.”

  “I originally wanted to understand how you think.” She shrugged. “But given our present dilemma, I thought it would be best to use the terms you prefer.”

  If she weren’t so calm, he could imagine her words carried an undercurrent of anger. But how could she be angry, if she believed their marriage had always been a sham? If she was angry, then he would have to consider why.

  Oh, God, he thought, I do think in terms of if and then.

  “Is there some other way that I should set out the problem?” Her voice sounded indulgent, as if he were a recalcitrant child who refused to eat his dinner.

  “No. If you have spent so much time studying my responses, then you should at least gain the benefit of that effort.” He put the slightest pressure on the words, enough to show that he had acknowledged her observation.