by Mia Marlowe
“That settles it once and for all.” He tugged on his boots and stood, trying in vain to smooth out the wrinkles left in his jacket from sleeping in it. “You’re definitely an intelligent young woman.”
“An intelligent young woman who’ll be ruined if you don’t leave now,” she hissed.
“Not until you let me truly apologize for last night.”
She opened her door a crack and peered into the corridor. There was no one to be seen. “Apology accepted. Now go.”
“But I haven’t apologized yet.”
She closed her door with a soft snick of the latch and leaned against it. Sunlight tracked rapidly across her floor. Olivia had struggled with the mathematics her tutors tried to teach her, but she didn’t need an equation to realize every second of delay meant the likelihood of their being caught increased exponentially. “Very well, Rhys. Apologize, but be quick about it.”
To her surprise, he pulled her into his arms. “I’ve always felt actions speak louder than words.”
He bent to kiss her soundly. She stiffened but couldn’t remain unmoved as his lips moved over hers. Her body remembered him, clamored for him, even though her heart was still wary. Before she knew it, she was answering the blasted man’s kiss as if the hurts of last night had never happened.
When he released her mouth, he smiled down at her. “Now I feel forgiven.”
She thumped his chest with the heel of her hand. She had no idea how she should feel. He made so many conflicting emotions dart about in her at once, and most of them didn’t do her the least credit.
“Why did you…I mean, I still don’t completely understand what happened last night,” she said, unable to look him directly in the eye. The memory of his mouth on her and the way she’d come undone under him made her knees tremble.
Rhys slid a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. “I was a cad. That’s what happened.” He brushed her lips with his again in a soft sweet comma of a kiss, a delicious short pause before he went on. “But I needed to be one in order for you to greet the dawn still a virgin.”
Against her better judgment, a grin lifted the corners of her mouth. “At least I’m now a knowledgeable virgin.”
“Not quite yet.” He cocked a brow. “But you’re definitely getting there.”
“And you’re not leaving and you need to,” she said, turning him and giving him a little shove toward the door.
“See you at breakfast,” he said. “I’ll try not to let my hand drift to your knee under the table.”
“It better not,” she agreed, though part of her thought that would be better than extra clotted cream on her scone. What would it be like to try to sip her tea with her mother’s guests all around while Rhys secretly caressed her in a spot much higher up than her knee?
Lord, what a wanton I’m becoming!
He kissed her once more and her body wept for him to stay.
“Go,” she ordered in a whisper, proving however much her flesh might riot, her head was still in charge.
***
Rhys opened the door and nearly plowed into an imposing man with graying temples and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He was standing in the hallway with his fist poised to knock on Olivia’s door. His face twisted into a fierce scowl that wouldn’t have been out of place on an English mastiff.
“What the devil!” the man said.
“Father!” Olivia squeaked.
“Mr. Symon—” Rhys began.
“I know who I am, young man. Who in blue blazes are you, and what in the name of perdition are you doing in my daughter’s bedchamber?” Horatio Symon roared, obviously not the least concerned over who else might hear him.
Several doors up and down the corridor opened slightly, and curious guests peeped out through the cracks.
“Papa, this isn’t what it seems,” Olivia said in a meek tone Rhys had never heard from her before.
“Ballocks!” Mr. Symon roared. “Whatever else it might be, what it seems is bad enough. In fact, that’s all that matters. Olivia, put some clothes on and I’ll be back to deal with you directly. And as for you!” He poked Rhys on the center of his chest. “Come with me, you hairy-legged honyock.”
Mr. Symon turned and stomped down the hall, leaving Rhys no choice but to follow. He’d have sooner faced a French firing squad, but he was well and truly caught by Olivia’s father and now he was going to have to pay.
Symon didn’t speak another word, but Rhys sensed fury roiling off him in waves as he led the way down the long, curving staircase. He wondered if the old man would choose pistols or swords. Pistols, probably. Not many men of Horatio Symon’s years kept up their sword arms well enough to take on someone half their age.
Firearms were a great equalizer.
Mr. Symon didn’t stop until he reached a room Rhys hadn’t seen before. He drew a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked the door. Then he banged through the portal, letting the heavy oak slam against the adjacent wall.
“Get in here,” he said gruffly.
Rhys followed. The study was richly appointed with floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves on one wall, a row of windows on another, and a marble fireplace on a third. A massive burled walnut desk with ornately carved legs and corners occupied the central position in the lavish space before the tall windows. A globe mounted on a tripod stood in one corner. A collection of hunting rifles were displayed, within alarmingly easy reach, above the fireplace mantel. The skin of a tiger had been turned into a rug and stretched menacingly across the polished marble floor. Mr. Symon took the seat behind the desk like an Eastern potentate mounting his throne.
So Daniel must have felt as he was about to enter the lion’s den. Of course, Daniel was innocent and Rhys had been caught red-handed. He deserved whatever sort of mauling Mr. Symon chose to give him. Nevertheless, he strode forward and stopped before the desk, clasping his hands behind his back and standing tall.
“Sir, I want you to know—”
“And I want you to know I expect you to answer my questions and nothing more.” He leaned back his chair and narrowed his eyes at Rhys. “Olivia is my little lark. She’s always up early, so when I arrived home this morning and she wasn’t out and about, I assumed she must be ill. The last thing I expected to find was a man in her chamber.”
“I can explain—”
“Did I ask a question?” Mr. Symon interrupted with hand upraised. “Didn’t think so. Keep your teeth together until I do. Now, what’s your name?”
Rhys decided his courtesy title would never be more useful. “Lord Rhys Warrington.”
The man’s nostrils flared as if he’d caught a whiff of raw sewage. “Son of the marquis?”
Rhys nodded. “His second son. As far as I know, my older brother is in the best of health, and I trust God will grant him the full three score and ten.”
May as well let Symon know straight out that I have few prospects.
“A spare, eh? I know the breed, and let me tell you, you’ve run the wrong vixen to ground. I have no plans to let Olivia’s future husband take control of her dowry. It’ll all stay in trust for her use alone. If you thought you’d come to Barrowdell to find a rich wife—”
“No, sir.” Even at the risk of angering him further, Rhys had to break in. “I came to help the Duke of Clarence find a rich wife.”
Mr. Symon frowned. “Explain yourself.”
Rhys ran through the same basic rationale for his presence that he’d given Olivia the first time they’d met. “So you see, my purpose for being here is to get to know His Highness’s intended—”
“I doubt Clarence commissioned you to get to know her in the biblical sense,” Mr. Symon said dryly.
“No, he didn’t and I haven’t.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you will; Olivia is still a virgin. You have my oath upon it. But even if you can’t trust me, you should trust your daughter. Ask her.”
Mr. Symon made a noise somewhere between a s
nort and a chuckle, and the anger that had reddened his neck sloughed off him. He steepled his fingers on the desk before him. “Then what in God’s name were you doing in her chamber?”
“I was protecting her.” Rhys told Horatio Symon how Molly’s saddle had been tampered with and about the death of Mr. Weinschmidt in the hothouse. When Rhys explained that the two incidents were linked by the unusual thorns, Mr. Symon’s florid complexion blanched to the color of day-old porridge. “Someone has made two bungled attempts on your daughter’s life. I didn’t want the third time to be the charm.”
Mr. Symon frowned in concentration as he digested this new information. “I know a father isn’t supposed to have a favorite among his offspring, but Olivia is the apple of my eye. And I’m afraid everyone knows it. If you’ve been protecting her, I thank you”—he cleared his throat as if the next words were stuck in it, “my lord.”
“Warrington will do. Or just plain Rhys, if you prefer.” Rhys inclined his head in acknowledgment and began to hope he’d escape this interview without ending up like the tiger on the floor.
“A common touch. I like that. Just plain Rhys it is then, and you should call me Horatio. Take a seat,” he said, indicating the tufted Sheraton chair Rhys was standing beside. Then Olivia’s father stood and crossed to the bookshelves. He pulled out a thick copy of Adam Smith’s The Wealth of Nations. “Not all the wisdom in the world is to be found in books. Sometimes we find enlightenment in a bottle.”
The tome turned out to be hollow. Within its binding, Wealth of Nations hid a flask of spirits and two tumblers. Horatio poured up two fingers of green liquid and handed one to Rhys. The strong smell of anise wafted up from the drink.
“Some folk might say it’s too early in the day for spirits,” Horatio said. “But they’d not say it if they learned their darling daughter is the target of an assassin.”
Symon clinked the rim of his tumbler with Rhys’s and downed the contents in one swallow. Rhys followed suit, letting the liquor burn a trail down his empty gullet. Rhys prided himself on holding his drink, but this stuff was potent enough to make his eyes water.
“Who else knows of your suspicions?” Symon asked as he refilled Rhys’s glass and then settled into his chair.
“No one but Olivia.”
“Good. Let’s keep it that way. Mrs. Symon means well, but she’d go to pieces if she learned of this. Drink up, son.”
Rhys felt himself relax a bit, whether from the spirits or from having someone else to trust with Olivia’s safety, he wasn’t sure. Either way, it was a welcome turn of events.
“Have you any idea who’s behind the attacks?” Rhys asked.
“How should I know?” Horatio said. “I’ve been at court these past months.”
“Then you might know who would be upset enough over Olivia’s match with the royal duke to take such drastic measures to stop it.”
“I don’t think we need worry on that score,” Horatio said as he reached across and refilled his and Rhys’s glasses. Then he downed his own portion in a one gulp. “Where do you intend to live?”
Rhys frowned and, even though he was at least one drink up on Olivia’s father, he was not to be outdone by his host. He knocked back the liquor. What difference should it make to Horatio Symon where I go after I leave Barrowdell? “I don’t understand the question.”
“Where will you take Olivia after the two of you marry?”
Rhys stood. “Now wait a moment. Weren’t you listening? I’m here on behalf of the Duke of Clarence, and besides, Olivia is still a maiden.”
“I heard you, and I must confess it makes me wonder a bit about you, young man.” Horatio shook an admonishing finger at him. “But after the scandal you caused this morning, my little girl needs a husband and you’re the logical choice.”
“But the Duke of Clarence—”
“Is no longer pursuing a match with her,” Horatio admitted. “Seems Parliament put its foot down. The House of Lords will not countenance a commoner princess, no matter how well dowered, no matter how badly the prince’s purse wants her.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Her mother will be crestfallen, but in truth, I’m not sorry the match fell through. Clarence would not have made my little girl happy. But I didn’t know how to tell Olivia she’s been rejected on account of something over which she had no control. Now I won’t have to. That’s why it’ll work out perfectly for you to marry her. Mrs. Symon will be inconsolable about losing the chance to have royalty in the family, but only until I tell her Olivia will still have a titled husband. Cheers.”
He clinked the rim of his tumbler to Rhys’s. When had Mr. Symon refilled them? No matter. Rhys was obliged to drink. The burn wasn’t as noticeable now, but the top of his head felt appreciably lighter.
“But mine is only a courtesy title.”
“Still counts with Mrs. Symon, and that’s what matters to me,” he said, rising again and coming around the desk to clap a hand on Rhys’s shoulder.
He refilled Rhys’s glass and they both drank. This time Rhys’s vision almost tunneled.
What the hell is this stuff?
“So if you have no ideas about where you might live,” Horatio said, “I’ll send word for my man of business to see if there’s a suitable townhouse in London near our Mayfair address and have him purchase it.”
“I don’t want you to buy me a townhouse.”
“Let’s set matters straight right from the outset. I’m not doing this for you,” Horatio said gruffly as he refilled both their tumblers. “I’m doing it for Olivia. It’ll be her house. Not yours. Behave yourself well enough and she might let you live there.”
Horatio knocked his drink back and raised a brow at Rhys’s full glass. Rhys drained his as well. The whole world seemed to soften a bit around the edges as if he were peering through thin gauze.
“Fine.” Fine? He should have bitten off his tongue before he made any noises that sounded like he agreed with this nonsense. “No, I mean, not fine. No, it’s not necessary to buy a townhouse for Olivia because I won’t be marrying your daughter. I’m not the marrying kind.”
Horatio’s eyes held a faintly sympathetic light. “No man is, son, until he meets the woman who turns him into the marrying kind.”
Rhys could do far worse than Olivia. But she could do far better. Her standards were so high; she hadn’t even consented to wed a royal duke when most women would have fallen over themselves to snag one. “She may not accept me.”
“I think she will.”
Rhys was beginning to warm up to the idea. Horatio poured another helping of liquor into Rhys’s tumbler, though he neglected to refill his own. This time when he downed it, Rhys wondered why he’d ever thought the liquor strong, though he did have the sensation that his feet were about to leave the floor.
“I could ask my father to procure a special license for us. He’s a marquis, you know,” Rhys said confidingly. “He could do it like that.”
Rhys tried to snap his fingers, but they didn’t seem to want to obey his commands. Still, a special license was a good idea. That way they wouldn’t have to wait the interminable weeks for the banns to be read each Sunday. If he was going to marry Olivia in any case, why delay?
“No, I think it’s best if the pair of you head out for Gretna Green now, this very day. Honeymoon for a month in Scotland, and by then we’ll have that townhouse business settled,” Horatio said. “Besides, if you’re concerned for Olivia’s safety, you’ll want to take her away from Barrowdell as soon as possible.”
“That’s right,” Rhys said. “As shoon as poshible.” He waggled his empty glass at Mr. Symon. “What is this shtuff, by the way?”
“Absinthe. Mostly. Among my many business interests is a little distillery that makes a fortified version for me. Don’t make a habit of it or you’ll go blind,” his future father-in-law advised. Horatio put his arm around Rhys’s shoulders. “Have I told you about my tiger yet?”
Rhys looked down at the fur beneath his feet.
The black and golden stripes seemed to waver like tall grass in a breeze. He shook his head and the wavering sped up as if a gale had suddenly blown in.
“It was a notorious man-eater. Killed seventeen villagers before I led the hunting party that bagged him.” Horatio puffed out his chest like a peacock doing a mating dance. “Made me mad, him dragging people off like that. Got him right between the eyes.”
Mr. Symon tapped Rhys on the forehead.
“Don’t make me mad, Warrington. You treat my little girl right. Make her happy.”
Rhys nodded. Of course he would. He’d treat Olivia like a princess. No wait, she wasn’t going to be a princess anymore. He’d have to think of something else. Something better.
Thinking hurt.
He squeezed his eyes closed because the room was starting to spin.
He’d mucked up so many things in his life—his military career, his family, and now poor Olivia was going to have to marry him.
“What if I don’t make her happy?”
The tiger fur seemed to be rushing up to meet him, but it might have been that he crumpled to the floor. The last thing he heard before he let the gathering blackness envelop him was Mr. Symon saying, “See that you do, boy. I’m still a damn good shot.”
Chapter 21
“At least I’m being sent into exile in style,” Olivia said to no one in particular as the sumptuously padded coach lurched along the frozen road. The only one who might have heard her was Rhys, but he was slumped on the opposite squab, snoring like a two-man saw.
It was bad enough that her father felt it necessary to bundle her off before breakfast, without even giving her a chance to say good-bye to her mother or sisters.
“That would defeat the purpose of an elopement,” Papa had argued. “The whole idea is to steal away without anyone’s notice.”
