“How is Troy?” he asked, even though he knew full well that his horse was as happy as a footman with an unexpected day off.
“Troy is settling in quite nicely.” She whirled around, apparently delighted to share good news for a change. “The stable lads are so impressed with her and agree that her coloring is all that keeps her from being perfect. I told them what you said. That her coloring will be all the rage soon.”
As much as he loved that smile, Michael knew he was going to make it disappear.
“Olivia, there is something I need to talk to you about.” At that very moment it occurred to him that he should have asked Mrs. Blackford to have this discussion with her. Too late.
Michael offered her a seat on the settee and sat next to her, not too close.
“I need you to tell me what you were wearing the day you were taken. Every single item.”
“Why?” she said, stiffening.
“Some of your clothes were delivered to your brother the day you were kidnapped, and the morning after we returned here some more were dropped here at the gatehouse. It occurred to me that there may be other clothes that could be used to compromise you.”
He was afraid of tears, but what he saw was anger. Not at him, he hoped.
“Those stupid Galatians. Those pigs.”
Not him, he thought with relief.
“Those grape apes. I cannot think of words bad enough for them.”
“I can. Bumbling, bootlicking, backstabbing brutes.”
“Buzzards.”
“Bullies.”
“Bloodsucking fiends.”
“That’s two words but quite vituperative,” he judged, pleased that she was smiling again. “Betrayer.”
“Bandits.”
“Bad bakers.”
“All right.” Olivia held up her hand. “I cannot think of anything worse than that.” She relaxed a little. “Thank you, Michael, for making me laugh.” It came to her that his question was a gift, though probably not from God.
36
WHAT WAS I WEARING?” Olivia mused in a thoughtful pose. Was there a better way to seduce a man than undressing yourself, if only mentally, in front of him?
“Let me start from the outside.” She stood up, closed her eyes and mimicked undressing. “My bonnet, and my cloak and my blue half-boots.” She opened her eyes. He did not seem particularly moved but she had yet to start on the interesting parts. She sighed. “I loved those boots.”
“They can be replaced.”
“I suppose so, but they were so well worn and had taken on the shape of my foot so nicely.”
He nodded.
She put her hand on her chest, quite deliberately. She loved the cut of this gown. It made her breasts look as though they were much more discreet in size. “I was wearing an old blue gown. I thought I might be collecting greens from Mr. Drummond’s garden.”
She raised her arms and smoothed her hair and tried not to smile when Michael looked away and back again immediately. She shifted her gaze to the window so he could look at whatever part of her interested him the most, and felt a tingling in her breast. “I had a blue ribbon to tie my hair back. But who would keep that?”
“Uh-huh,” was all he said.
She lowered her arms and gave him her complete attention again.
His eyes were hot, with a tinge of suspicion in them. Perfect.
Olivia hoped she was doing this right. She raised her skirt above her ankle and matched it with a look of total innocence.
“Two petticoats, white with white lace at the hem. After that, my stockings.” She patted the top of her thigh. “My garters; they match my coloring quite nicely. These were plain, with a bit of lace in case anyone of interest should see them.”
Now she gave him what she hoped was a provocative look but spoiled it by wrinkling her nose. Oh, this was stupid. She could no more seduce a man than she could shoe a horse.
With a sound of disgust she finished with as practical a voice as she could manage. “My stays are all that’s left. And my shift, but you know that. It was what I was wearing when I escaped.”
Michael rose and came very close to her. “I think I like this last look the best.”
“What are you talking about?” She had to strain her neck to look up when he was this close. It was as though she was surrounded by him. The aura of power that she felt when he was barely a hand’s width away from her was provocative and thrilling and she wanted more.
He cupped her raised chin and let his hand drift down so that it was just above the edge of her dress.
“How many years have you used that guileless look? I bet it works almost all the time.”
“But not today.” It was working. He was going to kiss her. Soon, she hoped.
“No one is that innocent after the age of four, Olivia.”
He dropped his hand and took a step back.
Olivia edged closer so her breasts were barely touching his chest, though there were at least five layers of clothes between them. Still she could feel her body warm to his.
She would have to stand on her tiptoes if she wanted to initiate a kiss, and she was still not sure she could reach more than his chin. She sat down on the settee and, thanks be, he sat, too. Before he could rethink the commitment she moved as close to him as she could.
“Innocence is a vastly overrated virtue. I do think I am ready to experience something of the world.”
His mouth was on hers before she had finished speaking. Oh, it was wonderful to be given exactly what she wanted. To feel him everywhere, no matter that it was only his lips on hers. She matched his passion and wondered what more there could be than this. It was so intimate—mouth, tongue, arousing every part of her.
When they pulled apart, for breath, for sanity, she could not help but laugh. “That was wonderful. It was so much fun. More than fun.”
She started to sit on his lap to kiss him again, but he stood up abruptly.
“That is enough, Lady Olivia.”
“Even I know that is not true. It is only the beginning.”
“It is enough for you and me. I will not be the one who debauches you. I will not.”
It rather sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
“Then can I be the one who seduces you?”
He shook his head, glowering.
“You cannot think of words to describe how much you want me,” she teased, ignoring his dark expression.
“I want you. That is the truth, Olivia.”
“Really?”
“Truly.”
“Honestly?”
“Lustfully.”
She laughed again. “I am yours.”
“Not now. Not ever.” He raised a hand to shield his eyes, his thumb resting on his cheek. “It is one of your more misguided impulses, Olivia.”
“It is not. I have been thinking about it all day, for weeks, possibly since we slept in the same bed that first night. Definitely not an impulse, and I will not take no for an answer.” She looked down and blushed at his arousal. He did want her. No matter how he would deny it. “I am going up to your bedroom. I will stay there all the rest of the day if I must. Dream of me there and come to me.”
She stood on the couch, pulled his hand from his brow and kissed him. It was different this time, like unleashing a dragon, desperate with wanting and denial. She relaxed and played the temptress, knowing she had won and willing to let him suffer for a little longer as if it would make it more satisfying later.
When she ended the kiss he looked defeated. She turned away from that look. It made her feel guilty. She jumped off the settee and ran up the stairs.
His bed was neatly made. Was it a habit he had learned in the army or had one of the maids come to do it for him? With a twinge of jealousy she hoped that was all the maid had taken care of.
She heard nothing from downstairs for a few long minutes and could almost feel him fight the temptation. Finally, she heard the sound of the door opening and then being c
losed.
He had left! She jumped up from the bed and looked out the window. She could open it but someone might see her. She wanted to make love with him but had no need to let the whole world know.
He didn’t believe her, she thought, stretching out on the bed. He would discover how true to her word she was. Pulling a spare blanket over her, Olivia determined to stay as long as it took. And fell asleep on that thought.
MICHAEL WAS SURE that God would damn him to hell if he went any further than that kiss. God had made man and must understand, must know that Michael needed that one kiss as a memento, one that he could relive as often as he dared.
He headed toward Pennsford, determined to put some distance between him and Temptation, trying to focus his attention on something other than how provocative innocence could be.
Never, not once in his life, had he wanted a virgin, wanted to be the one to teach and touch for the first time. What was it about this woman with still so much girl in her that made the pull unbearable?
He did not have the answer, and that was rare in itself. As he strode past the vicarage, Reverend Drummond himself opened the front door.
“Mr. Garrett! Could you stop a moment and lend me a hand? I was about to send up to the castle for Big Sam.”
Relieved to have a distraction, Michael found himself helping the vicar make room for a new bookcase. The walls were lined with them except for the window wall, which looked out on the glory of sky to the west. The room was filled with as much light as the dank spring day would allow. Altogether a welcoming space, despite stacks of books all over. Not only on the desk and a table and in the bookcases, but also on the floor and on chairs.
First, Michael shoved the desk into the center of the room, closer to the window as directed. The odd placement did allow enough room for the waist-high, glass-fronted bookcase to be placed against the wall.
Mr. Drummond asked him to hang an engraving, or was it an etching, of some confrontation in a classical style.
“It’s Hogarth’s version of the trial of Saint Paul.” The elderly man explained. “I used to have his ‘Rake’s Progress’ hung there until Mrs. Blackford said that too many would think it inspiration rather than admonition.”
“No doubt a wise decision,” Michael said.
“Pour us some sherry, young man. Mrs. Blackford has gone to the castle to speak with the mason regarding some work needed on the chimney.”
Michael tried to make sense of the non sequitur and deduced that Mrs. Blackford would not approve of sherry at this time of day. He poured it, set the glasses on the desk and moved books and papers off one of the chairs.
Michael recognized several editions of The Edinburgh Review and wondered what William Hazlitt had to say that would interest the vicar. Or Edmund Burke. He saw two novels and was even more confused.
“You have an interesting collection of reading materials,” Michael ventured.
“Mr. Garrett, you would be amazed where I find inspiration. Pride and Prejudice. The title itself begs for a sermon.”
The books sat on a corner of a Rowlandson cartoon. The drawing was of a gin shop. Not man at his best.
“I have lived a very sheltered life. Rowlandson’s more salacious cartoons have made me a far better man of God.”
“No doubt,” Michael agreed, intrigued by Mr. Drummond’s unique view of life.
The vicar seemed inclined to talk and Michael needed the distraction. There was one niggling question to which he wanted an answer. “Tell me, Reverend Drummond, what is the origin of the phrase ‘stupid Galatians?’ The bible translates it as ‘senseless.’”
“Yes, my boy, it does. But if you read the Greek carefully you will see that the word actually translates as stupid. So much more powerful and so like St. Paul. Not a man to mince words, our St. Paul.”
Wasn’t personal translation some sort of heresy, Michael wondered.
“I have discussed it with the duke and written to the archbishop, but no one in Canterbury seems to think it a valid point. So the translation ‘stupid Galatians’ is used only in my private life.”
Amazing. In his own quiet way this man was amazing. Willing to test the limits of hierarchy for what he believed in. Meryon deserved some credit too, for allowing such free thinking in a living he controlled.
“Come, come, young man, that is not why you came here today. I can only assume that you have come to see me about Lady Olivia.”
But he had not come to see him about anything. It was the vicar who had called to him.
“She is a wonder.”
“That she is, Reverend.”
“Her brothers, except the duke, have a reputation for living life on a grand scale, of making the world bow to their wishes. I do not know why no one sees the same in Olivia.”
It was the God’s truth, Michael thought, as he nodded.
“She will not allow the rough patches of life to interfere with what she wants from it. I think she could face the grim reaper himself, if such a thing existed, and refuse, just simply refuse to accept that it was her time.”
She had come close, Michael thought.
“When I see the results of that stubbornness in the various aspects of her life, I think it must be called a virtue.” Mr. Drummond rubbed his chin, as he paused to allow his listener to catch up with him.
Aha. Michael smiled a little. He might be a congregation of one but he knew a sermon when he heard one.
“I have often thought that Olivia would have been better named Martha. For like Martha in the New Testament, Olivia is one who must always be doing for the Lord. She uses her skill in the kitchen to take care of people, no matter their station or age. And it works because in all of her recipes there is a measure of love.”
The vicar leaned forward. “She needs you by her side.”
God only knew where that came from. They both drank from their glasses.
“She needs you to complete her. You need her to complete you. You have denied your call to God long enough.”
Michael stood up. “That is not what I came here to talk to you about.” And he remembered, again, that he had not planned to come here at all. “I am no more suited to be a man of God than I am an appropriate husband for Olivia.”
“Based on a lifetime of experience,” Reverend Drummond stated after he had taken another small sip of his drink, “I can tell you, Mr. Garrett, that men who have seen the world and endured its temptations, those are the men who make the best ministers. Men with my naïveté are not nearly as forgiving of man’s failings.”
Michael stopped at the door. He understood that. A man who had faced death most fully embraced life.
“Mr. Garrett, you will give her what she needs. What she wants. That is love. That measure of love she has so freely given, but never yet received herself.”
“That isn’t true, Reverend. They all love her.” The man was old and almost as addled as his sister.
“But you see, sir,” Drummond said, looking all too lucid, “the difference is that none of them love her like you do.”
37
OLIVIA WOKE to the sound of Michael coming up the stairs. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, the gray day making it impossible to judge the time by the sun. It was still light, but this time of year the days lasted longer so it could well be after supper time.
It didn’t matter. He had come. Olivia turned her head on the pillow and watched the door open.
“Garrett? Wake up. It’s time for you to show Samuelson his rounds.”
David! No, no, no. One more minute and she could have slid off the bed and under it and he would never have known. But he came into the room before she could do more than have the idea. His shock was at least as extreme as hers.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“All right, David. Please calm down.” She popped out of the bed, pushed the skirt of her dress down around her knees and used one foot to feel under the bed for her shoes. “I fell asleep, but I can explain.”
“I will let Garrett explain.”
David left the room without another word, leaving Olivia scrabbling on the floor for her shoes.
There was a mirror, not a very big one, but it was large enough for her to see that she looked like she had just finished a very energetic wrestling match. In bed. Oh dear.
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she tiptoed downstairs, hoping, praying that Michael had gone to Pennsford or at least was in the kitchen or surrounded by others. When David found him there would surely be a fight.
She raced back to the castle and up to her room, thinking to change her dress, but Kendall was not there. At her own supper perhaps. She brushed her hair and grabbed a shawl to cover the wrinkles in her gown.
It took her the better part of an hour to find out that Michael had been to Pennsford, had spoken to her brother the duke, had gone to talk to Big Sam about the details of his new position and was currently in the boxing ring with Lord David.
“The doors are closed.” The footman stood in front of the door, emphasizing his point. “No one is to observe them, my lady.”
Frantic, Olivia reached around him for the door handle. “I am going in.”
What would a footman do to the duke’s sister, physically restrain her? Not likely; besides, she would fight him off if he did. She was so afraid that David would hurt Michael or Michael would kill David. She had to do something.
The footman stepped back and Olivia ran into the old courtyard. “Stop! Stop!” she yelled as she reached ringside. The two men circled each other, hands raised, faces intent. “David, nothing happened.” She danced down the side of the ring, trying to draw his attention. “David! Listen! Nothing happened! Nothing.”
With the doors wide open, Olivia was vaguely aware that people were hurrying through the outer ward into the courtyard, and she knew she would have to stop this quickly or everyone would be here.
Olivia climbed awkwardly into the ring and stumbled toward them. Both had cuts on their cheekbones and David was bleeding from the nose.
Neither of them paid any attention to her. They were lost in a world of frenzied battering and it had to stop.
Mary Blayney Page 49
