Slowly Olivia withdrew from the kiss, tilting her head back and eyeing him with careful consideration. “What is it?”
“Nothing.”
She released him and stepped back. She walked with elegant grace across the lovely sitting room, the showpiece of her expensive and stylish town house, and on which she prided herself. “Come sit with me, Quinton.”
He followed her to a small table where they sometimes played cards together, and they both sat. The glass of red wine that she had been drinking before he arrived was already on the table, and the cards were laid out in a game of patience. Artfully resting her manicured hand under her chin, Olivia brushed a blond curl from her pretty face and stared at him.
“What happened in Brighton?” she asked.
“Why do you assume that something happened to me?”
She laughed, deep and throaty. “Because I know you, Quinton. I know you quite well, and I can tell when something is bothering you. But if you don’t wish to discuss it, that is perfectly fine with me.” She picked up the deck of cards and continued her game of patience as if he were not there.
It wasn’t that he didn’t wish to discuss it with her, for there wasn’t much that he and Olivia Trahern hadn’t discussed over the past year or so. No, it was more that he didn’t know what to say. He had no idea how to put into words what he was thinking. And he hated that Olivia was so damned perceptive.
She barely looked up from the cards. “So you don’t want to tell me?”
Olivia’s persistence could be draining at times. Quinton said simply, “Not now.”
With quiet deliberation, she set down the cards and picked up her crystal wineglass. She sipped the wine slowly before speaking. Gazing at him, she raised a delicately arched brow. “Then this is serious.”
He rose to his feet and moved back to the sideboard to retrieve his drink, knowing she was watching him. “I don’t know what it is,” he muttered while he refilled his tumbler with whiskey and then returned to sit with her at the table.
Another knowing laugh escaped her, and she grinned in utter delight. “Oh, then this must be about a woman. And I’m guessing it isn’t your blushing bride.”
“Why do you always have to be right?” he asked ruefully.
“Because I am, darling.” She gave an elegant shrug of her shoulders. “It’s part of my charm.”
It was the truth, for Lady Olivia Trahern was nothing if not charming, and she was more than well aware of that fact. With her silky blond hair, sparkling eyes, and pretty face, she made a most alluring and a most sought after widow. Never lacking for invitations, her life was filled with lively parties, gorgeously expensive dresses, and a waiting list of ardent suitors. But her life was not always so splendid, as Quinton well knew.
At the tender age of seventeen her parents married their pretty daughter off against her will to the obese but vastly wealthy Lord Trahern, a brute of a man over thirty years her senior. Nine months later Olivia dutifully produced the all-important and necessary male heir and spent the next ten years of her life in a hellish marriage, enduring untold indignities and abuses. To Olivia’s way of thinking, Lord Trahern finally had the decency to have a heart attack one evening after consuming one too many of the rich meals he craved continuously and obliged his young wife by dying while seated at the dining room table during an elaborate supper party for twenty people before a doctor could be summoned. The only benefit and joy she derived from the hellacious union was her son, Drake, whom she loved to distraction and had managed to raise to be a wonderful young man, in spite of his beast of a father.
Finally free of her odious husband, Olivia vowed never to marry again and enjoyed her wealthy widowhood to the fullest extent possible. She moved effortlessly through society while scorning some of its strictest rules, discreetly taking lovers to her bed, Quinton Roxbury being one of them.
They met at one of Lord Hathaway’s extravagant house parties in Sussex. While seated next to her at supper that first evening, Quinton had been instantly captivated by her casual wit and seductive beauty. By the end of the night, Olivia had invited him to visit her bedroom and they had been together ever since.
Quinton and Olivia had been a well-known society secret for the last year.
He enjoyed her company in bed and the fact that she did not wish to marry him, and she enjoyed . . . him.
“So?” she pressed him for more information. “Who is she?”
He groaned into his glass. “Must we do this?”
“Yes.”
“It’s no one you know, Olivia.”
“Even better.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s something or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“What conversation?”
“Quinton.”
“What?”
“Listen, my darling, you and I have always been honest and frank with each other. When we began this affair, we both knew what we were doing. We have no illusions about each other and we knew it wouldn’t last forever. I’m not a fool.”
“No. You’re not.” No one could accuse Olivia of foolishness.
She continued, “I have no secret wish for you to marry me, Quinton, if that’s what you are thinking or are afraid of. Or that I’m in love with you, because I am not. I do love you, of course.”
“And who wouldn’t?” he asked with a rakish half smile.
“My point exactly.” She laughed, but her voice then grew somber and her gaze steady. “And I won’t break down in hysterics if you are ready to end our little affair either.”
“I know that,” Quinton whispered. “And that is what I love about you.” He did love Olivia. She had been a good friend to him since he first took her to his bed. Witty and accomplished, she was still a beautiful woman at thirtyeight with a lush and eager body.
“Are you?”
He drew his brows together in question. “Am I what?” “Ready to end this?” she prompted. She stared at him intently, her warm eyes regarding him with curious interest. “To end our arrangement?”
He sighed heavily and thought for a moment. He and Olivia had been lovers for over a year now. They enjoyed an easy relationship and were more than compatible in the bedroom. They had both shown great discretion in public and took pains not to be seen together at social events. Theirs was a mutually amicable and satisfying arrangement that had suited them both quite well. He had not severed their relationship when he became engaged to Lady Emmeline last summer, and he had given no thought to ending things with Olivia once he was married. Nor had it been his intent to do so when he came to her house this evening either. But now . . . Somehow now it seemed the wiser course of action.
He answered softly, “Perhaps I should.”
“It’s all right, Quinton,” she reassured him with a sly wink. “We’ve had a good run of it.”
He smiled at her in agreement. “Yes we have.”
“The change will be good for me.” She slowly traced her finger around the rim of her wineglass. “And as I said earlier, this has nothing to do with Lady Emmeline, does it?”
“It has everything to do with her actually.”
“Really?” She seemed astonished by his words. “In what way?”
“I cannot believe this”—he shook his head—“but I find myself questioning if my marriage to her would be a mistake.”
Olivia’s rich laughter rippled about them. “Why, Quinton ! You’re in love!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed at her words. “I’m not in love with Emmeline.”
“Who said anything about Emmeline?”
He protested, “But you said—”
“No. I said you were in love, but you are not in love with Lady Emmeline and you won’t ever be. While your marriage to her won’t be quite the travesty that mine was to Walter, you will not be happy with her. Do you forget that I’ve met her? She will wear you down, Quinton. Mark my words, that woman will drain all the joy out of your life eventually.” Olivi
a picked up her glass and sipped her wine.
A headache blossomed within Quinton’s skull as Olivia spoke of her prediction. He rubbed his forehead with the pads of his fingers. Although he had a sinking feeling that Olivia was most likely right, he also knew that Lady Emmeline was the most logical choice for a bride. He was almost thirty and had to marry at some point, and having the Duke of Wentworth for a father-in-law would open untold doors for Quinton in the future. When the opportunity to wed Lady Emmeline fell into his lap, he could not refuse. As a fourth son with no title, he would be a fool not to.
Olivia reached across the table and placed her hand gently on top of his. “You’re suddenly questioning your upcoming marriage to Emmeline and your relationship with me because you’ve fallen in love with whoever this woman is you won’t tell me about. The one you obviously met while in Brighton this week.”
“I didn’t meet her in Brighton.”
“Don’t be obtuse.” She smacked his hand lightly. “But at least you have admitted to me now that she exists.”
Quinton had no idea if he was in love with Lisette Hamilton or not because he had never been in love before. How did one know? He had only ever known when he was not in love. He was definitely not in love with Lady Emmeline Tarleton. He was not in love with Lady Olivia Trahern. He had never been in love with any of the gorgeous ladies he had bedded over the years either. But Lisette Hamilton . . . She was something entirely different from anything he had encountered before.
Now he did not know what to think about anything anymore.
Quinton wasn’t sure why he was so reluctant to tell Olivia about Lisette Hamilton. He had had no secrets from her before. Although she did not agree with him, Olivia knew how his engagement to Lady Emmeline had come about and his reasons for marrying the girl. She was easy enough to talk to and she had certainly confided her secrets to him. But somehow speaking of all that had happened with Lisette seemed wrong. He couldn’t even describe to himself what had happened over the last few days, let alone explain it to Olivia. Frankly, he wished Olivia would drop the subject. He didn’t want to talk about Lisette Hamilton anymore. Or see her. Or think about her.
It was over and there was nothing he could do about it.
“Is this woman in love with you?”
Now that was a hell of a question. He would like to think Lisette was in love with him. But she was engaged to another man. A man she had known her whole life, whereas she had known Quinton only a few short days. They could not possibly be in love with each other when they barely knew each other, could they?
There was no point to any of it. Yet still he could not stop thinking of her. How she had appeared so suddenly, so unexpectedly, in his life. How he had literally collided with her that first day.
Nor did that seem to be the end of it. What were the odds of meeting her on the train the very next day? Or again in the curio shop in Brighton. He admitted that calling on Lisette at her mother’s home he’d done of his own free will, but how did one account for the other three chance meetings? Was it fate? Destiny?
Quinton had never believed in any of that sort of thing. As far as he was concerned, each man created his own destiny, his own fate and fortune. He believed in hard work and careful planning, which he demonstrated in the painstaking designs he created. He had meticulously planned his future as well. For by marrying the daughter of the influential and powerful Duke of Wentworth, he was assured political backing when the time was right for him to run for Parliament. Once his political career began, he could make real changes, substantial improvements in the lives of the poor. His life was carefully mapped out with no room for a messy entanglement with the beautiful Lisette Hamilton.
But Lisette was so much more than simply beautiful. Her bright intelligence and kind heart, her warm spirit and something in her sweet nature called to him like nothing he had even known before. She cared about the same things that mattered to him—the houses, the people, the lives of those around her. She had an interest in the world outside of her own. In her own small way, Lisette put forth an effort to make the world a better place by helping those who worked in her family’s bookshop learn how to read. She cared for her mother enough to travel by train merely to keep the woman company. And there she was, independent enough to travel on her own. And from what she told him, she had also known personal hardship in her own family and yet she still had an optimistic approach to life. He admired her for that. Lisette was a curious mixture of sweetness and independence. He found that infinitely appealing.
And oh yes, her kisses . . . She kissed with a sweet abandon that was full of the enticing promise of even more. Her kisses left him reeling. There had been a strong undercurrent from the very first instant he met her. So tempting was she, he almost kissed her in the lane that day, for Christ’s sake.
He had to stop thinking about her! Lisette Hamilton was a beautiful temptation but not one that he could afford to indulge in.
He was marrying Lady Emmeline Tarleton in a few weeks. Soon he would forget about the lovely woman with her sultry green eyes and auburn tresses and get on with his life.
He finished his drink in a long swallow. Then he shook his head with deliberate slowness in answer to Olivia’s question. “No. She’s not in love with me any more than I am with her. It’s nothing and it can never be anything more than that.”
Her eyes focused on him with skepticism. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
At this point, Olivia simply gave him a nod of acknowledgment and let the subject go. She was wiser than he gave her credit for. He lifted her hand and placed a kiss on her palm. She smiled at him.
“I think I’m going to go home now.”
The words came out of his mouth before he realized he’d said them out loud. But it was what he wanted. If he stayed there any longer, he would end up in Olivia’s enormous four-poster bed upstairs and spend the night with her. For the first time in over a year, that prospect held no appeal for him.
A shadow of disappointment flickered across her pretty face at his words. Still she flashed him her most brilliant smile. “My darling, you know I only wish you the best. And I shall still be here, if you ever have need of me. Even if it’s just to talk.”
He stood and stepped toward her. Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on her cheek. “Thank you.”
Olivia rose from her seat and took his hand in hers as she walked him to the front hall. “Good luck with your girl.”
Quinton shook his head.
She laughed in amusement. “Do you realize that when word gets out that we’ve broken off, Lord Babey will be beating down my door?”
“Is that who you’re thinking of next?”
“Not really. He has too much of a reputation, but he has made his interest clear on more than one occasion.” She paused, her eyes alight. “I was actually thinking of Lord Eddington.”
Quinton scoffed. “Eddington? His reputation is not much better than Babey’s.”
“Well, they can’t all be you, now can they, darling?” She kissed his cheek and tousled his hair affectionately before she handed him his hat and coat.
10
On a Cold Winter’s Night That Was So Deep
“Madame La Fleur let me go today.”
Tom Alcott slowly put his fork down, his cold supper forgotten. No longer hungry, his mother’s words chilled him to the bone. “Why?”
“She said I was too slow, making too many mistakes. It seems that I’m too old to be a seamstress anymore.”
He stared across the little table at her, looking at her critically. Tom’s mother had just turned thirty years old. Anna Alcott had been very pretty once, with long glossy red hair and fair skin. Now she looked pale and thin, with dark circles around her sad gray eyes. Still, he didn’t think of her as old. She wasn’t gray and wrinkly and toothless like Old Framingham. Now she was old!
“I just can’t seem to get my fingers to work as well as they used to.” Anna Alcott’s voice was filled w
ith despair. “I can’t get them warm enough.” She frowned as she rubbed her chapped and raw hands together, her delicate brow creased with worry.
Ignoring the knot forming in the pit of his stomach, Tom thought of the money hidden beneath the floorboard. If Mama didn’t get another job soon, they would have to use his hidden stockpile of coins. He hoped it didn’t come to that. That money was to buy a house and he had saved so much already. He didn’t know how much a house cost, but he knew he didn’t have nearly enough yet. Mama losing her job put a hitch in his plans.
They lived off her income and the money he stole, but supposedly earned from the shoemaker. Without Mama’s weekly wages it would be tough to pay Mrs. Framingham her seven shillings in rent. He hated the thought of spending his secret savings on food and rent money when it was meant for more important things, but at least they had that to fall back on. He wouldn’t tell Mama about the money now. He’d just take out a little at a time as they needed it.
“Don’t worry, Mama.” He attempted to comfort her, but the worry in her eyes scared him more than he wanted to admit. “We’ll get by. You’ll get work in another shop soon enough.”
“I don’t think so, dear,” she murmured in a voice low and full of humiliation. “Madame La Fleur will not give me a recommendation.”
Silence descended upon them as the seriousness of their situation hit home. Tom wished he had something to offer, something to say to make everything well again. Being the man of the house was harder than anyone thought.
“Perhaps you could ask Mr. Rutledge for a raise,” Mama suggested gently. “You’ve been working there a while now and you tell me that you are doing a fine job.”
Guilt swamped him. He could never ask Mr. Rutledge for a raise, because he hadn’t worked for the fat old shoemaker in months and months. And he never would again. He hated that old blighter. Tom hadn’t lasted a week at his place. Rutledge had beaten him with a leather strap the first day for accidentally dropping a shoe in the fire. It was a terrible mistake to be sure and Tom most likely deserved the beating for being so clumsy. He bore it like a man, though, and never told his mother about that beating. But two days later, when Rutledge pushed Tom into the back room of the shop and tried to make him take his trousers off, Tom lit out of there like lightning and never went back.
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