by The Rival
He lifted his eyes and their gazes locked. “So you went in after her,” he said flatly.
Olivia felt herself shaking. She wanted to cover herself up. She reminded herself that Arlen had no carnal interest in her; he never had, not after Hannah had been born. But in that moment she recalled all of his groping in the year before Hannah’s birth, and her stomach turned with sickening force.
“You have matured, Olivia,” he said suddenly. “You are no longer skin and bones.”
“I would like to go upstairs and dress, if we are to continue this conversation,” she said.
“No.” He looked down at his daughter. Father and child resembled one another almost exactly. Hannah was strikingly beautiful, just as her father was so utterly handsome. But for Olivia, Arlen’s good looks were spoiled by the heart that beat inside his body. “And how long has she been afflicted with this particular malady?” he asked coolly.
Warning bells screamed inside Olivia’s brain. She held Hannah more tightly. “It is not a malady. Just a child walking in her sleep.” Her tone was high and tense.
His gaze was piercing. “Really? But she is your daughter, Olivia.” And this time, very insolently, he glanced at her breasts. Olivia already knew her nipples were erect and prominently displayed by her wet nightgown.
“She is also your daughter, Arlen, or have you forgotten that?” she returned curtly.
He slapped her. Not terribly hard, but across the face, and it hurt. “Do not speak to me in such a manner. Do you understand?”
Olivia held her cheek, aware of Hannah trembling against her side, and she nodded. She controlled her anger. She mustn’t let Arlen see her temper. It wasn’t the first time he had struck her for her sharp, unruly tongue, and she knew it would not be the last. But she was astute enough to assume that if she responded yet again, he would beat her severely. No verbal repartee was worth that. Especially as she could not change the man that he was.
“Hannah, come here,” Arlen said.
Olivia tensed, as did her daughter.
“I said come here,” Arlen ordered harshly.
Her pulse beat so fast now, so shallowly, that it was hard to breathe. “Arlen,” Olivia began, frightened, not knowing what he would do, not knowing what to expect.
Arlen took Hannah’s shoulder and pulled her away from Olivia. Tears filled Hannah’s eyes. He towered over his daughter, holding the taper aloft. “How often do you walk in your sleep?” he demanded.
Hannah was paler than her natural alabaster coloring. She swallowed. “Just this once,” she whispered.
“If you lie to me, you will be whipped,” Arlen said.
More tears filled Hannah’s eyes. “I’m not lying.”
“Arlen,” Olivia tried, frantically. She knew he would whip the child if he decided she lied. And then Olivia would kill him.
He ignored Olivia and nodded. “Good.” He continued to stare at her, into her sightless gray eyes. “Tomorrow I will have a physician examine you. I will get to the bottom of this.”
Olivia wet her lips. “Arlen, Hannah has no malady.”
His head whipped toward her. “And should I trust you?” he almost shouted. “You, who came to this marriage knowing of your cursed oddness? Purposefully deceiving me and my family? Knowing that if you revealed yourself, no one would have you? Not in all of society?” His voice had become louder. He would wake the servants, perhaps even his guests.
Olivia knew when to retreat. “I was sorry then, I am as sorry now. I never meant to deceive you.” She kept her gaze turned down. The lie was monumental—her parents had indeed intended to deceive the groom and his family, and they had succeeded. Olivia had participated in the deception, incapable of disobeying her father, the earl of Oldham. Yet as sheltered as she was, she had known that it was wrong to be dishonest—had even sensed that the repercussions would be enormous. But neither her father nor her mother had wanted to discuss the marriage. She had not been given either the choice of a groom or the choice of honesty. They had wanted only to marry her off before the truth was revealed.
She was immune by now to the hurtful recollection; she had not seen either of her parents since her wedding day. They had not even come to see Hannah after her birth. Nor had they sent a note. “I did not understand the oddness myself.” Her tone sounded harsh even to herself. But dissembling, even as an act of self-preservation, was not easy for her.
“Well, it is too late, now, isn’t it?” Arlen was sarcastic and cutting. “And we are both paying for your curse.” His glance skewered Hannah.
Olivia held her tongue, furious. Hannah was a gift, not a curse. How she hated her husband. She could not help wishing, just for a moment, that he would die before her time and set her and her daughter free.
Arlen took a step closer to her. “The next time we have guests, she sleeps at the gamekeeper’s lodge.”
Olivia’s eyes widened.
Arlen faced Hannah. “Go up to bed.”
Hannah hesitated, her head cocked toward Olivia.
Olivia stepped forward. “I will see her upstairs. That is,” she added quickly, “if you do not mind.”
Arlen eyed her with obvious distaste. “I do mind.”
Olivia stiffened.
Arlen pushed Hannah in the direction of the stairs. Hannah’s face was set and rigid as she started up them.
“Good night, darling,” Olivia called, sick at heart. “Change into something dry.”
“Yes, Mama, good night,” Hannah said thickly.
Olivia’s heart broke. Hannah would curl up in bed and cry herself to sleep. She had to go to her. Then she tore her gaze from her daughter’s back to find Arlen watching her.
His smile was cold. “Do you know,” he said, “that I have drunk so much wine that I am considering availing myself of your body?”
The breath got stuck in Olivia’s throat. She could not move.
“You are very tempting tonight, Olivia,” he said.
Olivia folded her arms over her breasts. “You do not want another child,” she reminded him with real fear.
“No. I do not want another deformed child like Hannah. But there are ways to avoid that, as you must know.”
Olivia hesitated. “Please.”
His eyes widened. “You beg me?” Suddenly he laughed. “I had never thought to see the day. Don’t worry. I am not that insane.” His glance was ugly and he turned abruptly and followed in Hannah’s wake.
When he was gone, Olivia’s knees gave way, and she sank onto the bottom step. She laid her head on her arms, which were folded around her knees, and cried. For all that wasn’t, and all that should be.
STANHOPE SQUARE, LONDON
It had been almost eleven years since he had wandered the halls of Stanhope-on-the-Square. As he stood on the threshold of the breakfast room, a paneled room painted yellow with gilded wainscoting and a frescoed ceiling, memories flooded him. His mother sipping coffee in her morning gown, his father with his face buried in a daily newspaper, he and Lionel exchanging jabs beneath the table, jokes beneath their breath, and begging to be excused.
Tension riddled his body.
“My lord? There is a breakfast buffet,” a servant said from behind him, pulling him out of his reverie.
“Just coffee, thank you,” Garrick said, closing his eyes. The red setter, which stood by his side, shoved its cool nose into his palm. God, for one moment, one incredibly intense moment, he had been a boy again, in this very house. And his brother had been alive.
Lionel had never been found. He had never been seen or heard of since that stormy afternoon when he had suddenly disappeared, as if vanishing into the air itself.
Garrick shoved aside his thoughts, angry with them, angry with himself—it was his fault, after all, that Lionel was dead—and he strode into the room, the hound at his heels. He poured himself a cup of coffee that immediately proved to be as watered down and as weak as it looked. Scowling, he set the delicate porcelain cup and saucer aside. Coming back h
ad been a mistake.
But the earl had written him for the fourth time in five years, on this occasion informing of his chronic illness, a weakness of the limbs and heart. His physicians expected him to live only another year or two at most. This time, the earl had begged him to return to England. They had matters, he said, grave matters, to discuss. Garrick had not answered any of his previous letters, as they had hardly been polite or contained requests. And he had set sail five months ago from the island that had been his home for the past ten years.
Stanhope was expected in town at any moment. Garrick had arrived two days ago, and a messenger had been promptly dispatched to Surrey to inform him of his son’s arrival.
“Come,” Garrick said.
He strode out of the breakfast room and down the hall. Opening a door, he let the red setter out into the gardens, then followed at a more leisurely pace. The air was cool, clean, and fresh, and Garrick sniffed it with appreciation. He was used to blazing heat. His dog looked at him questioningly, not straying as of yet. Garrick smiled and jerked his head. “Go.”
With one happy bark, the setter bounded off. Garrick settled on the edge of a low brick wall, surrounded by roses—his mother’s touch, he knew. The garden had changed, he saw. Once it had been full of flowers, but now it was filled with clipped hedges and tall, swaying trees. A pond had been added to the grounds as well, with a small bridge. Clearly the fashion for landscaping had changed.
“Garrick!”
It was his mother, and he stood, turning. He had not seen her either in over ten years, and his pulse increased. The countess flew across the short terrace and into his arms.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, pulling back. “Why did you stay away so long?”
She had aged, but well; she was still a strikingly beautiful woman. “Hello, Mother. It is so good to see you.” Garrick meant it. He wished he could say more. He had never stopped loving her, and he knew that his long, self-imposed exile had hurt her. That had not been his intention.
Her glance really swept over him now. “You have become such a striking man, Garrick. You are so tall and so dark. But darling, you must powder your hair—it is the fashion for young men, you know, and you must get to the tailor.”
He did smile. “We have no use for powder on the island, madam, but why the tailor? Am I so horribly out of date?”
“Well, in truth, no one wears such an overly long coat, and color is quite the rage,” Eleanor De Vere said very seriously. “But do not fear. I will arrange for Mr. Loggins to attend you this afternoon.”
She was eyeing his breeches and boots. Garrick supposed he should have dressed properly in stockings and shoes.
“I do think you could wear crimson, my dear, perhaps for a waistcoat? And gold would do very well for a new frock coat, don’t you agree?” Suddenly she touched his cheek. “I am so happy you are home,” she whispered, her eyes flooding with tears.
Garrick only half heard her. The earl stood by the terrace doors. He had not stepped outside, and he stared at Garrick with mesmerizing yet hard blue eyes—a gaze Garrick had never forgotten.
Emotion overwhelmed Garrick. He did not want to identify any of the turbulent feelings roiling within him, but it was impossible not to recall the utterly accusing look upon his father’s face when Garrick had turned away from the ledge by the keep fourteen years ago and said, “I was standing here when I saw him last.”
He recalled the rumors, every single one, that had begun within weeks of Lionel’s disappearance.
If Lionel De Vere is not found, if he is dead, then he becomes the Stanhope heir, they had all whispered.
But he had not killed his brother. And he had never wanted to be the Stanhope heir. Garrick suddenly closed his eyes. But hadn’t he, for one awful instant, on the day Lionel had disappeared, wished that he were Lionel? The guilt was sickening.
Grimly Garrick took his mother’s arm. “Let’s go in,” he said softly. He whistled once, piercingly, as he strolled with his mother to where the earl stood. The setter appeared and fell into place at his side.
“I should have guessed.” His mother smiled, reaching down to pat the silken head. “What a beautiful dog, dear.”
“Hello, Garrick,” Stanhope said firmly.
He was not smiling, and Garrick did not smile, either. “My lord.” He bowed slightly. His father had been using a cane, which he leaned on, but other than that he looked remarkably well—for a man about to die in a year or two at the most.
The earl’s gaze swept him from head to toe, undoubtedly noticing his hair was a natural color and his wool coat was threadbare. Then he eyed the dog. “We have much to discuss,” he said, and turned away.
Garrick followed him, and after escorting his mother inside, he kissed her cheek. “May I drive you in the park later?” he asked.
Her blue eyes brightened. “I would like that.” She smiled. And then, on an indrawn breath, she added, “I have missed you so. I am so pleased that you have returned home, my dear.”
He did feel guilty. “I’m glad to be back, too.” It was as much a lie as the truth. He turned and walked after the earl, following him into the library. His father took his seat behind his massive, leather inlaid desk. Garrick sat down in a facing chair. The setter dropped to the floor at his feet. The room was book lined and dark in spite of the crystal chandelier overhead.
“And your journey back was uneventful, I presume?” Stanhope asked with a lifted brow. It was distinctly gray, unlike the very white, powdered periwig he wore. This one was much shorter than the style he had favored a decade ago.
“Quite. You do not look exceedingly ill, Father,” Garrick said bluntly.
The earl settled back in his chair. “I summoned you home two times. You disobeyed. The ploy worked, did it not?”
Garrick checked his temper with an effort. “It worked. But I have no intention of lingering here. I intend to return to Barbados in a fortnight.”
The earl’s eyes widened in astonishment. “But you have only just arrived! You have been gone ten years!”
“By your orders, sir,” Garrick said coldly, recalling the day he had been banished from his home for his supposed forced seduction of a young noblewoman.
“You dallied, yet refused to do the right thing!” Stanhope shot back.
“I was hardly her first.”
“She claimed otherwise.”
“She lied. But then, you would believe her, a stranger, over your own son,” Garrick said coolly.
“In truth, I knew she lied. But you were stubborn, defying my authority, and you needed a lesson,” the earl said with anger. “And I did not insist that you stay away for all this time. We both know that you refused to return these past five years. I can see that you have not changed, either. You still think to defy me at every turn, do you not?”
Garrick hesitated. “Actually, I do not think of you at all, much less whether to defy you or not.”
The earl thumped his cane on the floor and stood. “You are my heir. You have matters to dispose of here—where you belong. Have you no sense of duty?”
“Very little,” Garrick said grimly, also standing. The setter came to his feet.
His father was red. “I was a fool to think I could change you by sending you away. You will never become more like Lionel.”
The blow was unexpected. But Garrick felt it like a fist to his abdomen, and briefly he was stunned, breathless, at a loss for words.
The earl came around his desk, barely using his cane. “I think of him first thing every time I wake up, and lastly, before sleep comes. Damn it. You are my heir, and I forbid you to return to that godforsaken land.”
Garrick spoke, slowly and softly. “You can forbid me all that you want, Father, but I am a grown man now, and will do as I damn well please.”
“And if I dispose of that damned sugar plantation? What will you do then? Return to work like a common yeoman on someone else’s land?”
“I will go to America and start my own est
ate.”
“With what funds?”
Garrick only smiled.
“What? Have you been embezzling from my plantation?” the earl cried.
“That is a very serious accusation,” Garrick said. “But know this. Since I went to Sugar Hill, profits have increased ten times over in ten years. The plantation is making twenty-thousand pounds per annum, Father, no small sum. Because of me. And you see almost every penny of that profit.”
“Almost—but clearly not all.”
Garrick chose not to reply.
“Will you at least admit that you have a duty here?” Stanhope’s tone had changed. “Good God, Garrick, you are my heir, and one day you will inherit one of England’s largest, wealthiest estates. We truly do have many matters to discuss.”
Garrick hesitated, fought himself—and lost. “I admit to having a duty here, and I hope my admission pleases you. But Father, you look as if you will live another ten years at least, so why dupe me into returning home? Do not tell me it is the grave matters we have to discuss. Do not tell me you have missed me, either.” He stared. That last admission would never come.
The earl leaned on the edge of his desk. “I do intend to live another ten years, or twice that, if I can. But Garrick, you are my only child.” He stressed the last word.
“I am fully aware of that.” Garrick tensed. He sensed what was coming.
“You need a wife. More important, you need an heir yourself.”
Garrick felt himself smile—without any mirth whatsoever. “I have time.”
“I wish to see the De Vere line secured—as soon as possible.”
“I do not think that is possible.”
Stanhope lifted a brow. “No? Most things in life are possible—with a bit of compromise.”
“And why should I yield?”
“Because, if you give me what I desire, perhaps I will give you what you desire,” Stanhope said with a smile.
Garrick’s pulse was racing. He did not respond.
His father said, “I have already betrothed you, and it will be announced tomorrow in all of the newspapers.”
