Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  Garrick knew he flushed, with real anger. “You have gone too far—too presumptuously!”

  “Her father is one of the wealthiest men in England. Sir John was knighted thirteen years ago for a deed he performed for the king. I do believe he relieved a very close friend financially, in very indiscreet circumstances. In any case, although her family is hardly noble, finding a bride for you has not been an easy task. Old rumors seem to linger, Garrick.” The earl stared, pausing, but Garrick was so angry at everything, including the last slur, that he refused to reply.

  The earl smiled briefly and continued. “What is even better, she is not merely young and pretty, she is meek, and you may do as you choose without having to explain yourself. You will be able to control her completely, Garrick. I thought that of the utmost importance in your case.”

  “How dare you do this without consulting me first?” Garrick said, very low.

  The setter growled.

  Garrick glanced at him, pointed, said, “Down.” The setter dropped to the floor, where he lay, tensely crouched. Garrick was shaking.

  “There was little point in consulting you. I knew you would refuse to wed if I asked you to.”

  “First of all, I do not yet need a wife, and second, I despise meek women.”

  The earl’s gray brows lifted. “Your views, as always, are unerringly odd. We do not live in a Chaucer tale, my boy. No one marries out of fondness or affection, and certainly not in the peerage. What can you be thinking of? If you fancy yourself with some hot-tempered spitfire, good God, the roof will come down around both your heads!” He walked forward and laid a hand on Garrick’s shoulder, smiling. “I have lived a long time, Garrick. I know and understand people and life. Susan Layton is perfect for you. Take yourself some red-haired mistress. Miss Layton will not say a word.”

  “And that is your way, too, I presume,” Garrick flashed, thinking of his mother, who never defied her husband.

  Stanhope’s eyes hardened. “My life is not at issue here. Truthfully, it was not easy to arrange a marriage for you—because of the rumors—and I suggest you consider that.”

  Garrick turned away, feeling ill. Society still condemned him for Lionel’s disappearance and death—for in time, one and all had assumed that he was dead. Although Garrick blamed himself for not leaving the ruined keep with Lionel and knew with every fiber of his being that if he had done so, Lionel would still be alive, society was accusing him of murder. Of murdering his brother—his very best friend.

  The setter, Treve, sensing his distress, whined.

  “She is expecting you to call upon her—she returns to town today,” the earl said, interrupting his thoughts.

  Garrick grimaced.

  “Garrick. You are not thinking this through. All I am asking is for you to get a son on her, and then do as you choose.”

  Garrick turned. “Are you suggesting that once the deed is done, I am free?”

  “I am suggesting that you wed her immediately, father a child, and if it pleases you, leave Susan here with me and your mother while you return to Barbados. If the child, when it comes, is a boy, you have fulfilled your obligation to me. You need never concern yourself again,” the earl said flatly.

  It was another unexpected blow. The earl did not care if Garrick left and never returned—not as long as his grandson remained in London, raised a Stanhope. God, he should have known. The earl did despise him—and he always had. “What you are suggesting disgusts me,” Garrick said harshly when he was capable of speech.

  “It is the way of the world!” his father cried, hands in the air.

  “If I marry her, then she will return to Barbados with me,” he said furiously.

  The earl said nothing. But there was the briefest hint of satisfaction in his eyes—as if he sensed his moment of triumph was at hand.

  Garrick managed to rein in both his temper and his hurt. “I am not going to have any part in this,” he said flatly.

  “You must give me a grandson. Even you know that,” the earl said as emphatically. He stood with his face close to Garrick’s. “You owe me,” he said.

  Garrick felt all the color draining from his face.

  “You owe me,” the earl repeated. “Damn it. If it weren’t for you, I’d have several grandchildren by now—because Lionel would still be alive!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ASHBURNHAM

  When Arlen was in residence, Olivia took her breakfast in her rooms.

  She was an unfashionably early riser—up shortly after the sun. But then, she preferred going to bed early, and could do so, as she was hardly a great hostess who entertained into the wee hours of the night. But Olivia awoke later than usual the morning after she had rescued Susan Layton from her attempted suicide. The sun outside her window, with its open draperies, was high and bright. For one moment she lay unmoving, aware of being exhausted. And total recollection of the previous night swept through her mind.

  Tension filled her. Slowly she sat up, tossing the covers aside. And she thought of the way Arlen had looked at her body, she recalled Hannah’s face, strained with fear, and she closed her eyes, remembering dragging a struggling Susan Layton from the lake. What an evening it had been. She hoped never to have another one like it.

  Olivia stood up, walked to the washstand, and dared to regard herself in the looking glass over the mirror. There were wide, dark circles beneath her unusually pale gray eyes. Her own skin was ever so slightly sun kissed, as she and Hannah spent so much time out of doors. She stared at her even features. They were not particularly striking, except for her pale eyes and moonlight-colored hair. Last night a stranger had also consumed her thoughts, a man she had never met. Garrick De Vere was not her affair, or did Susan’s attempted suicide make him her affair? Or was this strange preoccupation with a stranger merely due to the fact that Olivia was a rescuer of those in need? She could not help but feel, very strongly, that the lord of Caedmon Crag had been very unjustly condemned, and not just by Miss Layton. Of course, as she herself knew firsthand, life was rarely fair or just.

  There was a knock on her door and Hannah poked her dark head into the room with a smile. “Mama? It is so late. Miss Childs is back.” She smiled briefly. “She said I should not disturb you, but are you ill?” Her tone was anxious.

  Olivia smiled and went to embrace her daughter. “I merely overslept, my dear.”

  Hannah was relieved. “The Laytons are to leave this afternoon. Susan is downstairs. Mama, she is so frightened. I am so sorry for her.” Hannah’s brow was furrowed now, making her appear much older than her eight years.

  “Dear,” Olivia said carefully, feeling both her and her daughter being drawn inexorably into Susan Layton’s life, “sometimes we must let what will be alone. Perhaps all will be well with Miss Layton and De Vere in the end.” But she could not smile reassuringly. It would be such a terrible match, Miss Layton and Garrick De Vere, a disaster for everyone involved.

  A disaster.

  Olivia inhaled, aware of the sudden, nearly overwhelming urge to interfere and break off an engagement that should be none of her concern.

  “Mama, it will be terrible if they wed,” Hannah said, breaking into Olivia’s thoughts.

  Olivia stared at her young, concerned daughter, oddly breathless. Hannah’s concern so clearly matched her own. “Darling,” she whispered, touching her. She did not want this for her daughter. How could she?

  “Mama? What is it?” Hannah whispered anxiously.

  But Olivia hardly heard her, and she was no longer thinking of Miss Layton and De Vere. Instead she saw herself as a child, thin and blond, just a bit younger than Hannah now was. And she was strolling among fruit-laden apple trees, while her governess, a dour old maid whom she could not bear, sat on a plaid blanket with a book. The sky was perfectly blue and unblemished by clouds, the sun warm upon Olivia’s back. Her cashmere shawl had slipped to the ground.

  Screams. From nowhere, suddenly, without warning, they came. Horrible, unend
ing, anguished screams. Olivia clapped her hands to her ears.

  And blood. There was so much blood. White twisted sheets, soaked with blood.

  Olivia cried out, stunned by the pain, the fear, the blood—death. She whirled, trying to locate the source of the screams, the bed. Miss Farrell continued to read, her spectacles slipping down her long nose. Olivia could not understand. Hadn’t she heard the terrifying screams? Hadn’t she seen all of that dark red gushing blood?

  “Miss Farrell,” Olivia whispered, and it crossed her stunned mind that the governess was oblivious of what was happening. But how could that be?

  Stunned, confused, still glancing wildly around, Olivia realized that the dying woman was her older sister, Marianne.

  Marianne, who was a bride of less than a year, and who was heavily with child.

  Olivia started to run.

  Miss Farrell jerked, dropping her tome. “Lady Olivia!” she cried, a reprimand. “Just where are you off to, young lady?”

  Her sister was dying. Her beautiful older sister, who had gotten so fat with her pregnancy, and who remained doeeyed over her dashing young husband. Beautiful, kind, laughing Marianne, Olivia’s only friend in the world, in spite of their ten-year age difference.

  Olivia raced through the orchard, seized with panic, blinded by pain, by fear, and by the imminence of death.

  “Mama!” Hannah was tugging hard on her hand. “Mama! Oh, stop! You are scaring me!”

  Olivia was torn violently from the past—a pain-filled past she had no wish ever to relive. Trembling, weak of limb, she sank into a chair. Marianne had been fine when Olivia had reached the Oldham residence. But precisely two weeks after that day, she had gone into labor, hemorrhaging and losing both the child and her own life. Although Olivia had not been allowed to see her sister until the very end, that one final glimpse had been enough. Marianne’s death had been exactly as Olivia had foreseen it.

  “Mama? What is wrong?”

  Tears filled Olivia’s eyes and she reached out to pull her daughter close. “I was remembering the first time I realized I had the ability to see the future,” she whispered unsteadily. “I was just about your age.”

  “Your sister,” Hannah said, her face creased with worry and sadness. “You told me about her.”

  Olivia nodded, moistening her lips, wishing she could forget the past—or at least Marianne’s untimely, tragic death. She stroked Hannah’s hair. “I was so confused,” she told her softly. “I did not understand what I had seen, and when I tried to talk about what would happen, no one would listen to me.” She could not smile. And after, when there were other instances where her premonitions proved true, she had been shunned. By Miss Farrell, who had left her employment; by her own parents; by the servants at Oldham Way.

  Hannah was nodding gravely. “We must help poor Miss Layton, Mama,” she said. “She needs us.”

  Olivia stared. “We must not interfere in the Laytons’ lives,” she finally said, wishing that the foreboding she had had was a mere figment of her imagination, knowing it was not.

  Hannah merely gazed at her sightlessly, not replying.

  “Can you help me dress, my dear?” Olivia asked. She felt very ill now, and it had nothing to do with what had transpired in her own life eighteen years ago. But it had everything to do with her own dear daughter and poor Miss Layton and the stranger whom she had never met, the man whom Susan Layton was affianced to.

  An hour later, clad in a white silk gown sprigged with green and yellow, Olivia went downstairs. Hannah remained upstairs with Miss Childs. Olivia found the company in the dining room. Arlen, Sir John Layton, and the marquis were playing whist. Elizabeth was reading a novel. Lady Layton was busy with embroidery, while Susan sat staring dully out a window at the park outside. Olivia was filled with compassion for the young woman. “I think I shall take my morning stroll through the park. Miss Layton, would you care to join me?”

  Susan turned. “Oh, may I?” she asked with transparent eagerness.

  “Of course,” Olivia said, smiling.

  When they were well outside, Olivia glanced at the girl. “Are you feeling any better today, my dear?”

  Susan promptly burst into tears, shaking her head.

  “Oh, dear …” Olivia patted her back while handing her a handkerchief. “Do you wish to talk about what is bothering you?” she asked sympathetically.

  “This is horrid! As soon as I return to town Lord Caedmon will call on me and there will be an engagement party,” Susan cried. “He will give me a ring, and our betrothal will be official.” She halted, facing Olivia. “Lady Ashburn, I have become so fond of you. Please, won’t you come to town with me?”

  Olivia was startled. And even as a protest formed on her lips, he was there, in her mind, staring at her. A man who could so easily destroy this innocent creature. A man who might destroy them both.

  Olivia’s instant refusal died unspoken. She was appalled with her last thought, wished she had never had it. Was this, then, the disaster? Would it involve Susan’s downfall—and her own?

  “Please come to town with us,” Susan said more softly, breaking into Olivia’s thoughts. “We are already friends, are we not? I have no friends, Lady Ashburn, not really.” She flushed. “The ladies of the ton are not very kind to a brewer’s daughter, in spite of the fact that my father was knighted when I was so young that I cannot even recall another life.”

  Olivia’s pulse was pounding. Something was pulling at her, telling her that she must go to town with Susan Layton, that she must go. She closed her eyes, aware now that she was perspiring. She had enough problems, she did not need any more. She need not involve herself with Susan Layton—it would be dangerous. She had no doubt.

  “My lady? You are pale. I have upset you. I have been far too forward. I am sorry,” Susan cried.

  Olivia shook her head and heard herself say, “I am not overly fond of London, my dear. But I am fond of you, and perhaps it is time for me to return to town, for a short while, at least.” She had not intended to agree, and she was stunned by her own words.

  Susan clapped her hands. “Let us return to the house and tell everyone. You will leave with us this afternoon?” she asked eagerly, smiling now, dragging Olivia toward the stone manor.

  They reentered the salon. Before Olivia could speak, Susan said, “Mother, Father, I have asked the countess to come to London with us and she has agreed! I am so pleased! Why, she can attend the betrothal party, can she not? Perhaps she might even wish to stay with us!”

  Olivia looked at Arlen, who was standing, his expression rigid. “This is quite odd,” he said, staring at her as if she had two heads. “My wife is a country mouse. She despises town.”

  “Miss Layton invited me and I would like to go,” Olivia said carefully. Arlen did not want her in town and she was aware of it. But her course seemed clear—even if it was a course she knew she should not follow.

  “I think it is a capital idea.” Sir John stood. “And you must stay with us—that is, if Ashburn doesn’t mind.” He beamed.

  “I think my wife needs some time to think about this,” Arlen said firmly.

  Olivia looked around the company—all of the Laytons were smiling, while Elizabeth regarded her with open amusement. Olivia could not believe her own audacity—it was as if some unseen force were compelling her—as if someone else were speaking for her. “My lord,” she addressed Arlen, “I really do not need to consider this invitation. I am content to adjourn to town and avail myself of the Laytons’ hospitality for a mere fortnight.”

  Arlen’s smile was false. He shrugged. “It is a splendid invitation, is it not? But you never leave your daughter, madam. This shall be a first.” His gaze was piercing.

  Olivia froze, glanced at the Laytons. She could not go if it meant leaving Hannah behind. She had never been separated from her daughter for even a single day since her birth. It was an impossibility. “I did not think to leave Hannah behind, my lord,” she began softly, her pu
lse racing.

  “Nonsense! The child is content in the country, she would hate town. Besides”—Arlen smiled, eyes cold—“you must not impose upon the Laytons.”

  “But Hannah is a lovely child,” Susan interrupted enthusiastically. “Surely she can join us, can she not, Father?”

  Sir John shrugged. “I have no objection. When did you meet the child, my dear?”

  Susan blanched. Before she could form a single word, Olivia stepped forward, smiling far too widely. “Hannah was sleepwalking last night. Susan was taking some air before bed. It is really quite simple.”

  “Oh, I would love to have a child about the house again!” Lady Layton cried happily.

  Elizabeth took one look at Arlen’s face and walked over to Lady Layton. “She is a burden, you know. Perhaps it might be better for everyone to leave her behind. She needs special care.” She smiled at Olivia and said, “The poor little thing is blind.”

  A gasp sounded. It had come from Lady Layton, who was now fluttering her fan to hide her surprise. Sir John had done better; his eyes had merely gone wide; and now they were narrow and assessing as he stared at both Olivia and Arlen.

  Olivia saw red, but she fought for control. “Actually, Hannah needs no special care at all. She is hardly an invalid. She sees with her ears and hands, Lady Layton—and often she sees far more than someone like you or myself.” Olivia was shaking. She had to grip both hands to hide their trembling. From the corner of her eyes she saw just how angry Arlen was. He was flushed the color of ripe, red apples.

  Then Lady Layton stepped forward and laid her small hand on Olivia’s arm. “My dear, your daughter sounds wonderful, and I am delighted that she will join us.”

  “We are both delighted,” Sir John said, also stepping forward. His smile was genuine. “But we do plan to leave within a few hours. Should you not have your servants begin packing?”

  Her temples throbbing, Olivia nodded, grateful for the Laytons’ kindness. She avoided Arlen’s gaze, which was filled with a cold and brutal promise—one of retribution. She knew better than to even think of defying Arlen openly. What had possessed her?