Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  She was trapped.

  He stared at her, his expression changing to one of impatience. “Your husband despises you. He keeps a mistress. You seclude yourself in the country, but you are young and beautiful and passionate. There is no dilemma here. Meet me at Ashburnham.”

  The tears gathered, burning her eyes. “I cannot.”

  H was disbelieving. “You will remain faithful to him? Why?”

  “It is complicated,” she whispered. How she wanted to tell him about Hannah. But then he would learn about her as well, and he must never know either secret.

  “Really?” he mocked. “A man and a woman who desire one another is hardly complicated. In fact, it is as simple as life can be.”

  “How sordid you make this seem,” Olivia whispered, hurt.

  “How innocent you now seem,” he returned. “Innocent and naive.”

  Olivia decided not to reply, but in that instant she realized that she was very inexperienced, in spite of having an eight-year-old daughter. She lifted her chin. “I would like to go inside,” she said with dignity. “Before we are seen together like this.”

  He seized her arm, making it impossible for her to leave. “Then the next time we are in the same room, do not lead me astray with those damnable eyes of yours,” he cried.

  “I do not know what you speak of!” she cried back.

  “Every time I walk into the room, you are staring with those silver eyes, and I can read your thoughts. I suggest you consider my proposition. You are not shackled by love, and I hardly marry for that emotion. We can amuse one another, my lady, trust me. I have no doubt.” His eyes were frightening in their intensity.

  Olivia was taken aback. “Will you release me?” she asked with a calm she did not feel. “I have offered you sympathy and friendship, nothing more. Whatever you think you have seen in my eyes, you are wrong,” she said, a blatant lie.

  Many emotions crossed his face in rapid succession, among them, Olivia thought, disbelief, renewed anger, and extreme disgust. “I have no need of your pity, Lady Ashburn, and even less need of your friendship.” He laughed then. “You were hardly offering me friendship, my dear lady, a few moments ago.”

  She recalled the extent of her passionate behavior and knew she was turning crimson. “I have no time for amusements, not with you, my lord, or anyone else.” She spun on her heel, reeling inwardly from his brutal attack.

  He called after her, “That is not the impression I so recently received.”

  Olivia fled.

  Nearly running the earl of Stanhope over in the process.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Garrick stiffened, watching Olivia disengage herself from his father. Gasping, “I am so sorry, my lord,” she lifted her wide silver skirts and raced away, but not before he caught another glimpse of her especially pale visage, one strained with emotion. He fervently hoped her eyes did not glisten with tears, and he was already regretting his temper. He watched her fly back up the steps to the terrace, across it, and inside. With great difficulty, Garrick tore his gaze away from the wide-open doors where she had disappeared and met his father’s heated regard.

  The tension he had been afflicted with all evening increased. The last-thing he needed now, after his encounter with Olivia, was a confrontation with Stanhope. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his pale blue coat and sauntered toward his father, determined not to let his own ravaged emotions show. Of course, Stanhope never missed a trick. “Do not tell me this is a coincidence,” he drawled, knowing damn well that the earl’s appearance outside was anything but that.

  Stanhope offered him his snuff box. His expression was not pleasant. There was a light in his eyes Garrick did not like, one that made him even more wary.

  “No, thank you,” Garrick declined.

  “Of course I did not leave the soiree to linger alone in the dark. I have guests to attend.” He closed the box after taking a pinch of snuff to one nostril.

  Garrick grimaced, refusing to respond to the barely veiled barb that he was delinquent in loitering alone in the park.

  “You may do what you wish, Garrick, but there is a time and place for everything, and a rendezvous with Lady Ashburn at your betrothal party is not appropriate.” The earl was angry. His tone was hard but controlled.

  “This was hardly a rendezvous,” Garrick snapped. “And I am tired, Father, of being spoken to as if I were a child. Ten long years have passed since I left England.”

  “You hardly need remind me of your neglect! But perhaps you should not act like a child, eh, Garrick? You have responsibilities now, to me, to the earldom—to the union we have contracted to. Seducing the lady in question under Sir John’s nose is intolerable.” The earl adjusted his cuffs angrily. “And do not take me for a fool.”

  Garrick laughed. “Intolerable for whom? It was quite tolerable for me.”

  Stanhope ignored that. “I saw the two of you. Clearly she does not want you, Garrick. Fortunately she is possessed of the common sense her gender so usually lacks. I heard her refuse to meet you. Why press where you are not wanted? Leave her alone. There are many willing women in this town. I can find you what you need if you wish me to.” And he smiled, as if he and his son were bosom buddies.

  Garrick was furious. He did not like being rejected in the first place, but having his father an eyewitness to the event was even worse. “Do not think to procure for me,” he flashed. “And you do not have a clue as to what I need, my lord.”

  “You are flesh and blood, a man, I know exactly what you need,” the earl said with sarcasm. “And if I saw you and the countess, so did any number of guests. I have no doubt that by the time this fête is over, Sir John will have learned all about your dalliance. Why is your judgment so lacking? Or do you want to annoy me—or even thwart me, now, at the eleventh hour?”

  “Father, if I wished to thwart you in your determination to see me wed and bedded with an heir upon the way, I would be on a ship bound for the West Indies right now. You have blackmailed me—or did you forget?” Garrick moved past his father, but the earl fell into step with him.

  “I have not blackmailed you,” Stanhope said with such utter indignation that it was clear he believed his own words.

  Garrick decided to give it up. His father would think what he wished to think—what was convenient and served him the best.

  Stanhope smiled as they crossed the lawns, taking Garrick’s silence for compliance. “Good, then that is settled. I trust that you will leave the countess alone, doing what is right and honorable by me and your mother.”

  They had reached the terrace. Garrick lowered his voice with an effort, aware that they were being watched by many ladies and gentlemen. “No,” he said flatly. “You cannot trust me to leave the countess alone, I will do exactly as I please.”

  He spun on his heel and left.

  Olivia continued to tremble as she dashed into the house. Her temples throbbed. She was confused, torn, and pain warred with anger. Garrick De Vere was difficult, he was persistent, and he had just been terribly forthright—and cruel. Was that the kind of man he was, in the end, when thwarted and denied? Vicious and cruel?

  Her heart refused to believe it.

  Olivia slowed her pace as she entered the dining room, to find guests at the various buffets. She was not hungry. How could she be? She was far too distressed. She would never become his mistress, in spite of the shocking desire he had aroused within her. She fanned herself, aware of her burning cheeks. He must think her a lightskirt, to have behaved in such a fashion … and those cries! Her heart thundered. She used her fan more determinedly. She must not think about it, or entertain such desire, not ever again. She must not even allow herself the tremendous compassion she felt for him; it was too dangerous, a connection she did not want, a connection that might lead her elsewhere. And as he had no interest in friendship, why, then that meant there was nothing for them at all.

  Which was as it should be. An involvement with him would lead only to disaster
. Olivia trusted her inner voice in this instance completely.

  Then she recalled his stunning kiss. They were already involved.

  And not only were they already involved, she had no doubt he was not about to give up his pursuit of her.

  “Olivia! Where have you been?” Susan cried, hurrying over. She left behind two young, smiling fops, both of whom had been fawning over her.

  Olivia glanced away, frantically seeking some modicum of composure before facing her young friend—Garrick De Vere’s fiancée. Now guilt stabbed her, competing with the shame. She managed a weak smile. “I was taking some air.” She must escape this party. She must escape town.

  She must escape him.

  Susan linked their arms. “A wonderful party, is it not? I am having a wonderful time!” She turned and waved at her two grinding, amiable admirers. “Isn’t he handsome? That is Lord Bartholomew. He is the younger son of an earl and has just been commissioned in the army.”

  “Yes, the party is wonderful, and your young admirer is quite splendid,” Olivia said, trying to forget Garrick De Vere, his commanding presence, his hurtful words, his stunning kiss—and her own shocking behavior.

  “And he has disappeared,” Susan said, whispering now. “Isn’t that wonderful? I hope he has gone home and left his own guests!”

  Olivia regarded her. “Dear, I am happy that you are enjoying your engagement fête,” she said in a rush. “It has been a fabulous party. And I have so enjoyed being a guest here these past few days. Susan, I know you will think me awfully remiss, but I so miss the countryside.”

  Susan blinked—and then her face fell as comprehension set in.

  “Dear, surely you would not mind if I returned home tomorrow? I do not feel well in the city, if you must know, and I think that Hannah is terribly homesick,” Olivia continued desperately. She had to go home. There, surely she and Hannah could return to their previous peaceful existence, one free of complications. And he would not follow her to the country, expecting her to rendezvous.

  That thought was too disturbing to contemplate.

  But Susan was dismayed. “Hannah loves London, she told me so—this afternoon Miss Childs took her to a museum. Olivia, are you ill? You seem terribly distraught.”

  Hannah had gone to a wax museum with Miss Childs and had raved about the trip, Miss Childs having described the sights in intimate detail, while Hannah had explored the figures herself, with her sense of touch and smell. Olivia swallowed. “I am the one who is homesick, my dear, but I am embarrassed to confess as much.”

  Susan gripped her hands. “But you cannot leave me now! I do so enjoy your company, and there is so much to do to prepare for the wedding, I do not think I could manage without you,” she wailed. “And what will I do when he comes calling the next time if you are not present? You know my mother, she never says a word in mixed company. She would be useless!”

  “Has a date been set, then?” Olivia asked. Her temples were throbbing again, and she rubbed them tiredly, aware of dismay, another emotion she did not need or want.

  “My mother has suggested September the fifteenth.” Susan was no longer smiling. “I do not know why we have to rush so.”

  That was three months away. Olivia did not know what to do.

  “You cannot leave me now,” Susan said, her voice strong now, as she had taken Olivia’s silence for compliance. She smiled. “You have become such a dear friend! And you can chaperone me when he comes to call.” Her smile faltered. “Olivia, I cannot be alone with him. Surely you understand that?” Her tone was desperate. “Dear God, I am trying not to think about it, but in truth, I am still sickened every time I think about actually marrying him.”

  Olivia could not smile. Her eyes were wide, her pulse racing anew. Chaperone Susan and the viscount of Caedmon? This was too much to bear. “I fear I must retire,” she cried. “The events of the evening have quite undone me.”

  Susan nodded, her gaze worried, and kissed her cheek. “Do not worry. We shall have a lovely time this summer, you and I.” And she whirled, hurrying back to her two young men.

  Olivia watched her beaming at Lord Bartholomew, closed her eyes briefly, turned to leave—and came face-to-face with the earl of Stanhope.

  He was smiling. “Good evening, Lady Ashburn. What a splendid affair.”

  Olivia’s heart dropped right to her feet with sickening intensity. How much had he seen? How much did he know? She snapped open her fan and used it to cool herself. “Good evening, my lord. Yes, it is a splendid event.”

  “I have not had the pleasure of your conversation in many years,” Stanhope said, his smile remaining in place. “You prefer the country, do you not, Lady Ashburn?”

  “Yes, in fact, I do,” Olivia replied. “You are probably better acquainted with my husband.” Too late, she wished she had not brought Arlen up.

  “Lord Ashburn and I hardly frequent the same circles,” Stanhope returned evenly, but his gaze was unsettingly direct. “I prefer to attend White’s and Almack’s; he prefers the beauty and excitement of the opera and the stage. In fact, I hear he is hardly ever in the country.” He smiled.

  Olivia backed up a step, stunned that Stanhope would make such a veiled reference to her husband’s mistress—a beautiful stage actress. Had he been suggesting that Arlen avoided her, Olivia? She managed a rigid smile. “I am well aware that Arlen prefers life here in town to that in the country. For me, it is the countryside that is beautiful and exciting.”

  “So then you shall be returning home?” he asked, raising one pale eyebrow.

  Olivia stared, reassuring herself that he could not have heard De Vere insisting she return to Ashburnham. “I do not know,” she finally said, wishing he would turn and go.

  But he did not. “The bride-to-be is quite lovely, do you not agree?” Stanhope continued.

  “Oh yes,” Olivia managed, her every instinct warning her to flee this man. She felt as if she were being pushed backward into a corner, a trap. “Susan is so lovely.”

  “My son is a fortunate man,” Stanhope said, no longer smiling, staring her directly in the eye.

  For one moment, Olivia was still. He knew. He had seen it all. Then she began whipping her fan back and forth, feeling as if her smile were made of plaster and about to crack. “He is very fortunate,” she said, her tone oddly high to her own ears, “and I do wish them well.”

  “I am certain you do, Lady Ashburn. Why, a kind, generous, and loyal woman like yourself could do no less than to genuinely bless the match. Of course, as the couple hardly knows one another, there will surely be a few rough patches in the courtship, but they are well suited, the contracts have been signed, the date set, and I am certain both bride and groom can withstand any minor altercations. Do you not agree?”

  Olivia was riveted by his piercing blue gaze. Stanhope was warning her not to interfere—and making it clear that the nuptials would transpire no matter what actually happened. He was a very powerful man. There were few peers who outranked Arlen, and even fewer whom Arlen respected and feared—but Stanhope was one of them. “Yes,” Olivia finally whispered.

  The earl of Stanhope did smile. “I am quite certain I saw your husband in the other room. He was looking for you, you know.”

  Olivia’s heart lurched. Of course, Arlen had not been seeking her. “I shall attend him immediately.”

  “Undoubtedly he did not think to search for you outside, on the lawns—by the hedges and the bench.”

  She did not move. She did not even breathe. Stanhope’s threat was vividly clear. He knew, and now he held her passionate encounter with his son over her head. He would tell Arlen—if it suited him. And Arlen would punish her—doing God only knew what. “Undoubtedly,” she whispered.

  His smile widened, and finally he bowed. “It has been a pleasure conversing with you, Lady Ashburn.”

  Olivia could not reply.

  Stanhope left. Olivia remained unmoving, frightened now. Suddenly she needed to be with her daughter—i
mmediately. She would retire and just for a few moments slip into her daughter’s bed and hold her. What if Arlen tried to separate her and Hannah? It had always been her greatest fear. Arlen was clever. He knew there was nothing worse he could do to her.

  She turned and left the ballroom, hurrying down the hall, ignoring everyone. Then she saw Arlen standing on the threshold of the gaming room with three other gentlemen, and she stumbled, not wanting to approach him in order to go past him. He was smiling and animated, clearly well on the way to becoming disguised. But then he saw her and his expression changed. His smile vanished, his eyes turned cold.

  Olivia paled. He was the last person she now wished to speak with. She stood unmoving several feet away, recalling Stanhope’s threats. Recalling her own errant passion with another man.

  But Arlen detached himself from the other two gentlemen and walked over to her. Without preamble he said, “Is this a new part of your character, my dear? Are you now disloyal and disobedient?”

  She gasped. Every detail of her encounter with Garrick De Vere flashed through her mind—but surely Arlen did not know about it! Unless he himself had seen.them. “I do not intend to disobey you, Arlen, not ever,” she said, incapable of smiling.

  “You have upset the bride,” he said, his smile remaining in place. It did not slip. It was ugly.

  She felt herself beginning to pant. Like a small hunted animal, she felt trapped, awaiting a bloody blow. Stanhope had told everyone—or other guests had seen them! “Arlen,” she began, her bosom heaving.

  “Sir John told me that you spoke with Susan and said you shall leave town. Has it not occurred to you to ask my permission first?”

  She stared at him, comprehension slowly sinking in—and with it a huge relief. “Leave town?” she whispered. This was not about her dalliance upon the lawns. Olivia remained in some disbelief.

  “I never said you could return home, my dear,” Arlen said quite unpleasantly.

  Olivia refocused with a great effort. Carefully she said, “I would never disobey you, Arlen. I thought you preferred it that I return home, but there was no time to broach the subject.”