Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  “How dare you!” Elizabeth said furiously. She wrenched her arm free and faced him, her bosom heaving. “The phaeton belongs to Lord Kildare, if you must know.”

  Kildare. Arlen searched his memory, and suddenly the image of a young, handsome Scot came to mind. “Oh? Are you entertaining his wife?”

  Elizabeth smiled coldly. “I am entertaining Kildare and Ladies Hewitt and Faraday, if you must know.”

  Arlen stared. Was she flirting with Kildare? Surely she was not sleeping with him. Or was she?

  Her imperious brows lifted. “Is there something you wish to ask me, Arlen?”

  He rubbed his temples. “Since when have you become so social with Kildare?”

  She smiled slowly at him, then touched his cheek, a brief, sensual caress. Elizabeth kept her pale, polished nails long. “Are you jealous, dear?” she asked.

  “Do I have a reason to be jealous?” he returned.

  She continued to smile.

  He wanted to hit her. He wanted to shout. He did neither. There was a house full of servants about.

  “I have guests waiting,” Elizabeth reminded him.

  Arlen jammed his shaking hands into the pockets of his breeches. “I sent Olivia home four days ago. Elizabeth, I have just come from Almack’s, and I have learned that three days ago Caedmon was at Stanhope Hall.”

  Elizabeth’s small smile faded. “Well, well,” she said, the sound not pretty. “Now I understand your foul mood. And I do not blame you.”

  “Is he cuckolding me? Or is it a coincidence?” Arlen asked.

  “Now is not the time to be stupid,” Elizabeth said flatly. “Stanhope Hall is only a few hours by coach from Ashburnham. There is no coincidence here. For God’s sake, Arlen, the day before, he met her at St. Bartholomew’s! The two of them are clearly having a liaison!”

  Arlen found it difficult to breathe. He had never liked Caedmon, not from the time they had first met as children. But all that had changed eleven years ago, when a simple dislike had been turned into sheer hatred. He would never forget what the man had done to Elizabeth. He clenched his fists. This could not be happening again. It was a nightmare.

  “Well? What are you going to do?” Elizabeth demanded. She did not wait for him to reply. “I suggest you go to the country and take control of your wife. While there, you might make a few inquiries among the staff and in the village. After all, undoubtedly they did not rendezvous right in your own home. But if you wait a few hours before leaving, I will find out what I can here in town. I will make a point of it.” She did smile.

  He looked at her. Elizabeth belonged to a circle of ladies among whom gossip and information traveled far more swiftly than the daily news, for juicy tidbits revealed one day had already become well-known yesterday. She knew everyone, practically, in town, and she certainly knew everyone who was anyone, and no one could get to the root of a matter of gossip as swiftly as she. Within hours she would surely be able to tell him what it was he sought to know—unless Caedmon and his wife had been exceedingly clever.

  “It was Lionel De Vere who told me that Caedmon was in Surrey the day my wife was sent home,” Arlen said stiffly. “If he knows something, then others must as well.” He rubbed his temples. There was one bright spot in all of this. Caedmon might be on the verge of losing everything if the man claiming to be his brother were genuine.

  “A good point,” Elizabeth said cheerfully. “When will you return to Ashburnham?”

  He looked at her, thinking of Kildare, who was even now awaiting her in the pink salon, and he did not want to go. Was it his imagination, or was Elizabeth eager for him to leave London? Then he imagined Olivia in Caedmon’s arms. “I will leave first thing in the morning,” he said.

  Elizabeth smiled.

  It was a daily ritual for Olivia to take a short walk after the breakfast she shared with her daughter. Hannah had her studies with Miss Childs, and Olivia would spend a half hour strolling briskly in the park, down the road, or even to the lake. In fact, the lake had been one of her favorite destinations. But no more, not since Susan’s attempted suicide.

  Olivia chose the winding dirt road that led to the small village of Ashburn. She was simply dressed in a striped blue-and-white gown, her hair was coiled in braids around her head, and because it was cool in the mornings, she wore a dark cashmere shawl. Birds were hopping in the trees above her head and the sun was shining, promising a warm, bright day, but Olivia’s heart felt like lead.

  She missed Garrick De Vere, was worried about eventually facing her husband again, and could find no bright promise in the future, not anymore. Until recently she had not even cared about the future. Her life had been placid and calm, except when Arlen infrequently came to the country. Her life, spent with her daughter, Miss Childs, and the staff, had been pleasant. There had been many ways in which to derive pleasure and joy from a single day. No more. Where had all the luster gone? Even the sun seemed a pale, dimmer shadow of what it had once been.

  Is this hopeless? Olivia wondered, gazing unseeingly across the fields she walked by. Should she go back to town, just to see De Vere, her determination to avoid him be damned?

  She paused, realizing a rider was cantering up the road. It was not an unusual sight, and she assumed it to be one of the tenant farmers. She was about to lift a hand in a friendly wave, but instead she squinted, because she did not recognize the horse approaching. It was a big, beautiful bay hunter, the kind of horse no farmer would ride. Not even Squire Home would possess such a horse.

  And the man riding it was large.

  Olivia knew before she saw the dog loping alongside him. Little did she realize she was clinging to the split rail fence.

  Garrick De Vere reined in the bay, staring down at her.

  “Oh, my God,” Olivia thought, then realized she had spoken aloud. Her heart now beat with amazing urgency.

  “Hello, Olivia,” he said, his golden eyes as penetrating and intense as she remembered.

  Her mouth was dry. She could not speak.

  He smiled and slid from the bay’s back, walking over to her. “I hope you are pleased to see me,” he said softly.

  Her spine was pressing into the fence as she strained to keep some distance between them. “What are you doing here?!” she cried. But she was glad to see him, so very glad.

  “I think you know,” he said, his gaze slipping to her lips.

  She found herself looking at his mouth as well, wondering if he would kiss her on the public road, afraid they would be seen by a passing neighbor, yet wanting him to, for she was insanely remembering his taste and feel, God help her. She had no will. She wanted to be in his arms.

  “I have missed you,” he said abruptly.

  Olivia tried to shake her head, but instead she heard herself say, roughly, “I have missed you, too, Garrick,” knowing they should not be doing this.

  His eyes blazed. Before she could react, he had both hands on her waist. Olivia thought he intended to pull her close and kiss her. Instead he lifted her up and set her on the horse. As she exclaimed in surprise, he leapt up behind her, put one strong arm around her, and galloped his bay back down the road, in the direction he had just come from, the setter running alongside them.

  Olivia was dazed. She clung to the saddle, aware of his arm, which pressed her back firmly against his chest and torso, aware of the pounding of her heart, aware of how mindless she had become. She did not ask where he was taking her—she already guessed his intentions.

  Up ahead there was a gate in the fence. Garrick reined the bay in, leaned over, and swung it open. He urged the bay through, then sidled his mount around so he could close the gate again. I must protest, Olivia thought. She did not. Images of the night they had shared at Stanhope Hall assailed her. She had missed him terribly.

  He cantered his horse through the field, past more grazing cows, a few sheep interspersed among them. They passed through a grove of oak trees and were suddenly flying over a low stone wall. Garrick pulled the bay
up, and the next thing Olivia knew, he had dismounted and he was pulling her down and into his arms.

  “I have missed you so,” he said again, his hands on her shoulders.

  Olivia gazed into his eyes, searching their depths for a glimpse of his heart and his soul. Before his lips could touch hers, Olivia touched his mouth with two fingertips. “We should resist our passion,” she whispered.

  “I cannot,” he said roughly. “You are my passion.” And his mouth claimed hers.

  All thoughts failed her. His hands, sliding over her back, were strong and insistent, and his body, pressing against hers, was hard and urgent. Worse, her own hands were exploring every inch of his back, his hips, his buttocks. Oh, God, it was so good to be reunited with him. She had not been sure when she would see him again—if ever.

  Framing her face with his hands, he kissed her deeply, their tongues entwining. Olivia felt the explosive power of her love and was amazed anew. It fueled her need for him as nothing else could. How she wanted him. She wanted to be joined with him, to be a part of him, to be one. How she wanted to tell him that she loved him, but she did not dare.

  His loins pressed against her, searing her with heat and promise. Olivia clung to him, crying out, her own urgency increasing. She buried her face between his neck and shoulder, panting harshly. His pulse thundered in her ears.

  “I have done little but think about you,” he said harshly, lifting his head. Their gazes met.

  His eyes caused her heart to speed impossibly, her stomach to lurch; even her loins tightened in response. “I have been thinking about you, too,” she said, throwing the last of too little caution to the wind. “You haunt me, Garrick.”

  He smiled, a real smile, one that lit up his eyes. “Good.” Then he anchored her head with his hand in her coiled hair and kissed her, at once frantic and tender, rough and gentle. He pulled away from her. “Then that makes two of us.”

  Olivia smiled.

  His expression was wry. “In truth, I did not expect to meet you on the road and waylay you like a highwayman.”

  “This is not right,” Olivia said as they clasped hands, hard. “But I am so happy to see you again.”

  He studied her.

  Treve, who had been lying beneath a lonely tree, stood and walked over to her, wagging his tail. Olivia petted him, her mind racing, imagining that her feelings were written all over her face. “You should not have come. I received a letter from Susan the other day.”

  “I could not stay away.” He took her hand again.

  Olivia met his gaze. “I am married and you are intended to another—a sweet woman who is my friend. Recently I had decided never to see you again. It was the only possible decision to make.”

  He stared. His face had become odd, twisted yet expressionless. But she had seen the wound there in his eyes. It had not been her intention to hurt his feelings. He was far too sensitive. “Can we not even discuss this without an argument?”

  He looked up. “Is there something to discuss? We are both adults. You have no relations with your husband, and I despise my fiancée. Yet you have decided that you no longer wish to see me. You have made yourself very clear.” He stared.

  Olivia’s hand flew to her breast, as if that might prevent her frightened heart from racing. “I do not want to lose you, Garrick.”

  He jerked. “Then make up your mind,” he cried. His jaw tense, he walked over to his grazing horse and took up the reins, Treve following him expectantly. “You should not be married to Arlen,” he said.

  She inhaled. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what? State the obvious?” His eyes flashed.

  “Arlen is my husband, Garrick,” she said, almost revealing all her fears to him.

  He stood in front of her. “Why don’t you leave him?”

  She froze, wanting to tell him everything—her hopes and dreams, her dark, dark fears. “I cannot.”

  He cursed.

  “There is no solution, is there, to our dilemma?” she asked, her hand on her aching heart, thinking, I am going to lose him if this continues. He wants me to leave my husband, but Arlen will never let me go, and he will punish me through Hannah.

  “I cannot think of one, other than to steal a few moments with you when we can do so,” he said very grimly. “But moments like these are not enough.”

  Their gazes locked. Finally he held out his hand and she took it. They began to walk across the field, leading his horse, Treve trotting happily alongside them. “Did you see the man claiming to be your brother while in town?” she asked, still preoccupied with their discussion.

  His tone became distinctly cool. “Oh, I saw him.”

  When he did not elaborate, Olivia glanced at his drawn face. She could feel his twisted, roiling emotions, grief, pain, guilt, hope, and last, anger. But she knew that she herself was the cause of many of his feelings. “Is he Lionel?”

  Garrick hesitated. “He looks like him. He even behaves like him, or so it seems. And he knows a lot about the family, far too much, I think. It probably is he.” He tore his gaze from Olivia and stared up at the sky, where fat, fluffy white clouds were passing by.

  Olivia knew she could never clear her mind in order to use her gift to help Garrick now. She was too overwhelmed by him, too distraught, too frightened and confused. “You do not believe him.”

  He looked at her. “I don’t know what to think.”

  “What happened in town to make you leave?” Olivia asked, gripping his arm. “Something happened. There is more than your having wanted my company.”

  He started slightly. “You are very astute. I had enough of Lionel, Stanhope, and the whispers and stares.”

  Olivia could no more stop herself from soothing him than she could stop herself from attending a bird with a broken wing. She slipped her palm to his forearm and rubbed it soothingly. “Are you staying at the Hall?” she asked gently.

  “Yes. I decided to call upon you the moment I left London. I wanted to know, actually, how you were faring since I had last seen you.” His gaze locked with hers. “I am worried about you. Arlen worries me.”

  Olivia tensed, trembling. “Arlen worries me as well,” she heard herself say.

  “Then leave him!” he exploded. “Why do you stay with him?”

  “He will never let me go,” she cried in return. “There is Hannah to think of!”

  “Hannah?” he questioned. And Olivia knew he had not understood.

  “How long will you be at the Hall?” She rubbed her temples. “I need some time to think.”

  “Indefinitely,” he said. “And what do you need time to think about, Olivia?”

  She looked up.

  “Will you contemplate leaving him?” he asked softly, taking a step toward her.

  “No, yes, I don’t know,” she cried, unable to look away. “Having met you, known you, I am in a dilemma!”

  “And I am not?” he also cried. “I did not ask for this. I did not want to come home,” he said. “I liked my life at Sugar Hill, and I did not ask to meet you, either, Olivia, nor did I ask for some damnable man to come forward claiming to be my brother—a man the whole world already accepts as Lionel—even, possibly, my father!”

  “I know you did not ask for any of this,” Olivia said with sympathy. “I have asked for very little in my life as well, Garrick. Until I met you, it was so simple, my path so clear. There was tranquillity.”

  He stared for the longest time, in silence. Around them a cow lowed, a bird crowed, and the breeze whispered in the trees. “And now? Now how would you characterize your life?”

  She could only share the truth—or some of it. “There is confusion. There is no peace. Confusion and fear and …” She halted in midsentence.

  “And?” he prompted, his eyes very golden.

  “There is excitement,” she whispered. “There is joy.” Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. “Being with you brings joy, Garrick.”

  His touch, brief and to her brow, was tender. “
You make it sound like a confession,” he said.

  “It is a confession.” Olivia realized that they had stopped in the center of the field and were facing one another. It was so natural, slipping into his strong arms.

  “There is something you are not telling me,” he said, his gaze tender now.

  “Yes,” she said, as if hypnotized.

  “What is it?”

  She trembled. “Arlen loathes Hannah.”

  His eyes widened. “How can that be?”

  She shook her head. “He also loathes me. It is her blindness. He hates it, he is ashamed … . He blames me.”

  “He blames you for her blindness?” He was incredulous.

  Olivia nodded, filled with fear, because they were but words away from the real truth—the secret of her wretched gift.

  “Does he also blame you for failing to give him an heir?” Garrick asked.

  She nodded. She knew what he wanted to ask. “But he does not touch me. He dislikes me far too much.”

  There was no mistaking the relief upon Garrick’s face. “I am glad.”

  She looked away. “Not half as glad as I am.”

  He tilted up her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. “You are afraid of him.” It was not a question.

  “I am so afraid … .” The words came pouring out, and she could not stop them. “I am afraid of what he would do to Hannah if I ever truly enraged him.” She met his gaze. “If I left him, that would enrage him.”

  He stared. A long moment ensued. “You would not leave Hannah behind.”

  She knew she was breathing far too rapidly. “What can you be suggesting? He would hunt us down,” Olivia said simply. “You are engaged to Miss Layton. We have shared one single night. Yet you ask me to run away, placing my daughter in grave danger, so I can be your mistress—”

  “No! I would break off the engagement,” he said fiercely.

  “Garrick.” She gripped his shoulders. “Even if you were free to marry me, I am married. Arlen will never divorce me, and he will never annul the marriage. He will never let me go, while in all likelihood, this man claiming to be your brother is a fraud. You have a duty to perform, and it requires marrying and begetting an heir, and you cannot possibly turn your back upon your family.”