Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

“Because rainbows are beautiful, and they bring happiness,” Hannah explained.

  “Yes, they are beautiful, and they do bring happiness,” Olivia murmured, but she was thinking that they were also fleeting, ephemeral, an illusion. Was that what her love for Garrick was? An illusion?

  No, it was not an illusion; it was solid and real. But like a rainbow, it would not last—for too many forces were aligned against it.

  “I came to say good night. I know you have to go downstairs,” Hannah said, kissing her cheek.

  Olivia stroked her daughter’s dark hair. “Yes, I do. Is our guest here?”

  Hannah frowned. “He is.”

  “Is something wrong?” Olivia asked, instantly attuned to her daughter’s distress.

  Hannah shrugged. “I didn’t meet him. But I can feel him, Mama. He is very strong. I don’t like him.”

  Olivia absorbed that. Hannah had never made such a statement before without having first been in contact with the person. When Hannah did not like someone, there was usually a good reason for it. She had not liked one of the footmen at Ashburnham for several years, and he had turned out to be a thief, absconding with their silverware. A peddler trying to sell them knickknacks and housewares had also made Hannah unhappy, and they had later found out he beat his mute son.

  But she was only eight years old. Olivia knew firsthand how, as one matured, logic, judgment, and emotions could interfere with the gift. So what was this? Their guest was downstairs. Why did Hannah have such feelings now, when she had yet to come face-to-face with the man?

  Olivia kissed her forehead and stood. “Why don’t you run on to your room. Tell Miss Childs I wish her to read you a nice story before bed. I will come in later to check on you, when I can.”

  They walked into the hall. “You don’t have to,” Hannah said, unsmiling, her wide, unseeing gray gaze hovering near but not quite on Olivia’s face. “Don’t make Father angry again.”

  Olivia tensed, almost choking on an indrawn breath. “I promise.”

  Hannah had paused at her door, which was ajar, but she did not go inside.

  Olivia felt a sense of dread. “What is it?” As she did, she suddenly glimpsed, in her mind, a very handsome, slightly stocky, blond man, standing in conversation with Arlen, a glass of port in his hand.

  “Did he hurt you?” Hannah asked.

  Olivia jerked, wetting her lips. “Some men, sometimes, lose their tempers and act in ways that they should not,” she said very carefully. “It is not gentlemanly, it is not honorable, it is not right.” She spoke in a very low voice. “He did hurt me, a little. Not a lot. I am fine today.”

  “Your heart is hurt,” Hannah said, choked.

  Olivia gasped, her hand flying to her heart, which was indeed filled with anguish. But not because of what Arlen had done. It was because she was in a love with a man she could not ever have, whom she must, at all costs, stay away from now.

  “We will discuss this another time,” Olivia managed.

  Hannah nodded. “But Mama, I am scared.”

  Olivia hugged her close. “Don’t be scared.”

  “Let him help us,” Hannah said.

  Olivia froze. “Who?” she breathed.

  “Lord Caedmon.”

  Olivia trembled. She forced a smile, kissed the top of Hannah’s head. “I have to go downstairs. Good night.” And she swung Hannah’s door wide open.

  Miss Childs, who had been sitting in a rocking chair by the window with a book, smiled and stood. “Don’t worry, my lady,” she said. “I will take good care of her.”

  Olivia said good night again and closed the door. Then she leaned upon it, shaking, damp with perspiration. She would have to change the gown she had chosen with such care.

  As Olivia paused on the threshold of the salon, she had a brief moment in which to study their guest and her husband before they noticed her. She took one look at the blond, blue-eyed gentleman as he laughed at something Arlen said, and tension stiffened her spine. This man was, she knew, the person claiming to be Stanhope’s son.

  She arranged her face into a smile, thoughts of Garrick flooding her, as she entered the room. She could not help looking almost wildly around, unable not to hope that Garrick had also come. But he was not present, naturally—Arlen had said they had but one guest. And after last night, dear God, she did not think he would invite Garrick to Ashburnham. Being disappointed was absurd.

  The two men turned to her. The man claiming to be Lionel De Vere instantly looked at the bruises on her face, which the powder only tempered and did not conceal. Immediately he moved his gaze away, bowing. She curtsied, relieved their initial meeting was over, the awkward and humiliating moment gone. As Arlen finished the introductions, she tried very hard to still her pounding heart and relax her tension-riddled body. She wanted to relax, to clear her mind, to immediately discern the truth about him, to decide if he were an impostor or not.

  “This is such a pleasure,” Lionel told her, his blue eyes warm, holding hers. How handsome and noble he appeared. And he was quite the epitome of fashion, clad in a gold frock coat, a green waistcoat, and dark blue breeches and pale stockings. His thick hair was powdered, his eyebrows were blond. “I have heard wonderful things about you, Lady Ashburn, and I have been looking forward to our meeting,” he was saying warmly.

  Olivia continued to smile. She could not get a clear sense of whether he was really Lionel De Vere or not. “Thank you,” she said. “I am so pleased you could join us for supper,” she said politely. But who, she wondered, had raved about her? He was, she decided, dissembling. He was not telling the truth.

  She was quite certain of it.

  “Shall we go in, then?” Arlen said, not having really looked at her once.

  “Yes. I am sorry I was late,” Olivia apologized, glad he was avoiding eye contact. She hoped he was ashamed. She knew he was not. He could not stand the sight of her, that was all.

  “May I?” Lionel asked, holding out his arm.

  Of course, his escorting her into supper was absolutely correct. Olivia gave him her arm. As he tucked it in his and they left the salon, a wave of intense feeling swept over her. Something was wrong. But what?

  “And how do you like our home?” Olivia asked as they walked down the hall. Arlen followed them.

  He smiled at her. “I like it very much. Ashburnham is beautiful, and your flowers are magnificent.”

  Olivia did smile, for her gardens were lovely.

  “Almost”—he smiled—“as magnificent as the woman responsible for their creation.”

  Olivia cast her eyes down. “Really, there is no need to flatter me,” she said, aware of how gross his exaggeration was. But she stole another glance at him, only to be confronted with his perfect profile as he spoke to Arlen, who was behind them. Like his brother, he was a very handsome man.

  Then she realized what she had been thinking. She stiffened, perturbed, even dismayed. Did this spontaneous thought mean that he was, indeed, the long-missing heir?

  “You have quite a treasure here, Ashburn, and I do not mean just the estate.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I am a very fortunate man,” Arlen said.

  Arlen was smiling, but he was a wonderful liar. “So how long will you be staying in the country?” Olivia politely asked their guest.

  “I have not decided,” Lionel said easily as they entered the dining room. He held out Olivia’s chair and she sat down, arranging her skirts. As he moved away from her, his hands skimmed her shoulders. Olivia stiffened, not certain it had been a careless gesture or done on purpose.

  Arlen remained standing, sitting only when Lionel himself did so. “It has been so long since I was at the Hall, and I have so many memories of growing up there, that I do think I shall linger a bit.” He smiled at Olivia. “Besides, I am certain my brother could use my company. It would not do for him to be alone here in the country, I think.”

  She froze, recalling Garrick’s warning. Lionel had somehow known about the night she h
ad spent at Stanhope Hall and possibly about them. She did not think she imagined the innuendo—that Garrick would hardly be alone in any case because she, Olivia, were also there. She stole a glance at Arlen, expecting to find him surprised and angry after discovering that Garrick was but a few miles away. His expression was bland; somehow he had already known. Her heart sank.

  “Yes, you grew up at the Hall, did you not?” She fought for composure.

  Lionel smiled, sipping a glass of red wine just poured by a servant. “Garrick and I raised quite a bit of mischief growing up together as boys,” he said with real warmth. “Our parents spent most of their time in town, whilst we remained at the Hall. But we did prefer it that way.” He grinned.

  Olivia studied him. He was very engaging. She could see why Susan Layton had been so charmed. And she was quite certain he had some very real memories of Stanhope Hall—which would lead her to conclude that he was Lionel De Vere. Yet he made her uneasy. There was something about him that bothered her, and Olivia strained to pinpoint what that something was.

  He was speaking easily, with a smile. “I do remember one day Garrick and I stuffed our beds with pillows and stole out of the house after dark. We were very young, perhaps ten and twelve. We went all the way to the village and got soused on ale. Of course, we were found out.” Lionel laughed. “Squire Merrill recognized us and dragged us home.” He winced. “We did not feel well the next day, I do remember that. But a week later Father came and we truly suffered. Neither Garrick nor I could sit down for days.”

  Olivia managed a smile in return. He could so easily be the real Lionel. He was very convincing. But now she was aware of what was bothering her. It was a darkness. It was surrounding him. She could not sense if it was because he was being dishonest and lying about his identity or if it were something entirely different, a hurt, perhaps, or sheer unhappiness. But something dark was there, attached to him. Was it merely because his past was so tragic and blemished? He had disappeared for years. That alone would change anyone—that alone could make someone unrecognizable. And Lionel was hardly that.

  “Do I have horns on my head? Or a gravy stain upon my cravat?” Lionel laughed.

  “Olivia, you are staring,” Arlen said with exasperation.

  Olivia started, felt her cheeks heat anew, and began toying with the pickled herring that had just been served. “I am sorry,” she murmured. But as she used her fork, the ruffled cuff on her wrist fell back, exposing the ugly bruise there. Immediately she laid down her fork, not touching her plate, dismayed, looking up. But their guest had turned to Arlen and was asking him if he felt like doing a bit of shooting in the morning.

  She could barely relax. She had thought to hide the evidence of last night’s attack by wearing this dress. Now all it would do was make it uncomfortable, if not impossible, to eat.

  “That is a capital idea.” Arlen smiled.

  “Perhaps we should invite Garrick to join us,” Lionel said.

  Olivia was glad her mouth was not full, otherwise she would have choked. Unable to control herself, she glanced at Arlen. He was staring at her. Her heart beat wildly, uncontrollably.

  “Another grand idea,” Arlen said, his tone flat. “Let us invite him. We can send a servant to the Hall as we speak.” And he smiled. “We shall soon have a full house, it seems. For the Laytons arrive tomorrow as well.”

  And finally, Olivia made a noise. Abruptly she reached for her wine and took a quick sip. It did not still her pounding heart.

  “My dear, are you all right?” Arlen asked coolly.

  Olivia nodded. A coherent reply failed her.

  And Arlen smiled. “I am sure Caedmon will be thrilled to be reunited with his fiancée, don’t you agree, Olivia?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He still despised hunting. But Garrick had not even thought to refuse the invitation a servant had brought to him last evening from Ashburnham. He had arisen well before dawn to join the hunt.

  “Shoot!” Arlen shouted as a bevy of grouse was flushed by the hounds from the field.

  Garrick was slow to pull the trigger on his matchlock rifle, one that had not been used in years. By the time he fired, both Arlen and Lionel, standing shoulder to shoulder with him, had already fired twice and downed two birds each. Garrick squinted. The flapping, squeaking birds filled the pale blue, early morning sky. Their images were blurred. He tried to aim on one grouse. It seemed to reverse direction—flying backward. He fired and missed.

  Lionel was taking his third, expert shot. As his mark fell to the ground with a thump, it was clear that he was an even better marksman than before. Arlen paused, having just reloaded. “So you still cannot shoot.”

  Garrick was watching his setter racing with the hounds, eagerly looking for downed prey. So tense that he could hardly move his shoulders, Garrick turned to face him and their gazes clashed and locked. The tension that reverberated between them was so strong, Garrick thought he could see the air thickening around them. He smiled. It was a cold, unpleasant smile. “I find blood sport far more than boring—I find it the extreme act of cowardice.”

  Arlen stiffened. “You call me a coward?”

  A brief silence fell between them. The red setter appeared, a grouse in his mouth, tail wagging as he dropped it at Garrick’s feet. Lionel lowered his rifle. “We are out having a friendly hunt,” he said, smiling. “Garrick hardly called you a coward, Arlen.”

  “I asked your brother.”

  Garrick smiled again, as coldly. “These birds have no chance. This is not even a sport. It is slaughter.” Suddenly disgusted with himself for participating in the hunt merely because he wished to see Olivia, and equally disgusted by his jealousy over Lionel having spent last night at Ashburnham, he threw his rifle down.

  “You quit because you cannot shoot to save your own life.” Arlen laughed.

  Garrick stalked away. But he heard Lionel say, “He means no harm. He has always hated hunting. Let him go back to the house. I am sure the countess will be able to entertain him.”

  Garrick’s tension increased.

  Garrick’s steps slowed. He was approaching the house from the back, where a jumble of wildly arranged flowers in every single possible color formed a garden. His heart was drumming now, hard and loud, in his chest. Behind the garden was a slate-floored terrace. And Olivia was sitting there with her daughter at a table.

  She had seen him, and she was staring.

  He stepped onto the terrace, hesitating, watching as Olivia set her teacup down. He now saw the plates on the table she sat at and realized that she and her daughter were enjoying their breakfast outside, in spite of the early morning chill. It was unheard of—but the kind of thing he himself had done on too many occasions to count.

  “Treve!” Hannah cried, standing.

  The setter wagged its tail rapidly, his entire body undulating, but he did not move from Garrick’s side. Garrick realized he had stopped in his tracks and was staring at Olivia as if he were a lovestruck fool. But perhaps he was. “Go,” he told his dog, snapping his fingers and pointing at Hannah.

  The setter bounded over to the little girl, who bent and hugged him hard. When she looked up toward Garrick, her sightless eyes were shining. “Good day, my lord,” she said happily.

  Olivia was also standing. “Good day, Hannah,” Garrick said, trying hard now to remain in the present and not be swept away with memories of the past—memories of all the moments he had thus far spent with her, including the stolen, passion-filled ones. He wanted to be close to her—he wanted, at least, to touch her. Just once. “Lady Ashburn.”

  “My lord,” she said throatily.

  Having bowed, he finally walked over to her, and he froze. There was a dark discoloration on the right side of her face. She had been hit.

  Olivia pressed her forefinger to her lips, her eyes finding his, hers filled with worry and a silent communication. When she spoke, her smile was forced. “How nice to see you again, my lord. Where is my husband and your brot
her?”

  “They remain afield. It will be at least an hour before they are done with their sport,” he managed, filled with icy rage and shaking because of it. Should he kill Arlen? Or should he merely beat him to within an inch of his life?

  “Oh,” she said, eyes wide, her tone odd and high. Again her smile was forced, and suddenly Garrick wondered if she were dismayed and distressed to see him. After all, he had no doubt that he was the reason she had been struck. Did she blame him for Arlen’s brutality? And had this ever happened before?

  “Hannah, why don’t you take Treve around to the kitchens and find him some treats? Surely there is a nice mutton bone left over from last night,” Olivia said.

  “Oh, thank you, Mama!” Hannah cried. She paused. “My lord, may I? The kitchens are just around the side of the house. We had mutton last night. Does Treve like bones?”

  Garrick could not smile. “Of course. Treve, go with Hannah.”

  But Hannah paused. “My lord? Is something amiss?”

  He focused. “You are very astute, Hannah, for such a young girl. Or can you read my mind?”

  Hannah’s smile faded. Worried, she cocked her head toward her mother. “I cannot read minds, my lord,” she said tersely.

  He stared, certain he had struck a nerve and was very close to the truth. But Olivia stepped swiftly between them. “Go on, my dear. And tell the staff to bring Lord Caedmon breakfast. You are hungry, my lord?” She faced him as Hannah and the setter ran off, disappearing around the side of the house. “Don’t ever do that again,” she flared.

  He did not answer. Instead he stared into her all-seeing gray eyes and then at the hideous mark on her face. “I’ll kill him.”

  “No!” she cried, coming forward and laying her hand on his arm. “Do not make matters worse!”

  Her touch was a brand. It branded him. Instantly his hands closed on her arms.

  Olivia’s eyes widened, and she looked frantically around them.

  “I am putting you in jeopardy,” he said, releasing her immediately. He, too, glanced around but did not see anyone in sight. “I am sorry. What happened?”