Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I fell.”

  “Do not treat me like a fool,” he erupted. Now he grabbed her wrist. She cried out.

  Amazed, he released her, saw the pain in her eyes, and took her palm gently. “Do not,” she whispered, her eyes shining now with tears. But he ignored her, turning over her hand and pushing back the cuff. Her wrist was bruised and discolored, too.

  His heart had never hurt him like this. And he had never hated anyone the way he hated Arlen. Immediately, before she could form a new protest, he inspected her other wrist. She turned her head aside, blinking back tears. “What happened, Olivia?” he demanded. “Is this the first time? Or does he beat you as he wills?”

  “Please, join me for breakfast,” she said, blinking rapidly.

  “You are crying.”

  “I am not crying.” She moved away and reached for her chair.

  “You are.” He was aghast. He wanted to hold her, comfort her. Instead he moved her chair back for her and helped her to sit. Then he sat in the chair Hannah had vacated. “I caused this, didn’t I?”

  “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”

  “Olivia!” His tone was sharp, and it carried. She blanched. He tried desperately to control his scattered wits and, worse, his frenzied emotions. “I must talk to you. There is no one about. Please.”

  “There is a house full of servants about.” She hesitated. “This is not a good time.”

  He leaned forward. “When is a good time?”

  “There is no good time,” she whispered, avoiding his eyes. “Not for us.”

  He sat up, his pulse drumming. “You don’t mean that.”

  She stared at the table, refusing to meet his eyes.

  She could not mean it, yet he felt that his world was in jeopardy. “Olivia, I have to know.”

  She finally met his gaze. “Why? So you can assault him? And then where would that leave me and my daughter? He knows, Garrick. He knows I spent the night at Stanhope Hall, and he is convinced we are lovers.”

  “Oh, God.” Garrick stared. He was sick. “You must run away. You must leave him.”

  She inhaled. “Why did you come? You did not have to accept the invitation.”

  He met her gaze. “You know why I came. I came to see you. I was worried about you.” And he realized that he had been right to have felt so uneasy since last being with her.

  She stood abruptly. “I am tired. I …” She hesitated, because their gazes remained locked.

  “Don’t go,” he said, knowing she was fighting her desire to stay and have a few moments with him. “Olivia, we may not have another chance to speak privately. Please. Sit down.”

  Her gaze moved beyond him. “They are coming,” she said. With a pale visage, she sank back into her chair, rearranging her expression into a smile that was false and stiff. Garrick shifted and looked behind him. Lionel and Arlen were almost at the garden, their rifles on their shoulders, the hounds milling about their legs. Both men carried a dozen dead birds, strung together on two lines.

  “Garrick.”

  Her whisper was low and hoarse. He turned back to her like a shot.

  She wet her lips. “I do wish to speak to you. God help me. I am just not sure when.”

  He nodded. “We will find a time.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “I will stay as long as my brother stays,” he said.

  She nodded, her shoulders squaring, as footsteps finally sounded on the slate behind him. She stood. “My lords,” she said, continuing to smile. But her eyes were obviously filled with dismay and anxiety. Garrick also stood.

  “I see you are entertaining our guest,” Arlen said, dropping a dozen dead, bloody birds at her feet. “How kind of you.”

  Olivia stared at him, did not reply. One of the dead birds touched the hem of her pale dress, staining it. She stretched her smile. “My lord, have you enjoyed this beautiful morning?”

  “Indeed I have.” Lionel’s exceedingly warm blue gaze held hers. It was a caress upon her face. Garrick stiffened suddenly, watching them.

  Lionel bowed over her hand, taking it to his lips. “Lady Ashburn, you are a sight for my sore eyes. Now you have made the morning truly lovely.”

  Two spots of pink color appeared on Olivia’s high cheekbones. “Thank you, my lord, but you do exaggerate,” she said huskily, looking away.

  Garrick could only stare at her in disbelief. He could not believe what was transpiring.

  Lionel was speaking again. “Have you forgotten the promise you made last night? You offered to show me your greenhouse, and explain to me the vagaries of indoor planting.”

  Olivia nodded. “Yes, I did.” She was clearly careful not to look in Garrick’s direction.

  “Perhaps we can do so after dinner? Would that be convenient?” Lionel grinned.

  “Of course,” Olivia fumbled, “as long as Arlen has not made other plans for you.”

  “As De Vere wishes,” Arlen said, toeing the bundle of dead birds. “The Laytons will be here for dinner, we shall all be busy enough.” He turned to stare at Garrick. “I am sure you must be thrilled to be reunited with your fiancée.”

  Garrick faced Arlen. “Hardly,” he ground out. He sent Lionel a piercing regard, one filled with warning, but Lionel only smiled at him, as if he did not understand.

  But Garrick knew he damn well did comprehend his meaning.

  “I am so happy to see you,” Susan cried, grasping Olivia’s hands. The Laytons had arrived but moments ago. Olivia did not know where Garrick was; she had last seen him and the setter walking away from the house a short while ago, but Arlen and Lionel were in the salon with Sir John Layton and his wife, Lady Layton telling them how pleasant the journey had been.

  Olivia was hardly relaxed. She hoped her smile was sunny and bright. “I am glad to see you, too,” she lied. Under any other circumstances she would be, but not now, not today, with Garrick at the house as another guest. She felt herself flush with guilt just thinking about him. She had betrayed Susan dearly, and there was no way around the inescapable fact. “You look very well,” she added.

  It was the truth. Susan had never seemed prettier. Her cheeks were pink, and there was a sparkle in her eyes. They stood in the foyer, the front door wide open behind them. Susan laughed. “As much as I love town, I do love Ashbumham,” she explained. But her gaze was already wandering—toward the salon.

  Olivia followed it. It was obvious that Susan was peeking at Lionel. “The men were hunting this morning,” Olivia said.

  “Oh, how nice.” Susan tore her gaze away to smile happily at Olivia. Then her face fell. “Is he here, too?”

  Olivia looked at the young girl, thinking that she was so foolish to dislike Garrick and favor his brother. She herself now regarded the foursome in the salon. Lionel was handsome and outstanding, and like the sun, he brightened the room. His presence was commanding. He did remind her of Stanhope. But something was wrong with him. She knew it, with the certainty that her gift of sight gave her. “Yes, he is here. I am sure he is eager to see you.” She could not force her lips to curve upward. She felt no jealousy toward Susan, how could she? Susan was sweet and pleasant. But the situation remained intolerable. Why had they not stayed away from one another?

  Arlen’s furious image as he pinned her down the other night assailed her. And with the image, she envisioned Garrick’s heated eyes and heard him say, You must leave him. If only it were so simple. If she took Hannah and ran away, she was placing her and her daughter at a grave risk. For if he found them, he would drag them home and make their life intolerable. Olivia knew it, because she had been married to him for nine achingly long years. Perhaps he would not just punish her through Hannah, perhaps he would actually hurt Hannah. She shuddered.

  But how could she stay?

  “I doubt my fiancé is eager to see me,” Susan said. “He despises me, and the few times we have been in the same room, it is obvious.” But now she smiled, and when she spoke, her t
one was bubbly, like newly opened champagne. “The earl of Stanhope has been seen everywhere with his son. With Lionel, that is.” She beamed. “At Almack’s he introduced him around, and clearly, he’s on the verge of publicly declaring him his long-lost and legitimate heir. As I am to wed the Stanhope heir, I am sure my father will soon be speaking to Stanhope about rectifying this coil. Isn’t it wonderful?” Susan quite cried.

  “Do not get your hopes up,” Olivia said gently.

  “Why ever not? If I dwell upon marriage to Garrick, I shall surely go insane—or try to drown myself again.”

  “Susan!” Olivia grasped her arm, ready to shake her, but at that moment Lionel was pausing beside them. Olivia paled, searching his face to see if he had heard Susan’s last incriminating remark, but his blue gaze was steady upon Susan, who was blushing prettily. His smile widening, he took her hand and bowed over it. “Dear Miss Layton. Soon you shall be my sister,” he said. “How good it is to see you again.”

  Olivia was relieved. He had not heard. If anyone ever found out about Susan’s attempt at suicide, the scandal would be horrendous—and should Susan not marry Garrick De Vere undoubtedly no one else ever would.

  Now Susan’s gaze was coy, flirting with his. “This is such a surprise,” she said, wide-eyed. “I had no idea you were in the country.”

  He clearly knew she was besotted and clearly knew she lied. He laughed. “I hope this is a pleasant surprise, Miss Layton.”

  “Oh, very,” she responded quickly, beaming.

  Olivia sighed. Susan had no guile, and she did not think Lionel truly interested in her. Yet his eyes, fixed upon Susan, were now warm and admiring. They had been as warm and as admiring when directed at her, Olivia, yesterday and this morning. A glimmer of comprehension struck Olivia, and she narrowed her gaze upon him.

  But as if he sensed her skepticism and her sudden inkling, he turned. “You two ladies make a lovely sight. An artist should paint the pair of you, perhaps outside, in the countess’s splendid garden.”

  Susan blushed anew, while Olivia murmured, “That is very kind of you.” She was coming to dislike Lionel, she realized. He was not sincere. But could he possibly be up to what she thought he was? Surely his interest in Susan and herself was not related to the fact that Susan was Garrick’s fiancée and that she herself was involved with him as well?

  “And where is my brother—Miss Layton’s fiancé?” Lionel asked.

  Susan grimaced. “He is out walking, according to the countess.”

  “Could he not even be present to greet you properly?” Lionel was exasperated. “Do forgive Garrick, Miss Layton. In spite of his behavior, which at times seems odd, he is a kind and caring person. It is just, I suspect, that having lived on that savage island for so many years, his penchant for eccentricity has been whetted, not dimmed.” He smiled. “But I am sure that, in time, he shall establish new manners—with your devotion and aid.”

  Susan managed a weak smile. She did not reply.

  “Have you been to the Hall yet?” Lionel asked.

  Olivia stared at him, having no doubt now as to what was about to come. She was stiff with tension.

  “No, I have not,” Susan said, her eyes brightening with expectation.

  “My brother.” Lionel shook his head again, in mock exasperation this time. “Miss Layton, if my brother has failed to invite you for a grand tour, then let me do so. May I escort you over, say, tomorrow? Surely you wish to glimpse one of your future homes.”

  Olivia took Susan’s arm before she could reply in the affirmative. “My lord, tomorrow I had planned a picnic for myself and Miss Layton and her mother.” It was a fabrication. “Besides, surely Caedmon will wish to escort his betrothed to the Hall?” Her smile was strained.

  Susan shook her arm free. “Can we not picnic another time?” she asked. She faced Lionel. “I would so love to see the Hall, especially if you showed me the house and grounds yourself.”

  Olivia had one coherent thought—Susan would be putty in this man’s hands. He could seduce her at will, if he so chose. Then she was shocked at where her mind had led her. But had it been her mind or her gift?

  Lionel had hesitated. “Perhaps I have been remiss,” he said, glancing at Olivia as if he could read her thoughts. “But I was only thinking to make amends for my brother’s lack of courtesy.”

  Before either Susan or Olivia could reply, Garrick stepped up to them, apparently having been standing just outside the open front door. “You are not remiss.” He smiled, but his eyes remained cool. “Please, Lionel, escort Miss Layton to the Hall. I am sure she will be thrilled.” His gaze swept over Lionel, moved to Olivia, and rested there. “I am sure she shall be in very good hands, Lady Ashburn.”

  Please don’t, Olivia thought, gazing into his angry eyes. Please do not force an issue now.

  Lionel smiled back at Garrick. Olivia could not decide if he were angry—his expression was completely, purposefully, masked. “Well, with your permission, I would love to do so. It shall be a charming afternoon, spent in charming company.”

  Garrick’s jaw was set as he stared at his brother now. Lionel stared back, no longer smiling. Suddenly, briefly, the two men looked like two dogs about to converge on a single bone. When Garrick finally faced his fiancée, interrupting the brief moment, Olivia hoped she had not seen what she thought she had. She watched him bow, very cursorily, and she despaired. Susan was right. His ill will toward his intended was glaringly obvious—and that was not right. “Miss Layton,” he said stiffly, “I hardly know how to greet you properly. I hope you have had a pleasant journey?”

  Her expression anxious if not downright fearful, Susan curtsied. “My lord.” Her tone was hardly audible. “It was—er—quite passable.”

  Garrick nodded curtly. “How fine,” he said. Directing one hard look at Lionel, another piercing glance at Olivia, he spun on his heel and exited the house.

  A silence reigned.

  “Well,” Lionel said lightly. “What shall it be? A picnic or a tour?”

  Olivia took Susan’s arm. “Go after him. He is your betrothed. Ask him if he will show you around the Hall.”

  Susan stared. Her face crumpled. Tears filled her eyes. “I cannot. He scares me. He is hateful!”

  Olivia turned, not even thinking, obeying her feet, which moved of their own will. Garrick was angry and upset, and rightly so. She had to go to him.

  “Olivia. Come. You have not greeted Sir John and his wife properly,” Arlen called harshly to her from the threshold of the salon.

  And reality claimed her. Halfway to the door, Olivia faltered and froze. How much had Arlen heard and seen? She turned and obediently, her heart sinking, did as Arlen had asked.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Garrick stood outside the greenhouse, his hands in the pockets of his breeches, staring through the partially opaque glass walls. His mood had never been more foul.

  Inside, Olivia was walking among the various plants and blooms, with Lionel at her side. They were carrying on a conversation that Garrick could not hear. But every now and then Lionel would make a remark with his too engaging smile, and Olivia would smile in return.

  Garrick knew beyond a doubt that Lionel wished to seduce Olivia away from him. Of course, he could not blame him or any other man for wanting her, but in this case he could not help but think that Lionel wanted her because he, Garrick, had had her first. Was he being overly sensitive and overly imaginative?

  In the past, as boys, there had never been that kind of rivalry. In fact, Garrick clearly remembered his first passionate encounter with a serving wench in the village near Caedmon Crag. Lionel had also been intimate with the buxom young girl, but Garrick had been the first and Lionel had not cared.

  Garrick continued to stare. Olivia was pointing at some stunning purple flowers Garrick could not identify, and Lionel was nodding with his incessant smile. Dinner had been as annoying. Lionel had managed to amuse the table with numerous anecdotes about his life in India.
Everyone—except for Garrick—had been impressed with his narrow escape from the man-eating tiger. But he had included a story of his childhood—an adventure he had shared with Garrick at Caedmon Crag. During one of the first summers the boys had ever been there, they had come upon smugglers on the beach one rainy afternoon. Terrified and fascinated, they had watched the activities from behind huge boulders, fortunately not being discovered. They had spent the rest of the summer pretending that they were smugglers, playing in the caves the smugglers used.

  How in hell did this man know about that? Unless he really was Lionel?

  Garrick watched Lionel tuck Olivia’s arm in his as they turned to leave the greenhouse. He was uneasy, and far more so than because the sight of them together disturbed him—which it did. If this man were his actual, long-lost, vanished brother, then he had changed. In a way, it was almost impossible to believe that he was a fraud, given his incredible knowledge of the family and the past. But Garrick disliked him. His feelings since meeting him had undergone numerous transformations, and he was left now with raw suspicion and a deep dislike.

  Olivia’s cheeks were damp and flushed when she and Lionel appeared on the gravel path outside the greenhouse. Garrick made no move to conceal himself, and she started when she saw him. Lionel smiled slightly, his eyes narrowed. “Well,” his brother said easily enough. “Did you wish for a tour, too?”

  Garrick strode forward. He had left his setter with Hannah in the house. “Actually, I think that is a wonderful idea.” His unwavering gaze remained upon Lionel.

  Lionel stared back, while Olivia removed her arm from his and looked from one man to the other. “I hope you were not feeling left out. I had assumed you would be walking on the grounds with your fiancée.”

  “I am leaving my fiancée in your very capable hands,” Garrick said coolly.

  Lionel’s expression remained fixed—a slight, amused, condescending smile. “Miss Layton is charming. You should consider yourself lucky to be plighted to such a sweet and innocent girl.”