Blaike_Secrets Gone Askew

by Collette Cameron

  While they’d waited for Dr. Barclay to finish examining Oliver, no one had mentioned that awkwardness of Blaike’s peculiar potential betrothal. How could they, with guests present?

  That was the one unfortunate rub in all of this.

  Mr. Drake—strange to not call him lieutenant any longer—had been most reserved in his attentions to Blaire. Truthfully, other than the cursory hello, he’d not spoken to her, yet his gaze continually followed her ’round the room.

  To her twin’s credit, Blaire acted the composed woman of refinement, chatting and smiling with their visitors, and not once did she turn soulful eyes to him.

  Blaike knew full well the supreme effort that façade had cost her sister.

  She hadn’t completely escaped repercussions for her wild impulse in Oliver’s chamber, however. After the guests had departed, and as the women excused themselves to go to their fittings, Heath had taken her aside. He’d asked to see Blaike in his study tomorrow morning. At ten o’clock sharp. Likely to chastise her unseemly, impetuous, and shameful behavior.

  A smile pulled her mouth upward.

  Dear Heath. He’d had no idea what he’d taken on when he married Brooke and was appointed the other four Culpeppers’ guardian. He’d done remarkably well for a man with no sisters.

  She supposed it would be the perfect time to tell him about the Severs, too.

  Along the length of the table, the guests laughed and chatted, their conversations mixing with clinking china and silverware. And every now and again, a raucous, muffled call filtered into the dining room from a disgruntled M’Lady Lottie, sequestered in the solarium.

  Somehow, someone had managed to procure a good-sized cage, and Blaike had helped gather items for the bird to play with as well as food for the cockatoo.

  She’d spent several minutes soothing the frazzled creature, and couldn’t contain her jubilant smile when Lottie obediently toddled onto her perch repeating, “Purdy bird, purdy bird. Purdy, purdy, birdy, bird.”

  A mortified gasp replaced her upturned lips when, a moment later, M’Lady Lottie turned to Heath, fanned her salmon crest, and said in a woman’s coy voice, “Shag fer a shillin’, guv.”

  His eyebrows had vaulted toward his thick hairline before he replied through his laughter, “Alas, my wife won’t permit it. But thank you for the kind offer.”

  “Raven. For shame.” He’d received a sharp rap on his arm from Brooke for his tasteless humor.

  Oliver turned to address something Lady Sethwick said.

  That appeared to be going splendidly, and Blaike had the absurd childish desire to clap her hands in delight at his good fortune. For certain, he deserved some grace. Fate hadn’t been altogether kind to him.

  He nodded at whatever her ladyship said, and a shock of hair fell over his forehead, just above his scar.

  Canting her head, Blaike considered him.

  No denying his cropped hair became him. Why had he decided to have the rest lopped off, and his beard too?

  A small stab of alarm had her squeezing the wine goblet’s stem.

  Had that to do with his father, too?

  Was it possible, Oliver had fashioned a plan about his future so swiftly?

  Did it include her?

  She took a sip of wine, as another hot flush engulfed her at her gumption in his chamber. Of course she’d known he wasn’t proposing, and she was fully aware she’d backed him into a corner, so to speak. Naturally, she had no intention of forcing herself on him. But if misplaced honor and pride were what prevented him from asking for her hand, then she’d fight for Oliver.

  Fight for their love.

  Make him fight for it, too. If that was what he wanted as much as she did.

  Didn’t he realize not everyone was fortunate enough to find the one who made their heart and soul whole?

  Nothing to do if Oliver truly wouldn’t marry her.

  She’d not humiliate herself any further.

  In fact, Blaike very well might accept the Sethwicks’ generous offer to visit Craiglocky Castle. Anytime, they’d said. She’d never been inside a medieval keep before, let alone stayed in one. It might prove just the distraction she needed.

  If Oliver couldn’t be persuaded to see reason.

  To let love guide him and trust what came after.

  Dinner dragged on for hours, it seemed, as did the men’s brandy and the ladies’ tea afterward. At long last, everyone gathered in the drawing room.

  Blythe made straight for the mahogany pianoforte and Lady Sethwick joined her. In a moment, their expert playing filled the room.

  Near the fireplace, Oliver chatted with Lord Sethwick and Heath. He ran a finger over the marble mantel and said something to Heath. After Heath responded, Oliver smiled and gave a brief bow, then headed in Blaike’s direction.

  The moment was at hand. He meant to discuss her impulsive act, sure as feathers stuck to warm tar.

  Her palms dampened, and she swallowed.

  He didn’t appear the least bit angry, but she was still nervous as a goose the week before Christmastide.

  Her future might be decided within the next few minutes.

  Well, her future with Oliver. At least she’d know, one way or the other.

  She stubbornly disregarded the maddening little voice that reminded her he’d already had his say aboard the Sea Gypsy.

  He bowed before her chair, his gaze holding a silent message. Good or bad, she couldn’t discern. Neither could she decide if she preferred this refined man or the unpolished captain who’d first stolen her heart.

  “Ravensdale has said I might take a turn about the solarium with you since it’s begun to rain, and I cannot take the stroll I’d anticipated.”

  My, he sounded every bit the polished gentlemen. Where had her swaggering buccaneer gone? He’d anticipated a stroll with her, had he?

  Blaike rose, acutely aware every eye in the room had turned to them. More than one pair of lips turned upward knowingly. She’d got herself into this conundrum, and she’d have to deal with the consequences.

  “I’m sure M’Lady Lottie will be happy to see you. She said pretty bird today.”

  “Yes, and a great number of other less polite things as well,” Leventhorpe offered dryly as he stood beside his wife, turning the music pages.

  “Shall we?” Oliver extended his elbow.

  The solarium lay along the corridor on the opposite side of the house. More nervous than she could ever recall being with him, Blaike searched for something to break the strained silence.

  “Why did you cut your hair and shave your beard?”

  Oliver ran a hand over his smooth jaw, and offered a lopsided smile. “I thought I might make a better impression on Lady Sethwick if I didn’t look like an ill-kempt marauder.”

  “No such thing,” Blaike denied. “Your long hair was lovely.”

  They’d reached the solarium, and he opened the door.

  Candles burned in several sconces on the walls, and the sweet perfume of Brooke’s prized gardenias tinged the humid air. Lottie’s new cage had been placed beneath a pair of potted ficuses, and some large leafed plants formed a half circle behind the cage.

  “Hello, Lottie.”

  Immediately upon spying Oliver, she launched into her usual dancing and bobbing as Blaike covertly twisted the key in the keyhole.

  “Ol-eeve. Ol-leeve.”

  “I don’t think she’s ever going to pronounce your name correctly.”

  Blaike unlatched Lottie’s cage, and at once the cockatoo soared through the airy room, weaving and dipping before landing on a hanging pot. Truth to tell, the greenhouse would make an ideal over-sized birdcage for her and even slightly resembled her native habitat.

  Oliver remained silent, his ebony gaze never leaving Blaike.

  Uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny and uncertain why he hadn’t yet broached the subject that was at the forefront of both their minds, she made her way to the wicker sofa with it’s coral, yellow, and sage floral cu
shion. After tossing a matching pillow aside and settling on the seat, she plucked a couple of dead blossoms from the salmon colored begonia atop the matching wicker table.

  The silence dragged on, until her nerves became taut and her stomach wobbly, and she feared her dinner might reappear. Oh, how she dreaded hearing what Oliver in his pity or compassion couldn’t bring himself to say.

  Fine then.

  She’d spare them both the prolonged discomfit.

  Better to have it done and over.

  “Oliver, I apologize for placing you in such an uncomfortable position earlier. That was unfair of me and manipulative as well. You made yourself absolutely clear that day in your quarters. I . . .” How could she tell him that she’d hoped—prayed—he’d changed his mind? Wanted to beg him to give their love a chance.

  I shan’t cry.

  Head slanted, she focused on Lottie preening her feathers rather than his beloved features. Her heart would shatter, loudly and in as many pieces as dropped crystal, if she had to witness the relief in his expression when she told him what she must.

  Closing her eyes briefly, she inhaled a fortifying breath. She wasn’t a whiny, weak-kneed miss. She’d take responsibility.

  “Of course I shan’t hold you to that ridiculousness. Neither will I ask you to be the one to tell my family. After all, you heard their reactions in your chamber. They won’t be the least surprised.”

  Why didn’t he say something?

  Gritting her jaw against the pulsing ache in her throat, she commanded the moisture in her eyes to go.

  I. Shall. Not. Cry.

  He’d wandered to one of the gardenia bushes, and now held one of the fragile blooms in his sun-browned hand. “You’ve changed your mind then?”

  A lady of discernment bears in mind that just because

  someone reveals a secret, it doesn’t mean they’re telling the truth.

  ~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living

  “No. I assumed . . .”

  Blaike wet her lower lip, and brows scrunched, peered at him. Finally, she managed, “I don’t know what to say to make things right, Oliver.”

  A traitorous tear fell onto her hands folded in her lap.

  The drops would ruin the fine satin.

  This pale cerulean and ivory gown, with its delicate blue roses embroidered at the hem, cuffs and neckline had been selected because it made her eyes appear bluer and her skin creamier. She’d chosen it to impress him. Had wanted to be pretty for him.

  “I love you. I tried to stop, because I know you said you would never ask me to marry you. But, God help me, I swear I cannot.”

  Head tucked to her chest, she whispered the last words, and in that moment knew them to be true. She would never, could never, cease loving Oliver. Some women were meant to love a single man. It seemed she was one of them.

  “Amore mia, I don’t want you to.”

  Then Oliver was beside her, gathering her into that wonderfully strong embrace she yearned for and remembered so well.

  His unique manly essence combined with soap, and the brandy he’d imbibed after dinner drifted to her nostrils. Eyes closed, she breathed him in, this man who’d become such a vital part of her life. She’d do anything for them to be together. Even toss her scruples aside and risk scandal, so great was her love.

  Oliver spoke into her hair. “I’ve regretted those words every second since I stupidly, cruelly uttered them. Please tell me you can forgive me.”

  Lord knows Hawkins had preached at him often enough on the topic. Today, Oliver had learned firsthand how freeing it was to forgive.

  “Of course I forgive you.” Blaike smiled and touched his cheek. “I forgave you as soon as you said them. When you love someone, forgiveness comes easily.”

  A door slammed shut somewhere in the house, and laughter carried down the corridor. Either Lady Sethwick or Blythe continued playing the pianoforte.

  He grasped her hand and brought it to his lips, giving each knuckle a reverent kiss.

  “Tonight, cara, I finally saw reason. With humility and the full knowledge of how very blessed I am to have your love, I implore you to marry me.”

  At once her vision blurred, and she struggled to speak. “Truly, Oliver?”

  “Aye, truly, bella, Ti adoro.”

  “What made you change your mind?” Threading her hand through his hair, enjoying the thick, silky strands sliding between her fingers, she said, “I’m positive it wasn’t my rash behavior in your chamber. No one makes Captain Oliver Whitehouse do something he doesn’t want to.”

  Holding her tighter, he laughed, a warm self-deprecating sound.

  “Actually, my father revealed long held secrets to me, and now I understand so much.” He kissed her damp cheeks, then her mouth for a splendid, far too short moment. “He’d asked my mother to marry him, several times truth to tell, but she refused.”

  Blaike stiffened and angled to stare into his tender gaze, not at all sure she’d heard him correctly. “Why would she do that? You told me she adored him.”

  A violent gust of wind pelted rain against the glass.

  Startled, Lottie flapped her wings. “Hooligans. Bolt the door.”

  Secure within Oliver’s embrace, Blaike snuggled closer. Let the storm vent her wrath. Nothing could disturb Blaike’s contentment.

  “She did love my father. But Mamma felt unworthy, and claimed commoners and aristocrats shouldn’t marry.”

  That sounded far too familiar.

  Oliver had said that exact thing.

  “According to my father, Mamma vowed those unions caused untold difficulties and heartache. She believed if they married, it would bring shame upon Father’s dynasty, and she feared it would eventually taint their love.”

  Did he realize he’d been referring to Willoughby as his father since this morning?

  Brushing his smooth jaw with her fingertips, Blaike shook her head, confused.

  “Balderdash. She must’ve endured shame and ridicule bearing a child out of wedlock. Look how it affected you? Didn’t she consider that?”

  Oliver leaned back, drawing her with him until she practically lay beneath him. “She did, and yet she still wouldn’t marry my father or even let him set her up in a house. You see . . .”

  He paused to kiss her collarbone, then trailed his tongue across the quivering flesh to her shoulder.

  Such bliss infused Blaike, it was all she could do to keep her thoughts straight and not forget all and ravish him.

  “Go on,” she managed, hardly recognizing her own passion-laden voice.

  “I’d much rather kiss you, and give you that anatomy lesson you requested.” Oliver’s husky tone suggested he was as overcome as she. “Except I fear we might be interrupted. That might prove a mite awkward.”

  “We won’t be disturbed.” She waggled her brows, a naughty smile tugging her mouth sideways. “I locked the door.”

  “Why you sly wench you.” He tickled her ribs, and she giggled.

  Who was this playful devil?

  “You can give me a lengthy lesson afterward. In fact, I insist upon it.” Perhaps—

  hopefully—a whole lot more than kissing might occur. Well, not too much more. For certain, someone would be along soon to ensure propriety wasn’t breached.

  She nudged Oliver in the ribs. “What is this secret the viscount told you?”

  “Father confessed he didn’t know everything either. Only what Mamma had shared after the last time she refused his suit. It seems my grandmother—my nonna—was the youngest and favorite daughter of an Italian nobleman, Francesco Rossini. She fell in love with Nonno, a humble shipbuilder, and eloped when my great-grandfather forbade them to see each other. Her father disowned her—never spoke to her again.”

  “How cruel. It must’ve broken her heart.”

  Blaike shifted, and the wicker creaked. Surrounded by windows on three sides, the solarium still held the day’s heat, despite the cranky weather outside.r />
  “I think it did. But my great-grandmother wrote letter after letter, trying to persuade Nonna to return home. Without her husband. Or her child of sin. Nonna was Catholic, but Nonno wasn’t, and so her mother condemned their child too.”

  “I don’t believe I like your great-grandmother at all.”

  “Nor I. According to my father, my great-grandmother blamed my nonna for everything from her father’s ill-health and losing his sight, to her married sister running off with her lover, and her brother’s sons drowning and leaving no male heirs.”

  “That’s awful. She sounds like a spiteful, bitter woman.” What kind of a person did that to their child?

  “She only stopped when Nonna died. By her own hand. My mamma found her. That’s when Nonno moved to England and changed his name from de Casabianca to Whitehouse so the Rossinis couldn’t find them. After a few years they did though. Another sister wrote Mamma once in a while, usually to announce a death or a marriage in the family.”

  “Oliver, do you think those are the letters?” Blaike’s eyes rounded in distress. “Oh, no. Did they burn, too? Now you’ll never know—”

  He placed two fingers on her lips. “Shh, don’t fret, cara. I took your advice and had the entire packet, the letters and the documents, translated.”

  Exhaling a great puff of air, she relaxed once more. “I’m so relieved. And I confess, terribly curious.”

  “I wish Mamma hadn’t been so afraid. Today, after Father told me what she’d done, I realized I was following in her footsteps. Forsaking the one I adore for fear of society’s strictures and what might happen.”

  Blaike sighed, and draped an arm about Oliver’s brawny shoulders. “It’s not for us to judge your mother for her decisions. Unless someone has been in the same circumstances, experienced the same trauma, they haven’t any right to say what should or should not be done. Even then, they shouldn’t.”

  “Now you sound like Hawkins.” Oliver shook his head, his lips quirked in exasperation. “You know that note he sent?”