by Anne Barton
Olivia sprang from the bed and went to Hildy’s side. “How did he look?”
Hildy eyed Olivia with a mixture of concern and confusion. “Same as he always has, miss—portly, self-important, and somewhat cross with the world.”
“Not Dennison. Mr. Averill.”
“Oh.” The maid’s cheeks flushed pink. “I suppose he looked well. Fit. And rather serious.”
“Thank you, Hildy,” said Rose. “Would you give Olivia and me two minutes, please?”
“Certainly.” She dipped a quick curtsy and left, shutting the door behind her.
Olivia turned to Rose, still sitting on the bed. She couldn’t make her mouth form the question she wanted to ask, so she asked it with her eyes. They’d always been able to communicate this way. Could James’s visit with Owen possibly mean what I think it means?
Rose drew a deep breath. “Why else would he be here? He’s meeting privately with our brother, the day after he kissed you on Lord Easton’s terrace.”
“This doesn’t seem real.” Olivia’s legs began to shake; she felt behind her and sank carefully onto the ottoman.
Rose’s angelic face broke into a wide smile. “At this very moment, Mr. Averill is downstairs… asking for your hand in marriage. Good heavens. What shall we do?”
Olivia wiped her moist palms on the skirt of her morning dress, which, now that she thought on it, was far too plain a gown in which to accept a marriage proposal. “Let’s start by calling Hildy back in. Then I think the three of us should repair to my room so I can change into a prettier gown and have Hildy do something with my hair.”
Rose squealed—which was very unlike her—and jumped up to hug Olivia. “I’m so delighted for you.”
Olivia blinked away the tears that started to blur her vision. If James’s proposal was half as wonderful as she’d dreamed it would be, today was going to be the happiest day of her life.
“Averill.” Huntford waved him into the chair before his desk and leaned back, stretching like he’d been hunched over a ledger for hours. “I was going to visit your office later.”
James had been there most of the morning. Flogging himself for his behavior the previous night—a topic he had no intention of broaching with Huntford. But he knew the duke had a business matter to discuss. “I thought I’d save you the trip. I’m on my way to the Lakes.” Maybe if he put three hundred miles between him and Olivia, he’d feel less guilty.
“Good God. For how long?”
James shrugged. “Several weeks.” Or however long it took Olivia to realize there was no possibility of a future between them. Chances were, a beauty like her would have a beau before the week was out.
Huntford narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t like you, leaving town at the drop of a hat. You don’t even go out for a pint without charting a course.”
“There’s not much keeping me in London anymore. And there are a few sites I’ve been wanting to explore.”
Huntford grinned. “Ah. I should have guessed. It’s not going to be the same around here without you.” He pointed toward the sideboard. “Drink?”
“No,” James answered quickly. Guilt squeezed at his throat like a too-tight cravat. The sooner he concluded this meeting and removed himself from Olivia’s home—and London—the better. “What was the matter you wished to ask me about?”
“It’s sensitive and… complicated.” Huntford sighed and tented his fingers. “It involves my sister.”
Bloody hell. It was probably too much to hope that the duke was referring to Rose. What if someone had seen James and Olivia together and informed Huntford? He didn’t seem angry, but the duke was notoriously difficult to read.
Somehow, James managed to choke out, “Which sister?”
“Olivia.” Huntford glared over his fingertips at James for what seemed like an eternity. Then he slid open a desk drawer to his right, leaned down, and withdrew a folded, sealed note, which he laid on the desk before him.
James exhaled lightly. Absurd though it was, he felt relief that Huntford had produced a piece of parchment and not, oh, a gun. However, he was not in the clear yet. Inclining his head toward the note, he asked, “What is it?”
Huntford eyed the note distastefully. “It came by messenger yesterday—from my father’s solicitor, Neville Whitby.”
James blinked. The previous duke had been dead for at least five years, and though he and his friend had never discussed it, James assumed the rumors were true. Huntford’s father, heartbroken when his duchess betrayed him, had killed himself with a bullet to the head. In the very study where they now sat.
“I know Whitby. Go on,” James encouraged.
“Apparently, my father made an unusual provision in his will. This letter was to be presented to Olivia upon the occasion of her twenty-first birthday.”
James shook his head, certain he hadn’t heard correctly. “Olivia is twenty-one?”
“Almost twenty-two. Whitby admitted that the letter had slipped his mind.”
“Did your father leave any other instructions?”
Huntford snorted. “None. Only that no one, save the solicitor, should be told about the letter until Olivia turned twenty-one. And at that time, it should be given to her.”
James pondered the possibilities for several moments. The dark shadows beneath the duke’s eyes hinted at his fears. The note could stir up all the grief Olivia endured when her mother deserted her and her father took his own life.
“Is there a separate letter for Rose?” James asked.
“I asked the solicitor if I should expect another when Rose turns twenty-one. Whitby swore that this was the only one.”
“Olivia knows nothing of it?”
“No.” Huntford’s eyes locked on his. “Whitby and I—and now you—are the only ones who know the letter exists. You’re the only person I trust enough to tell.” The duke stood, stalked to the window, and stared outside. “After all this time. My sisters had finally seemed to come to terms with my father’s sudden, violent death. Rose is much improved—although still more reserved than she used to be—and Olivia has shown much more maturity of late.”
James resisted the urge to squirm. She’d grown up, all right.
“I’d intended to see her engaged by the end of the season,” Huntford continued. “But now… this.”
James coughed, grateful that the duke was not facing him and therefore unable to see the sheen of sweat that had broken out on his forehead.
“Perhaps the letter’s contents are benign,” James said. “Your father could have set up a trust for Olivia.”
“I can’t imagine he would have done so for Olivia and not for Rose. He adored them both.”
“Maybe it’s just a bit of family history that he wanted to pass down to his older daughter,” James suggested.
“It’s unlikely,” Huntford said, turning to face him squarely. “My father was not of sound mind in the days just before his death, and I must assume that he penned the note during that time. I’m sure you’ve heard the gossip about the circumstances of his death. It’s all true. When my mother ran off to the Continent with one of her lovers, my father could not bear it. He shot himself.” The duke grimaced. “I’ve never spoken of it with anyone besides my sisters and Belle—before now.”
The words I’m sorry were on James’s lips, but somehow he didn’t think his friend wanted his sympathy. What the duke wanted was a solution to today’s problem, and the least James could do was help him sort through his options.
“If your father wrote the note in the days leading up to his death, as you suspect, it could be an explanation of sorts.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. It could stir up all the pain of that time. And what purpose could it possibly serve, other than to convey the depth of his anguish?”
“It could be an apology.”
“I had considered that. But we’ve already forgiven him. It took me the longest, I’m ashamed to say, but we’ve all come to terms with it.”
&nb
sp; James stroked his chin and considered all his friend had shared. “As you’ve probably already deduced, you have four possible courses of action.”
Huntford raised a brow. “First?”
“Carry out the provision of your father’s will and give Olivia the letter. As your solicitor, I would advise you to do so.”
The duke scowled. “Next option.”
“You could read the letter and then decide whether to give it to Olivia.”
“Let me guess, you’d advise against this.”
James shot his friend an apologetic smile. “I would. For legal reasons, obviously, but more so because Olivia would likely resent it.”
Huntford nodded. “Third option?”
“Destroy the letter. Pretend it never existed, and Olivia need never know.”
The duke paced before the window. “It’s tempting. Our lives are proceeding so nicely at the moment—why risk ruining that?”
James sighed. “As your friend, I can certainly understand why you’d want to spare your sister any unnecessary suffering, but…”
“But what?” Huntford urged.
“Olivia is a grown woman. Perhaps it’s time you treated her as such.” James was certain he’d pay for that comment next time they boxed. “Furthermore,” he dared, “if you destroy the letter, it can’t be undone.”
Huntford glowered at the letter as though he couldn’t wait to set it on fire. “That’s the whole point.”
“True. But as the weeks, months, and years go by, you might regret your decision. You might be sorry you never heard what your father wanted to say.”
“Damn it, Averill. Sometimes I wish you didn’t have quite so much integrity.”
Dear Jesus, if his friend only knew.
Eager to change the subject, James said, “There’s one more option I can think of. In difficult situations, it’s often the most prudent.”
“What’s that?”
“Do nothing. Wait. Give yourself time to think it through. In the larger scheme of things, a few weeks or months are unlikely to make a difference—but extra time could bring you clarity.”
“Wait,” the duke repeated to himself. “I like that.”
James relaxed a little. Huntford seemed to have the answer he needed—at least for now—which meant James could be on his way. He was so eager to take his leave that if it weren’t extremely bad form, he would have slapped his friend on the back and sprinted for the front door. Rising slowly from his chair, he said, “Well, if there’s nothing else you need from me—”
“There is.”
James kept his expression neutral, but inside, he unleashed a string of curses. Normally, he would do anything for Huntford, but this situation was different—it involved Olivia. “How can I help?”
Huntford marched to his desk, scooped up the letter, and held it out to James.
James kept his arms pinned to his sides. “I don’t understand.”
“Take this,” the duke said. “Until I decide what to do.”
Oh no. No, no, no. “Why don’t you lock it in a drawer?”
“Because I’d have the key. I don’t trust myself. If I know where it is, I’ll be tempted to read it. Or burn it. Neither would be fair to Olivia. Take it”—he shook the letter for emphasis—“and keep it safe.”
James held out his palms. “This is a family matter. I shouldn’t get involved.”
The duke tossed the letter onto his desk and slumped into his chair, defeated. “I apologize. I won’t take any more of your time. Thank you for stopping by and for the excellent advice. I’ll—”
“Fine.” James was certain he would regret this.
Huntford shot him a hopeful look.
“I’ll hold on to the letter for a while.” James took it and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “However, I must return it to you before I leave for Egypt.”
The duke closed his eyes briefly, as though deeply relieved. “Thank you.”
“You are welcome. Please give my best to Anabelle and ah… your sisters.”
Before long, James would be rumbling along the road in his coach, watching London disappear through the rear window. His driver, Ian, claimed he could cover the distance in three days. James had already loaded the coach with the clothes and tools he’d need for a few weeks of exploring in Westmorland and couldn’t wait to be on his way.
Huntford stood, walked to James’s side, and slapped him on the back. “I’ll walk you out.”
They made it to the foyer. Dennison was handing James his hat when the door to the drawing room burst open and a blur of pink silk and ribbons spilled forth.
“James! What a lovely surprise.”
Well, he supposed he had this coming. “A pleasure to see you, Lady Olivia.”
Chapter Three
Ancient: (1) Relating to a remote time period and the earliest known civilizations. (2) Very old, as in
A girl on the marriage mart at the ripe age of two and twenty was widely considered to be ancient.
At the sight of James, Olivia’s breath caught in her throat—as usual. Each time she saw him, he grew more attractive. A fanciful notion, and yet the proof stood before her. James’s snug buckskin breeches showed off his narrow hips and muscular thighs. And his backside was perfectly formed: taut, well shaped, and… utterly squeezable.
Recalling that her brother also stood in the foyer, she reluctantly lifted her gaze from James’s trouser area.
Fortunately, he was handsome all over. His sandy brown hair curled slightly at the ends, begging her to rake her fingers through it. His full lips, slightly parted, invited thoughts of kissing.
Soon, she thought, he would be hers—to kiss, to hold, and to love.
Except… something seemed amiss.
She and Rose had been expecting James to come looking for her in the drawing room after his meeting with Owen. Olivia had practiced several poses—gazing out the window, looking studiously at a book, poring over sheet music at the pianoforte—all so that she would appear mildly yet pleasantly surprised to see James when he sought her out.
But he hadn’t.
On the contrary, he had his hat in hand and appeared to be on the verge of… of leaving.
Olivia glanced at Owen. Lord knew, he could be intimidating. If he had dissuaded James in any way, balked at the idea of him asking for her hand…
Well, she would require at least a year to forgive him.
In any event, she couldn’t let James leave before she had a chance to speak with him.
Before he could take one more step toward the door, she said, “Could I persuade you gentlemen to join Rose and me for tea? We were just about to ring for some.”
James opened his mouth to reply, but Owen cut him off. “Thank you, but Averill is in a hurry. I fear I’ve monopolized too much of his time already.”
“Really? For what reason?” she asked rather boldly—even for her.
“A business matter,” Owen said. “And it’s all resolved, isn’t it, Averill?”
“Yes. For now.”
Olivia looked from James to Owen and back again. How dare they refer to her as a business matter? And why wasn’t Averill fighting for her? Fighting for them?
Rose placed a gentle hand on Olivia’s arm. “We should let Mr. Averill be on his way.” To James, she said, “I hope we shall see you again soon. Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow evening?”
“I’m afraid I cannot.” Although James was replying to Rose’s invitation, he cast Olivia an apologetic look. “I’m leaving town for a while.”
And then she knew.
James’s visit had nothing to do with her. No proposal was forthcoming. In fact, he’d been about to leave London—without even saying good-bye.
Mortification washed over her, heating her cheeks. Weakly, she asked, “Where?”
“The Lakes,” he said vaguely.
Apparently oblivious to her misery, Owen gestured for Dennison to open the door.
“A pleasur
e to see you, Lady Rose, Lady Olivia.” James gave them each a perfunctory bow, and a moment later… he was gone.
Owen headed toward the stairs. “I’m going to spend the afternoon with Anabelle and the baby. I’ll see you both at dinner?”
“Of course,” Rose answered. When Owen was out of earshot, she slipped her arm around Olivia’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Liv. Let’s go sit and have some tea.”
“I just want to go to my room,” Olivia said, amazed she hadn’t already crumpled into a weeping ball of pink silk. “It was silly of me to assume—”
“No,” Rose said emphatically, “it wasn’t.”
“In any case, I need a little time to think.”
“I’ll go with you and help you out of your dress.”
Olivia shook her head and attempted a reassuring smile. “I can manage.”
Rose sighed. “Very well, but I must tell you one thing. You know that I am quite fond of Mr. Averill, but if he hasn’t realized by now what a treasure you are, then maybe he doesn’t deserve you.”
Despite Olivia’s desperate struggle to remain outwardly composed, a rebellious tear slid down her cheek. “Maybe he just needs more time to realize what a treasure I am.”
A proud smile lit Rose’s face. “That’s the spirit.”
Olivia gave her sister a hug and escaped to the privacy of her room, where she didn’t have to pretend to be spirited or strong and could have a good long cry if she wished.
And that was precisely what she did.
Several hours later, when it was time for dinner, Olivia pleaded a headache. Anabelle had a tray sent up, but it sat on Olivia’s bedside table, untouched. Even the aroma of roast beef and gravy couldn’t tempt her.
Her appetite had fled. Just like James.
Good Lord, her melodramatic thoughts were pathetic—even inside her own head.
She’d been a fool to anticipate a proposal, regardless of the timing of his visit with Owen. And she only compounded her idiotic behavior now, crying over him when he clearly hadn’t lost a moment’s sleep thinking about her. Instead he’d decided to traipse off to the Lakes for a few weeks’ worth of fossil-digging, or rock-watching, or whatever he called it.
