by Anne Barton
The painful truth was that he’d never given any indication that he cared for her.
With the possible exception of what she now thought of as The Kiss.
She replayed it over and over in her head, pausing once when Rose came in to check on her and again when Hildy entered to remove the dinner tray. Sleep did not come until the wee hours of the morning, and even then, James invaded her dreams, making her blissfully happy one moment and leaving her utterly distraught the next.
When she awoke late the next morning, she felt slightly improved but still could not bring herself to venture down for breakfast and face her well-meaning sister, brother, and sister-in-law. Fortunately, Hildy arrived with a tea tray, complete with a plate of scones and biscuits.
“Shall I pour for you, my lady?” The maid gave a hopeful smile.
“No, thank you. I’ll help myself in a bit.”
The maid eyed Olivia doubtfully. After crying for a good part of the night and neglecting to braid her hair before falling into a fitful sleep, she must look a fright.
With a tight smile and a bob of her capped head, the maid left Olivia in peace.
Eventually, she dragged herself out of bed and slipped on her dressing gown. She even managed to swallow a few sips of tea while she sat in her chair and stared out the window overlooking their flower garden.
The tea grew cold, and Olivia lost track of time. She was studying a spiderweb outside the windowpane when a knock at the door demanded her attention. She glanced down and realized she still held her cup and saucer. Brown splotches stained her robe where she’d apparently spilled her tea. Crumbly remnants of a scone littered her lap.
Lord, she was a mess. “Come in.”
Both Anabelle and Rose entered, looking like someone had died.
Behind her spectacles, Belle narrowed her gray eyes. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m certain I’ll survive,” Olivia said. She tried to smile but couldn’t summon the energy.
“We’ve been worried about you.” Belle perched on the footstool in front of Olivia’s chair. “Has something upset you?”
Olivia glanced at Rose, who shook her head. Olivia hadn’t thought Rose would tell Anabelle about The Kiss, but she was relieved to confirm Rose’s silence in the matter.
The three women had been close ever since Belle, a talented dressmaker, had been enlisted to make new wardrobes for Olivia and Rose. After Belle married their brother, Olivia and Rose had grown even fonder of her. The three women had few secrets, but kissing James was complicated because he was Owen’s best friend and Owen was Belle’s husband.
Not only did the whole thing make Olivia’s head spin, but it also served as a sad reminder that while Anabelle was living out her fairy-tale romance, Olivia apparently was not destined to do the same.
Belle still gazed expectantly at Olivia. “You can tell me.”
“I know. Thank you for your concern. I’m just out of sorts. I shall be fine in a few days.”
“A few days?” Belle shot Rose a look of alarm before returning her attention to Olivia. “That’s not like you. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me. You must remember that, when all seemed lost, you were largely responsible for bringing Owen and me together. I am forever in your debt.”
Olivia wasn’t ready to share the full extent of her heartache or humiliation. But her infatuation with James was not exactly a secret. “I suppose I’m sad because James is leaving for Egypt at the end of the summer. I’d hoped to change his mind over the next couple of months, but since he’s halfway across England by now”—she sounded bitter and didn’t care—“I shan’t have the opportunity.”
“Oh.” Anabelle sat beside her and threw her arms around her. “I’m so sorry, darling. I know how much you cared for him.”
Rose took Belle’s place on the stool. “It’s no wonder you’re distressed,” she said. “Even as a young girl, you were fond of him.”
Olivia knew that Belle and Rose were trying to show sympathy, but they couldn’t possibly understand. They used words like cared for and were fond of when what Olivia felt for James was a thousand times stronger. And it wasn’t past tense.
She loved him before. She loved him now.
“Thank you both for your support,” Olivia managed. “I’m sorry if my sullen behavior has worried you. I’m sure I’ll be myself again eventually.” Inside, though, she felt hollow, broken.
“We understand,” Belle said. “You must take as much time as you need.”
“We will make your apologies at the ball tomorrow night,” Rose said, “and at Lady Bramble’s soiree the next evening.”
“Tell everyone I’ve taken ill. Or that I’ve got a horrible case of spots. I’m sure I shall be the subject of much speculation, but I don’t give a fig.”
“I have an idea,” Belle exclaimed. She smoothed a matted lock of Olivia’s hair behind her ear. “You could leave London for a while. Visit one of your great-aunts. I know Aunt Eustace would be delighted to have your company.”
“That’s true,” Rose added. “Her letters always conclude with an invitation for us to visit. Nothing would make her happier.”
“I am horrid company at the moment,” Olivia said, but the idea of leaving London for the rolling green fields and quaint stone bridges of Oxfordshire tempted her. She could eat dozens of scones and let herself get pleasingly plump. “Let me think on it.”
“Is there anything we can get you at the moment?” Belle asked. “A fresh pot of tea or a new book?”
“No. But thank you for everything.”
“Owen is worried about you,” Belle admitted. “If you don’t make an appearance downstairs soon, he’ll insist on sending for the doctor. Do you think you could manage to come down for dinner?”
“I’ll try.”
Belle and Rose each kissed her forehead before leaving her to mull over her options.
Perhaps visiting dear Aunt Eustace was a good idea. She might as well become acclimated to spinsterhood. What better way than to play the part of companion to a sweet, seventy-year-old widow known for her bright blue turbans? At the very least, the visit would allow Olivia to escape London and give her wounds time to heal.
Unless… Olivia sprang out of her chair and paced before the window. The thought of traveling had caused the smallest seed of an idea to take root in her mind and hope to sprout in her heart. Only, she had a different destination in mind.
She simply wasn’t ready to give up on James.
Instead of dwelling on the hurt and rejection, she pictured his rakish grin and broad shoulders. Instead of recalling his hasty good-bye, she basked in the memory of his lingering kisses and tender caresses.
But the passionate tangling of their tongues and the feverish way they’d clung to each other—though undeniably wonderful—had not been the most magical part of that night.
That had been when James had reluctantly broken off their kiss and looked at her as though he were seeing her for the first time. And his dark eyes had glowed as though he very much liked what he saw.
He may not have realized it yet, but his appreciative, astonished gaze told her what his words had not—that he did care for her. And not just as a friend.
Olivia splashed cool water on her face and dragged a brush through her tangled hair. James did not want a simpering, whining miss. He craved adventure and excitement.
Fortunately, adventure and excitement happened to be her specialty.
She was through with hiding in darkened rooms and crying till her eyes were nothing but red, puffy slits. And for the love of God, she was through with scones. She marched to the tea cart, took the remaining pastries, and tossed them out the window to the birds.
She smiled, feeling a little of her old spirit returning.
By the time Rose came to check on her, Olivia had already rung for Hildy and dressed for dinner. Her maid managed to tame Olivia’s locks into a simple knot with a few loose tendrils. Rose exclaimed over how well she looked—a
little too effusively, in Olivia’s opinion. However, she supposed if one ignored her sallow complexion and swollen eyes, one might never know what a wreck she’d been for the past two days.
“I asked Cook to include your favorite—braised ham—on the menu,” Rose said. “She insisted on making those pastries you like as well.”
Blast. She’d start avoiding sweets tomorrow. “How thoughtful. Thank you.”
Rose extended a hand and helped Olivia to her feet. “Shall we join Owen and Anabelle in the drawing room?”
“Yes.” Olivia smiled brightly. “May I ask a favor before we go?”
“Anything.”
“I thought about your and Belle’s suggestion—about visiting Aunt Eustace—and I think a respite from town life is just what I require. I want to leave as soon as possible.”
“We can leave in the morning, if you wish.”
Olivia shook her head. “You are a dear, and a better sister than I deserve. But I want to go by myself—although I suppose I must at least take Hildy.”
Rose narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Are you just saying that because you don’t want me to miss out on the rest of the season? Because I can assure you—”
“That’s not it at all. But I’ve been in a beastly mood, and the last thing I’d want to do is subject you to it for two weeks straight. And honestly, I’d rather be alone with my thoughts.” Olivia had other reasons, of course, but the less Rose knew, the better.
Rose looked mildly disappointed, but nodded. “What was the favor you wanted to ask?”
“Help me convince Owen that I should be allowed to go.” Olivia worried her lip. Her brother could be very stubborn. It was something of a family trait. “He’s been hinting—none too subtly—that it’s high time I found a husband. He won’t approve of me hiding away in the country.”
“Then we must convince him it’s necessary to your happiness,” Rose said.
Olivia’s heart beat faster. “It is.”
“I am sure Anabelle can be counted on to help as well,” Rose said. “Visiting our aunt was her idea.”
“I’ll write to Aunt Eustace just after dinner and let her know that I should arrive by the end of the week.”
Olivia could barely believe her own daring.
But if she’d learned one thing from her mother’s desertion and her father’s suicide, it was that you never know how much time you’ll have with the people you love. She couldn’t let James go to Egypt without acknowledging that there was something between them. Especially not after that kiss.
She had an impressive list of adventures to her credit, but this… this plan would put all her other adventures to shame. Equal measures of guilt, hope, and exhilaration glimmered in her chest.
Several counties separated her and James tonight, but they wouldn’t for long.
Chapter Four
James sat in the dark, dank, and yet irrepressibly cheery taproom of Haven Bridge’s only inn, chatting with his coachman, Ian, and a few villagers who remembered him from the last time he’d visited Uncle Humphrey. How long had it been? Four years? Maybe five. Too long. Uncle Humphrey was the closest thing he had to a father, the man who’d nurtured his love of antiquities and supported him and Ralph the best he could. Coming back to Haven Bridge felt like coming home.
When James had arrived in the small, quaint village three days ago, it had been close to dusk. He’d tossed Ian a few coins and told him to see to the horses, order dinner, and have a few pints. Meanwhile, James had jogged down a pebbled road and eventually up a steep dirt path that wound to the top of a grassy fell. He was surprised that he’d found the spot—his childhood favorite—so easily after all these years, but he’d reached the summit just in time to witness a fiery orange sunset beyond rolling blue mountains. Charming stone walls snaked along lush fields dotted with grazing sheep.
He’d gulped in a lungful of crisp, country air, and as he watched the sun sink into the earth, he’d known that the three-day journey to Haven Bridge was worth it.
Although, after that he’d nearly killed himself trying to walk down the fell and back to the inn in the pitch dark, but it had made for a good story once he was sitting at the taproom later that night.
The next day, James went to visit Uncle Humphrey, hoping the elderly man was still healthy and spry. Though thinner and more stooped than James remembered, he had all his wits about him. He tried to persuade James to stay in his cottage, but James didn’t want to impose, so he’d stayed at the inn. He envisioned a summer full of mornings exploring the countryside, afternoons chatting with Uncle Humphrey, and evenings drinking in the taproom.
Life was good—so good, he could almost forget the sealed note that he still carried in the chest pocket of his jacket. What he could not put out of his mind was the hurt and disappointment on Olivia’s face the day he’d left London.
He’d only been thinking of her and her best interests when he left. Now she was free to enjoy the attentions of other young bucks and dance and flirt to her heart’s content. He swallowed a large gulp of ale, finding it more bitter than usual.
“Where’d you go today, Averill?” Gordon, a miner with a grizzly white beard, lowered himself onto the bench across from James and thunked his half-full glass onto the wooden table.
“A farm east of here, near the river. Ruins all around, and it looks like walls could be buried beneath. What do you know about the place?”
The old man cackled. “Not much. People find things—fragments of metal and polished stone. What do you suppose they’re from?”
Averill shrugged. “Hard to say. Could be an old fort or a church.”
Gordon stroked his beard. “The land belongs to Sully. That codger wouldn’t know a—”
The miner halted midsentence, and the taproom—which had been rumbling with men’s cursing and grunts only a moment before—went silent and still.
Then Gordon let out a long, low whistle.
James craned his neck and found the objects of everyone’s attention. Two young women—clearly a lady and her maid—glided through the taproom and settled themselves at a table in the corner. Both wore cloaks and bonnets that concealed their features, but they were definitely not from Haven Bridge, and that alone was enough to make them an object of curiosity.
The young lady’s lithe yet feminine figure drew all eyes—James’s included.
“What do you suppose they’re doing in here?” Gordon said.
“Well, it is an inn,” James said dryly. “My guess is they’re travelers who need a place to spend the night.”
The miner winked. “I knew you were more than a pretty face.” He kept his rheumy gaze on the pair of women. “It wasn’t smart of them to sit next to Crutcher—he’s an ogre even when he’s not in his cups. Look, he’s already harassing them.”
James swiveled around on his bench and watched as Crutcher staggered into the end of the ladies’ table, banging it into the wall.
“Sir, I shall have to ask you to return to your seat at once,” the young lady said haughtily. Beneath her bravado, however, James detected a note of fear.
Hoping to defuse the situation, he strolled toward Crutcher, who was guffawing as if the woman’s request had been the punch line of a bawdy joke.
“Come on, Crutcher,” James said. “Join Gordon and me. I’ll buy you a drink.”
The man squinted at James, sizing him up. His opponents usually underestimated him—and paid sorely for the mistake with a black eye or fat lip.
“I’m not thirsty.”
James assumed a casual pose, nudging a pebble on the taproom floor with the toe of his boot, but he spoke firmly. “Come talk to us, then.”
“Why in the hell would I want to talk to you when I can talk to these pretty ladies?” Crutcher placed his palms on the women’s table and leaned over it, his greasy head inches from theirs. James didn’t even want to imagine how foul his breath must smell.
Crutcher opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter one mor
e offensive word, James grasped the back of his collar, hauled him away from the table, and dragged him toward the front door of the inn. The drunk flailed his arms and kicked a few chairs over on the way out, but at least nothing had been broken. Yet.
Once outside, James thrust Crutcher in front of him. He landed hard on his knees in the dirt. The sun had disappeared behind the hills, and daylight faded fast. Gordon and a half dozen other men spilled out of the inn, eager for a rousing fight.
“You bastard,” Crutcher growled as he lumbered to his feet and flexed his fingers.
“Why don’t you go home?” James suggested. “Sleep it off, and if you still want to fight me tomorrow, I’ll happily oblige.” He meant it. What was the sport in sparring with a man too drunk to piss straight?
But Crutcher—all six beefy feet of him—was already lunging toward James, aiming for the knees. James darted to the side, and Crutcher stumbled past him. “Bleedin’ coward. Stand tall and fight me.”
There was nothing to be done for it. James shrugged off his coat, and when Crutcher launched his fist toward James’s head, he was ready. He ducked and Crutcher swung through air. Still crouching, James jabbed his right fist hard into his opponent’s gut, just below the ribs.
Crutcher doubled over, gasping for breath.
James stepped back to give him some space. Hopefully that would be the end of that. He glanced up and in the waning light could just make out Gordon’s grin—one or two teeth shy of a full set. Behind him and the other taproom patrons stood the two women who’d started all the commotion.
One of them rushed forward, almost tripping on the hem of her cloak. “James!” she called breathlessly. “Are you all right?”
Good Lord.
It couldn’t be.
But beneath the brim of her bonnet were a pair of familiar brown eyes. “Olivia?”
“Yes, it’s me,” she said, whisking off her bonnet. A blush stole over her cheeks. “Isn’t this an amusing coincidence?”
James stood frozen for several moments before he found his tongue. “It’s not entirely amusing. And I suspect it’s not a coinci—”
