by Anne Barton
Yes, well, he was not the only one who’d made a bad decision. She’d made several in chasing James across England. “I was wrong, too,” she admitted. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused, but you don’t need to protect me anymore.”
“What if I want to?”
Her throat clogged with emotion. “It’s time for me to stand on my own.”
“Very well.” His voice was tinged with resignation—and perhaps respect. “But I shall be right here if you need me.”
Taking a deep breath, she turned the letter over; with trembling hands she broke the seal. Her eyes blurred at the sight of Papa’s familiar, uneven handwriting. She could almost hear his deep, gentle voice as she read the words.
My Dearest, Beloved Olivia,
I hope that by the time you open this letter, sufficient time has passed that you are able to think of me without anger or disgust, but perhaps I ask too much of you. I wish that I had been a better father to you and Owen and Rose, but I am confident that the three of you turned out wonderfully in spite of your parents’ many flaws.
You may wonder why I chose to write to you and not your older brother or younger sister, and I shall tell you. Owen is quick to anger and slow to forgive. I do not fault him for it—he only wants what is best for you and your sister. Rose is wise beyond her years but so fragile. You, Olivia, are the strongest of the three and the glue that holds our family together. You are the one who makes your big brother laugh and who protects your younger sister. You are the one whom I trust with the information I’m about to impart.
You see, your mother is not the only one who was unfaithful during our marriage. I was too. Rebecca—I suppose you could call her my mistress—worked at the bookshop that I frequented in town. Though not half as beautiful as your mother, Rebecca had a sweet, easy smile and sharp mind that immediately drew me to her. For several months we met in secret, but then one evening when I came to her, she turned me away, saying she no longer wished to see me.
I tried to respect her wishes, but desperate to know how she fared, I spied upon her as she walked to the bookshop one morning… and discovered that she was with child. Still, she refused to see me. Shortly after that, she left town and did not return until summer, when I happened to see her in the park, carrying a small bundle close to her breast—a little girl, only a few months old. She let me look at her and said her name was Sophia. Sophia Rolfe. I never saw them again, for I’d reconciled with your mother. I sent Rebecca a generous sum each year for the next eighteen years so that they would not want for anything. I realize now that money was not enough.
I recently learned that Rebecca took ill and died. I considered writing to Sophia and telling her who I was, but I feared she would not welcome the news that I am her father, and I had no wish to complicate her life. That is the excuse that I told myself, at any rate.
I fear, my dear Olivia, that I have thoroughly shocked you by this point in my letter, and I regret any pain that this knowledge causes you. It is my hope—and I realize this is asking a great deal of you—that you will find it in your heart to forgive me. Perhaps you will one day pay Sophia a visit and make sure that she is well settled. Maybe you will tell her that you are her half sister, maybe not. I’ve enclosed the last address I had for Rebecca as well as a crude sketch of her carrying Sophia. I made it from memory—after seeing them that day at the park.
I shall leave it up to you to decide whether to share this information with Owen and Rose. I don’t want to cause any of you more distress, but I could not go to my grave without somehow acknowledging Sophia as my daughter.
As for the rest of you, I honestly believe that you are better off without me. However, I wish I could be there, if only to see the beautiful, kindhearted, generous young woman you’ve become. Know that whatever you decide to do with this information, I am proud of you and love you.
Give my love to Owen and Rose as well.
Papa
Olivia stared at her father’s handwriting, looking for some clue—any inconsistency that might prove the letter was a cruel hoax—but found none. The letter had been written by Papa’s own hand.
She let it slip through her fingers and backed away from it, scooting toward the head of the bed. She wished she had never seen it, that she could turn back time and remain blissfully unaware of its existence. She pressed her back against the wooden headboard and glared warily at the paper.
“Olivia? Are you all right?” She’d forgotten Owen stood outside the door, and the concern in his voice only made it harder not to cry.
“Yes.” She didn’t trust herself to say any more than that. How dare Papa do this to her? Why did he have to burden her with this knowledge? He was supposed to be the ever-faithful, loving husband and gentleman. Not some libertine who took up with a random shopgirl.
“Will you let me in?”
“No.” She eyed the letter with disgust. How she’d enjoy shredding it to bits and tossing the pieces to the wind. She couldn’t let Owen read it. She didn’t want him to feel as awful as she did. Besides, she needed time to think about Papa’s revelation—without interference from her well-intentioned but overbearing brother.
“I’m sorry about the letter. I truly am. But even if you won’t discuss the contents with me, we still have the serious matter of the highly improper circumstances in which I found you.” Though he was on the other side of the door, she could just imagine his dark brows slashing downward in disapproval.
She snatched the letter from where it lay on the bed, unceremoniously folded it, and stuffed it into her bodice. Then she limped to the door and yanked it open. “I doubt I am the only one who’s engaged in such scandalous behavior.”
That silenced him for a moment. “At least I had the good sense not to get caught,” he muttered. Then, making a face, he said, “What is that dark stuff on your eyes?”
“It’s nothing. Owen, about tonight. We didn’t—”
“Stop.” He held up a palm. “I don’t want to hear the specifics. One thing is for sure—this was beyond a stolen kiss on a terrace. You’ve been traipsing across the countryside, unchaperoned, for days—and you’re not even in the same county that you said you’d be in. If not for the note from Terrence, I’d have never known where you were. I know what I saw tonight, and you know what the consequences must be. So does Averill.”
Olivia waved her brother into the room and shuffled to a chair.
“What’s wrong with your leg?” he asked again, taking a seat on the edge of the bed opposite her.
“I’ll tell you all about it later. Where’s James?”
“In the other room, washing the blood off his face.”
Olivia winced but was glad for a few more moments alone with Owen. However unlikely it was that she’d change his mind, she had to try. “I know that I disappointed you and that you are acting out of concern for me.”
“Precisely.”
“You are worried about my reputation.”
“Damn it, Olivia, I’m worried about a lot of things.”
“Consider this. No one saw James and me together but you. You would never gossip about it—”
“That’s not the point.”
“Of course it is. It’s only a scandal if people know. And no one knows.”
“You don’t think the innkeeper and his wife and all the guests will know about it before the taproom shuts down tonight?”
“Well, if you hadn’t kicked in the door—”
“Don’t,” he snapped. “You brought this on yourself.”
“Yes. That’s just it. This was my fault. And if you make James marry me, everything will be ruined.”
Owen raked his hands through his hair. “I thought you were fond of James.”
“I am. But I must admit I’m disappointed that he kept the letter from me.”
He wearily dragged a hand down his face. “I asked him to hold on to it for me. He was doing me a favor.”
Olivia hung her head.
“List
en, we can talk about the letter later,” Owen said. “Can you honestly tell me that marriage to James would make you miserable?”
She sighed. “No. I love him. But I don’t want to marry him this way.”
“What do you mean ‘this way’? What difference do the circumstances make? You’ll be married.”
“He’s leaving on an archaeological expedition at summer’s end.”
“No. He’s not.”
“Yes. He must.” She leaned forward, suddenly desperate to make her brother understand. “I cannot be the reason he doesn’t go. He’ll resent me for the rest of his days.”
“After tonight he’s lucky that he has any more days. Maybe that knowledge will help him come to terms with his missed opportunity to explore Egypt.”
“It’s more than that, Owen.” She sniffed back the tears that threatened. “I don’t want a husband who doesn’t want me. I don’t want a cold and empty marriage like our parents’. I want a love like yours and Anabelle’s.”
At the mention of his lovely wife, the creases around Owen’s eyes softened. “I understand that you’re upset. You’ve had a trying day. But let me make one thing very, very clear. Averill will marry you. What you and Averill make of that marriage… well, that’s up to you. And at the risk of sounding unfeeling, I don’t really care. All I know is that as soon as I can arrange it, the two of you will be standing in front of the vicar exchanging your vows.”
“Please—”
“Don’t oppose me on this, Olivia,” he said, quietly but firmly. “You will not win—you’ll only succeed in exhausting us both.”
At that, all the fight went out of her. Well, almost. “Very well, I will marry James. But only if you allow him to go on his expedition afterward.”
“That’s no way to begin a marriage.”
She agreed, and just the thought of saying good-bye to him for two years made her heart ache. She could well imagine the whispers of the ton when they learned that she’d been deserted by her husband shortly after the wedding. But she could not be the reason James’s dream was shattered. “This is not a typical engagement, and it won’t be a typical marriage. I want James to go.”
Owen stared at her intently for the space of several heartbeats. “Fine. Once you’re married, I won’t interfere. I won’t prevent him from going. But I will think less of him if he does.”
The future she’d dreamed of—marriage to James—was about to happen. And it felt all wrong.
“Now, if you won’t tell me about our father’s letter,” Owen said, “at least tell me what happened to your foot.”
It seemed ridiculous to talk about something as mundane as her foot while her mind grappled with the fact that her brother had discovered her and James naked in bed and that she had a half sister roaming around England somewhere. But Owen would not be satisfied until he heard the whole story. “It happened a couple of days ago. I was—”
“Pardon the interruption.” James stood in the doorway, fully clothed and quite respectable-looking, if one discounted the bruise that was already forming beneath his left eye. He cleared his throat and looked past Owen, right at Olivia, his green eyes full of sadness and resignation. “Olivia,” he began, “may I have a word?”
She wanted to shake him. Less than an hour ago they’d laughed and kissed and talked—and brought each other indescribable pleasure. And now they stood across the room from each other like casual acquaintances at an awkward dinner party. The distant, vacant look on his face nearly broke her heart.
“Of course. Owen, would you give us a moment, please?”
He snorted. “Whatever Averill has to say to you, he can say in front of me.”
“But—” she protested.
“It’s fine. Your brother should hear this, too.” James walked toward her and stood stiffly before her chair. “I want you to know that while I know I have not acted honorably, I respect and admire you greatly. I’m deeply sorry that I took advantage of you—”
“You didn’t. I—”
“No. I did not behave like a gentleman.” His eyes begged her to let him finish. “I can’t undo what I’ve done, but I can try to make it right.”
As he lowered himself to one knee, Owen muttered something unintelligible and turned his back to them. And in her head, Olivia was screaming, No, no, no! Please don’t do it like this. Even though he was obviously sincere, it felt like a mockery of her fantasy, in which he made a heartfelt proposal, proclaiming his love for her and sweeping her off her feet.
James reached for her hand and held it like he was greeting his dear grandmama. “You would be doing me a great honor,” he said, “if you would agree to become my wife.”
He gazed up at her expectantly, as if they were both actors and he was waiting for her to recite her line. There was no passion in his proposal, no happiness. This was a defeated man doing his duty—nothing more.
“Maybe we should all get a good night’s sleep,” Olivia said. “We can discuss this more tomorrow.”
James’s shoulders slumped; he released her hand and began to rise.
“Stay there,” Owen ordered James. To Olivia, he said, “That was a perfectly good proposal, and I want to hear you accept it.”
“Very well,” she said, to no one in particular, because apparently what she said and thought didn’t carry much weight. “I accept.”
Owen raised his brows as James stood, cringing as though a rib were broken or bruised. “It wasn’t the most moving proposal I’ve ever seen.” Owen shot a look Olivia’s way. “Nor the most graceful acceptance. But I suppose they’ll have to do.”
A shuffling noise sounded from the hall, followed by a gasp. “Lady Olivia?”
Gads. She’d almost forgotten about Hildy. “I’m in here,” Olivia called out.
The maid appeared in the doorway, triumphantly holding a crutch in each hand. “Look what I’ve—Oh my. Good evening, Your Grace.” Her cheeks blossomed red as she curtsied before Owen, crutches and all.
Olivia idly wondered if anyone else—perhaps the coachman or the innkeeper—would wander into the room before the night was over. And she couldn’t wait for it to be over.
“Thank you, Hildy. Why don’t you go to our room? I’ll join you there shortly and explain everything.” All too happy to be dismissed, the maid scurried away.
With no small amount of exasperation, Owen said, “I have yet to receive an explanation for your injury, but at this point I think it can wait until the morning. Though it goes against my better judgment, before we all retire to our separate rooms, I shall give the pair of you two minutes alone—no more. I’ll be standing in the hallway.”
Thank God Owen had shown this bit of compassion. Olivia desperately needed some sign from James that things were going to be all right between them, that he didn’t view marriage to her as the equivalent of a life sentence in the Old Bailey.
Owen shot them both a stern warning look before striding out the door.
Olivia sprang to her feet in spite of her now-throbbing ankle and threw her arms around James’s neck. “Are you hurt?”
He gently extracted himself from her embrace and moved a respectable distance away. “I’ll be sore for a day or two. It’s nothing.”
“I never meant for this to happen. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry, too.”
“Maybe there’s a way—” she began.
“No, I gave Owen my word. We may as well resign ourselves to the fact. I will do my best to make you happy.”
“I know you will.” But she couldn’t imagine being happy when James so clearly wasn’t.
“Did you read the letter from your father?”
At the reminder of the letter he’d kept from her, she looked away. “I did. I have a lot to think about.”
“If there’s anything I can do…”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then I should let you rest. Things will seem better in the morning.”
And then, with a sad smile, he left.
/>
There was no kiss, passionate or otherwise, no affectionate glance or word, no humor or charm. Just a vague hope that things would seem better tomorrow.
Perhaps it was true, for they couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Chapter Nineteen
Restore: (1) The act of cleaning an artifact in an attempt to return it to its original condition. (2) To bring back to good form, as in
He’d betrayed her trust in him, and now he’d do any damned thing in his power to restore it.
James chafed at taking orders from anyone. And ever since Huntford had burst into Olivia’s room the night before, he’d been issuing commands, telling James what to do and when to do it. The hell of the thing was, Huntford was letting him off easy, and James knew it.
So, when he was summoned to the inn’s private dining room for breakfast at nine o’clock, he did not question it, even it if did rankle him. Olivia and Huntford were waiting there, and neither one looked like they’d gotten much sleep. He probably had circles under his eyes, too, but they were eclipsed by the huge bruise that had already appeared on his cheek.
The mood was somber, and James supposed they were mourning the death of his and Huntford’s friendship. James felt like a whole chunk of his history—as well as his future—was suddenly gone. He’d experienced a similar void after losing his dog, a lovable mixed breed named Hermes, a few years back. But this was worse. This was James’s fault. And if Huntford shot him blistering looks for decades to come, it was no less than James deserved.
“Good morning,” he said, before making a polite bow to Olivia. He noticed her new crutches leaning in the corner.
“Good morning.” She pushed a piece of ham around with her fork.
“Fill a plate.” Huntford pointed to the table behind him, laden with platters of eggs, toast, ham, and fruit. “Then we’ll talk.”
James poured himself coffee and sat next to Olivia, drawing a scathing glare from her brother. “What would you like to discuss?”
Huntford set down his fork. “I’ve decided that the marriage shall take place in Haven Bridge, where there will be far less gossip than there would be in town. We can say that it was your infirm uncle’s wish to see you wed and that you happily indulged him.”
