by Julia Donner
“Debts and females are all we think about, according to some. Watch this. Left-handed!” This time he swirled the remaining wedge in the coffee, dripping on the tablecloth before popping it into his mouth.
“Swine.” She grabbed a slice of toast from the rack and threw it at him. “Take that, you wretch.”
Chapter 14
When Harry reached his house in Mayfair, he went swiftly up the steps to his sitting room desk. Stacks of unread missives smothered its surface. He had idly flipped through the pile earlier but had no interest in sorting through the invitations and letters. The need to do something to avoid thinking about the constant, dull ache in his chest robbed him of the ability to focus. Or care about anything. A sudden urge to find comfort from family sent him out of the house before attending to months of mail.
He strode to the desk and shuffled through the cards and letters until he found the one he looked for and lifted it up. His fingers shook as he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. After reading a few lines, his heart slowed and breath stopped. Olivia’s father requested his presence at his earliest convenience, regarding a matter of extreme importance. It was dated one month prior. He folded and tucked the letter into a side pocket, strode out into the hallway, and called for his hat and horse.
After handing off his card and hat at Godolming House, Harry followed a footman up a wide staircase to a first floor receiving room. That morning, before joining Lizzie and Perry in the breakfast room, he’d had a quiet conversation with their butler, Crimm, who had a knack for ferreting information as keenly as Perry, a former spy in the Peninsular Wars. Crimm reported what he knew of the Duke of Goldoming’s household, which wasn’t a great deal. The duke’s servants kept their silence out of fright or profound loyalty. Recalling his initial meeting with Olivia’s father at Beechgate Cottage, Harry suspected their silence resulted from fear.
Nervous tension ruined any attempt to achieve his usual sangfroid. Months of thinking about Olivia, his mind plagued with regrets, had eroded his emotional equilibrium. The vague emptiness he’d lived with before falling in love with her had opened into a chasm, a gaping hole inside his soul that yearned for a chance to see her again, to make it right.
The encounter with Olivia’s father forced him to contend with familiar enemies—disillusionment and self-doubt. How well he hid his true self from the world. Throughout the last months, despair had hovered at the corners, threatening to overwhelm, but now, as he climbed the broad staircase, his heart began to lighten. Olivia was somewhere nearby, in this very house. Perhaps he could convince her to forgive him, talk her into leaving with him now. They could take passage on a ship for Jamaica and sail far away from her family’s influence. His hopes dissolved when he discovered the room empty.
The duke’s butler instructed him to wait. Harry stopped him from leaving by asking, “Is Mrs. St. Clair receiving?”
“Unfortunately, sir, she is not. His Grace is not in residence. The bishop is. He will see you shortly.”
Harry paced the room, paying little attention to the furnishings, which he considered uninteresting and lacking in anything esthetically pleasing. Worry had him clasping and unclasping his hands. Olivia was somewhere in this ugly house decorated to resemble a medieval torture chamber. The dark, cumbersome Jacobean style made him feel caged.
Worry for her cluttered his thoughts—thoughts he needed to keep straight and on track for the upcoming interview with her father. Was she well? Had she contracted the strange illness from the village? Would she see him, talk with him?
Throughout the summer, he’d scoured newspapers, searching for any news about her, any hint. Knowing that his letters would be intercepted and returned, he never attempted to write. His friends had seen no sign of her in town. Crimm, Lizzie’s see-everything-know-everything butler, had discovered a snippet from the servant grapevine. Olivia lived with her grandfather in town but never went out, which was more than enough to give him hope.
The door opened and Lord Alasdair, the Right Reverend Bishop Mainstay, came through. Harry stopped his pacing in the center of the room. He didn’t offer his hand, having done so before, and had no wish to repeat the experience.
Bishop Mainstay flicked a hand, and the bewigged footman bowed and backed out the door. Harry pressed his mouth into a tight line to suppress his lip from a curl of disgust. The man was a priest, not royalty, but he wasn’t surprised. When he’d been admitted downstairs, he immediately noticed the artificial solemnity, the stiff atmosphere. His impression of Bishop Mainstay at Beechgate Cottage was that of a dictatorial autocrat, an attitude perhaps learned from the duke or the product of a younger son’s defensiveness.
The bishop glanced over Harry’s riding clothes. Changing into proper attire for a day visit hadn’t entered Harry’s head. The opportunity to see Olivia propelled him to immediately respond to her father’s invitation.
Harry’s obligatory request after the man’s health was immediately cut off by the bishop, who came right to the point of his summons. “Sir, your delayed reply to my letters has confirmed the circulated accounts of your character. A modicum of relief has been realized on my part that you have finally arrived.”
“My apologies, Lord Alisdair. It was only this morning that I was in receipt of your message. I’ve not been in town.”
Bishop Mainstay advanced into the room. “Seeing to your holdings in the Caribbean?”
The man’s tone hinted at a snide rebuke, which left Harry momentarily blank. “No, sir. I was at Rolands, which is in Kent. May I be allowed to speak to Ol—Mrs. St. Clair?”
Mainstay moved a figurine on a nearby table, only slightly, and assessed its position. He acted oblivious to the question’s underlying plea. Harry sensed the man enjoying himself, like a powerful predator enjoying its will over a captured prey.
Before Harry could repeat the question, the bishop said, “You have had no correspondence with my daughter the last months?”
“No. She had not given me permission. I’d been shuffled out of Beechgate too quickly for that.”
Irritation flickered in Mainstay’s frigid glare. “I will tarry no longer with the purpose of this visit. Its unfortunate necessity came as no surprise to me, since your reputation is substantiated everywhere one goes. In this instance, my family’s association with you can no longer be denied nor ignored, since your attentions to my daughter have become public knowledge. Your association with her is whispered about everywhere. She foolishly allowed you to stay at Beechgate Cottage for days without the benefit of her companion, Mrs. Oliphant, who’d been called away.”
When Harry attempted to speak in Olivia’s behalf, the bishop cut him off with an abrupt flick of his hand. “I’ll hear no arguments from you, sir, nor the excuse that you were incapacitated due to your injuries. Again, your reputation preceded you into having everyone in the district believing it possible for you to have relations with my daughter even if unconscious. Appalling, your status.”
Harry ground his teeth together and stayed silent. He nursed a slim glimmer of hope that he might be allowed to speak with Olivia. Beyond that, there was truth in what her father said.
Bishop Mainstay slowly inhaled and exhaled before continuing. “Sir, now is the time to reveal if you possess any sense of honor. It pains me in no small way to report that your proclivities have left my daughter in an interesting condition.”
Harry blinked. Interesting condition? Olivia carried his child? Joy wound its way through his veins. Shock robbed him of his ability to mask his feelings, and the bishop’s expression changed. A smile thinned his lips. His next words, a mocking challenge, filled Harry with numbing terror.
“It is only fair that I inform you that, if you find yourself unable to do the right and honorable thing by my daughter, other measures have been arranged.. A family friend is anxiously waiting to hear that he might salvage what is left of her name and save our family further embarrassment.”
Dread’s chill trickled through his abdo
men and slithered down his legs. Harry struggled to keep his goal in focus, forcing down the fear, hurt and fury. How many more ways were there to inflict insult? He and Olivia weren’t children to be punished with guilt and humiliation. If he accomplished nothing else, he had to get Olivia out of her father’s grasp. Illuminating a truth was one thing, but beating one over the head with it went beyond his tolerance.
Regretting that his emotion-choked throat rendered his voice hoarse, Harry said, “Sir, may I have the honor of your daughter’s hand in marriage?”
When her father agreed with a nod, Harry demanded, “I must speak with Mrs. St. Clair to affirm that she is in agreement and will accept my suit.”
“She is waiting outside. You have five minutes.”
His heart hammered in his chest as the bishop exited. Harry stared at the door, willing her to enter, to forgive and accept him. He’d lived with the misery of not having her in his life and with the constant speculation of how he could get close enough to beg her to listen.
Now, he’d been handed this marvelous opportunity to have her for his own. The child she carried was more than he could think about right now. First, he had to get her to marry him. Pride was not the difficulty with Olivia. His task was to find a way around her sense of justice and the notion she was undeserving, not an easy task. Her attitude had taken years to mold into the permanence of belief.
He’d spent his life wallowing in diversions, accepting accolades and pleasures, often without a thought to the meaning or consequence. Olivia had lived the life of an ascetic and feared acceptance of enjoyment, as if happiness wasn’t meant for her. He had plans to abolish her unhappy state. No one knew better than he how to enjoy life, and once he had her for his own, he planned to stoke the sensuality she feared, while spoiling her beyond recognition. His feverish plans halted with the click of the door latch.
He almost didn’t recognize her when she entered. She’d lost so much weight. Her drab style of dress was gone, no more mobcaps and voluminous aprons. She wore pale orange sarcenet delicately sprigged with embroidered white flowers. Her hair had been shorn. The drastic cut allowed her thick hair to wave and curl, a style not usually seen in a woman her age, and better fitting a girl, but it flattered. A shaft of indignation shot through his veins when he realized that they’d been primping her, forcing her to dress more youthfully to a elicit a proposal.
He swiftly crossed the room to greet her, but she swept by him, ignoring his out-stretched hands. A footman stood by the open doorway. Harry glared at him until he retreated to the hallway, leaving the door ajar. Quelling the urge to slam it shut, Harry gently closed the door and went to her side. She stood stiff and unwilling to look at him. A queer, little ache lugged down his racing heartbeat when he saw that her chin and bottom lip quivered.
Had her father been filling her head with some nonsense about him not wanting to do the right thing by her? The tautness in her face and body warned him not to touch her, even though he longed to pull her into his arms and mend the hurts she’d been dealt, the doubts she’d been fed.
Accustomed to affairs with women who had no need to worry if pregnancy occurred, he hadn’t considered precautions, and when making love with Olivia, he’d been too wild to have her to think straight. He’d known from the instant the bandages had been removed that she must be his forever. The corner he’d put her in with his impetuousness and inability to resist had left her with no choice but a quick marriage.
He’d learned that she had no money. Her family kept her in line with her lack of funds and past mistakes. He didn’t doubt that they’d been badgering her at every opportunity. He didn’t want to think about the emotional upheaval she had to have suffered the last months. No wonder she appeared so brittle, as if holding on to her last thread of courage. As much as she might want or need consolation, he feared a touch from him would make her shatter.
He swallowed to gentle the raw emotions roiling inside and gestured at two high-backed chairs. “Would you like to sit?”
She replied with a jerky nod but didn’t move. In a voice low and congested, she said, “My thanks for coming to visit, Sir Harry. It is unfortunate that we’ve not been allowed the time necessary for a proper discussion. I suspect that Father gave you an ultimatum. Please accept my apology. I’m so sorry that you’ve been placed in this untenable position.”
Harry closed his eyes and whispered, “Please, Olivia, look at me. If you would, you’d see that I greet this opportunity with joy.”
She glanced up then quickly looked away. Tears sparkled in her eyes. A few slipped free to fall and create dots on the slick material of her day gown. She replied, her voice still thick and strained, “I told them I preferred you to Quentin and insisted that you be told about the…my condition. I am relieved that you agree that marrying me would be best for the…situation.”
“Olivia, please. If you only knew how—”
The door snapped open and her father announced, “The interview is at an end. Olivia, Mrs. Oliphant awaits you in your room.”
Harry whirled, ready to strangle the man for interrupting. The heartless fiend had reduced his composed, gentle-hearted Olivia to a fragile supplicant. He knew she’d regain her aplomb once she was assured she wouldn’t be forced to marry Goodfall.
Harry advanced a step toward the bishop, who held the door suggestively open. Making no effort to conceal his feelings, Harry said, “It has not been five minutes. There are important matters to settle.”
Bishop Mainstay stared at his daughter and said in a hard, quiet tone, “Olivia?”
Still looking at the floor, she curtsied and left. Outrage burned through every sinew and muscle as Harry leveled a glare on his future father-in-law. Determined to be careful until the knot was tied, Harry poured everything he had into containing his temper.
Swallowing pride and rage, Harry said, “Your daughter has made me happy with her acceptance. I shall take my leave and await word from you for an interview time for signing the necessary papers. I suggest before noon tomorrow. The contracts will be delivered to you early in the morning.”
A small, cold smile curved Bishop Mainstay’s lips. “She has no money, you know. St. Clair was too poor to settle anything on her, and they squandered her dowry.”
“A dowry will not be required. Since you are concerned about possible speculation, Mrs. St. Clair and I must be seen together immediately. As soon as the documents are attended to tomorrow, we will ride in the park. Please tell her that I will provide a horse for her.”
The bishop’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You are certain that you can have the documents ready by then?”
Harry did his best not to growl his parting shot. “They were written months ago.”
He strode out of the house, couldn’t leave fast enough, and needed something to kick or punch or tear into bits. His entire body trembled from unspent anger. When Harry came down the steps to the curb, his horse shied back, jerking the groom off his feet.
Disgusted with himself and Mainstay, Harry realized that he couldn’t get on a horse in this condition. The poor beast would be terrified and already was. Instead, he told the groom to follow him down the street until he’d walked off some of his choler. The black Friesian pranced, sensing his mood even though not ridden, and shied twice at nothing.
Harry did his best not to snap when he told the nervous groom, “Hold him higher, under the chin. He’s a sensitive sort.”
So was Olivia, for all her show of calm reserve. No wonder she put up such a good front. With a father like that, she had no choice. Pompous, self-righteous, sneering at lesser mortals, Mainstay had the same attitude of the curate who had squashed Harry’s youthful dreams. As Perry had accused, Harry had let an insult born of jealousy create his future and evolve into the ridiculous mess he’d made of his life. Mainstay’s superior attitude brought to the present the root of it all, the way he’d let a stupid remark from so long ago color the direction of his life and twist him into knots.
&nb
sp; Tomorrow, he’d sign those damned papers and Livie would be his. As soon as possible, he’d get her out of that house and from under her father’s influence.
He mounted, tossed the groom a coin and sent him back to the dreariness of Godolming House. His horse snorted and continued to prance, shod hooves clattering on the cobbles. The clacking sounds grated.
His impatience and outrage refused to settle. He couldn’t get his mind to stop spinning. Somehow he had to calm the sizzling emotions and organize his thoughts. Talking to someone would help. Only Perry and Lizzie would do. Lizzie, because of her clear-headed way of sorting through problems; Perry, because he was his brother. Whether or not they agreed, they were of the same blood.
Months ago, on that fateful drive north, he’d had discouraging thoughts about aging. He’d let himself become distracted by its depressing consequences. Today, he’d been handed the opportunity for the kind of life his brother and Lizzie enjoyed, a chance for a rich life and the companionship of a woman of character. He felt energized, eager to thrash the world and slay the nearest dragon.
His horse gave a nervous hop and buck. Harry smiled and rewarded the gelding an affectionate slap on the neck, turning him about to take a shorter route to Cavendish. At thirty and five, he knew himself well enough and recognized the signs of his discontent—abstinence and not enough exercise—a bad combination that he would soon remedy.
Chapter 15
Asterly heard Harry’s voice in the hallway and set down the document he’d been studying, a boring piece of legislation he was glad to put aside. When his brother swung through the bookroom door without knocking, Asterly felt nothing but relief for the interruption. Then he saw his brother’s expression. Harry’s eyes, usually so clear and full of mischief, were clouded with dark emotion, and his face, always bright with merriment, was taut and strained.
