by Lynne Barron
“I can’t give you what you want.” Olivia barely heard her own words over the roaring in her ears.
“You bloody well can and will,” he gritted out between clenched teeth as his hands came up to grip her arms, to pin her to the wall. “You are likely carrying my son in your body even now. God knows I’ve been killing myself swiving you silly.”
Olivia saw his mouth moving but his words seemed to be coming to her from a great distance, bouncing off the walls and ricocheting around the shadowy stables. They lambasted her from every direction and she slammed her eyes shut as if that would somehow silence them.
She struggled to draw air into her lungs, pinpoints of light bouncing around beneath her eyelids. She wondered if she might faint, if she might fall to her knees, thought it likely. Except she stood pinned between the wall and Jack’s body, the same tall, brawny body she’d held in her arms as desire overcame them.
But it hadn’t been desire at all. Every time he’d touched her, kissed her, made love to her, it had been with cold calculation, not passion.
“Olivia.”
She opened her eyes with effort, saw him looking down at her with what, once upon a time, she might have believed to be genuine concern, affection, regret. Now she saw only cunning blue eyes beneath slanting dark brows.
“Step back,” she whispered. “I cannot breath.”
Immediately Jack dropped his hands and stepped away until they were separated by a dozen feet.
Olivia drew a tortured breath into her lungs, held it there, her gaze never wavering from his face. She exhaled and whatever small measure of calm she’d managed to retain in the face of his revelations deserted her.
“You never wanted me at all!”
“Livy—” he began his eyes wide and unblinking.
“You never wanted me,” she repeated bringing her hands up to press against her racing heart. “You only wanted vengeance, retribution. You wanted the life you think should have been yours, the life you believe I stole from you. A proper wife and a house full of children. The Countess of Palmerton, London’s Darling. You wanted my bloodlines, my connections, my womb.”
“Jesus, Livy, no,” he whispered, taking one step toward her.
Olivia dropped her hands to her belly, pushed her palms against the soft flesh, and the empty pit beneath. Jack froze, his gaze dropping to her hands.
She curled her fingers into fists, pressed them to her abdomen, as rage and sorrow and regret roiled through her. “My useless, ravaged, barren womb!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jack shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze fixed upon the intricately carved doors at the end of the long aisle of St. George’s Church.
The Earl of Hastings’ carriage had arrived more than ten minutes previously. Any moment now his bride would appear on her brother’s arm.
His bride. Soon to be his wife.
He’d seen her only a handful of times in the three days since their encounter in the stables and never alone. Always she’d been surrounded by her siblings and her cousins, her aunts and uncles. Her illustrious family had rallied around her, graciously inviting him and his into the fold, fawning over Justine, courteously receiving his father and Lucille into their homes, pretending the upcoming marriage was a welcome match.
Only Lady Hastings had refused to play along with the charade. She’d kept to her chamber in Hastings House while the servants had moved her possessions from her Portman Square house into her son’s home.
Jack wondered briefly if she would make an appearance at the wedding breakfast to follow the ceremony.
The doors were thrown open and Olivia appeared on Hastings’ arm. They hesitated at the threshold, sunlight slanting over and around them.
Jack had never seen anything as beautiful as the woman who raised her head and slowly walked down the long aisle. She wore a gown of palest-blue silk with small pearls sewn along the modest neckline and white lace trimming the wrists and hem. A wide matching ribbon was tied around her waist, the ends trailing over her billowing skirts as she made her way to where he stood at the altar.
When she stopped before him, Jack studied her upturned face, not in the least surprised to see a small, serene smile drifting over her lips. She’d greeted him in the same manner every time he’d he seen her in the last days. With her Countess Countenance firmly in place, her face devoid of emotion but for that damn smile that rarely faltered.
Now she looked back at him, her gray eyes not quite meeting his, instead drifting over his face, lingering for a moment on his jaw before she turned toward Reverend Jones.
Jack supposed the ceremony was well done, was everything it ought to be when a countess married a commoner. He barely heard the words that would join them as man and wife. As Mr. Jones droned on, he looked down at Olivia’s hand resting on his arm so lightly he barely felt the touch of her gloved fingers. He lifted his gaze to her profile, watched as her lips parted and her tongue came out to coast along her bottom lip. She swallowed and her eyes drifted closed.
She stood thus, her hand upon his arm, her lashes fluttering against her cheek and the reverend’s words penetrated his mind for the first time.
“As marriage is a gift from God, so too is the begetting of children.” The man’s words reverberated around the cavernous church.
Olivia’s fingers trembled on his arm, briefly clutching his gray brocade coat sleeve before relaxing once more. Her eyes opened and she stared straight ahead, her smile returning.
Jack took in a bracing breath, undone by the words, by the first show of emotion he’d seen in the woman since he’d bungled their future so dreadfully.
Not for the first time, Jack called himself every sort of fool.
With their pincers. The forceps came later.
He should have known as soon as she’d told him of the ordeal she’d endured to bring Palmerton’s heir into the world.
My useless, ravaged, barren womb.
Of course she could not have suffered through the physician’s barbaric practices without injury.
Somehow he knew the babe was a boy.
As if that one fact made it acceptable to torture the mother to pull the child from her body.
He wondered how close she’d come to death. Likely too close.
It was a miracle Olivia had ever allowed him into her bed.
A bloody miracle.
I fancied myself in love with you.
He’d suspected it of course. But to hear the words falling from her lips, to know that he’d been right all those years ago, that what he’d seen, what he’d felt had been true, was a balm to his soul. Almost from the first moment he’d seen her, when he’d been a mere boy of thirteen and Olivia a girl of six, he’d felt his heart shift and expand in his chest.
She’d been all gangly limbs and huge eyes then, a shy little girl who’d smiled up at him as if he’d hung the moon. Over the years he’d visited her father’s country estate every summer and occasionally the Hastings’ town house for a day or two with Simon. He’d grown accustomed to the gray-eyed girl trailing along in his wake, gratified by her adoration.
Until that spring when, at twenty-three, he’d returned from the Grand Tour to find that Olivia had grown from a girl into a young woman with soft, round curves and long, willowy limbs. He’d felt like the worst sort of debauched rake, longing for his friend’s young cousin.
Two weeks he’d spent in London with Simon, bouncing from Viscount Easton’s house to Hastings House, basking in her presence nearly every day, dreaming of her every night. By that fateful afternoon he’d been a walking, talking tangle of frustrated lust. So he hadn’t turned around when he’d spotted Elizabeth in the stables. He’d heard the tales of her exploits and, led by his cock, he’d walked right into the trap.
It had been the end of his dreams, especially those that he’d barely acknowledged. The dreams of a future with Olivia, of marrying her when she came of age, of spending his life surrounded by the peaceful aura that
surrounded her, of discovering passion in their marriage bed, of fathering children with gray eyes and tilt-tipped noses.
Today he would recapture those dreams. All but one.
There would be no children for them.
So be it. He would have Olivia. He would finally have the wife he’d dreamed of, a warm-hearted passionate woman, a loving stepmother for Justine, entrée into Society.
By some miracle, Olivia’s family had managed to quell the gossip. Lady Piedmont had spirited the twin parlor maids off to the country and at last report the girls were so happy to be reunited they’d promised to keep quiet. Johnston and the footman had been silenced with a raise in their wages and the threat of dismissal should they spread tales. Lady Hastings’ maid was a loyal soul and had vowed to keep the knowledge of her mistress’s daughter’s antics to herself.
In truth, Jack had been living in dread of Olivia ending their betrothal. Each morning he’d arisen from his bed certain that this would be the day she’d call off the wedding. And why not?
If the threat of scandal no longer existed, what reason did she have to tie herself to him?
She believed he’d only wanted to marry her to reclaim what he’d lost, what he’d mistakenly believed she’d stolen from him. She believed he’d sought her out solely for her connections, for her noble blood, for her ability to give him children of that noble blood.
Jack might have disabused her of the notion, except he’d never had a moment alone with her. He had not so much as kissed her, held her, talked to her. Really talked to her. It was as if she’d surrounded herself with sentinels, barring him from any sort of intimacy.
But that was at an end. After today, she would be his wife. Tonight he would explain the madness that had gripped him for more than a decade. He would explain that while he’d intended to wed her for all of those reasons, somewhere along the way he’d fallen under her spell.
Olivia would understand. He would make her understand.
“Do you Jack Edward Bentley take Olivia Anne Gibbons to be your lawful wedded wife?”
Reverend Jones’ words brought Jack back to the moment.
“I do,” he vowed, his hand coming up to covers Olivia’s where it rested on his arm. He feasted his gaze on her profile, hoping she would turn to him and see the sincerity of his pledge.
“Do you Olivia Anne Gibbons take Jack Edward Bentley to be your lawful wedded husband?”
There was a beat of silence as if every guest witnessing the ceremony held their breath.
“I do.” Her words were little more than a whisper. Her eyes remained fixed on some point before her, perhaps on the reverend’s smiling face.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Olivia twisted toward Jack, her face pale but composed, her gaze fastened on his lips. He smiled as he took her hands in his and slowly bent to place his mouth on hers. He felt her lips tremble beneath his, felt a small puff of breath blow across his cheek as she turned away just enough so that his kiss landed on the corner of her mouth.
He lifted his head in surprise, but she was already pulling her hands from his, rotating to face the ladies and gentlemen who rose to their feet in the pews. She took a step forward and Jack realized she intended to walk down the aisle without him.
With a muttered oath, he clasped her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow.
“Oh, yes, of course,” she murmured, her eyes finally meeting his as her family surrounded them. She met his gaze only long enough for him to see confusion and some other emotion he was loath to name hovering in their silvery depths.
“Well done, Bentley.” Hastings slapped him on the back before leaning down to buss his sister’s cheek. “I’ve never seen a lovelier bride.”
“Thank you, Henry,” she replied with a smile.
“Lovely,” Jack echoed, feeling foolish for only now saying so.
“Thank you, Mr. Bentley.”
“Shall we, Mrs. Bentley?” He led her down the aisle, her fingers held snug in his hand, her family trailing behind them.
Jack wanted nothing so much as to pull her into the privacy of his carriage and into his arms. Instead he endured an endless parade of well-wishers congratulating them and complimenting his bride’s beauty.
After nearly twenty minutes, the wedding guests allowed him to hand his wife into the carriage. He followed behind only to find her sitting in the center of the carriage seat, her gown spread out around her, taking up all of the available space. With no other choice, he lowered himself across from her and rapped his knuckles on the roof. The carriage lurched before the horses settled into their traces.
“I’m glad that’s over,” he said, leaning back with a sigh.
“Yes.” Olivia met his gaze briefly, her eyes flicking away before he could determine her mood.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you.”
They rode in silence. Jack looked at her hands resting in her lap, her fingers twisting around one another.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“It isn’t every day a lady marries,” she answered with a smile that seemed forced. “Which reminds me. We hadn’t discussed whether or not you’d prefer I continue to title myself Lady.”
“Have you a choice?”
“Oh yes. My aunt assures me I might be addressed as Lady Bentley rather than Mrs. Bentley,” she replied, finally unlacing her fingers to wave one hand in the air. “I had thought that as one of my duties as your wife will be to see Justine well married, you might prefer Lady Bentley. A reminder to all that you’ve married the daughter of an earl.”
It made perfect sense. And yet Jack felt his temper rise. “Which would you prefer?”
“It is not for me to choose,” she responded.
“It’s your name,” he muttered.
“I am your wife now.”
Jack waited for her to continue until he realized that was the sum of her thoughts on the matter.
“Are you telling me you will simply do as I say?”
“You are my husband. Naturally I will do as you say.” She tilted her head as if confused by his question, by the frustration evident in his tone.
“I don’t give a damn,” he growled.
“If you truly have no opinion one way or the other, I shall be Lady Bentley. For Justine’s sake.”
Jack gave a sharp nod in acceptance of her decision.
“I’ve been giving some thought to Justine’s future,” she said after a few minutes of silence between them. “If she is to take her place in Society when the time comes we really must begin to introduce her to the right girls. She should be sent to school where she can make the sort of friends she will need when she comes out.”
“She’s only twelve,” he argued.
“Already many of the daughters of the nobility are at school building friendships, forging connections that will stay with them throughout their lives. I was sent to Mrs. Smith’s academy in Bath when I was twelve.”
“To build friendships and forge connections?” he drawled in irritation.
“In my case such things were not as important,” she replied with a delicate shrug of one shoulder. “I am related to most of the great families, after all. Justine’s origins are…a bit more obscure. It will be doubly important that she surround herself with highly placed young ladies. It will be the brothers and cousins of those ladies who will make up the marriage pool from which she will choose when the time comes.”
Jack looked away from the earnest expression on her pale face, not at all certain why this conversation left him feeling annoyed and a bit deflated.
“If you intend to allow her a choice in the matter,” she continued carefully.
“Of course she will have a choice,” he replied.
“I thought I would take a journey to Bath to speak with Mrs. Smith and ascertain whether or not Justine might attend in the autumn.”
“We could stop at Bath on the way to Sedgefield.�
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“Are we to depart London right away?”
“Would you rather stay in Town for a bit?”
“I leave the choice entirely to you,” she answered promptly. “Whither thou goest…”
Her words drifted away and her eyes dropped to her fingers once more laced together in her lap.
“Olivia,” he murmured and she looked up, that damn tranquil smile lifting her lips.
He couldn’t think what to say, how to break through the shell of reserve that surrounded her.
He was saved from wading into unknown territory by their arrival at Hastings House.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Another interminable carriage ride punctuated by the occasional comment about the wedding breakfast rounded out what had been a truly dismal wedding day.
Olivia could remember very little of the actual ceremony and even less of the celebration that had followed.
And now they were in her husband’s carriage on their way to her husband’s house, presumably to take tea in the horrendous parlor before retiring to separate chambers to change for dinner.
Then what? The thought brought a tightening to her chest and she drew a shallow breath. She hadn’t allowed herself to contemplate the wedding night, had only just managed to get through the endless days leading up to the ceremony.
When no whispers of her scandalous behavior surfaced, she’d contemplated ending the betrothal. She could set him free, set them both free.
Except the reprieve from gossip might prove short lived.
How could she condemn Jack and Justine to a life spent hiding in the north of England?
How could she cast her own children’s futures into certain disgrace?
For herself she would not have minded the scandal. Save her mother, her family would have continued to receive her. She might have retired to the country, perhaps to live the rest of her life at Idyllwild.
But Olivia could no longer think only of her own selfish desires. She’d done quite enough of that and look where they’d ended up. On a silent carriage ride through the busy London streets to yet another home that would never truly be hers, to a life spent with a husband she was doomed to disappoint.
