His Wicked Heart

by Darcy Burke

  “What do you call your horse?” she asked.

  “Malheur.”

  “Isn’t that French?” Olivia had learned a little at the vicarage, but had forgotten most of it.

  “Yes, it means miserable.”

  What an odd name. “Is there a reason you call him that?”

  He stroked the back of his horse’s head. “When I bought him he’d been mistreated.”

  Her gaze strayed to the mark on the horse. “You rescued him then?”

  He shrugged, as if saving a mistreated animal was a regular occurrence. But then maybe for him it was. “I recognized a superior animal and knew I could train him into a good horse.”

  She refused to let him pretend it wasn’t a good deed. “You rescued him.”

  “What does it matter?”

  “It makes you noble.” She wondered at his penchant for rescuing things. Had he been mistreated? Suddenly the tension between him and his father took on new meaning.

  He gave her one of his patented looks that revealed nothing. He lifted Malheur’s reins and said, “Walk.” The horse moved.

  Olivia took a deep breath. “Walk.” She mimicked what he’d done and grinned when Tulip lurched forward.

  He returned her smile. Her heart tripped again. She diverted her attention to Tulip. Her pride couldn’t afford to be seduced by him.

  After several minutes during which they rode in complete silence, Olivia braved conversation once more. “Louisa says you’re the finest horseman she knows. How old were you when you rode your first horse?”

  “Four. And he was a pony.”

  “So young?”

  “My father insisted on an early start. Dibbles was quite small, perfectly suitable for a child.”

  She laughed. “Dibbles? That’s a far cry from Malheur.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners, though he didn’t laugh with her. “I’ve no idea who named the unfortunate creature. He was rather old. I only had him for a year. Then I got a new pony.”

  “How many ponies did you have?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe half a dozen. My father has extensive stables. Here alone he keeps two dozen animals.”

  “And you ride all of them?”

  “No. Some are coaching horses. He doesn’t breed here, however. That he does at our family seat in Middlesex.”

  Scores of horses. His wealth was staggering.

  “Dare I ask how many homes your family owns?”

  “There are eight entailed, and another two are unentailed, one of them through my mother. Oh, and my sister inherited one from our mother’s mother.”

  Ten—eleven—houses! Until she’d gone to live with Louisa, Olivia had never lived in a house with ten rooms.

  “Have you changed your mind about cantering?” he asked.

  Olivia was just becoming used to the motion of walking. “I don’t think so. Maybe next time.”

  “Do you mind if I ride around the drive?”

  “Not at all. I’m sure I could benefit from watching your technique.”

  He said something to Malheur and shook the reins. They took off quickly, the dirt kicking up beneath the horse’s hooves.

  After a few moments during which she admired Jasper’s skill, Louisa rode up beside her, slowing Tilda to a walk. “You’re doing very well, dear! I knew Jasper would set you right.”

  Olivia watched him ride. She knew next to nothing about horses or riding but it was obvious he was exceptional. “He told me he saved that horse.”

  “Malheur?” Louisa nodded. “Yes, that was, my goodness, almost ten years ago now. Merry was with Jasper when they went to see the poor thing. Holborn was furious when Jasper bought him. Thought the animal was a waste of time. It took Jasper two years, but he finally rode that horse. Now look at them.” Her voice rose with pride.

  Olivia barely knew the duke but was predisposed to dislike him intensely. He seemed less like a parent and more of an autocrat, whereas Merry sounded as if he’d been the best sort. Her heart squeezed at the thought.

  After a few minutes, Jasper rode back to them. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, his lips parted as he regained his breath. Every line had been wiped from his face. He looked relaxed…free. She’d never seen him like that.

  “You were splendid.” Louisa beamed at him. “How did Olivia do?”

  Jasper flicked Olivia an appreciative glance. “Very well, but she didn’t want to go above a walk.”

  Louisa managed Tilda’s reins as the horse danced two steps to the side. “Is that true Olivia? You must take advantage of Jasper’s excellent tutelage. After lunch, you should allow Tulip a short jaunt.”

  After lunch? She hadn’t yet dismounted, and they were already planning her next ride.

  They walked their horses back to the stable yard. Olivia was more than content to allow the groom to continue to lead Tulip.

  “Yes, after lunch, and after you show Jasper the designs you sketched for his waistcoat.”

  Jasper looked at Olivia in question. “I thought you’d perhaps forgotten.”

  She slid Louisa an arch glance. “As if Louisa would let me.” She grinned so they would know she was jesting. “If it’s convenient, you can choose the design you prefer.”

  “I should be delighted.” His gaze lingered on her and seemed to smolder.

  Olivia swallowed, hoping to encourage moisture into her suddenly dry mouth.

  “Ow!”

  Both Olivia and Jasper turned at Louisa’s exclamation in time to see her slide off the mounting block. She hobbled a bit before half-sitting/half-falling down on the large square of wood.

  Jasper quickly dismounted and rushed to her. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ve turned my ankle.” She reached down and wrapped her hand around her boot. “Give me a moment, and I can probably put my weight back on it.”

  “Nonsense.” Jasper was already scooping her into his arms. “I’ll carry you inside.”

  “Oh!” Louisa laughed. “You take such good care of me.”

  Olivia wasn’t sure if Jasper would come back out for her or not. She looked down at the groom who still held the lead rope. “Shall I try the block then?”

  “As you wish, miss. I should be pleased to assist you.”

  Guiding Tulip to the block proved easy enough, but navigating her skirts from the saddle and dismounting required the groom’s assistance. Olivia thanked the groom before making her way to the house. Jasper met her at the door.

  “Is Louisa all right?” Olivia hoped she hadn’t broken her ankle.

  “Quite. There’s no pain if she doesn’t put weight on it. Hence, she’s reclining in the library. I’ve asked the staff to reorganize luncheon in there so we may dine together.”

  Extremely thoughtful.

  “It will take them a few minutes. In the meantime, I thought you might enjoy a tour.” He opened the door wide, beckoning her inside.

  Olivia hesitated. He’d lulled her into a sense of security, but was it honest? Or did he have ulterior motives now that he had her alone?

  “A few of Merry’s paintings are hanging in the gallery.”

  The temptation was too alluring to resist. He knew just how to woo her—at least in this.

  “Yes, thank you.” She took his proffered arm, hoping she hadn’t just agreed to accompany the lion into his den.

  Chapter Eleven

  JASPER’S BODY tightened with lust. Such a simple touch, but then her proximity was enough to drive him to the edge. He immediately regretted his invitation for a tour.

  She shot him a quick glance. It was brief, but contained the same emotions she’d reflected all morning. Anxiety. Uncertainty. Awareness. He didn’t trust her—had just dispatched a man to Newton Abbott in Devon yesterday in fact—but he meant to tell her that her secrets would be safe with him. Provided she told him the truth.

  A footman held the door for them as they entered the house. Olivia swept the tall black riding hat from her head and gave it to the liveried retainer.
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  Jasper guided her toward the rear of the entry hall where a marbled staircase climbed to the second-floor gallery. “You did well this morning. You needn’t ride after lunch, unless you want to. Aunt Louisa can be a force of nature.”

  Her lips curved up. “I like that about her. She has such vitality.”

  “Yes.” He liked that about her, too. Loved that about her, actually.

  He led Olivia up the stairs and then along the portrait gallery. “These are well-known artists.” He gestured to the first painting, a landscape. “Poussin.”

  Candlelight from the sconces between the portraits washed over her auburn hair. The color was lush and vibrant, like her.

  She continued to the next portrait. “Rembrandt?”

  Surprising. “Yes.”

  “I can tell from the glow. His paintings have a kind of light burning within them, do they not?”

  An excellent observation. He hadn’t expected to be impressed by her, but all morning she’d exhibited courage, intelligence, and wit. “What you describe is called chiaroscuro. This refers to how artists employ lightness and darkness within their paintings. You’ve an exceptional eye.”

  She blushed. “My experience is rather limited. Louisa took me to Somerset House. I liked the Rembrandts.”

  That was one of the days he’d avoided them. A shame, for he would have enjoyed seeing the paintings with her and discussing them. Her passionate interest reminded him of Uncle Merry who’d also particularly liked Rembrandt. Was there perhaps a chance she was related to Merry?

  They moved to the next painting. He watched her study the portrait of two boys. One sat in a chair beneath a sweeping oak tree reading a book. The other ran across the lawn, two dogs racing behind him.

  At length, she said, “Merry painted this.”

  Incredibly good eye. He held his breath, wondering what else she would notice about the painting. “Yes.”

  Another moment. Then she tilted her head to look at him. “Is that you?” She pointed to the boy running.

  “Yes. The boy reading is my brother.” Why had he told her that? He hadn’t planned to.

  “Louisa said he died.” She looked up at him. “I’m sorry.”

  He should’ve expected Louisa would share that information. It wasn’t, after all, a secret. Just something his family chose to ignore. “I was very young, and we weren’t close. As you can see, we didn’t share the same interests.”

  She smiled, easing the tension he felt discussing his long-dead brother. “You seem so carefree there. A different Lord Saxton is teaching me to ride and showing me his favorite paintings.”

  “I’m not Lord Saxton in that portrait.”

  “Ah, of course. Your brother was.” She was very perceptive, even if she couldn’t begin to understand what James’ death had done to Jasper, to their entire family.

  Moments passed, but Jasper could think of no response that wouldn’t lead down a path he didn’t wish to traverse. He gestured to the next portrait. “This is another of Merry’s. My sister, Miranda.”

  She walked with him to view the painting of a ten-year-old Miranda petting the nose of her horse beside a lake. “Louisa has told me about her. Is it true she and her husband operate an orphanage in Wiltshire?”

  Jasper quirked a smile. “Oddly enough, they do. Well, odd for Miranda. I never would’ve thought she’d marry a provincial gentleman and live away from London, let alone work at an orphanage.”

  Olivia looked up at him. “She must be happy.”

  Blissfully so. “Yes, she’s happy.” And he’d ensured that by agreeing to marry whomever Holborn decreed by the end of September. The duke had been ready to destroy Miranda’s husband to keep them from marrying, so Jasper had traded his freedom for hers. Holborn hadn’t cared that Miranda loved Fox beyond all else—a love he returned with a ferocity that made Jasper question whether what he’d felt for Abigail a decade ago had truly been love at all.

  Olivia gestured to the painting. “She looks happy there, too. Everything Merry painted is so…alive, or maybe tangible. I can’t think of the right word. He captured perfect moments in time.”

  He was struck by how lovely she was, how poised. Such a shame she wasn’t really Merry’s cousin. She still wouldn’t be acceptable enough in the duke’s eyes, but remove that obstacle and she was everything Louisa had said Jasper wanted in a wife…save her inability to be honest.

  He turned toward her, so he was facing her instead of the painting. “Why can’t you tell me the truth? I wouldn’t use it to hurt you. Louisa’s happiness is my primary goal.”

  “I’ve told you the truth.” Her tone was steady. She kept herself positioned toward the portrait.

  He frowned. “Do you understand why I don’t believe you? You’ve lied to me from the start.”

  She blanched, but somehow found the courage to look at him. “I did—in the beginning—and I’m still so ashamed of what I tried to do.”

  For the first time, he believed her, or at least he wanted to. She clearly demonstrated regret.

  He moved closer. “So you maintain that all of this business with Louisa and Merry is the truth?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze didn’t waver. Either her acting ability really was spectacular or she was telling the truth. Time would tell. His investigator would be able to confirm her relationship to Merry, and perhaps where she’d gotten Merry’s painted box. In the meantime, he could conduct an investigation of his own.

  “Do you miss your parents?” he asked, curious to see what she might reveal.

  She blinked then pivoted to survey the painting on the opposite wall. “Somewhat.”

  “Only somewhat?”

  “We weren’t terribly close. I thought, that is, I wondered if you might understand such a relationship.”

  Extremely perceptive, but then it didn’t take a scholar to see the cavernous divide separating him from the duke and duchess. “I do.” They moved to the next painting. “How long ago did they pass?”

  “Just last year.”

  He would’ve sworn she’d been in London longer than that. She didn’t have a country girl’s sensibilities. It would be easy enough for him to find out, so he decided to ask her outright. “I’ve sent someone to Newton Abbott to verify your claims. Tell me, what will he find?”

  She turned to look at him, her eyes surprisingly cool and serene. “Louisa insists I’m Merry’s family. Why do you want to upset her?”

  She’d cut to the very thing that would most wound him—Louisa’s well-being. “I’ve no wish to, but I must protect her from harm.” He held up a hand to halt any argument. “I know you claim you won’t hurt her, but we’ve already discussed my understandable lack of faith in you. Now, you didn’t answer my question. What will I find?”

  He pinned her with the blistering stare the duke had taught him so well. She blinked quickly, but not before he caught the barest flash of something.

  “You won’t find anything but the truth as Louisa presented it.”

  “So I’ll find records of your birth and that of your parents, tying all of you to the Merriweathers?”

  “No, because those records were destroyed in a fire.”

  “How convenient. Still, I imagine the townspeople will be quite helpful. One year is not such a long time to forget a family’s existence.”

  She lifted a shoulder, seemingly unaffected by the suspicion in his tone. She turned back to the painting. “Does Louisa know you sent someone to Devon?”

  “No.” He stepped toward her, enjoying their game of cat and mouse despite her lies. “Why, do you think I should tell her?”

  She threw him a dark look. “Yes. Or I can.”

  He begrudgingly gave her credit. Louisa would be furious with him, and Olivia knew it. “Or you could tell me the truth right now, and we’ll call a halt to this entire farce.”

  “There is no farce. There is only you looking for nefarious intent where there is none.”

  He snaked his hand around her upper arm a
nd pulled her toward him. “You had plenty of ‘nefarious intent’ when we met. It seems logical you would continue in that vein. Women like you don’t wake up with a conscience.”

  Her eyes were full of storms now. “You were angry when I made an assumption about the kind of man you are, so don’t do it to me. You’ve no idea what sort of woman I am.” She gave her arm a shake, and he let her go.

  He moved forward, and she pivoted back until she came into contact with the wall between the paintings. “I know you’re an actress,” he said smoothly, “capable of weaving all manner of deception.”

  Her lips curved up in a humorless smile. “Misassumption number one. I’m not really an actress. I was only on the stage for a fortnight.”

  “And why is it you haven’t shared that with Louisa if you’ve nothing to hide? I grant she’d be disappointed, but mostly because you withheld the truth. You should consider telling her. Like me, Louisa prizes honesty.”

  She arched a brow. “Perhaps I will.”

  He admired her just then, even if he didn’t believe her. “An excellent notion. I’m sure your reasons for working at the Haymarket are sound. How did that come to pass anyway?”

  She stood taller and thrust her chin at him. “I came from Devon several months ago and took a position at the theatre as a seamstress. I only filled in onstage for an actress who left temporarily to care for a sick relative. It was then I had the misfortune of encountering—and being bedeviled—by you.”

  Bedeviled? He’d show her bedeviled. He closed the gap between them until they nearly touched. “And when is it exactly that you came from Devon?”

  She tipped her head back, but didn’t shrink from him. An auburn curl loosened and grazed her ivory cheek. “March.”

  He took in the graceful sweep of her neck, partially covered from his hungry gaze by the starched collar of her shirt beneath the deep sage green of her riding habit. His lust threatened to destroy any semblance of propriety, which, alone as they were in the gallery, was nonexistent. “So you really are from Devon.”

  “Yes.” Her voice deepened, stirring his desire further.

  He tucked the stray lock of hair behind her ear. “And your parents died last year. Were they ill?”