“I thought you already had,” he said. He climbed in beside her.
He kissed her temple. “You’re not supposed to jump up from the bed two minutes after a man tells you he loves you,” he said. “Don’t you know anything?”
“I wanted you to see,” she said.
She opened the box and started taking them out: the packets of letters he’d written to her, the little painted wooden man—the first gift he’d sent her, the bracelet with the blue stones, the piece of alabaster . . . on and on. Ten years of little treasures he’d sent her. And the handkerchief with his initials she’d stolen a few weeks ago.
She looked up at him, her eyes itching and her throat aching. “I do love you,” she said. “You see?”
He nodded, slowly. “I see,” he said. “Yes, I see.”
She could have said the words but she could say any words and make one believe.
She knew that. She knew he knew that.
The box held her secrets, the things she truly meant.
She’d let him see into her heart, to the things she didn’t say, the true things.
He swallowed. After a moment’s vibrating silence, he said, “You must marry me.”
She stared for a time at her collection of secrets. “I think I must,” she said. “I’ve wanted to be self-sacrificing and brave but it doesn’t agree with me.”
He stared at her. She put the trinkets back, and the letters.
“Really?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “I thought I couldn’t endure it but you’ve begun to grow on me. Like mold.”
“Very funny.”
But the relief was physical. He hadn’t realized how heavy and disheartening a weight had pressed on him until now, when it lightened.
“We balance,” she said. “We love each other. We’re friends. And the lovemaking is quite good.”
“Quite good?”
“Much better than Lady Cooper’s first experience,” she said. She repeated the ladies’ descriptions of their first marriages.
He laughed. “I’ve outperformed Lady Cooper’s first husband—and I’ve got the ring and everything,” he said.
“The one from the chest,” she said. “Oh, that settles it.”
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. “If we go wake up two witnesses, we can declare ourselves married and we will be—and then you can spend the night,” he said. “Marriage is simpler in Scotland.”
She drew back and stroked his cheek. “That’s very tempting, but I think Mama would like to see me wed.”
“Your mother, yes.” He shook his head. “I forgot. Parents. Damn. Parents, plague take them.”
“I have an idea,” she said. “Let’s take some blankets and sneak downstairs and steal some food from the pantry and have a picnic in front of the great fireplace and plot against your parents.”
Half an hour later
They sat cross-legged in front of the fire Lisle had built up. They had half a loaf of bread and an excellent cheese Lisle was cutting and a decanter of wine from which they drank directly.
“My parents,” he said. “My cursed parents. Here I am, having the happiest moment of my life—one of them, at any rate, and they slither into the scene like-like—”
“Ghosts,” she said.
He set a piece of cheese on a piece of bread and gave it to her. “My father,” he said grimly. “What he’s done to the people here. He changes his mind a hundred times. He makes capricious rules. He raises the rents when he decides he’s not getting enough out of them. Every time he takes notice of Gorewood, he causes disruption. The Rankins and a few others like them vandalize and steal and bully, but no one can prove anything, and they’ve nobody in charge of keeping order. Lord Glaxton won’t interfere. He tried to, a few times, but my father threatened lawsuits—and it simply isn’t worth the aggravation. The villagers are too demoralized and too busy trying to survive to fight back. And all I can think is, I can restore the castle and provide work, but I can’t stop my father, and as soon as I’m gone, everything will go to hell again. But I can’t stay here.”
There it was, the conscience-stricken look.
“You can’t,” she said. “You’ve given ten years of your life to Egypt. You knew when you were a boy what you wanted and you’ve pursued it, diligently. It’s your calling. Asking you to give it up is like asking a poet to stop writing or an artist to stop painting—or Step-Papa to give up politics. You can’t give it up.”
“And yet I feel I must,” he said.
“Oh, you would,” she said. She reached up and stroked his cheek. “You would, you—you good man, you.”
She let her hand slide down and she patted him on the chest. “Luckily, for you, your bride-to-be is unethical.” She took her hand away, took up the decanter, and drank.
“I do love you,” he said.
“I love you madly,” she said. “I shall make you happy if I have to kill somebody to do it. But that ought not to be necessary.” She looked into the fire for a time, trying out one thought, then another. Then she saw it, so simple, really. “Oh, Lisle, I have an Idea.”
Gorewood Castle great hall
Ten days later
“This is not to be borne!” Father shouted. “You indulge her in everything, Rathbourne, and you know this is caprice. Here is my son, willing—nay, eager to wed—”
“He’s heartbroken,” Mother cried. “Only look at the poor boy.”
Lisle looked the way he always did when his parents were in one of their frenzies. But they’d always put their own interpretations on whatever he said and did. Why stop now?
He’d written to his parents the letter Olivia had dictated, minus her capital letters and underlining, and subduing the drama. She’d written to her parents. Mother and Father had arrived a short time ago, only a little behind Lord and Lady Rathbourne. All four of them were equally eager, for different reasons, to see the marriage go forward.
Then Olivia told them she’d changed her mind.
The so-called chaperons were at Glaxton Castle. One couldn’t count on them not to give the game away. They meant well, but they could be unpredictable when in their cups.
Even Lisle, perfectly sober, was hoping he wouldn’t say the wrong thing. Acting wasn’t his forte.
“It’s all right, Mother,” he said. “I’m disappointed, yes, but I shall have to bear it.”
“I can’t make Olivia wed,” Lord Rathbourne said.
“But she said she loves him!” Mother cried. “He loves her. He said they would be married. He wrote it in a letter. I told everybody!”
“Olivia changed her mind,” said Lady Rathbourne. “Olivia always changes her mind.”
“But why?” Mother cried. “Why, Olivia?”
“If you must know—and truly, I didn’t wish to say—I shouldn’t wish to hurt your feelings for the world,” Olivia said. “But the fact is, I didn’t realize he was penniless. It’s simply out of the question.”
Lord and Lady Rathbourne looked at each other.
Mother and Father didn’t notice. They noticed nothing but themselves. At the moment, all they understood was that one of the richest girls in England was jilting their son.
“But he’ll inherit!” Father said. “He’s my eldest son and heir. He’ll have everything.”
“But that will not be for a very long time, God willing,” Olivia said. “Of course I should wish you a long and healthy, happy life.”
“You said you cared for him, Olivia,” Mother said reproachfully. “Before you came here, you did give us to understand that you would welcome his suit.”
As much as his parents infuriated him, it was growing more and more difficult to keep a straight face. Lisle could practically see the line Olivia had thrown, and the way she drew it in, little by li
ttle.
“That was before I fully realized his unfortunate situation,” she said. “If I married him I should be a laughingstock and he would sink in public esteem. People would say I was so desperate for a husband that I married a fortune hunter.”
“A fortune hunter!” Mother screamed.
“That isn’t what I say,” Olivia said. “I know Lisle cares nothing about such things. I know he would take me in my shift.” Her blue gaze slid his way briefly. “But you know how utterly vile people can be. I could not bear it, for my own sake or for Lisle’s, to have his good name sullied by ill-thinking persons. It grieves me—I thought we should suit so well—but I fear it is never to be.”
She turned to Lisle, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She could shed or unshed them at will, he knew. “Lisle, I fear our love is Doomed.”
“It’s most unfortunate,” he said. “I had the ring and everything, too.”
“This is absurd!” Father said. “Of course he isn’t penniless.”
“He has nothing of his own,” Olivia said. “Nothing belonging to him, and only him. He has no reliable source of income. He has merely an allowance—”
“A generous one, too,” said Father, “which I was meaning to increase, on account of the fine work he’s done here.”
“An allowance you may give or withhold at your pleasure,” she said. “It isn’t his.”
It must have sunk in, finally, because Father stopped striding about the room and looked thoughtful. “Is that the only hindrance?” he said. “Money?”
“Money,” Olivia said. “But no, not merely money. A lump sum lacks . . . substance. What we want is property. No one could call him a fortune hunter if he were a man of property.” She looked about her, at the walls of the vast hall, now boasting hangings and paintings. “This property, for instance. Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Now I think of it, this would do very well. Make Gorewood over to him entirely, and I shall marry him as soon as you please.”
That night
There would be a great wedding and a wedding breakfast in a month’s time. Meanwhile, however, Lord and Lady Atherton were determined not to let Olivia escape matrimony. A servant was dispatched to Edinburgh to bring back a lawyer, who drew up the papers, making over Gorewood and all its appurtenances and its income and so on and so forth to the Earl of Lisle.
This was accomplished by sundown.
Shortly afterward, Olivia and Lisle declared themselves married before their parents, the Ladies Cooper and Withcote, Lord Glaxton and a couple of his relatives, and a houseful of servants.
Aillier prepared a splendid dinner, including delectable pastries baked in his villainous oven.
They were all in the great hall, celebrating.
When Lisle and Olivia slipped out, everyone smiled.
The sooner the marriage was consummated, the better, in the parents’ view.
He took Olivia up to the roof.
He took care to bar the doors.
He’d brought up rugs and furs, because it was November, a Scottish November, and it was deuced cold. Tonight, though, Scotland’s capricious gods of weather had smiled on them and swept away the clouds.
Olivia leaned back against his arm and gazed up at the night sky. “It’s carpeted with stars,” she said. “I’ve never seen so many.”
“It is beautiful in its way,” he said. “It deserves better than the treatment my father’s given it.” He pulled her closer and kissed her. “That was brilliant. You were brilliant.”
“Unscrupulous and unprincipled, lying and cheating,” she said. “Yes, I was at my best.”
“It was a brilliant idea.”
“It was the obvious idea. Who better than you to be laird of Gorewood?”
“And who better than you to do the one thing no one else can do: Make my father relinquish something he doesn’t want, doesn’t know what to do with, but won’t let go of.”
“You wait,” she said. “By degrees, we’ll steal your brothers, too.”
“When they’re a bit older, I should like to get them into school,” he said. “It never suited my temperament, but they’re not like me. I think they’ll be happy there.”
“Shall you be happy here?” she said.
“Of course,” he said. “From time to time. But you know I’ll never adapt.”
“I wouldn’t want you to. You don’t need to. We’ve got Herrick.”
He laughed. “And my first act as laird of Gorewood will be to promote him to house steward. Ah, Olivia, the power is delicious. It’s almost like being in Egypt. How amazing to be free to act, to do what I believe is right. I should have been eaten alive with guilt had I abandoned these people to my father. Now I don’t need to tell him about Jock and Roy. If he finds out, there’s nothing he can do. Nothing he can do about Mary Millar. He can’t dismiss anybody or hire anybody. This is one place where he can’t make chaos.”
He’d told the Rankins they could spend the next five years helping to rebuild and modernize the shops, roads, and cottages or they could take their chances at trial. They’d chosen to work.
“Five years’ honest work might reform the Rankins,” he said. “If not—well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. And I saw no reason to dismiss Mary.”
“She was in an impossible situation,” Olivia said. “But in the end, she acted well.”
“That’s the most we can ask of people,” he said. “That they act well.”
She turned her head to look up at him, the fur sliding from her shoulders. He drew it up. Later he’d undress her, slowly. Or maybe very quickly. But the night was too cold for rooftop indecencies.
“You’ve acted well,” she said. “In trying circumstances, in a place you never wanted to be.”
“I’ve learned some things.” He drew her closer. “I’ve gained a great deal. How aggravating. I must be grateful to my father, for starting this.”
“And to me,” she said, “for finishing it so beautifully.”
“Are we finished?” he said.
“Not quite,” she said. “By the time we have our grand wedding celebration though, we ought to have everything in hand. Then we may set out on our bridal trip.”
“Oh, I forgot about that. Well, a man must make sacrifices. You want to go somewhere romantic, I suppose. Paris. Venice.”
“No,” she said. “Don’t be silly. Everyone goes to those places.” She turned to him. “I want the Sphinx and the Pyramids and tombs and smelly mummies.” Her lips brushed his ear. “Take me to Egypt, dear friend.”
Teaser Chapter
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The Duke’s Captive
Ian Wentworth, the Duke of Chatwin, arrives in London with just one thing on his mind: revenge. All those he believes responsible for his horrific past have paid with their lives. All but Viola Barrington-Jones, the lovely Lady Cheshire. Viola has worked hard to keep her secrets from the prying eyes of the ton, and when she sees Ian at a glittering ball, her rush of recognition turns to panic. Will the duke remember the tenderness they once shared, or does he blame her for her family’s sins? But just as Ian finally has the beauty at his mercy, he realizes revenge may no longer be what he desires most.
Viola flipped around, dazed for a second or two as Lucas Wolffe, tall and domineering, stood directly in front of her, acknowledging her in a deep, cool voice.
“Your grace,” Isabella said at once, breaking the spell first with a proper curtsey.
Viola automatically followed with the same, lowering her body gracefully as she tipped her head down in respect, her heartbeat quickening as it always
did when she found herself in the company of someone so important. And then past and present collided in swift, brutal force when, as she pulled herself upright and raised her lashes, Fairbourne moved to his left to offer full view of the man standing behind him.
Oh, my God. . .
She blinked, instantly spellbound by a new and vivid unreality.
“Ladies, may I present to you Ian Wentworth, Earl of Stamford, Duke of Chatwin.”
The room began to spin. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t breathe.
Ian Wentworth, Earl of Stamford. . .
He’s found me.
Isabella curtsied again, mumbled something. He nodded brusquely in response, then slowly turned his attention to her.
Those eyes . . . Ian’s eyes. Pleading. . .
Run!
She couldn’t move. Their gazes locked, and for an endless moment time stopped, if only between them. History suddenly became now, their shared memories, both distasteful and passionate, fearful and vibrant, passing intimately between them in a heartbeat.
Viola stumbled back a step; her champagne glass fell from her fingertips to shatter on the marble floor at her feet. And still, she couldn’t take her gaze from his face. That beautiful, expressive face, so changed. Perfected in time.
“Viola?”
Footmen scattered around her to quickly sweep up the glass and pale liquid that pooled at the hem of her gown; others in their vicinity backed up to make room. The bluster of sudden activity jarred her and she blinked quickly, glancing down, bewildered.
“I—I’m sorry.” Her voice sounded clipped, hollow.
Isabella wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Are you all right? You look ready to faint.”