An Honest Heart (15 page)

The room went silent when she swept in, her gait measured and confident. She caught sight of Oliver Carmichael from the corner of her eye. He took a step forward, but she did not look at him. Instead, she moved to the table holding the tea services and food.

Several female friends surrounded her when she gained the table, gushing over the beauty of her dress and how happy they were to see her hearty and hale again. Edith continued to act as if she had no idea Mr. Carmichael was in the room, directing her focus on the women who seemed intent on basking in her reflected glory.

Oliver bided his time. He knew what Edith was doing—he’d been the target of too many other young women’s schemes not to recognize her game. She hoped that ignoring him would make him vie for her attention, force him to display his plumage and try to out-preen all the other peacocks in the room.

When a young buck—an heir to great wealth and property, but no title—approached Edith, Oliver turned his attention back to Doncroft and Radclyffe.

Doncroft watched Edith over Oliver’s shoulder. “She seems to be trying to make you jealous of the attention she receives from others.”

“It would appear so.” Oliver shrugged. “She may do as she pleases. It is she and not I who needs this marriage. She well knows I can find a younger, richer wife in a trice during the London Season.” He grunted a chuckle. “Her sister Dorcas is a choicer morsel, given her age and pliable nature.”

Radclyffe’s left brow raised, and Oliver would have sworn his friend took offense at his objectification of the middle Buchanan sister. “Oh-ho—do I sense an attachment forming?”

Radclyffe tried to school his expression, but it was too late. “I regard Miss Dorcas Buchanan very highly. But I am the poor third son of a viscount. There will be many others of higher rank and wealth competing for her affection once she is in London.”

Oliver thought to tease him further, but a change in Doncroft’s demeanor made him turn to sweep his gaze over the room at large.

Edith had taken her accustomed seat on a narrow settee—just wide enough for two to sit comfortably—and had invited one of the other men of the party to take the seat with her.

“Are you going to allow that?”

Oliver turned back to his friends, his head cocked to the side. “What is to allow or disallow? I am not her fiancé, nor her brother or father. She has made it clear that she intends to snub me today. I am ever an agreeable gentleman and accede to her wishes.”

When his two friends continued to gaze at him in surprise, Oliver laughed. “I will not let her dictate my actions today, because I do not want her to believe she can continue to play these games once we are wed. If we do indeed marry. I have watched my father bow to my mother’s whims and wiles my entire life. I do not intend to do the same when I choose a spouse. My wife will bend to my dictates. Not the other way around.”

Doncroft joined in Oliver’s amusement at the idea, but Radclyffe continued frowning.

Oliver cuffed him on the shoulder. “Go. Seek out your ladylove. Let her soft voice and simple ways salve your conscience.”

Radclyffe needed no further prompting. He straightened his waistcoat and crossed the room to the other black-haired Buchanan beauty of the party.

Aye, Dorcas Buchanan was sweeter and more pliable than her older sister. She had the same bridal legacy as Edith—fifty thousand pounds—and beauty to equal, if not surpass, the elder sister’s. But Oliver had known the two women since childhood, and of the two, Edith was more likely to understand and accept a more open arrangement to a marriage . . . especially once he was secure in having an heir. The middle sister was too pure, too sweet, to understand the need to seek pleasures and comforts elsewhere.

She was better off with someone like Radclyffe. He served as the moral compass for their band of three, having kept them from outright debauchery many times when they were at university and since.

If only the youngest sister were not so young. From what Oliver had seen and heard of her, she was a right little spitfire—and, were she a few years older, would give Doncroft a merry chase.

Alas, however, she was yet a girl of the schoolroom, still with her governess. Mayhap, in four years, when Florence debuted, if Doncroft had not married by then—and had reformed his ways a bit—Oliver could have his two closest friends as his brothers-in-law.

If he married Edith Buchanan.

Doncroft wandered off to flirt with the more vivacious of the young women. Oliver kept to the perimeter of the room. Yet he did not want Edith to think he was brooding. So he found the one person sure to make her pay attention.

He paused in his approach and bowed to the stocky, blond-haired man standing in the small cluster of guests. “My Lord Thynne,” he greeted the viscount before speaking to each of the others in turn. “And Miss Dearing. How lovely you look in blue.”

Edith’s American cousin held her hands loosely at her waist. Oliver raised up on his toes just a bit so that he was of a height with the obnoxiously tall woman. Lord Thynne did not seem at all concerned that the woman he courted stood a few inches taller than he.

“Thank you, Mr. Carmichael. I do not believe I have seen you about today. I hope there were no problems that drew you away from Wakesdown.”

“No, Miss Dearing. I . . .” He couldn’t admit to his true purpose for leaving the estate. “I had some errands to see to in town.”

“Ah. Well, I know you were missed.” She nodded toward where Edith sat.

He refused to turn to look.

Lord Thynne leaned close to whisper something in Miss Dearing’s ear, inclined his head to her and the group surrounding them, then left the sitting room. Within a few moments after his departure, Oliver found himself standing alone with Miss Dearing. He supposed he could not blame the others—after all, Miss Dearing was not titled and, if the rumors were true, not wealthy. She was American, and she was not formally betrothed to the viscount, meaning she had nothing to offer those who wished to know Lord Thynne for their own advancement in society.

Oliver shifted his position so he could see Edith from the corner of his eye. Her lips had pulled together in the petulant pucker he found both annoying and endearing. “I hope, Miss Dearing, you will save at least one waltz for me on Saturday.”

“I . . .” She glanced toward the door Lord Thynne had exited through, but then shook her head and smiled at Oliver. “I would be happy to, Mr. Carmichael.” She set her teacup on the sideboard behind her. “I have not heard you speak much when the subject of the Great Exhibition is raised. What are your thoughts on the event?”

Other than the fact that it would bring everyone into London for the summer and allow him a freedom of movement and anonymity he had never experienced before? Other than the idea that he would spend this summer sewing his wild oats before settling down to a marriage of negotiation and tolerance with Edith Buchanan? “I am quite looking forward to it. With the exception of a yearlong tour of Europe after graduating Oxford, I have not traveled much. The Exhibition will be as if the world is coming to us.”

He paused, appraising her expression. “You look surprised, Miss Dearing.”

“I have found that members of the aristocracy for the most part do not look on the Exhibition favorably.”

Oliver’s leg muscles trembled with the effort to keep himself up at her height. He finally gave up and lowered his heels back to the floor. “Ah, yes. I have heard your uncle express his feelings that the Exhibition will be the ruin of London and of English society. I believe you will find it is the
older
members of the aristocracy who are against it. Those of us of the younger generation embrace change and invention. And that is what the Exhibition is all about, is it not? A display of the advancements and innovations taking place throughout the empire.”

“And other parts of the world as well.” Her blue eyes glittered with humor.

“I look forward to the displays from the Americas. I long to visit that part of the world and see all the things I have only ever read about.” He slew his gaze to his right and gauged Edith’s current temper. If the bright patches of pink shining on the apples of her cheeks were any indication, he’d pushed her almost to her limit.

The grandfather clock in the far corner softly chimed six o’clock, the earliest time one could politely leave an afternoon tea. Oliver lifted Miss Dearing’s right hand. “I have enjoyed our tête-à-tête, Miss Dearing. And I look forward to our waltz on Saturday night.”

He bowed and walked casually from the room, smiling to himself at the sight of Radclyffe towering over Miss Dorcas Buchanan, and the young woman’s rapt expression as she gazed besottedly up at him.

Five steps out into the entry hall, he slowed, waiting, listening.

Light footsteps and the brush of skirts on the gleaming marble-tiled floor brought a smile to his face, but he eliminated it and continued walking toward the grand staircase that dominated the soaring space.

“Oliver.” Edith’s voice was a hushed whisper.

He turned, acting as if she’d startled him. “Miss Buchanan?”

Her icy blue eyes sparked with fury. “How dare you—in front of me and all my guests . . . and with my own cousin!”

Oliver raised his hands in front of him, palms facing her. “My dear, I have no idea what you are on about.”

One of her delicate hands balled into a fist and slammed into his chest. “Flirting shamelessly with my cousin when you are promised to me.”

One look over her shoulder told him they were about to lose their privacy. Oliver took hold of her upper arm and led her to the billiards room.

“You are hurting me!” Edith tried to jerk her arm away, but Oliver did not let go.

“No, I am not. It’s your pride that is wounded, not your arm.” He closed the doors and turned the brass key in the lock, then tucked it in his waistcoat pocket.

Edith gasped. “What are you doing?”

“We need to have a private conversation, and I do not want you storming out before I have had my say.”

Rather than play the cad and watch her chest heaving as she tried to breathe in that ridiculously tight dress, Oliver meandered about the room, admiring the furnishings and decor. “You are holding a few misconceptions that I would like to relieve you of.” He fingered the crystals hanging from a sconce and watched the rainbow reflections dance on the thick rug under the billiards table.

“And pray tell, what are those?”

He stopped on the opposite side of the table, braced his hands on it, and leaned toward her. “First, I am not your fiancé, nor am I
promised
to you. Our arrangement is that if—
if
—neither of us is engaged to be married to someone else before the end of the season, we will marry.”

Edith opened her mouth to speak, but one raised eyebrow from Oliver stopped her. She pursed her mouth closed.

“Second, if you continue to act the harridan and harangue me for not continually paying court at your feet, I will nullify the agreement. I said I would marry you if neither of us is engaged at the end of the season. I did not say that I would not be actively participating in the social activities here and in London that could lead to my finding someone else to marry. If you think to entice me to marry you by this behavior”—he waved a hand her direction—“then we should part company now as acquaintances and think no more of a future together.”

He marched around the billiards table and took her by the shoulders. “Do you understand me, Edith?”

She nodded, eyes wide. Yet it was not fear he saw in them. Just this once, Oliver decided to give her what she wanted. He leaned down and claimed that oft-petulant mouth with his, drawing her to him until she wilted in his arms and responded, her lips moving and angling under his.

As her arms started to encircle his neck, he broke the kiss. He went to the door, unlocked it, and opened it, then turned back to Edith. “I expect you to abide by what I have said.” With a nod of his head, he turned heel and walked away, smiling to himself. But it was not kissing Edith that put him in such a fine mood.

Instead, he imagined doing the same with Cadence Bainbridge—taking her by surprise with a passionate embrace. But Miss Bainbridge would take a bit more wooing before then. And he knew exactly what to do next.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

N
eal crossed his arms on top of the framed wire-mesh chicken coop and leaned over to watch Sheila and Matilda scratch and peck at the pan of mash he’d just placed in there for them. Two eggs in three days was not much of a yield, but he enjoyed the daily reminder of life on his grandmother’s farm.

The cage rattled when a large gray tabby cat jumped from the fence onto the frame forming the top of the coop. Neal stretched out one hand and the stray cat came toward him, bumping its forehead against his palm. “I know they look delicious, but they’re not for you, Rascal. There is a bowl of scraps for you up on the landing, though.”

As if perfectly understanding the words, the cat gave one last longing look at the chickens, then hopped lightly off the coop and trotted up the steps to the landing at Neal’s door.