Anne O'Brien (9 page)

‘Forgive me, Olivia. I have not been the best of company.’ He called on the excuse of his damaged hip and knee, with silent apologies to the deity who had granted him the facility to heal quickly and well. ‘My leg. The pain, you understand. Sometimes it is almost too great to bear.’ He managed to move surprisingly quickly from his chair, even without the use of his cane, to avoid an inevitable kiss as the lady approached. ‘Perhaps I can offer you a glass of brandy?’

‘No. I suspected that you were in some discomfort.’ Her intense expression was not quite critical of his lack of attention to her. She followed him to where he had lifted the decanter to refill his own glass. Oh, God! ‘But perhaps now that you are able to walk more easily, and without your cane…’ She smoothed a hand delicately down his arm, looking up into his face with wide and lustrous eyes. ‘Perhaps you would be willing to escort me to the opera? It would be good for you to see friends again, I think. And afterwards a light supper where you could spend time with me, of course. Alone.’

‘I would be delighted to oblige, Olivia. But I regret not this evening. I have another engagement.’ He cast about in his mind, only to come up with the obvious. ‘At Brooks’s.’ The only place he could be safe.

‘Ah!’ The faintest of lines was drawn between her sleek brows, but then she smiled. It reminded him of a raptor’s hun
gry interest in its prey. ‘I have received an invitation to join a weekend party at the country home of Lord and Lady Melville in Berkshire. So gracious of them. I think it would be excellent for your spirits if you accompanied me, Joshua.’

‘Olivia—there is something I would say.’ He put down the glass of brandy. ‘But first, I have a gift for you—a mark of my esteem. And gratitude.’ How clumsy it sounded. He winced inwardly as he moved to open a drawer in the desk, to remove a flat packet. Held it out.

The Countess took it, without any sign of pleasure, and lifted the lid on the velvet-lined case.

‘How lovely.’ Her eyes were flat and cold. She did not touch the sparkling gems, but merely tilted the box so that their facets would catch the light. She angled her head, watching the expensive glitter, then looked at him. ‘Could this be in the way of a farewell present? Somehow, in my experience, diamond necklaces always seem to figure at the end of a relationship.’

‘I think, yes. I fear that you are bored, my dear Olivia. I have been no help to you in recent weeks, although I shall be eternally grateful for your company. In my convalescence.’

Thick lashes hid her thoughts. She fixed a smile that looked almost genuine. ‘But you are recovering now, Joshua. We could still pass some pleasant times together. I think that you are not unaware of my attractions.’ She reached over to touch his hand.

‘No. My mind is made up.’ He tried to be gentle even as he withdrew his hand. ‘This is the end for us, Olivia. Much as I admire you.’

‘But I have not thanked you sufficiently for your hospitality.’ The raptor’s talons sank deeper. He could not escape as she tightened her hold on his arm and touched her lips to his. All he could do was to remain still, cool and unresponsive to her invitation. Not quite a rejection—that would be too much like a slap in the face—but his reluctance was plain.

Olivia straightened, allowed her hand to drop away, her face
controlled, but her smile had vanished and there was now an edge to her voice.

‘I see that you are determined. Will you tell me why?’

‘No reason that would be an insult to you, my dear. But time passes. And I need to make some changes in my life.’

‘And I have no place in them.’

He could find nothing to say.

‘Is there someone else in your life? Have you taken another mistress?’

‘No.’

Her smile was brief and bitter. ‘How demeaning to be overthrown for no one else.’ She turned her back to walk toward the door, pride stamped on every controlled movement. And a simmering rage. ‘Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?’

‘No.’ A brush of sympathy touched his senses before it was ruthlessly checked. ‘You deserve better than I can give you.’

The Countess of Wexford picked up the necklace from where she had placed it on the desk. She would not reject the gift, however angry, however humiliated she might be. ‘You have been a disappointment to me, Joshua.’

‘I must live with it.’ The thought came into his mind that Sarah Russell would not have snatched up the necklace to take with her. Sarah Russell refused anything he offered!

‘Yes. you must. I hope that you do not live to regret it, my dear Joshua.’

She did not look at him again but left the room, leaving the door open behind her, all grace and cold fury. The diamonds had glittered, stark and blue as the coldest of ice, but never as frigid as the face and heart of Olivia Wexford.

Lord Joshua retrieved the brandy and drank. It was over. And easier than perhaps he deserved, for he and Wycliffe had made use of the woman. Her eager compliance did not make his own part in the masquerade any more comfortable. At least his injuries had given him every excuse to keep him from her bed and for that he must be grateful indeed.

T
he contentious issue of his continuing employment of Mrs Sarah Russell was resolved in Lord Faringdon’s mind in a quite unexpected manner—indeed one of mind-shattering discovery—one sun-filled afternoon in the following week. He rode into Hanover Square a little after three o’clock. It was the first time that he attempted to get into a saddle since the disastrous and humiliating culmination of his assignment in Paris. The short ride around Hyde Park, one circuit only, had been without doubt excruciating, but it was immensely satisfying that his strength and agility were at last returning. Shoulders and ribs were already more comfortable, allowing him to stretch and turn without immediate and painful repercussions. His knee and thigh might still scream from the demands put on damaged tendons and joints, but there was room for optimism. Thank God he had at last been able to dispense with the cane.

As he rode toward the front steps of his house, his mind occupied with far from pleasant thoughts, shouts and laughter caught his attention from the garden beyond the iron railings. He drew rein. Turned his head to watch. Then simply sat and stared in amazement.

A game was in progress. Not a game that he recognised, but one which involved considerable noise and a lot of running and
hiding, with a ball and a hoop. And also, it appeared, involved much enjoyment. He immediately recognised the participants and could not prevent his lips from lifting in appreciation of the scene. Most of the laughter came from John, untidy and red-faced, who whooped and shrieked as if pursued by a band of cut-throat robbers, wielding a hoop to the danger of any who might come too near. But there was his daughter, Miss Celestine Faringdon, no less, hitching up her petticoats and chasing the boy, to wrest the hoop from him with a cry of triumph. Her dark eyes sparkled and she laughed aloud. When she caught John she grasped and hugged him, planting a kiss on his cheek, which caused him to squirm and shriek even more, and his daughter howl with laughter. He had never seen his daughter so…so
happy!
Abandoned was perhaps the appropriate word, he thought. There was bright colour in her cheeks and stains on her skirts from where she had come to grief in the grass. Now she ran across the garden with John in noisy pursuit.

But the shock doubled, for the supervision of this madness was in the hands of one of the younger maids and Mrs Sarah Russell. And they were joining in. He found that he could not take his eyes from the solemn young woman who ordered and organised his life with intense reserve and so rarely smiled. It was a revelation indeed.

Sarah Russell was flushed. She was involved. She ran after the children, catching them, taking her own turn with hoop and ball. She laughed, completely unselfconscious, unaware of the picture she made.
She is no older than a girl!
he thought. She looked radiant, as if all the responsibilities and tensions of her life had been lifted for this short time. Even more, she looked exceptionally, stunningly pretty with pink cheeks and sparkling eyes. The vitality, the sheer…well,
loveliness
of the lady struck him a blow to his chest. His hands tightened on the reins: he could not take his eyes from her.

He would like nothing better, he realised in that one moment of recognition, than to make it possible for her to be so joyful
all the time. That was how she was meant to be. If he had ever met Theodora, he would have recognised the same outgoing nature and love of life—now that Sarah had been able to forget her present burdens and her past sins. When she shrieked—then covered her mouth in youthful and delicious embarrassment—as Beth caught her skirts, he smiled. He could not resist.

She had dispensed with the lace cap and her hair had loosened from its neat arrangement, to drift in soft, fair curls around her face. Why had he not realised that she was so pretty when he saw her every day?

The game was apparently over, the players weary but ecstatic. They trooped back across the road in the direction of the house, to halt when they saw their unexpected audience. They came to stand beside him.

John put out a tentative hand to stroke as much as he could reach of the satin shoulder of the bay gelding. Beth smiled up at her father with such openness that it filled him with warmth. This was how his daughter should be. And he cursed his former neglect, however essential it had become to keep her safe in Richmond, away from Paris and its dangers, the threats attached to his own actions in the service of the Crown.

‘You are riding again, Papa.’

‘So it seems. And you are out of breath.’

‘I won.’ Beth crowed with a smug satisfaction. ‘But John is very good. I am older, of course,’ she explained in all seriousness.

‘So you are.’ Lord Faringdon’s eyes moved on to rest on Sarah, who flushed even more at being discovered in so ruffled and unseemly a state. It took much effort to resist the urge to straighten her skirts and push back a wayward curl. But she would not.

‘We had finished the lessons for the day, my lord.’ Why did she feel the need to explain her actions? She set her teeth. ‘The afternoon was so mild…’

‘There is no need to explain, Mrs Russell. I could see that the game—whatever it was—was much enjoyed—by all.’

Her colour now became a deep rose. ‘I must go in. If you will excuse me, my lord…’

‘Of course.’

Transferring the reins to one hand, he swung down from the horse in one fluid movement. And forgot the need for care—until the bright pain lanced from foot to knee to thigh, a red-hot branding. His knee had stiffened during the ride and was reluctant to bear his weight as he landed on the hard surface of the pavement. Momentarily staggering with a hiss of pain, leaning against his mount to keep his balance, he dropped his gloves and riding whip.

The reaction around him was immediate. If his jaw had not been braced against the raw agony and lack of circulation in his leg, he might have laughed at the manner in which his housekeeper and the children instantly leapt to his aid. What price a reputation as a dangerous and unprincipled rake? They came to his rescue as if he were a damsel in distress, Andromeda facing her dragon. Beth collected gloves and whip from the dust of the pavement, wiping them against her skirts. John caught the loose reins to hold the gelding steady as far as a five-year-old could as Lord Faringdon leaned his weight against it. And Sarah Russell—well, she stretched out both hands to grasp his forearms, to hold him upright with her light strength, without a moment’s hesitation.

The reaction between Joshua and Sarah with the touch of hand on arm was instantaneous and elemental. His eyes snapped to hers. She was looking at him with just such a startled expression as he knew was on his own face. It lasted only the length of a heartbeat, both caught in the net of awareness. Then he straightened. She snatched her hands away. And, to all intents, the moment had passed.

‘See how well I am looked after. And how useless I am.’ The little grooves around his mouth deepened at the self-mockery. Yet he was aware of nothing other than the memory of her hands grasping his sleeves, as if the flesh beneath were scorched by her touch.

‘You are stronger every day, Papa. You no longer use the ebony stick.’ Beth clutched the gloves and whip to her flat bosom.

‘You are very good for my self-esteem, Beth.’ The mockery was still there, but gentler. And although his reply was for his daughter, his eyes were still fixed on Sarah’s.

‘I must go in.’ Mrs Russell took a step away from him in clear retreat.

‘Of course.’ He managed the slightest of bows. ‘I have to thank you, Mrs Russell.’

‘I have done nothing to earn your thanks, my lord.’

‘I think you have. In many ways.’ An enigmatic reply, which did nothing to still Sarah’s heightened emotions.

Lord Joshua Faringdon, as he made his way slowly from stable to house, was left thinking, beyond question, that he knew one means of improving his housekeeper’s life. He could suddenly think of no better solution. The clarity of the plan all but took his breath away.

Later that same evening the blinding moment of revelation—but a revelation of quite what he was still unsure—continued to trouble his lordship. He sat in the library, staring blindly at the untouched glass of port. Was he having second thoughts? Undoubtedly. Even third thoughts, he decided. He did not wish to marry. Had no intention of ever marrying again. Had no belief in the strength or lasting quality of love. Would seriously have denied its very existence if pressed closely. Certainly there had been no evidence of its overwhelming power in his relationship with women.

So why the hell should it have come into his mind with the force of a lightning bolt that marriage to Sarah Russell was an outcome to be desired and pursued? There must be other, simpler, more predictable solutions to her—and his—predicament. And there was no certainty that she would actually be tempted to accept his offer. No suggestion in her manner that she felt anything toward him other than a mild tolerance. Except for that
one moment that very afternoon—a slap of physical awareness such as he had never before experienced. The reaction in her own eyes as they had flown to his, held there, he could not say. Yet the image of her in the garden, laughing and joyous, came clear and unbidden into his mind. Once there, he could not shake it loose. Of course he did not love her. So why he should even consider to entangle himself in marriage he had no idea.

But he cared about her. Felt a strong urge—if he were feeling poetic, he thought with a quick grin—to stand as shield between her own slight figure and all the slings and arrows that the world might unleash against her. To see and hear her laugh and smile every day. To laugh and smile at him, with him.

He drank the port in disgust. He must truly be going out of his mind. His thoughts on this problem were neither sensible nor logical. And yet he was still gripped by a terrible conviction that marriage was the right step to take.

There again, his mind coming full circle and still as undecided as ever, if he did pursue this objective, would Sarah Russell agree? Knowing what he did of the lady, he had grave room to doubt it.

‘You wished to speak with me, my lord. And I have brought the menu for this evening if you would wish to approve it.’

Lord Faringdon stood with his back to Sarah, studying the view from the window, his thoughts engaged elsewhere. Nor did he immediately turn as she announced her presence. Which gave her the opportunity to study the firm set of his shoulders, the confident tilt of his head with its magnificent fall of hair. And it gave her an even greater sense of unease. Of foreboding.

‘Mrs Russell. Yes, indeed. If you would care to sit.’ He turned at last and indicated a chair beside his desk.

So it had come at last. Dismissal, with or without references. Sarah chose not to sit, but continued to stand before him, chin raised, as he approached. She had done no wrong. If he chose to dispense with her services, there was nothing she
could do to change his mind. She would not think, she would definitely not think of that one moment when she had touched him, when the connection between them had raced through her blood with all the force of a summer flood. When their eyes had locked with such intensity, something vital holding them suspended in time. No. No good could come from dwelling on that.

‘Let us try for some honesty here.’ His words surprised her and his voice had an edge. ‘You have, as you are aware, presented me with a problem. I do not wish to employ you, for reasons that are plain to us both. But I know that if I terminate your employment here you will immediately seek another position elsewhere, perhaps not to your benefit or your comfort. Or even your peace of mind.’

She waited, brows raised, heart beating insistently in her throat. There was nothing she could add to his assessment of the situation. Nor could she guess where this was leading. His face was stern as if he had come at last to a difficult decision and was not now to be deterred.

‘I have thought about it all at some length. I feel a responsibility toward you because of the family connection through Theodora. I have a proposition to make.’ He paused as he swept her from head to foot with eyes that expressed all his exasperation with females who refused to take good advice. ‘I wish you would sit down, Mrs Russell.’

‘I would rather stand, my lord.’

‘I am aware. But you might consider my parlous state of health. If you stand, then so must I—as a gentleman.’ She could not mistake the sneer.

‘Forgive me. It was not my intention to be insensitive.’ Colour warmed her cheeks as she took the offered seat. It was so easy for him to put her in the wrong! What sort of proposition would he possibly make that did not include her dismissal? On a sudden thought her blood ran from heated to ice in her veins. Her throat dried. She could only think of one proposition. And now that the Countess of Wexford was no longer in residence…

Unaware of this shocking line of thought, Lord Faringdon continued.

‘I have seen how you have settled here in so short a time. I have seen how my daughter has taken to you. She has begun to blossom, begun to behave like a little girl rather than a matron of advanced years. And your own son too is content, I think. I believe it is important for everyone that you remain here in my household.’

It seemed more and more likely to Sarah, with every word that he uttered, that she was about to receive an offer that would humiliate her beyond bearing. She discovered that she was holding her breath and her fingers closed, white-knuckled, on the arms of the chair. She forced herself to breathe again.

‘So I would ask you…’ He rose to his feet and walked forward toward her. Without the cane, she could see the return of grace and well-muscled ease. He reached out and took her hand, which still clutched, albeit wrinkled, the list of dishes for the evening meal, and unlatched it from the chair.

‘No. You must not…’ She snatched away her hand into her lap, taking him aback.

Lord Joshua frowned. ‘What must I not?’

‘You must not make such a proposition. I would remain as your housekeeper and governess to your daughter. Never anything else.’