“While your choice of word may have been inappropriate Mr. Sheffield, I cannot say any offense I feel extends to your person.”
Nicely put. Why couldn’t Octavia have thought of something similar? A true lady would find North’s choice of title objectionable. A
true
lady would be shocked.
One more reminder that she was not, nor would she ever be, a lady.
“My apologies, Mr. Sheffield,” she murmured under Spinton’s disapproving gaze. “I should not have asked.” Of course she shouldn’t have, not when she already knew the answer. Now Spinton was upset because of North’s reply, and North was undoubtedly unimpressed with her question.
“Do not vex yourself, Lady Octavia,” North replied, lifting his glass of wine. “I am not ashamed of what I am. Not any more.”
She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the ice blue of his. There was nothing damning in his tone, no censure in his features, and yet she couldn’t help but feel that his remark was intentionally pointed—that he thought she was ashamed of her origins and he was disappointed in her for being so.
No, she wasn’t ashamed. Never ashamed. It was her mother’s shame and her grandfather’s shame that kept her silent, not her own. Never her own.
“Nor should you be ashamed, Sheffield.” Spinton cut into the beef on his plate. “There is nothing contemptible about a man who has carved his own destiny.”
Try as she might, Octavia could not keep her brows from climbing high on her forehead. This was a side of Spinton she hadn’t seen before. When had he, a man born with all the wealth and privilege anyone could covet, decided that anyone of a lower class was to be admired?
Perhaps there was more to Spinton than she ever allowed herself to believe. It was a suspicion that nagged at her throughout the rest of the meal.
“Lady Octavia,” North said later, over dessert. “Perhaps when we are finished here you might show me the latest letter you have received.”
Sighing, Octavia set down her fork. “Mr. Sheffield, I really do not believe that is necessary—”
She should have just kept her mouth shut. She shouldn’t have said a word. If she’d simple smiled and nodded, Spinton and Beatrice, and even North himself, would never have jumped on her like fleas on a stray cat.
“Octavia, there is a very real chance that you might be in some kind of danger,” Spinton announced. “If you do not show Mr. Sheffield the letter, I shall.”
And there it was. Spinton, usually so affable and pliable, was giving her no choice. The one person in her life—other than Beatrice, of course—whom she thought wouldn’t try to direct her life was doing just that.
Perhaps if she had just a bit more spine, she’d take back her control, but she wasn’t certain she knew how to do that, or if she ever had it in the first place.
“Fine,” she ground out. “If for no other reason than your
piece of mind, Spinton, but when Mr. Sheffield determines that these letters are indeed harmless, I hope that will be the end of this foolishness.” Tossing down her napkin, she stood. “Shall we retire to the parlor once more?”
Once this evening was over with, she could have her life back. And she and Spinton were going to have to sit down and have a long, serious talk about what each expected from their marriage. She might have promised to marry him, but she hadn’t promised to be ruled by him.
Damn her grandfather for guilting her into such a promise. She loved the old man dearly, but he knew exactly how to get what he wanted out of her. He knew how beholden she was to him for giving her a better life.
At least everyone
told
her she should be beholden.
Since Octavia didn’t wait for any of them, North didn’t bother standing on ceremony and offering his arm to Miss Henry. Charming as her cousin was, North’s interest was firmly centered on the tall, slender redhead storming down the corridor ahead of him.
He had forgotten how easily her temper ignited. For a woman who looked as though she were carved from alabaster, Octavia was surprisingly passionate. Did Spinton appreciate that? Probably not. Poor old Spinton would no doubt learn to resent Octavia and her temperament someday. It was just one more reason that the two of them were so very obviously wrong for each other.
He’d wager ten quid Octavia knew it as well, but for some reason she seemed determined to keep up the charade. Why? The Octavia he’d known would never marry a man she did not love.
Her virginity had been another story. She had settled for a man—boy—she liked.
Back in the parlor—the room that didn’t suit Octavia at all—North waited patiently while his friend collected the let
ters she’d saved. Beatrice and Spinton sat nearby as silent as statues. North turned his back on them. To be honest, the pair of them like that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. They seemed to be able to communicate with each other without speaking. It was disconcerting to watch.
“Here.” Octavia shoved a stack of letters tied in a ribbon toward him.
“Pink?” He kept his voice low so the others couldn’t hear the familiarity in his tone.
She actually flushed a bit, but her gaze never faltered from his. “The ribbon is Beatrice’s. It was her idea to save the letters. I wanted to burn them.”
No doubt she had. That was Octavia. Get rid of everything and anything she didn’t need or want in her life. She kept only those things that were sacred to her.
Again, her virginity came to mind. She certainly hadn’t wanted to hang on to that. He couldn’t fault her for it, given the options available to her at the time. The fact that she chose to give it to him still astounded him. He had it still, tucked away somewhere among the cobwebs of his heart.
He took the letters, untying the delicate ribbon as he moved toward the small desk near the window. Such a dainty little room this was. So tiny and pretty and absolutely no good for anything but show. At least the desk chair didn’t break when he sat down on it. It was stronger than it looked.
North unfolded a letter. Octavia hovered above him. Affecting an expression of disinterestedness, he raised his gaze. “Might I bother you for a little privacy, my lady?”
This time she didn’t flush. In fact, she looked as though she would like very much to tell him just what he could do with his privacy. How would she explain that to her betrothed?
She shot him a glare that was for his benefit and his alone, out of sight of their companions. “Of course, Mr. Sheffield.”
North wanted to watch her walk away, all stiff-shouldered
and petulant, but he denied himself the pleasure. Instead, he turned his attention to the letters, which appeared anything but sinister in their neat script and pink ribbon.
By the fifth mention of Octavia’s “bright eyes” and “fine features” he was rolling his eyes and ready to arrest the culprit on a charge of abusing the English language. Good God, couldn’t the man think of any other words? Perhaps other parts of Octavia to praise? She had much more to her worth praising than just her face.
Ahh, wait. Here was one celebrating the “swanlike column” of her throat. Rubbish. This person knew nothing of the woman he adored.
Perhaps Spinton was the man writing the letters.
No, that was foolish—almost as foolish as the letters themselves. From what North had seen, the earl didn’t know Octavia as well as a fiancé should, but he knew better than to attempt such a stunt.
Quickly, he scanned the next three letters, pausing when the tone of voice seemed to change. It became more personal, the details more intimate. No longer did the author compliment just Octavia’s features and form. On the third of last month—before Easter, but close enough that some of the season’s entertainment would have already started—Octavia’s admirer started noting specifics.
He watched her in public. Every note made some mention of something she had worn or done at a social event. Coincidence? Or was he following her?
The tightening in North’s gut was all the answer he needed. The remainder of the missives only confirmed it. This person might have started out as nothing more than a harmless admirer—and might yet be simply that—but there was a chance that infatuation had turned to obsession, and that kind of attachment should not be dismissed as harmless.
Looking up, he found himself pinned by three unwavering
gazes. Unblinking, they watched him, waiting for his verdict. Good Lord, how long had they been staring like that? Judging from the thin set of Octavia’s mouth, she believed they’d been kept waiting long enough. North had to agree.
“I will take the case.”
Octavia jumped to her feet. “What?” She could
not
have heard him correctly.
North met her gaze directly. “I believe these letters merit investigation.”
Oh, this was madness. The walls of the parlor seemed to close in around her. “You cannot be serious. Did you not read the letters? They are
harmless
, for pity’s sake!”
Everyone was staring at her, Beatrice and Spinton flanking her like matching spaniels. North was the only one she concerned herself with. How could he, of all people, be so foolish?
“My dear, I think Mr. Sheffield is a better judge of these matters than the rest of us,” Spinton spoke softly.
Meaning North was a better judge than
she
was, obviously. Luckily Spinton’s judgment wasn’t that good or he might start to wonder why a stranger had such an interest in his future wife’s private life, or why that future wife reacted so strongly to said “stranger.”
Not daring to take her gaze off North, not even for a second, Octavia replied, “Do not speak to me as though I were a child, Spinton. It is not a very attractive trait for a gentleman to possess.”
She might have laughed at the surprise on North’s face were she not so peevish with him. “Lady Octavia, may I speak to you privately?”
“No.”
He froze her with a glacial stare. “Please?”
She would get no peace until she did what he wanted, that
she knew. Obviously he hadn’t changed that much in the last dozen years. In fact, he had probably gotten even better at making people do what he wanted.
Now she favored her companions with a glance. “Beatrice, Spinton, would you leave us, please?”
To her surprise, Spinton did not attempt to argue with her. Perhaps he was still smarting over her previous set-down. He simply nodded and gestured for Beatrice to precede him from the room. Neither Octavia nor North watched them go.
“What the hell are you about?” she demanded as soon as the door clicked shut. “I thought you were on my side.”
He rose from the desk, coming around its delicate form toward her. “I am on your side. Vie, I think this person may be serious.”
Now that was just ludicrous. “Serious about what? Norrie, they are just letters. Notes from an infatuated boy.”
He folded his arms across his chest. His sleeves pulled around the bulge of his biceps. When had he developed those? “Perhaps, but a boy who claims to know your ‘secret.’”
“Oh, that could be any manner of trivial things.” She dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand. “It is probably nothing.”
“What if it isn’t? I thought you wanted to keep the secret of your upbringing just that, a secret?”
Why did he make it sound so underhanded and dirty? She wasn’t ashamed of where she came from any more than he was; she had just made a stupid promise to conceal it for the sake of her family.
“I do.”
“Then what if someone threatens to reveal the truth? Do you want that to happen?”
“No.” But she wouldn’t have to get married if they did. She wouldn’t have to keep pretending…
His tone was pleading without sounding weak. “Then let
me help you. Let me find this person and determine what they know. If it is nothing, then fine. If it is simply a foolish youngster, we can silence him easily.”
“You do not look convinced Norrie. Is your suspicious imagination having its way with you?” She couldn’t help the slightly caustic tone that crept into her voice.
“I could not live with myself if I allowed something to happen to you, Vie. You must allow me to do this.”
She frowned at the starkness of his expression, the entreaty in his eyes. “What happened?”
He shook his head. “Nothing you need worry about.”
“No.” He wasn’t going to shut her out that easily. “Something has happened. Something you blame yourself for. What?”
He ran the flat of his palm over the stubble on his jaw. She had bought him a razor for his birthday years ago. Did he never use it?
“I failed someone I swore to protect. I let my guard down and that person paid for it. I will not make the same mistake twice.”
“What happened to her?” Somehow she knew he spoke of a woman.
“She’s dead.”
Oh dear. Her poor sweet boy. She reached out for his hand. Surprisingly, he let her take it. “Norrie, no one’s going to kill me.”
“Damned right they’re not.” The conviction in his tone—in his eyes—sent a shiver down her spine, and it was just as pleasant as it was frightening. He would do anything in his power to protect her if he felt she needed to be protected. And obviously, he believed that she did.
“Let me do this, Vie. Please.”
How could she tell him no? How could she ridicule his suspicions now that she knew how much it meant to him? In
vestigating these letters of hers was something he felt he needed to do—something he
wanted
to do for her. She would have to be both cruel and stupid to refuse him, and while sometimes she was both, right now she was neither. It would do her no harm to allow him to do this, but if she said no, there was a chance, however small, that he was right and she was wrong about the letters. Better safe than dead.
“All right. Investigate all you want.”
She could practically feel the relief wafting from him as he squeezed her fingers. “You will not regret this. I will uncover the culprit as quickly as I can.”
But not quickly enough. Mere minutes would be too long. How could she allow North into her life, even for a brief time, and then watch him walk out again? No, already she regretted her decision. Already she regretted letting him go.