As she watched him talking with Spinton and Beatrice, Octavia smiled a little smugly. He had been her first and she had been his. The first woman to know what it was to belong to this beautiful, fiercely loyal man. No matter who else he was with, no matter whom she married, she would always be his.
And he would always—
always
—be hers.
H
yde Park at five o’clock was
the
place to be if one was part of that great inner circle of the
ton.
That was precisely why North never went there.
“This is madness,” he remarked, surveying the sea of horses, riders, and carriages swarming the track winding through the green grass. Despite the wide openness of the park, chatter buzzed all around them, as did flies, drawn as much to some of the aristocracy as to the horse manure dotting the path. Thank God there was a breeze—and that he and Octavia were upwind.
He heard Octavia’s answering chuckle before her chestnut mare came up beside his own gray gelding. “It is rather overwhelming, but do not worry. You will get used to it.”
North’s eyes narrowed. “I have no wish to get used to it.”
Her face was partially obscured by the broad straw brim of her hat. “Why? Because someone might think you are trying to rise above your station?”
Did his ears deceive him, or was that mockery in her tone?
He turned his gaze to hers, his brow knitting. “Are you not
concerned that some might think you are lowering yourself below yours?”
She scowled. “Do not be ridiculous. I am not ashamed to be seen with you.”
That certainly seemed to be true. She sat straight in the saddle, her shoulders back and her chin raised, as though daring the crowd to notice them. Most obliged her quite quickly. “Your grandfather might disagree with that.”
“My grandfather,” she reminded him, “is dead.”
He smiled. “I know. I sent flowers.”
She looked as though she didn’t know whether to laugh or chastise him. “Why are you so bitter toward a dead man?”
“He made you into a different person.” And he didn’t mean just socially either.
A scoffing sound drifted on the air between them. “I am not that different. I have merely matured.”
He could argue that, but he wouldn’t. “He made you promise too much.”
She looked at him—really looked. He could see realization dawn in her eyes. “What did he make
you
promise?”
Damn. He looked away. “To stay away from you.”
Her harsh gasp was little more than a whisper on the breeze. “Then it is not my promises that anger you. It is your own.”
“No.” He purposely wiped his face clean of all expression as he met her gaze. “I am angry because that old bastard thought he had the right to ask so much of either of us, and I am angry at myself for believing what he said about me.” He still believed him. So far, every one of the old earl’s predictions had turned out true—except for him not amounting to anything. He had amounted to something. He just wasn’t sure what sometimes.
She stared at him with that relentless shrewd gaze. “He was very good to me. He could have left me to fend for myself, but instead he took me in. He changed my life.”
Now it was his turn to scoff. “He kept you from doing what you really wanted.”
She obviously saw it differently. Perhaps she’d ended up exactly where she wanted. “He saved me from being someone’s mistress.”
“You would
not
have had to be a mistress.” He wouldn’t allow her to give the old man credit for that.
She laughed then, bitter and mocking. “Oh, and what could I have been? A wife?”
That hurt. That was like a boot in the chest. Staring at the path between his mount’s ears, North forced himself to breathe despite the pain.
“Oh, Norrie.”
That sympathetic tone—the guilt and remorse—was even worse than her mockery. It was all he could do not to wince. He couldn’t even bring himself to deny it.
Her gloved hand touched his arm. “North, I am sorry.”
He shrugged her off. “Forget about it. It was a long time ago.”
“Were you really going to—?”
He whipped her a glance meant to put an end to this stupid conversation. “I said forget about it. Be glad I never made an ass of myself by asking.”
She was still so bloody sympathetic. “I never would have thought you an ass.”
“I would have,” he replied—more harshly than he intended. “Now, we’re supposed to be relative strangers flirting with each other. Do you think we can leave the past where it belongs long enough to do that? And stop looking at me like that.”
Instantly, her expression changed to that of a flirtatious coquette, and for a moment he was tempted to remark how that ability would come in handy on her wedding night, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to hurt Octavia. Any injury she had
dealt him was unintentional. And she was right, it wasn’t really her he was angry with—well, perhaps just a bit. It was himself, and her grandfather, and perhaps even fate itself, but not really her.
His reaction to having her back in his life was unsettling. It felt as though his entire world had been shaken. Every sense seemed sharper, every color brighter, when Octavia was near. It was as though a piece of him that had been missing for the last twelve years had finally been replaced.
She had taken the security of his world, the certainty of it, and turned it upside down by giving him something to care about. She made him long for things he couldn’t have, a life that he thought he had given up dreaming about long ago. He wanted something better than what he had. He wanted her to be proud of him, rather than accusing him of hiding from the world.
She was his vulnerability, and if Harker discerned that fact, Octavia would be in more danger than either she or Spinton could ever imagine.
If it weren’t for the fact that she would soon exit his life just as suddenly as she had reentered it, he might entertain Duncan’s constant badgering to change his career, but what was the point of giving up all he was accustomed to when the reason for giving it up wouldn’t be around to see it? Duncan was a fine one to talk; Bow Street was his life.
Then again, if he did pursue a career in politics, it would allow him entry into the higher circles even more than his current position. He could see Octavia whenever he wanted. No one would note the social difference between them then. Except that she would be a countess and as removed from him as she possibly could be. They could never be friends again after her marriage. She wouldn’t want to risk Spinton finding out that her mother was an actress, little more than a courtesan. She would never let him know her origins, or that she had
given what many would consider her most precious gift to the bastard of Viscount Creed—one of the most notorious drunkards and womanizers in the history of all England.
Spinton would believe he was the first man to lie between those softly quivering thighs. He would think he had it, but he would never truly know the awesome responsibility of holding Octavia’s trust in his hand. He might be tender. He might be gentle, but he would never be as careful, as aware as North had been. She had been his first as well, and Spinton could never, ever have that.
“Am I to do all the flirting, Mr. Sheffield, or will you be joining me?”
The sound of her voice—not mocking, but softly teasing—drew him out of his thoughts. Fixing her with what he hoped was a charming smile, he replied, “I was merely trying to conjure the right words to praise your beauty, Lady Octavia.”
She blinked, and for a moment, his Vie was there beside him. She never knew how to take compliments, but enjoyed hearing them all the same. A part of him enjoyed cracking the facade of poise she wore like armor. She tried so hard to be a lady.
He much preferred her as a woman.
“Do be careful, Mr. Sheffield,” she replied, half coy, half droll. “You might turn my head.”
Glancing around at the other riders teeming around them, North smiled. “I think we are turning enough of those already.”
The tension dissipated between them as Octavia nonchalantly allowed her gaze to scan the park. She never could stay angry with him for long, nor he her. When they were younger they would keep talking—or arguing—until one of them began making fun of the situation. North always knew that if they could laugh about it, everything would be all right. If they couldn’t laugh, they were in trouble.
Would they laugh about her grandfather later? Would they laugh about her marriage?
“Who would have thought all these people would have nothing to do but stare at me?” she remarked through a smile as she waved to an acquaintance passing in a barouche.
“Do not flatter yourself,” he replied. “Those women are not looking at you, they are looking at me.”
Her laughter was sweeter than the spring breeze. Sweeter than the grass shining rich and verdant under the late afternoon sun. Selfishly he took it, snatching it from the air with his mind and tucking it away where he might find it again whenever he wanted. At the same time, his motives hadn’t been strictly pure in coaxing the sound from her. Laughter that pure, that rich and pleasureful, was bound to attract attention—and it did. It was just one more method of starting gossip about them. With that came the sobering thought that Octavia’s “admirer” might own one of these faces turned toward them. He might, at that very moment, be seething with jealousy that it was North beside her and not himself.
Well, if it was one of these men, he wasn’t anything to worry about. Not like Harker.
Christ, what was he doing in Hyde Park when he should be out looking for ways to catch Harker? Had Black Sally died in vain? Was he that weak-minded that he could be swayed from his task by Octavia’s sudden reappearance in his life?
He was helping Octavia because she was his best friend other than Wyn, but he could not allow himself to forget what was really important. Once he saw her safely home he would check in with Francis and his other men. If not for his own sense of justice, he would do it for Sally.
Octavia’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “Remember that time we snuck out to go to see that traveling menagerie?”
Brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes, North nodded. “They let us play with the monkeys.”
Her leg brushed his as she brought her mare closer. “I rather feel like one of those animals.”
North grinned. She was talking through her teeth again. “I thought you liked attention. You certainly could not get enough of it when you were younger.”
“I wanted to be admired and complimented, not watched like a mouse by a hawk.”
That was a strange analogy for her to use. “Who is looking at you like that?”
“Lord Hawthorne and his friends, over there to your left.”
Slowly, North allowed his gaze to slide in that direction. Lord Hawthorne was a reasonably handsome man in his late thirties. His penchant for unpoetic language, and his rather coarse manners, made him an unlikely suspect for Octavia’s admirer. That did not change the fact that he was indeed eyeing her as a predator eyes a tasty morsel. So were his companions. One of them might be his quarry, but more likely they were simply thinking that if Octavia had tossed Spinton over for him, that she might toss him for one of
them.
The rest of them being Lords Weston, Emmerson, and Powell.
As though he would ever allow that to happen—if she really had tossed Spinton for him, that was.
“I’ve had enough of this place,” he growled when all four of the men tipped their hats in their direction.
Her reply was a gusty sigh. “Me too. Come back to my house and take tea with me.”
He should say no, but Octavia’s cook made the most delicious little cakes, and it wasn’t often that he had a few moments alone with her without half of London watching.
“I cannot stay long. I have another investigation to attend to.”
“This is news,” she remarked curiously, the leering lords forgotten as they turned their horses toward the exit. “What manner of investigation?”
He debated whether to tell her. But if he couldn’t tell his best friend…“A murder.”
“Murder?” Her face went white. “Norrie, you will be careful, will you not?”
His chest pinched as he nodded. Really, her concern was touching, but unnecessary. And he wouldn’t have her worrying about him. “I am always careful, Vie.”
She was still pale. “But you could get hurt.”
That was what his job was all about. Hadn’t she realized that before now? “Have you not heard? I am the most feared of men among the villains of London. The very mention of my name strikes fear in the heart of even the most dastardly ruffian.”
She stared at him as though he had sprouted wings. “Feed such rubbish to the pigs, not to me.”
He laughed, but her manner warmed him. “I will be fine. I promise.”
They continued out of the park in silence. When they were past the gate, the bustle and noise behind them, Octavia sighed again.
“That was the most amusement I have experienced in a long time.”
He raised a brow. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am,” she insisted lightly. “Dinners and balls are usually quite stuffy, and I do not leave the house for much else other than visits or shopping.”
He replied without thought. “That is pathetic.”
Instead of reacting angrily, she laughed. “It is, isn’t it?”
Words tumbled out of his mouth before he even finished the thought. “Tomorrow evening I am taking you out.”
She feigned a yawn. “To a ball?”
“No.”
“To a dinner party?” Her tone was a bit more interested now.
“Certainly not!” He would rather die.
She chuckled. “Where then?”
He wasn’t too sure himself. “It is a surprise, but do not wear anything too fancy and leave your jewelry at home.”
Her eyes widened. “You are going to take me somewhere dangerous?”
He grinned. “Of course.”
A
real
lady would have quailed, but not Octavia. Of course, she wasn’t a real lady. She was just pretending to be one. He should have known she couldn’t change that much. His Vie could never be anything like these sour-faced gossipmongers milling about them. And none of those silly society mavens could ever hope to be half the woman Octavia was.
He would take her someplace where she could let her hair down—literally if she desired. Where people wouldn’t be so quick to judge. He would take her to a place where she could be herself again, and for one night, she would be his Vie and he could be her Norrie. One night. That was all he asked, and then he would solve the mystery of her faceless beau and walk out of her life for the last time.