Bonny
. That was one of his mother’s words. Dear, dear Nell. She’d been gone so many years now. Longer even than Octavia’s own mother. Nell Sheffield had been a remarkable woman. She wouldn’t have changed her life for anyone. She wouldn’t marry a man she didn’t love just because she’d made a promise to a dead man.
And to think that Octavia had made up her mind to accept Spinton’s proposal that night. It seemed the right decision at the time, but now…
Now she was glad she hadn’t voiced her decision, because she wasn’t so certain of her answer. She was expected to become Lady Spinton. It had been expected of her for years. She would do it. She had made a promise, and she always kept her promises.
Almost always.
She had made promises to North as well, but he was still alive and her mother and grandfather were dead, and vows to the dead were not to be taken lightly, especially when she owed them both so much.
North hadn’t wanted to see her. So badly she had wanted to run up to him and throw her arms about his neck. Her heart fairly soared at the sight of him, like an old automaton wound back to life after years of being idle. For one second, it felt as though the world was just and fair and right.
Now he was gone, and that joyous feeling had left with him because he hadn’t wanted her to run to him. Hadn’t wanted her to know him. Why? Was he ashamed of her? Did he think she had turned her back on him and the rest of her past? She had. But was that reason to snub her? To pretend that they had never been friends? That they had never been more than merely friends?
One glimpse was not enough to satisfy her. One snub was not enough to dissuade her. She wanted to see him again. She would not—could not—believe that he harbored a grudge against her, not after all they’d been through, and been to each other.
“My dear,” she said, turning to Spinton once again—good, dear Spinton. “I wonder if you might be so kind as to take me home.”
Spinton’s face, all smooth and freshly shaven and with nary a crease about his dark eyes, thin mouth, or brow, was wrought with concern. “Home? But it is still early. I thought you said you were fine.”
“I am fine. Merely tired. Please, would you mind?”
It was wrong of her to do it, but she added just a touch of pleading to her tone, a slight tilt to her head, and a softness to her gaze. Spinton was a good man, a nice man, and he was as easily led as a toddler by the hands. One merely had to show him where to put each foot, and he followed.
“Of course I will take you. Are you certain you do not need an apothecary?”
She patted his arm. “Just some rest. I fear the evening has caught up with me.”
He nodded, guiding her toward the exit. “It is a dreadful crush, and far too warm for my liking.”
Octavia glanced at him, her gaze raking him from the top of his sandy head to the impeccable knot of his cravat. There wasn’t a hair out of place or the shine of sweat to be found. He looked perfect. It was she who no doubt looked as wilted as a flower out of water.
The skirts of her ivory silk gown clung to her legs as she walked; her feet were hot and sticky in her stockings and slippers. Even her neck felt moist, and now a footman was slipping her cape over her shoulders, adding to her discomfort.
Yes, she wanted to go home, where she could lie on her bed, between crisp cool sheets, and feel the gentle evening breeze as it drifted through the window on her heated skin.
And think about North. Yes, she wanted the peace and quiet to think about seeing her Norrie again.
He had never come to visit her at her grandfather’s, and she didn’t blame him for that. But he hadn’t written either, nor had he sent a message with any of his brothers whenever she saw them in public. It was as though he had completely erased her from his life. Why? He had to have known she would miss him. He had to have missed her. Had it been because of her grandfather? She couldn’t imagine Norrie being afraid of anyone, not even an earl. No, he had decided on his own not to contact her, to forget her.
How unfortunate that she hadn’t forgotten him as well. Oh, she’d certainly put him aside from time to time for a day’s duration, even weeks, but never completely. She wasn’t the kind of person who forgot her best friend.
“I do not believe you are as well as you insist,” Spinton remarked once they were inside his carriage. “Have you received another letter? Is that what has you so discomfitted?”
Was he still there? Octavia’s gaze flitted to the man across from her. She had forgotten about poor Spinton.
He was hardly “poor,” however. He was the new Earl Spinton, and he was her grandfather’s heir. He and Octavia were actually cousins—although distantly.
“No,” she replied absently, her mind not quite ready to relinquish thoughts of North to think of something else. “Not since Tuesday.”
Spinton pursed his lips. “They are arriving with more frequency.”
Were they? Octavia hadn’t really given it much thought, but then Spinton believed the letters to be of a far more sinister nature than she did. He believed them to be the work of a deranged mind, while she thought them nothing more than the romantic ramblings of a secret admirer. Bad poetry, foolish odes to her hair, her eyes, even her feet—how could she possibly believe the author to be dangerous? He was annoying at best.
“I do not believe they are worth this worry,” she remarked, stifling a yawn with a gloved hand. Oh dear, she’d gotten lip color on the fingers.
Spinton did not look as sure as she felt, which was hardly surprising. “I do wish you would allow me to hire someone to investigate them.”
“Really, Spinton, they are of no consequence.” She yawned again. “I beg your pardon. I do not know why I am so tired all of a sudden.”
Her companion eyed her knowingly in the dim light as the carriage hit a rut in the road, jostling them both from side to side. “I do. It is because you are not sleeping. You spend all your time worrying about money and these demmed letters. Do not try to persuade me to the contrary; I will not believe it.”
No, of course he wouldn’t. Spinton was a kind and gentle man, but he was as stubborn and bullheaded as an old mule. The proof of that was in how long he had been waiting for her to marry him.
Yes, he was correct that she often fretted about money, but it wasn’t because she hadn’t any, it was because she had too much. Never in her life had she ever had access to such funds, but after her grandfather’s death a year ago, she found herself a very wealthy woman, and she had no idea what to do with it. The idea of just sitting on it and letting it go to waste seemed idle to the extreme, but she had very little knowledge of the Exchange and worthwhile investments.
She did not, however, worry about those blasted letters. The only time they interfered with her sleep was when some fool messenger delivered one at an ungodly early hour. No, she’d been up late the night before thinking about her mother and wondering how her life could have turned out. If her grandfather hadn’t come for her after her mother’s death, if she hadn’t discovered that she was the legitimate daughter of an English lord, she might very well have followed in her mother’s footsteps and ended up not only on stage, but becoming some man’s mistress.
That had been the fear that had driven her to North with that shocking request—one he had hesitated to fulfill, but granted in the end.
“I know I said I would respect your wishes and not push you, dearest, but I do wish you would put your mind to the matter of our marriage. It has been almost a month since I proposed the idea.”
Octavia merely smiled in reply. What was there to say? That she had made up her mind, but that seeing North Sheffield again suddenly made her have second thoughts? He might want to know why she was suffering such doubt and then she would have to lie, because there was no way she could tell him the truth about how it felt to see North again.
It had felt like everything was right with the world for once. He was a moment of peace in the cacophony of her life.
No, she couldn’t tell the man who wanted to marry her that
another man made her feel something he’d never been able to achieve. And she couldn’t tell him that this same man had done things to her that she’d never allowed him the liberty to do. When she finally did marry Spinton, she hoped he wouldn’t realize that his blushing bride wasn’t a virgin.
And she did plan to keep her promise to her grandfather and marry Spinton, just not right away. And she also had no intention of ever telling him that she had made love with North Sheffield twelve years ago—not because she wanted to deceive him, but because her memories of North were her own, and she would not share them with anyone else.
Spinton sighed. He didn’t seem to notice that she wasn’t paying attention.
“I am sorry, my dear,” he said. “I did not mean to upset you.”
Her reply was immediate, “You did not.” North had when he’d shaken his head at her.
Do not know me,
his look had seemed to say, and she still couldn’t fathom why.
No letters, no contact, but flowers on her birthday. He sent them still, for she had gotten a bouquet just this past birthday when she turned thirty. The card with them simply wished her a happy day in a hand she didn’t recognize. North didn’t even sign the cards.
This year’s offering had been a sad reminder that she was getting too old to remain single any longer. Only her money made it permissible for her to do so, but even wealth had its limitations. Spinton’s patience would have to run out eventually.
“I wonder what business Sheffield had at Whortons’ tonight,” Spinton mused as he glanced out the window at the darkened street.
Octavia’s heart tripped at the sound of his name. “Something to do with Lord Barnsley, so it would appear.” Actually, from what she had gleaned from the situation, she believed the lower-class woman who arrived at the ball to be “Lady”
Amelia’s mother, and Lord Barnsley to be the girl’s father, but only because of the way they’d all looked at one another.
“Perhaps I might speak to Sheffield about your letters. Would you rest easier knowing he was looking into the situation?”
Octavia swallowed an obscenity she had learned long ago on the streets of Covent Garden. “Do not you think you might be overreacting a tad to these notes? Really, they are quite harmless.”
“I think you are not reacting seriously enough,” came the petulant reply.
If Spinton told North about the letters, any rest she had would be uneasy rather than the opposite. North would either dismiss Spinton’s claims—which would be the intelligent choice, but hurtful, knowing he didn’t want to help her—or he’d believe there was some kind of threat and come barging back into her life, ready to take charge and fix everything as he always had in the past. And there was nothing for him to fix. If anything, things were more likely to be broken.
She sighed. “I appreciate your concern, Spinton dear, really I do, but I think Mr. Sheffield has more important things to attend to than my mail.”
The look the earl gave her was so full of affection and warmth that it made her feel unworthy to receive it. “Nothing is more important than your well-being.”
God, why did he have to be so kind and thoughtful? And why couldn’t she just be grateful for it? Why did she have to feel so blasted guilty all the time?
Because she knew very well that Spinton’s feelings for her ran far, far deeper than hers for him, and she knew that he deserved better. Well, at least one of them would be happy in their marriage—at least until her disinterestedness made him bitter with regret.
The carriage rolled to a stop. Finally, she was home.
“I will walk you to the door,” Spinton announced, his tone brooking no refusal. Octavia knew better than to even try. She could only hope he didn’t try to kiss her on the mouth again. It was becoming a disturbing habit as of late.
A footman lowered the carriage steps. Spinton alighted first and turned to offer her his hand. Octavia took it, hoping the cosmetics stain on her glove didn’t rub off onto his.
At the door to her house, he faced her, her hand still caught in his. “You know I care for you, do you not, Octavia?”
Oh dear, this wasn’t going to be one of his “I am the strong man and you the weaker vessel” speeches, was it? “Of course I do.”
He smiled, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. Then he lowered his head and kissed her—thankfully—on the cheek.
“I will not allow any harm to come to you,” he vowed before taking his leave.
Octavia didn’t watch him go. She opened the door and slipped into the darkness of her foyer, where her butler waited to take her coat. She muttered a brief good night to him before running upstairs to her room. Spinton’s words rang in her ears, setting her stomach to flutter as though home to a thousand caged butterflies. His promise unsettled her, but not because it bespoke deep emotion and abiding affection.
No, she had heard a similar vow before—the night before North Sheffield allowed her grandfather to take her away.
“Yer purse, guv.”
In the eerie predawn hours, North sighed into the strange quiet that was Covent Garden. A sound here and there, a thump, a crash, a burst of raised voices—and then nothing but silence. A silence heavy with the keenness of too many ears—waiting and listening.
The man behind him, for example, had obviously been waiting in the shadows for some time, watching and waiting
for a well-dressed cove to pass by so that he might stick his blade in the poor bloke’s back and rob him of what blunt he had.
“Go away,” North growled.
The knife pressed a little harder. Dull, it was. North couldn’t even feel the point of it through his jacket. That didn’t make it any less dangerous, however. Just meant it would take longer to find its path between his ribs.
Ale-stale breath brushed his face. “I
said
give me yer purse.”
North smiled. “I do not have one.”
“Wot do you tyke me for?” the man demanded incredulously. “All you kind carry silver on ye.”
North shrugged. “I do not.”
The pressure on his back eased just a fraction as the man tried to decide whether North was lying. It was all the opening North needed. He whirled around, seizing the man by the wrist and pushing the knife away with his left hand and smashing him in the face with his right.