My Only Love (13 page)

"Ours
would not be the first loveless marriage," he explained.

She
nodded.

"And
there's the boy to consider..."

"I'm
well aware of my responsibilities. So I must ask you to keep him out of this.
If we're to be totally honest, I must say that, if circumstances were
different, I would search out a better respected subject to help raise
Bryan."

Miles
leaned back against the windowsill, noting that Olivia's cheeks had flushed
with the first mention of her son. Odd how her normally stoic facade was blown
to Hades when he mentioned the lad. "True. Neither of us can be choosy. In
short, were I not such a poor catch I would search out a woman who was chaste,
who wasn't known for frolicking with Gypsies and Asian tattooists." Her
chin went up slightly, her shoulders back. Her eyes turned that vivid shade of
green that he'd witnessed when they'd plowed into one another on the walk.
"Although when I look at you I cannot believe the restrained woman
standing before me is the same woman who has inspired so many wild stories. So
tell me, dear heart," he added with a lopsided smile, "is it
true?" "What?" she snapped.

"Have
you danced with Gypsies? Subjected yourself to the tortures of a
tattooist?" "Would it matter if I had?"

"Perhaps
it would be better if we entered into the blissful state of matrimony with full
disclosures, so to speak."

"You
seem to have taken for granted that I accept your offer of marriage, sir."
"Don't you?"

"I
don't know. There's a great deal to consider." "Such as?"

"You,
for one. 'Tis well known you're a womanizer. A gambler who's been known to
cheat. You have a chip on your shoulder the size of Wales when concerning your
family. Are those stories true?"

"All
but one."

She
looked at him, surprised.

"I
don't cheat at cards." His sudden move toward her made her flinch. He
watched her sidle a short way along the desk before she apparently caught
herself and set her heels to the carpet. That stubborn and defiant tilt to her
jaw returned, and she regarded him as warily as a cornered fox: Should she
flee for escape or face the big bad wolf and take her chances? Pausing at the
corner of the desk, he said, "Now it's your turn, Miss Devonshire."

She
glared at him through her spectacles, her hair pulled back so tightly at the
temples that the outside tips of her eyes looked slanted. It was obvious that
she'd dressed her hair hurriedly; the chignon on the back of her head that was
normally fastidiously neat now looked more like a ruffled hedgehog. There was a
pin working its way out of the fuzzy coil. The temptation to flick the
perilously placed object away and allow her hair to tumble where it may, as it
had the evening before, was almost impossible to resist.

"I'm
waiting," he prodded.

"It's
true. All of it." She took a deep, shaky breath, yet her gaze never
wavered from his. "I did dance with Gypsies—"

"Naked?"

She
hesitated as hot color crept up her throat from under her high-collared blouse.
Her hip leaned a little harder against the desk. "A slight exaggeration.
I. .. was gowned in scarves and veils. As for the tattooist.. . true as
well."

"Ah."

"Are
you repulsed, sir?"

"That
depends. How big is the tattoo? Or how many do you have? Or rather, where are
they? For that matter, what are they?"

"What
difference does it make? There's no undoing what's been done."

"I'd
like to be prepared for the eventuality of witnessing my wife displaying a
flesh canvas of fire-breathing dragons or skulls and crossbones."

"In
your circumstances I imagine you should be grateful for whatever you can
get."

"In
your circumstances, I imagine you should feel the same."

"There
you have it, sir. What sort of happiness can two such lost souls find with one
another?" "Companionship."

"But
I have companionship here, with my father, sister, and son. Not to mention
Bertrice."

"A
father who would sacrifice you to a ne'er-do-well like me just to guarantee his
younger daughter's station. A sister who would remind you every day of your
life that you were put on this earth to leap at her every beck and call. A
senile old nanny who keeps company with an invisible cat, and a son whose life
you would doom, for the rest of his .life, branded as the son of a fallen
woman."

"While
you keep company with ghosts from your past, and cobwebs, and furnishings used
as fuel!" she replied hotly. "While you find fellowship with
belligerent servants and bottles of whisky. I'm no naive ninny, sir. 'Tis not
companionship you seek, but a means to end your poverty, to buy back your good
credit, to rebuild your dreams for Braithwaite, and at it, to establish
yourself solidly in the gentry that was denied you because you, sir, are the
offspring of a 'fallen woman.'"

He
said nothing for a long while; gradually, the quiet was replaced by the harmony
of falling rain against the windowpane and the subtle humming of flames in the
hearth. At last, he offered her a tight smile. "There's little doubt, that
should we decide to enter into this... venture, for lack of a better word,
we'll do so with little hypocrisy between us. True, I don't love you. I often
wonder if I'm capable of loving any woman."

"So
tell me. If this union is to be one strictly of convenience, are you to be
given the freedom to do as you please in regard to outside relationships?"

He
studied her expressionless features and the thin gold rim of her eyeglasses
where they balanced on her nose. "If I so desire," he finally replied
in a hard, surprisingly defensive voice.

Olivia
just raised one arched brow in a show of mild aggressiveness, and crossed her
slender arms over her breasts. "I presume I'll be offered the same
freedom," she said.

He
stared into her steadfast eyes a blind moment, her features obliterated by his
mind's image of Olivia Devonshire . .. Warwick sneaking away in the dead of
night to some clandestine meeting with a lover. The idea was laughable, really,
then again, he reminded himself that while the gal might look like someone's
prudish spinster aunt on the surface, the fact was very clear that beneath that
puritanical veneer was a very enticing woman—and somewhere out there was at
least one man whom she had cared about enough to sacrifice her reputation. How
moronic of him to continue to forget.

Olivia
watched Warwick's face turn dark, and the smug, self-satisfied expression on
his features melt like wax from a flame. "Well?" she demanded.
"What? No reply? Surely you aren't having second thoughts; it stands to
reason that the fact that you've returned to Devonswick with marriage on your
mind means you've suddenly grown more desperate for money—perhaps a few of your
more unsavory creditors have made threats! But that is neither here nor there.
I only wonder why would you care if I indulged in my amours as long as I didn't
flaunt them?"

He
turned away and moved along the wall of books, pausing occasionally as if to
study a particular title. When coming to a table lined with liquor-filled
decanters, he hesitated, ran one long finger up and down the neck of a
glittering crystal bottle, then said, "It seems I have a habit of
forgetting about your situation. I believe you mentioned the man's name last
evening . . . ?"

"No.
I didn't."

"Certainly
you did." He partially turned his head and gave her an inquisitive
appraisal. "I'm sure of it. Just as you finished your second cup of
whisky—"

"No,
I didn't."

"I
think it's only fair that I know the identity of the boy's father."

"
'Twould serve no purpose, I tell you."

Facing
her again, his hands on his hips so his coat caught behind his wrists, he
regarded her fiercely. "Blast it then, will you at least tell me if you
loved him?"

"Would
it make a difference?"

"Just
tell me, dammit."

"Yes.
I loved him."

"I
see. And do you still love him?"

"Do
I love Bryan's father? Is that what you are asking, Mr. Warwick?"

He
nodded.

"I
admit to experiencing moments of extreme fondness for Bryan's father. Too,
there are times, when I reflect on the type of character that he is, that I
feel a certain disappointment, if not outright disgust."

"And
what sort of character is he?"

"A
man without scruples, certainly, or he would never have taken advantage of an
unmarried young woman of family, no matter how weak she was." "So
he's charming, is he?"

"Undoubtedly,
but only when the occasion suits." Propping her derriere on the desk
edge, she leveled him with a look as intense as his own. Yet her knees, beneath
her brown muslin skirt, were once more turning to jelly as she realized that
she just might have stuck her foot in it again. But then, perhaps it was all
for the best. He had not proposed marriage for any of the right reasons, and she
wasn't about to surrender what little dignity she'd retained. The matter of
Bryan's future and happiness was far too important.

Warwick
moved toward the door, and Olivia came upright so quickly the objects on the
desktop, along with the desk, danced in place.

He
paused at the threshold, and without looking back, declared, "If you're
the least bit interested in my proposal, Miss Devonshire, let me know. I'll
hear from you, 'yea' or 'nay,' by this time tomorrow or you can forget I was
ever here." Then he was gone.

She
stared at the empty doorway, her heart hammering in her chest and her lungs
constricting severely enough that she could hardly breathe. Then she dashed to
the door opening to find him poised in the foyer, taking his coat from Jonah.

"Mr.
Warwick," she called, bringing Miles's head and shoulders around. "If
you don't mind my saying, sir, your manners leave a great deal to be desired.
One does not simply walk into a woman's home like some cave dweller and issue
her ultimatums, especially when it concerns a matter of some importance, such
as marriage."

Jonah's
bushy eyebrows shot up. "Marriage!" he cried, then calling to a
watchful housemaid with eyes round as an owl's who was loitering near the foot
of the stairs, he said, "Glory day, Miss Olivia is betrothed!"

"I'm
no such thing!" she argued in a panic.

"Miss
Olivia is betrothed!" a voice called out somewhere down the gallery.

Lowering
her head slightly, she charged up the foyer to confront Warwick toe to toe. He,
on the other hand, didn't budge, just regarded her with narrowed eyes.

"For
your information," she said to no one in particular and to everyone at
once, "I have not agreed to marry this man."

"What's
got you so upset?" Warwick drawled. "Could it be that I didn't
present you with flowers and candy and go to one knee to propose?"

"Don't
be absurd, sir. I haven't got the slightest desire for such feminine
.trivialities."

"No?
Then perhaps you're simply unaccustomed to dealing with people you can't, or
who won't, bend to your will. Or perhaps you're just afraid."

"Of
you!" It wasn't a question.

"Of
the world outside those doors, Miss Devonshire. You know what I think? I think
you lied about it all. There weren't any Gypsies or any tattooist. You made
them up right here." He tapped her temple with one finger. She gasped and
her face turned ten shades of red. She could feel it as vividly as she could
sense her self-control evaporating under the heat of her mounting indignation.
"As a matter of fact," he added with a deliberate pause.
"You're such a prig I wouldn't be surprised if you even lied about Bryan's
conception."

Her
mouth opened and closed without speaking. Her pulse felt as if it were climbing
up her throat, a certain sign of panic—each individual hair on her scalp felt
as if it had stood straight up on end.

Lowering
his head toward hers, and curving his sensual mouth in a sarcastic half-smile
that accentuated the prominence of one cheekbone, he said, "I'd stake my
life on the possibility that he was begot by immaculate conception."

Tension
slid from her shoulder blades; she almost collapsed. Had her body not been
shaking still from her momentary upset she might have laughed. As it was, she
only managed to afford him a smug smile, and slowly, deliberately, she plucked
open the tiny pearl buttons on her blouse, starting at the collar and moving
down, while Warwick's eyes narrowed and his chiseled features took on the
appearance of granite as the fine blouse spilled open to expose her throat,
then her collarbone, and finally the lacy edge of the chemise covering her
breasts.

As
his dark eyes slowly returned to hers, she stared into their shockingly intense
depths, and said softly, "Just so there's no misunderstanding, sir..
." Catching the filmy chemise with the tip of one finger, she tugged it
down, just enough to expose the subtly colored and expertly drawn tattoo of a
pale pink rose that curved gracefully up the inside swell of her breast.
"I assure you, Mr. Warwick, that I'm everything rumors have made me out to
be. And possibly more."