My Only Love (31 page)

In
me thou see'st the twilight of such day

As
after sunset fadeth in the West,

Which
by-and-by black night doth take away,

Death's
second self, that seals up all in rest.

In
me thou see'st the glowing of such fire

That
on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As
the deathbed whereon it must expire,

Consum
'd with that which it was nourish'd by.

This
thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To
love that well which thou must leave ere long.

"Miles,
darling, will you get Mama her cup of tea? I fear my throat grows too
dry."

Bryan
glanced at his mother before shimmying off Alyson's lap and retrieving the
china cup and saucer. Alyson smiled and cupped his rosy cheek. "Such a
good lad," she said in the weary, dreamy voice that had become the norm of
late. "If I didn't have you to live for, I don't know what I would do. Now
come; sit again in Mama's lap while I read you more Shakespeare."

Settling
in her chair and wrapping her chilled fingers around her cup of hot tea,
Olivia listened to Alyson read to the child she, for a moment, anyway, believed
to be her own son, and she focused on the dim reflected image in the gray
windowpanes.

Believing
himself hidden, her husband stood in the hallway with his back to the wall and
his eyes closed, absorbing every word.

Perhaps
today she would confront him and invite him to join them in the enjoyment of
Alyson's sweet renderings. But dare she?

Carefully,
she put aside her cup and left her chair, moving as quietly as possible toward
the door so as not to disturb the reading or frighten away the secreted audience.

How
serene he appeared as the words flowed like music in the stillness.

She
touched his hand. His eyes opened slowly.

"Husband,"
she whispered. "You've hidden here during your mother's readings every
day for the last two weeks. Will you not join us?"

"Tell
me why. I should."

"For
your pleasure. And hers. Did you not tell me the first day you brought me to
Braithwaite that your greatest desire was to have sat with your mother as she
read to you? Well, listen now, sir. Her illness is allowing her the opportunity
to recapture those lost hours with you. Will your heart allow you the same
opportunity?"

She
waited, forgetting to breathe.

At
last he straightened, and with his hand still holding hers, they entered the
morning room.

I told my love, I told
my love,

I told her all my heart,

Trembling, cold, in
ghastly fear,

Ah! she did depart!

—William Blake,

Low's Secret

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The
thread of peace which began so tenuously between Miles and his mother grew
stronger. And every day, it seemed to Olivia that her own relationship with
Miles also became more and more solid. For long hours they closeted themselves
in the office and discussed business. They'd come to a comfortable
understanding on how each of them was involved in their various business
undertakings. Renovations on the mines were going smoothly. Excavation on the
new levels were started, and the morale among the miners was high. Braithwaite
itself glistened like a newly polished gem. However .. .

When
evening approached and the discussion of the mines dwindled to an occasional
afterthought, and there was little that remained to say about the house, a new
sort of tension settled in.

A
dozen times Olivia had caught her husband watching her from afar—his gaze
extreme in its intensity, almost desperate ... or perhaps she only imagined it.
Night after night she heard him prowl his room until the wee hours, occasionally
moving to their adjoining bedroom door where he tried the handle, only to find
it locked.

Often,
as she lay in her bed in the dark, recalling the strange and wonderful incident
in the pool room those many weeks before, she considered unlocking the door.

That,
of course, wasn't possible. She still hadn't decided how to overcome her
biggest problem. As Miles was a man who valued honesty, she was afraid that
Bryan's story would separate them forever. This quandary kept her up at night.

She
awakened early after one such sleepless night. Dawn had barely crept through
her draperies and transformed the dark into ghostly gray when she dressed and
wearily made her way to the office. There would be correspondence to answer.
The week's menu should be discussed with Jacques, and she would attempt one
last time to communicate with Emily, though she wasn't certain why. Her last
three notes had been returned unopened.

Olivia
stopped short at the door upon finding her husband propped against the desk,
sipping a cup of steaming coffee.

"Good
morning," he greeted her somberly.

"This
is a surprise," she replied.

"Really?
Tell me why."

"I
wasn't aware you turned out so early."

"I
turn out early every morning. You simply fail to notice. Would you like
coffee?"

She
nodded and entered the room.

Miles
poured her beverage and handed it to her as she took her chair behind the desk.
Withdrawing her glasses from her skirt pocket, she eased them onto her nose and
glanced about the cleared desk, concerned. 'The books seem to be missing,"
she said.

"So
they are."

Despite
her resolve, her eyes were drawn to his face. These last sun-kissed days had
darkened his complexion. He looked like a Gypsy, with his black hair curling
wildly to his shoulders. "Do you know where they are?" she asked.

"I
put them away." Digging into his pocket, he withdrew a key. "I've
locked them in a safe place for the time being."

"But
why?"

"So
that you might be forced to spend time with your family."

Frowning,
Olivia did her best to ignore the precious pleasure of finding herself the
center of her husband's attention.

"Are
you insinuating, sir, that I don't spend a great deal of time with my
family?" "Yes. I am." "That's ridiculous."

"Oh?
When is the last time you joined Bryan, Charles, and I for my mother's reading?
Most evenings you take your dinner in here."

"You
exaggerate. I took dinner with you only—" She chewed her lip.

"Last
Sunday," he supplied. "Five days ago. Could it be that you are
avoiding me?"

"Don't
be ridiculous. There's no reason why I should avoid you."

"Oh?
I can think of several reasons. The same reasons why our conversations are
limited strictly to business. You're attempting to evade any possibility of our
becoming ... closer."

"Absurd.
Now give me the key, please."

"Your
glasses are fogging, sweetheart." As she reached for her coffee, he
covered her hand with his. She gasped and jerked her hand away, burying it in
her lap. "What the hell are you afraid of, Olivia? I've given you time.
And Lord knows I've met all your father's conditions. What is it?"

She
jumped from the chair and made her way around the desk. He moved before her,
blocking her way. "You're not running this time, my love. You're not
locking yourself in this room and burying yourself in those damned books. I've
learned to enjoy playing the Black Knight. I've made peace with my mother. I've
even grown accustomed to Bertrice's endless cat hunts. But I haven't won you
over. I'd like to try."

"That's
very kind of you, but I'm afraid I'm very busy today," she replied, and
made a quick move around him.

"Oh
no you don't." The next moment she let out a squeal as she found herself
tossed over his shoulder.

"What
do you think you're doing?" she cried.

"Passing
the time with my wife, wife. It just so happens Jacques has prepared us a
picnic breakfast. John has saddled the horses, and you and I are going for a
ride."

"Perhaps
I don't care to—"

"I
don't give a leaping lizard what you want. I've lived in this frigging house
with you for five months and have yet to spend one relaxing hour alone with
you. That, my love, is about to change."

"But—"

"Shut
up," he said, and slapped her on the butt.

They
rode in no particular direction, but ambled down Dodsley's Road at a leisurely
pace, then cantered up and over the ramparts of grass and rock, allowing their
horses enough rein to stretch their legs. Around them, the dales were greening,
and beyond them, they could see the spires and chimneys of Braithwaite Hall.

When
they reached the head of the dale Miles dismounted and removed the horse's
bit, allowing the animal to graze. Upon helping Olivia to the ground, he
repeated the procedure with Perlagal, and watched as, with head up and tail
curled up over her back, she pranced down the moor in gleaming white splendor.

Sitting
upon the moss-blackened granite crag overlooking the moorside, Olivia and
Miles shared Jacques' croissants, tiny meat pies, Cheshire cheese, and wine.

Except,
Olivia had a difficult time swallowing.

How
often had she daydreamed of. a day such as this, but now she felt unbearably
nervous.

Stretching
his long legs out before him, Miles fixed his gaze upon her and sipped his wine
from a wooden cup. "Relax," he said. "I don't intend to maul
you, though the thought has, occasionally, crossed my mind."

Olivia
said nothing.

"I've
been remiss in voicing my appreciation over your helping me with Braithwaite
and the mining company. If your melancholy stems from feelings of
inappreci-ation—"

"It
doesn't."

"Then
why are you so damned unhappy, Olivia?" "I'm not unhappy, sir.
Braithwaite has truly become home to me." "And what about me?"
"You, sir?"

"What
have I become to you?"

She
thought hard for a moment—her mind searching desperately for an appropriate
answer. "A friend, I think," she finally replied.

"A
friend. Describe to me your definition of a friend."

"A
confidant. A companion. A conspirator in dreams."

"A
confidant? You've never confided in me, girl, about anything."

"Surely
you're wrong—"

"You've
never once told me how you really felt about your family's desertion—or more,
my behavior toward them during our last meeting. Are you angry with me? Do you
want to rail in fury? And what about your travels. I know little of your past.
I don't even know the story behind that tattoo."

She
felt her face flush, and cast him a chagrined glance.

He
grinned. "Don't tell me your lover was an Oriental tattooist."

"Hardly.
But the gentleman was most persuasive. He assured me that I had the exotic
beauty that such a work of art would enhance to unimaginable proportions."
Raising one eyebrow, she looked away, over the moor, and allowed the gentle
breeze to cool the heat of embarrassment from her cheeks. "It is my body,"
she replied almost defensively. "What right does anyone have to condemn me
for what I chose to do with it, as long as I've not broken laws or hurt another
human being? Some women paint their faces with kohl and powders and rouges. I
chose to place a very small painting of a rose on my breast because it makes me
feel. .. special. Unique. And ... sensual."

Olivia
looked at Miles again. His eyes had suddenly grown very intense. "Does my
admitting such an emotion shock you, sir?" she asked him pointed-

He
slowly shook his head. "Would it shock you to know that I, myself, find
the tattoo extremely sensual?" His lips curled provocatively, and Olivia
felt her heartbeat skip.

Miles
laughed softly, as if he were toying with her. She wouldn't have been surprised
if he reached out to touch her in that moment. He didn't, however. He relaxed
against the ground and said, "What is your favorite color, Mrs.
Warwick?" He regarded her drab dress. "I assume it's brown."

"Blue."

"Ah.
Yet you don't even own a blue dress."

"What
good would a blue dress do me?"

"Bring
you pleasure, I would think."