My Only Love (9 page)

"As
politely, I have told you that my affairs are of no concern to you."

"You
must have loved him very much since you continue to protect his name and
reputation, while yours has been blown to perdition."

"I
really must be going. If you please—"

"I
have it. You thought by getting into this fix that you would trap the scoundrel
into marrying you, therefore saving you from frittering your life away in the
company of your father and sister. Ah! I must be close. Your eyes flashed. Your
cheeks are growing warm with color."

"This
vein of conversation is entirely objectionable—"

"No,
mademoiselle, your reputation is objectionable. Your coming here in the middle
of the night is objectionable. Your manner of dressing is objectionable. Your
deportment is objectionable. Your attempts to seduce me into marrying you are
objectionable. Shall I continue?

"Your
father told me you made your mother a vow to take care of your father and
sister. When it became obvious that your opportunity to marry and escape Devonswick
was passing you by, you had a love affair, thinking a pregnancy would offer you
a life beyond your sister's shadow and your father's domination."

"Have
you finished?" she demanded.

"I'm
not sure. Let me think on it a few minutes. In the meanwhile, take your chair
again and pour yourself another drink."

"I
would rather die of thirst and freeze of cold than to sit in that chair in
front of that fire and share a whisky with you again." She stepped around
him; this time, he didn't stop her. Grabbing up her cloak, she moved toward the
door while pulling the garment about her shoulders.

Where
was Bertrice? Pausing, she looked one way, then the other, discovering nothing
but shadows looming in the distance. "Damn," she said quietly.
"Where has she got to?"

"Looking
for her cat, no doubt," Warwick said behind her. "Won't you come back
in here where it's warm, Miss Devonshire? I'll even toss another chair on the
fire."

"Bertrice!"
she called.

"You
know this house has a way of devouring people."

"Bertrice!"

"Up
here!" the voice cried from above. The housemaid appeared at the top of
the stairs, cap slid down over her brow. "The daft woman is up here,"
she explained in a voice vibrating with aggravation.

Olivia
hurried up the stairs, trying her best to ignore the fact that Miles was behind
her, taking two steps to her every one, and his housemaid was before her,
babbling furiously.

To
Olivia's dismay, she was led to a large bedchamber and quickly discovered
Bertrice had retired. In Miles's bedroom. In his bed. She lay peacefully with
her silver-haired head on his pillow and the bedcovers pulled up to her chin.

"I
suppose she didn't find her cat," Miles said from the doorway.

Standing
at the foot of the massive tester, Olivia gazed down at her old nanny,
wondering if she should explain to her host that Dickens the cat had expired
six years ago.

Mortification
consumed her. The sudden realization that she was standing in Warwick's bedroom
didn't help. Nor did the cat-that-ate-the-canary smile on his face.

T
do beg your pardon," she said stiffly. "It seems Bertrice has made
herself at home."

"So
it seems."

"If
you'll lend me a hand, I'll get her up." "Don't bother."

"But
you don't understand; Bertrice is quite fond of sleeping. Once she's out,
she'll sleep right through the night."

"Generally,
that's how it's done."

Frustration
mounting, Olivia shot him a hot look. He only shrugged. "Seems you'll have
to stay a while longer after all."

"And
allow you to abuse my sensibilities again? I think not. Bertrfce? Bertrice!
Wake up." "If I promise to be nice—"

"I
doubt seriously if the word exists in your vocabulary, Mr. Warwick."

"Very
well then. If I simply promise not to bring up the subject of your
lovers—"

She
shook the woman vehemently; Bertrice only mumbled in her sleep.

Miles
moved up behind Olivia and gently yet firmly took hold of her arm. "Let
her sleep," he repeated.

"Take
your hand from my person this—"

"I'll
send her home in the morning. Good God, you're a fiery little thing when you
get your back up."

"Then
you should try harder not to get my back up." She yanked her arm away and
started for the door, forgetting all about Bertrice or the fact that he still
had her glasses.

The
surly housemaid jumped aside as Olivia left the room, only realizing after
she'd walked a far distance that she was headed the wrong direction. With a
silent groan of frustration, she turned back to discover Warwick at the top of
the stairs, glasses suspended from his little finger. Insufferable buffoon.

"So
tell me," he said as she rejoined him. "Are you angry because I said
you look better without these?" He made a face at the spectacles. "Or
because I asked you about the boy's father? I don't think it's because I kissed
you since you apparently enjoyed it. Or could it be . . ." His voice lowered
and his features took on a serious look. "You were thinking of him when I
kissed you."

"Don't
be daft." She made a quick grab for the glasses. As quickly he snatched
them away.

With
a lift of her chin, Olivia turned down the stairs. "Very well," she said
with a gladiatorial air. "You can keep the bloody things for all I
care."

Miles
reached the bottom of the stairs before her and stood blocking her way. He
looked like a pirate with his clothes so carelessly worn and his dark hair
windblown and still damp from his ride through the rain. There was a mood of
recklessness about him, a wildness that flashed in his eyes and momentarily
left her disturbingly mesmerized. She realized despairingly that if he
attempted to kiss her again she would probably let him.

"Don't
go," he finally said. "I'll have Sally cook up a mix of
something—"

"We
ain't got nothin' to mix," came the tart reply from up the stairs.

"So
we'll have bread and water."

"I—I
think not, considering the circumstances."

"If
you're meaning the kiss, not to worry. It didn't mean anything. Unless you want
it to."

"And
what is that supposed to mean?"

He
shrugged. "You're welcome to stay the night, if you're so disposed."

"Sir,
are you implying what I think you are?" Her eyes widened as he grinned.

Her
attempt to dart around him was impaired as he threw out his arm, blocking her
path like a barrier. "Very well," he said, as she turned her eyes
full of mounting irritation and distress on him. His face was very near hers.
The light from the candelabra made his hair shine like copper. "I
acquiesce, Miss Devonshire," he continued quietly, and without emotion.
"I confess to allowing my selfishness to get the better of me. Before you
arrived I was caught in the doldrums; perhaps feeling much too sorryfor myself.
This isn't the Braithwaite I ached for with my every fiber. I suppose the old
adage is true: one must be careful what one wishes for."

"Perhaps
it wasn't, or isn't, the house that you've always wanted," she replied.

He
made no comment and Olivia was aware of a queer sense of electricity that
hummed in the air. His expression was both perplexed and angry.

"I
fear I've kept you overly long, Miss Devonshire. May I bid you good
night?"

Love has been compared
to debt: both

keep their captives awake
at night,

 and in a perpetual
state of unrest

 during the day.

 —Frederick Saunders

CHAPTER FIVE

The
morning dawned wet and cold and gray with fog. It had snowed during the night;
long ice crystals clung to the scattering of trees around Devonswick, causing
their heavy bare branches to appear like enchanted weeping willows.

Olivia
awoke with an enormous headache. She'd slept little. She relived her hours with
Miles Warwick, her dreams changing their encounter into strange variations. At
half past four she finally rolled out of bed and proceeded to the kitchen
where the tweeny made her a strong hot pot of tea and located a plate of
leftover scones. Olivia ate every one as she sat before the hearth and mentally
castigated herself for journeying to Braithwaite to confront Warwick.

Silly,
idiotic ninny. She'd done many a foolish thing in her life, but none she so
adamantly wished she could take back. No doubt he'd spent the entirety of the
night laughing at her; imagine his coming right out and accusing her of
attempting to coerce him into marriage. And then to so blatantly address the
matter of Bryan! To top that off she'd allowed him liberties. She felt shamed.

Alas,
she could not take it back. Neither could she forget the thrill of his kiss,
the breathtaking pleasure of his mouth on hers that shattered the self-imposed
gyves that had adequately shielded her sensibilities the last years.

As
her strict routine dictated, she bathed and dressed by seven and adjourned to
her father's office where she opened and read the correspondence that had
arrived the afternoon before ... or tried to. It wasn't easy without her
glasses.

She'd
been halfway back from Braithwaite last night before realizing that she'd
forgotten her eyeglasses. Her only hope was that Warwick would send the
spectacles home with Bertrice. Until then, any attempt to read was virtually
impossible. Still, she did her best. No matter how bad the strain on her eyes
it was better than visualizing her making a fool of herself with Warwick.

Warwick!
Dear God, why could she not put him from her mind? Sitting there, staring at
row upon row of numbers until her head throbbed, the all-encompassing thought
in her mind throughout the morning was how firm and hot and wet his mouth had
been on hers and the smell of his skin as he stood near her before the fire had
made her entire body feel as if it were slowly turning inside out.

At
a quarter of eleven the door was flung open and Emily entered. Her arms full of
dresses, she swept through the room like a spring breeze, her ivory face
flushed with enthusiasm. She had pulled her blond hair straight back and
confined it in a net of pale pink silk that perfectly matched her morning
frock. Her tiny feet were encased in supple leather slippers.

Placing
her pen and paper aside, Olivia laced her fingers together and tried her best
to ignore her throbbing temples long enough to smile. "And good morning to
you, too, sister. What have you there?"

"Dresses
of course," Emily replied with a lilting laugh. "I simply must have
your opinion, Oli. The Marquess is due to call today. Which dress suits me
more, do you think?" She flung several in the vicinity of a wing chair.
They landed instead in a heap on the floor. Taking no notice, Emily held
another up to her chin and pirouetted before Olivia. "Isn't this divine,
Oli? Do you think Lord Willowby will like it?"

"He's
certain to love you in anything, Em, unless he's blind or a fool."

The
dress sailed away and Emily swept up another. "What about this one? I
understand that the blond niching and the tiny primroses along the decolletage
are de rigueur in Paris this season."

Leaving
her chair, Olivia moved to the scattering of dresses on the floor and proceeded
to gather them up. There was a yellow gown with a satin bodice and an overskirt
of striped gauze trimmed with gold lace, an exquisite creation that Emily had
pleaded for—indeed, threatened to expire for—a few months before. As far as
Olivia knew, her sister had never so much as tried it on since it arrived from
Paris wrapped in mounds of tissue and ribbons.

"I'm
positively certain that Lord Willowby will speak to Father today," Emily
said. "Why else would he venture out in this despicable weather? Oli,
dear, what do you think you're doing?"

Olivia
was holding an Italian-made gown up against herself. She met her sister's
incredulous eyes, and felt her face grow warm.

"Don't
be a ninny," Emily said, and grabbed the dress away. "You're much too
old to wear a dress like this; the color doesn't suit you at all, not with that
awful olive tone to your skin. Besides, where on earth would you wear a gown
like this? To fidget with Father's ledgers? Or perhaps"—she lowered her
voice to a whisper, and her eyes became cold as glass—"to visit Miles
Warwick."

Olivia
returned to her chair and took up her pen.

"What
could you be thinking to go like that to Braithwaite? I mean, it was enough of
a shock to learn that Papa had attempted to bribe the incorrigible man to marry
you. Can you imagine Miles Warwick as a member of this family—"