Damn him for being so completely reasonable when she was spinning quite out of control.
“I’m not running away,” she repeated. “But unlike you, I cannot turn my emotions on and off.”
He met her accusation with a pained expression. “I assure you, my emotions are not turned off.”
Against her wishes her gaze fell to his wet breeches where the evidence of his unrelieved desire clearly showed.
“Don’t flee,” he added when she stepped involuntarily backward. He paused a moment, all the while staring intently at her. “I think, Olivia, that we have to marry, and quickly.”
Overhead thunder again rocked the heavens, but the rain began to ease. She dashed one hand across her eyes. “I am not so foolish as to believe we must wed. What you did—What we did—” She shook her head, at a loss for words. “No child can come of this,” she finally said in a strangled voice.
One side of Neville’s mouth lifted in a faint grin. So much for that tack. Still, he had no intention of wasting the advantage he’d gained. Though this was not the subject he’d meant to broach this morning, nor the manner in which he meant to broach it, it was out in the open now and could not be retracted. Nor did he wish to retract it, not with the effects of their frustrating encounter still ricocheting through his body. Even the rain could not cool his ardor. “We must marry, Olivia. Even you must see that.”
“But … I do not see it. We are not at all suited to one another. Not really.”
“We are perfectly suited,” he countered. “As this episode so aptly demonstrates. In truth, were your mother or brother to hear of this latest incident between us, they would be entirely right to insist I do the proper thing and marry you without delay.”
“Don’t you dare tell them!”
“Then don’t force me to.”
Where that threat came from Neville could not say. But once said, he knew he would stand by it.
Her eyes widened in horror, then narrowed in fury. “You planned this all along, didn’t you? To compromise me so that I am forced to marry you. Well, it won’t work. I’ll … I’ll deny anything you say.”
“That was not my purpose,” he said.
Not originally.
But that didn’t matter anymore. “It will do no good to deny it,” he added. “For no one will believe you.”
“Why would you want to force the issue!”
“I don’t want to force it, Olivia. I don’t want to force you at all.” He gestured with his arms spread wide. “I have put this badly, it seems. Why don’t we start back for Byrde Manor? All I’m asking of you is that you consider my offer.”
She shook her head, but Neville pressed on. “I’ll speak to your mother—”
“No!”
“—and your brother as soon as they arrive.”
“You had better not!”
“Why not?” Neville caught her by the arms and lowered his head so that they were face to face. All of a sudden her objections were no longer amusing. They were too vehement to be just maidenly protests, and the fact that she was serious drove him a little bit mad. “Tell me, Olivia. Do you have something against all men, or is it just me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous? You forget that I’ve read that little journal of yours, every single page, and among all those men, there was not one whom you heartily endorsed.”
“How dare you!” She twisted and turned, trying to shrug free of his hold. But he would not release her.
“Not one of them appealed to you for yourself. Not one of them. I’m beginning to wonder if you just hate all men.”
“Not all of them. Just you!”
He shook his head, too angry to be cautious. “I think not. I think the last few minutes prove you like me. A lot.”
“No—”
He cut off her protest with a kiss, forceful. Brutal, even. But it squelched her denial, and it drowned out his anger, leaving instead only passion, hot, demanding, and volatile. It flared through him like a wildfire in a coal mine, so violent and all-consuming that he had but one aim: to quench the fire here and now, to lay her down and sink inside her, and give them both the release they so desperately needed.
That her struggling had turned to desire only fanned the fire higher. But Neville was no fool, and despite his raging arousal, he somehow forced himself to restraint. One last delving kiss. One last cupping of her rounded derriere, to press that soft belly to his groin. He tangled his fingers in the heavy wet silk of her hair, then reluctantly drew them out.
As he’d done before, he thrust her an arm’s length away from him. “Go home,” he growled. “Go home and think about what has happened between us, Olivia. Then decide how you wish to tell your family. I give you a week, no longer.”
Then he turned on his heel and made himself stalk away from her. Though it pained him with every step, he strode away and snatched up the reins. She would find her way home, storm or no. She was on her own lands and the route was clear. Besides, she was an accomplished rider, as at ease on a horse as he.
All these things he told himself as he mounted his hunter, then urged the animal down into the valley. But the real reason he left her was that he could not trust himself with her one minute longer. Despite all the practical reasons he might have to wed her, the real reason was not practical at all. He wanted her. Desperately, it seemed. More than he’d ever wanted a woman before. Enough that he’d turned down a perfectly luscious offer of a bed partner both nights of their journey, and had avoided the several women in Kelso that he knew to be ready and willing.
He’d begun to worry that there was something wrong with him—to be in a state of nearly constant arousal because of her, yet unwilling to take relief when it was offered elsewhere.
But there was nothing wrong with him, he knew as he willed his painful condition to subside. Nothing that Olivia Byrde could not cure.
One week he’d give her to accept his offer of marriage. After that, he would do whatever it took to seal their union.
THE day careened on from one disaster to the next. Not that her mother and brother’s arrival at Byrde Manor should have been considered a disaster. But coming as it did just hours after that unbelievable incident with Neville Hawke, the arrival of their jovial party felt like a disaster to Olivia. The last thing she wanted to do was see anyone at all.
She’d barely returned to the house and changed when James arrived along with three boon companions, all of them mounted on spirited steeds, and none of them much the worse for the storm. Though she was not in the mood for any male hijinks, Olivia had no choice but to smile and act very pleased to see them—and indeed she was pleased to see her beloved older brother with his wide smile and exuberant manner. Just not this particular evening.
“Livvie!” he cried, leaping from his favorite hunter. He grabbed her in a hug and swept her right off her feet. “This is my sister,” he said to the men who dismounted behind him. “Olivia, may I introduce Nicholas Curtis, Viscount Dicharry. Also, the Honorable Justin St. Clare.”
She was dizzy and barely back on her feet before the two men were bowing over her hand. Viscount Dicharry was a hearty spaniel sort of a fellow. Mr. St. Clare was older and calmer, with very correct manners.
“I believe you already know Lord Holdsworth,” James added, his blue eyes glinting.
“Of course.” She greeted the man her mother was so enamored of. “You are all very welcome—”
“James!” Sarah barreled from around the house and straight
into her brother’s outstretched arms, and the scene replayed itself.
“Hullo, squirt.”
Then the traveling coach splashed down the driveway, followed by another, smaller carriage, and all at once pandemonium took over. Augusta alighted, along with her friends whom she quickly introduced: the Honorable Anthony Skylock and his wife, Joanna, as well as the recently widowed Henrietta Wilkinson and her daughter Victoria. The women all complained of exhaustion, the men vowed they were invigorated, horses and servants milled about, and Bones barked the alarm from a safe distance away. All in all, were it not for Mrs. McCaffery, Olivia would have turned around and fled, leaving them all to their own devices. She was that overcome by their noisy descent upon her already shaky situation.
But she stood her ground and only pressed her fingers against her temples. She desperately needed time alone to think what to do and sort out her shattered emotions. What had she been thinking to invite all these people for a month of shooting at poor, unsuspecting grouse?
Thank God for Mrs. McCaffery, who was more than up to the task at hand. She dispensed the three newly hired menservants to unload and disperse the luggage to the appropriate rooms. Her four new maids served refreshments to the dusty travelers, whisky in the parlor for the gentlemen, tea in their rooms for the ladies. Mr. Hamilton and his two stablemen took the animals on to the stable, and by the time the late dinner was served, all was peaceful again—as peaceful as a country house party could be expected to be.
Somehow Olivia also affected an air of calm—at least on the outside. Inside, however, she was a knot of roiling emotion. Solitude did not assuage it any more than did company. Neither the stables, the kitchen, nor her bedroom afforded her any peace. She’d engaged in the most shocking behavior of her life, with results she could never have imagined—and with a man she could not approve of. Kissing him was terrible enough. But the rest of it!
And worst of all, she’d liked it!
Now as she sat at one end of the dining table, she suppressed the wicked shiver that curled up from her belly. Just remembering her intimate encounter with Neville Hawke made her knees go weak. Truly she must be the most wanton woman in creation.
It would serve her right if she caught a cold from her drenching, then developed a fever and died. Certainly that could not feel worse than this terrible guilt and shame. Unfortunately, she felt as healthy and robust as ever. More was the pity.
She needed to speak to someone about what had happened, and about what she could do regarding the threat Lord Hawke had hung over her head. She only had a week.
But she could never confide this in her mother, she realized during a lull before the final dessert course. As if to prove that true, Augusta gave Olivia a measuring look and said, “So how is our dear neighbor?”
Her voice held an expectant note, and guilty heat quickly suffused Olivia’s face. Before she could formulate an appropriately bland answer, however, Augusta turned to their guests and rattled on. “Neville Hawke, Baron Hawke of Woodford Court, is our nearest neighbor. He’s the one Archie is pursuing in hopes of purchasing that fabulous mare.”
“The one that outran every three-year-old at Doncaster,” Archie threw in. “And who I believe is faster than any three-year-old—filly or stallion—in the whole of Great Britain.”
“I’d certainly like to take a look at her,” James said, signaling for more wine. “What say we take a ride over there tomorrow?” He glanced at Olivia. “You can introduce us. I understand from Mother that you and he became quite friendly,” he added, watching her closely.
Beneath the table Olivia’s knotted fists began to shake. With his fair hair and blue eyes, James appeared affable enough. But he had a core of steel and a strong sense of responsibility, especially toward the women in his family. If he ever found out just how friendly she’d become with their neighbor, he was liable to call the man out. Just as Neville threatened, James would demand that they marry. Olivia stifled
a groan at the thought. Thank God James did not know anything—at least not yet.
She would have to do something to make sure he never did. But what?
“Yes, Olivia. That’s an excellent idea,” Augusta chimed in. “We should send a note round to Woodford Court tonight—it would be rude to show up on his doorstep unannounced. Will you see to it, dear?”
From disaster to disaster to further disaster. By the time Olivia was at last alone in her own bedchamber she was frantic, for she’d had swift word back from Neville Hawke that he would be pleased to entertain all of them with a tour of his properties and a picnic luncheon.
How on earth was she to deal with him?
How was she to avert the catastrophe bearing down upon her?
She turned down the lamp and pulled the sheets up to her chin. He’d given her a week to decide. That meant she had a week to figure a way out of this mess. A week to avert an utter fiasco.
But though Olivia’s waking moments were consumed by fear and rage and frustration at Neville Hawke’s high-handed threat, when she finally slept she dreamed of laughter and joy and peace. In her dreams she rode a beautiful mare, and beside her rode a beautiful man. A baby gurgled and cooed, birds sang, and the sun shone. When she awoke, for the first few moments of the day she simply lay in her bed, well rested, marveling at how utterly content she felt.
And why should she not be content? She was away from town, in her own home with the clean scent of lemon wax and fresh country air surrounding her. She’d been right to come back to Byrde Manor, she thought, stretching like a lazy, well-fed cat. Her family was here with her, everything was perfect.
Then she remembered her guests, and her neighbor—and what they’d done together—and she bolted upright. Everything was not perfect. In fact, matters could not be worse!
She stared at the window in alarm. It was just past dawn.
She had only a few hours to prepare herself for the dreaded jaunt to Woodford Court.
At the last minute she opted to play the coward.
As their extensive party filed out into the courtyard, the women climbing into the open phaeton, the men onto their horses, Olivia pleaded a headache. Despite her mother’s cajoling and James’s suspicious looks, she remained adamant. So they rode out without her, the men casually dressed in riding breeches and short frock coats, the women arrayed like colorful birds in the open carriage.
No sooner had they departed, however, than Olivia began to worry anew. What might Neville say to them? Would he be angry enough at her absence to blurt out everything? She was terrified to face him and just as terrified not to be there with the others. How had he managed to turn an outspoken, generally fearless woman into such a quivering little coward?
“Botheration,” she muttered. “Damn the man,” she added, deciding he deserved more forceful curse words. “Damn you for the most troublesome, high-handed, deceitful wretch I’ve ever had the misfortune to know,” she swore, stamping her foot in agitation. Then she snatched up her riding ensemble from her armoire. If she didn’t hurry he might paint a picture even more dreadful than what had actually passed between them. She wouldn’t put it past him.
Once up on Goldie, her own mare that had been a gift from Humphrey upon her tenth birthday, Olivia felt a trifle more in control. After all, no one could actually force her to marry if she was truly opposed to the match. They couldn’t march her down the aisle and drag the words out of her mouth. They might try, but they would not succeed.
She patted Goldie’s neck and urged her into a slow, rocking canter. When her hat slid off and swung behind her back by its strings, she urged the mare on even faster. It felt so good to ride this swiftly, with the wind in her hair. She felt stronger and better able to face the coming confrontation. Even if Lord Hawke went so far as to cause a scandal, she decided she could survive it. She would simply remain here at Byrde Manor, away from all the malicious talk in London. She’d been thinking
of remaining here anyway, so her plans need not change on that score. Besides, the gossip would die down in time. Soon enough a new scandal would come along to occupy all the twittering brains that made up most of society.
Her mother would be horrified, though, as would James. They would be publicly humiliated. As for Sarah, in six years the girl would have her own come-out. Would Sarah’s prospects be damaged by her older sister’s behavior now?
Olivia slumped in the saddle and Goldie responded by slowing her eager pace. What a turmoil!
Then a new thought crept into Olivia’s head, an idea too foreign to consider. Yet once there, it would not go away. What if she consented to marry Neville Hawke?
What if she just agreed to his demand, as unfair as it was?
Her brow creased in earnest thought. Her mother would be thrilled, of course, as would Sarah. James would be satisfied. As everyone agreed, Neville Hawke matched her in rank and fortune, and their lands did run together.
Certainly they were well matched in the passions of the body.
Olivia groaned at that shameful thought. Oh, but this was an impossible situation.
Still, the idea of marrying Neville Hawke would not go away. As she approached the small village of Kelso she decided to at least consider the idea for a while, to weigh the matter unemotionally—if that were possible. If not for his drinking, she would probably have found him more than acceptable. But he did drink—far too much, as she’d sadly come to learn.
Then again, he had vowed to quit. Could she believe him? She just did not know. She sighed. She would just have to see how Lord Hawke behaved today. Then she would make her decision.
Once in the village, Olivia stared about with considerable interest, for no matter her decision, this place was soon to become her home. Though not excessively prosperous-looking, it was, at least, neat and well maintained. A slat-sided cart rumbled by on uneven wheels, carrying a load of produce in
burlap sacks. Several boys and two old men fished off the bridge, while another fellow on a tall ladder trimmed thatch on a substantial-looking cottage. As she turned for the bridge, she saw a small town green in the opposite direction, and across it, an old Norman-styled church.
She hadn’t yet called on the vicar, she realized. She would have to remedy that at once.
She turned Goldie to cross the bridge over the river Tweed. There she saw a few more cottages, small places set behind the stone wall that edged the north side of the road. Toward the rear of the tiny residences a woman hung clothes out to dry. In the common front yard three children played.
When they spied her they ran to the road and one of them, a little boy about five years old, swiftly clambered onto the wall and stood, balancing himself with outstretched arms. It put him nearly face to face with Olivia. But like the two little girls hanging on the wall, he did not speak but only stared at her through wide blue eyes.
She drew Goldie to a halt. “Hello,” she began, smiling at his serious little face. “I believe I may be lost. I was wondering, do you think you might direct me to Woodford Court?”
“Woodford Court?” one of the two little blond girls said. “Why, that’s easy enough to find. Just go down the road that-away.” She pointed. “Why d’you want to go there?”
Olivia smiled at the child. She was old enough to have lost two teeth already and so had a funny, gap-toothed grin. “I’m going to meet with someone.”
“Lord Hawke?” The boy finally spoke. Olivia shifted her smile to him, but he did not smile back. His eyes remained fixed on her, however, dark blue eyes, moody and suspicious.
“Yes. Lord Hawke, among others.”