Stephanie James (13 page)

Philip felt like a spoiled child escaping punishment. And he was quite convinced he would never be able to escape the dishonor. He only hoped that Olivia would accept his next offer, so that he might spend a lifetime trying to make up for all the harm he had caused her.

• • •

“I cannot say for certain if there is a break, but she has definitely injured it,” Dr. Wilson said to Mr. Winter. Philip was listening at his side. They were all three standing in the hallway outside of the drawing room, where Dr. Wilson had examined and then treated Olivia. “She should be off her feet for at least the next two to four months; perhaps longer, depending.”

“Will she limp permanently, doctor?” Mr. Winter asked.

“If she does not take the proper rest and attempts to walk on it, yes, she may develop a permanent limp. But if she adheres to my recommendations, takes the tonic I have prescribed her, and if, God willing, there is no break, then no, she shall not limp. Would you like to settle with me now, Mr. Winter, or later?”

“Now, I suppose,” said Mr. Winter. “No reason to delay. To my study, if you please, doctor.”

“Do you mind if I go in and speak with her, Edward?” Philip asked before Mr. Winter left with Dr. Wilson.

“Not at all, Philip,” said Mr. Winter, and extended his hand. “Thank the maker you were there,” he said as he shook Philip’s hand. “I cannot bear the thought of her lying in pain alone by that river. Thank you, Philip.”

Philip mumbled his acceptance of Mr. Winter’s thanks. He did not deserve such praise. He was well aware of that fact. But he had to learn to live with the older man’s ill-placed admiration. Olivia had told her lie; the deed was done. She had told it very convincingly, too, Philip noted. She had even stated that she had sneaked away from her two escorts when the opportunity had presented itself, which put her entirely in the wrong, and Philip in the right. He was infallible now in Mr. Winter’s eyes. The man had made him out to be a veritable hero, in fact. But Philip understood he was anything but. He supposed that living with the guilt of knowing the truth was his punishment for giving in to his lust with an innocent.

Olivia was seated on the loveseat with her bandaged ankle elevated by a chair. She did not look at him when he entered, keeping her unblinking gaze on the window instead. Philip cleared his throat.

“Miss Winter, I just wanted to say that I, uh … how are you feeling?”

“I want to know only one thing,” she said, ignoring his question. “Is there any cause for me to worry about being with child?”

He was surprised by the blunt nature of her question, but after a moment he was able to respond. “No,” he said.

Olivia lifted her gaze to him then. “You are certain?”

“Quite.”

“Good,” she said.

“But,” Philip said, “I am afraid that I inflicted upon you some manner of damage that must be remedied.”

Olivia pulled her brows together in confusion.

Philip walked closer to her and cleared his throat again before lowering himself to one knee. “Miss Winter,” he began. “Though I wish this could have occurred under more pleasant and desirable circumstances, I find myself nevertheless unable to refrain from presenting to you a … proposition.” He scooped up her hand with his and grasped it firmly. He noticed that her fingers remained limp, but did not let it deter his intent. “I would be honored if you agreed to offer me your hand in marriage. Please become my wife and let me spend a lifetime making you happy.”

No expressions played over her face: she did not blink, her brows did not lift in surprise, there was no sharp intake of breath — her fingers didn’t even twitch. She was as stone.

“You do not love me,” she said.

“No,” Philip agreed.

“And I do not love you.”

“Yes, I am aware of that fact.”

“What point then would there be for us to marry?” she asked.

Philip squeezed her hand. “Love can grow,” he said. “Even if it doesn’t, I’m certain we would be able to find some amount of pleasantness together.” He remembered their kiss on the riverbank. At least one aspect of their marriage would be nice.

Olivia stared at him for a few moments, her hazel eyes looking deeply into his as though she was considering his offer
. So that is the color of her eyes,
Philip thought. Finally, he noticed them. They were the same color as honey, with a darker brown color outlining the margins of her irises. They looked almost like candy glittering in the fading afternoon sun which filled the drawing room. He had never seen eyes the color of Olivia’s before. They were absolutely beautiful, much like the rest of her. But the emptiness which occupied them in that moment was anything but sweet.

When she blinked and looked back towards the window Philip realized quite suddenly that his breathing had stopped and instructed his body to begin again. He looked away and blinked his own eyes, and continued to wait for her response.

“If I am not to be with child,” she said finally, “then I am in no need of the protection of your name. I can live with my dishonor, but not you as well.” She pulled her hand out of his. “We fight constantly, Lord Philip. I do not believe there is any possibility we could be happy. Now, please leave me. I never want to see you again.”

So she was back to that request, Philip noted. He stood slowly and backed away from her a few steps.

Philip did his best to conceal his disappointment. He did not love Olivia, true. He barely liked her. Nevertheless, he wanted to do anything to take away what he’d done to her. He had assumed marriage would be the best way, but she rejected him.
The third time,
he thought sarcastically. He cleared his throat and changed his tone to the same as that he might use in a formal conversation.

“I cannot promise that you will never see me again,” he said, “because invariably you will. Your father and I are in business together. But I can guarantee that I shall never make an effort to pay you any sort of special attention, unless you choose differently. That is the best I can do, Miss Winter.”

“Fine,” she said quietly, still staring out the window with a blank look in her eyes. The life had gone from those golden depths, and he had been the one who had at last completely extinguished their fire. He hadn’t just caged her spirit this time. Now he had killed it. She was to be bedridden for the next several months, with the possibility of a longer sentence marring her future.

“Miss Winter,” he said, softening his tone. “I want you to know that I am sorry. For whatever it’s worth.”

She turned her gaze back to him as silent tears began escaping her eyes. Seeing her thus was only another spear of guilt to his heart.

“Please leave me,” she whispered.

He turned on his heels and exited the room without another word.

• • •

Olivia watched as the door to the drawing room closed quietly. He had finally agreed to her wishes, she noted when Lord Philip had gone. He had finally understood what she expected of him. And all that had been required to persuade him to agree was a broken ankle and an improper embrace. Not to mention the sacrifice of her pride.

Olivia knew that after today, she would never again be who she once was. Not after admitting to herself, which she had only just done in the last half-hour, that she had enjoyed kissing Lord Philip Ravenshaw. On the riverbank and during the ride back to Whistler Manor, she had convinced herself that he had attacked her, but she could believe this lie no longer. The feel of his body, his lips and his hands — every sensation, until the point at which she found herself beneath him, had been exquisite. And she was ashamed of herself for having felt so.

It all reminded her of the upstairs maid her father had dismissed two years ago after they had returned from her dreadful first and only London season. The girl had been carrying on with a footman and quickly found herself with child. Her father had promptly dismissed the girl with a bad reference for her deplorable behavior.

“She is the very example of what you should never be, Olivia,” her father had said to her later that night at dinner. “Women like that are called sluts. She was a slut. You are a lady, and ladies never behave in such ways. Never disgrace me or your mother’s memory by behaving like that girl. Never embrace a man who is not your husband. I shall turn you out of this house without a single glance and refuse to see you ever again if you do.”

It had been one of the few times in all her growing up that her father had spoken to her with such severity. The memory of his harsh tone and humorless face had left an indelible impression on Olivia, and so she had sworn then and there to be the opposite of that maid. Perhaps Olivia was not the ideal example of what a lady ought to be, she admitted. But she was, in the very least (and most important way), not a slut. Lord Philip had been the only man to kiss her, to touch her, to make her feel passion she barely understood.

He had ruined her. She had become the very definition of what her father had told her never to be. She had kissed Lord Philip, and she had enjoyed it. She was a slut. No man would take her as his wife now. Except Lord Philip.

Oh, to be married to him after the way he had treated her! He did not love her. He would show her no tenderness if she were his wife. There would be only lustful advances. She covered her face with her hands. How could she face her father after lying to him now? Would he be able to see it in her eyes that she was wicked? Olivia very much doubted she would even be able to stand the sight of her own reflection in the mirror. She knew only too well that she would be able to see the change in her eyes.

• • •

The month of November marked the metamorphosis of various aspects of Lord Philip Ravenshaw’s life. Firstly, Mr. Winter and he had made their first sale of a set of team horses to a local inn. The buyer had not been very illustrious. That much was indeed true. But finalizing the sale had given Philip a very real sense of accomplishment and purpose. Their business aspirations had been solidified by the deal, and so had Philip’s pride.

Though he might not have admitted it to anyone before the sale of the horses, Philip had been terrified of the possibility of failure. He was already a second son of a great man with no title to inherit. Failure from the heir would be overlooked — talked about, certainly, but hidden away somehow. Failure from the spare, however, would live on in sharp relief for the rest of his life. His inability to secure first Georgiana as a wife, and then Charlotte, left Philip with the distressing suspicion he would have to live out the rest his life in exile on the continent should he bring shame upon himself in business as well as love. He could only just barely tolerate the thought of being known for having a bad reputation with women, but never in business.

Such fears, however, were now dispelled thanks to Mr. Winter and his first sale. The knowledge that they had several future appointments with other potential buyers was also inspiring. The prospective clients this time were members of Dorset’s local gentry, whose interest would only naturally help to establish a respectable reputation amongst higher-ranking clientele. Even more helpful to the establishment of a good reputation was the fact that Philip was a member of high society in his own right.

Working for an income might seem lowly to some of society’s more snobbish members, but Philip’s saving grace was that he was already in possession of a generous fortune, which left members of society to deduce quite logically that his interest in the business of breeding and selling horses was more of a hobby. Though his endeavors admittedly meant more than a mere hobby to Philip, he had no interest in dissuading anybody’s assumptions. If his peers assumed horse breeding to be a hobby of his, they would be less quick to turn up their noses at it, and thus more likely to consent to be customers.

Another aspect that had completed its metamorphosis — in a more literal sense of the word — was Tyndall Hall. The repairs were finally finished. Every crack in every wall had been filled and smoothed and papered. All the lawns were uniformly green and manicured, with Italian marble statues and fountains in place, and all the furnishings in every room had been expertly selected and arranged for maximum aesthetic pleasure. The completion of the house’s repairs and decoration thus meant (much to Philip’s extreme delight) that Henri Brasseux’s time in Dorset had come to a close.

“I shall miss you monsieur,” Henri had said, with tears in his eyes on the day of his departure. “Vill you write to me?”

Philip had been at a loss for words, mainly because of his embarrassment. They had been standing outside of the house, with all the servants in a row behind them. Most of the servants had only just been hired and knew very little, if anything, about Philip. Witnessing Henri’s emotional departure would then doubtless fill their heads with suspect assumptions about their new employer’s preferences. And that was absolutely intolerable.

“I … I, uh,” Philip had stumbled. “Well, if I should ever require a decorator again, Mr. Brasseux, I will definitely write to you.”

“Oh, my lord,” Henri had cried, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. “I cannot tell you what zat will mean to me.” Henri had then tried to embrace Philip, but he dodged the man’s arms.

“Right, then,” Philip said as he hopped away from Henri. “You shall not want to waste any more time here, I suspect. Best get a start on your journey. Good day to you, sir.” Philip had rushed away from the scene before he finished wishing Henri a good day. He didn’t care how impolite it had been. He had just wanted to get away from Henri Brasseux once and for all.

And finally, the last aspect to change — though it was rather more like a capstone than a metamorphosis — was that the coming of November marked the beginning of the fifth month Philip had neither seen nor spoken to Olivia.

June. The last time he had seen her had been that dreadful day in June — the one in which he had kissed her senseless and caused her to twist her ankle. It still made Philip cringe to think about it. Mr. Winter had been adamant about his daughter’s recuperation, which had come as bit of a surprise Philip. She had been able to move about the house in all the months of her secluded healing, but Mr. Winter was absolutely against Olivia doing anything more than that, lest she cause more damage to herself. The only other time Philip had seen his friend act in a manner that was at all parental was when he had stripped Olivia of her right to ride alone and wear her brother’s old breeches. And that had been because Philip had encouraged it.