Tempting the Marquess (3 page)

Which brought Olivia to her third certainty, which was that she should never have come.

This had been a mistake.

She had absolutely no business being there.

None at all.

Then again, she had never been very good at minding her own business.

“Hello, Katherine. Charlotte.” The marquess gave each a sharp nod before settling his gaze on Livvy. He briefly took in her appearance before turning to the harried-looking butler. “No, I don’t suppose she is a maidservant. More’s the pity, for we’re in short supply.”

Apparently Aunt Kate had not been jesting about her stepson’s indifferent manners.

The marquess braced his hands on his hips and focused his attention once more on Olivia. “Who the devil are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded. The hostile words hung suspended in the air for a moment before being swallowed up by the heavy tapestries blanketing the impenetrable stone walls.

It was, for all intents and purposes, a simple, albeit rather rude question, and yet Olivia did not know quite how to respond. She couldn’t imagine he’d be pleased if she answered truthfully, but starting their acquaintance with lies seemed impolitic.

Thankfully her aunt saved her from having to answer. “Jason! I do not know where you have forgot your manners, but you will promptly find them and greet us with at least a modicum of civility.”

A sardonic smile twitched at one corner of Lord Sheldon’s mouth as he sketched a bow. “Forgive me. You are most welcome to Castle Arlyss,” he drawled as he came forward and took her aunt’s hands, then pressed a kiss to the cheek she presented. “A pleasure as always, my lady.”

Aunt Kate chuckled, a low, husky sound, which attracted men like moths to a flame. Livvy had once tried to make her laugh sound like her aunt’s, but she had ended up with a sore, scratchy throat and difficulty speaking for a few days after her attempt.

“I know you don’t mean a word of it, but we are glad to be here all the same. Now, permit me to introduce my—”

She broke off as Charlotte wriggled free of her mother’s restraining hand and launched herself at her brother with a happy cry. The marquess stooped to embrace her, his expression momentarily softening. The rest of him stiffened in contrast, clearly ill at ease with this display of emotion. He patted her back clumsily before setting her apart from him.

“I’m not certain this is the same girl who visited last Christmas.” He looked her up and down. “This girl is far too grown up to be Charlotte.”

“It’s me! It’s me!” Charlotte bounced with excitement. “This is Queen Anne. You can call her Queenie.” She thrust the doll in the marquess’s face, or as near as she could reach, which was more in the realm of his midsection.

Lord Sheldon gingerly accepted the proffered offering and held the doll at arm’s length, turning it first this way, then that. He appeared to be giving the doll a very thorough inspection, but it was Livvy, not Queenie, who was the recipient of that intense scrutiny. The heat of his gaze burned her as it swept over her body.

Her spine stiffened. Let him look. She might not be the Great Beauty her older sister was, but she had long since come to terms with that and had decided she was at least passing fair. And while the marquess stared so boldly at her, she would take the opportunity to study him.

At once her fingers itched to sketch him, first the strong, hard line of his jaw, then the broad sweep of his forehead and the inky slashes of his eyebrows above equally dark eyes. She wanted to capture the slightly flattened ridge near the base of his nose, the faint hollows beneath his high cheekbones, and the gentle wave in his black hair. The planes and angles of his face were an artist’s dream—no single feature was perfect in and of itself, except perhaps his lips, which could have been sculpted by the great Michelangelo—but everything worked in absolute harmony.

Livvy was no stranger to handsome men. Her older brother, Henry, was quite good- looking, though she would never tell him so, and her brother-in-law, the Earl of Dunston, was another splendid specimen of masculinity. The marquess put them both to shame. There was a swirling, smoldering undercurrent in the air around him that spoke of tightly leashed emotions—a mighty tempest held in check by a will forged of iron.

He was nothing like what she had expected. Her mind had conjured the image of a man so worn down by years of embittered grief that all that remained was a fragile, brittle shell. She could see nothing weak about Lord Sheldon. The marquess radiated strength from the proud set of his broad shoulders to the muscular thighs bulging beneath his tight-fitting riding breeches. Not that she, a young lady of good breeding, would do anything as improper as express an interest in the marquess’s inexpressibles. She quickly looked up lest she be caught but, from the hint of a smile lurking about his mouth, she feared she was too late.

“Delightful,” he drawled, catching Olivia’s gaze as he handed the doll back to Charlotte.

His dark eyes smoldered in blatant masculine appreciation. Livvy’s cheeks flamed despite the icy draughts that always seemed to plague old castles.

Aunt Kate reached out a hand to her daughter. “Come, Charlotte, leave your brother be a moment so I may introduce him to—”

“Mama-promised- I-could- have-a-great- Danish-doglike-you-have.” Charlotte spoke the words in a rush, determined to get them out before she was reprimanded for interrupting.

Sure enough, she had just eked out the last word when Aunt Kate began to scold. “Promise or no, you will not be getting a dog, great Danish or otherwise, unless you display the requisite maturity to care for the creature.”

As if their words had manifested it, the largest dog Olivia had ever seen lumbered into the room.

“Blue!” Charlotte squealed.

The dog—or perhaps it was really a small horse—gave an answering bark, which exposed far too many sharp teeth for Livvy’s comfort, and then began to gallop toward the little girl. The beast could eat her in a single bite and still be hungry for more.

Olivia lunged forward and grabbed her cousin’s arm, pulling her to safety.

“Let go of me, Livvy! I want to see Blue.” Charlotte shook off Olivia’s grasp and bounded toward the horse-dog.

Livvy cast anxious glances at her aunt and the marquess. “Aren’t you afraid it will attack her?” Her voice rose sharply on the last words as the beast reared up on its hind legs.

At her words, Lord Sheldon’s head jerked up. He quickly scanned the room before his gaze focused on her, or rather on something beyond her. His eyes widened in alarm. “No, Red, no!” he commanded sharply.

“Red? I thought its name was Blue—oomph!”

Something plowed into Olivia from behind, knocking the breath from her as she went sprawling to the ground. The carpet was but a thin barrier against the hard, cold stone that lay beneath. She heard a snarled growl and heavy panting and came to three new certainties.

One, she was about to die.

Two, Blue—
and really, what sort of name was Blue?
—had a friend.

Three, the other horse-dog-beast was called Red, an equally ridiculous name.

Red and Blue.

Together they made purple, which was the color her body was going to be tomorrow if the pain coursing through her was any indication. Supposing, of course, she didn’t die of mortification first. She shut her eyes tightly, hoping this might turn out to be some dream gone horribly wrong.

“Oh, Livvy, dearest, are you all right?”

Olivia drew some air into her lungs, answering her aunt with a pitiful sound that fell somewhere between a grunt and a groan.

“I think she’s dying,” Charlotte proclaimed, not seeming overly concerned by the prospect. “Bad, Red Dog, bad!”

“No, Charlotte, do not scold Red. He hasn’t been around strangers in a long time and he heard a word that made him so angry he forgot his manners for a moment.”

The marquess’s voice grew increasingly loud and clear as he said this, and suddenly Livvy found herself lifted by a pair of strong arms. Her eyes flew open in surprise. She had never been held by a man other than her father, and that had been when she was a child.

This felt quite different.

She was close enough to see the stubble shadowing his jaw, though it was clear he had been clean-shaven that morning. Close enough to discover his hair wasn’t black, but rather a deep, dark brown, like rich, freshly turned soil. Close enough to breathe in the faint scent of the stables that hinted at an early-morning ride. Close enough to feel the whisper of his breath against her temple when he exhaled.

“This is some welcome you have provided,” Aunt Kate huffed. “It’s a bit late for formal introductions, but I suppose we must observe those proprieties still left to us. Jason, allow me to present my niece, Miss Olivia Weston. Livvy, as you may have surmised, you are being held by my stepson, the Marquess of Sheldon.”

Her aunt’s mention of propriety caused Olivia’s face to heat. She was in the arms of a man to whom she had never been introduced. Livvy pushed at Lord Sheldon’s chest. It was like granite, hard and unyielding, but she could feel the heat of his body through the layers of his clothing. The thought of his skin, of his bare torso, sent a shiver of excitement through her. His eyes narrowed on her flushed face, then dropped to her mouth. She shivered again and a predatory, knowing look came into his eyes.

Oh, my! She had guessed the marquess had a powerful effect on women, but given the weakness stealing over her body and turning her bones to jelly, she had clearly underestimated his potency.

“Miss Weston, I trust you are not seriously injured?”

She felt more than heard the deep rumble of his voice. She nodded automatically, slightly breathless, held captive by the wicked promise in his deep brown eyes. She hoped she hadn’t just agreed to anything untoward, or rather, anything unpleasant. She suspected untoward behavior with the marquess would be very pleasurable indeed. . . . She needed to get away from him before her brains were permanently scrambled. She squirmed and shoved harder at the muscled wall of his chest.

His arms tightened about her as he strode to the far end of the hall, carrying her as though she weighed no more than Charlotte. He deposited her on a low settle placed before the massive hearth, then straightened, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I must apologize, Miss Weston. I rescued both dogs from a particularly vicious bear-baiting, and while they generally act like overgrown lapdogs, Red in particular still responds badly to hearing the word A-T-T-A-C-K.”

“Oh,” Olivia gasped. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Obviously, or you would not have said it. Of course, you shouldn’t be here in the first place, and if you hadn’t been here, the incident never would have occurred, but I apologize all the same. Now, you look like the missish sort who will insist a doctor be sent for, but I give you leave to prove me wrong.”

She stared, astounded not only by his sheer audacity but by his ability to insult not only her but her entire gender in one breath.

“What are you saying, Jason?” Aunt Kate asked suspiciously as she came near.

“I was merely inquiring whether Miss Weston wished me to send for a doctor.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Livvy snapped.

“Olivia!” her aunt scolded. “Jason has expressed concern for your well-being. If you have no need of a doctor, you will thank him and politely decline his offer.”

Livvy drew in a deep breath and pasted a smile on her face. “Thank you, my lord, but I hardly think we need send for the doctor just because I was A-T-T-A-C-K-E-D by a dog the size of a pony.”

Lord Sheldon began to laugh. It was a bit rusty sounding, as though he had not used it in a long time. Of course, from what she knew of him, he probably hadn’t. Despite her annoyance, the thought wrenched at Olivia’s heart.

She had come to Wales hoping to satisfy her curiosity about the marquess. Her aunt had spoken despairingly of the changes grief had wrought in her stepson, painting a portrait entirely at odds with the man Livvy had come to know through the terribly written but very cleverly hidden clues that had led her to the brooch. He might not want her there, and perhaps she ought not to have come, but there she was, for better or for worse, and though it was doubtless a fool’s errand, she had to see if she could help him.

Perhaps she was the one who needed help! A man who looked like that must have had scores of women offering to help him move past his grief. Of course, if he was as surly and rude as he had been to her, there were probably some who had run away. But Olivia was willing to bet there were plenty of others who saw him as a challenge. And no mistake about it, from a purely aesthetic standpoint, Lord Sheldon was a prize worth winning.

Not that Livvy planned on winning him. She wasn’t even entering the competition. She wanted to help him, and that was all. Though Lord Sheldon was good-looking enough to make her heart skip a beat, and though he had at some point been possessed of rather romantic sensibilities, he was not for her. Nor, she reminded herself, did she want him to be. Perhaps she ought to be seen by a doctor after all. That knock to the ground had clearly addled her wits.