An image of Lord Anthony’s face floated in her mind. The man acted like he possessed a devil-may-care attitude, but his dark eyes were alert. Smart. She would need to be careful around him, not only because of his intellect but also because when around him she experienced an odd fluttering in her stomach that was not solely due to nerves.
Tucking a loose tendril of her bright red hair behind her ear, she uttered a dull laugh. The man had no interest in her. She was nothing like Signora Campari. The woman was striking. Men would clamber over each other to be the diva’s lover. No one would do so for Olivia, yet the way Lord Anthony glanced at her while he said he knew men who would wish to hire her for a position had made her feel desirable.
Olivia pressed her palm to her forehead, knowing she was letting her thoughts ramble. She needed to concentrate on her plan. She opened the drawer in the table beside the bed where she’d seen a box of matches and moved to the fireplace. She crumbled the parchment she’d written the information on and shoved it into the grate before striking a match and setting the paper on fire. Gray smoke spiraled upward as the edges darkened before the crumpled paper burst into a ball of orange flames, leaving nothing more than a pile of ash.
Olivia strode to the window and unclasped the lock. She raised the lower sash and was pleased it moved freely—without making a noise. Yesterday when she’d been shown to this elegant bedchamber, she’d peered out the two windows the room possessed to see if either was near a downspout. Luckily one of them was. More fortunate, both windows possessed a small wrought-iron balcony. Not the type one would place a chair on and sit, but a much narrower one that elevated the exterior of the house’s aesthetics. But if she held on to the rail, she could place her feet on the ledge and carefully move to the downspout and make her way to the ground. She tapped her foot. Going down would be much easier than getting back up. She thought of the window in the office. If she unlatched the ground-floor window, it would be easy to climb through it.
Thinking of the two men she still needed to rob, she pulled the window closed. Restless, she paced before forcing herself to sit in the damask-covered chair in the corner of the room.
A memory floated through her mind. As if it were yesterday, she could clearly see Vicar Finch standing over Helen’s simple wooden casket, intoning a psalm. She could almost feel the bitter January air and hear the whistle of the wind in the graveyard adjacent to the rectory. The recollection caused gooseflesh to prickle the skin under her sleeves. She rubbed her hands over her arms and pinched her eyes closed, attempting to stifle the memory, but it only grew more vivid.
“. . . for they rest from their labors,” Vicar Finch’s words echoed in her head. She recalled how he’d closed the black leather book in his hand as Mrs. Garson motioned to the girls to line up in a single file, but Olivia had felt rooted to where she stood, reluctant to leave Helen there, alone.
The kindhearted matron had set a gloved hand on Olivia’s back, given her a quick hug, and prompted her to join the others.
This had not been the first time the girls from All Saints Orphanage stood in the graveyard as one of them was laid to rest. Laid to rest. The words seemed odd in Olivia’s mind, for the frozen, dew-covered ground had not appeared hospitable.
Nor had the tidy rows of headstones with green moss at their bases. Helen, like all the orphaned and friendless girls buried there, did not have a tombstone. But Olivia knew exactly where her friend was laid to rest, since the day after the funeral, she’d placed three large stones atop the grave.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and opened her eyes. The elegant room was now blurred by her unshed tears.
With the backs of her hands, Olivia swiped at her eyes and glanced at the bed. Doubtful sleep would come easily, and she’d finished her novel from the lending library. Her mind centered on the plethora of books that lined the shelves in Lord Anthony’s office. It would be wrong to take one without asking. She almost laughed. Her conscience was squabbling over borrowing a book without permission when she’d done so much worse. But not to Lord Anthony. He might be a rascal, but he had shown her he had a good heart, unlike so many other members of the ton.
She walked to the door and inched it open. No sounds reached her ears from the dowager’s suite of rooms, and Lord Anthony had left several hours ago. He probably wouldn’t return for a while, and the servants had gone to bed. On the tips of her toes, she made her way down the stairs to his lordship’s office.
* * *
From where he sat in the leather chair in the corner of James’s office, now temporarily his office, Anthony stared at the small sliver of moonlight that cast a narrow streak of light into the dark room. After visiting Maria, he’d played a few hands of cards at his club, then returned home to be alone with his thoughts and a glass of his brother’s exemplary brandy.
He rested the back of his head against the leather chair and closed his eyes. Bugger it! Was Grandmother right? Had he used a string of lovers to distract himself? Not from Caroline, but from what truly bothered him?
It would explain why finding Maria with another man had not infuriated him. He hated to admit that Grandmother was correct about anything. If true, it would also explain why he’d chosen someone as volatile as Maria. Things were never dull with her. The fiery diva had been a grand distraction.
He swigged another mouthful of brandy and enjoyed the warmth as it made its way down his throat to pool in his gut. As he lowered the tumbler, his gaze followed the single shaft of moonlight from the slit in the curtains. It cut across the desk to cast its subdued beam on the bloody ledgers on the corner of the wooden surface, then to the wall of shelves filled with books. He should have grabbed the decanter of brandy and hightailed it to his bedchamber, where he would not be mocked by the ledgers’ presence—testaments to his failings and inability.
Though at one time, when only a tot, he’d enjoyed being in this office. Enjoyed the scent of smoke from his father’s cheroots and the smell of the leather-bound ledgers, but that had been before he’d come to realize that the latter would torment him when he tried to read the columns of numbers written within their pages.
In the gloom, he peered at the portrait of his father that hung above the mantel. Father had possessed no sense when it came to finances. If it wasn’t for James’s business acumen, they’d have ended up destitute.
A memory flashed in his mind of him sitting on the hearth rug playing with his toy soldiers, while his father went over the ledgers with James. As the second son, he’d known his place was in the background unless something happened to James. The thought of that happening had always made his stomach curdle. Not because he feared he’d be thrust into the position of marquess, though that was rather terrifying, but because he cared deeply for James. One could not ask for a better brother.
He rubbed at the tight muscles in his neck. He could not let everything that his brother had worked diligently to attain be ruined because of his pride, or because Caroline had told him he would be fine. She didn’t know what ailed him. He should write James and tell him the truth. That he was not competent enough to do this job. Yet, he wanted to do it. Wanted to succeed.
He stared at the amber liquid, then tipped the glass to his mouth and took another sizable swallow. Perhaps with Miss Michaels’s help with the ledgers he could succeed. He would give himself one week to try. To attempt what felt like the impossible.
The hinges on the door gave a low-toned squeak as it swung inward. He narrowed his eyes. Who the bloody hell was up at this hour? Surely not Grandmother.
Olivia Michaels, still wearing her drab navy dress, slipped into the room.
What was she about? Thievery? Perhaps he’d been too trusting of the woman. Perhaps the incident in his carriage was not the reason that old battle-ax Lady Winton had sacked Miss Michaels.
Quietly, she moved across the room.
For a moment, he thought she was heading to the desk, but she stepped beyond it and up to the bookcases where the shaft of mo
onlight illuminated her back.
A part of him felt angry. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. Olivia Michaels was infringing on that. Yet, he said nothing as she perused the books.
Olivia picked up a large tome with gold lettering, and he wondered what it was. Was she a lover of poetry, romance, or history? She placed it back on the shelf and moved to the rolling ladder. She set her hand on the rail and climbed up the first rung, then several more until she was a good seven feet above the floor.
Good Lord. Obviously, heights did not frighten her. Was she just exploring or had a specific book grabbed her attention?
As she reached for a book, she made a little noise of pleasure. The same, almost erotic noise she’d made while examining the self-feeding pen.
The sound made something spark within him. He wanted to know what title brought her such joy, yet he remained silent, knowing if he spoke now and startled her, she might topple off the ladder.
After examining the book in her hand, Miss Michaels placed it back on the shelf. Had she thought it a different title? She gave the ladder a strong push. It slid sideways on the brass bar and rollers it was attached to. Like an acrobat, she extended one of her legs backward, leaving her precariously balanced on one foot.
His stomach pitched. Was she mad? She could tumble and break her neck, yet she appeared fearless.
After the ladder reached the end of the shelves, she started moving down the rungs, then as if frozen in time, she stopped.
Even in the dark, he could see her body tense as if she suddenly realized she was not alone. Had he made a noise? He didn’t believe so.
For several long seconds, she just stood still as if her senses were heightened to any nuance of noise, then she twisted her body so fast, he feared she would truly topple down and snap her neck.
Chapter Nine
The small hairs on Olivia’s neck stood on end. She wasn’t alone. Heart beating a steady tattoo, she spun around to see Lord Anthony bolting across the room with ground-eating steps.
“Good Lord, woman, are you trying to break your neck?” he asked, his voice harsh as if he thought she should be committed to Bedlam.
Before she could answer, his large, warm hands gripped her waist. She peered down into his dark eyes, even darker in the dim room.
“Careful,” he said. “I’ve got you.” His voice sounded less sharp, more anxious.
She bit off the urge to tell him she wouldn’t have fallen. Her tumble in the carriage was an anomaly, brought about from her tripping on his booted foot and her inability to see it because of the dashed packages she carried.
His fingers tightened against her waist as he lifted her down. For a second, she was suspended in midair before the front of her body brushed against the hard surface of his chest. Her hands instinctually moved to his shoulders as he slowly lowered her to the carpeted floor.
This close she could smell the soap on his skin and the scent of spirits on his breath. But he didn’t appear drunk. His eyes looked too alert. His speech was not slurred. Nothing like the time she’d gone for a walk at the orphanage and found Mr. Leeman, the jack-of-all-trades, as drunk as Davy’s sow, lying in the tall grass singing a ribald tune.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, her hands still on his shoulders.
His were still on her waist.
She liked the pressure of his fingers and the warmth of his palms filtering through the thin material of her cotton dress. She shook away her wicked observations, while chastising herself, then stepped back.
He released her.
She should shift farther away, since she could still feel the heat of his skin radiating off him, encircling her like a blanket on a cool night.
“May I ask what you are doing in here, Miss Michaels?”
Though not drunk, his mood was darker tonight. His carefree nature discarded for one much more solemn.
Olivia forced herself to take another step backward. She wet her lips. “I couldn’t fall asleep. I thought perhaps I could borrow a book. Forgive me, I should have asked permission, but I didn’t realize anyone was awake.”
“Take what you wish.” He waved a hand toward the bookshelves.
“Thank you, my lord.”
He strode to a table in the corner of the room and picked up a glass with amber liquid.
“Were you working on the ledgers, sir?”
Briefly, his gaze shifted over them and his lips curled slightly.
With his dark mood, she should grab the book closest to her and return to her room, but the solemn look on his face made her hesitate.
For a long moment, he continued to stare at the ledgers, then, as if suddenly realizing she still stood in the room and he’d not answered her question, his dark-eyed gaze shifted to her. “No. I couldn’t sleep and thought a glass of brandy might help.” He lifted his glass in the air. “Care for a libation? It might help you to sleep better than a book.”
She imbibed the occasional glass of wine, but the color of the liquor almost matched the color of the whisky bottle Mr. Leeman had cradled in his hand. “I think a book shall do the trick.”
He walked over to a sideboard topped with several decanters and refilled his glass. She noted the steadiness of his hands. No, he wasn’t drunk. But something had caused his dark mood.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” The question sprung from her mouth before she could halt it.
He strode to the desk and leaned back against it. “Inquisitive, aren’t you?”
“Forgive me. I shouldn’t have asked that. I’ll return to my room.”
“Whatever you wish, Miss Michaels.”
Something in his voice made her think he was challenging her to stay. A foolish thought. He didn’t want her company. He wanted to be alone. If he wanted company, he would have been with his mistress. Her stomach fluttered as she imagined what he and the diva did together.
Her mind wasn’t as naive as her body. When teaching one day, she’d found three of her students huddled together giggling. She’d stepped up to the girls and found them peering at a book. Not a tale of adventure or love, but a book with pictures. Naughty pictures. If Vicar Finch had seen it, they would have been severely struck with a birch switch. But instead, Olivia had confiscated it from them intent on burning it. But that night, she’d flipped through the pages and been both titillated and shocked by what she’d seen.
“I like the dark. It’s peaceful,” he said, answering her earlier question and pulling her from her thoughts.
She stared at him. She liked it as well. The anonymity it provided. One could behave differently when others could not see them. There was a sense of freedom. An illusion because no one was truly ever free of their circumstances.
“I do as well, my lord.”
“Then we have that in common.”
It was most likely the only thing they had in common, she read books to escape her life. He didn’t have to. He was privileged. She would always hold a position of servitude. He was a nobleman. She was most likely a bastard and unlike Helen not the by-blow of a nobleman.
“I should return to my room.”
“You haven’t chosen a book.”
She wanted one now more than when she’d entered the room. If not distracted by a novel, she would be left to her own thoughts. And right now, they centered on Lord Anthony and the scent of his skin, and breath, and how his large hands had felt on her waist. She turned away from his dark, penetrating eyes and strode back to the shelves.
The gold letters on a novel bound in faded red leather caught her attention. Miss Murphy’s Adventures. She’d never heard the title before. As she lifted her hand to remove it from the shelf, she felt the heat of Lord Anthony’s body as he stepped behind her. A fresh wave of gooseflesh settled on her arms. She fought the urge to rub her palms over her skin to settle the sensation.
“I’ll take this one.” Normally she would have read the first few pages to see if the story interested her, but instead she clasped the book to her chest like
a barrier against this man who unsettled her, then she pivoted to face him.
“Thank you, my lord. I will make sure to return it to the same spot when I’ve finished reading it.”
He nodded, then leaning against the desk once more, he stretched his legs out before him, and crossed them at the ankles.
“Good night,” she said.
He saluted her with his now nearly empty glass. “Good night, Miss Michaels.”
She bobbed a quick curtsey and headed toward the door. As she stepped from the room, she fought against her desire to glance over her shoulder and take one last look at him before returning to the solitude of her elegant bedchamber.
Instead, as fast as her legs would take her, Olivia made her way to her bedchamber, ignoring the way her body always tingled after she’d been in proximity with his lordship.
She tiptoed past the elder Lady Huntington’s bedchamber, swept into her room, and quietly closed the door behind her. She leaned against the hard surface as if trying to bar the hounds from hell. But it wasn’t anything tangible she tried to escape. It was her own lustful thoughts and they were much harder to hold at bay.
“You must fight against your desires.” Vicar Finch’s words echoed in Olivia’s head. “Illegitimate children are infected with their parents’ wickedness and lustful inclinations.”
Olivia bit her lower lip. She’d thought the man’s warnings poppycock until she’d met Lord Anthony. Every time he touched her, her skin prickled with anticipation. Perhaps wickedness did course through her.
She removed her dress and used the pitcher and basin to wash, then slipped on her white nightgown. After propping the pillows up against the headboard, she settled against them with the book. She’d only read a few pages when she found her mind wondering. Lord Anthony was not the happy carefree man he pretended to be. Tonight he’d been mercurial. She could not help wondering what caused such a dark mood.
She stared down at the page she’d been reading and tried to redirect her mind to it. His lordship was not her concern. Nor were his problems. She had her own agenda. She had made a promise to Helen and she needed to see it through.
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