“Wouldn’t you just love that?” interrupted the earl.
Adam set Olivia on her feet and turned to find his father striding toward them, disapproval written all over his face. Inclining his head toward the harp still sitting in its crate, the earl scowled.
“Yet another whim you choose to waste your inheritance on?” he groused.
“Your stepdaughter’s happiness ought to concern at least one of us,” he countered.
The man’s lips pinched at the corners, his face reddening at the slight. He hated nothing more than for Adam to naysay him in front of others—particularly the servants. He found it an affront to his authority as master of the house.
Issuing a low sound of disapproval, but saying nothing else, the earl continued on, jamming a hat onto his head on his way out the door. The entire household seemed to release a sigh of relief now that he had left. Adam felt certain he was not the only person hoping he did not return until much, much later.
“Niall, help me get it into the pink drawing room,” he said, motioning toward the open door of Olivia’s favorite room of the house. It overlooked the small garden and was decorated in her favorite color.
The other servants dispersed while he and Niall got to work, Olivia standing back to watch them pull the heavy instrument from its box and carry it to the drawing room. Then, the two men sat and watched her touch her fingers to it for the first time, playing a piece from memory with the most heartwarming smile on her face.
She played a few more compositions after the first one, seeming unable to help herself. After a while, Niall left them to tend his duties while Olivia indulged in one last composition before standing from the footstool she’d been perched on and joining him on a loveseat positioned near the hearth.
Resting her head against his shoulder, she sighed happily. “I love my present, thank you. Even if I know it was only given out of guilt.”
Bracing an arm on the back of the seat, he frowned. “Guilt?”
“For leaving me,” she added. “It’s all right, you know. Niall and I will get along just fine here without you.”
At the mention of the stable groom, he heaved a sigh. “Livvie …”
She sat up and peered at him, little lines appearing between her eyebrows. “Do not have an apoplexy, Adam. I am not an idiot. I know that our … dalliance cannot last. But I do like him, you know. It is harmless.”
Remembering the way the man had looked at her, he shook his head. “He loves you. There is nothing harmless in that.”
She lowered her gaze in a move he knew to be intentional. If she allowed him to look into her eyes, he would be able to see whatever truth she hid from him.
“It doesn’t matter in the end, and we all know it,” she replied. “You shall go off to the Continent, and I shall go off to London to secure a husband. Niall may or may not love me, but no matter his feelings, he could never have me. Not the way he might want.”
“And you?” he prodded. “What do you want?”
She sighed and shook her head. “I do not know … but the way it see it, I have at least a Season or two to puzzle that out. Happiness, I suppose, in whatever form I might find it. Right now, I have that with Niall, but it was never meant to last. I’ll find new happiness in London. You’ll see. I shall write you countless letters telling you just how much fun I’m having in Town.”
“Aye, I’m certain you will,” he agreed. “Do write often. The letters might take ages to reach me, but I’ll watch for them all the same. I shall endeavor to ensure you always know where to send them.”
Meeting his gaze again, she gave him a sad smile. “Enjoy yourself, Adam. Do all the things he would hate … then come home and tell me all about them.”
He chuckled, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Aye, butterfly … if you insist.”
“I do,” she declared, resting her head on his shoulder once more.
They sat in silence for a while before she spoke again.
“I do believe you’ll return as an earl,” she whispered. “Father does not look well.”
He sneered, his throat clogging with the rage that always seemed to plague him at the mention of his father. “He looks as dour as ever … there is nothing new about that.”
“He is pale,” she insisted. “I’ve noticed his hands shaking, and he seems weak. I know you have no love for him, Adam, but he is your sire and the only father I have ever known. I do not believe he will live much longer.”
“Good riddance, I say,” he spat. “I’ll be a far better earl than he ever was. A better father if I’m ever blessed with children.”
“Of course you will be,” she agreed. “Lord Adam Callahan, Earl of Hartmoor. You’ll be quite the dashing man about Town … all the ladies will want to be your countess. They’ll giggle behind their fans when you walk by and drop their reticules in your path to gain your attention. The men will secretly envy you, but they’ll all clamor for your friendship and approval. They’ll call you Hart.”
He grinned at the picture she painted—one that did not sound half bad. At least, once he was the Earl, he’d be free to enjoy it without his father’s censure.
“And what’ll you call me?” he asked.
“Oh, Hart, I think,” she answered quickly. “I quite like the sound of it.”
“Why is that?” he asked. “It isn’t as if I have one … a heart, that is. I suppose we could thank Father for that. He made it his mission to smother the softer feelings out of me.”
Turning her face toward him, she frowned. “Of course you do, silly. I’ve known since we were children that you were different … but in the best way. It isn’t that you do not feel things. It is that you feel everything. That is why you are so good with musical instruments. You did not need to be taught music … you simply felt it. It is quite remarkable, Hart. Hm, yes. I do believe I like the way that sounds.”
They fell silent again, and Adam was content to remain that way, lost in thought. Olivia was right, of course. His quick temper proved it, as well as his deep and unbreakable love for the girl who had stolen his heart with nothing more than a smile. His father had always lamented this aspect of his personality—the way his moods shifted on a whim, his anger flaring hot one moment, then abating the next. It would make him a terrible earl, he’d been told—impulsive, rash, too different from the other men of the ton.
The reminder of his father’s disdain put a bitter taste in his mouth, but he simply held Olivia tighter against his side and reveled in what she offered him. She loved him, she had faith in him, and it was all he needed.
The earl could go to the devil.
CHAPTER FIVE
Venice, Italy
One year later …
Adam trotted down the steps of the little townhome he’d spent the night in, a spring in his step as he made his way back to his own lodgings. The fair weather and lingering effects of last evening’s interlude had him whistling as he dug in his coat pocket for his cigarillo case. He’d taken up the habit of smoking after being exposed to the variety of tobacco that existed in various European countries, finding that he enjoyed the quick puff of a cheroot whenever he could not indulge in a full cigar.
Placing the little cigarillo between his lips, he traversed the cobbled street, falling into the ebb and flow of bodies moving in various directions as the city of Venice came alive for the day. This proved to be one of his favorite stops along the tour, and not just because of the food, the wine, or the opera. In truth, it had much to do with the beautiful signora he’d met during a dinner on his first night in the city. He and a group of other young men had been invited to take dinner at the home of a conte, along with the British envoy and a handful of other Italian nobility.
The widowed signora had caught his eye—dusky olive skin, thick, black hair, dark, alluring eyes, and a body made of pure sin. He’d spent the entire dinner flirting with her and the hours following charming her and plying her with wine. At the conclusion of the dinner p
arty, she’d given him her hand to kiss, using the moment to press a note into his palm. It had been an invitation to visit her townhome later that evening. He’d made his way there shortly after midnight, finding her waiting for him in a dressing gown and nothing else.
The woman hadn’t wasted any time, disrobing and confessing her desire for him.
“You have a dominant hand in the bedroom, yes?” she’d purred in a thickly accented voice, pressing her naked body against his and running her hands over his chest and shoulders.
He’d taken her to bed and showed her just how dominant he could be. In turn, she had surprised him with how far she was willing to allow him to push her, amenable to all of his desires.
He’d spent weeks in her bed, exploring the sorts of fantasies he’d never before allowed himself to attempt with Fiona. With his signora, he did not need to worry that he was too harsh or too demanding, too cruel … because she liked harsh and demanding. She reveled in his cruelty.
The day he would leave Venice and travel to his next stop on the tour fast approached, and he found he would miss her. Yet, he was becoming restless again, just as he had after lingering overlong in the same city for too long. Their stint in Paris had seemed endless, and after some time, had lost its allure. He looked forward to exploring the ruins of Rome, and the beaches of Greece—another year of the Tour stretching out ahead of him.
Coming to the townhome he shared with five other men on the Tour, he put out his cheroot and bounded up the steps. He looked forward to finding his own bed for a few hours, as he had not slept much last night, his lover occupying him well into the night and then awakening him hours later with her mouth wrapped around his cock. After getting some sleep, more time spent exploring the city would be in order. There were a few more museums he wished to visit on the recommendation of his signora.
He was brought up short when he found a man pacing the foyer, hands clasped behind his back. As the door closed behind Adam and the man turned to face him, he recognized him as a British envoy—Sir William Caplan.
“Good morning, Sir William,” he said.
The envoy seemed relieved to see him, his posture relaxing a bit. “There you are, my lord. I had hoped you would arrive before I was forced to take my leave for the day.”
He frowned, wondering what the man could want with him. He’d only seen Sir William a handful of times since arriving in Venice. “Is something the matter?”
The man extended an envelope to him. “This arrived for you days ago, and I’ve only just discovered your location to deliver it.”
Glancing down at the envelope, he smiled, thinking it must be a letter from Olivia. It had been at least two months since her last letter, though he realized she must be busy with the activities of a Season in full swing. By the time her missives reached him, they were months old, but he did not care. Any letter from her was welcome.
But, turning it over, he found that the seal upon it belonged to her cousin, The Honourable Mr. Alexander Goodall. The man and his wife were responsible for Olivia, chaperoning her during her time in London. He had no reason to write Adam with the earl so close at hand, in Dunvar House.
Which meant something must be terribly wrong.
“Thank you,” he managed before turning to barrel up the stairs, seeking out his chamber.
He had not wished to be rude, but he must know what had occurred. If something had happened to Olivia, then he needed to return to London.
Once alone in his private chambers, he closed the door and tore open the envelope, pacing to the window for the benefit of sunlight. His hands shook as he unfolded the stationary, the words swimming before his eyes for a moment before he was able to focus.
In the first lines of the letter, Alexander informed him that his father had died … a circumstance that only stoked Adam’s ire. His fist had curled around the paper, crumbling the edges as he’d realized what this meant. He was now Hartmoor, and his presence would be required back home. The time had come for him to take his place.
“Isn’t that just like the old sod,” he grumbled to himself.
He’d been enjoying himself, free from his father and his censure, to do and act as he pleased. Even in death, it seemed as if the Earl spited him, had gone and died in order to cut his trip short.
He became aware that he should feel something … some deep sadness at the news of his father’s death. However, he could not find it in himself to feel anything other than utter frustration at having his good time ruined. The man had known he would die—had even seemed to wish for it. He’d gotten his wish, and now, Adam would be saddled with his titles and lands.
Releasing an annoyed huff, he went back to the letter, his blood running cold and his chest beginning to burn as he read on.
Olivia had gone missing and had not been seen nor heard from in several weeks. Her lady’s maid had come into her room one morning to find her gone, a note laid upon her pillow begging for forgiveness. Everything would be explained when she returned, she had assured them. Everything would be all right.
However, weeks had passed without her return, and Alexander had combed all of London looking for her.
Gazing at the top of the letter, Adam realized it had been written three months ago and muttered a foul oath. He had no way of knowing if she’d been found in that time. He read the rest of the words numbly, a gnawing sensation making his belly ache as Alexander urged him to come home as soon as possible.
He fell onto his bed, burying his face in his hands, trying to bring his raging emotions under control. Fear twisted in his belly while the need to act made his heart pound and his blood rush. He took deep breaths and forced himself to find clarity and think.
More than likely, she’d run off with some fellow she’d fallen in love with. When he reached London, he’d find her waiting for him with a sheepish smile and some outlandish love story. Perhaps she was with child.
He smiled. Yes, that was it. When he arrived home, he would simply learn that he’d gained a brother-in-law and perhaps a niece or nephew. Olivia would be happy, and they would all have a good laugh over it … preferably while standing at the foot of his father’s grave.
That decided, he rose and began packing for the journey home.
CHAPTER SIX
Edinburg, Scotland
4 months later…
“Hold on, butterfly, we’re almost there,” Adam murmured to the limp body resting in his arms.
As rain battered him from overhead, he tried not to think about how—even soaking wet—the woman in his arms weighed far less than she ought. About how, despite having just given birth, her frame had lost so much of the womanly softness it should have held. He could feel the protrusion of her ribs through her gown and coat, and the reminder of the things she had endured had him clenching his teeth to bite back howls and bellows of rage.
He wanted to storm to his father’s study—his now, he supposed—and retrieve the duo of pistols that rested in a cedar box inside the safe. He wanted to arm himself, run out to the stables, mount the first horse he got his hands on, and return to London. It would not matter if he had to ride all night, or if he caught his death along the way in this ghastly weather.
It wouldn’t matter, because once he reached his destination, he would then draw one of the pistols and use it to end Bertram Fairchild’s life. He had imagined it so many times since discovering Olivia. Cocking back the hammer, pulling the trigger to produce the flash of light, filling the air with the scent of gunpowder and blood. Watching the lying scoundrel fall to his knees with a bullet between his eyes, mouth open in shock, eyes glassy and unfocused.
But, as the door swung open to reveal the butler and the pale, drawn face of Niall behind him, Adam forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He had spent months journeying to England by ship, only to arrive in London and discover that Olivia had yet to be found. Her cousin had given up, seeming to have resigned himself to this notion that she’d run off on her own, perhaps with a lover. Adam h
ad thrashed the man—partly for being so nonchalant about his sister’s disappearance, but mostly for being such a piss-poor guardian that Olivia had been given the chance to go missing.
If he had been here …
That thought had spurred him into action, and he’d gone about town, interviewing her friends and acquaintances—all of whom indicated Mr. Bertram Fairchild person as the only one she’d shown much of an interest in. So, he’d gone to Fairchild House, where the young man had assured Adam he had seen neither hide nor hair of Olivia in months.
Bertram had looked like just the sort of man Adam hated—weak chin, limpid eyes, and an entitled arrogance that he had not earned. Yet, he’d seemed sincere, and unlikely to be the sort of man his sister would run off with. She had more sense than that.
Didn’t she?
He’d continued his search, leaving London and seeking out inns along the road—places she might have stopped to sleep on her way to God-knew-where. Finally, he’d come across an innkeeper who recalled seeing her in the company of a gentleman old enough to be her father. It did not make sense, for her to have run away with some stodgy old lord, but Adam did not have time to question it. This was the only lead he’d had, so he’d followed it, coming upon several coaching inns and taverns in which she and this mysterious man had stopped for fresh horses, food, or shelter.
At last, he’d struck out from an inn on the far edge of the country, a place with only one destination within several miles
An asylum for unwed mothers.
It was there he’d found his Livvie, dressed in torn, bloodstained rags and muttering to herself, holding a screaming infant against her chest. There had not been time to take the old nuns who ran the place to task, to scream and rail and tear the accursed building down brick by brick as he’d wanted to. Not when Olivia needed help—a physician, clean clothes, her warm bed.
So he’d bundled her in his greatcoat, propping her up with one arm while taking the swaddled babe in the crook of the other. Then, he’d led them to the waiting coach and spirited them away, setting out on the seemingly endless journey home. He’d pushed his coachman relentlessly, only allowing stops to procure warm, clean garments for Olivia, fresh swaddling clothes for the babe, and meals. Some nights were spent in inns along the way while on others, Adam would take over driving so that the coachman could sleep, helping them to cover more ground.
Hart: A Villainous Short Story Page 3