by Diane Farr
“Plans?” asked Olivia blankly. She had no plans.
George, however, apparently did. He helped himself to the buttered eggs, his demeanor still unruffled. “First, I think we will ask you to return to Chelsea with Lady Badesworth, Miss Fairfax. If you will be so good.”
“Oh, yes!” said Edith quickly, turning beseeching eyes upon Bessie. “Pray do not leave me, Bessie. I feel so much stronger with you at my side. What if I should encounter Ralph again? And—oh, dear, what will I say to Culpepper?”
“Nothing,” said Bessie staunchly. “I’ve known Culpepper longer than any of you. His fussing and moralizing won’t bother me a bit. I’ll speak for you, Edith, never you fear.”
“Excellent. I’m sure you will represent Lady Badesworth’s interests admirably. I have a suggestion, if I may be so bold.” George looked inquiringly at Bessie and she gave him a brief, wary nod. He returned his attention to leisurely salting his eggs. “I hope you and Lady Badesworth will discuss your future jointly, prior to meeting with Culpepper. Whatever decisions are made regarding her future living arrangements, it would be unthinkable for her to live alone.”
Edith immediately voiced her enthusiastic assent and cried that Bessie must, really must, come to live with her. Bessie flushed with emotion—emotion that Olivia had no difficulty in recognizing as gratitude and relief. It gave her a queer little pang to see that George had correctly divined the origin of Bessie’s stonefaced expression, and that she, Olivia, had utterly failed to perceive that her marriage would leave Bessie homeless.
“I’ll send for the old rascal the instant we return—before Ralph has a chance to bend his ear,” declared Bessie.
“And while you are driving a hard bargain with Culpepper,” continued George, returning the salt cellar to the center of the table, “you may direct him to place a notice of Lady Olivia’s betrothal in the London papers.”
Bessie chuckled. “That ought to distract him. I’ll tell him just as he works himself into a fine hand-wringing over Edith leaving Ralph.”
Olivia felt as if she were being swept along on a strong tide. Her chin took on a stubborn tilt. “Have I nothing to say in any of this?” she demanded. “Why should Bessie meet with Culpepper? He is my employee.”
“You will be busy elsewhere,” George informed her, still with that irritating calm. “I think we can safely leave Lady Badesworth in your cousin’s care. Miss Fairfax seems quite capable.”
Olivia was speechless. Bessie was pink with gratification and Edith was beaming with approval. Her new fiancé seemed to have effortlessly removed the reins from Olivia’s grasp and taken complete mastery of her household. Already.
He spoke over her head as he addressed Bessie again. “There is some advantage, I think, in your meeting with Culpepper before Lord Badesworth does so. I shall bespeak a chaise to carry you and Lady Badesworth to Chelsea with all possible speed. How soon could you be ready to depart?”
“Within the hour, my lord.”
“Very good.” He picked up his fork. “The chaise will be waiting for you. Lady Olivia and I will depart at roughly the same time, but we are taking my curricle to Sussex. I shall return her to you safely in a day or two.”
Olivia found her tongue. “Oh, you will, will you?” she said rudely.
“Certainly I will.” His eyes laughed at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “But first, I am showing you Sussex.”
Her eyes flashed. “What is in Sussex, pray?”
“Your new estate,” he said softly. His smile burst her bubble of anger, but his words paralyzed her.
Estate. What a dunce she was. He was a baron; of course he had an estate of some kind. Had she been thinking—but, of course, she had not been thinking—she would have realized this. Most females had the good sense to find out all the particulars before they entered into a marriage contract. Even the sillies who fell for a handsome face, as she had obviously done, usually had prudent guardians to find out the particulars for them. But Olivia Fairfax, who prided herself on needing no guidance, who scorned advice and made her own decisions, had blundered into love like a green girl and recklessly promised herself to a man of whom she knew almost nothing.
A man with an estate. In Sussex.
Olivia heard no more of the conversation enlivening the breakfast party. She eventually left the table, her food untasted, and climbed the stairs like a sleepwalker to oversee the packing of her bandbox. Her mind grappled with her new situation, trying to understand how her circumstances could have altered so radically overnight. She felt as if her brain had turned to sludge.
Sussex. He was taking her to Sussex. He would show her his home. He would doubtless expect her to live there, on his estate. And where would he live? Back in Mayfair, gambling away her inheritance? Dallying with the bored sophisticates of the ton while his dupe of a wife cried into her Sussex pillow, far from everything she knew and everyone she loved?
The thought seemed to dash cold water in Olivia’s dazed face. She inhaled sharply, then suddenly rushed from the room and pounded on the door of Bessie’s bedchamber. There was no answer. She flew downstairs to the front hall, arriving just in time to see the cloud of dust on the horizon left by the departing chaise. Bessie and Edith were gone.
Olivia sank numbly onto a narrow wooden bench that faced the open door. Bessie had gone, and when she arrived in Chelsea she would immediately send for Culpepper. A notice of Olivia’s engagement would appear in the London papers within the week. What a calamity. Once the notice appeared, breaking the engagement would cause even more talk than the engagement itself.
Olivia pressed her hand to her cheek and tried to think. Weathering a scandal would be most unpleasant, but however much she dreaded gossip, she could not, would not ruin her life simply to silence a few wagging tongues. What should she do? She had seldom felt more alone in her life.
A booted step sounded behind her. She did not turn to look. She knew it was George. Her every nerve seemed to vibrate whenever he was near, signaling his proximity before her ordinary senses alerted her. She felt him stop beside her, and still she did not move to acknowledge him. She simply stared, expressionless, at the point in the distance where the chaise had last been seen. Even the dust cloud had settled by now.
“Olivia.” His quiet voice sent a tremor through her, whether of fear or lust or love or resentment she had no idea. She could no longer sort out what she felt. She only knew she felt, and felt keenly.
“Olivia.” When she still did not move, he stepped into her field of vision and dropped to one knee before her, taking her cold hands in his. Even on his knees, she thought detachedly, he lost not one whit of his composure or authority. He made the posture of supplication look graceful and natural.
“You are afraid,” he said softly. “I have joked with you overmuch. Forgive me, sweetheart. I am new at this, but I shall improve as time goes on.” He smiled. “I can’t promise you that I will always be serious, but I think I can manage to drop my habitual flippancy from time to time. When the need arises.”
She looked at him, wishing he would make some magical gesture that would set everything right and give her back the giddy happiness she had had an hour ago. What that gesture could be, she had no idea.
“I am afraid,” she said slowly. “But no amount of plain speaking will repair matters. I agreed to marry you, and I don’t know why. I barely know you.” Her voice sank to a bewildered whisper. “I think you have bewitched me.”
His swift grin flashed. “If I could have, I would have. But I never studied the black arts.” He rose lightly to his feet and offered his arm. “Walk with me. They are bringing my curricle round, but this is more important.”
She stood without a word and took his arm. It was absurd to feel comforted by his touch, but the solidity and latent power in the muscles beneath her fingertips spoke to something primitive in her soul. He led her out the front door of the inn and, skirting the edge of the rutted and muddy yard, took her to a small flower garden p
lanted between it and the Brighton road. The rows of straggling plants had a neglected look and few blooms in October, but George was doubtless seeking privacy rather than beauty.
“What do you wish to discuss?” she asked stiffly, once the rickety gate had clicked shut behind them. “Marriage settlements? Terms? I am sorry if the news disappoints you, but there will be no dowry. I am already in possession of my inheritance and that, my friend, is all you are like to see. I doubt if we can even count upon Ralph to give us a handsome present.”
George appeared unmoved. “I daresay we will manage to scrape by without his assistance.”
“And another thing.” She squared her shoulders, ready to do battle. “The bulk of my fortune is the legacy I received from my mother. It far outweighs the income I inherited from my father. But that money is irrevocably tied up in the Fairfax School. You will not be able to touch it.”
“I don’t want to touch it. Do you think I am the sort of chap who would take bread from the mouths of orphans?”
She felt a little ashamed—and relieved. “I don’t know what sort of chap you are,” she confessed. “You are obviously a charming rogue, and I have long suspected that there are hidden depths to your character. But—”
“But?” he prompted.
“I could be wrong.” She peeped anxiously up at him, hoping he would reassure her.
“My poor Olivia.” He shook his head in rueful amusement. “You are seeking comfort that I cannot give you. You know what my life has been. I can point to no virtuous act that would display for you the heart of gold beneath my rough exterior.”
She was unsure whether to feel amused or annoyed. “There is nothing rough about your exterior,” she said crossly. “If anything, you’re too smooth! But you’re an odd sort of fortune hunter. You have never even asked me what my income is.”
“I already know what your income is.” He tucked her bare fingers more securely into his elbow, protecting them from the cold. “Perhaps you will recall that I investigated you, to the extent I could, prior to meeting you. I bribed a bank clerk as part of that investigation.”
She almost stumbled in her shock. His matter-of-fact delivery was nearly as upsetting as the news itself. He glanced down at her, his mouth twisting in an enigmatic smile. “You will be relieved to hear that the clerk in question is no longer employed where you bank. Apparently you were not the only client whose secrets he was willing to share. I was fortunate to tender my request before he lost his situation.”
“You are generally fortunate,” she said faintly.
George seemed not to hear the horror in her voice. He gazed at the horizon in an abstracted way. “You have already surmised, I daresay, that Beebe’s eight hundred a year is all I have to live on.”
Despite her distress, she almost laughed. “Frankly, I haven’t given your income a moment’s thought. Pray recall that it was none of my business until a few hours ago.”
He glanced down at her briefly, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Ah, yes. How silly of me. I have lived in poverty for so long, I forgot what it was like to take one’s wealth for granted. The truly rich never give money a thought.”
“But you live in Mayfair.” She swept a skeptical gaze over his highly polished boots, fashionable clothing, and immaculate linen. “You must have an income of some kind. What have you done? Bled your estate, I suppose.”
She saw a muscle jump in his jaw, but his voice remained calm. “No, madam,” he said dryly. “Every groat had been wrung from the estate before I inherited.”
“Ah.” She considered for a moment. Light dawned. “You did tell me that you wanted my money to pay debts that were not your own. Is that what you meant?”
He paused and bowed. “That is exactly what I meant.” The abstracted look returned to his features. “I almost dread showing you Rye Vale,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “But it will probably hurt my eyes more than it hurts yours. When I look at it, I see not what is, but what should be.”
Olivia looked up at him and felt the ground shifting beneath her feet. Before her stood a man who loved his home. It was in every line of his sorrowing face, his tense shoulders, the stern set of his jaw. She would never have guessed this about him. She knew immediately, instinctively, that this was a side he normally hid from the world.
So. He had inherited a wasted property. A property that held immense meaning for him. An estate he had watched dwindle and decay, powerless to reverse the destruction. How it must have gnawed at him, she thought. Pity stabbed her and, in that moment, her heart went out to him.
It was not such an ignoble motive, after all, for marrying money. Had it been any other woman’s money he planned to use, she might have felt even more sympathetic than she did. But it was her money, and no amount of sympathy would put that money back in her pocket after he had spent it. A corner of her mind stayed angry even as the rest of her burned with compassion.
“Why did you leave your home? It must have needed your stewardship.”
“Oh, it did.” He shrugged. “But there was nothing I could do. I was a boy, you understand, when I left home and moved to London. After my father died, I stayed there—partly because Rye Vale had deteriorated to the point where it was nearly uninhabitable, and partly because the metropolis offers more scope for a man of my talents. One cannot make a living, or even the pretense of a living, playing cards in the wilds of Sussex.”
“I see.” So the rumors were correct. He relied on the gaming tables to maintain his idle existence. She tried to keep the condemnation she felt out of her voice, but he must have heard it.
“I’m not doing much to calm your fears, am I?” he remarked, with a return to his usual self-mocking humor.
“No.” She cleared her throat. “In fact, I—I must tell you, George, that I am having second thoughts about the wisdom of . . . that is, I am seriously considering ending our engagement. I sympathize with your situation, and I sincerely wish you well, but I have no desire to leave my home and devote my life to restoring yours.”
If she was expecting a dramatic reaction to her statement, she was disappointed. He merely patted her hand again and bestowed a kindly smile upon her. “Yes. I know. One always regrets bargains struck in the dead of night. They look quite different in the clear light of morning.”
Nettled, she opened her mouth to ask him what he proposed to do about it, and whether he would allow her to cry off—but she snapped her mouth shut with the words unsaid. It was extremely annoying to discover that his lackadaisical attitude toward their betrothal perversely rekindled her desire to wed him! What was the matter with her? She walked silently beside him, struggling to understand the wild swings of her emotions.
He halted in his tracks and turned her to face him. “I ask for one boon. Come with me,” he urged, emotion vibrating in his voice. “Let me show you Rye Vale. Let me show you why I need you. For I do need you, Olivia, and not just your wretched wealth. I need your vision and your managerial skills. I need your advice. I need your help. I need you.”
Riveted by his sudden intensity, Olivia stared wordlessly at him. Blast the man! He had just said the magic words. She had never been able to resist an honest appeal for help, especially one couched in terms that flattered all the qualities she most prized in herself. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
“Thank you,” he said simply, and kissed her hand. His mouth was warm against her cold skin, reminding her with startling suddenness of the reasons why she had said yes last night.
He was marrying her for her money. Very well. He could have it.
A tiny smile played across Olivia’s face as she watched the wind catch a lock of his dark hair, ruffling and playing with it as if the breeze had fallen for him, too. It wasn’t such a bad bargain after all, she told herself bracingly. He didn’t love her, but he valued her. Perhaps she was better off, really, without his love. Respect and friendship were solid, worthwhile bonds, and often longer-lived than mere romantic love.
But the
n he bent to kiss her lips—in broad daylight, just as he had once told her he would. And the sweet thrill of kissing him in the sunshine showed her, as nothing else could do, that respect and friendship were a poor and pale shadow of what she really wanted from this man.
When he grinned and offered his arm to escort her to his curricle, she returned his smile gaily enough. But the hollow ache of sorrow remained, and when they drove smartly off down the Brighton Road it stayed—an invisible stowaway that clung to Olivia like a burr, no matter how determinedly she tried to ignore it.
23
He supposed his body must be weary after two days of driving, but he could not feel it. No weariness could touch him. The closer they got to Rye Vale the more alive he felt, rigid with anticipation like a spaniel sensing the approach of home. The contours of the land grew more and more familiar, the sweep of grass and sky stirring a thousand half-remembered associations.
George had always been a closemouthed man, not one to confide easily in others, but today he was seized with a strange compulsion to tell Olivia everything. Words welled up from some forgotten corner of his soul and poured out of him. He wanted her to see Rye Vale through his eyes and understand the dream—before the reality had a chance to muscle in and prejudice her. So, on the way, he beguiled the tedium of the journey and distracted his humming nerves by sketching for her the outlines of his family history.
She was silent for the most part, but attentive, asking questions that indicated she was following the tale closely. He confirmed that his title, Rival, was a corruption of Rye Vale, and that Rye Vale itself was a corruption of an earlier place name, deriving not from the grasses that surrounded his property but from the meandering stream, the “rythe,” that ran through it. He spoke of the ancient origins of the estate, of the waxing and waning fortunes of the barony, and how a branch of the Carstairs family had come into the inheritance several generations ago. And then he told her Rye Vale’s more recent history—the excesses of the eighteenth century. He could not keep the rancor from his voice as he told her how, beginning with his great-grandfather, the unentailed portions of the property had been sold off, bit by bit, until there was little left besides the manor house and the park immediately surrounding it. The tenants that remained to him could ill afford to pay their rent, and what little income they provided was swallowed up in taxes. An elderly couple who had spent their lives in his family’s service were kept on as retainers, but their presence was mainly useful in keeping the criminal element at bay. As far as he knew, the house had never been looted. But, he admitted with wry humor, it was well known in the neighborhood that there was nothing valuable there to steal. When his father died a swarm of creditors had immediately descended. Everything that could be sold, had been sold.