The Blackmailed Bride

by Mandy Goff

  “I can’t see how that would be anything but good. Isn’t the point of the Season to marry off all the young, single ladies?” Nick asked.

  “If it is the point, someone needs to tell Olivia that. She’s determined to spurn the offer of any man who asks. And I nearly have to twist her arm to get her to attend a ball.”

  The lady grew more puzzling with each revelation. Wasn’t it every woman’s ambition to marry? To enjoy a glamorous Season in London, filled with balls, dinner parties and elegant luncheons?

  And if those weren’t her aims, why was Marcus insisting on her attendance?

  What reason would any sane man have for enduring—even wanting—to experience the fripperies of the Season?

  “Don’t tell me you’re here looking for a wife,” Nick said in mock horror.

  Marcus shuddered. “Absolutely not. I’ve no interest in marriage. At least not right now. I’d like to see Olivia settled with a suitable gentleman before I turn my own ambitions to the marriage mart.”

  If finding a husband for his sister was his friend’s goal, Nick thought Marcus was going to have his hands full. If this trip to London was solely for his sister’s benefit—who showed not even the slightest inkling of interest in marriage—Marcus would likely end up being in London for a long time.

  “What about you?” Marcus asked. “What’s made you come to town—to England, for that matter—after all those years on the continent?”

  Nick hesitated.

  “Other than your father’s death,” Marcus said before Nick could decide exactly what to say. “I heard about that, and I’m sorry.”

  Marcus knew the relationship, or lack thereof, between Nick and the deceased marquess. It wasn’t good. Not by any stretch of the imagination. As soon as Nick had reached the age of majority, he’d also reached the conclusion that he could no longer abide living beneath his father’s roof. So he left, with the intention of distancing himself as much as possible from the scandalous reputation his parents had brought to his family name.

  “It was time to retire, so to speak,” Nick said. He’d returned because as the only heir to the marquessdom, he had responsibilities that couldn’t be taken care of unless he came home. To England.

  “Are you going to miss it?” Marcus asked.

  Nick didn’t have to think about his answer at all. “No.” His escape to France had been exactly that, a way to get as far from his father as possible. While he might have enjoyed the work at first, the excitement had waned, giving way to an aching hollowness.

  But Marcus didn’t really know what he was asking. He knew Nick’s reasons for leaving, but didn’t know exactly what he would be doing while he was away. The Home Office was strict about who was allowed to know about his activities—the espionage he’d performed in the service of his country.

  Which was, essentially, no one.

  And since it wasn’t common knowledge what Nick had been doing for the past six years, there’d been some rather colorful tales circulating about his activities. Nick hadn’t been home a week before he’d begun hearing whispers about himself.

  Not surprisingly, they weren’t whispers about his valor or cunning. The ton speculated on the number of women he’d seduced between the docks of London to the ballrooms of Paris.

  But Nick didn’t want his oldest, and most loyal, friend believing the nonsense.

  “I worked for the Home Office,” Nick announced suddenly.

  Marcus didn’t give any visible reaction. Nick could have just as easily said he preferred chicken to pheasant.

  “I was a spy,” he tried again. Worry settled in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Marcus wouldn’t want anything to do with him after this revelation. Nick was as much a God-fearing man as his friend, but that didn’t mean that some of the things he’d had to do for Crown and Country didn’t look suspect. Maybe Marcus wouldn’t want that taint anywhere near him or his sister.

  “Were you a good one?” Marcus asked finally.

  Nick nodded.

  Marcus grinned. “I always knew you were a bit crazy,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure this proves it.”

  Nick chuckled but still waited for the final either endorsement or condemnation of his chosen occupation. “So…”

  Marcus’s expression sobered. “Nick, I don’t care if you were a juggler in Napoleon’s court. I’m just glad you’re back.”

  Because of Marcus’s ready acceptance, Nick felt the burden of uncertainty roll away. He’d been more concerned than he cared to admit that Marcus would no longer want to be associated with him.

  “If you don’t mind, I need to finish a few papers before we leave. It shouldn’t take long,” Marcus said to Nick.

  Nick assured him he was fine to wait.

  “Feel free to peruse the library,” Marcus offered. “Although I must warn you to watch out. Olivia might be in there, and there’s no lack of vases in the room.”

  The earl smirked as he walked out of the door.

  Rather than being cautioned by this warning, Nick felt his pulse speed up…no doubt in response to the possibility of talking further with the lady. And he was surprised to find he’d risk bodily injury for the opportunity.

  Olivia strained on tiptoes, struggling to grasp a book located on a too-high shelf. She muttered under her breath and let out an uncharacteristic huff.

  “Stupid book,” she grumbled.

  Then she thought better about it; the book could hardly be blamed for where it had been placed. So she amended, “Stupid shelf.”

  That didn’t seem quite fair, either…

  Rather suddenly, she felt a presence behind her.

  “Allow me,” the presence said, and its hand effortlessly plucked the volume from the shelf.

  She turned to find herself staring at the Marquess of Huntsford’s chest. And as much as Olivia had always prided herself on her self-possession, she couldn’t help but blush as she stepped away.

  The Marquess of Huntsford was devastatingly handsome.

  His dark hair was mussed, as though he’d recently raked a hand through it. His face was perfectly chiseled; Olivia doubted an artist with the skill of Michelangelo could have crafted a sculpture to do the reality justice. And then, his eyes…before, she had thought them blue, or perhaps gray, but now she could tell, from where she stood, that they were green flecks of crystal that were shrewd, piercing and utterly captivating.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  “My pleasure,” he said as he took a small step back.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she explained feebly.

  “I only entered a moment ago. Marcus wanted to finish some papers before we ventured to Tattersall’s to look at a new pair of bays for my stables. I sought to amuse myself here, but I can leave, if you wish to be alone.”

  “That’s not necessary, my lord.”

  “Perhaps you could call me Nick?” His smile was roguish and made her feel a bit light-headed.

  “Gentle ladies shouldn’t be so familiar with men,” she deferred.

  “I was under the impression gentle ladies shouldn’t bash others with vases, either.” While his face remained impassive, Olivia detected traces of laughter in the lines around his eyes.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s not very gentlemanly to bring that up.”

  He leaned forward menacingly. “Perhaps I’m not a gentleman.”

  Olivia’s mouth gaped. She stared at him in shock before he began laughing uproariously.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in between bouts of guffaws, “but you looked truly horrified just then.”

  Her blush was fast and made her feel hot to the roots of her hair. “Well…” She tried to defend herself but could think of nothing to say.

  “I was simply teasing, Lady Olivia,” he clarified.

  She stood there for a moment, trying to pretend she wasn’t watching him. He was handsome enough to be a rogue, she thought.

  “Weren’t you going to read that book?” he asked with a ha
lf smile. So, he’d noticed her staring at him in spite of her attempts to hide it? “Would you like me to leave?”

  “No,” she sputtered before she could stop the word. Olivia couldn’t understand her own desire to be near him. The men of her acquaintance were generally easy to dismiss. Nothing about any of the gentlemen she’d met in London appealed to her quite the way this one man did. The instantaneous attraction was disconcerting. And inexplicable. And uncomfortable. It seemed dangerous in the worst sort of way. “I mean, you’re our guest,” she finished lamely.

  He didn’t say anything but gave her another aggravating half smile.

  “I’m going to take this to the garden.” She gestured out the window with the volume, resolving herself to do without his company. “So, you enjoy yourself.”

  “I have been,” she thought she heard him say as she left the room.

  She refused to admit to herself that this was the first conversation she’d had with a man since this silly Season had begun where she had enjoyed herself, too.

  Chapter Two

  Several days had passed since Lord Danfield had been escorted from her house, and Olivia was just beginning to breathe a bit easier. She stopped expecting Gibbons to open the door to an irate Lady Danfield, and she no longer anticipated the scandal sheets announcing her violent tendencies.

  The young man, it would seem, had decided to suffer in silence.

  “Lady Olivia, there is a person awaiting you in the drawing room,” Gibbons announced as he entered her small parlor.

  She looked at the butler in expectation. The old fear re turned. “It’s not Danfield, is it?”

  The butler shook his head, but his face offered no other visual assessment on who was calling.

  She entered the drawing room to find Lord Finley, their closest neighbor to their estate in Yorkshire and someone she’d known for years. Her smile of greeting was genuine.

  “Lord Finley,” she said.

  “Lady Olivia, you’re looking well,” he returned with a smile as he took her proffered hand. “Very well indeed.”

  Olivia was accustomed to Lord Finley’s words of flattery; in truth, his compliments were so silly she usually didn’t mind them. “I’m surprised to see you here. I’d not heard you were in town.”

  Lord Finley was a baron, and his land adjoined the Fairfax holding Westin Park on the north side. When the boys were children, the two were close friends. But that had been a long time ago.

  Olivia herself valued her friendship with Lord Finley. After her mother’s death, he’d been a constant presence at her home, offering comfort and solace in the dark days that followed.

  But she was confused as to why he’d chosen to leave his estate and come to town. Most years, Lord Finley bypassed the amusements of the Season. His complete disregard for the entertainments and activities of town life was another similarity they shared.

  “My wish was to come see for myself how you are adjusting to life in London.” His gaze was appraising…and appreciative. “You don’t look worse for the experience.”

  “I’ve not moldered away from lack of the country, yet,” Olivia said with a sad smile, thinking perhaps “not moldering” was the best she could say. “But I certainly have not kept my wish to return a secret.”

  “Then why do you not go home?” Finley asked.

  “Care for some tea?” she asked, ignoring his question. And at his nodded assent, Olivia crossed over to the bellpull in order to summon a servant.

  Once the request had been dispatched, Olivia faced the baron; his stare was unnerving, and she remembered she’d yet to answer him. “Marcus wishes to remain in town. I certainly wouldn’t try to convince him to stay here without me.” After the ridiculously grand plans Marcus had devised for her, demanding to return to Westin Park would crush him.

  At her brother’s name, the baron grimaced. She thought she heard him say, “Ah, yes. Wouldn’t want to upset Marcus would we?” But the statement was muttered, and Olivia couldn’t be sure of exactly what he’d said.

  “Did Marcus say what inspired his sudden interest in town life?” he asked.

  Confessing Marcus wanted her to make friends seemed rather embarrassing, so she shrugged as though to say his reasoning was a complete mystery to her.

  “Did he know how vehemently you opposed leaving home?” Finley pressed.

  The line of questioning made her uncomfortable. Finley’s fascination seemed something more than friendly curiosity.

  “He knows my wishes, but he feels an obligation to introduce me to society,” she said in Marcus’s defense.

  Finley stalked around to a side table, picked up a trinket, looked at it and quickly set it down. The movements were jerky, and his breathing was harsh. His back stiffened and his arms angled against his body. Olivia wondered if perhaps he were going to have an attack of some kind.

  “Marcus didn’t tell you I came to see him before you left for town, then?” The words were clipped.

  “No,” she answered cautiously.

  His brows lowered, making angry, dark slashes, which obscured his eyes. “I thought as much.”

  “Was there something he should have told me?” she asked. It was unlike Marcus to keep anything from her, and now, she was curious.

  “Yes. You should have been consulted before our meeting was over,” he answered hotly.

  The subject of their meeting and her role in the matter were a mystery. The only thing that could possibly have necessitated her involvement would have been if Finley were propos—

  Oh, no, not that.

  Finley was a friend, but he would never be more. While she liked him quite well, there was no tension, no attraction…nothing deeper than admiration and respect. And while admiration and respect were essential in a marriage, Olivia wanted something completely unfashionable in hers—love. And she’d certainly never led the baron to think she harbored any romantic feelings for him.

  They’d been familiar, of course, but far from suggestive. The thought made her breathe a bit easier. Finley knew her views on marriage, just as he knew she did not feel that way about him. So something else must have been a subject of interest between the two men.

  A maid entered with tea, and Olivia was able to busy herself with the preparation of their cups. She didn’t ask for a reminder of how he liked his as this was a scene they had played many times in the past. Although perhaps not with this level of discomfort.

  “Would you care to tell me now what it is you were discussing with Marcus?” she asked as the baron took a seat.

  Finley paused, as though he were not certain of what should be said. “Yes. You have a right to know,” he returned. “I wished to consult with your brother on a matter very dear to my heart—”

  What? This was becoming the most peculiar conversation she’d had in some time.

  “But your brother wouldn’t give me the time to explain my case before denying my request,” Finley continued, clearly agitated. “Now, I ask you, what kind of gentleman does not grant a serious proposal his full consideration before offering an answer?”

  Olivia didn’t have a response.

  “After abruptly and unfairly turning me away, Marcus didn’t want you to see me and hear what he’d done. That’s your reason for leaving the country so quickly.” He nodded once, apparently already convinced of the truth of his explanation.

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “I petitioned Marcus to let me make you my bride.”

  Her stomach plummeted. She could think of nothing to say in response.

  It would have been much easier if Finley had accepted Marcus’s refusal…something she needed to discuss with her brother later. How dare he not tell her about Finley’s proposal? Had he done so, at least she would have been prepared.

  Because, by all appearances, Finley was unwilling to abide by Marcus’s ruling, and it seemed she must be the one to say the words.

  “You wished me to be your wife?” she asked unnecessarily.

/>   “I still wish it. Why else would I have followed you here?”

  His declaration would have sent most women collapsing into the nearest chair in a flutter. What woman didn’t wish to hear such tender words? Finley was titled, wealthy, handsome and charming. His blond hair was always perfectly arranged, his blue eyes were bright and his features were pleasing.

  “I am honored by your offer…truly I am…”

  Perhaps he sensed her impending refusal because he hastened to add, “I have feelings for you I’d not thought myself capable of. And I think, were you to give this matter your full consideration, you would see we are well suited for one an other.”

  She managed nothing more than an indrawn breath before he continued. “You would be taken care of and would have anything you wanted. I can assure you. You could live wherever you wished. I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do with your time.”

  “I have no doubt you will make a very attentive husband,” Olivia rushed on when she saw his self-assured smile. He thought he had swayed her so easily with a few pretty words. “But I’m afraid I must decline the offer. I am your friend, but I wouldn’t make you a good wife.”

  Finley’s mouth was a tight line.

  “I really am sorry,” she hastened to add.

  He cut off any further apologies with a slash of his hand. “You should give yourself time to adjust to the idea. It does you credit that you are not overly eager. I would like for my future wife to weigh her decisions carefully.”

  Did he have to make this any harder for her? Had she not had enough groveling with the Viscount Danfield? Why were men so determined to believe that when a woman turned down their proposal the no was negotiable?

  “I’m certain, in time, you will meet a woman whom embodies all of those qualities,” Olivia said.

  “You are that woman.” Finley’s voice burned with such intensity she instinctively shied away.

  “I count our friendship very dear,” her assurances continued.