Oliver smiled. “Can’t have you leaving without your smalls.”
“I’m sure the ladies we might meet won’t mind that at all,” Murphy grinned. “What should I do now?”
Oliver glanced up, catching her eye briefly before he looked away again. But that look told her he was dissatisfied with what he’d heard. “Nothing. But keep your ears open and keep me informed of any new information.”
When Murphy hurried away, Oliver slowly returned and climbed up the stairs. Beth sat up and smoothed her skirts to neatness again, only a little ashamed that she’d been eavesdropping on another of Oliver’s conversations. The last time her heart had broken and she’d rushed away. This time, she had the courage to stay and demand an explanation. “Why would Murphy spy on Henry?”
“Because I asked him to follow your brother-in-law and report any discrepancies in his behavior or the stories he tells.” He sat on the top step, very close to her feet, and Beth’s heart tumbled over.
She clasped her sweaty hands together. “Why would you want to know more about Henry?”
His brow creased into a frown and he dropped his gaze to her fingers. She forced herself to still her fidgeting as he shifted closer. “I don’t trust him,” he murmured.
She sighed. “I understand that you might find it difficult to trust after everything that has been done to yourself and your family. It’s quite understandable, really. But Henry is exactly as he presents himself. A little coarse, I concede. I understand that you want to keep your family safe from opportunists, but Henry has asked for nothing from the Randalls.”
He tilted his head. “He’s asked for you and for George.”
Beth laughed to break the mood. “I’m a servant, not a possession of the Randalls.”
“No. You are more than that,” he murmured softly. “You’re a friend.”
Beth shook her head. Oliver was the last person she expected to express sentimentality over her leaving. Very soon he would be going away and she would never see him again. She would never see if some other lady managed to capture his attention in a way she never could. Beth swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Rosemary’s friend,” she whispered.
His gaze burned into her and set her body aflame. “More than that.”
He didn’t move, only continued to watch her silently. Beth struggled for a reply that could turn this discussion to more impersonal subjects. She couldn’t bear to hear Oliver spell out in exact terms where she fitted into his definition of friendship. She didn’t want what was left of her heart broken again.
After a time, he gestured to the discarded book. “Enlightening?”
“Worrying,” she answered honestly.
Oliver reached over her lap for the book, fingers brushing her thigh in the process. The caress jolted her back to the present and her proximity to a man who couldn’t love her.
“Adventure does not have to be frightening,” he argued. “The more you know of a situation the better you will fare.”
He flipped a few pages and began to read aloud. As Oliver spoke, Beth relaxed a bit and shifted until she was comfortable, legs stretched out before her. He had an excellent speaking voice and warmed to his subject easily. Perhaps it was not fatherhood that Oliver would have excelled at, but teaching. That was definitely a profession he could have undertaken with ease.
She closed her eyes, listening with rapt enjoyment and, when Oliver fell silent, she reluctantly opened her eyes again. He watched her, studying her in his own direct way. For a change, she was not unnerved by his unwavering perusal. Not even when his hand covered her ankle quite improperly did she look away. She did stiffen when he caressed her calf, hand disappearing beneath the hem of her gown. She fell into his gaze as he continued the soft touch, only waking from her daze at a sound below. A maid laid a tea tray on a table and then quickly hurried out as if the devil lurked in the library.
Oliver shrugged, but he did not remove his hand. “I’m told I terrify them.”
His warmth seeped into her soul in a way she’d never imagined. Beth wasn’t in the mood for subtlety or lies. “It’s the way you stare at people for so long. We’re not only for your inspection.”
A brief smile twisted his lips. “There are many ways to learn about people.”
His hand slid up her calf again, his touch firm and warm as he traced the band of the garter tied beneath her knee. He reached as far as bare skin before she came to her senses and prevented further access. “You could always try simply talking to people,” she said quickly.
“This is more enjoyable, yes?” The teasing light that lit his eyes took her by surprise. Oliver was flirting? Who would have thought him capable? Not Beth, certainly. “Or is love essential for you to accept pleasure?”
She knocked his hand away and stood, making sure she kept out of range of his wandering hands this time. “What do you know about love?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “However, it did occur to me that your problems with Henry might disappear or be lessened if you remarried.”
“I wouldn’t marry anyone for that reason.” Beth swallowed the hard lump forming in her throat. “But I am fond of talking.”
He sighed. “Talking is not my strong suit.”
He stood too, collected her books, and swiftly descended the spiral. When he returned, without the books, he was even smiling. “Would you care to come down for tea?”
She nodded, uncertain of the man before her. Maybe he was changing, but why now when they were both going in different directions? When she arrived at the top of the stairs, he held out his hand and assisted her down to the library floor without another word, just in time for George’s return.
Before George, Beth could pretend that those kisses and caresses had never happened. He hurried to stand before the fireplace, rubbing his hands together vigorously. “There are kittens in the stables that you can pet, Mama. One is so new she’s barely able to walk.”
Beth ruffled his hair. “Before you ask, no, you may not have one.”
“Because we’re going to America.”
“Maybe your uncle will allow one there.”
George turned his gaze on Oliver. “Do you like kittens?”
“Only the busy ones that catch mice,” he remarked as he poured tea for everyone, getting their preferences correct even without asking—milk and sugar for George, black for Beth.
Beth arranged herself on the settee, expecting George to sit at her side and tell her about his walk, but he fell on the food, munching without a word. When Oliver took his place at her side, she tried to ignore the sudden flip of her heart. It wouldn’t do to appear too friendly with Oliver while around George. She did not want to add to her son’s mistaken belief that a marriage between herself and Oliver was possible, even for the benefit of travel. She shifted as subtly as she could until they were not so closely situated. Oliver foiled that by reclining and laying his arm across the back of the sofa.
“The papers on the desk, George, might interest you,” Oliver said. “I’ve found a selection that includes events from America that are worth reading.”
George crammed one last piece of cake into his mouth and almost ran to where Oliver sent him, essentially leaving them alone again.
“He’s a bright boy,” Oliver said gently. “I hope he has access to good teachers in your new place.”
“I’m sure Henry will see to his education.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Oliver touched her shoulder, a fleeting brush against her skin that made her far too aware of him. “If you have no objection I should like to send a selection of books from Romsey with you to further his studies until he is settled. I’d also like to provide you with a list of books for later consideration, should you be able to afford them.”
“There is no need to exert yourself on our behalf.” She swiveled to face him. “Do you doubt Henry is as rich as he claims?”
Oliver raked his hand through his hair suddenly, a gesture that was quite unlike him.
“No one is ever honest when it comes to money and he has a temper. Be wary of him, Elizabeth. I should not like any harm to befall you.”
Chapter Thirteen
OLIVER FROWNED IN frustration at the growing pile of discarded goods cluttering his room. Each time he checked his lists and assessed what he would take with him on the journey, the discarded pile grew higher. A spare pocket watch had seemed a useful addition. There was always the likelihood one might be dropped and the other that Eamon would carry stolen. Thievery among travelers was rife and it was a wise precaution to be prepared.
And why not pack one more journal to write his adventures into? He could miss recording an important event if he had to search high and low for paper in some far-flung little town that boasted no market or shops. He tossed the thick book onto the desk and slouched into his chair, disgusted by his procrastination. He’d planned this adventure in his mind a thousand times, but he was still plagued by the nagging feeling that he was missing something. Something vital.
With a growl, he got to his feet. Restlessness had sunk its claws into him since he’d awakened. He should have gone on his adventure the moment he was freed from Skepington. He should not have given way to his brother’s demands to stay at Romsey Abbey beyond a fortnight. But he had succumbed to curiosity about how his siblings might have changed during their separation and had spent many an hour studying them and the women they would marry. From what he could tell, they were smitten creatures with no will left to make decisions on their own.
He strode to the window and stared out at nothing. His mind and body craved excitement. Unfortunately, it was not the activity he’d wanted for the past dozen years. He should not have carried on with Elizabeth in the library or kissed her yesterday. The sense that he’d begun down a path he was unfamiliar with resurfaced, troubling him.
He did not normally importune unwilling women. They either responded to his advances or turned away. Elizabeth had frozen when he’d touched her but when they had kissed, she responded with satisfying enthusiasm. There could be more between them. She was a widow, not a virginal young girl. He could have her warm his bed until he left on his journey, but there were risks involved in that. She could lose favor with the duchess and be turned out. She could end up carrying his child.
He tapped the window frame with the tip of his finger. The risks Elizabeth could face alone if an affair was begun were not small burdens, easily forgotten. When they parted company, her to America, him to parts unknown, he would have no opportunity to learn if there had been consequences after sleeping together.
Perhaps that was the problem. Oliver did not like loose ends left behind.
Elizabeth remained at the edge of his mind, a reminder that once he might have chosen a different path for his life. A path that would likely have been short and abruptly ended given the old duke’s fiendish plans to disperse his family. He was lucky not to have married her when the idea had been voiced by his parents. But he’d stuck to his principles and ignored their rather unsubtle hints, quite possibly sparing Elizabeth from a dangerous connection.
There was no doubt he found Elizabeth attractive and certainly pleasing to touch. Her soft body stirred him beyond normal bounds. But even he knew not to become entangled with certain women. Women who preferred marriage over easy, uncomplicated pleasure should be avoided for their own good. When he looked into Elizabeth’s eyes he saw forever after, not the ruins of Pompeii, before him.
No, Oliver wanted adventure. He wanted to be free to choose his own path.
A timid knock sounded at the door and he swung around, grateful for the disturbance. “Come.”
The small head of George Turner appeared, followed by his fast-growing body. George, too, held a peculiar fascination. Oliver kept making plans for the boy and discarding them the next moment. He would never learn how the boy got on in his life once he left for the New World. And that emptiness stirred his restlessness yet again.
The boy fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. “Am I disturbing you?”
Oliver shook his head. “Come in. The place is almost livable.”
George looked around curiously and mumbled something so softly that Oliver couldn’t hear. That would never do. “Always speak your mind, lad. I prefer it.”
A wash of color flooded the boy’s cheeks, but he squared his shoulders and looked Oliver in the eye. “This room is bigger than our entire cottage was before we came to live here.”
Oliver winced. He’d not considered overmuch the life Elizabeth and George had lived before. He should not have made his remark sound like a complaint when he had access to so much. Romsey Abbey, with its vast rooms and rich furnishings, must appear excessive when you were unused to such finery always lying within arm’s reach. Everything around him, although Oliver might use them temporarily, belonged to the boy duke playing down the hall, so blissfully ignorant of the hardships of life and the responsibilities that would soon be his.
Like young Edwin, Oliver never paid much attention to his surroundings so long as there were not small creatures sharing the space with him and he was warm and dry. The room was now free of vermin, and the drapes almost entirely replaced to keep out the most persistent of the cold drafts. He’d begun to think the room rather cozy, but a boy used to far less wouldn’t share that view.
“Your uncle might have a large house in America,” Oliver suggested, intending to light the fire of George’s curiosity about the faraway land.
The boy’s brow creased as he considered, adding another unsettling thought to Oliver’s mind. He might miss the boy when he was gone. Already he’d begun to delight in the moments of revelation as they appeared across George’s face. He was expressive and had an agile mind and thought rather than talked his way through a problem, which made for some fascinating viewing.
“How odd. Uncle George never mentioned a house, or any specifics that I remember.”
Oliver silently agreed. Henry Turner had been expansively vague in his description of his life in America. “Well, if he did not then you must ask him about his property and his life over there. I’m sure he’ll be happy to furnish you with the particulars since you are to live with him.”
Oliver turned away as a slight ache formed in his chest. He rubbed at it, puzzled by the odd sensation.
George tugged on his sleeve suddenly. “Can I help you with your packing, sir?”
Oliver smiled at George’s earnest expression, and the ache remained. “I suppose you might. Why don’t you move that pile to the far table? I shall not need those after all.”
George picked each object up one by one, his fingers flying over the items as he inspected them. “Will you or Mr. Murphy not need a compass on your travels, sir?”
“We have two already. The third is excessive.”
George moved across the room at a snail’s pace and lingered beside the table holding the discarded items longer than necessary to place them down. As Oliver studied him, he considered what the boy’s future might bring. He would be tall most likely and broad of shoulder, too. Already, his arms appeared to be growing out of his shirtsleeves and his trousers were a touch too short. But how would his character change under Henry Turner’s influence? The ache in his chest intensified and he sat down quickly in the hope it would pass soon.
Would George become as much a bully as his uncle or would he resist and suffer punishments for any rebellion? Oliver liked neither path and after a long moment’s contemplation he decided that George should not go to America with his uncle at all. George had unlimited possibilities for his life here in England. He could study every book in the young duke’s library—the duchess would likely not mind as long as he was careful. He could attend Harrow or some other worthy school on the duchess’s recommendation and live in greater comfort and security. Leopold, because of his friendship with the late William Turner, would keep the boy safe and pay for everything without complaint until he came of age.
And Elizabeth? Elizabeth would be happier here tha
n anywhere else. He had detected a warmth of approval from Blythe and the Duchess of Romsey toward her in the past weeks, despite her temporary position of housekeeper. A deepening of friendship and affection evident in their concern about her leaving the abbey so soon. They would likely shelter her should she refuse to go to America with her brother-in-law.
She would also be here when Oliver returned from his travels and they could talk again sometimes. Or rather she could talk and Oliver could listen. Yes, that was a splendid plan. Much better than the one to go away.
He looked across the room. George still fiddled with his discarded possessions and the yearning on the boy’s face triggered the return of a memory, long faded from neglect. Even as a child, Oliver had enjoyed giving presents to others. It had been many years since he’d had occasion to do so, but seeing pleasure on the face of a recipient of his gift was something he longed to do now.
On an impulse he didn’t care to contemplate too deeply, he crossed the room and selected three of the best and most useful items from the pile: a pocket watch, a box containing more pencils than could be used in a year, and the empty journal. He held them out to the boy. “For you. An early Christmas gift, if you will. I imagine we will not see each other again for some time.”
The boy stared at his outstretched hand and didn’t move. Oliver leaned down so he could better see the expressions on the boy’s face. “Now you may write the thoughts swirling around inside your head and use the pocket watch to show you just how late you are for dinner because of them.”
The boy gulped, hands fisting at his sides. “Is that what you did? Ran late for dinner a lot?”
Oliver lifted one of George’s hands and placed the stack upon his palm. George captured the pocket watch with his free hand and he drew the bundle to his chest, hugging them tightly.
He rubbed his hand over the boy’s head, well pleased that his gift would be treasured and used as he’d intended. “Frequently, but my mother was a determined woman and refused to let me wallow in my thoughts for long. She accused me of driving her to distraction over my tardiness at mealtimes. I never meant any harm to her plans or the soufflé served at dinner. I never thought about the time. Try to be better for your own mother, lad.”
Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls - Book 3) Page 11