by Sara Lindsey
Lady Weston particularly enjoyed tailoring her recitations so that each of her children would be familiar with the plays from whence had come their names. Though Olivia resented having Shakespeare’s greatness constantly thrust upon her, not for the world would she have hurt her mother’s feelings by telling her so. All in all, she felt lucky to have been named for a character in Twelfth Night, which, in her opinion, was one of Shakespeare’s more tolerable works, and not only because it was relatively short.
Her younger sisters, identical twins Cordelia and Imogen, were stuck with King Lear and Cymbeline, two plays that were, in Olivia’s opinion, entirely too puffed up with melodrama. The first words Richard, her precocious little brother, babbled had sounded suspiciously like: “Now is the winter of our discontent.” Portia, the baby of the family, hadn’t got much past cooing and gurgling when Livvy had left for Scotland. . . .
She realized with a slight pang that she had missed her youngest sister’s first words, and a wave of homesickness swept over her. These past months marked the longest time she had ever been away from her younger siblings.
“What’s caused that long face?” Aunt Kate asked. “Have I scared you off with this talk of my stepson? You mustn’t let him upset you. He is very changed since Laura’s death, and grief affects us all in different ways. Perhaps, given time . . .” She trailed off, her hopes for the future unspoken but entirely clear.
Olivia wanted to say she knew, or at least had an inkling, of what the marquess had been like before his wife’s death—but she could not. Instead she smiled brightly and said, “Then we must do our best to bring some cheer to both him and his son this holiday season. If you don’t mind, Aunt Kate, I think I’ll read a bit while Char is quiet.”
Her aunt laughed. “Yes, living with Charlotte one does learn to seize those rare moments of peace. They certainly don’t last long.”
Olivia nodded distractedly, already absorbed with her book. Or rather, with the piece of paper hidden inside. In bold, scrawling script were the words—the first clue—that had led her to the brooch, thus prompting her seemingly impromptu journey to Wales—words penned by none other than the Mad Marquess of her dreams.
Castle Arlyss, Pembrokeshire, Wales
December 22, 1798
Under his butler’s disapproving gaze, Jason Traherne, Marquess of Sheldon, reached for the box of sand on his desk and sprinkled some over the letter he had just completed. He waited a moment for the fine grains to dry the ink before brushing the sand back into the box. He set the paper aside and stood, noting how Gower’s shoulders relaxed.
The butler shuffled his feet, edging toward the door of the study while Jason made a great show of neatening up, taking his time to straighten the various piles of papers, books, and other odds and ends spread across the polished mahogany surface. Then, with a satisfied nod, he settled back down in his chair and reached for the ivory paper knife with one hand and a stack of unopened correspondence with the other. Lord, he had come to a pretty pass when twitting his butler was the brightest spot in his day.
“M-my lord,” Gower spluttered. “Perhaps you misunderstood. Your guests have arrived. You cannot mean to—”
“I did not misunderstand, but my stepmother is hardly a guest. She should know her way around after all these years, but if she wants a tour, have the housekeeper—”
“Beg pardon, my lord, but Mrs. Maddoc is occupied just at present.”
Jason took the top letter off the pile and slid the edge of his knife under the wax seal. “I, too, am occupied. I have put off responding to, ah—” He glanced down to ascertain the sender. It was from his stepmother. He cursed and set the paper aside, reaching for the next letter. A glance at the handwriting showed it was from the same source. He thumbed through the remainder of the stack before setting it back upon his desk.
Gower shook his head. “Her ladyship is the only person who still bothers to write you. Everyone else has either given up or addressed their concerns to your man of business.”
Jason rubbed his temples. This was the problem with having retainers who had known him from the time he was in short coats. They had no compunction about making their displeasure known.
“Do I pay you to be impertinent, Gower?”
“If I may be so bold, my lord, you don’t pay me at all. Your dearly departed father left me a generous pension in his will. I’ve the means to retire if I so choose.”
“Are you tendering your resignation, then?” Jason asked flatly, as though the butler’s answer meant nothing to him.
“You would be rightly served if I did, and Mrs. Maddoc, too, but neither of us is leaving while there’s life in our bodies and Trahernes residing here at Castle Arlyss.”
Jason released his breath. “I can’t get rid of the servants I don’t pay or keep the ones I do,” he grumbled. “The maids don’t last long enough to learn their way about the house. I swear not a month goes by without Mrs. Maddoc informing me that yet another maidservant has quit her post. That would mean, what, eleven maids have come and gone this year?”
“Twelve. Bess left this morning.”
“Bess,” Jason repeated, frowning. “Wasn’t she the one who—?”
“She was the only one, my lord.”
“The only one who what?”
“The only maid, my lord.” Gower’s expression was that of a long-suffering parent saddled with an unnecessarily stupid child.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gower. A place this size can’t function without maids.”
“Quite so, and we’re in a fair bind being so short-staffed, but perhaps I should clarify: Bess was the only remaining chambermaid. The under- maids usually aren’t scared off, as they never come in contact with, er—” The butler cleared his throat. “In any event, Mrs. Maddoc has placed several advertisements—”
“Scared off?” Jason pushed to his feet and began to pace the room. “Christ, has some ninnyhammer been spreading tales about that bloody ghost again? Or is it the curse on the Traherne brides this time? You know I won’t stand for gossip among the servants.”
“My lord, your guests are waiting for—”
Jason stopped, fixing his butler with an icy stare. “Answer the question.”
“Very well,” the butler replied stiffly, drawing himself up to his full height. With his back straight, the man’s bushy white eyebrows were in line with Jason’s collar-bone. “There has been no mention of ghosts or curses, at least in my hearing, since you forbade such talk.”
“Then what the devil is scaring these silly chits off?” Jason snapped.
Gower fixed his attention on the study’s coffered ceiling. “I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” he murmured. “Mayhap they’re frightened of those demon hounds always trotting along at your heels.”
Jason looked over at the two massive Danes sleeping on their backs in front of the fireplace. With their front paws drawn up to their chests, they looked more comical than ferocious. “They wouldn’t harm a flea—” He held up a hand as Gower opened his mouth to protest. “—without some provocation. Yes, I remember how they viciously atta—assaulted you. You certainly take every opportunity to remind me. Give over, Gower. You weren’t harmed and neither of them has so much as barked in your direction in years.”
Jason shot a sideways glance at the dogs he’d rescued years before from a bear-baiting in London. They had recovered from the experience in most respects, but there were certain commands so harshly beaten into them, an eternity wouldn’t be long enough to forget.
A familiar anger welled up, its dark currents flowing through his veins, stirring his blood. Being deceived and abandoned by the one most implicitly trusted . . . Such betrayal cut deep. The physical scars had healed and faded, but there were other scars no amount of patience or affection could erase.
“My lord, are you well?”
Jason heard the butler speak as from a great distance. He forced his eyes to focus on the older man’s worried visage. “Quite well,” he responded, un
clenching his fists. “I got lost in the past for a moment.”
“If there is anything I can . . . ?” Gower trailed off as Jason shook his head sharply.
“There is nothing anyone can do, short of turning back time.”
The butler fiddled with one of the buttons on his austere black coat. “May I suggest you allow yourself to be distracted for a while? Your guests are waiting in the Great Hall—”
“Damnation, didn’t you hear me before? I have no wish to play at being the gracious host, and it isn’t necessary in this case. My stepmother is not a guest, nor is my half sister.”
“The marchioness and Lady Charlotte are family and thus more deserving of your attention. As it happens, however, you do have a guest. There is a young woman come with them.”
Jason shrugged. “She’s probably Charlotte’s nurse.”
“I hope your lordship is not suggesting I cannot tell a gentlewoman of good breeding from a maidservant.” Gower’s tone had more starch than his cravat.
“I wouldn’t dare.” Jason sighed. “You’re not going to leave off until I greet them, are you?”
“No, my lord.”
“Very well,” Jason grumbled, stalking toward the door. “You’re a nuisance, Gower. Remind me later to turn you out without references.”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler agreed. “The day would feel woefully incomplete were I not dismissed at least once.”
Chapter 2
“My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.”
Twelfth Night, Act II, Scene 3
As she stood in the medieval entry hall of Castle Arlyss, there were three things about which Olivia was absolutely certain. One, the Marquess of Sheldon was far too attractive for his own good . . . or for the good of any female in close proximity to him. And her proximity to him was escalating with every purposeful step he took in her direction.
Two, judging by his scowl—and Livvy felt certain that scowl was directed at her, not at her aunt or her cousin—the man did not want her in his home for another moment, let alone for the remainder of the holiday season.
Which brought Olivia to her third certainty, which was that she should never have come.
This had been a mistake.
She had absolutely no business being there.
None at all.
Then again, she had never been very good at minding her own business.
“Hello, Katherine. Charlotte.” The marquess gave each a sharp nod before settling his gaze on Livvy. He briefly took in her appearance before turning to the harried-looking butler. “No, I don’t suppose she is a maidservant. More’s the pity, for we’re in short supply.”
Apparently Aunt Kate had not been jesting about her stepson’s indifferent manners.
The marquess braced his hands on his hips and focused his attention once more on Olivia. “Who the devil are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded. The hostile words hung suspended in the air for a moment before being swallowed up by the heavy tapestries blanketing the impenetrable stone walls.
It was, for all intents and purposes, a simple, albeit rather rude question, and yet Olivia did not know quite how to respond. She couldn’t imagine he’d be pleased if she answered truthfully, but starting their acquaintance with lies seemed impolitic.
Thankfully her aunt saved her from having to answer. “Jason! I do not know where you have forgot your manners, but you will promptly find them and greet us with at least a modicum of civility.”
A sardonic smile twitched at one corner of Lord Sheldon’s mouth as he sketched a bow. “Forgive me. You are most welcome to Castle Arlyss,” he drawled as he came forward and took her aunt’s hands, then pressed a kiss to the cheek she presented. “A pleasure as always, my lady.”
Aunt Kate chuckled, a low, husky sound, which attracted men like moths to a flame. Livvy had once tried to make her laugh sound like her aunt’s, but she had ended up with a sore, scratchy throat and difficulty speaking for a few days after her attempt.
“I know you don’t mean a word of it, but we are glad to be here all the same. Now, permit me to introduce my—”
She broke off as Charlotte wriggled free of her mother’s restraining hand and launched herself at her brother with a happy cry. The marquess stooped to embrace her, his expression momentarily softening. The rest of him stiffened in contrast, clearly ill at ease with this display of emotion. He patted her back clumsily before setting her apart from him.
“I’m not certain this is the same girl who visited last Christmas.” He looked her up and down. “This girl is far too grown up to be Charlotte.”
“It’s me! It’s me!” Charlotte bounced with excitement. “This is Queen Anne. You can call her Queenie.” She thrust the doll in the marquess’s face, or as near as she could reach, which was more in the realm of his midsection.
Lord Sheldon gingerly accepted the proffered offering and held the doll at arm’s length, turning it first this way, then that. He appeared to be giving the doll a very thorough inspection, but it was Livvy, not Queenie, who was the recipient of that intense scrutiny. The heat of his gaze burned her as it swept over her body.
Her spine stiffened. Let him look. She might not be the Great Beauty her older sister was, but she had long since come to terms with that and had decided she was at least passing fair. And while the marquess stared so boldly at her, she would take the opportunity to study him.
At once her fingers itched to sketch him, first the strong, hard line of his jaw, then the broad sweep of his forehead and the inky slashes of his eyebrows above equally dark eyes. She wanted to capture the slightly flattened ridge near the base of his nose, the faint hollows beneath his high cheekbones, and the gentle wave in his black hair. The planes and angles of his face were an artist’s dream—no single feature was perfect in and of itself, except perhaps his lips, which could have been sculpted by the great Michelangelo—but everything worked in absolute harmony.
Livvy was no stranger to handsome men. Her older brother, Henry, was quite good- looking, though she would never tell him so, and her brother-in-law, the Earl of Dunston, was another splendid specimen of masculinity. The marquess put them both to shame. There was a swirling, smoldering undercurrent in the air around him that spoke of tightly leashed emotions—a mighty tempest held in check by a will forged of iron.
He was nothing like what she had expected. Her mind had conjured the image of a man so worn down by years of embittered grief that all that remained was a fragile, brittle shell. She could see nothing weak about Lord Sheldon. The marquess radiated strength from the proud set of his broad shoulders to the muscular thighs bulging beneath his tight-fitting riding breeches. Not that she, a young lady of good breeding, would do anything as improper as express an interest in the marquess’s inexpressibles. She quickly looked up lest she be caught but, from the hint of a smile lurking about his mouth, she feared she was too late.
“Delightful,” he drawled, catching Olivia’s gaze as he handed the doll back to Charlotte.
His dark eyes smoldered in blatant masculine appreciation. Livvy’s cheeks flamed despite the icy draughts that always seemed to plague old castles.
Aunt Kate reached out a hand to her daughter. “Come, Charlotte, leave your brother be a moment so I may introduce him to—”
“Mama-promised- I-could- have-a-great- Danish-doglike-you-have.” Charlotte spoke the words in a rush, determined to get them out before she was reprimanded for interrupting.
Sure enough, she had just eked out the last word when Aunt Kate began to scold. “Promise or no, you will not be getting a dog, great Danish or otherwise, unless you display the requisite maturity to care for the creature.”
As if their words had manifested it, the largest dog Olivia had ever seen lumbered into the room.
“Blue!” Charlotte squealed.
The dog—or perhaps it was really a small horse—gave an answering bark, which exposed far too many sharp teeth for Livvy’s comfort, and then began to gall
op toward the little girl. The beast could eat her in a single bite and still be hungry for more.
Olivia lunged forward and grabbed her cousin’s arm, pulling her to safety.
“Let go of me, Livvy! I want to see Blue.” Charlotte shook off Olivia’s grasp and bounded toward the horse-dog.
Livvy cast anxious glances at her aunt and the marquess. “Aren’t you afraid it will attack her?” Her voice rose sharply on the last words as the beast reared up on its hind legs.
At her words, Lord Sheldon’s head jerked up. He quickly scanned the room before his gaze focused on her, or rather on something beyond her. His eyes widened in alarm. “No, Red, no!” he commanded sharply.
“Red? I thought its name was Blue—oomph!”
Something plowed into Olivia from behind, knocking the breath from her as she went sprawling to the ground. The carpet was but a thin barrier against the hard, cold stone that lay beneath. She heard a snarled growl and heavy panting and came to three new certainties.
One, she was about to die.
Two, Blue—and really, what sort of name was Blue?—had a friend.
Three, the other horse-dog-beast was called Red, an equally ridiculous name.
Red and Blue.
Together they made purple, which was the color her body was going to be tomorrow if the pain coursing through her was any indication. Supposing, of course, she didn’t die of mortification first. She shut her eyes tightly, hoping this might turn out to be some dream gone horribly wrong.
“Oh, Livvy, dearest, are you all right?”
Olivia drew some air into her lungs, answering her aunt with a pitiful sound that fell somewhere between a grunt and a groan.
“I think she’s dying,” Charlotte proclaimed, not seeming overly concerned by the prospect. “Bad, Red Dog, bad!”