by Sara Lindsey
Jason stared at her. He had a feeling it was less his imperious lord of the manor stare than a bewildered, bowled-over sort of stare. He told himself he didn’t give a damn what she thought about him, but he resented being made to feel as though he had been in the wrong.
It was true he trusted the running of his other properties to estate managers, but they were all men he trusted. Besides, Katherine visited Haile Castle nearly every year, and she stayed at the town house in London frequently. She would let him know if there was a problem that wasn’t being addressed. He was not going to feel guilty over some moldering books that had likely been moldering since before his grandfather was born.
Miss Weston had some nerve to accuse him of neglecting his responsibilities, riding the high horse with her talk about caring. His time was spent caring for his son, and Edward was a damned sight more important than her books. Dusting off books wasn’t caring; it was cleaning. Caring was staying awake all night, watching over your child, praying for his breathing to ease. Caring was remaining strong and calm in those moments you most wanted to collapse. Caring was pleading with a God you had long since stopped believing in. . . .
What right did she have to criticize him? She was a guest in his home. Actually, if he thought about it, she had been a guest in his home for many months. And just look how she repaid him. She ransacked his library, she insulted him at his own table, and she made him lust, damn it.
So much that although he wanted to rise, doing so would only give her another reason to berate him, supposing she knew what a bulge in a man’s breeches meant. Of course, even if she didn’t, Katherine certainly did, and he wasn’t about to embarrass himself that way. And if she was trying to pair him off with this shrewish creature, he had no intention of giving her the advantage of knowing the chit affected him.
“Since your opinion of me is so low, Miss Weston, perhaps you would like to leave. I’m certain I can arrange a carriage and suitable escort to take you home.”
She gaped at him. He found he quite enjoyed rendering her speechless. He couldn’t imagine there were many able to best Miss Weston in a verbal battle.
“Or have you been pawned off on your aunt, and by association on me, because your family can no longer stomach your foul temper?”
She looked fit to burst. He bit his cheek so as not to let his amusement show. Damned if part of him hoped she wouldn’t take him up on his offer. Ribbing Miss Weston was the most fun he’d had in years.
“First, my family adores me. Second, I am not the one suffering from perpetual ill temper. Third, in the event I did want to leave, you would be hard-pressed to find an escort for me. Perhaps you are unaware, but you happen to be more than a little short-staffed. Not that I can imagine why anyone should wish to be quit of you—”
“Enough!” Katherine ordered. “If I wanted to listen to childish bickering at the table I would take my meals in the nursery. Jason, I would never have allowed Olivia to accompany me had I realized you would be unable to show a guest the most basic courtesy. And as for you, Livvy, the marquess is your host and deserving of your respect, no matter how provoking he may be.”
Nothing killed a man’s desire as fast as being scolded by a parental figure. Now that he could do so without embarrassing himself, Jason rose to his feet. He found his height was a greater advantage than he had foreseen. Looking down at Miss Weston gave him an unexcelled view of her plump breasts. His fingers twitched. . . .
Christ. He was a grown man. He was above this. And speaking of above, he really needed to stop staring at her breasts. He raised his eyes to meet her gaze.
“Miss Weston, I beg your pardon if I reacted too strongly. I am certain you meant no harm rearranging the library. Perhaps you even meant to be helpful.”
Her lips pursed with displeasure.
Damn, that wasn’t what he’d meant to say. At least, not in those precise terms. “I am not used to having things in my life upset,” he tried to explain. “I dislike change.”
“Sometimes change can be a good thing,” Miss Weston said softly. “There are times in every life when events occur that make change inevitable. If a person learns to embrace change rather than rail against it, perhaps it is less troubling when control is wrested away and one is forced to accept some change.”
They weren’t talking about books anymore, that much was certain.
The room was silent, so silent he could hear his heart beating in his ears. Jason gazed at her, wondering if she was a sorceress of some kind. Her eyes, deep and clear as the azure water in nearby Carmarthen Bay, seemed to see right inside him, straight into the darkness of his soul.
It was unnerving.
It was hogwash.
He was delirious, Jason told himself. He hadn’t been sleeping well of late and that, combined with this sudden surge of lust, had clearly addled his wits.
“Just so we are clear, Miss Weston, the books here at Arlyss have no need of your wonder-working. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.” Her chin rose in the air. “If you will excuse me, Aunt Kate, I’m afraid I have lost my appetite. I think it would be best if I went to bed.”
“Of course, my darling. I admit, I am exhausted, too. Such a lot of traveling we’ve been doing, and on top of that you’ve been entertaining Charlotte a good deal of the time. It’s a wonder you haven’t collapsed. I’m certain you’ll feel more yourself after a good night’s sleep. You can ring if you need me, or I suppose the ingrate here will be close at hand.”
Jason coughed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Well, you must concede that you reacted most ungraciously to all the work Olivia has done—”
Jason waved a hand to stop her, a terrible suspicion taking root in his mind.
“Right, I understand. Your niece is the patron saint of libraries and I’m the big, bad dragon.”
Miss Weston laughed. It was a warm, rich sound, clear and true, and it made him think of happier times, of racing through snowy fields in a sleigh pulled by horses with jingling bells on their harnesses, of drinking brandy before a crackling fire, of wicked, whispered promises, of heated glances, of making love—
He stopped himself.
He would not go there.
It was too painful.
“What did you mean, I would be close at hand should Miss Weston need someone in the night?”
Katherine smiled at him, a gleam of wicked amusement in her eyes. “There was a slight problem with the room that was prepared for Olivia. It should all be taken care of in a matter of days, but as you never entertain, all of the rooms are kept closed up. Olivia offered to share a chamber with Charlotte, but I thought that unfair as Charlotte kicks dreadfully in her sleep. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Er, quite, but I’m afraid I don’t follow. How could a room have been prepared for Miss Weston when she’s only just arrived?”
“My dear boy, you can’t think I expected Mrs. Maddoc to accommodate an extra guest with no forewarning. No, I wrote to her as soon as it was decided Olivia would be traveling with us. I knew you would not object to Olivia’s presence once you met her and realized what a pleasant companion she is.”
Jason found her presence entirely objectionable, but he held his tongue.
“If you can believe it,” Katherine went on, “there is only one room in this great behemoth of a place that is aired out and suitable for someone to stay the night in. Can you guess?”
Jason knew what was coming. He knew, and yet he hoped his stepmother was going to mention some part of the castle hitherto unknown to him. Perhaps some lovely little one-room cottage on the perimeter of the estate.
It was not to be.
“Very well, I shall tell you: the Marchioness’s Chambers.”
Jason considered bashing his head into the table. “Are you certain that is proper?” he ventured. “The chambers adjoin.”
His stepmother shrugged. “I grant you the situation is not ideal, but needs must suffice. I very much doubt that my innocent
niece is going to take advantage of you.”
Funny, that was exactly what he feared was going to happen. At least, the rational part of him feared it. From the neck down, he was only too eager to be compromised.
“In any case,” she continued, “this arrangement will only be until Mrs. Maddoc can arrange for a glazier to repair the window in the tower bedroom. If you fear for your virtue, you can lock your door. Does that set your mind at ease, sir?”
It did not set Jason’s mind, or any other part of his body, at ease, but he saw there was little to be done. “Madam, if you are not troubled by the impropriety of the situation, I certainly shan’t lose sleep over it.”
That was a lie. He wouldn’t sleep a wink. Knowing the delectable Miss Weston was in the chamber next to his was going to be pure torture. To have a willing woman so close at hand . . .
And she would be willing. Even if she were a complete innocent, which he doubted, Jason hadn’t missed her earlier reaction to him. Not the reaction earlier that evening when she had all but accused him of being a selfish monster, but earlier that day, first when he had caught her looking at a part of him no innocent miss would know about, and again when he had held her in his arms.
He had heard the slight hitch to her breathing . . . felt her heart pounding . . . watched as a rosy flush stained her cheeks. He’d been affected then, and that had been before he’d had a taste of her saucy little mouth. What wouldn’t he give to taste her in truth. . . .
He dug his nails into his palms.
His stepmother had somehow arranged for her niece to be placed in the bedchamber adjoining his and, innocent or no, that young lady was a tender pullet ripe for the plucking. And no mistake, he was a man in need of a good pluck. The events of the day had borne in on him just how desperate was his need.
Christ. If a locked door was the only obstacle in his path, Miss Weston would be lucky to last the night.
“I certainly don’t have to worry you will misbehave,” Katherine added. “You haven’t so much as looked at a woman since . . .”
Since Laura, Jason silently finished for her.
The mention of his wife was like a bucket of icy water thrown upon the flames of his desire. Good God, what had he been thinking? How had he let himself forget, even for a moment—
He needed to do more than lock his door that night. He needed to lock up, batten down, strengthen, fortify, and otherwise secure every portion of himself that was vulnerable to Miss Weston. He wasn’t entirely surprised by his body’s enthusiastic response—in truth, he was relieved such bountiful stimulus still elicited the proper reaction—but he couldn’t go about with a cock-stand for the duration of the gel’s stay.
Nor could he allow himself the fun of teasing her and drawing her into a battle of wits. That bespoke a closer relationship than he planned on having with Miss Weston or any other female. No, it was essential he remain detached. His heart was a stronghold with sentries at every entrance. If he relaxed his guard, if he allowed her to affect him, she might have a chance at breaking in.
A chance at breaking him.
A man could only bear so much hurt in a lifetime before the pain became crippling. He couldn’t risk that, for his son’s sake. Edward needed him to be strong. To protect his son, Jason would be invulnerable. Invincible. Infallible. And, if such behavior kept the castle’s inhabitants at a safe distance, he would be utterly inhospitable, inimical, and otherwise insufferable.
If Miss Weston thought to ride roughshod over him as she so clearly did her aunt, she was going to be sorely disappointed. Arlyss was his domain, and he would not tolerate any interference. In the event his unwanted guest made advances toward either himself or his home, she would not get far. He was going to lock his door at night, to be sure, but just in case Miss Weston thought to go traipsing about the castle in search of some new project, Jason decided to lock the door to the library as well.
Olivia could not get to sleep. She tried lying on her right side, then on her left, on her back and on her stomach. She pulled the coverlet up to her chin before throwing it off entirely. She pushed the bed hangings open, then shut them tightly again. Nothing worked.
She couldn’t banish the sight of the marquess’s angry face from her mind’s eye. He had truly been furious with her. Had he guessed what she had discovered in the library? Of course, even if he remembered hiding the clues and the brooch, she very much doubted he knew that his wife’s diary had ended up there—if he had known she kept a diary at all.
Livvy guessed that after the marchioness’s death, the London servants had packed her belongings and sent them to the family seat at Haile Castle. When the trunks were unpacked and the contents sorted through, the diary must have been mistaken for a novel and placed in the library. That was where Livvy had found it.
Taking the diary, which was carefully hidden at the bottom of her trunk, was an even worse transgression than taking the brooch.
She had stolen from a dead woman.
Twice.
But, she consoled herself, Laura had never actually found the brooch, so perhaps it wasn’t really hers. Besides, the poor woman had no need for it now, or for her journal. Livvy needed them. She needed every fragment she could glean from these glimpses into his past to piece together the puzzle Lord Sheldon presented.
There was another matter nagging at her as well. She did not much care whether or not she adhered to her mother’s steadfast notions of propriety, but she did mind—or tried to mind—her parents’ insistence on civility. She had been less than civil—hostile, even—to her host, and while she had been provoked, the marquess had apologized for his behavior and she had not.
She was fairly certain the marquess had not yet gone to bed, so she decided to wait in the hall until he came upstairs. All that was needed was the word “sorry,” and though it might choke her, she wouldn’t die from it. She got out of bed and donned slippers and the quilted flannel wrapper that Alice, her aunt’s maid, had laid out in case she got chilled at night.
It was cold in the hall, and dark, and there was no place to sit other than the floor. The carpet was probably priceless, but it did little to soften the hard wood beneath. Her physical discomfort made it difficult for Livvy to focus on anything worthwhile, and she soon stopped trying. She wondered how long Lord Sheldon would take before coming to bed. Minutes? Hours? Oh, perish the thought!
She counted to one hundred. She counted backward down to zero. She counted all her fingers and toes, wiggling them to make sure they had not succumbed to frost-bite. All were cold but accounted for. She thought about making a list—Appendages I Would Be Loath to Lose to Extreme Cold, Beginning with Those Least Important to Survival—but she got stuck on the first point, trying to decide if each toe should be numbered independently, or whether all ten toes comprised an item. . . .
“Miss Weston?”
The marquess’s deep voice startled her awake. She scrambled to her feet and rubbed her eyes.
“I know there must be a reason you are sleeping in the hall, Miss Weston, but I don’t particularly care to hear. I’ll ring for Mrs. Maddoc.” He reached for the door handle.
“No, wait,” Olivia said quickly. “That is, I need only you.”
One dark eyebrow shot up and Olivia blushed furiously as she realized how her words must have come across.
“That did not come out right at all.” She shook her head. “What I meant to say is that you were the person with whom I wished to speak.”
“Pity,” he murmured.
Livvy stared at him, wondering what exactly he thought a pity.
“There was something you wished to speak to me about, was there not?”
“Oh, yes, of course. I want to apologize. My behavior at dinner was shameful.”
“Mine was no better,” he admitted.
“Yes, but you apologized. What’s more, I have been invited into your home against your wishes—”
He held up a hand. “Miss Weston, this is as much your aunt and Char
lotte’s home as it is mine. If they wish to bring a guest with them when they visit, such is their prerogative.”
“But—”
“No, wait. I have made you feel most unwelcome and it is not well done of me. I pray you will forgive me, Miss Weston, for I have been a very ill- mannered host. May we begin again?”
His smile was just a bit crooked, and it made him look boyish and vulnerable. Something warm unfurled in the region of Olivia’s chest. She dropped a quick curtsy and smiled up at him.
“Olivia Jane Weston.”
He bowed, a faint twinkle in his eyes. “Jason Traherne. I won’t bore you with the litany of names betwixt the first and last.”
They stood in silence for a moment.
“Now what happens?” he asked.
“You should express your delight or at least your very great pleasure at making my acquaintance,” Livvy told him.
Lord Sheldon stroked his chin as if in deep thought. “Delight?” he repeated aloud. “No, I don’t believe that is quite the word I want.”
Olivia pursed her lips. Really, the man was insufferable.
“A very great pleasure, eh? No, that’s not right, either.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, lie if you must,” she bit out.
“Do you know,” he mused, “I don’t think that will be necessary. Miss Weston, I say this with the greatest sincerity. Heaven knows why, but I find myself charmed.”
Livvy could have dealt without the “heaven knows why,” but beggars could not be choosers. This teasing man with the twinkle in his eyes was the man she had hoped to find. The man who wrote atrocious poetry and hid presents for his wife’s amusement. The man she had come here to save, but had feared was lost.
Her fall to the ground wasn’t the only knock she had suffered since entering Castle Arlyss. No matter that Aunt Kate had warned her, the marquess’s acrid, disdainful manner had shaken Olivia’s confidence. His behavior at dinner only cast her down further. Now her spirits shot back into the air.