by Sara Lindsey
Olivia guessed the lady he spoke of was his sister. Had he been suffering a guilty conscience all these years? Lord, what a tangle!
Livvy laid a hand over his. “She must have cared for you a great deal, this friend of yours.”
“She loved me, the more fool her. She loved me and it killed her.”
Olivia drew in a startled breath. “W-what are you saying?” Her voice wobbled.
Charles met her gaze then. His eyes, usually dancing and bright, were bleak and empty. “The day she died, she was going to meet with someone to try to pay off my debts. I am the reason she was out that morning.”
Olivia glanced over at her aunt to be certain she was not listening, and was relieved to find she was engrossed in her needlework and not paying them the least mind. Livvy leaned forward and gripped Charles’s hands in her own. She spoke forcefully, though she kept her voice to a low whisper. “Listen to me, Charles. Laura’s death was an accident.”
He jerked as if shot and wrenched his hands away from her. He opened his mouth to speak, but Olivia acted first. “Aunt Kate, Sir Charles has offered to escort me to the library and help me look for something decent to read. Would you mind terribly if we abandoned you for a little while?”
“Of course not.” Lady Sheldon smiled. “I was about to seek my bed anyhow. I suppose I am a rather ineffectual chaperone, but I trust you will both behave. I am too old to stay awake patrolling the corridors.”
“Really!” Olivia exclaimed, her cheeks heating at her aunt’s suggestion.
“Miss Weston is quite safe with me,” Charles assured her.
“Yes, I know,” Aunt Kate remarked as she got to her feet. “Good night, my dears.” She was almost out the door when Livvy heard her mutter: “It’s the other one I’m worried about.”
She didn’t have time to reflect on her aunt’s words, though, for Charles had her wrist in an iron grip and was very nearly dragging her along. She was forced to maintain a sort of skipping gait, lest her arm be taken to the library without the rest of her.
As soon as he had shut the door behind them, Charles whirled to face Olivia.
“Who are you?” His voice was ragged.
Livvy frowned at him. “Just who I say I am.”
He advanced on her. “You know things about me, about my family. . . .”
Olivia held up her hands. “I can explain.”
“Very well, go on.”
Livvy turned from him and began to walk around the perimeter of the room, trying to quell the nervous energy racing through her. The library had been built into one of the four half-round towers that marked the area of the original castle. Special shelves had been built into the walls to accommodate the circular room, and aside from the large window opposite the door, rows of leather-bound volumes filled the space from the wainscoting to the ceiling. Olivia had been completely enchanted with the room from the moment she had seen it, but at the moment, even the sight of so many books failed to soothe her.
Enough stalling, she told herself. She had known deep down that there would someday be a reckoning for what she had done. She should be grateful she was facing Charles instead of the marquess.
“Were you aware your sister kept a diary?” Livvy asked, seating herself on a beautifully carved double-back settee. She shivered. The fire had been banked hours ago, and a chill had settled over the room. But it certainly would not do to ring for a servant to tend to the fire while she and Charles were alone in the room.
Charles saw her discomfort, for the room was clearly illuminated by the light of the waning moon. He went over to the wooden settle beneath the window and lifted the hinged seat. He pulled out a woolen paisley shawl and brought it over, seating himself beside her.
“My sister was forever complaining about being cold. She kept wraps and blankets in nearly every room. I wasn’t sure it would still be there—” His voice caught.
Livvy put the shawl around her shoulders and scooted closer to Charles. She wasn’t certain he would accept comfort from her, but she had to try. She disliked seeing anyone in pain, but she felt especially protective of the man beside her, almost as if he were her brother.
Tentatively, Olivia reached out and placed her hand on Charles’s shoulder. She half expected him to recoil, but he seemed to relax at her touch.
“You asked whether I knew Laura kept a diary. She did as a girl, but I never saw if she had one when she was grown.”
“She did,” Livvy said softly. “I found it in the library at Haile Castle. I think it must have been shelved there by accident. I don’t know if there were others. This one only contained the couple of years before she . . .”
“Before she died,” Charles finished for her. “What did she write about?”
“Everything.”
The word hung precariously in the ensuing silence, like a vase poised too close to the edge of a table. The merest sigh would cause it to fall and shatter.
Charles finally spoke. “Then you know.”
“That you were in debt?”
“That I killed my sister.”
“Charles—”
“No, I’m glad you know. After all this time, to finally be able to talk with someone . . .”
“I want you to listen to me, Charles Avery. You did not kill your sister. The riding accident that killed Laura could have happened anytime—”
“But it didn’t. It happened while she was trying to help me. She went out that morning to meet with the man holding my vowels. I may not have put a burr beneath the saddle, but I sent her to her death all the same.”
She could see him more clearly now, past the masks he presented to the world. The burden of his guilt was slowly taking a physical toll on him. There were tight lines around his mouth and across his brow where there should have been none. What she had thought an affected, jaded ennui was actually an aura of sadness lingering about him. His eyes seemed to have seen too much, but she had assumed this was yet another sign of dissolution. How well he had fooled everyone.
“Charles, it wasn’t your fault.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No,” she said firmly. “It was an accident—a horrible accident—but it could just as easily have happened any other time she was out riding.”
He shook his head. “She must have been nervous and distracted. Laura was an excellent horsewoman. She would never have been thrown if she had been focused.”
Livvy sighed. It was clearly time to try another tactic.
“Look at me, Charles. Do you honestly think your sister would want you to spend your life feeling guilty and regretting something that can’t be changed?”
“No,” he admitted.
“She would want you to be happy.”
“I don’t deserve happiness.”
She saw the desolation in his eyes. He truly believed what he was saying. She suspected he didn’t lack for feminine companionship, but now she understood why there were so many women. He had said earlier that he avoided attachment. He probably only took up with unsuitable women, women with whom he would never be emotionally involved. He wouldn’t let himself find love because he thought he didn’t deserve it.
“You and your brother-in-law aren’t so different,” she mused. “Laura’s ghost haunts both of you, so that you hover in some shadow land where you’re not truly living. But I don’t think it’s her who keeps you there. It’s you. You won’t let her go. Neither of you. She’s dead, Charles—”
He flinched.
“—but you’re alive. How long are you going to punish yourself for that?”
He shrugged.
“As your sister is not here to blame you, I would think that privilege falls to Lord Sheldon. Since you are here, and have obviously been welcome in the past, clearly he has forgiven you, so—”
“He doesn’t know.” The words were little more than a whisper.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Jason. Doesn’t. Know.”
Olivia was startled. “How is that poss
ible?”
“My sister enjoyed riding early in the park before it got too crowded, and from the time we were young she was adept at losing whichever servant was meant to be following her. Laura never liked people hovering over her. She was far easier with more relaxed country manners. That was one of the reasons she loved this place so much.”
The clock in the hall sounded the hour.
“It’s late,” Charles said. “I have kept you up too long.”
“No,” Livvy protested, but she punctuated the word with a yawn. She relinquished the shawl, which Charles carefully replaced.
“Can you find your way to your chamber?” he asked, lighting a candle for her. “I would escort you there, but I fear it might prove awkward if we were seen.”
She nodded her agreement.
He caught one of her hands and pressed a kiss to it. “I must thank you. I feel better for having spoken of this.”
“I’m so glad.” Olivia squeezed his hand. “I am generally a very good talker and a very poor listener, but I hope we may speak again. Oh, would you like Laura’s diary?”
He gave her a funny look. “You brought it with you?”
“I should have left it at Haile Castle, I know, but I also should not have read the diary in the first place. Once I had, I couldn’t put it back in the library where anyone might stumble across it. Now I think on the matter, I should have made use of one of the hidey- holes where I found—” She yawned again. “I beg your pardon.”
“Then I must ask yours, for you would have long been in bed but for my prattling. As to the diary, I entrust it to your safekeeping. I almost believe she meant you to have it.” He shook his head. “I’ve no idea what possessed me to say that. Apparently I am also in need of sleep. Good night, my dear. Sleep well.” He pressed a quick, brotherly kiss to her forehead and padded off toward his room.
Despite Charles’s entreaty, once she was in her bed Livvy found sleep elusive. How confused she was. Life was becoming as complicated as one of her novels, but she had no guarantee things would come right in the end. The hero of her story wanted to be written out entirely, which could not be allowed, no matter how he provoked her. She knew he had hero material in his hidden depths, but those depths were proving surprisingly deep and quite well hidden.
Her supporting cast consisted of her aunt, a couple of young children, a few masterful servants, and a pair of enormous dogs. And tonight she had learned the villain of her piece was not a villain at all, but a poor, troubled soul in need of forgiveness.
December 26, 1798
St. Stephen’s Day/Gwyl San Steffan
Perhaps it was for the best he had slept through dinner, Jason thought as he dressed the following morning. He would have been poor company. He’d felt black doggish since that moment in the church when he’d found himself desiring Miss Weston.
No, not desiring. He’d suffered that curse from the first. This was a different sort of wanting, and it was far more dangerous.
Just how much, he wondered, did a man have to go through before he learned his lesson? The past had haunted him every day for years. Why should those painful memories choose to desert him now, when he needed them most?
He wished he could remain alone in his room. Avoidance seemed a perfectly good solution. If he could not remove the temptation at hand, he would remove himself. But he could not. Today was St. Stephen’s Day, and he would be expected to assist Katherine in the distribution of the Christmas boxes.
Besides, he was starving and he had no doubt that Katherine would forbid the servants to bring him food if he kept to his chamber longer than she deemed acceptable. He also had no doubt they would obey her commands, no matter that he was their master. Bloody ingrates.
He vented his spleen in this manner all the way to the breakfast room, where a cold spread was laid out, as the servants had the day off. Dimpsey had offered to watch Edward and Charlotte, declaring he could imagine no better way to spend the day. On hearing this, Jason decided the man was totally insane, a candidate for sainthood, or utterly devoid of imagination.
“Good morning,” his stepmother greeted him. “I trust you slept well.”
Jason grunted in response, filling a plate for himself before taking his place at the table.
“I do believe you are the last person up,” Katherine continued. “Shall I have Dimpsey take the children out to collect more holly branches?”
“Why ever for?” Miss Weston questioned.
“Holming is the traditional punishment in Wales for the last person out of bed on St. Stephen’s Day,” Charles answered.
“And what is ‘holming’?”
Jason’s stepmother explained. “Holly-beating. It’s customary in most parts hereabouts for men to slash the arms and legs of their female servants until they bleed. They believe it brings good luck. In more civilized households, only the last one to get up suffers the holming, and then he has to spend the day following the commands of his family.”
Miss Weston looked appalled. “But that’s barbaric,” she protested.
“That is your opinion,” Jason countered. “For many, it is simply the custom. As children they watched their parents take part, and now they do so as well. It’s all in good sport.”
“All in good sport? How can you say that? Do you wish your son to follow your example? To grow into a man who condones this abominable practice of inflicting pain on helpless women?”
“Whilst you reside under my roof, Miss Weston, you will keep a civil tongue in your head.”
“That would pose no problem, my lord, if you would but run a household worthy of civility.”
“Olivia, dearest, I am afraid you don’t understand,” Katherine began, but Jason cut her off.
“I have never been tempted to join the day’s festivities, as I have always found them distasteful. But if all the women in my life were like you, I believe I could be persuaded. You, Miss Weston, are capable of inciting a man to violence.”
“Isn’t that just like a man?” she muttered furiously. “Violence is the solution to every problem.”
“So you admit that women are, in essence, a problem? And yet however much you plague us, we poor men cannot do without you. Whatever your flaws, women are needed for the continuation of the race . . . among other things.”
Her face turned quite red. He knew she was untouched, but was her mind innocent as well? Or had she turned to thoughts of other things? Her chest rose and fell quickly in her agitation, and the movement made her breasts bounce in a most delightful manner. Desire pooled low in his stomach.
“W-whatever our flaws?” she sputtered.
“You cannot mean to deny the multitude of ways females are inherently inferior to men.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. “You can’t always have been like this,” she said finally.
What the devil was that supposed to mean? Jason wondered. Like what? Like a man? Intelligent? Logical? And yet he did not think her assessment was meant to be flattering.
Then, all of a sudden, her demeanor changed. Her face lit into a smile as she wagged a reproving finger at him. “You are being deliberately provoking, and it is too bad of you, my lord. You don’t really believe the horrid things you say, but you hope they instill in me such a thorough dislike of your person that I will go out of my way to avoid you for the duration of my stay. It will not work.”
“Miss Weston, I have long since ceased to follow this stream of babble. You are a woman, so it is only natural you should wish to defend your sex, but—”
“Say what you like, my lord. Now I am wise to your tricks, I shan’t take it to heart. You had me thoroughly fooled for a time, though. I must confess I would have been disappointed to learn you were the sort of man to be threatened by a woman with opinions.”
“Your opinions do not threaten me,” he growled. “They aggravate me. I begin to believe you communicate so well with children because their naive understanding of the world so closely
matches your own.”
“Ooooh!”
Jason fought not to laugh. So much for Miss Weston not taking what he said to heart. Her color was high and her eyes were flashing blue daggers at him.
All that fiery passion only made her more bloody desirable. He had no doubt she would be a wildcat in bed. It would be a lucky man who got to tame her, to make her purr. . . .
“That is quite enough, both of you,” his stepmother admonished. “As it’s a custom you yourself banned here at Arlyss, Jason, I cannot see why you and my niece are arguing about it.”
“If I could suggest—” Charles started to say.
“Stubble it, Chas,” Jason said tightly.
Bloody hell, he couldn’t ever remember wanting a woman this badly. Not even in the early days of courting Laura. . . . The memory of his wife gave Jason the strength to rein in his emotions and cool his blood until his icy reserve was back in place.
“You’re right, Katherine. I beg your forgiveness, Miss Weston.”
“She is? You do?” she spluttered, baffled by his sudden capitulation.
“Coward,” muttered Charles.
Katherine was having none of it. “There’s no cowardice in admitting defeat when one is in the wrong. Besides, as of this moment I will not tolerate any quarreling during Christmas. You may resume your disagreement after Twelfth Night if you wish, but I’ll not have the holidays spoiled with your bickering. Now if you are finished, Jason, there are tenants to be visited.”
As he’d lost his appetite, Jason rose and followed her from the room. That was another grievance he could lay at Miss Weston’s door. She had stolen his desire for food and replaced it with another hunger.
An impossible hunger, damn her, because it was one he could not sate. He would not be appeased by a visit to a bawdy house or a night with one of the barmaids in the village tavern. No, he wanted Miss Weston, and only Miss Weston. He wanted to kiss that pert nose, dip his tongue into that cheeky dimple, whisper naughty words that would make her blood rush to her cheeks. . . . He wanted to taste every last spicy, salty, saucy inch of her luscious little body and take her in every possible way he could think of. And he could think of quite a few ways to take her, having spent too many sleepless nights contemplating just that.