‘No!’ he said, shaking his head.
Lisbeth blinked. She shook her head and pointed to the last sentence again. Now the truth is known by all I think it only fair to release you from our agreement. She opened a small notebook and began writing.
I am setting you free. She wrote.
‘Oh, well, thank you, I had not realised I was imprisoned.’ He knew his voice was verging on sarcastic anger but he couldn’t help it.
I do not want you to choose duty to me over your own future. She wrote next.
Oliver took a step back. ‘In other words you want me to leave and find a future with someone else?’
She shook her head vigorously. She began to write again.
He held up a hand to stop her from writing. ‘Oh, I understand,’ he said. ‘I don’t blame you. After all, I have nothing to offer you. Except myself and that’s not exactly a lot, is it? I’m nothing. A man in my position could not possibly tempt a woman like you.’
She was still scribbling madly in her little book but he had a sour taste in his mouth and no want to swallow yet more bitter disappointment.
Had she used him only to get what she wanted? Now she had it she no longer needed him? Suddenly, just like his bank account he felt empty. Like his estate he was worthless.
She didn’t love him.
The realisation of these facts felt like a right hook to the jaw and a low punch in the gut from the famous boxer Gentleman Jackson. All his breath seemed to leave his body, leaving him gasping.
He was sure he felt his heart break, its pounding turning to a sluggish flip-flop in his chest, like a fish floundering on the shore. Oliver turned on his heel and numbly started to walk down the street. There was no destination. It didn’t seem to matter where he ended up. He no longer cared. The only thing he felt was a deep ache which had invaded every nerve in his body. He saw nothing but a dark abyss opening up before him. Would it be too much to hope he would fall into it and be done with this pain?
Oliver walked onto the road, heard the shouts of people all around him, horses neighing loudly above him, but he just kept walking.
***
Lisbeth collapsed in the doorway. She was only vaguely aware Rollands had caught her before she hit the floor.
Oliver had walked away! He had misunderstood her note and refused to stay and let her explain. Once again she cursed Dalmere for taking her voice. Looking down at her notebook, she read the frantic scribble she had attempted.
You will never be nothing to me. I love you. Don’t leave me.
Tears dripped onto the page. Why had he left her so easily? Had he never loved her at all? Why had he not fought for her?
She put her hand on the door knowing he was somewhere on the other side. Hurting, just like her.
Marie and her grandmother were by her side and she should have felt comforted by their presence but right now she wished to curl up in a ball and cry. Cry for all she had lost and all she may never get back.
‘Is this what you told him?’ her grandmother asked looking down at her notebook. ‘’I do not want you to choose duty to me over your own future’? No wonder he stormed off.’
Lisbeth let out a keening cry.
‘We will fix this,’ Marie said, giving their grandmother a wide-eyed glare. Her concern and determination was evident in her tone. ‘We will help you write him a proper letter explaining it all and how you never meant to send him away. He will feel foolish and return, begging you to have him back.’
‘I will deliver it myself, my lady,’ Rollands said.
Lisbeth nodded for she needed to hold on to some remnant of hope this disaster could be fixed.
‘I don’t understand it, my lady. Lord Bellamy told me he came here to propose to her.’ Lisbeth heard the words Rollands whispered to her grandmother, and tried to block them out with her hands but then all she could hear was the blood rushing in her ears, like a chant. Fool, fool, fool. She had thought she was being so noble letting him go. Although, perhaps he’d never really been hers in the first place.
Now she may never be able to explain about the ledger and the money that would soon be returned to him. Never be able to tell him how he had saved her in every way that counted.
This should have been the happiest of days but instead she wished nothing more than to do it all over. To wipe away the hurt she had caused him.
Outside, a cold wind whipped up the leaves on the trees outside her window and thunder rumbled in the distance. Rain fell in big fat drops saturating everything in its path in misery. An echo of her own desolation.
***
Oliver was wet to the bone. If he was lucky he would die of a chill. Who said words couldn’t cut as deep as a knife? He certainly felt as if all his life’s blood had been drained from him, leaving him nothing but a husk of himself. Dragging himself into his brother’s house, Oliver climbed the stairs to his brother’s room and ordered his valet to pack every bit of clothing he owned. He then told the butler, Kinsdale, to start closing the house and have everything packed and shipped to Whitely Hall as soon as practical. Oliver planned to leave in the morning.
He undressed and crawled into bed with a bottle of his brother’s finest brandy, having decided to drink it until either he passed out or the bottle was dry, whichever came first.
How could he have forgotten the reality of his situation? Love was blind and when it turned on you it was like having your eyeballs scorched in their sockets by a red hot poker. He had been such a fool. She should have skewered him with that fire poker on the night they met. It would surely have been less painful than what he was experiencing now.
He should hate her, but he couldn’t. He shouldn’t love her, but he did. This in itself made him pathetic to the point of, well, something more pathetic than pathetic.
Tony would say he’d had a narrow escape. That he had eluded the clutches of Madame Marriage, dodged a life of the doldrums and shimmied out of the shackles of matrimony. He would say the way to a happy life was not through a wife.
Tony would be wrong on all counts.
About halfway through the bottle of brandy, Oliver decided the time had come to at least earn the title of the Earl of Bellamy.
Chapter 19
Oliver sat staring at a cold cup of tea. In the grey and dismal light of dawn, and a near whole bottle of brandy later, things were even more complicated than they had been the night before. Rain beat against the windows to his left in relentless torrents, like fists against his skull.
All around him was the commotion of packing. It was like tinnitus. Nothing he could do would shut out the noise.
Last night he had been committed to leaving, to rusticating in the country, to being forgotten. This morning all he could do was think about how he would never see Lisbeth again. And it bloody-well hurt.
Lisbeth’s aim could not have been more accurate. Like a master archer her arrowed words had hit their mark dead centre—to the deepest heart of his insecurities. Did she know how those few scribbled sentences would affect him? Emotions, wild and desperate had taken over and his only instinct had been to go, to run, and to escape further torturous words.
He’d always had an issue with his own self worth. From an early age he’d felt redundant, a loose end flapping in the breeze with no useful direction. Henry had become the Earl, and he had become…nothing. It was the reason he had left for the army at such a young age. Oliver had found some purchase in his career as a code breaker and unofficial spy for the crown, but even then he was just another soldier in Wellington’s army.
When he returned home after Henry’s death, it was to find that nothing had changed with gaining the title of Earl of Bellamy. Confronted with the financial fall in the family finances, he again floundered. He had no training to prepare him for the responsibility his new title would thrust upon him.
Lisbeth telling him she no longer needed him had been a crushing blow to his already battered ego. Of course she no longer needed him, but he had hoped she may still ha
ve wanted him…loved him. If she had but told him she loved him, he would have done anything to prove his worth to her.
Working alongside Lisbeth had given him a distraction from the reality of his situation. Now he had no excuse but to face the music and it was so awfully out of tune it hurt his ears.
Oliver left the room for no other reason than he could no longer stay where he was with his morbid thoughts. He looked around him. He’d never liked this house. The entryway to the townhouse was like a cavernous box. Dusty echoes of his brother swirled around him like chilly drafts of memory. He would be glad to leave this house and its constant reminders of his failure to live up to Whitely family expectations.
It wouldn’t take his brother’s butler long to shut up the house. There was little enough to pack since Oliver had purged the house of anything he could sell only days after moving in. He had never understood why Henry had stuffed it with the bric-a-brac of wealth, it had served no purpose.
To what purpose was anything anymore when the woman who had stolen his heart had then so cruelly twisted it into dust before his very eyes? And in so few words.
Oliver rubbed his forehead but it did little to erase the tension throbbing in his temples and the slightly sick feeling in his stomach.
‘My lord, I am to remind you of the letter which came for you early this morning,’ Kinsdale said, holding out a neat, sealed letter. ‘I took the liberty of keeping it with me as you seemed to have left it on your desk, which has now been packed.’
Oliver looked at the letter that Kinsdale offered him. He knew who it was from. He knew why he had left it unopened on his desk. Should he take it? Burn it? Read it and let her words finish him off?
‘Sir? Mr Rollands brought it himself. At dawn. He implored me to tell you that his mistress stressed the importance of the contents.’
Oliver took the letter and put it in his jacket pocket. ‘Thank you, Kinsdale. How long before we can depart?’
***
Lisbeth knew not all things look brighter in the harsh light of day. Sometimes, the harsh light of day just makes things look…harsh, inhospitable, impossible, bleak.
Lisbeth had not slept well, but then she had not slept well for near on seven years. Since her wedding night. Last night she had not even attempted to sleep. Somewhere in the desperation of her mind she kept thinking Oliver would come back. He would realise he had misunderstood and throw all caution to the wind. He would come racing up the stairs to her room, throw open the doors and tell her he loved her, that he wanted no other but her.
He had not come.
She was a fanciful, desperate fool.
There was nothing more she could do. Rollands had delivered the letter first thing this morning. She would simply have to wait and hope.
Calling cards had been arriving since yesterday but she was not up to visitors, especially from those who wished to befriend her again, now that she was respectable. It wasn’t like she could converse with them anyway with her being silenced for at least another week.
‘Lisbeth, do stop pacing in the hall. You will wear out the rug.’
She turned to see her grandmother frowning at her from the doorway of the parlour.
‘Come and have some tea. The doctor said you should add some honey for your throat.’
Lisbeth sighed and went into the parlour.
Lady Fortesque handed her a cup. ‘There is something calming in the taking tea, don’t you think?’
Lisbeth couldn’t give a fig about tea. Had Oliver read her letter yet?
She looked out the window. The rain was still falling and it was cold, but no amount of shawls or heated bricks could comfort her. She stared at her teacup. She was sure if she drank it, she would be sick.
Oliver, please read my letter.
‘I think we should have a ball,’ her grandmother announced.
Lisbeth looked up from her cup, her eyes wide. A ball? She shook her head.
‘It is near the end of the season and we should celebrate your return.’
My return? To what? Misery? She shook her head again. The last thing she wanted to have was a ball.
‘Think about it. Have you seen the amount of calling cards piling up? The only way to address them all is to have a ball. Get it over and done with all in one go.’
It did make sense. It didn’t make her want to do it. Her grandmother was looking at her as if waiting for her to give in to her plans with a nod. Instead Lisbeth took up her notebook and wrote, I’ll think on it.
‘Well, don’t think on it too long. A ball doesn’t happen overnight you know. There are invitations, menus, decorations and music to consider. It is all very time consuming. It will keep your mind off…things.’
Things. Oliver. I can’t stand this anymore, she thought. Lisbeth stood up and rushed out of the room with her teacup still in her hand. She was going to go and see him herself. She would stand there until he read her letter. She would stand there all day, all week, if necessary.
Gathering her spencer and a cloak she headed back down stairs.
‘My lady?’ Rollands asked, his eyebrows nearly hitting his hair line.
She showed him her notebook. Call me a hack please, Rollands.
‘But, my lady, it is raining.’
She glared at him and pointed at her request again.
He grabbed an umbrella. ‘I’ll get one right away.’
She waited by the door.
‘You cannot mean to go out there?’ Her grandmother asked from behind her.
Lisbeth nodded.
‘Are you mad?’ she said. ‘You’ll catch your death.’
Lisbeth wrote in her book and turned it towards her grandmother who had to come closer to read it.
I have to. I love him.
Lady Fortesque searched Lisbeth’s face. She must have seen the truth of Lisbeth’s words in her eyes for she nodded then said, ‘Shall I come with you, for support?’
Lisbeth shook her head.
‘I can’t talk you out of this can I?’ Lisbeth shook her head again. ‘Then good luck, my dearest.’ She placed a kiss on Lisbeth’s forehead.
Lisbeth raced out into the weather and into the hired conveyance.
***
The carriage rocked from side to side as it negotiated the muddy streets. Deep in his depression Oliver watched as the grand houses of his neighbours were exchanged for more commonplace abodes. He felt like he was running away. He had never felt more alone. He felt wretched.
He pulled out the letter. He had to know, for better or worse, what she had written. He broke the seal. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. The precise handwriting was smeared in places. Had she been crying while she wrote it? He started to read.
Dear Oliver
I am so sorry about yesterday. I am sorry that I hurt you with my thoughtlessness. Please let me explain my actions.
These last few days have been so conflicted I hardly know how to start. Let me firstly say what I should have said as soon as I knew. You have no longer to worry about your brother’s debt. Before you think the worst I would never dream of paying you for your services. Mrs Rollands found Blackhurst’s diary and ledger a few days ago. I wanted to tell you after the balloon ascension but well, Dalmere happened.
In any case the result is that I can now return the capital your brother and the others put into the speculation. Although, I was again advised I was not legally obliged, I have decided to disseminate the money anyway. It was never mine to keep.
I know you will be relieved by this news.
Was this the purpose of her letter? To inform him that the guilt she felt over the speculation had finally forced her hand? It was very convenient for the ledger to turn up now. He wondered for a moment whether or not she had made up a ledger or had always had it in her possession? A red hot rage engulfed his body. After everything they had been through it had come down to this? A payment?
He banged on the roof and told the driver to take him to Blackhurst House. He would tel
l her he didn’t want her damn money.
But there was more. His hands shook as he turned to the next page.
Secondly, I want to explain what I meant by my first note. I wanted to release you from any duty you might have felt regarding our agreement. I was not releasing you from my affections. I could not even if I wanted to.
What? Was this meant to mollify him? Make him forget about her part in the speculation? Although she had never directly implicated herself in her husband’s schemes, always protesting her innocence. And he had believed her. Did he believe her still? Confusion waltzed with anger and bowed to hope in a dance of intertwining emotions. Part of him wanted more than anything to believe. He frantically read the rest of the letter hoping there might be something to help him decide how he felt about her.
I wanted our future to be on equal footing, with no misunderstandings, but in the process only muddled everything up. I am so very sorry. I would never intentionally hurt you.
If I could use my voice I would tell you, you are my heart, my soul, my life. I cannot seem to breathe without you.
Oliver, I love you. You are not nothing to me, you are everything. Everything I have ever needed. Everything I have ever wanted. Everything that I am.
Please come back to me.
Lisbeth
He was shaking. Was he really her heart, as she was his? The anger he had felt a few minutes ago was now directed at himself. He should have known, he should have waited, and he should have taken her in his arms and kissed her and proposed to her on those damn steps as he had intended. Instead he had let his own insecurities come between them. He cared nothing about the money. Although it was nice to know he would be able to pay the bank and use what little capital he had left to rebuild.
But it all meant nothing if he didn’t have her.
Lisbeth.
The carriage jerked to a stop and he flew from it like his pants were on fire. He raced up the steps of Blackhurst House, slipping slightly on the wet stoop. He bashed on the door.
A Scandalous Wager Page 27