“My father is concerned about my welfare? My father?” She stared for a moment then laughed, an odd, mirthless sound not at all like the laugh he remembered. The laugh that had once filled his soul now tore at it. “I can scarce believe that, my lord.”
“Nonetheless, he came to me because he is worried.”
“Worried?” She shook her head. “It is far too late for him to be worried about my welfare or anything else regarding my life.”
“He is concerned about the manner of Lord Rathbourne’s death.”
“Is he?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I would imagine anyone who had ever crossed paths with my husband would be concerned only that someone had not slit his throat long ago.”
He winced. “Liv-Lady Rathbourne, I scarcely think—”
“What? Has my candor upset your delicate sensibilities?”
“Not at all.” He met her gaze directly. “It’s the bitterness in your voice that I find distressing.”
“My apologies, my lord, for distressing you. However, you are mistaken. Any bitterness I might have felt was replaced years ago by resolve. I feel no bitterness whatsoever regarding my husband or my father or anyone else.”
Or me?
“I have outlived my husband, and my father no longer exists as far as I am concerned. Indeed, I feel nothing at all for either of them.” She shrugged. “You are confusing a complete lack of regard for bitterness. But then you should understand that. If I recall, you were always quite good at keeping your own emotions in check.”
He ignored her. He had come with one purpose, and it would be better for them both if he got on with it. “Your father fears there is more to your husband’s death than might at first appear. He is further afraid you too could be in danger, that whoever killed your husband might return. I understand nothing was taken?”
“No, nothing at all. Which leads me to believe that my husband’s killer was here for the express purpose of taking his life. As that is what he accomplished, I see no reason why he would return.”
”Regardless, you don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t know that, but I am fairly confident given that my husband has been dead for two weeks now and there has been nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever. And as you can see, I am perfectly all right.”
“I understand the terms of his will have not yet been disclosed. Perhaps the villain is waiting for that.”
“That makes no sense. It is no secret that I am his only heir.” She paused for a moment. “Admittedly, a few days before his death, my husband had decided to establish a trust to found a museum to house his collections. His solicitor was in the process of arranging the necessary papers when my husband was killed. Although they had not been completed or signed, their preparation has left my husband’s affairs a bit muddled, according to his solicitor. Stupid, annoying man.” She shook her head. “That is why the will has still not been read although it will be in a few days. However, as I understand it, his previous will remains in effect which, as I said, leaves me his only heir.” She slanted him an odd look. “If the motive for killing my husband is his legacy, I alone stand to gain. Had I not been in the country, I daresay I would be at the top of the list of potential murderers.”
He stared.
“Goodness, my lord, did you think I killed him?” A hint of genuine amusement shone in her eyes.
He cleared his throat. “No, of course not. The thought never occurred to me.”
“It had occurred to me,” she said under her breath. “However, I did not kill him; nor did I arrange for his death. My limited allowance does not allow for extravagances like hiring an assassin.”
“Which means the party responsible is still free, and you may well be at risk.”
“I am quite capable of ensuring my own safety.” Her jaw tightened.
“Still, I would recommend—”
“Your recommendations are of no interest to me, my lord.” A hard note sounded in her voice. “You have expressed my father’s concerns. I have assured you that I will take precautions. If there is nothing else?”
“But you didn’t.”
She frowned in confusion. “I didn’t what?”
“Assure me you will take precautions.”
“Very well then.” She heaved a long-suffering sigh as if he were a hapless child she was appeasing. “I assure you I will take precautions.”
“What kind of precautions?”
“I don’t know.” Her delicate brows drew together. “I shall alert the servants although most of them are new, and I would hate to frighten them unnecessarily.”
“I would consider a threat to your life necessary.”
She waved off his comment. “There has been no threat.”
“Nothing you know of. Your servants should be warned and aware of anything unusual.” He nodded. “What else?”
“I shall ask Giddings to check all the locks to ascertain that they are in good order and make certain all doors and windows are locked at night.”
“Excellent. And?”
“And?” She stared at him. “Isn’t that enough?”
“No.” He paused. “I would feel more confident if you allowed me to speak to your butler.”
“Will it make you leave?” she snapped.
“Yes.”
“Very well then.”
“And?”
“And . . .” She clenched her teeth. “I shall keep a revolver on the table at my bedside in the event I am accosted in the middle of the night. Are you satisfied now?”
“No.” It wasn’t nearly enough. “But it will have to do, I suppose.”
“Yes, it will.” She drew a deep breath. “I think this vague threat may well only exist in my father’s mind. Therefore, I think your concern is both unwarranted and an intrusion. However, I do appreciate it.” She started toward the door. “I shall send Giddings in to speak with you. As he and the housekeeper are interviewing servants within the hour, I would appreciate your being as succinct and quick as possible.”
“I have no desire to linger. I know my presence is not welcome.”
“No, my lord, it isn’t.” She reached the door and glanced back at him over her shoulder. “Did you expect me to be frightened?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Any danger I have been in passed with my husband’s death. In ten years, I have neither felt so safe nor been as safe as I am now.” Her firm gaze met his. “And I refuse ever to be frightened again.”
Olivia stepped out of the parlor and sagged against the wall beside the door. Dear Lord. She was shaking. How absurd. Certainly, this was the first time she had spoken to Sterling in ten years, but any feelings she once had for him had long since vanished. Now, there was only one thing she wanted from him, and when that was accomplished, she would have nothing more to do with him for the rest of her days.
Still, she was rather pleased with herself. In spite of the betrayal of her body, the shaking of her hands and odd weakness in her knees, she was confident he hadn’t had so much of a glimpse of anything but a woman in complete command of her faculties. A woman who did not need his assistance in any way.
The years had not changed him. He was as tall, his shoulders as broad, his hair and eyes as brown and rich as they had been a decade ago. If perhaps those eyes now carried a shadow of the losses he had known, if the broad stretch of his shoulders seemed somewhat straighter in an effort to carry the responsibilities he now bore, it did not make him seem older so much as stronger, solid, trustworthy. He appeared to be the kind of man one could turn to in times of crisis. She, of course, knew better.
She drew a calming breath, then another. If one looked with an unbiased, strictly rational eye, one might well understand Sterling’s actions—or more accurately lack of action—all those years ago. Her father had told her then what he had said to Sterling. That it was her desire to marry Rathbourne and that she wished never to see him again. Her father had further assured her that a
man with Sterling’s pride would never pursue a woman who didn’t want him. Even now, it was hard to accept that he had believed her father at all and harder still to realize that he had let her go without so much as a murmur of protest. He hadn’t even responded to her letters. The first, telling him everything and begging him to rescue her, sent before she’d realized that his interference would be at the risk of his life. But he’d obviously chosen to believe her father’s words over her own. Then, some months later, he’d failed to answer two more letters, those of a woman terrified and desperate who had not yet learned the lengths her husband would go to to protect his possessions.
Not that any of it mattered anymore. She’d just rid herself of one arrogant man who had ruled her life. While she was confident Sterling and her husband had nothing whatsoever in common overall, she was also sure the Earl of Wyldewood was every bit as certain that he and he alone knew what was best for anyone who might venture into his world. She had no intention of lingering in the earl’s world.
Still, for an arrogant man, he had appeared somewhat ill at ease. Guilt perhaps? She drew her brows together and thought for a moment. What else would have prompted him to come to see her? Perhaps her father had at last told Sterling the truth as to why she’d married Rathbourne. Perhaps, after ten years, he finally knew everything. Not that it mattered really. It didn’t change anything at all. She had only one desire when it came to the Earl of Wyldewood, and it certainly wasn’t to begin anew where they’d left off.
Giddings politely cleared his throat.
She did like how Giddings did that, subtly announcing his presence without overt intrusion. The previous butler, indeed the entire staff, while professional and efficient, had always seemed to carry as well the faintest hint of disdain. As if, in spite of their position as servants, they were somehow superior to her. Well, they were gone.
She straightened and nodded at the butler. “Lord Wyldewood would like to have a word with you.”
Concern flashed in the man’s eyes. “Have I done something to displease you, my lady?”
“Absolutely not. I am most happy with the way you have taken charge of the household. And Giddings, if I am ever unhappy with you, I shall tell you myself.” She cast him a reassuring smile, then sobered. “Are you aware of the nature of my late husband’s death?”
Giddings paused.
“Please, feel free to be candid.”
“I daresay everyone in London is aware of the nature of Lord Rathbourne’s demise.”
“It was rather juicy,” she murmured. “Lord Wyldewood, prompted by my father, has gotten it into his head that there is some threat to my security. It’s ridiculous, of course. Yet I suspect it will be easier to appease him than to argue with him. If you would be so good as to assure him that you, and the rest of the staff, will take every precaution, I would be most appreciative.”
Giddings nodded. “As you wish.”
“And then escort Lord Wyldewood to the door.”
“Of course, my lady.” Giddings nodded again and stepped into the parlor.
Olivia resisted the urge to listen at the door and headed back to her library. The whole idea of any danger was absurd. She’d never been as safe as she was now.
Even though it was rather, well, nice of him to have come to see her, it wasn’t at all significant. She had long thought of her life as being divided into three parts defined by Sterling: the time before she had loved him, the brief time she’d loved him, and the time after she had loved him. Now, she was embarking on a fourth part. And he would have nothing whatsoever to do with it.
Nor would love.
Three
Share the bed of Sterling Harrington.
From the secret list of desires of Olivia Rathbourne
Olivia distinctly remembered when she was a girl visiting her great-aunt Wilomena’s grand London house. She had been told in no uncertain terms she was not to pay any notice whatsoever to the scandalous painting of Great-aunt Wilomena that hung prominently on a wall in the back parlor. But the very moment she was told not to look, she found she could look at nothing else. She felt precisely the same way now.
Regardless of how ridiculous she considered Sterling’s concerns, each night since his visit she’d slept fitfully. Aware of every creak on the stair, every servant footfall, every noise made by a large house of indeterminate age that was scarcely noticed during daylight but took on frightening proportions in the black of the night. The day of his visit, she hadn’t given his comments more than a second thought until she’d retired for the night. Then it seemed she could hear nothing save mysterious, threatening sounds. In spite of her best intentions, she had allowed them to grow in significance until she had been compelled to investigate. And compelled too to rouse her newly hired lady’s maid to accompany her. There was, of course, nothing to be seen.
The second night she had again heard noises but thought it absurd to disturb anyone else’s rest. She’d crept downstairs wielding a heavy candlestick to find nothing out of order save a maid in the back hallway dallying with a footman. She’d been so relieved, she hadn’t made her presence known but had spoken to Giddings the next morning about the necessity of pointing out to the younger female servants that the possible consequences of such activities went far beyond dismissal. She had discarded the idea of a pistol beside her bed almost the moment it was out of her mouth and was glad. She would hate to shoot a servant inadvertently.
The third night, noises again drew her downstairs, much as she tried to tell herself there was nothing to worry about save an overly active imagination. And now, even as she slipped on her wrapper to investigate once again, she was more annoyed at her own vague sense of unease than anything substantial. And annoyed as well at the Earl of Wyldewood. The blame for her lack of rest these past nights could be placed squarely on his broad shoulders.
Even more annoying than her awareness of sounds in the night was her renewed awareness of him. She could no more stop thinking about Sterling than she could keep her gaze from drifting inevitably to the painting of Great-aunt Wilomena. Just like that scandalous painting, his presence claimed her attention whether she wished it to or not. Although, if truth were told, even in all this time, he had never entirely left her thoughts.
She’d cared enough about Sterling to mourn for him when his father had died and again when his wife had lost her life unexpectedly to a brief but fatal illness. While she’d tried, through the years, not to think of him at all, he’d intruded in her thoughts more often than she wished. Memories were triggered by nothing more significant than chance. The notes of a song brought a recollection of dancing in his arms. The scent of lilacs in the spring recalled walks in a garden. The sound of an unknown man’s laughter at a ball brought sharp, painful remembrances of his laugh, a sound that having once taken up residence remained stubbornly buried deep in her soul. She’d thought she’d become hardened to such unwelcome reminiscences, indeed the moment such an intrusion occurred, she would viciously cast it aside. Still, regardless of her resolve, he had lingered in the back of her mind. And no doubt always would until she had crossed him off her list once and for all.
She stepped out of her room and headed down the hall to the stairs. There was a lamp lit in the upstairs hall, just as there would be on the ground floor. A nod to security Giddings had said, pointing out that intruders would be less likely in a house that was at least partially lit. Every night she’d been grateful that at least she didn’t have to stumble along in complete darkness. She started down the stairs.
That Sterling’s intrusion now was in the flesh brought to mind more unwanted memories that she tried and failed to ignore. The look in his eyes when his gaze would meet hers, the way his dark brow would quirk in amusement at something she’d said, the feel of his lips claiming hers. And worse were the questions that haunted the back of her mind. What if things had been different? What if he had fought for her?
What if she had fought harder?
No, that reall
y wasn’t a question at all. She knew the answer. Sterling would be dead, and she would still have had to marry Rathbourne.
She reached the ground floor and paused. Someone had forgotten to light the lamp. She sighed in annoyance. It scarcely mattered, she supposed. As much as she’d never liked the house, she knew it well enough to find her way around in the dark. She stepped into the parlor and listened for a moment. There was obviously no one there. She moved back into the center hall and turned toward the library, only then noticing a faint hint of light showing from under the closed door. She had been in the library earlier in the evening. Obviously, Giddings or another servant had failed to extinguish the lamp. That was the problem with new servants still learning the ways of a household. She sighed again and stepped to the door. She pushed it open, and at once the light died.
What on earth—
A large hand clamped over her mouth, and she was jerked back against a hard body. Her heart leapt to her throat and terror twisted her stomach. God help her, Sterling was right! She struggled futilely against whoever held her in his grip. The callused hand over her mouth smelled vaguely of garlic and onions. Fear surged through her, and she fought harder, but her arms were pinned. She flailed her legs, trying to kick at her captor, and was rewarded with a grunt and a muttered curse. Across the room a male voice muttered something in a heavy accent that she didn’t catch. In some part of her mind not overcome with terror, it struck her as odd that a heavily accented voice could be indecipherable even if one understood both the speaker’s native tongue and the one he was attempting.
Her captor dragged her a few feet and thrust her down onto a chair. The moment his hand slipped from her mouth, she sucked in a deep breath and screamed. Another curse rang out. A hard blow landed against the back of her head. Blinding pain shot through her.
Desires of a Perfect Lady Page 3