And nothing.
“Lady Rathbourne?”
It was the strangest sensation, as if she were underwater, swimming upward toward the surface. Not that Olivia had had much experience with swimming beyond a few occasions as a girl in a lake on her father’s estate. Still, she had rather enjoyed it, and it was on her list. Yes, toward the top: swim in warm seas, preferably naked. Odd, though, that she would be swimming in the dark. And it was extremely dark. Where on earth was she?
A sharp, pungent smell assailed her nostrils.
“Not smelling salts, you bloody idiot,” a man said sharply. “She’s been hit, she hasn’t fainted.”
Her eyes snapped open, and she jerked upright. Pain stabbed through her head. She groaned and clapped a hand to the back of her head. “Good God . . . what . . .”
She was reclined on the sofa. Giddings knelt beside her. Two of the newly hired footman and her new maid—what was her name? Ah yes—Mariah—stood surrounding her, concern in their eyes.
She felt a knot at the back of her head and winced. The last thing she remembered . . . She drew her brows together and tried to gather her thoughts. “I heard voices. Someone grabbed me . . .” She sucked in a hard breath. “What happened?”
“We heard you scream, my lady,” Giddings said, and nodded toward the two footman. “They came to your assistance at once and scared the intruders off. Unfortunately, the brigands managed to make their escape.”
“We are sorry, my lady,” the taller footman said. “We were unable to catch them.”
“We were investigating a disturbance in the garden,” the other said quickly.
“What kind of disturbance?” Olivia asked, a dozen dire possibilities running through her head.
“Lord help us all,” Mariah muttered under her breath.
The footmen exchanged glances. The taller one, Terrance, if she recalled his name correctly, looked somewhat abashed. “We heard dogs from the next garden and thought there might be intruders.”
“I gather you found nothing?” she said.
“No, my lady.” The other footman, Joseph, shook his head.
“I see.” She studied the footmen. She’d thought when she’d met them they were rather large and burly for footman, but now she was grateful. The terror she had felt had abated, but knowing that there were two men in her household more than capable of pursuing villains in the night further eased her mind. She glanced at Giddings. “I thought there was a third new footman?”
“Yes, my lady, Thomas,” Giddings said slowly. “He has gone—”
“To fetch me.” A firm, familiar voice sounded from the doorway.
Olivia’s jaw clenched. Sterling strode into the room, Thomas a few steps behind. Olivia started to get to her feet, but her head throbbed, and she sank back down on the sofa. “What are you doing here?” She looked at Giddings. “Why did you send for Lord Wyldewood?”
Giddings drew himself up indignantly. “I did nothing of the sort, Lady Rathbourne. I sent for a physician.”
“I don’t need a physician.” She waved off his comment. “Aside from an aching head, I’m perfectly all right. Then who sent—”
“They were under orders to let me know if anything happened.” Sterling knelt beside her, his gaze searched hers. “You’re not the least bit all right. You’ve had a nasty knock on the head.”
“I’m fine.” She glared at him. “Why would footmen in my employ fetch you?”
“Because they’re in my employ as well.” Sterling straightened, nodded at the trio, and they started toward the door.
“Stay right where you are,” Olivia said sharply, and the men stopped short. “I insist on an explanation. Giddings?”
“Lord Wyldewood recommended the footmen and gave them excellent references.” Giddings aimed an indignant look at the footmen. The butler was far too well trained to regard the earl in that manner. “Given Lord Wyldewood’s concerns, it seemed an excellent idea to hire footmen more substantial in nature than might usually be expected.”
“Yes, of course.” It did make a great deal of sense. Still, it was most annoying. She glanced at Giddings. “Were you aware when you hired them that they were in the earl’s employ?”
Giddings huffed. “Absolutely not, my lady. I would never have condoned such a thing. Had I so much as suspected, I would have come to you at once.”
She nodded and turned her attention to Terrance. “So, I am paying your wages as well as Lord Wyldewood?”
He nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
“Do you wish to continue in my employ?”
Terrance glanced at Sterling.
“They were to remain here for as long as it was deemed necessary,” Sterling said smoothly.
“For as long as you deemed it necessary, you mean.”
Sterling’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Yes.”
“I see.” Given tonight’s disturbance, she would prefer the men stayed on, at least for the immediate future. “If the three of you are to remain in my household, I would expect that first and foremost you would answer to me and me alone. If that is acceptable to all of you, I will discuss with Giddings raising your wages to compensate for whatever Lord Wyldewood has been paying you.” Her gaze slid to Sterling. “Such payment is to desist at once. I can well afford to pay my own servants.”
“They’re not exactly servants,” Sterling said in an offhand manner. “Their training is more in the line of . . . protection, shall we say, rather than the duties of footmen.”
“Imagine my surprise.” She considered the trio. She should have realized at once that they were not ordinary footmen. In addition to their appearance, they weren’t very good footmen. “Regardless, especially in light of tonight’s events, I should like you to stay on.”
Almost as one, the men’s gazes shifted to Sterling. He gave them a barely perceptible nod. Olivia clenched her jaw.
“Thank you, my lady,” Terrance said.
“Now, if you would all take your leave, I should like to have a few words with Lord Wyldewood.”
“Yes, my lady,” Giddings said. “When the physician—”
“When he arrives, tell him I am perfectly all right and send him on his way.”
Giddings glanced at the earl. Blast it all, if one more man looked to Sterling for approval of her orders, she would discharge each and every one of them.
Sterling raised a brow.
She blew a resigned breath. “Tell him if I feel unwell in the morning, I shall send for him.”
“Yes, my lady.” Giddings nodded and shepherded the others out of the room, closing the door behind them.
“I don’t recall your being so stubborn,” Sterling said mildly.
“I don’t recall your being so arrogant and overbearing,” she snapped.
He shrugged. “It seems we have both changed through the years.”
She got to her feet, anger sweeping aside the ache in her head. “You had no right to place your . . . your bodyguards in my household.”
He nodded. “Perhaps not.”
“Perhaps?” She glared at him. “Perhaps?”
“Perhaps.” He studied her calmly. “I didn’t think you took this threat seriously. Nor did I think you would take any precautions.”
“I took precautions!”
“Oh?” His brow rose again in a superior manner that made her want to throw something at him. “What might those have been?”
“I instructed Giddings to make certain the house was locked and a light was left on during the night and . . .” It did sound rather unsubstantial even to her ears. “And . . .” She gestured aimlessly. “And other things.”
“And they were apparently most effective.”
“They were adequate.”
“Did you put a pistol by the side of your bed?”
“That was absurd, and you well know it. I could have easily shot a servant or . . .” She smirked. “An unwanted earl.”
“Or prevented someone from bashing you over the head.”
She ignored him and narrowed her gaze. “This is none of your concern.”
“Oh, but it is. Your father made it my concern when he came to me. My responsibility as it were. As I was confident you would not do what was necessary to provide for your protection, I took it upon myself to see to your safety.”
She stared in disbelief. “My God, you are arrogant!”
His gaze met hers directly. “I am the Earl of Wyldewood. I take my responsibilities seriously.”
“I am not your responsibility!”
“When your father—”
“Regardless of what you think of as your responsibility, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Yes, I can see that.” He paused. “And how is your head?”
“Fine!” Her fists clenched, and she made a concerted effort to relax her hands. She hadn’t kept her emotions under control for ten years, hadn’t survived one arrogant man for a decade, to allow another to waltz back into her life and commandeer it. She forced a measure of calm to her voice. “I do not mean to appear ungrateful for your assistance.”
The hint of a smile touched the corners of his mouth. “And yet you do.”
“My apologies, my lord. I can only attribute my rude behavior to the lateness of the hour and the ache in my head.”
“As well as the fact that you would prefer never to lay eyes on me again.”
She shrugged. “I thought that was understood. However, I am most appreciative, and you have my heartfelt thanks. I shudder to think . . .” At once the terror of being grabbed by a strange man in the night in her own home swept through her, and she shivered. “What might have happened if your men had not been here.” She drew a deep breath. “Indeed, I am most grateful.”
He nodded. “I am glad I could be of assistance.”
“Now.” Her gaze narrowed. “If you would be so good as to get out.”
“So much for gratitude,” he murmured.
“What do you want from me, my lord?” At once the tenuous hold she had on her temper shattered. “I have thanked you. Perhaps not as graciously as I should have, but, given the circumstances, even you can see that is understandable.” She straightened her shoulders. “I don’t need you, or my father, to come to my aid. I am not a fair maiden in a children’s story in need of rescue. Once, perhaps, I might have needed assistance, but you’re entirely right when you say we have both changed. I have changed a great deal. I am not the girl you once knew.”
“No,” he said slowly. “I can see that.”
“Don’t look at me as if it’s a great shame that I am not the same.”
“I think it might be,” he said quietly.
“We all change, my lord.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Time and events mold us, form us, shape us.”
“Certainly. It’s just that I remember—”
“The memories of one’s youth are no more than illusions. Reality bends and shapes us with the passage of years and the experiences of life. I daresay neither of us is as the other remembers; nor would we probably wish to be. Illusions are as insubstantial as dreams in the night, with no more significance.”
“Still, it is rather disheartening to see your illusions shattered.”
“There are all sorts of illusions in this world. Most deserve to be shattered. It is far less painful to face the reality of a situation than to cherish what is, in truth, only imaginary.” She met his gaze. “Reality is difficult enough to accept, but accept it one must. One cannot survive this world by placing one’s faith in illusion, in things that don’t exist.”
He stared at her for a long silent moment, and for the briefest fraction of a second, regret, stark and powerful and unyielding, ripped through her.
“I apologize for my intrusion, Lady Rathbourne,” he said coolly. “I shall not bother you again.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She paused. “And again, you have my gratitude for your foresight.”
He started to go, then hesitated. “If you need further assistance—”
“I won’t,” she said firmly.
“And I suspect I am the last person you would accept it from at any rate.”
She stared at him for a long moment, a dozen comments running through her head. Things she had wanted to say to him for years. Words she had practiced and rehearsed in her mind, late in the night, when the dark had eased the reins she held on her thoughts and emotions and desires. She forced a tight smile. “You’re right, my lord, as always.”
He nodded and took his leave.
Her heart twisted in spite of her resolve. Why oh why had he insinuated himself back into her life? And why did the very sight of him, the sound of his voice, the look in his eye resurrect memories she’d long thought were buried as deep as her husband? Memories that carried with them the pale suggestion of feelings long ago set aside.
At least he wouldn’t be back. She had no doubt on that score. One thing about Sterling obviously hadn’t changed. His pride would never allow him to pursue a woman who didn’t want him. Her father had used that to his advantage, now it was her turn. She had made it perfectly clear she had no interest in seeing him again, ever. It would be best for her, best as well for him.
And if that meant she couldn’t cross him off her list, so be it. It was just a list after all. Not the least bit important anymore. Not now when the entire world was open to her.
Now, she was free.
Sterling poured his second glass of brandy or possibly his third, he wasn’t sure, and replaced the decanter on the side table. Even from across the library, he could see the three letters laid out on his desk. Not that he needed to see them to know they were there, waiting to at last be opened. As they had waited for a decade.
It had been remarkably easy to locate them. Indeed, he knew exactly where they were. Most of his correspondence was appropriately filed by his secretary, Edward Dennison. But the letters from Olivia had been pushed to the back of one of his shirt drawers, much as thoughts of her had been pushed to the back of his mind. Still, just as with his memories, he knew they were there.
He’d been tempted on occasion to open the letters; but as time went on, it seemed less and less important to do so. So they had remained in the back of the drawer. Neither forgotten nor acknowledged. Odd, that he’d never seriously considered throwing them in the fire.
Now, they sat on his desk and beckoned to him. It was absurd not to open them. It had been ten years since Olivia had written the letters. Whatever they said scarcely mattered. Life had gone on, hers and his. Regardless of what she’d written, there was nothing to be done about it.
Without realizing he had taken so much as a step, he found himself beside the desk, the brandy in his glass half-gone, staring at the letters. He had arranged them precisely, side by side as if neatness made a difference. They were addressed to him in her fine hand. A bit bolder than was appropriate for a female perhaps yet still entirely feminine. He sank down in his chair, his gaze never leaving the letters. He had always thought her notes were in the form of an apology, a request for forgiveness he’d had no desire to grant. Looking at them now, he thought his name appeared written in haste. Or perhaps desperation.
He’d heard the rumors about Rathbourne through the years. The viscount had been known to be ruthless in the pursuit of those artifacts or priceless pieces of art or antiquities he collected. And ruthless as well in his protection of that which he considered his. The man didn’t even display his acquisitions as other collectors did but kept them hidden away in a treasure room for his enjoyment alone. Had Olivia been another treasure for him? Nothing more than a possession? A perfect specimen? A perfect wife?
He reached for the first letter, but his hand hesitated over it. Was it guilt that stilled his hand? Or was it fear? He’d never thought of himself as being afraid of anything. But this . . . He’d always believed she had abandoned him, that he had been the injured party. Now, it appeared he was wrong. No wonder she wanted nothing to do with him. Hadn’t
he felt the same before her father had confessed his misdeeds?
If these letters were a cry for help, unheeded and ignored, then he did indeed owe her far more than mere protection against those who had killed her husband. He owed her a debt he could never repay. He owed her a life.
Sterling drew a deep breath and picked up the first of the three letters.
Four
Disregard convention.
From the secret list of desires of Olivia Rathbourne
Olivia resisted the need to scream in frustration. And resisted as well the desire to wrap her fingers around the neck of her late husband’s solicitor and squeeze the very life out of him just as she now felt her dead husband’s hands reaching out from the grave to squeeze the life out of her. Still, she would not reveal so much as a hint of her turmoil to the wretched man who had worked—who still apparently worked—for the late, unlamented, Viscount Rathbourne.
She drew a calming breath. “As I’m certain you can understand, Mr. Hollis, the specifics of my husband’s will come as something of a surprise. And, as it strikes me as somewhat complicated, would you be so good as to repeat your explanation?” What she truly needed was a moment to gather her wits, to maintain her composure. She forced a polite smile. “I am but a woman in mourning after all.”
“I had hoped to see your father here for the reading of his lordship’s will.” Mr. Hollis’s brows drew together in a disapproving manner. “It is customary, in circumstances such as these, to have a male relation in attendance for guidance.”
Still, it would be lovely to hear Mr. Hollis gasp for breath as his face turned red then purple. “My father and I are estranged, Mr. Hollis. Nor was he especially close to my husband.” She shrugged in her best helpless-female manner. “I fear you shall have to deal with me alone.”
“Very well.” Mr. Hollis folded his hands on top of the papers on her husband’s—her—desk and considered her as if trying to decide how simplistic and childlike to make his explanation. “As you know, Viscount Rathbourne was an avid collector. Upon his death, there were still several of his collections he considered incomplete. The terms of his will are in regard to three such collections. My understanding is that through the years, he was unable to acquire the items required to complete those collections. Until such time as you are able to complete the collections, the monies and property that comprise his lordship’s estate will remain under the administration of myself and this firm.” He paused. “Furthermore, it is stipulated that said collections bear his name regardless of whether you retain ownership, sell, or donate the collections.”
Desires of a Perfect Lady Page 4