“You have nowhere else to turn!” He winced at the stricken look that flashed through her eyes. “I am sorry, Olivia, I should not—”
“No apology is necessary.” She shrugged in an offhand manner. “You were simply stating a fact.”
“Still, I should not have . . .” He drew a deep breath. “At least allow me to investigate the possibility of procuring this jar without travel to Egypt.”
She raised her chin defiantly. “I have to do this myself.”
“It doesn’t specify that in the will. It simply says you must complete the collections.” He paused. “But, of course, we don’t know everything that is in the will as you have not seen fit to read it.”
“I will read it.”
“And unless it specifically requires you to personally acquire this item, there’s no need for you to—”
“I have to go!”
“No, you don’t!”
“Yes, I do!”
“Why?” He glared at her. “Tell me why!”
“Because . . .”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t breathe here!” She flung the words at him, downed the whisky in her glass, slapped the glass onto a table, and paced the room. “I cannot breathe, and I long for air! I feel as though I have worn a corset entirely too small for the last ten years. And finally, finally, the stays were loosened for a brief moment until I learned the terms of that bloody will, and now they have tightened around me again. And I cannot breathe!”
He stared at her.
“I have been as much a part of my late husband’s collections as if I were enclosed in one of those glass cases in his treasure room. The only difference between me and one of his artifacts is that I, on occasion, when he wished it, have been taken out to display in public. My life has not been my own, and I want it returned to me. I have earned it!” She turned on her heel, away from him, her shoulders rising and falling again as if she struggled to regain control. At last she drew a deep breath and turned back to him. “The only thing that sustained me, sustained my soul if you will, through the years of my marriage was a list I kept in secret of the things I would do when I was free. Without the inheritance that is rightfully mine, I cannot accomplish any of them. I can only continue to live the life I have lived. Without hope.” She met his gaze directly. “Without breath.” Her hands curled into fists by her sides. “With or without you, I will not live the rest of my days that way.”
His heart twisted. “Olivia.”
“I have asked for your help once again.” Her voice was cold. “It was not an easy request to make. Obviously, I was wrong to think I could depend on you. I should have learned my lesson. You failed me—”
“Very well then.” He made the decision the moment the words left his mouth. He started toward the door. “I’ll make the arrangements at once.”
She scoffed. “I scarcely think—”
He turned back to her. “Know this, Olivia, dull or not, the Earl of Wyldewood does not fail in his responsibilities. As for adventures . . .” Without thinking he moved to her, pulled her into his arms, and stared into her startled green eyes. “The only adventure of my life was you.” His gaze slipped to her lips, then back to her eyes. He ached to kiss her with a longing suppressed for a decade. But now was not the time. “And it did not end well.”
Abruptly, he released her, turned, and strode from the room. And wondered even as the door snapped shut behind him what was on her list and what he had gotten himself into.
And realized as well that whatever the cost would be worth it.
Olivia stared at the closed door. Good God what just happened? She crossed the room and refilled her glass with a shaky hand. It was entirely too early in the day for spirits. Regardless, she took a long swallow.
He had almost kissed her! The look, the desire, in his eyes was unmistakable. It had been a very long time since she had been kissed. It had been a very long time since she’d been touched. Not that she wasn’t eternally grateful.
She had learned quickly after her marriage that her husband was only interested in the more intimate aspects of wedlock if she resisted his embraces. It took less than six months for her to understand that resistance to his advances was futile and only flamed his desire. He liked nothing better than to force her submission. To take what he wanted using whatever means he wished. And dare she ever forget, she had the scars to remind her. Once she had become complacent and accepting of her fate, he no longer wanted her in his bed. She had often wondered if he realized that was her victory.
In the beginning, she had hoped telling him she was not the virginal perfection he had thought would dissuade him from marriage altogether. But it had done nothing save enrage him, and he had beaten her for the first time on the night of their wedding.
Sterling was, in truth, the only man who had ever really kissed her. Her late husband’s tastes did not lie in that direction, and for that too she had been grateful. Long after Sterling had ignored her pleas for help, the memory of his lips on hers, or the touch of his hand, or the love in his eyes had provided a secret source of strength. Until those memories had faded and, with them, the feelings she’d had for him. By then, she’d found her own strength within herself, and it was no longer necessary to cling to her memories of him.
Even so, there had been moments, through the years, when she had lain awake at night and wondered if she would have enjoyed the relations between a man and a woman if she’d been with a man who considered her more then merely his property. If she had been with someone she loved, someone who loved her. If she had been with Sterling. After all, it had been somewhat pleasurable—or at least one could tell there was a great deal of potential for pleasure—if a bit awkward, the lone time she had shared his bed. When she had thought she’d spend every night for the rest of her life lying in his arms.
Indeed, wasn’t sharing his bed at the top of her list? She sipped her whisky thoughtfully. She had no intention of losing her heart to him again. She’d done so once, and once was quite enough. That door was closed forever. But sharing his bed, feeling the warmth of his naked body wrapped around hers, the intimacy of his breath mingling with hers, their bodies joined as one . . . She shook her head to clear it. No doubt the thoughts filling her head were at least in part attributable to the whisky. As was the fact that she’d told him about her list. She groaned to herself. She wasn’t sure why she’d blurted that out. She’d never planned to tell him, never planned to tell anyone. It had been her secret for so long. Very nearly the only thing that was hers and hers alone.
At least he had agreed to accompany her to Egypt. Time enough to consider his seduction later. Or, given the look in his eye, hers. Perhaps when they had completed all three collections . . . Regardless, it would be her decision and hers alone.
Still, restraint might be rather more difficult than she thought. If Sterling had kissed her today, she was fairly certain she would have kissed him back.
Sterling drummed his fingers on his desk and stared out the nearest window at the pleasant day beyond the glass.
Egypt. Of all the places in the world, why Egypt? He would do damn near anything for Livy. Give up his fortune. Lay down his life. Even, apparently, he grimaced at the thought, travel to Egypt.
His fears were absurd. He was well aware of that. They were the fears of a small child. Still, when he so much as considered a trip to Egypt, he felt rather like a small child. For the Earl of Wyldewood, it was not an acceptable feeling. He should have faced those fears long ago, but then there had been no need to. It hadn’t been the least bit difficult to avoid travel to Egypt.
He knew very well when it had started. His father had had a passion for the study of artifacts and ancient man. Indeed, Sterling’s seat on the Antiquities Society Board had been his father’s before him. While everyone in the family had always suspected that Charles Harrington had a secret longing for the type of adventures two of his sons would grow up to engage in, he had never truly had the opportunity. Sterling’s father�
��s position as the only heir to the title, then his duties once he had inherited, had prohibited him from dashing off to seek ancient treasure in the farthest reaches of the world as his sons, Quint and Nate had done. However much he would have wished otherwise, Father had been a responsible sort. As was his eldest son.
The previous earl had lived his adventures vicariously through the guests who frequented the family’s dinner table. Often, those were men engaged in the pursuit of artifacts, the bits and pieces left behind by long-lost civilizations. Sterling distinctly remembered one such gentleman. He could not recall either the man’s face or his name, but his hand played a prominent role in Sterling’s nightmares for years. Or rather what was left of his hand.
Even though children of the household rarely dined with the adults otherwise, his father firmly believed these antiquities hunters, as well as explorers and adventurers, provided the sort of firsthand education that could be found neither in books nor at the hands of whatever governess was in residence. He had insisted on his children’s attendance from an early age. In hindsight, Sterling believed it was a scheme on the part of his father to develop in his sons the same love of the ancient that he had. It had certainly proved successful with Sterling’s brothers.
While Sterling could not remember his exact age, surely no more than seven or eight, young enough that his brothers were still not of an age to attend the dinner, every other detail remained as distinct in his mind as though it were yesterday. The guest on this particular night was not especially remarkable, aside from his hand. Indeed, there had been any number of others far more colorful in manner and appearance. But perhaps it was because he had struck Sterling as not the least bit out of the ordinary that his story had had such a profound effect. Regardless, when one has a treasure hunter with only two fingers on one hand to dinner, and one discusses his many and varied adventures, inevitably the question of how said fingers were lost tends to surface.
While on an expedition in Egypt, the gentleman had reached into his baggage to grab, not whatever it was he had wanted, but instead had pulled out a small, venomous snake—an asp or viper or something of the sort. The man was annoyingly vague on that point, not that it really mattered. Regardless the creature had promptly bitten him between the first and second fingers of his hand.
The adventurer had obviously told this story many times, for he embellished it with dramatic pauses and grand theatrical gestures. An accomplished storyteller, he held the gathering around the table in the palm of his good hand. He explained that he knew his life was in mortal danger if he did not act quickly. As he would rather lose several fingers than breathe his last, he immediately grabbed a conveniently close knife that he kept for protection against thieves, although it apparently did not deter snakes. Without so much as a second thought, he chopped off half his hand diagonally, losing two fingers and his thumb. This account was accompanied by a slashing gesture and an unexpected thud on the table with his fisted whole hand so hard as to rattle the glasses. Mother uttered an inadvertent scream, Father gasped, and Sterling’s heart lodged firmly in his throat.
Worse, the snake made a complete escape and slithered off into the desert, no doubt to spread the word among his fellow reptiles as to the tasty nature of Englishmen.
The adventurer had joked that he was grateful it had been his left hand as he favored his right. Still, watching him maneuver his flatware, one was not convinced. Dinner continued on uneventfully after that, but Sterling never forgot either the story or the hand.
From that point on, the future earl was convinced Egypt was teeming with snakes lying in wait for the next unsuspecting visitor. And everything he saw or read about Egypt only confirmed that suspicion. It seemed that nearly every Egyptian artifact had snakes depicted in some manner in golden armbands or headpieces or carved on sarcophagi. And didn’t Plutarch write that Cleopatra tested the venom of any number of deadly Egyptian snakes on condemned prisoners before selecting the type of asp she would employ for her own death? Sterling had tried to overcome this absurd fear with knowledge, occasionally perusing a volume on Egyptian native species, but even as he had grown older, it had not helped. Nor did it matter. He had no need to visit Egypt. But even at the age of thirty, he could not rid himself of the irrational conviction that Egypt was a land filled with snakes that were not to be trusted.
Fortunately, no one else was aware of this childhood fear. The Earl of Wyldewood was not expected to be afraid of anything. And the topic of Egyptian snakes did not often come up in polite conversation. His brothers would have delighted in it, as it seemed very nearly every time they had related a tale of their adventures in Egypt, a snake had made an appearance. Either curled in a shoe or hidden in a pot or slithering across their path.
“My lord?”
Oddly enough, while he was not fond of snakes in general, they did not strike him with the same ridiculous terror he experienced in regard to Egyptian snakes. Why, he had encountered snakes on walks in the country, but even the venomous adder, while known to be deadly on occasion, was still a proper British snake.
“Lord Wyldewood?”
Sterling jerked his attention to his secretary, standing patiently in front of his desk. “Yes?”
“My apologies, my lord,” Edward said. “You asked to see this accounting from the estate manager when it arrived.”
“Yes, of course.” Sterling took the papers and scanned them. At first glance, they appeared in order. He would study them more thoroughly later. It was simply part and parcel of the myriad of responsibilities that demanded his attention each and every day.
“If there is nothing else . . .”
“Unfortunately . . .” Certainly information had not eased his fears in the past. Still, he was the Earl of Wyldewood now and whether he wished to or not, he was going to Egypt. Land of snakes. “I know there are several books on the shelves here somewhere that detail the fauna of Egypt. If you would locate those for me.”
“At once, sir.” Edward hesitated. “Did you wish for information as to flora as well?”
“No, that will not be necessary. To be more precise, I am interested in creatures of a reptilian nature.” He winced to himself. “Specifically snakes.”
“I see.” Edward paused. “Did you wish for information on crocodiles as well, sir?”
“Crocodiles?” Sterling drew his brows together. “Why on earth would I be interested in crocodiles?”
“I have no idea, sir, but then I don’t know why you have an interest in snakes either. And as crocodiles are reptiles as well to be found in Egypt, I simply thought perhaps—”
“Quite right.” Sterling sighed. Life might have been easier for the son of a devoted antiquities scholar if that long-ago dinner guest had lost a hand to a crocodile. At least crocodiles didn’t lurk unexpectedly in one’s shoes. “No, just snakes, Edward.” He blew a long breath. “It seems I am to be traveling to Egypt as soon as arrangements can be made. I need you to investigate the most expedient means of getting there. We need to travel to Egypt and return as quickly as possible.” He thought for a moment. “I need as well to know where to find a Sir Lawrence Willoughby, reported to be living in Cairo. I expect the Antiquities Society can provide an address.”
“At once, sir.” Edward turned away, then turned back. “First the snakes, sir?”
“Yes, first the snakes.” Sterling thought for a moment. “And if you would also inform my brothers and Lady Wyldewood that I should like to meet with them here in the library before dinner.”
“And Lady Regina as well?”
His sister, Reggie, was eighteen and enjoying the festivities of her first London season. As his trip would not inconvenience her, he doubted she would be at all interested. Besides, no one especially appreciated being called to the earl’s library for a family meeting as it usually involved chastisement of some kind. Still, she would be annoyed not to be included. “You may tell her she is invited but add that the matter does not especially concern her. No doubt she w
ill be delighted at the reprieve.”
“No doubt, sir.” Edward smiled and moved to the nearest bookshelf to begin his search.
Edward Dennison was extremely competent and most efficient. And no one knew the affairs of the Earl of Wyldewood better than he. Sterling could rest easy knowing that while he was away, Edward would still be at his post. Although he had more on his mind these days than the business of his employer.
When Gabriella had entered their lives, so too had her companion, Miss Florence Henry. While the report of their first encounter did not seem to indicate romance, romance had indeed blossomed between them. She and Edward planned to marry as soon as possible after Gabriella and Nate wed. Love at Harrington House was certainly in the air. Perhaps, it was a good sign.
“How is Miss Henry, Edward?”
Edward looked away from the shelves he’d been perusing and grinned. “Quite well, thank you, sir.”
“And the plans for your wedding?”
“They have been eclipsed somewhat by the plans for Miss Montini’s.” Edward shrugged in a good-natured manner. Edward’s demeanor overall had mellowed since he had lost his heart to Miss Henry, who was, from all accounts, apparently his equal in terms of competence and efficiency. It was a match made in heaven, as they said. Still, Miss Henry’s charms obviously extended well beyond her capable nature as evidenced by the look in Edward’s eyes whenever he spoke of her. “Which is as it should be, sir. Besides, it will not be more than a few months, and I have always thought a long engagement to be beneficial, in a strictly sensible sense.”
“Really?” Sterling studied the older man who was, in many ways, as much a friend as employee. “I didn’t think sensibility had anything to do with matters of the heart.”
“Yes, well, I did not say it was easy. Merely sensible.” Edward grinned. “One should indeed be careful what one wishes for, sir.”
Sterling laughed. And what did he wish for? What had he always wished for, in the back of his mind, in the long-locked recesses of his heart? The opportunity to redeem himself? To prove to Livy he could be depended upon? A second chance to rescue the fair damsel and win her heart?
Desires of a Perfect Lady Page 8