* * *
Mrs. Pier entered Olivia’s room, her face a lecture. “Well, Miss Olivia, I am hurt. His lordship arrives, and you did not trust me to know about it.” Sir Roderick had hired the older woman shortly after Olivia’s wedding, and over the years Mildred had been her truest friend. The scholars had taken the news of Walgrave’s return in stride; very little ruffled their feathers—or registered at all, if it was not related to their research. Olivia knew that Mildred Pier would require an explanation. And yet, she could not give her the truth—not all of it.
Sitting at her dressing table, Olivia raised her hands in helplessness. “He insisted no one was to know, and I was afraid if I objected he might discover my trips to London.”
“He’ll find out soon enough, what with your novel at every bookseller’s stall in the country.” Mildred helped Olivia step into her walking dress.
“Yes, but I’ve wanted to find the best time to tell him.” Olivia tightened the drawstrings around her bodice.
“The best time to tell him is before he finds it out on his own.” Mildred adjusted Olivia’s fichu. “I’d confess, and soon.”
“To what should she confess?” Harrison stood in the doorway between Olivia’s room and his father’s.
Mildred, turning red, looked at Olivia with apology in her eyes, and quickly excused herself.
“One of those secrets you cannot trust me to keep?” Harrison lounged against her wardrobe. “Have you been selling off the family jewels, the silver? I saw what you did with the trees.”
“I wrote to you about the trees, and I refuse to explain it again.” She searched his face for evidence of anger, but found none. “If you wish to know, ask Herder.”
“Then what secret does Mildred fear I will discover?” His face was placid but curious.
“I suppose it will reconcile you somewhat to our parting ways.” She breathed deeply, calming the fast beat of her heart. But whether her heart beat fast from the anxiety of telling him or from remembered passion, she couldn’t tell.
“I wait on bated breath.”
She looked up to see Harrison holding his breath, cheeks puffed out, face contorted like a five-year-old. She began to laugh. Letting his breath go in a giant swoosh, Harrison laughed with her.
“Now, what secret am I to keep for you today?” Harrison’s voice was gentle, even kind.
“When you didn’t come home, I grew . . .” She searched for the word.
“Argumentative? Angry? Anxious? Apoplectic? Apprehensive? Should I move on to the Bs?”
She knew he was trying to make it easier, and of all her secrets, this one wasn’t all that significant, at least to him.
“I grew restive. I had just read Matthew Lewis’s The Monk, and I wanted to see if I could write a novel that outdid him, as he had outdone Ann Radcliffe.”
“Ah, my bloodthirsty girl, should I fear you will murder me in my bed? Or perhaps will you run mad with a woolen hat and torture the servants? We have that tower, perhaps you might throw me off next time I frustrate you.”
Olivia knew he was only teasing, so she continued. “The scholars ensured every detail was apt, and Mr. Bentley published it several months ago. Already it’s gone into a second edition. Apparently, there is money to be made in gothic novels with a bit of gore.”
“What is the title? Perhaps I’ve heard of it. Palmersfield and Capersby—you remember them—are great fans of a new one called The Deserted Wife.”
She waited, watching his expression shift with recognition.
“It’s you. The lady author of The Deserted Wife.” He laughed until he turned red. It wasn’t the response she’d expected. “Lord, you must have hated me.”
“You’ve read it?”
“In a single night.”
“You aren’t angry?”
“How could I be angry? I couldn’t put it down. My valet, Walker, had to bring our meals to my rooms.”
“Your valet read it as well?”
“One volume behind me all the way. My dear, it was brilliant! I especially liked the section where the offending husband was torn apart by vultures . . .” His face grew introspective. “Oh. I suppose you meant that particular punishment for me.”
“It’s a novel, not real life. However the book began, in the end, the characters behaved according to their own logic.” She stared at him for some minutes. “You honestly aren’t worried my novel will damage your career, if my identity becomes known?”
“Perhaps it might if it hadn’t been such a good book. But everyone in the ton has been desperate to know who the author might be. You’ll see: I’m going to introduce you to everyone as the famous author of the most talked-about novel of the year.”
“Miss Livvy, you are needed.” Mrs. Pier stood at the door. It was unclear to Harrison whether Olivia was truly needed or Pier had decided the time for their conversation was over.
“It seems our conversation will need to wait once more.” Olivia rose.
“Perhaps I can assist you,” Harrison offered.
“As you wish.”
In the corridor outside the library, Quinn pointed an angry finger at Martinbrook. “I’ve told you time and again not to use my telescope.”
“Gentlemen, what is your dispute?” Olivia spoke softly, but the men immediately included her in their debate.
“Martinbrook has tampered with my telescope again.”
Martinbrook sighed audibly. “Quinn told me I might use it in the mornings when he is still asleep after his nighttime vigils. I need it to observe whether the land reveals any barrows from our ancient Pict ancestors.” He rubbed the back of his hand across his nose, leaving a black smudge behind.
Harrison looked at the antiquarian’s hands, both showing the dirty remains of his excavations, as did his shirt and trousers, while Quinn, the astronomer, was perfectly clean, his cravat a crisp white, his clothes recently laundered and pressed.
“I did agree to let you use it, but a telescope is a delicate instrument. You can’t expect it to work properly if the gears are jammed with jam! Elderberry, if I’m correct.”
“It’s a very fine jam, one of Cook’s best batches.”
“Miss Olivia, Martinbrook would be perfectly happy as one of those medieval hermits who lived their lives at the top of a pole, never bathing and sitting in their own excrement.”
“Well, from a pole I’d have an excellent vantage point to observe the lay of the land.”
The men fell into their argument once more.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Olivia waited for the men to heed her. “As I remember, the telescope was purchased for Dr. Quinn with monies from the fellowship fund.” Quinn beamed in victory. “As a result, we must maintain that equipment for the benefit of all.” Quinn’s face fell.
The men’s voices rose once more.
“I believe the solution”—she looked to Harrison and grinned mischievously—“would be to let his lordship make the determination. Lord Walgrave?”
The men turned to Walgrave, each expanding on his own position in louder and louder terms. When Walgrave looked for Olivia, she was gone.
* * *
Walgrave caught up with Olivia in the library, where she was sitting at his desk in the dark corner. “You abandoned me.”
“It’s hardly abandonment when it’s your estate. Adjudicating the disagreements of the scholars is your obligation.” Olivia finished a letter and set it aside.
“Are they always that difficult?” Harrison picked it up, an order for supplies.
“Only when one of them impinges on the other’s research.” Olivia took the sheet from his hand and placed it on the far end of the desk. “More often, they are quite happy with their books and papers, and with something sweet at afternoon tea.”
“I see you are hard at work . . . at my desk.”
Olivia held out a fat packet from Constance Equiano at the African’s Daughter bookshop. Written in a crisp hand, Equiano listed the books she had located—every one on
Sir Roderick’s list. Over the next five pages, Equiano outlined the condition of the various copies, their current owners, and the costs of acquiring them. In other months, Olivia would have written queries requesting more information about some of the books. But these copies would do. Another of her tasks completed. “Your father left a plan for how he wished his library to grow, as well as a list of books he especially wanted to buy.” She held out the list. “These are the last he specifically indicated he wished to acquire. Of course you will have your own ideas about how to build the library’s collection.”
“Some of these are quite expensive.” Harrison scratched the skin in front of his ear.
“Your father made some lucrative investments before his death.” She paused, intending to elide the fact that estate funds would cover some part of the purchase. He could discover that from his review of the accounts. “The money supports the library and its maintenance, though the scholars’ meals do come from the estate accounts.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t do to let them starve.” He returned the list. “Will you finalize the purchases before you go?”
“If you wish.”
“I do. You’ve been a better manager than I would have been, Livvy. My father would have been proud.”
She was surprised at how much his praise mattered. “If I go, you will keep them then—the Seven? They will always have a place here?”
“Of course, Livvy. I have promised never to lie to you. If you leave me at the end of this, I will keep them on, even if I grieve your loss each time I hear one of them say yes.”
Smiling, she pushed the rest of his papers to the far side of the desk and sat on the edge, her knees open wide. “I desire an afternoon sweet, my lord, and I wondered if perhaps you could give it to me here.”
There she was, perched on his desk like his wildest fantasy. Anyone might knock on the door at any moment. It made him want her even more.
“The scholars could return at any minute. Are you sure you wish to begin this here?” But he moved to her and began to kiss her neck all the same.
“The scholars will arrive thick in the middle of some debate or other. We will hear them in time to repair our clothing.” She drew him close. “And you did choose the darkest corner for your desk.”
He bit her neck as he pulled her close. Kneeling, he lifted her buttocks in his hands and kissed her thighs, gently at first, then with greater appetite. Her climax when it came was shattering, but he would not rest, his fingers and mouth still caressing her, pushing her to another more dazzling height.
Readjusting her clothes, he then took her by the arm and led her to his turret rooms.
* * *
Each time they had awakened, their passion had renewed, and he’d spent himself in her body several times before they had both fallen into a fast sleep.
Now in the half-light before dawn, he lay beside her, having no intention of letting her leave his bed.
He rolled over onto her, pinning her arms under his hands and kissing her neck. She nuzzled his face with hers as he entered her once more. Pushing them once more to climax.
“Is it like this every time you take a lover? Hire a whore? This hunger? This . . .” Her voice trailed off.
He watched her face and pressed his hips into her body; though spent, he still needed the connection.
“Nothing is like this. No one is like you.”
“I have listened for years now to the servants. Those who are wives, of course. And none of them has ever mentioned . . .”
“Then they have very boring lives.”
“Is this not how one treats a whore?”
“This is how one treats his wife, if he is very lucky.”
“Then I hope you find this again.”
No matter what he did, no matter how many times he held her in his arms and brought her pleasure, no matter how solicitous he was of her opinions, her desires, no matter what . . . she was still leaving him. It made no sense. She might not love him, but he knew she loved the estate, its people, her scholars. Her life, even with the allowance she’d requested, would be far less comfortable. No woman would give up such security for the risks of spinsterhood.
And now, with the passion between them so strong, it could not be simply distaste for him that drove her away. That meant she was under constraint to leave. And that was a mystery he meant to solve.
Chapter Twenty-Five
A week had passed since the attack on Olivia. Every morning Harrison would tutor Adam in how to oversee the Home Office agents. And every afternoon, he would change from master to student, and under Olivia’s gentle guidance he learned how to run the estate. If in the middle of their studies, they grew amorous, they would simply retreat to Harrison’s turret rooms for a different sort of lesson. The fact that the servants believed them married meant they didn’t even have to hide their pleasure.
But the last packet from London had called Adam back and suggested strongly that Harrison needed to complete his decryption of Wilmot’s code.
Adam had ridden out at sunrise, with the assurance that Harrison would follow close behind. An hour later, Walker had their bags packed, and two horses stood ready in the courtyard.
He had only to give his regrets to Livvy. He found her in her study, standing by the window.
“Business calls me back to London.” He had hoped for perhaps a kiss goodbye or an embrace, but she looked at him blandly.
“I see.”
“You see?” Her response made little sense. “I will return in a few weeks, after this is settled.”
“Then this is goodbye. It was . . . good . . . to see you again, my lord.” Her voice was reserved and distant, and his stomach twisted.
“Goodbye?” he repeated, feeling that there was something more to it.
“Yes. Only a week or so ago, you manipulated me into agreeing to maintain the pretense of our marriage for the sake of your career.” He could hear the edge of frustration now. He was beginning to be able to read her voice.
“And to see if we might suit,” he offered, his sense of helplessness growing.
“As you said. But today, you must leave.”
“But I will be back. A friend sent a code to me to decipher. He made it a contest of sorts.” Even to his own ears, the excuse sounded thin. “He wrote to say that he needs the results by the end of the week. But I can only finish in London.”
“I have been here before, standing in front of you, saying goodbye, the feel of your lips on mine still fresh. It took you six years and a . . . legal proceeding . . . to return home. I will not devote another six years to your next return.”
“What do you mean, Livvy?” His suspicions were fully awake now.
“I have called for my trunks to be brought down, and I’ve called for a carriage. I will not be here when you return.”
“Livvy.” He put out his hands in supplication.
But the stern set of her jaw, the hint of disappointment in her eyes, told him she was not lying. If he left now, there would be no returning. His chance would be gone. His heart sank into his shoes. There was only one solution, if she would agree. “Then I suppose we will take the carriage. How long will you need?”
“As I said, my trunk is already packed.”
“Then come with me.” His heart lightened immediately. “And any provisions you need in London we can simply purchase. But bring a dinner dress. We’ll be spending the night at the home of a local magistrate. Squire Baldwin knew my father from before the wars. His name is one of the few on my friend’s list who isn’t dead, and I want to see if he might know what this list means. If he doesn’t, I want to warn him to be careful.”
* * *
The countryside rolled past, cold and barren, the winter having arrived early. Harrison and his valet took turns riding on the outside. Harrison was concerned about highwaymen, given the recent attack on Olivia. Walker, when he was in the carriage, slept or nattered on about the latest fashions in London. He was sleeping now.
/> Olivia was thinking on her not-marriage, trying to piece together what she might need to know if she were to stay with Harrison. She hadn’t told him she was considering it; it was too new an idea to share. But being near him had brought her a sense of peace and home that she’d never felt before.
But she wouldn’t fool herself either. She still feared she was merely convenient and that if she agreed to remain married (or rather, to marry), he would leave her again, just as quickly, and never return. Wasn’t this morning an indication of how little he considered her when making plans?
She let her mind return to the day she’d first met him. Even as angry as he had been, she could still see the characteristics his father had described so lovingly.
He’d walked into the library—much smaller then— where she had been reading a book, and took her breath away.
“I’m sure you are aware that I haven’t been consulted in the arrangement of this marriage.”
Uncertain of her voice, she’d nodded her assent.
“And knowing my father, I’m sure that your wishes weren’t considered either. I hope that he didn’t bully you into agreeing to his scheme.”
“You misjudge your father.” She looked at her hands. She needed to appear demure, the sort of woman a man would choose for his countess. “Though he was quite persuasive on the benefits of a marriage to his son, he was actually quite solicitous of my wishes.”
“So, you agreed to this marriage?” He raised one eyebrow in disbelief.
“It’s surprising what one will agree to when one has few prospects.” Her voice sounded sad, even to her ears.
He looked at her closely, as if for the first time. “Meaning?”
“My family are all dead. When your father contacted me, I had been working for several months as a governess to four disagreeable children. Marriage to a man I had never met seemed a pleasant alternative.” She hadn’t mentioned that she needed a place to hide, a place to resurrect herself as someone new, and a new name to protect her.
“But you know nothing about me. I could be cruel, profligate, violent, or perverse . . .” His voice had been filled with frustration and even confusion.
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