by Julia London
She’d stood outside the gates, unnoticed, watching with a nauseating swell as Carlos had taken the woman’s elbow and leaned in to kiss her cheek. The woman had pressed her hand on his back and rested her cheek against his shoulder, and Carlos put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her close.
A light of understanding had shone in Alexa’s head at that moment. Without a word, without a whimper, she had turned and walked down the cobblestone hill. And she’d kept walking, heedless of the people or the animals or carts that crowded the street, seeing nothing but the image of Carlos kissing the beautiful woman. She’d kept walking until she’d reached the cottage where Lady Tuttle had commanded a small army to pack their things.
Even now, a month later, the memory was still too painful to bear.
Alexa played more of her song, but it sounded dreary. She was determined to put the past behind her; what else could she do? She’d done something wretched—she’d fallen in love with a Spaniard, and fallen so far, and so deep, that she had conceived his child. Happily conceived it, eagerly conceived it. And then she had discovered that he was married.
There was no other explanation. His sudden disappearance from her life, the kiss to the woman’s cheek . . . Alexa guessed that his wife had been away while he seduced her. He’d left her one rainy afternoon with kisses and promises and a bright smile and he’d gone home, apparently, to his wife.
Alexa never saw Carlos again. She’d left him a note thanking him for the use of the cottage, and she’d come running home to Everdon Court and Olivia, the only place she could go.
She couldn’t say what she thought would happen once she arrived at Everdon Court. She supposed she’d wanted to sweep it all under the rug and pretend it hadn’t happened.
But Olivia had guessed the truth. That was the way with her, and it had always been. She was so perfect in her conduct, so terribly clever. All of Alexa’s life, Olivia had been held out as the ideal, what Alexa should strive to be. It didn’t matter that Alexa did not care to be as prim and proper as Olivia. She was told she must be if she wanted a match when she grew older. Alexa had never been as concerned about appearances as her sister. She had believed Olivia was making a bad situation even worse with her insistence that they tell Edward, who was so cold and distant. She didn’t want to end up like Olivia, married to a cold-hearted man.
But then Alexa had seen the bruise on Olivia’s lip, and that had given her pause. The physical evidence had made her realize that she had to stand up and face the consequences of what she’d done, for if she didn’t, Olivia would.
If only Alexa knew how to face the consequences without being banished to Ireland! She really had no options, but the more she resisted, the more Olivia would pay the price for her mistake with her beast of a husband.
Alexa knew she’d been awful to Olivia and Mr. Tolly, and truly, she’d not meant to be. But she’d been feeling so many confusing, conflicting emotions. She did not want to marry. She pined for Carlos still, as hurt as she was. She’d agonized over everything he’d said, wondering how she could imbue his words with so much promise, or how he could have lied to her as easily as he had. She cried herself to sleep more times than she could count and had given up all hope. She wanted only to return to the cottage where she and Carlos had spent so many blissful afternoons, and wake up tangled in his legs and arms, her head on his shoulder. Alexa had struggled mightily to let that dream go. But she did not want to live in a convent, and she would not give up her child.
Today, Olivia had managed to penetrate the fog that had surrounded Alexa since that day in Madrid and convinced her that her situation was dire. This afternoon, Alexa had methodically examined her options and found them distressingly absent. She thought of what Harry had said about his life. She thought of the child she was carrying. What if it was a boy, like Harry? Would he be shunned? Not allowed in school? Alexa didn’t have jewels to sell, and the thought of doing what his mother had done to provide for her child made her shudder.
Olivia was right. She had to marry.
Mr. Tolly seemed to be as good a candidate as any. He was agreeable, he was handsome, and he had inherited something, so hopefully her child would not want. But the most appealing thing about him was that the alternatives were too grim. He simply would have to do.
Harrison returned to the dowager house without actually recalling the walk—his head was full of Lady Carey’s kiss, his body still thrumming, his nerves skating on a guilty edge. He’d held back his desire for her for so many years that he was startled by how quickly he’d succumbed. As if he’d been blown off his precipice by a slight spring breeze. In a single moment, his life had forever changed and he would never be the same man he was only hours ago.
Worse, he knew he would do it again without a moment’s hesitation.
Harrison walked into his foyer with the intention of retiring to his study and a bottle of whiskey, and was brought up short by the surprising sound of music. It was the old pianoforte from his mother’s salon, though he’d never heard her play it.
Curious, he walked to what he optimistically called the music room.
Alexa was seated at the pianoforte, her golden head down, her play light, and a frown of concentration on her face. Harrison cleared his throat; she looked up and smiled thinly. “There you are.”
“Here I am,” he said as he moved into the room. “Please carry on. This house has not heard music during my tenure. It might shake loose a few old cobwebs or hidden treasure.”
She smiled shyly and put her hands in her lap. “I am not very practiced at it. I was merely biding my time, waiting for you. May I have a word, Harry?”
Harrison suppressed a groan. He was hardly in the mood for her at present, as he had his own bad behavior to sort out. “Could it possibly wait? I have quite a lot of work—”
“It won’t take but a moment,” she said, rising from the pianoforte, holding her hands tightly at her waist. “Please, sir. I know I have been wretched, but on my word, I shall not be so again.”
The contrite little promise surprised Harrison. She even looked contrite. Still, Harrison was wary. “Go on, then.”
“I, ah . . .” She took a deep breath, then began again. “I have thought quite a lot about what you and my sister have said.”
Harrison was no longer interested in aiding her—quite the opposite. He wished she’d flit away.
“And . . . I have come to the conclusion that you are quite right.”
Now there was a heavenly miracle if ever he’d seen one. Did she truly expect him to believe that? He gave her a dubious look. “Have you, indeed? Pardon me, Alexa, but that does not sound like the young woman I have come to know.”
“I am aware of that.” She swallowed hard. “You were so kind to offer me marriage and a name for my baby, given my impossible predicament, and I . . . and I realized I have been foolish and ungrateful in return. But upon reflection . . .”
She paused and swallowed once more, and Harrison resisted the roll of his eyes, waiting for what he suspected she would say next. I cannot marry you, et cetera, et cetera.
“Upon reflection,” she said again, her voice soft, “I have come to the conclusion that we might indeed find our way, and perhaps even be . . . happy. Therefore, I should like to accept your offer of marriage.”
He couldn’t feel his heart beating; he couldn’t feel anything, for everything had stopped moving. The air, his breath. Time. He stared at Alexa; she pressed her lips together, her chest rising and falling with each anxious breath. He had no idea what to say—his entire world had been turned on its head after kissing Lady Carey in the garden, and his heart was a twisted, tangled mess. And now this? He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.
Miss Hastings paled. “I know what you must think. That I am petulant and uncooperative, and for that I apologize. But on my word, sir, I have never in my life faced such a dilemma. I apologize for my poor behavior.”
Was he dreaming?
“Please say somethi
ng,” she pleaded.
“Is this a jest? Some sort of trickery?”
“What? No!”
Harrison folded his arms across his chest. “Then may I inquire what happened in the last three hours to bring about this stunning change of heart? How is it that I suddenly meet with your approval?”
“I never said that you didn’t,” she said weakly.
“You seemed crystal clear about that to me.”
Alexa glanced down and traced her finger along the edge of the pianoforte. “I think that I was not ready to accept that I cannot . . . be . . . with the person I fell in love with. But I have accepted it. And I find you entirely agreeable, and frankly, sir, I fear what will become of Olivia if I do not put my situation to rights.”
That, at least, was something they had in common.
“I hope we might find a more palatable solution for us both, but if not . . . I am humbled by your kindness,” she said.
Harrison walked across the room and sat down heavily. He could only think of Lady Carey. Not this wisp of a girl.
“No doubt this would be easier for us both if we were more familiar with one another,” she said nervously. “Perhaps we might speak of how to exist in each other’s company until familiarity takes hold?”
Harrison was dumbfounded. He no more wanted to marry this girl than he wanted to walk into the jaws of hell. But he’d put the wheels in motion by opening his bloody mouth, and now, he couldn’t even begin to think how he’d manage his way out of it. A weight of crushing disappointment and frustration settled onto his shoulders. Was there no way out of this nightmare?
CHAPTER TWELVE
After that stunning, disturbingly arousing kiss in the garden, Olivia had to escape the thoughts and feelings that had flooded her, so she went to the one place where no one would look for her. The one place no one, and especially Edward, would venture: the nursery.
She hurried up the back staircase and pushed open the painted green door with both hands, then quickly shut it and turned the lock. She stood there a moment, her forehead and hands pressed against the closed door, trying to catch her breath.
But it would not come; it had been snatched clean from her lungs.
Olivia turned and surveyed the room. With windows facing north and west and the walls painted a sunny yellow, it was a bright, happy room. Snowy white brocade draperies matched the coverlet on the child’s bed. The dark cherry wood of the cradle gleamed in the sunlight streaming in. Edward had commissioned it during the two months Olivia had believed herself to be with child. It had been in the center of the room, the nurse’s bed nearby. Now, the cradle was pushed to a corner.
Near the hearth, painted yellow flowers adorned the child-sized table and matching chairs. The stuffed bear Olivia’s mother had given her was sitting on a shelf, waiting for the child that would never inhabit this room.
Olivia did not think of that today. She thought only that it was too bright and cheery for her state of mind. She began to pace the yellow and green carpet, nibbling anxiously on one thumbnail. She didn’t know what to do, what to think. How had it happened? How had Harrison Tolly come to kiss her—or had she kissed him?
Olivia hardly knew what had happened. One moment she was talking, and the next she was kissing Mr. Tolly, sinking into him and her deep-seated fantasy. “What in heaven has come over you?” she chided herself. She’d put them both at extraordinary risk, yet she hadn’t stopped because she had wanted that kiss more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.
More than anything.
The weight of her longing pushed her down onto her knees, her hands braced on either side of them, dragging air into her lungs. Which was worse—the fear of discovery, or the pain of wanting more?
Olivia touched her fingers to her mouth, desperate to remember every moment, every sensation. The way he’d tasted—like cinnamon—and how he’d smelled like linen.
In all her life, she’d never been kissed so passionately, but it was also surprisingly tender. He desired her. Not just her body, but her.
Olivia closed her eyes, pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. She could see his face, his lips, his eyes brimming with wild desire. She could feel his mouth on hers, the tight hold of his arms around her, all his desire for her.
How unfair it is! To receive that sort of kiss with the power and strength of a man’s desire, and feel the ache for more, all while knowing she could never have it, was heart-wrenchingly painful. Olivia slowly slid one arm across the carpet until she was lying on her side, her head resting on her outstretched arm. She closed her eyes and brazenly imagined Mr. Tolly’s hard, warm body fluidly entering hers. She imagined his hands on her skin, stroking her, caressing her, slipping into her secret folds. She imagined his mouth and tongue on her skin, and the way he would look at her as he took her, his hair falling over his brow, his arms holding himself above her, his expression filled with desire and affection.
Pain swirled in Olivia’s chest, and a tear of frustration slipped from her eye. She wanted him more than air. It was the worst torture knowing that he should be the last thing on this earth that she might have.
I am his Lady X.
How could she not have known it? With a groan, Olivia rolled onto her back, staring up at the mural painted on the ceiling, a quaint little scene of boats bobbing about a lake, rowed by bears wearing waistcoats and neckcloths. What was it Mr. Tolly had said? That he could never have his Lady X, he could never ask her to leave her husband and live in reduced circumstances with her reputation destroyed.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, you can,” she moaned. She would not hesitate to leave Edward and everything else behind. She’d lived too many years in her miserable little birdcage to care for circumstance or reputation. She’d live in a hovel with Mr. Tolly and pluck chickens and bake bread and grow wheat.
But what about Alexa?
She couldn’t beg Mr. Tolly to take her away; she had to consider Alexa and her child now. And as much as it pained her to admit it, Mr. Tolly was the only viable option she had for saving her little sister.
But it was more than that. Edward would never agree to set her free. He would never concede that he’d been cuckolded; he would never seek or allow a divorce. No, Edward would prefer to keep her and torment her. He was half mad, and he would never, ever allow his reputation to be sullied with slander. He would sooner destroy Harrison. And Alexa. And her.
Olivia closed her eyes, willing back the tears that threatened to fall.
She was trapped in a loveless marriage for the rest of her life, living in a gilded birdcage that grew smaller each day until she was pressed up against the bars, unable to breathe, unable to move. Slowly suffocating to death.
She pushed herself to her feet, tucked in the hair that had come undone, and dusted off her skirt.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t realized the truth of her life before. But today she’d had a glimmer of hope for something different. The sooner she walled off that hope, the better.
Maybe—she took a deep breath and released it—maybe she could wall Edward in his study first. She imagined tying him to a chair, then calmly laying one brick on top of another as he shouted at her to stop, going as high as she must until she could no longer see him or hear him. What a happy difference there would be if she no longer could see him or hear him.
Olivia walked to the window and gazed down at the garden where she’d kissed Mr. Tolly. “Stiff upper lip, lass,” she murmured. She had enough problems without creating new ones.
Nancy Carthorn, a buxom ginger-haired young woman with great aspirations, had been employed as a ladies’ maid at Everdon Court for four years. She enjoyed her occupation, particularly as she spent her days in the marchioness’s private rooms amid all the finery and the gowns and the glittering jewelry. Her post was far superior to any other in the house, with the exception of perhaps Mr. Brock.
It was certainly better than what poor Lucy Krankhouse faced every day in the kitchen, working alongsid
e a tetchy Miss Foster. Lucy was firmly under Miss Foster’s oppressive thumb—she’d been quite cross with Lucy when she thought her special ladle had gone missing—and to Nancy’s way of thinking, the girl was being unfairly treated. The lovely thing about Nancy’s post was that she could say she thought so to Lady Carey, and her ladyship would speak to Mr. Brock. She’d done it when Fred wouldn’t leave Nancy be, and now Fred was in the stables shoveling manure and not chasing her up and down the servant’s stairs.
That evening, Nancy mentioned Lucy’s unhappiness as she dressed the marchioness’s hair. But Lady Carey didn’t seem to hear her. That puzzled Nancy. Generally, Lady Carey listened politely to what Nancy had to say, and often offered her personal opinion, which, naturally, Nancy would rush downstairs to deliver at first opportunity. But Lady Carey seemed distracted, and Nancy paused. “Beg your pardon, mu’um, are you unwell?”
“Hmmm?” her ladyship said, and glanced up.
“You seem a bit pale, is all,” Nancy said.
Lady Carey looked at herself in the mirror, squinting a bit. “I suppose I am fatigued,” she said with a bit of a shrug.
Fatigued, pale . . . Nancy’s hand stilled on her ladyship’s hair. Good Lord, was it possible her ladyship was with child? That would bring a bit of lightness into this gloomy old house! Everyone knew that an heir was the only thing that would make the marquis happy.
“Nancy? What is it?” her ladyship asked, peering at Nancy’s reflection in the mirror.
Nancy instantly resumed putting up her hair. “Pardon.” She slipped a pin into Lady Carey’s hair to hold it. “I was thinking that you should have a care not to overtax yourself, mu’um. Must keep up your strength.”
“Keep up my strength for what?”
Now she’d gone and said too much. Nancy turned away to fetch more pins. “No reason in particular,” she said. “I’d not like to see you under the weather.” She turned and smiled. “That’s all.”