by Sara Bennett
“My dear, there you are.”
“I’m sorry, Mama, did you need me for something?” Olivia pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. She was taller and more slender than her mother, and her smooth face did not have the markings of grief that were deeply etched upon her mother’s.
“No, nothing in particular. I just wondered where you were. I like to see you and know you are safe, Olivia. It gives me comfort.”
It was the same old story. Ever since her sister had died her parents seemed to be in a constant state of anxiety and fear that something equally tragic would happen to Olivia. Her mother in particular clung to her, worried about her—it had been a battle to remain at Miss Debenham’s for the whole year—and now she wanted Olivia to marry Mr. Garsed and live in the same village forever and ever. Although Olivia understood her parents’ pain and loved them, she found such constant watchfulness and attention suffocating.
Life, she thought, couldn’t be lived properly if one was constantly afraid of making a wrong move or believing something bad was about to happen. Olivia didn’t want to be always frightened and she didn’t want her parents to be always frightened for her. It didn’t seem fair that her sister’s death should result in her own demise. They did their best, but their insistence on taking the safe route was choking the life out of her, and Sarah wouldn’t have wanted that. It was Sarah who had taught Olivia that life was for living and that one should never take second best. Olivia’s family wanted her to marry Mr. Garsed, but in Olivia’s eyes Mr. Garsed was very much second best.
Her mother was watching her, the familiar crease between her brows, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Olivia, have you thought about Mr. Garsed—”
But Olivia didn’t let her finish.
“Shall we look at the cloth I had sent up from London?” she asked brightly. “I thought you might like a new dress, Mama. And the color would suit you.”
“If you are certain, my dear,” her mother said with a forced smile, “though I rarely go anywhere where there is a need to wear pretty things. It still does not seem quite right.”
To Olivia’s relief her mother had begun to wear bright colors again at last, after being in mourning and half-mourning for far too long. Sarah would have been horrified that she was the cause of such drabness. Sarah had reminded Olivia of a butterfly, a joyful creature who flitted in and out of their lives all too briefly. She’d loved to paint, the brighter the colors the better, and she’d believed that the wearing of black as a sign of bereavement was an abomination.
Now Olivia scolded her mother gently. “Why shouldn’t you wear pretty things? I’m sure Sarah would be the first to tell you you should. We will look at patterns and you can decide on the style you prefer.”
Estelle, Olivia’s and her mother’s maid, was standing at the top of the stairs as they ascended to the sewing room.
“We are going to look at patterns this morning,” Olivia said, with a conspiratorial glance. Estelle had always been sympathetic to her attempts to ease her mother’s grief.
“I’m glad to hear it, miss,” Estelle replied. “It is well past time the mistress had a new dress.”
As her mother continued to make her way up the stairs, Estelle touched Olivia’s arm to hold her back. Olivia gave her a questioning look.
“Is something the matter, Estelle?”
The maid’s pretty, plump face was unusually serious, her hazel eyes lacking their sparkle. “I am a friend of Abbot, Lord Lacey’s manservant, miss.”
“Oh?” Olivia raised her brows, playing at ignorance. If Estelle had something to say, then she would say it.
“You called on His Lordship, miss.” Estelle glanced about, making certain they were still alone, and her strangely secretive behavior made Olivia even more wary.
“There is nothing wrong in visiting a neighbor, Estelle, but nevertheless I would prefer it if you didn’t mention this to my mother and father. They are old-fashioned and—”
“On the contrary, miss,” Estelle hastened to reassure her. “Abbot and me, we think it’s a very good idea that Lord Lacey has a—a proper lady for a friend. Not one of those nasty, rackety creatures he seems to spend all his time with these days.” As if only just realizing who she was speaking to, and the inappropriateness of her comment, she stopped and gave a little cough. “I just wanted you to know that if you need help, well, you only have to ask me.”
This was a surprising turn of events. Did Estelle know about the proposal? Had Abbot been eavesdropping? Olivia studied the maid a moment more, pondering her sudden helpfulness and what it meant. Estelle was older than Olivia, in her mid-twenties, though her lively personality had always made her seem like someone younger. Instinctively Olivia trusted her, but that didn’t mean she was going to tell Estelle about her planned meeting with Nic at two o’clock.
“I will bear it in mind,” she said at last.
Estelle dropped a little curtsy and went on her way.
Estelle put a hand to her bosom as if she might be able to slow her heart, it was beating so fast. Miss Olivia had a way of looking at one that was quite nerve-wracking, as if those blue eyes might pierce your very soul. Not that she could possibly know the reason that Estelle was so eager to help her fulfill her wish and marry Nic Lacey.
Abbot had been listening at the parlor door. He knew everything that had been said. Amazing and scandalous as it was, Miss Monteith had asked Wicked Nic to marry her. When everyone was expecting her to accept Mr. Garsed, she had her sights set on Wicked Nic. And from what Estelle knew of Miss Monteith, she was not a young lady who was easily deflected from her goal. “Headstrong” and “determined” were just two of the words you could apply to Olivia.
“He’ll refuse,” Abbot had said, after he’d told Estelle what he’d overheard. “I know him. He thinks she’s too good for him, and besides, he won’t risk his heart.”
“Then she’ll just have to try harder.”
“Or we can help.” Abbot had wrapped his arms tighter about Estelle as they snuggled up together in the narrow bed in Abbot’s room. “If they married then we could marry, too, and be together always, in the same house and the same bed. No more separations, no more you at the Monteiths and me at the castle. Imagine it, Estelle.”
She did; she longed for it. Especially now that there was another consideration, something she had yet to tell Abbot, despite the increasing urgency of her situation.
After an affair lasting nearly five years, Estelle was with child.
It was a gift in one way, and a disaster in another. All this time they had snatched their intimate moments when they could. Nic Lacey was often away from home, and then they mightn’t see each other for months at a time. Once Abbot had been away for almost a year, and Estelle had thought her heart would break.
She supposed she could have forced the issue. Abbot would marry her if she wanted him to, but that would not keep her from being alone whenever he traveled with Nic. Because Nic was a single man, with no wife, there would be no place for her with Abbot on his travels. And once she began to show her pregnancy she wouldn’t be able to keep her position with the Monteiths; a pregnant maid was not at all the thing, and she would be asked to leave.
But if Miss Olivia married Nic, Estelle and Abbot could be together forever. It was the perfect solution, and Estelle wasn’t about to let it slip through her grasp. And Abbot was with her, up to a point. Sometimes he was far too cautious and proper for Estelle’s liking, such as when he refused to contemplate any of Estelle’s clever plans to get His Lordship and Miss together.
That was when she decided she’d have to play her own game, her own way, and if a little dishonesty and trickery were necessary, then so be it. Abbot didn’t have to know. What did it matter about scruples when she was fighting for her happiness?
Chapter 3
Nic wasn’t pleased. He was irritated and annoyed, mostly with himself. He’d sworn he wouldn’t respond to the note sent to him by Olivia Monteith yesterday eveni
ng, that he would find something far more important to do, or go for a ride, or browse his father’s collection of books in the library. Why should he meet her? They might be neighbors, but it wasn’t as if he had an obligation to her.
But try as he might, he hadn’t been able to put her from his mind. The questions kept coming, crowding his thoughts, agitating him so much he couldn’t concentrate on anything else.
What did she mean by “urgent”? How could a meeting by the stream possibly be urgent? And why had she chosen him as the ultimate prize in her mad quest for a husband? Surely there were plenty of other men out there, men who would be far more eager to succumb to her charms?
Meeting with her would be a big mistake.
And yet, now, here he was, striding furiously through the woods toward the stream that marked the boundary between his land and the village, his glower dark enough to frighten the birds down from the trees.
His foul mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he had run into his mother in the walled garden that morning. Not literally, of course, but they had both turned a corner at the same time and found themselves face-to-face.
His first thought, after the shock of seeing her, was that she looked old and tired. Although they lived on the same estate, she in the gatehouse and he in the castle itself, they did not see or speak to each other. His mother had not spoken to him directly since 1828. She preferred to communicate through the servants and the occasional terse note.
And suddenly there they were, inches apart.
But if he’d expected that morning to be the start of a new era of understanding, he soon realized his mistake. Her dark eyes widened, her mouth tightened, and she spun around and began to walk away with an angry rustle of her black skirts. Black, of course black. She’d been in mourning ever since his father died. He’d been told by Abbot that she still had a place set at her table for him, in case his spirit might decide to join her for dinner.
The idea made him queasy. Imagine sharing a table with his father’s ghost. No, thank you. But it seemed a waste for her to be so obsessed with a dead man, when her son was still living. Was it any wonder Nic spent more time away from the castle than in it?
He strode on through the woods, feeling upset and irritable, and knowing the last thing he wanted to do was listen to Miss Monteith’s fantastical imaginings of married bless. Nic slipped his fob watch from his pocket and flipped open the cover. Two o’clock, exactly. He could only hope she wouldn’t turn up.
It was the last coherent thought Nic had as he stepped from the leafy trees and onto the grassy bank of the stream.
Olivia Monteith had kept their assignation, but she wasn’t standing, waiting, demurely on the bank. She was balanced preciously on the stepping stones out in the middle of the deep, fast-flowing steam. The very same stones she’d been standing on all those years ago.
Nic heard himself shout. Even as his memory reminded him that this was what had happened last time, he couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“For God’s sake, get down from there!”
She looked up.
She was wearing a pale lemon dress, the hem lifted so that he could see her slippers as she balanced on the slippery stones, and her fine stockings molded to her trim ankles and calves. Her hair was pinned up simply, making a halo of gold for her beautiful face. Olivia Monteith was no longer a child, she was a woman, and she took his breath away.
“I’m not going to fall this time,” she called to him.
Nic found he could breathe again.
“I’m going to jump.”
He shouted, but it was too late. She sprang neatly from the stones and landed with a splash. A moment later she’d gone under the swift, rushing water. Cursing, he waded into the freezing stream, not even pausing to take off his boots.
She came up, spluttering and splashing wildly in her attempts to stay afloat. She started to sink again, weighed down by her clothing, just as he reached her.
“Of all the ridiculous, dangerous stunts…” he said, or tried to between mouthfuls of water. He wrapped an arm about her and began hauling her toward the bank. He expected her to struggle, but she didn’t, and he wondered whether that was because she trusted him to rescue her or because she was half drowned.
He soon discovered it was the latter.
When they reached the bank she could barely help herself at all, and he ended up pushing and pulling her shivering body onto dry land. By the time he’d got himself out of the water, she’d crawled several feet away and was lying on her stomach in the grass, her tangled hair covering her face, and her sodden lemon dress clinging to her body. Nic turned her over, smoothing her hair away so that he could see her face properly.
Olivia’s lashes were very dark against her white cheeks. They fluttered and her eyes opened, purest sapphire blue, and she gave him a feeble smile. “I knew you hadn’t changed,” she rasped. A second later her eyes widened, her face took on a green cast, and she looked about wildly, trying to sit up.
Nic turned her onto her side as she retched, bringing up the water she’d swallowed. When she was done, he wrung out his handkerchief and, lifting her into his arms, proceeded to wipe her face. “You bloody fool, woman,” he growled as he worked. “Are you trying to kill yourself? Or do you want me to be blamed for your death as well as—as—?”
He stuttered to a stop just in time, but she didn’t seem to hear him.
Nic dug into his pocket, and his fingers closed on the silver flask that was his father’s. It went everywhere with him, and he was thankful he’d thought to refill it only that morning. He tilted Olivia’s head back, pouring brandy down her throat.
“No…” she gasped, pushing his hand away.
“Yes. More.”
She gave him a mutinous look and then took another sip. The color had come back into her cheeks, and her eyes had lost their glassy stare. As he recapped the flask, she gave a sigh and snuggled against his chest. He could feel her soft bosom, and when he looked down, he realized that her pale dress was clinging to her like a second skin. He could see the full curved shape of her breasts, and more interestingly, the jut of her cold nipples.
A bolt of lust speared through him.
He might have conquered it. He hadn’t forgotten that he used to be a gentleman. And then the minx lifted her long, dark lashes and gazed into his eyes with a look that a man of his experience couldn’t mistake. With a groan, Nic bent his head and kissed her.
Her lips were cold and tasted of brandy, but she was enthusiastic. Very enthusiastic. He tried to slow her down, turning his attention to her cheeks, her eyelids, the curve of her jaw. She acquiesced for a brief moment, and then she took control. Olivia reached up, clamping her frozen palms on either side of his face, and held him still.
“This is what I want,” she whispered, and with that she leaned forward and began to kiss his lips again.
So this was what she wanted? She was obviously a direct kind of woman. A hot and hard kind of woman. Well, he thought, he’d give it to her hot and hard.
He tilted her over his arm to get better access to her mouth, and dived in. He felt her stiffen, briefly, and then give a little whimper. Her tongue slid along his, her arms clung about his neck. If he hadn’t known better, he would never have believed it was the cool and beautiful Miss Monteith he held in his arms, but some wild, passionate Gypsy wench eager to dispose of her virginity…
What the devil am I doing?
Shocked to the core, Nic pushed her away and stumbled to his feet. He staggered a few steps, turning his back, knowing he was fully erect and not wanting her to see the tent in his trousers. She had almost drowned and now he was about to ravish her. Even for Wicked Nic that was pretty dastardly. Nic took several deep, calming breaths before he finally dared to turn back to look at her.
She was sitting up, still bedraggled, but she’d twisted her water-darkened hair into a knot at her nape and she was watching him with that direct, disconcerting look, as if waiting to see what he would do
next.
“I apologize,” he said quietly.
“I don’t want you to apologize. I enjoyed it.”
“I apologize anyway.”
“Nic, I wanted you to kiss me. Surely you knew that? I wanted you to save me.” Her face lit up. “And you did.”
“What if I hadn’t been here?” he retorted, the anger returning to his voice. “You could have drowned.”
“But you were here. I’ve been trying to think of a way to break through the distance that has grown up between us, to bring back that easiness we used to feel in each other’s company.”
“So you decided to relive the past?” he growled.
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Her blue eyes were full of laughter, as if she found the situation amusing.
He clenched his fists, resisting the urge to strangle her. If he touched her again…well, who knew what might happen. He was Wicked Nic, after all.
As if she’d read his mind she said bluntly, “You want me, don’t you? You want me as a—a man wants a woman.” That little stumble told him everything about her innocence when it came to the subject, and he might have smiled if he wasn’t so tense.
“Of course I bloody want you!” he roared. “But I can’t have you!”
Olivia Monteith stood up, her wet dress outlining her body in a manner that made him want to weep with desire. “Yes, Nic, you can. Marry me.”
It was finally more than he could bear. Another moment and he’d throw himself upon her, and he couldn’t risk that. With a muttered curse he strode away from her as fast as he could, back through the woods to his own land, and to safety.
He didn’t expect her to follow him, and she didn’t. He’d answered her question, and he cursed himself again for being too weak to resist her. So weak that he had to rush off and leave her, bedraggled and cold, and alone by the stream. A stream she would no doubt cross again to get home, rather than go the long way by the path and the bridge.