Miss Goldsleigh's Secret

by Amylynn Bright

  Marbry bustled around his room, preparing the shaving instruments and laying out Henry’s clothes for the day, chattering away incessantly. Dalton ignored the man. It was either that or clout him over the head with the coffee urn.

  And why in God’s name was it so important to him that she call him Henry? No one but his immediate family used his Christian name since he’d inherited the title at fifteen. Not even his previous fiancée had called him Henry. What was the sodding difference if Olivia did or not? Regardless, there it was. He’d been damn near desperate to hear his name uttered from her plump, rosy lips.

  He wasn’t even sure exactly when trying to comfort her fears became a snogging session. It was almost a punishment how he relived each kiss, each caress, over and over as he lay in bed, woefully alone. He couldn’t help himself. That blasted nightgown, when she stood in front of the fire—sweet Jesus, very little was left to his imagination. She’d not had drawers on under that gown. That was a thought that niggled at his blood-starved brain all night long.

  His hand never made it up her gown. In the light of morning, when he wasn’t so insane with lust, he realized that had been a good thing despite his need. The girl was under his protection, and that most certainly didn’t involve sneaky molestations in his study. It was all clear now, but in the heat of the moment, when he’d unbuttoned her bodice and exposed her breasts, he’d been delighted to find they were ever so slightly too large for her frame. It was somewhat of a shock to find a nice-sized handful on such a small woman.

  For the love of all that’s holy, man, stop thinking about them.

  Dalton submitted himself to a shave and got dressed, all the while listening to the inane ramblings of his valet. As annoying as lectures on superfine were the newest rages in hats were, they were still better than contemplating Olivia’s lips and breasts and the way her soft buttocks cradled his rock-hard… Stop it.

  He hadn’t received a satisfactory answer from Olivia about the stranger following her and, by extension, him. He was no less suspicious now than he’d been the previous evening, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it. He expected a report back from his agent today, which he was certain would shed some light on this son-of-a-bitch cousin of hers. He couldn’t have Olivia looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life. She’d had enough terror in the last months for several lifetimes. He felt compelled to do what he could to protect her from more hardships and that meant putting an immediate stop to her cousin’s continuing torment.

  Dalton stretched his neck, adjusted the cravat that was tied in some complicated knot his valet had learned from Brummell’s valet, and walked to the wide window that looked out over Cavendish Square and towards the park. The park traffic was picking up, with scores of ladies out to be seen by all the other ladies. Let the morning gossip congress begin. He was just happy to no longer be a part of the speculations bandied about. The weeks after his cancelled engagement could have been much worse, but for a man whose family had always stayed out of the rumor mill, even that much attention was unpleasant.

  His sisters and Olivia strode across the walk to the open landau, arm in arm, and join the fray. An unconscious smile curled his lips. They didn’t take a maid with them, but his sisters knew everyone in the park, and the little gaggle of them would be fine together. Dalton let the sheer under drapery fall back, and out of the corner of his eye he spied a rough man fall into step behind the carriage. Whipping the sheer out of the way, he resurveyed the scene. The man stayed behind a good pace and too the right, but he still stuck out among the fashionably dressed crowd, and he was surely up to no good.

  Dalton quit the room at a jog, leaving his astonished valet behind. He grabbed the first of the footmen he came upon.

  “You’re Jones, right?” Dalton asked the young man. Dressed in his green and black livery, the footman was a formidable size, built like a wall. He was perfect.

  “Yes, my lord,” the young man replied. “Brian Jones.”

  Dalton nodded. “I need you to follow my sisters and Miss Goldsleigh. They’ve headed over to the park, and there is a very unsavory man following them. I believe he intends harm to Miss Goldsleigh, and I want you to see to it nothing happens.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Jones rushed out the front door, eager to impress.

  Siegfried, the giant butler, stood to the side, his German implacability only slightly ruffled by his employer’s command. Dalton signaled the butler to follow him, and they strode down the hall, only to be blocked by a long line of maids led by his aunt Evelyn, toting vases of flowers into the front parlor.

  “What the hell is this?” he asked the butler.

  Siegfried coughed. “Flower deliveries this morning, my lord.”

  Aunt Evelyn stopped outside the parlor door and smiled smugly at Dalton. “She’s a success!”

  “Who?” Dalton counted six maids streaming into the parlor, tulips, roses, and every other hothouse flower variety in London’s floral shops represented in their bouquets.

  “Olivia, obviously.” Aunt Evelyn was near to bursting, pride evident in her voice. “I knew she would be.”

  “All of these flowers are for Olivia?”

  “Not all. Of course, Penelope and Cassandra have their own admirers as well, but this is the third delivery this morning. Unprecedented!” Aunt Evelyn glided into the parlor, directing the placement of vases and urns in what little open space remained. The room was filled to the rafters with flora. The smell was cloying.

  “Ridiculous.” Dalton snorted and continued to lead Siegfried to his study. “Have there really never been three deliveries before?” he asked the butler as his feet fell on the thick Turkish carpet of his favorite room.

  “No, my lord. There was a much-celebrated double delivery after the Harmon’s ball the evening of Penelope’s debut last year, but there have never been three deliveries before. Your sisters are giddy about it.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they are sharing that little tidbit with every other girl in the park even as we speak.” Dalton made every attempt to make his voice sound bored and uninterested when he asked the next question. “What did Miss Olivia say about it?”

  “I’m not sure she fully understands the magnitude of the event, my lord.” Siegfried ran his finger over the tallest shelf on the bookcase, which was easily eight feet off the ground, and frowned when his gloved finger came back covered with dust. Someone would pay for that, Dalton knew.

  Dalton responded with a noncommittal hum. “About Miss Goldsleigh, it seems there are disreputable men lurking about. I have caught one of them following me, and he mentioned Miss Goldsleigh by name.”

  “Indeed? Were you able to turn the man over to the watch, my lord?”

  “Unfortunately not. He fled into the darkness. I saw another rather seedy character follow the ladies into the park this morning.”

  Siegfried nodded. “That explains Jones’s quick jog to the park then.”

  “They’ll be fine in the park with the rest of the ton and Jones keeping an eye on them, but that means there are still men staking out my house.”

  “I shall post large footmen at each door.”

  “And have several circle the grounds periodically to discourage any men from loitering outside the gates. I don’t like the idea of the house being watched.”

  Siegfried nodded again. “Understandable.” He gave a short bow and went to issue orders, leaving Dalton in his study.

  For the next hour he gave instructions to his man regarding the search for Cousin Reginald and what little they knew of the solicitor. Then he attempted to work on various other projects: an opinion against a motion in Parliament, and instructions to the freshly hired estate manager at his new property regarding his wishes on plantings and crop rotations based on the latest research. Keeping his mind on his work was not easy. It was boring stuff, and Olivia lurked in the background of his mind, a flaxen-haired fairy goddess with a sheer, gossamer gown. He yearned to sneak into the parlor and read the cards attac
hed to the bouquets, but that was hardly the actions befitting a grown man who was not at all jealous or curious. What he needed was a coconspirator or two.

  He found Warren with Helen and their new tutor in the garden.

  “My lord.” The young, bespectacled teacher bowed his head when Dalton approached.

  “Good morning,” Dalton said. “I need to borrow the children for a few minutes. Can they be spared?”

  “Certainly.” The tutor collected his books.

  “I’ll bring them back shortly,” Dalton promised over his shoulder as he ushered the children back into the house. He nodded at the burly footman posted at the garden door. Dalton explained what he wanted from the children in hushed voices. There was no point in letting the whole world know he was being nosy. That’s what it was, of course. He told himself he didn’t really care who sent which flowers or what sickening sentiments were scrawled on the cards. It didn’t even really matter how many of the cards were addressed to Olivia rather than his sisters.

  Dalton stood in the hallway in front of the parlor door, positioned as a lookout. Warren and Helen, excited to be part of Dalton’s scheme, slunk into the room and were lost in a floral-scented sea.

  “Read the cards addressed to Miss Goldsleigh,” Dalton instructed in a stage whisper.

  “Here’s one for Cassie,” Helen called out from the general direction of the window seat.

  “I don’t care about Cassie’s flowers,” Dalton hissed. “Just look for Miss Goldsleigh’s cards.”

  “That’s cruel, Henry.” Helen’s voice sounded indignant on her sister’s behalf.

  Dalton rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  “Here’s one,” Warren spoke up from behind the piano.

  “Read the card,” Dalton instructed.

  “Oh, it’s mushy.” The boy made a face. Dalton knew they would be. The boy’s voice continued, reading on in a loud whisper, “She looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew. Signed Mr. Geoffrey Blanding. Boy is he stupid. The card didn’t even come with roses.”

  Dalton knew of Geoffrey Blanding. He was a complete dolt. Nothing to worry about there.

  “Here’s another one,” Helen announced. “Oh, this one is pretty. My bounty is deep as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite. Isn’t that romantic?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, he stole that from Romeo and Juliet.” Dalton turned fully into the room but stayed in the doorway. “Who’s it from?”

  “The card says Lord Fountaine.”

  “You’re kidding.” Lord Fountaine had two mistresses already. What was he thinking sending flowers and poetry to a young marriageable lady when he certainly didn’t have any intention of marrying? Dalton had half a mind to march over to White’s right now and give the bounder a smack upside the head.

  “This one is from Pierre Moreau, but it’s written in French so I can’t read it.” Warren sounded disappointed.

  “Does your sister read French?” Dalton asked.

  “I think so.”

  Dalton held out his hand. “Bring it here.” The flowers jostled as the boy moved through the forest. Moreau’s father was a French aristocrat, but his mother was the daughter of a Viscount. The family had relocated back to London from Paris once all the trouble started on the Continent. Moreau was admittedly good-looking, and despite the national derision of the French during the war, the Frenchman was still able to woo plenty of women with that cursed accent of his. Warren’s hand emerged from the foliage, and Dalton snatched up the card.

  “Chaque jour je t’aime, aujourd’huis plus qu’hier, et bien moins que demain. Oh what hogwash is this?”

  “I believe that note was not intended for you, Henry.” An icy voice filled his ears. Dalton spun around to find his mother, arms crossed over her chest, glaring at him from the hallway.

  “Good morning, Mother.” Dalton hid the note behind his back and bent to kiss his mother. She waved him off.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked.

  “Nothing.” Dalton felt twelve years old. “Actually, I’m perusing the bouquets.”

  Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “You’re snooping.” At that perfect moment, Warren and Helen stepped from behind the arrangements. “You two? I’m quite certain Mr. Bailey is missing you. Back to your studies.” The little traitors scurried away, but Dalton couldn’t blame them. His skills as a lookout had sorely diminished from the days of his youth. “Why are you reading your sisters’ cards?”

  “I’m not reading my sisters’ cards.” It wasn’t a lie. He had no interest in his sisters’ cards whatsoever.

  “Really? Henry, this is beneath you.” She shook her head. He’d always hated that I-expect-better-from-you look.

  “I wasn’t reading Cassie or Penny’s cards.” When she looked pointedly at the arm crooked behind his back, he blurted out, “I was looking at Olivia’s cards.” Unbelievable.

  His mother held out her hand, and Dalton placed the card in her palm. She glanced down and read the poem, and her face softened. “Oh, that’s lovely.” Dalton snorted. “Why are you reading Miss Goldsleigh’s cards?” He did not miss the emphasis she placed on their houseguest’s correct address.

  “I have every right to know what is coming in and out of my house.” Why did he sound so childish when he said it? “This is preposterous. I’ll be in my study.” He turned on his heel and strode down the hall, leaving his mother standing in alone with a bewildered expression.

  You, Henry Cavendish, Marquess of Dalton, peer of the realm, responsible older brother and son, and Member of Parliament, are an absolute horse’s ass.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As soon as they reached the promenade, Penelope suggested they walk and mingle. Olivia strolled along the path, smile plastered on her face, nodding acknowledgments to greetings—all of it such a waste of time. She had planning to do, and socializing in the park wasn’t furthering her escape plans at all.

  Cassandra and Penelope were such dear girls, and she cherished their friendship, but their incessant chatter about the flowers and the record-breaking number of deliveries plucked at her already frayed nerves. Honestly, she wished there was nothing else to think about other than which flowers came from the handsomest man and who wrote the most eloquent sentiment. The flowers were lovely, and she was flattered at the attention, but it was all a moot point. The flowers were of no use to her since she couldn’t sell or trade them for passage to America or the Continent.

  Penelope let out a little squeal, bringing Olivia back to the present. “Look, it’s Moreau.”

  “His poem was so dreamy,” Cassandra replied on a sigh.

  Olivia looked around at the strolling crowd. “Which one is he again? There were so many gentlemen last night.”

  “There.” Penelope motioned with her head. “The one with the purple waistcoat.”

  “Ah, yes.” Olivia remembered the man. He was exceedingly generous with his flattery and, she was willing to admit, a handsome man. However, his compliments paled next to those of Lord Dalton during their waltz. And his swarthy good looks were pleasing indeed, but compared to the godlike beauty of the marquess, he may as well have been a toad.

  Olivia had woken with a headache this morning that was getting worse as the day went on. She hadn’t been able to eat any breakfast, and the nausea kept building. She blinked hard and willed away the pressure.

  She had wanted to remain angry at Lord Dalton. His apology last night had seemed sincere. If she were able to stay in London, if she were a normal girl having a normal season, if she wasn’t a murderess, she would set her cap for Lord Dalton in a heartbeat. His touch was like a bolt of lightning through velvet.

  Olivia shook her head. She couldn’t afford to go down that imaginary road, but there was no way she was able to stop her mind from wandering there. Not when her lips were still swollen from his kisses and her breasts still bore the rash from his beard. She’d never imagined kisses
could lead to such mindlessness. But Lord help her, she’d welcomed it. She yearned to go to the place again where someone else was in charge. Where the turmoil she felt was centered on arousal and not where she and her brother were going to sleep that night.

  In the reality of the sunshine, there was no place for fantastical dreaming and longing. That’s not the way the world worked, as she was only too aware.

  Dalton told her she and Warren were under his protection, but that was because he didn’t know the whole truth. Protection was not something he could offer once he discovered the men following her were looking to take her to Newgate Prison, not to haul her back to her cousin. Besides, she could never bring harm to this family. They were too dear, too trusting, too wonderful. Unfortunately, she still had no idea how she was going to get away. She didn’t have enough money to take a hackney to the dock, much less buy passage for her and Warren. The situation seemed helpless. The more she thought about it, the more her head ached.

  “He’s coming this way,” Cassandra whispered, her face alight with excitement. “Everyone stay calm.”

  “I am calm.” Penelope laughed at her sister. “You stay calm. You look like you’re going to take flight.”

  “Shhhhhhhhh,” Cassandra hissed, and plastered a polite smile on her face.

  “Beautiful mademoiselles.” Moreau approached their little trio. “The park is that much lovelier with the three of you in it.” Olivia was drawn into the little tableau when he grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. “Tres belle, Miss Goldsleigh.”

  “Good morning to you.” Olivia nodded and extracted her hand. The smell of his cologne ratcheted up her headache another degree. She retreated backwards a step to give her some fresh air and breathing room.