Miss Goldsleigh's Secret

by Amylynn Bright

  “Come,” Reginald commanded. “Say your farewells. We shall leave first thing in the morning.”

  Olivia didn’t move, nor did she make eye contact with her cousin. She swallowed hard.

  “Now, Livvy. I’ve already wasted enough time.”

  “She’s not going anywhere with you.” Lord Dalton had not raised his voice.

  “This is a family matter, Lord Dalton. If you choose to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong, I’ll be forced to call the constable.”

  Olivia heard double masculine snorts from behind her. Apparently Lords Harrington and Morewether had registered their opinions of her cousin’s threat.

  “On what charge? Kidnapping? Don’t be asinine,” Dalton said. “You’ve heard her, she doesn’t wish to leave.”

  “No, but kidnapping is an interesting suggestion.” Not even a nasty sneer marred Reginald’s beautiful face. She knew from experience how disconcerting it could be, such villainy coming from a lovely form. It was incongruous, but she was immune at this point. “I meant for theft…” her cousin’s eyes shifted to hers, “…or attempted murder.”

  “You do what you need to do.” Dalton subtly moved his shoulder in front of her, and now she was situated between him, Morewether and Harrington.

  “Ah. I understand.” Reginald’s knowing sneer ratcheted up a notch. “You’re fucking her.”

  A gasp came from the ladies, all the ladies, even the hangers-on nearby. A thick arm wrapped in black superfine wool snapped past her and grabbed Dalton’s shoulder. Morewether intoned, “Not here.”

  “Not that the bastard doesn’t deserve it,” said Harrington from the other side and behind.

  Reginald clearly had no sense of self-preservation. “Will you still keep her as your whore after she’s released from Newgate?”

  “By God! You will not talk about her like that.” Morewether’s hand on his shoulder tightened, but Dalton shook it off.

  Reginald was not as tall as Dalton, but he wasn’t too far off. “I am her guardian. I’ll talk to or about her anyway I see fit, and there’s nothing you can do about it, marquess or no.”

  “As her betrothed, I damn sure have something to say about it.”

  “What?” yelped a chorus of feminine voices, including Olivia’s. Why would he say that? Olivia felt like a comment from her was necessary, but she had no idea what to say.

  “You’re engaged.” Reginald sounded disbelieving. “I won’t give my consent.”

  Here was her chance to contribute. She peeked out around the hulking wall of man in front of her. “I won’t need it in two weeks. I’ll be of age.”

  “Attempted murder it is then.” Reginald snarled his threat like it was a foregone conclusion.

  “Once we’re married, she’ll be under my protection,” Dalton told him. “Your ridiculous threats have no weight.”

  “I’m a peer now, too, Lord Dalton.” Reginald actually sneered when he said Dalton’s name. “I fully intend to use the resources I have coming to me.”

  If Olivia could see Dalton’s expression, she was certain it would be thunderous. “I’m certain you will get what’s coming to you.”

  “Gentlemen,” Francesca had a calm voice in the sea of animosity. “I think we’ve given the crowd enough of a show. Can we please move this into another room?” She had her arms out at her sides like a shepherd driving a flock.

  “We’re done here.” Dalton’s words sounded definitive.

  “For now,” Reginald snarled. “You will hear from me very soon, I assure you. I will not be disrespected in this manner.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Engaged?” Aunt Evelyn asked for at least the fifth time on the way home from the ball. She peered at Olivia and her nephew through the darkness of the carriage, her gaze alternating between the two of them. Olivia shifted uncomfortably in her seat and turned to look out the window. She couldn’t see much in the inky darkness, but staring at the shadows was better than avoiding the questioning glances from her benefactor.

  Dalton hadn’t spoken another word since he’d loaded all the ladies in the carriage and instructed the driver to return home posthaste. It was obvious to Olivia at least that he regretted his hasty words. She’d give him every opportunity to back out. Actually, the easier thing to do for everyone all around was for her to disappear. Perhaps she should speak to Dalton about helping her with the funds necessary for her to book a passage to America. She doubted Reginald would bother to pursue her that far. That was too much trouble, even for the obsession-driven Reginald.

  She was still flabbergasted he wasn’t dead. Was it better or worse that he was alive? She didn’t know, but instinct advocated it was better when he was dead. For two months she lived in terror of the Runners coming to get her for his murder, but alive, she knew deep in her gut, meant he was going to continue torturing her for as long as he was able.

  “Yes,” Lady Vivienne snapped at her sister. “Engaged. Engaged. Engaged. We were all there. We all heard it. Why must you keep asking?”

  Queasiness settled in Olivia’s stomach. More than anything, she didn’t want this family to hate her.

  “Well I, for one, am very excited about it,” Cassandra piped up.

  “You have to admit, it was romantic,” Penelope replied.

  “Indeed,” Cassandra agreed. “I am ever so excited to have been there for it.”

  “Engaged,” Lady Evelyn said again, this time almost a whisper to herself, and shook her head in disbelief, but there was a hint of an amazed smile as well.

  As they pulled up at Cavendish House, Lady Vivienne instructed, “Cassandra, Penelope, and you too, Olivia, I want you all up to bed right away. I don’t want to hear a bunch of giggling and such. Tomorrow we must be fresh and prepared to face the onslaught of visitors. There is much to plan before the entire ton descends on this house.”

  Olivia couldn’t let the marchioness think this was some underhanded plan. “Lady Vivienne, I am so sorry. I’ll figure out some way—”

  “Hush,” Lady Vivienne said, but her tone was not harsh. “We’ll sort this out tomorrow. For now, get some sleep. This will be worse on you than the rest of us, I assure you.”

  Olivia did hush. Worse on me? What does that mean? She pondered this as she followed the other ladies up the walk and through the front door. Unseeing, she followed along like a duckling across the marble entry and towards the great staircase. She didn’t get far before a strong hand grabbed her arm and diverted her through an open parlor door.

  Olivia moved to the far side of the room. “Lord Dalton, I’m so sorry. I never intended for this to end up with an engagement between us.”

  “I know.” Lord Dalton shut the parlor door and walked towards her. No, he stalked towards her.

  She retreated but kept up the steady stream of apologies and explanations. “I may have come up with a plan that would allow your escape from the engagement.”

  Lord Dalton shook his head. “Not interested.” He took two more steps.

  “Do you already have an idea then?” she asked.

  “No.” Another step. He was relentless.

  “Then let me tell you my idea. I think it may work, although I am embarrassed to say I’ll need more of your help implementing it.” The back of her knees hit a settee. She teetered but remained upright.

  “I don’t want to hear it.” He ceased his advance but only because he’d nearly run out of room. He stood too close. She couldn’t breathe, and his ardent stare was unnerving. A girl couldn’t concentrate on concocting a plan with a god standing this near and looking at her like that.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Stop thinking about it so hard.” Impossibly, he stepped closer, although there was no more room. She leaned backwards a bit, the settee at her knees hindering any further retreat.

  “I don’t understand you at all, Lord Dalton.”

  He brushed a loose curl of hair behind her ear, stroking his fingers along her cheek and nape, leaving a
warm trail of awareness in its wake. “I’m not so complicated.”

  “You jest.” Olivia tried to sound indignant, but she felt rather like a pudding, pliant and soft, and she wished to melt against him. “Why don’t you want to hear my ideas for ending this farce of an engagement? You don’t even like me.”

  “Of course I like you.” The same hand smoothed down her shoulder and caressed the top of her arm. “Why wouldn’t I like you?”

  Olivia snorted. That ought to cool his ardor. Nothing quite as scintillating as a lady who snorts. “We can scarcely be in the same room without ending every conversation in an argument. That is not the usual outcome of two people who like each other.”

  “Perhaps, or perhaps not.”

  “Are you teasing me or trying to exasperate me even more?”

  Lord Dalton chuckled, the sound low and rhythmic. The thrum of his voice settled in her stomach, distracting her. She swayed slightly when his hand followed the curve of her arm and slipped in next to her body to glide across her ribs and around her back. He pulled her to him, a swift tug that brought her flush against him from knee to breast.

  “No, I’m not teasing you. Are you teasing me?” His mouth hovered above hers, his breath warm and sweet as it feathered across her skin.

  “I don’t know.” Olivia had no idea what she was doing or what he was doing, but if he stopped, she would surely scream.

  “Will you call me Henry?”

  He was killing her. “When are you going to kiss me?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “I forgot the question,” she whispered in truth. She’d forgotten just about everything it seemed.

  “Will you call me Henry?”

  “No.” She tilted her head towards him a little farther, an enticement to bring his lips to hers.

  “You will.” He sounded confident. Finally, his lips came down to meet hers.

  He’d specifically chosen floozies who didn’t have yellow hair. No, he’d wait until he had her before he’d indulge that particular peccadillo.

  Nude, he paced across the bedroom of the rented house in a not-quite-fashionable bachelor neighborhood of London. Reginald filled his glass with whiskey and drank deeply before turning around to glance back at the bed. Three wives of highborn men sleeping there, their naked limbs entwined, did not satisfy him past the immediate moment. Joining them back in the bed did not appeal to him anymore either. He had hoped to distract himself with their bodies, but they had tired too quickly, and now he was left with his thoughts.

  He dropped into a chair before the fire and drank from his glass. The whiskey would not help him control his temper, in fact, quite the opposite was true. At this point though, Reginald didn’t care. He was past the point of trying to be nice.

  He’d let her live in his house and eat his food. Christ, he’d even let the little leech stay with her. He’d thought he’d done the little parasite in when he’d pushed him over the paddock fence, but his man watching the house had seen the bloodsucker walking around since. Her previous comfort had been due to his largesse, and he’d be damned if he would continue that for free any longer. The selfish hussy had refused him – repeatedly.

  No one refused him.

  No one.

  He’d admonished himself plenty for losing control of the situation the night she left. But the bitch had coshed him over the head with a pan and then shot him. That sort of thing deserved punishment.

  Reginald had been mulling over how to discipline her for months now. His little team of toothless minions had finally found her and then kept satisfactory tabs on her during her romp in London, but now he was tired of the game. It was time to go home, and she was coming with him.

  Olivia was his due for patiently waiting for his title. If she continued to contest him, things would not go well for her. If he put his mind to it, she would be very sorry. Very sorry indeed.

  And he did have a mind to it. He was enjoying wrapping his mind about that idea.

  Elegant fingers slid along his collarbone, and a slim, ivory arm came into view attached to a naked shoulder. “Come back to bed, my lord,” the redhead begged. He couldn’t remember her name, but it didn’t matter.

  Reginald didn’t move from his chair, but he did allow the whore to trail her fingers down his chest as she came around to the front of the chair.

  “The bed is cold without you.” She made as if to sit in his lap, but Reginald spread his knees and positioned her between his legs.

  “You disappointed me earlier.”

  She grinned, lusty. “Let me make amends, my lord?”

  He grabbed a handful of hair and pushed her face in his crotch. He kept his fingers wrapped in her red strands as her head bobbed in his lap, picking up a steady rhythm. It was Olivia he imagined as his cock grew harder and thicker, sliding in and out of the whore’s mouth. It was Olivia he punished when his hips rose to meet the woman’s downward thrusts. When he came with a low grunt, the muscles of his stomach and buttocks flexing, he smiled.

  He stood from the chair and headed back toward the bed to wake up the other men’s wives, the redhead trailing behind. He would use them until he was exhausted this time.

  He always had his best ideas when he was fucking.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Olivia woke up engaged.

  She should have offered to explain her plan when Dalton was kissing her, but it seemed such a waste to spoil the blissful physical awareness. Also, she couldn’t remember the details of the plan at that particular moment or why it was so vital. She still couldn’t believe Lord Dalton hadn’t even flinched when Reginald had threatened her with attempted murder.

  “I still have an idea for a way out of this mess,” she had told him. She’d stood on the first stair riser and still needed to tilt her head up to look him in the eye.

  Lord Dalton shook his head. “I don’t want to hear another word about it. I have every intention of going through with this wedding.”

  “But—”

  He’d kissed her into silence.

  So nothing was accomplished the previous night to help the situation, and with her mind a whirl with so much nonsense, she didn’t get much sleep either. It was difficult to shut off her head when it was full of beautiful men—both good and evil—insane proposals, unbelievable revelations, veiled threats, outstanding kisses, an injured brother, and a mother-in-law-to-be who was clearly unhappy about the prospect of her as a daughter-in-law.

  She was reliving the kisses when the summons from the marchioness arrived before breakfast. Expecting something of the sort, Olivia had dressed by herself while the sun came up, choosing a peach-flowered morning dress because it buttoned up the front, thus it did not require her maid’s assistance. Her unruly hair was wound in a braid and secured with about a thousand pins in an effort to keep it presentable. While she dressed, she rehearsed how she was going to explain this mess to Lady Vivienne. It was of the utmost importance, even though she wasn’t planning to go through with the marriage, that the lady not think the entire event had been some wild machination on Olivia’s part.

  Olivia squared her shoulders on the landing and took strength in the fact that she’d braved Mrs. Greene. Her landlady had been a dragon. Surely the gently bred Lady Vivienne would not be so terrifying. She inhaled a deep breath in front of the closed door then raised her fist and rapped on the paneled wood.

  “Come in.”

  Olivia curtsied. “Good morning, my lady.”

  “Olivia.” Lady Vivienne perched on the edge of a sofa, alone in her favorite morning room. As always, she represented all that a powerful matriarch of tonnish society could be. The woman was impeccably dressed. Olivia was certain she didn’t have an unruly hair on her head. The marchioness came from French money, she presided over one of the most influential families of London society, and she knew absolutely everyone. If she wanted to squash Olivia like a bug, Olivia would have to let her do it. After all the lady and her family had done for her and Warren, Oliv
ia thought it would be commendable if Lady Vivienne only threw her out into the street.

  “My lady,” Olivia began, “please believe me when I tell you I had no intention, no intention whatsoever, of becoming engaged to your son. I told him as much last night, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “I know.” Lady Vivienne’s voice was cultured and soft. It didn’t seem to hold any malice, either. “I never thought you did.”

  Olivia blinked at her while she searched for something intelligent to say. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t believe you starved yourself in a park to the point of unconsciousness for the sole purpose of worming your way into my family. I do know several young women I wouldn’t put such considerations past, but not you.” Lady Vivienne shook her head and allowed a smile.

  “But last evening you seemed quite angry with me.”

  “Last evening was quite a shock, wouldn’t you say?” Lady Vivienne gestured for Olivia to take a seat on the opposite end of the sofa. Facing each other, they were not so far apart that Lady Vivienne couldn’t take Olivia’s hand, which she did. “I may not have presented myself in a gracious manner, but I was surprised. I admit I don’t much like surprises.”

  “If I could have warned you or Lord Dalton, I would have, my lady,” Olivia blurted out. “I had no idea, I assure you, that my cousin would be at the party or even in London.” Or at any party. Ever again. Unless it was a party in hell.

  Lady Vivienne arched her brows. “Beautiful man, your cousin. With what you’ve shared about your experiences with him, it’s hard to reconcile those stories with the way he looks.”

  Olivia sighed. “That’s the way it’s always been. His handsome face lets him get away with everything. I understand if you don’t believe me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I believe you? I haven’t known you for long, but you’ve given me no reason to suspect you.”

  Olivia was queasy, her stomach flipping with the guilt of knowing how much she hadn’t shared with Lord Dalton and now Lady Vivienne. So she and Warren hadn’t killed Reginald, but wasn’t it almost as bad to bash him over the head with a frying pan, shoot him, and then leave him on the floor of her family’s kitchen with blood pouring out of a gunshot wound? Surely attempted murder was as hangable an offense as murder. Her continued presence could only bring heartache to this family.