by The Rival
Garrick stared into his friendly blue eyes, unable to smile, remaining thoroughly shocked. But he had missed Lionel. He had missed him every single day of the past fourteen years. Elation was trying to penetrate the shock and the remnants of doubt; it was trying to creep over him. Did he dare believe in miracles? Did he dare believe in this one?
The man standing before him could be his brother. The story was incredible, but not impossible. And Lionel’s disappearance had been as incredible.
“Can we not at least be friends, until you have had some time to sort out the fact of my return?” Lionel asked.
“I do not know,” Garrick said. He turned to leave, then paused. Their gazes met. “If I find out that you are an impostor, you will pay a very serious price for all the damage you are inflicting on my family.” Anger surged within him again. He thought of his mother, whom he had to protect. She had suffered enough in her lifetime. He even wished to spare his father the circumstance of a pretender. Then he thought of his own grief—and the joy, the insane joy, he would feel if this were truly Lionel.
“Garrick.”
Garrick halted, facing the man calling himself Lionel. Facing the man who might very well be his long-lost brother.
“You have nothing to worry about,” Lionel said.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Olivia was on her knees, a trowel in hand, a large straw hat on her head. It was tied beneath her chin with a pale blue ribbon. Hannah, similarly poised and clad, also was busy preparing the ground for the young potted roses they were planting. Mother and child were surrounded by nearly every color imaginable, for they were in the midst of what appeared to be a sublimely chaotic arrangement of blooming flowers, planted in no apparent order: begonias and geraniums, petunias and pansies, daffodils and tulips, sunflowers and daisies and roses.
Olivia welcomed the mindless task she had set herself. Gardening had never been a task before, it had always been a pure and simple pleasure. But pleasure eluded her now, furiously, and she had instructed herself to remain busy, spending the past three days since her return to Ashburnham housecleaning, sewing, and gardening. The manor had never been as dust free, both she and Hannah had new silk gowns, and they had planted an entire second vegetable garden. Now Olivia was determined to expand her flower garden, already overflowing with blooms.
She must not think about Garrick De Vere.
She must not think about what they had found at Stanhope Hall, what they had shared—and what they had no right to. She must not think about the future. De Vere was going to wed Susan Layton, as he should.
Olivia paused, closing her eyes, short of breath. The soil felt warm and rich beneath her bare hands, the sun too hot blazing down upon her back. She was light-headed. She was torn between exhilaration and despair. The appearance of Garrick’s face, as he strained over her, the recollection of his devastating touch—worse, the feeling of him within her—overwhelmed her for the thousandth time since her return home. She was miserable. Nothing had ever felt so perfect, so right.
His expression, his absolute shock upon receiving the missive from the earl, was unforgettable.
She wiped her hands on a towel, but they remained filthy, and she dared not dab at her eyes with her fingertips. Oh, God. What had happened to her in such a short period of time? Was she in love, painfully so, with a man intended for someone else? If so, if this was love, then she was passionately involved, against her will. How had this happened?
She wondered if a man could make such ardent love to a woman without being hopelessly in love himself. She did not have a clue. But Arlen had never touched her or kissed her with such explosive intensity. She closed her eyes, sitting back on her thighs. Images, sensations, and feelings flooded Olivia with shocking intensity, with profound power. Before the other night, she had not suspected the depth of her passionate nature. Her heart yearned desperately for Garrick’s love, but her body yearned for his touch—as desperately.
If only he had not followed her to the country.
But no amount of wishing would change anything.
“Mama?” Hannah interrupted her thoughts. She had risen to her feet and walked over to Olivia.
Olivia forced a smile to her face and cheer into her tone. “Yes, dear?” She stood. The muscles in her legs were finally returning to normal after that stunning night of lovemaking. How stiff she had been the next day.
“Please don’t be so sad,” Hannah said, reaching for Olivia’s hand.
Olivia was stricken. She pulled Hannah close. What could she say? She must not burden her own child with her dilemma, yet Hannah was no ordinary child, and Olivia was not even allowed the privacy of her own feelings and her own thoughts because of that. “Sometimes it happens that sad things come to pass,” she said carefully. “But those sad things will also pass. I do believe there is a reason for everything, my dear. But Hannah, sometimes I wish you were not so aware of my thoughts.”
“I’m sorry. But ever since we left Stanhope Hall, you have changed. You are worried and I am scared,” she said bluntly. “It is Lord Caedmon, is it not?” she asked.
Oh, God. The last thing Olivia wished to do was frighten her already overwhelmed child. She must learn to control her rampaging emotions, yet she knew, deep down, that was going to be almost impossible. “Dear,” she said carefully, aware of the lie, “Lord Caedmon is just a friend.”
Hannah smiled. “I like him,” she said.
Olivia’s heart turned over. How right it could be—her and her daughter and Garrick De Vere. How scared she was. To be entertaining such absurd, impossible notions. And the worst part was that she did not trust herself.
She knew that she must not even consider the possibility of seeing him again, unless it was by chance and socially; still, dear God, she wished so much to be with him, one more time. She must fight herself now. Yet he was haunting her ceaselessly, which did not help. She carried him with her, in her mind, every second of every minute of every day. Was this love, then? An obsession of the heart and soul?
If so, Olivia did not want it.
Or was she lying to herself?
“Mama, the mail coach is coming,” Hannah said.
Olivia turned. The road that led to the house wound through the surrounding fields, which were dotted here and there with grazing dairy cows. She could see a coach perhaps an eighth of a mile away, raising a small cloud of dust as it approached them. She did not question Hannah’s perception. If Hannah said it was the mail, it was. Olivia did not know if it was her acute hearing, possibly coupled with vibrations in the ground, or her gift of sight that enabled her to identify the coach from this distance.
“Let’s see if the postman is bringing us a letter, dear,” Olivia said, taking Hannah’s hand. They walked around the house to the front and waited in the circular, crushed-shell drive. As the coach turned into the drive, she saw that Hannah had been right: it was the mail.
The coach halted before them. The potbellied driver smiled at her and Hannah. “Good day, my lady, Miss Hannah. I have a letter for you from London,” he said, jumping down to the ground.
Olivia knew De Vere would not send her a note, yet she was immediately so stricken with hope that she failed to reply adequately. “Good … day, Mister Smith. Thank you,” she managed, taking the sealed envelope. Her heart fell. It was not sealed with the Stanhope wax crest. It was from the Laytons.
He climbed back up, but not before handing Hannah a sugar candy. “G’day, ladies,” he said, whipping his horses forward.
A cloud of dust enveloped them as Olivia broke the wax seal, filled with dread now. She saw that it was from Susan, whom she suddenly had no wish to hear from.
“My dear Olivia,” Susan began in a splendid, scripted handwriting,
“How I have missed the times we have spent together! And you are missing a lovely time in town, for there have been so many parties, and now that I am so successfully engaged, I have been invited to them all. Of course, it is a bit awkward. My fiancé has no
t escorted me to a single fête, and I am asked about that by everyone.
“I am confused. Apparently he did go to the country for a very short turn. But I do know he is back in town, and not only has he not escorted me anywhere, he has not called on me even once. Frankly, dear Olivia, I am relieved. Try as I might, I cannot find any fondness in my heart for Garrick De Vere.
“Have you heard the most astounding news? His brother, the one missing for fourteen years, has returned from the dead, or so this man claims! The ton is quite divided upon whether this man is Lionel De Vere or an absolute and very bold fraud. Olivia, I must tell you, he is quite the dashing bachelor about town! He is stunningly handsome, all the ladies are agog over him, and his manners are flawless. I, personally, believe him to be the long-lost Stanhope heir. No impostor could play the part so well, and he does resemble the earl, amazingly so! He has attended every fête I have been invited to, and we have shared a dance at every event. He is a splendid dancer, my dear friend. And his wit! He makes me laugh until my sides hurt. He is so charming!
“How could two brothers be so unlike? It is frightening. All the more so, and I know I should not be writing this, when I am engaged to the other one! As you can imagine, my parents are very distressed by Lionel De Vere’s return. After all, I am supposed to be engaged to the Stanhope heir. On the other hand, the earl has not publicly announced Lionel to be his long-lost firstborn son. I suppose I must wait until that day comes. As it surely must. Again, I dare to confide in you, I pray that Lionel is the true Stanhope heir.
“Can you not return to town, my dearest lady? I would be so happy if you could. I am sure my parents would not mind. Having had some time to think about it, I do think they overreacted to Lord Caedmon’s interest in you. After all, you are married yourself to a very fine man, and you are my dear friend. Do think about returning. I shall talk them around.
Your Loyal & Sincere Friend, Etc.
Susan Layton.”
Olivia’s hands were shaking by the time she finished the letter. Far too many emotions to count overwhelmed her, but first and foremost was the guilt that had haunted her since the other night. No matter that Susan had no affection for her intended; Garrick De Vere was her fiance, Olivia was her friend, and together they had cuckolded the innocent girl. Olivia despised herself.
And what about this man who claimed to be Lionel De Vere? Was it possible that Garrick’s older brother had returned from the missing after all these years?
Olivia had, from the first, assumed him to be an impostor, but now she thought about it. Rather, she tried to keep her thoughts at bay and let some feeling enter her body, a calm certainty that he was a fraud or that he was the long-lost firstborn. No such wave of certainty came.
“Shall we go inside?” she asked Hannah, dismayed.
“Are we going to go back to London?” Hannah asked with eagerness.
Olivia faltered on the front steps of the house. Arlen’s image assailed her. He was the last person she wanted to see, because along with the guilt, she lived with a very real fear. What if Arlen eventually found out that she had spent a night at Stanhope Hall—and that Garrick De Vere had been there, too?
Olivia did not know what to think. Up until now, she had been a faithful wife. It had never occurred to her, not once in nine long years, to be otherwise. Arlen did not love her, he did not even want her. But Olivia knew him well enough to comprehend just how perverse he was. It would not matter that it was the popular fashion to have husbands and wives going their separate ways. It was tolerable for Arlen to have a mistress; he would never tolerate her having a lover. Olivia had no doubt.
He would punish her should he ever learn of her transgression—punish her and make her miserable. Her life had been difficult enough because of the burden of keeping secret Hannah’s own gift while hiding her own premonitions. Now what? Olivia was afraid Arlen would take his anger out upon Hannah if he discovered her disloyalty. Arlen knew that Hannah was Olivia’s single vulnerability.
They walked inside the house. In the foyer it was pleasantly cool. Olivia clutched the letter and envelope. Going back to London right now would be a mistake.
Maybe, if she stayed in the country, and De Vere married Susan, she would forget about him. Maybe her feelings would disappear, evaporate. And the night they had shared would become a distant, nearly forgotten memory.
Olivia felt like crying.
But she did not. Foolish, yearning woman that she was, she could not help but think of another possibility. Maybe their engagement would be broken, if the man claiming to be Lionel De Vere were truly the Stanhope heir.
But even that would not change the fact that she herself was married.
“How did you talk me into this?” Garrick grumbled.
“I do believe half a dozen gins last night helped,” Lionel said good-naturedly. He lifted a gloved hand and waved at a particularly pretty pair of ladies who were, at that moment, driving by them in an open rig on the riding path in the park.
They were riding two big bay hunters at the very fashionable hour of noon. The path was filled with colorfully clad mounted riders and horse-drawn vehicles filled with colorful, lavishly dressed ladies and gentlemen. Garrick was nursing a very sore head and throbbing temples, for he had somehow wound up in an exclusive gaming establishment the night before, where he had lost several hundred pounds at the card tables. Lionel had suggested the evening’s outing. Garrick had been reluctant to attend but, as he was currently caught in the throes of a battle between his heart and his mind, had finally accepted the invitation in the hope that it might shed some light on whether this man was an impostor or not. But the only truth to be found had been that Garrick was a poor card player. In fact, he had not gambled in any shape or form in years. There were no clubs or gaming dens on Barbados. Lionel had won double what Garrick had lost.
The two pretty blond ladies giggled and simpered and fluttered their fans as Lionel doffed his hat toward them. He grinned at Garrick. “Easy prey, huh?”
Garrick eyed him, recalling in that moment that Lionel had always had a way with women. Whether a serving wench or a noblewoman, the female gender had been drawn to his easy charm and golden good looks as bears to a pot of honey.
“You have hardly changed,” Lionel remarked, waving at another carriage, this one containing a brunette, a redhead, and a blonde. “You are as dour as ever.”
Garrick ignored the trio of women, who were somewhat older and more sophisticated than the previous rig, as they sent Lionel some very suggestive and seductive glances. Lionel craned his neck to watch them depart once their landau had passed by. “Who was that brunette?” he exclaimed.
“In case you have forgotten, I have only just returned to town myself,” Garrick said, thinking, He is so like Lionel. He must be Lionel. Or was he engaging in the same wishful thinking as his father and his mother—and believing what he wanted to believe?
“Why didn’t you come with me to Madame Beaulieu’s after the club?” Lionel asked.
Garrick avoided his regard. When they were children, there was little he could hide from his brother. He had no intention of telling him now that the single night spent with Olivia Grey, the countess of Ashburn, consumed and haunted him so that he could not contemplate passing an evening with a whore—or any other woman. In fact, during the past few days he had checked several very strong and unruly impulses to ride directly to Ashburnham and to hell with the consequences.
“It couldn’t have anything to do with your recent stay in the country, now, could it?” Lionel said as they continued to walk their mounts down the shady path.
Instantly Garrick stiffened. “What does that mean?” But Lionel could not know. Mrs. Riley knew what had transpired that night, but before leaving the Hall, in spite of how shocked he was by the earl’s missive, Garrick had taken a moment to speak with her. Although he had been indirect, he knew she had understood what he was insisting upon—absolute discretion. He trusted that their secret was safe.
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“You apparently fled town without telling anyone. Father was very annoyed. You did not even leave notice of where you were off to. And you returned as precipitously. Mother mentioned that you have been out of sorts ever since.” Lionel’s tone was easy.
Garrick stared at him but saw no trace of a hidden meaning on his face. And he could not help it, but whenever this man called the earl “Father,” he became rigid. Lionel smiled again before looking away, again to doff his tricorne hat at a particularly lovely passing lady.
Garrick relaxed, realizing he was overreacting because of a guilt he had no wish to feel. But he knew Arlen Grey well enough—or at least some time ago he had—and he did not think the man had changed. He was difficult, perverse, and at times cruel. He did not want Olivia placed in any jeopardy because of him.
“I am hardly a horny boy of thirteen anymore,” Garrick said. “Easy women have failed to interest me for many years.”
Lionel did eye him. “Well, I find a beautiful woman beautiful no matter her station in life. And Madame Beaulieu certainly has some extraordinary wenches.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” Garrick said, feeling a distinct ache as he thought of Olivia, an ache not just in his loins, but in his chest. He had to see her again. But when?
“Ah, here comes Father,” Lionel said, smiling as if pleased.
Stanhope approached astride a magnificent chestnut hunter. He pulled up facing his two sons, who had also automatically reined in their mounts. His hard gaze went from Lionel to Garrick and back again. “I was told the two of you were riding in the park,” he said stiffly. “Lionel, did you forget that we had a date to sup at one at my club?” Garrick stiffened with surprise. The earl was taking Lionel to his club—as if he were truly his son?