by The Rival
Garrick looked at him and had to laugh. “If you are so fond of her, why don’t you marry her? After all, you are poised to inherit the earldom—why not inherit my bride as well?”
“Garrick.” Lionel stepped forward and placed his hand on Garrick’s arm. “I did not return to usurp anything from you.”
“No? Then why did you return?” Garrick said harshly.
“I told you. I almost died. And I realized I had no choice but to become a part of this family again. Imagine if I had died!” Lionel’s tone rose. “I would have never seen you, or Mother or Father again.”
Garrick glanced at Olivia, who had said not a word. “We all assumed you died, many years ago. And we accepted it. Tell the entire world, if you must, that your near death is the reason for your sudden reappearance in our lives. But I, for one, do not believe it.”
Lionel stared, his eyes turning hard. Garrick stared back. And then Lionel shrugged and smiled at Olivia. “He has changed. The Garrick I grew up with loved me as much as I loved him. We shared everything, he and I. Everything.”
Garrick stiffened. His temples throbbed. Once again, Lionel spoke with unerring accuracy. Except, perhaps, for one fact. “You did not share your plan to disappear with me,” he said.
Lionel glanced at Olivia. “I do not think we should discuss this publicly,” he said. “And we have been over this once before.”
Garrick was oddly satisfied. For the first time since Lionel had returned from the missing and the dead, he had discomfited him. Now it was his turn to shrug.
Lionel bowed to Olivia. “Thank you, Lady Ashburn, for the tour. You have a unique way with flowers and shrubs, that is clear. I did enjoy myself.”
“You are welcome,” Olivia said, glancing at Garrick.
“Now, of course, you can show Garrick your fine efforts,” Lionel said. He nodded at Garrick and headed across the lawns, toward the house.
An awkward silence fell.
Garrick studied her. Could she like Lionel? It was clear to him that Susan had already fallen heavily for his obvious charms. But Olivia? Was she also entranced by his golden good looks, his sunny smile, and his manners and wit? Garrick could not stand the thought. “You said you wished to speak to me,” he said bluntly. “If we go inside, we will have complete privacy.”
Olivia finally regarded him, trepidation in her eyes. “If we go alone, inside, Arlen might think the worst.”
He saw red. “This is intolerable! You remaining here, under his roof, after he has hurt you—when he does not even love his own daughter. And you have shackled me. I cannot stand to remain silent and inactive in this situation.”
“I am sorry if you are inconvenienced,” Olivia said with some sarcasm. It was bitter.
She was the kindest person he had ever met, and her slight sarcasm wounded him. “I know that this is all my fault,” he began.
“No.” She shook her head, her eyes suddenly clear and very silver, holding his. “Our marriage has been horrendous from the start. Had we had even the slightest friendship, I do not think our … er … liaison would have happened.”
“How horrendous, Olivia?” He had to know.
She stared. Finally she said, “He disliked me from the first.” Her color was high.
“Why?”
She shook her head and would not answer him.
He was grim. “Even had you and Arlen been friends, what you and I have found is inescapable.”
Olivia hesitated. She was gazing behind him, and he turned to follow her regard. Lionel had paused some distrance from them, a gold snuff box in his hands. If he was trying to overhear their conversation, he gave no sign of it. Garrick faced her, took her arm, and guided her toward the greenhouse. “I do not trust him. And sounds can carry in open spaces.”
They stepped inside the plant-filled, glass-and-iron dome structure; Olivia’s eyes found his, piercingly direct. Instantly Garrick became aware of how alone they were. He did not release her arm. Instead his thumb slid across the inside of her elbow in a small caress. It was impossible not to want her, and badly.
She looked at it, then up at him—into his eyes again.
“I have to touch you,” he said.
“Don’t,” she said. And added, “Not here.”
“Olivia. I miss you,” he began, only too late realizing how selfish he was being.
She inhaled harshly. “Don’t. Please do not make this worse. I don’t know what to do. I am so confused. Arlen is watching me closely. And I cannot betray Susan,” she finished. “That is the worst of it. I feel so guilty—but what we have shared has been so wonderful.”
She was using the past tense. “Damn Susan! She wants Lionel, anyway.” He was angry. “You know she despises me—she thinks I am a savage. As for Arlen, the sooner he returns to town the better!”
“If you did not act like a savage when with her, if you did not do your best to terrify her, she might think differently,” Olivia flared.
His felt his jaw grinding down. “I cannot tolerate her presence for even a moment or two. Can you imagine the two of us bound together for all eternity in holy matrimony?” His laughter was at once bitter and incredulous.
Olivia stared. “No,” she said softly. “I fear for the both of you if such a thing actually happens.”
Garrick jerked, his gaze again flying to and locking with hers.
“Do you think,” Olivia said carefully, “that your father will proclaim Lionel his firstborn and heir?”
Garrick hesitated. “I think so. He wants this man to be Lionel. Either that, or there is some ulterior motive to his behavior.”
“What ulterior motive could there be? Even I am impressed with Lionel’s recollections of the past.”
He stared, and it was a moment before he spoke. “And just how impressed are you with him?”
Her eyes widened. “You sound jealous!”
He was jealous, but he was not about to admit it. “I am hardly jealous.”
“Oh, Garrick.” Her tone was soft. “You have nothing to be jealous of. Even if he really is your brother, I question his sincerity.”
His heart beat harder. “But you do not question mine?” he asked, as softly.
Her gray gaze held his. “No. I do not.”
He smiled. “Good.”
After a pause, Olivia said, “Will Susan be plighted to Lionel instead of to you?”
“One cannot predict what the earl will do, he is so canny. But that would solve most of my problems,” he added grimly. Suddenly he clasped her hands in his, refusing to let them go. “Olivia, if that does happen, I am, ant least, absolved of my responsibility to Stanhope.”
She stared, not saying a word.
“What if,” he said slowly, “I took you and Hannah away from here, far away?”
She was pale. “You are not free to do that.”
“And you still fear Arlen,” he finished for her.
Slowly she nodded.
“I will never let him hurt you again,” he said roughly, never having meant anything more. In that moment, he was one single heartbeat away from pulling her into his arms, to hold her, reassure her—to feel her heart beating next to his.
Olivia looked up. He knew she knew what he was thinking, he knew she felt the impulse to seek his embrace, too.
Garrick’s pulse drummed. He glanced around, only too well recalling spying on her just a few moments ago from outside, but saw no one. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her close. “I need you, Olivia,” he whispered, and he meant far more than just physically. He kissed her deeply, for an achingly long, bittersweet, desperate time.
When he released her, he was as out of breath as if he had just arrived at Ashburnham on foot. Tension assailed his entire body. It was torturous.
She stepped back, trembling visibly. “I cannot think clearly when I am around you. I must go back to the house!”
“Wait,” he said, catching up to her as they stepped outside. “You wanted to tell me something. What is it?�
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They paused on the gravel path. At that moment, a cloud covered the sun. A shadow fell over them.
Olivia wet her lips. “Garrick, you and your family should be careful.”
All his previous desire vanished. “In reference to what? Or should,” he asked slowly, “I say whom?”
She nodded, swallowing. “Something is not right. With Lionel.”
He stared, his chest tight. He found it harder to breathe now than before. “Olivia … Hannah’s abilities, to see things clearly—that others cannot see. Did she get that from you?”
“No!” Olivia cried. She was pale, her eyes frightened. “Hannah can only feel and sense things better than you and I because she is blind—and she has to rely on all of her senses, including her intuition, to make up for her blindness. That is all that it is, Garrick.” Her gaze was imploring.
He nodded, touching her shoulder. “All right.” He did not believe her. Hannah had a gift most often associated with Gypsies. He was certain of it. “Tell me what you mean.”
“I am not sure. But something is wrong with him.” She did not smile. “I am not a fortune-teller. I am not a witch. I do not have a crystal ball. I cannot read tea leaves. But my instinct tells me that something is odd here, odd and amiss.”
“You think he is a fraud, a pretender—a liar,” Garrick said flatly.
Olivia hesitated. “I do not know if he is a fraud or your missing brother. I have no … intuition … about that. But I feel a darkness about him. Around him. If he is your brother, he has changed. Be careful. That is all I wanted to say.”
If he is your brother, he has changed.
Her words echoed. They were very disturbing. Had Lionel changed? Was he, in truth, his missing brother? Had he become this truly unlikable person?
“Garrick?”
Olivia interrupted his thoughts. He looked into her eyes, which were searching his now, and he wanted to kiss her again, but tenderly, on the cheek or forehead. He could not, for the house was in plain sight behind them. He could not even lift his hand and touch her face, letting her know that her concern was welcome and that it moved him. So he smiled, from his heart. “Thank you for the warning, Olivia.”
She finally smiled, too. “You’re welcome.”
His smile died. “But I did not need it. I do not trust him.”
“That is probably best,” Olivia said.
“Shall we go back to the house?” Garrick asked.
Olivia nodded, and they started down the white gravel path, careful not to touch or even bump into one another.
“My lady,” Mrs. Riley cried, smiling widely. “It is so good to have you back!”
The countess of Stanhope managed a smile. “It has been a long time, has it not, Mrs. Riley?”
“Indeed it has,” the tall housekeeper said. Passing by them were various servants with the earl’s and the countess’s trunks. Their coach was parked outside, the team of six being unhitched as the baggage was unloaded. The earl stood there, chatting with his stable master, who had come running out to greet him the moment they had turned into the drive.
“I do wish we had been informed of your arrival,” Mrs. Riley said. “We had no idea, but your rooms are always kept in a state of readiness.” She smiled.
“I did not know myself until last night that we were coming to the Hall. His Lordship made the decision rather spontaneously,” the countess said. Eleanor thought it was an understatement, and she was torn between anger and despair. She had not been informed about their departure until they had sat down to dine; thus she had been up half the night, directing the packing of her trunks. She was exhausted, but not merely from lack of sleep and the trip from town. Her fatigue was emotional.
Her husband, she knew, had returned to the Hall after all these years because Lionel was there. If it really was Lionel.
“Shall I set out a dinner for you?” Mrs. Riley asked. “Both of Their Lordships returned home rather late last night from Ashburnham, and made no plans for a midday meal. Both have gone out on horseback.”
“Together?” Eleanor was curious, her heart thumping.
“I do not think so,” Mrs. Riley said, her natural enthusiasm fading. Her direct gaze held the countess’s. Eleanor saw a dozen questions in her eyes. Once, they had been somewhat intimate—as close as was possible for Eleanor to be to anyone, as she had no real confidantes in her life. She did not believe in airing one’s dirty laundry, so to speak … especially as all the women whom she considered her friends spent most of their time gossiping behind one another’s backs.
But she had not been to the Hall in ten long years. After Lionel had disappeared, they had come twice, during successive summers. But the memories had proved too painful for everyone, and once Garrick had been banished to Barbados, they had not come again. And they had never set foot at Caedmon Crag, where the vanishing had occurred. Neither Eleanor nor the earl ever would again.
“My lady?” Mrs. Riley cut into her thoughts.
Eleanor focused with some difficulty. Her concentration had become very bad of late. She was supposed to make a decision about dinner, but for the life of her, she could not decide—she did not care. The boys were out riding. Separately. An ache revealed itself in her breast. As children, they had been inseparable. Oh, God. If only it were Lionel.
Her glance settled on her husband as he stood outdoors, now in the midst of an enthusiastic conversation with both the stable master and the gamekeeper. Stanhope was still a formidable specimen of a man. He was six feet tall, his shoulders remained broad, his legs strong and muscled, due, she thought, to his twice daily rides. Of course, he was stockier now than he had been a decade ago, but that weight gain was as natural as aging and dying.
Death. It weighed heavily upon her mind.
Stanhope was now crossing the lawns with both servants, on his way, she thought, to the stables. He had not bothered to tell her where he was going, or for how long, or if he wished to dine at any time in the near future. Despair and anger warred again within Eleanor. She turned and faced the housekeeper, but not before arranging her face into a pleasant mask.
“There will be no dinner. Prepare a menu for me for a lavish supper and I shall study it in my rooms. You may also send me a tray with some refreshments.” She hesitated. “I will take sherry with my dinner.”
Mrs. Riley nodded and rushed off.
Eleanor laid her hand, which was trembling, against her breast. Her husband had disappeared from view. The boys were out. She was alone.
But she was always alone, was she not?
She turned and walked through the hall, into the east wing, where the family’s apartments were. Her steps were slow. As she climbed the stairs, her hand drifted upon the banister. She had thought that Garrick’s return would fill the void in her life. She had been wrong. Nothing could fill the void in her life.
In her sitting room, she immediately went to the gilded lacquer sideboard. The cabinet beneath was locked. She could not remember where she had left the key, so she began a methodical search that led her into her bedchamber and dressing room. She did not spare a glance for the furnishings, heavily and brightly floral, which had once given her so much pleasure. She found the key on her dressing table, lying casually among glass bottles of perfumes, a silver brush and comb, and a plated hand mirror all arranged upon a beautiful silver tray. Holding it tightly, she raced back to the sitting room.
Squatting, she unlocked the cabinet and reached inside. But the bottle she withdrew had been opened and it was empty. Frowning, she found two more bottles in the same state. All three she quickly returned to their hiding place. When she finally stood, she held a full, unopened bottle of port in her hand with a cork opener. She quickly twisted the cork out, blew the dust off a glass, and poured herself a generous drink. When she had sipped half of it, the pain began to dim.
Should she not, she thought bleakly, know if Lionel were a pretender or not? Now her temples throbbed.
She finished the drink an
d put both the bottle and the evidence of her recent drinking, the empty glass, back into the cabinet, which she locked. The key she slipped down the front of her dress, into her corset. Then she left the room, moving quickly, her feet carrying her of their own volition back downstairs and into the central wing of the house. Her heart hammered uneasily, with fear.
Swiftly she climbed all the stairs, thinking, I do not even know if it is Lionel, God help me.
Tears now blurred her gaze as she reached the topmost landing. She did not stop. The corridor was absolutely silent as she traversed it, finally reaching the narrow doorway that led to the last short flight of stairs—and the attic.
Eleanor opened the door. She was nauseated. It was hard to think. She climbed the stairs. The door to the attic was ajar. Had it remained ajar like this for all these years? she wondered. She pressed it open and went inside.
Blinking, allowing her eyes to adjust to the shadows and darkness, she straightened to her full height, which was only an inch or two above five feet, and walked over to the window. Outside, the day remained sunny and bright, in glaring contrast with the dark attic. It was not the first time she had stood there, gazing out of the window, blindly.
Abruptly she pushed it open, knowing that if she jumped out, she would not be the first to have done so.
“Sir John, do come in,” the earl of Stanhope said, smiling.
The robust knight entered the salon where Stanhope had been waiting to receive him. They were in the east wing of the house, and the room was large and bright, with new, modern, oversize windows looking out upon the grounds. Many blue-and-gold Oriental rugs covered the parquet floors, and the yellow papered walls were adorned with paintings in gold frames. Stanhope had been sitting at a beautiful mahogany desk with an inlaid leather top, and now he rose to his full height. Sir John, however, topped him by a hand.
The two men bowed. “A drink?” Stanhope asked. He had been expecting Sir John for some time.
“Why not.” Sir John smiled. His wig was askew, as always.
Stanhope went to a beautiful japanned sideboard and poured two cognacs into snifters. He then handed one to Sir John and the two men settled on one of the several sofas in the room, this one a sunny golden damask affair. “And how do you find your stay at Ashburnham?” Stanhope asked.