by The Rival
Arlen’s fists were clenched. He could not even comprehend why Caedmon found his wife alluring. She was pale and plain, and he knew firsthand that fucking a board would be more satisfactory. What man wanted to be with a witch who knew his every thought—or who might discover all his secrets? What man wanted to lie with a woman who had been cursed—and perhaps even spawned by the devil? Just thinking about her made him sweat. Sometimes, when she looked at him with her eerie gray eyes, he felt stripped naked, not to the bone, but to the soul. At those times, he felt on the brink of eternal judgment—as if hell beckoned from just around the corner.
He could not understand how, given her cursed oddness, Olivia had yet to discover his affair with Elizabeth. But they had been extremely careful once they had learned the truth about her.
Elizabeth. She had counseled him ill only that one time—when she had told him to stay with his new bride, advising him against annulling the marriage. She had pointed out that he needed an heir and they needed a pliable, meek, naive wife in his life, so no one might ever suspect the truth. Arlen had agreed with her at the time, still enraged at being so monumentally deceived by his bride and her family. And now it was too late for regrets. Olivia had not given him an heir, but a blind daughter whom he could not stand. Punishment, he knew, for her sins. Or was Hannah punishment for his sins? As always, it was a thought he refused to entertain.
Meanwhile he was stuck in the country, which he detested, in order to keep his wife in line, while Elizabeth flirted with that damnable Scotsman he had found her entertaining the other day. Arlen could not stand the thought of her and Kildare spending even an innocent moment together. Just as he could not stand the thought of Caedmon cuckolding him another time—making him a fool once again in the eyes of the ton.
“The meal was magnificent, but then, the countess always keeps the finest chefs on hand,” Arlen heard himself say. He stiffened. Garrick had just laid down his pool stick and was saying, “I have changed my mind. Good evening.” He nodded at everyone beside the pool table—that is, he did not gesture to either Arlen or Lionel—and he strode from the gaming room.
Arlen was flushed, and he knew it. Obviously Caedmon was off to rendezvous with his wife, right now, beneath everyone’s very noses. Would he fuck her outside in the gardens? Of course he would! Arlen wondered if he could control the temper that was building inside him. He felt like a volcano, predisposed to explode.
“My brother has not changed at all in fourteen years,” Lionel remarked, also having watched him leave the room. “He prefers solitude to even the best of company. No wonder he stayed for so long on that isolated sugar island.”
Arlen almost remarked that he was hardly off to be solitary just then. “Your brother is a barbarian, and I am speaking openly because I know you think so, too.” Lionel did not reply. “His manners have not changed. I hope it is suggested to him that he watch his step.”
Lionel leaned closer. “Arlen.” His voice was low and conspiratorial. “Garrick means no harm.”
Arlen looked at him. “Then he should stay away from my wife.”
Lionel stared. “I am sure they are just friends. The countess is a very respectable lady.” He smiled. His tone had been uncertain and doubtful.
Arlen trembled anew. “Your brother has no friends. He has never had friends. Do not forget, I have known him almost as long as you. He is a recluse, incapable of friendship with anyone.”
“Yes, he is an oddly reclusive fellow,” Lionel said. “Well, in any case, I suspect he is off for a just-beforemidnight walk with that hound of his.”
And with Olivia. “Perhaps I shall take a midnight walk, too,” Arlen said. He had to witness what he knew was about to unfold. He had to. He must catch them in the act.
And then what? Instantly, a duel came to mind. Garrick would die. He had never been a capable swordsman. Arlen smiled tightly.
Lionel seized his arm. “Before you go, I must ask you, do you have ghosts at Ashburnham?”
Arlen could hardly comprehend him, he was so intensely focused on imagining Olivia in Caedmon’s arms and Caedmon dying in the arms of his second after a duel. He blinked. “What?”
“I did overhear the oddest conversation the other day at your home, between my brother and the countess.”
Arlen momentarily forgot about rushing after Caedmon. “What odd conversation?”
“Apparently Hannah saw a ghost.” Lionel chuckled a little.
Arlen did not smile. Hannah was blind. She could not see anything. Instead he said, “Hannah is a child.”
Lionel’s smile faded. “That is hardly what I overheard. Garrick was most inquisitive, and most insistent. He wanted to know if Hannah often saw ghosts and other things that most ordinary people could not see. I understand the child is blind.”
A glimmering of something, a piece of knowledge, a truth, which Arlen could not yet identify, began to form. And it was filling him with dread. “Go on.”
Lionel shook his head. He shrugged. “It was odd. The countess was quite upset—and very insistent that Hannah could ‘see’ nothing. Garrick wanted to know if Hannah’s unique sensitivity, if you will, had something to do with her mother. The countess adamantly insisted that Hannah was only sensitive because she must rely heavily upon her senses other than sight in order to live in the world. The countess was quite upset. She said the strangest thing. ‘I am no fortune-teller. I am not a witch. I cannot read tea leaves. I do not use a crystal ball.’ I hardly understood this entire bizarre exchange. But surely a blind girl could not see a ghost!” Lionel laughed. “Except Garrick remained certain that she had.”
Arlen was finding it difficult to breathe. Hannah, capable of seeing a ghost? Hannah, possessing some kind of “unique sensitivity,” something to do with her mother? Olivia, adamant in her denials, frightened and upset? Caedmon, somehow having learned Olivia’s secret? He was sweating heavily. No, it could not be.
“Of course, while I do believe in ghosts, I also believe a child is very creative,” Lionel was saying easily. “She probably wanted attention and made up this episode of having seen a ghost.”
Arlen did not see him. Was something going on here, something horrid, humiliating, something he should know about? Surely Hannah was not like her mother! Surely not! Surely he could not have been deceived these past eight years.
If she was, he would kill them both.
“Excuse me,” he said stiffly. And he exited the room, his strides long and sharp.
Olivia could not attend the quiet chatter in the pink-and-gold salon, where she sat with the other ladies. The first topic of conversation had been fashion, then it had been food—the countess of Stanhope being roundly lauded for her chef’s preparations that evening—and now they were discussing Susan’s wedding gown in great detail. In spite of the fact that Susan was hardly eager to wed Garrick De Vere, now she became animated as she described the gown’s skirts, which were dripping with diamond-encrusted lace.
Olivia tried to control her restlessness and her mind. But try as she might, she could neither stop fidgeting nor breathe normally. The evening had been a disaster. She had been painfully aware of Garrick, and every time she glanced at him—and surely she had glanced at him a thousand times—she had caught him gazing at her with his incredible eyes. She had found herself wishing, desperately, for another intimate moment with him. He was right. They could not continue this way. It was not fair to either of them.
She had a choice to make. Dear, dear God. Take her daughter and run away with him, or end the relationship. The very air felt constricted in her lungs.
I await your decision upon my return. That flat statement echoed in her mind, and it was agonizing.
Olivia was at a loss. If only she had the courage to leave Arlen. If only she had faith in herself and in Garrick, if only she could believe that they could successfully elude Arlen and that, in time, he would let her and Hannah go. But she did not believe in any of those things, and could she spend the rest of her l
ife as a man’s mistress? For even if he shirked his duty to his family, she would never be free to become his wife.
Olivia blinked back a tear. Her heart was shouting yes.
She was so afraid. It was as if she stood upon a cliff. One step, and she would plunge off it—landing God only knew where.
I am leaving the Hall. I am off to Caedmon Crag.
His words returned to her abruptly, disturbing her mightily, another predicament for her to dread. She knew he must go to Caedmon Crag, but she was frightened of what awaited him there. Her senses shrieked at her in warning, even now.
“My dear Lady Ashburn,” Lady Layton said in a kind voice, “did you not hear the countess?”
Olivia had been gazing blankly out one of the salon’s large windows, into the dark, starless night. Now she started, immediately becoming aware of the absolute silence around her. Flushing, she realized that everyone was staring at her. All conversation had ceased. What must everyone be thinking? Did one and all guess that she pined for Garrick De Vere? Worse, were suspicions aroused that they were far more than acquaintances?
And then, from the corner of her eye, Olivia saw a man moving across the terrace, disappearing into the night. She froze.
“Lady Ashburn?”
Olivia blinked and regarded Lady Layton, hardly having heard her. There had been no mistaking who had just been outside. “I’m sorry,” she said. “My mind was wandering. I do apologize.” She could feel her color deepening.
“I only said how wonderful it is that there shall finally be a wedding in the family,” the countess of Stanhope said. Her words were slurred. She was inebriated and still sipping her port quite steadily. She smiled brightly at Susan, her cheeks pink. “You shall be a wonderful daughter, dear.”
Olivia watched her drink more port, feeling unaccountably sorry for her. She had never seen her so foxed before, but then, she had seen her only twice socially. But could she blame her? Stanhope was cruel and insufferable. And her sympathy was all the greater because she was Garrick’s mother. How he must suffer when he saw her so anguished.
Susan now blushed, gazing fixedly at her hands, clasped in her lap. Lady Layton seemed hesitant now but was also clearly determined. “My lady,” she began, finally looking the countess in the eye. Eleanor seemed startled out of her haze by Lady Layton’s uncharacteristically firm tone. “We are somewhat confused. Susan was to wed the Stanhope heir. And suddenly Lionel De Vere has returned. We cannot make heads nor tails of this mess.” She smiled quickly.
Eleanor blinked. “Oh. Lady Layton, I think I understand. Well, Sir John must surely discuss this matter with my husband. It is out of my hands.”
Susan was now gazing at the countess with such hopefulness that Olivia felt sorry for her. She craned her neck and peered out the windows again, while Lady Layton said with real dejection, “We had hoped for some support from you in this matter. You see, Susan and your son Garrick hardly suit. But there seems to be some genuine fondness between Lionel and my daughter. It would, in every way, be a far better match.”
Susan cried, “I do so like His Lordship, my lady!”
There was no sign of Garrick outside. But Olivia knew he was there. As she stood up, the countess said, “You must discuss this with the earl. It is a matter for the men to decide.” She no longer seemed very happy. She drank quickly again.
Olivia summoned her courage, and said, “If you will excuse me, I need a breath of air.” Before anyone could comment, she swept across the salon and exited upon the terrace, which Garrick had crossed less than five minutes ago.
Outside, the air was cool and stunningly clean, as at Ashburnham. Olivia could not sniff it appreciatively, though, not when her heart was hammering so swiftly with both excitement and fear. She was being a fool to seek out Garrick now, with Arlen. in the house, but she could not help herself. Lifting her pale silver skirts, she hurried across the terrace. Once on the lawns, she paused, straining to see. Then she thought she saw a shadow moving some distance ahead, in an open space between groves of large, looming trees. Olivia lifted her skirts again but took only one step forward when a hand seized her wrist, so painfully that she was whipped around.
“And where are you off to?” Arlen demanded.
Olivia gasped.
He shook her. His grip remained brutal. “As if I did not know! You are off to rendezvous with your lover, are you not? Answer me!” he shouted.
Tears filled her eyes, tears of pain. “You are hurting me. Stop before you break my wrist.”
He did not release her. He leaned forward; their faces touched. “Do you scream in pleasure when he fucks you, Olivia? Or do you lie there like a board, as you did with me?”
Olivia was horrified, terrified. Worse, she thought her wrist would soon snap in two. There was no possible response she could make, and when she remained mute, incapable of speech now, he increased the pressure on her arm. She cried out.
“Release her!” Garrick snapped.
Before Olivia could assimilate the fact that he was present, he had grabbed Arlen from behind and thrown him several feet in the air. Miraculously, Olivia did not collapse, although her knees buckled dangerously. She held her throbbing wrist, watching wide-eyed as Garrick pounced upon Arlen, who was sprawled facedown in the grass. He hauled him up to his feet by his collar and punched him directly in the face. Arlen fell backward onto the ground this time.
Olivia heard herself scream.
Garrick dove after Arlen, landing on top of him, pinning him down.
Olivia came to her senses. She rushed forward, recognizing that Garrick’s fury was lethal—and uncontrollable. “Stop!” she shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Stop, Garrick, please!”
Garrick looked up at her, his face unrecognizable. “Stay out of this!”
Arlen kicked him hard, in the loins.
Garrick collapsed, clutching himself. Suddenly Arlen was on his feet, sending another kick at Garrick, taking him in the chest. Olivia screamed again, because she saw the look in Arlen’s eyes and knew he would kill Garrick if he could. As he started to kick again, this time clearly aiming for Garrick’s head, Garrick released himself and wrapped both arms around Arlen’s ankles. He went down in a heap, Garrick rolling on top of him.
“What’s going on here?” Stanhope demanded.
“Stop them!” Olivia cried as Stanhope, Lionel, and Sir John came running across the lawns. Behind them, on the terrace, the ladies had come outside, straining to see what the ruckus was about.
Garrick had just hit Arlen again in the face, but Arlen had somehow managed to get both hands around Garrick’s throat, and he was squeezing. Lionel reached the two first. “Good God,” he said, reaching for Garrick, who was on top. “Garrick! Enough!”
“Garrick!” the earl shouted, also reaching for him. When both Stanhope and Lionel succeeded in dragging Garrick off Arlen, Sir John helped Arlen to his feet.
Olivia stood there, shaking uncontrollably now, covering her mouth with her hands. A tremendous amount of blood was dripping from Arlen’snose, and his left eye was swelling shut. Garrick, amazingly, hardly appeared the worse for wear. He stood with his legs braced apart, panting, his gaze still murderous. Lionel held one arm, Stanhope the other, as if he were a wild animal that would attack again if they did not.
“What is wrong with you?” Stanhope shouted at his son.
Olivia’s daze evaporated. The ladies were all racing across the lawn. Oh, God. Everyone was going to think what Arlen thought—that she had been meeting Garrick—and it was the truth.
Garrick’s jaw ground down, and he finally tore his gaze from Arlen. But it was not to look at or respond to his father. His intense, enraged eyes went to Olivia. “Are you all right?”
Olivia felt herself flush. The ladies had now joined them, the countess drunkenly confused, Susan and Lady Layton pale with shock. Olivia was afraid to answer him.
“Did he break your wrist?” Garrick snapped.
Olivia inhaled. Arle
n said, shrugging off Sir John, “My wife is not your affair, Caedmon.”
Garrick’s golden eyes flew to Arlen. “Any woman is my concern if she is being abused by a man who is far superior to her physically.”
Arlen stepped forward. He held a handkerchief to his bleeding nose. “You accuse me of abusing my wife?”
Olivia rushed to Arlen’s side as a terrible silence fell over the group. “Arlen and I were only arguing,” she managed, her voice sounding high and hysterical and on the verge of tears to her own ears. “It was hardly important. I am afraid you misunderstood.” She did not dare look Garrick in the eye. “Arlen.” She turned to her husband, whom she despised. “Let me put ice wrapped in linen on your eye.” She still could not breathe. What would happen when they got home? Her limbs trembled uncontrollably. She must not think of that now. If she did, she would swoon, for the first time in her life.
“Lady Stanhope.” The earl of Stanhope’s cutting voice pierced through Olivia’s terrified thoughts as he addressed his wife. “Do see to it that Lord Ashburn and his wife have a physician if they need one.”
The countess looked at him as if his words were incomprehensible.
“That is,” he said sarcastically, “if you can manage to find your way to the kitchens?”
She blinked, nodded, and turned away, weaving across the lawns.
“I’ll go with her,” Olivia cried. Not waiting for a response, not daring to, she turned to run after the countess. But before she did, she glimpsed them all, standing there in the night. The earl, disgusted with the turn of events; the Laytons, appropriately unhappy now that the shock was wearing off; Arlen, furious and filled with hate; Lionel, his expression strangely calm. And Garrick. His gaze was riveted upon her, frightening in its intensity, compelling in its concern, and demanding of her she knew not what.
Olivia ran after the countess.