by Joanna Shupe
Christina deflated, her shoulders dropping. Well, that certainly illuminated the situation. He wishes to live separate lives. What did you think, that he would show you off on his arm? Not exactly, but she had not expected to be treated as a ghost, either. She rubbed her temples, the pressure behind them now thumping like a drum.
Why had she left the comfort of her new bed?
Perhaps she’d go lie down for a bit. Wait for the pain in her head to ease before attempting the remainder of her day. She lifted her chin and gave the room a wan smile. “If you will excuse me.” She moved steadily toward the door, her feet heavy and awkward.
“Mr. Hawkes wishes to know if you are unwell, madam,” Gill called after her.
“No, I am fine,” she said without breaking her stride or looking back. “I am merely giving Mr. Hawkes his privacy.”
Oliver watched Christina’s retreating back, wondering over the sadness he thought he detected in her expression. She hadn’t actually wanted to stay and talk to Milton, had she? His cousin was a pustule on the arse of the Hawkes family tree. Oliver would do anything and everything to keep them apart.
Milton Hawkes, his first cousin. Distaste curdled Oliver’s stomach. The man visited every six months or so and, depending on Oliver’s mood, he would either see his cousin briefly or refuse the visit. If memory served, he’d rejected the last two. When would Milton get the hint?
Milton treated Oliver as if he were a half-wit. In Milton’s eyes, Oliver’s deafness meant he could be manipulated. Lied to. Flimflammed. And Milton would do just about anything to get his hands on the Hawkes fortune, a fortune to which he had absolutely no right. However, for the sake of his late father, Oliver tried to be patient with Milton. Their fathers had grown up alongside one another and even started the family business together. It was after Milton’s father backed out that Oliver’s father had made his fortune, taking risks that his brother had forbade.
Past history aside, however, Oliver would not allow Milton to harass Christina.
He glared at his cousin. “What did you say to her?” Gill translated Oliver’s question seeing as how Milton refused to learn sign language after all these years and Oliver refused to make anything easy for Milton.
“Nothing untoward,” Milton said, hooking his thumbs into his vest pockets. “We were merely getting to know one another. Now, this marriage seems a bit rushed, Oliver. Are you certain this is best for you?”
Why was Milton addressing Oliver as if he were a child? “When was the last time you concerned yourself with what was best for me?” he signed.
“We are family. You know I always look out for you. Where did you meet her?”
This was absurd. “Why are you in my house?” he signed. “What on earth do you want?”
“I know you are able to speak, Oliver. Why do you insist on doing this?” Milton proceeded to do a series of absurd hand movements that meant absolutely nothing—other than as an insult to the entire deaf community.
Oliver seriously considered punching his cousin in the face. “Get to the point, Milton.”
Milton rocked on his heels and cast a meaningful glance at Gill. “Perhaps it could wait until we are alone?”
“Gill stays. You have ten seconds to spit it out and then I am leaving.”
When another few seconds dragged by in silence, Oliver clapped his hands once and started to turn away. As expected, Milton’s lips began moving. “Wait! Do not leave. I was just trying to think how best to explain this opportunity I have come upon. It is a large alpaca farm in Kansas—”
Confused, Oliver looked at Gill. “What kind of farm?” he signed.
Gill spelled a-l-p-a-c-a with his fingers, mirth dancing in the butler’s eyes. Oliver sighed and signed, “Absolutely not. I am not interested. And there are no alpacas in the United States. Whoever is trying to sell you on this farm is lying.”
The butler relayed the message and anger flashed across Milton’s face before he masked it. “I have seen the reports. The alpacas were imported from Peru. Their wool is stronger than a sheep’s. Soon it will be in high demand.”
Oliver signed, “The reports are false. Even if they were true, there is no market for alpaca wool here.”
“All I need is a five-thousand-dollar investment,” Milton persevered after Gill translated.
Oliver plucked a blackberry from the sideboard and tossed it in his mouth. “My answer remains no. Was that all, cousin?”
Milton’s cheeks flushed, his mustache twitching in anger. “You know, I am the one who defends you, the one who says they are wrong when they call you insane. You might think about what happens if I stop preventing the Hawkes name from turning into a taproom joke.”
“Those threats grow weary,” Oliver signed. “I do not give a damn about the Hawkes name.”
“You do not, but your sister might.” Mouth pressed tightly, Milton stomped out of the room and disappeared into the corridor.
Oliver exhaled and selected another blackberry. Gill started to follow Milton to the door, but Oliver held up a hand to stay him. “What did he say to her?”
The butler shifted uncomfortably. “He called her a doxy, sir,” he signed. “Asked her what her angle was, if she was after your fortune.”
“A doxy,” he signed, certain his lip-reading must be incorrect. Gill nodded, his troubled eyes conveying his displeasure, and Oliver’s body clenched, anger erupting behind his sternum like molten lava. That miserable fuck . . . Milton could call Oliver an imbecile and insane all he liked. But call his wife a doxy? No, absolutely not.
How dare Milton say anything distasteful in this house? He avoided the poorhouse on Oliver’s charity alone. Was his cousin so stupid as to infuriate his only source of income?
The question was clearly redundant. Milton was absolutely that stupid.
“I shall talk to her,” Oliver signed. “In the meantime, ensure Milton is gone.”
Certain Gill would handle his cousin, Oliver wasted no time in climbing the stairs and heading to Christina’s rooms. He rapped on the door.
Within a few seconds the door opened. Christina stepped aside and he strode into her bedroom. Strange seeing his mother’s old room in use again but the sight did not upset him. No, the idea of Christina here, in these rooms adjoining his, appealed to him probably more than it should. His eyes were immediately drawn to the bed. She’ll be lying there at night, soft and warm, her big eyes drowsy with sleep.
Heat spiked in his blood but he pushed those thoughts out of his head. Beautiful as she might be, this was a temporary arrangement. He was to protect her, not debauch her.
He faced her and signed as he spoke, “Are you all right?”
She nodded, though her expression remained guarded. “I am fine,” she signed as he’d taught her.
Her efforts at signing twisted something in his chest. Sign language was about the face, the expression, of the person signing and Christina had the loveliest face he’d ever seen. He could stare at it for days and still find her fascinating. Watching her lips and mouth, her brow furrowed in concentration, was nearly like foreplay to him.
Christ, he was in a bad way over this woman. All the more reason to stay away from her.
“Milton is an idiot,” he said while signing. “I apologize if he upset you.”
She lifted a shoulder as if Milton’s rudeness was nothing of consequence. “I had not realized . . . that is, I had not considered your family and what they might think of our marriage.”
“Milton is more worm than man. I care nothing for what he thinks.”
When she frowned, he grew worried. Had his voice betrayed him, his remark unintelligible? He withdrew the ledger and pencil from his pocket and started to write what he’d tried to say. Her hand on his arm stopped him. “I heard what you said perfectly, but I do not understand.”
“Milton is angry and unbalanced,” he said. “I had thought to spare you any distress from engaging with him.”
“Truly?”
The side of his mouth hitched. “Truly.”
Some of the light in her eyes returned, her shoulders relaxing, and Oliver smiled. She asked for the ledger and pencil. I know we are to live separately and I shall try to stay out of your way. But I cannot hide or disappear—
He put his hand over hers, stopping her. “I would never ask you to hide or disappear,” he said. “This is your home for the next year. I wish for you to feel comfortable.”
She glanced down at where their hands touched and Oliver realized he hadn’t released her. “My apologies,” he said and pulled away.
Color dotted her cheeks as she folded her hands together. “It is quite all right.”
The moment stretched and he needed to return to his workshop. Why was he standing here, searching his brain for a topic to discuss with her? She likely had unpacking to do and—
“Your things,” he said. “Have they arrived yet?” Oliver had sent a letter this morning to the earl to reach a settlement on the marriage. He’d also requested Christina’s things be brought over.
“No, not yet. Have you heard from my father?”
“I have not.” It had only been a few hours, but Oliver had assumed the earl would jump at the money. Oliver had offered Christina’s parents a small fortune to go away and leave her alone. What were they waiting for?
“Perhaps I should go there, to hurry things along?”
He dragged a hand across his forehead. She should not go alone, in his opinion. He did not trust her parents. “Give it a bit more time. I will accompany you, if it comes to that.”
“You will?”
From her shocked expression it was clear she had taken his separate lives speech last night quite literally. Perhaps he had been too harsh. “Of course. I would not want you to go alone.”
A slow smile stretched across her face, and something shifted, amplified, in Oliver’s chest, like he had been rewired from alternating current to direct current. His whole body became keenly aware of her. Aware of her movements, her sweet perfume, every blink of her long lashes.
He must retreat. Now.
Turning, he started toward the door. When he pulled on the latch he happened to glance over his shoulder. Christina stared off at nothing, looking vacant and lost. She’s in a strange house, in a strange room. Married to a stranger who told her to basically disappear.
Guilt punched through him, an ache in the pit of his belly. “Have dinner with me tonight,” he said, though everything screamed it was a mistake. They needed more space between them, not less.
You are falling for her.
Her eyes rounded, hope blooming on her face . . . and the tension inside him eased. “Yes,” she said. “I would like that.”
He dipped his chin and departed, closing the door behind him. Like an idiot, he had invited her to dinner. Just how in God’s name was he supposed to remain aloof tonight?
By that afternoon, Christina’s things had arrived from the Kanes’ house—along with Patricia. Christina ordered tea and the two cousins settled into Oliver’s drawing room.
“This is lovely,” Patricia said, glancing around at the French antiques and blue-papered walls. “Really, who knew recluses lived so well?”
“I was not aware of his wealth when we met.”
“Goodness, of course not. But Mother says his fortune rivals Mr. Morgan’s—and Mr. Hawkes is certainly more handsome. Well-done, Christina.”
The praise was unearned. She and Oliver were not a love match. “I never intended to marry him.”
“I know. I am teasing.” Patricia reached over to clasp Christina’s hand. “Honestly, I came today to apologize. I am truly sorry for inadvertently leading your parents here. They came with my mother, casually inquiring about your friends and acquaintances. They tricked me.”
This sounded like something Christina’s parents would do. “What did you tell them?”
“At that point, I had no idea you’d gone missing. I did not see the harm in mentioning your morning walks. If I had known, Christina, I never would have said anything about Mr. Hawkes. Please, forgive me.”
“I do not blame you. I cannot even regret coming here because returning home equalled marriage to Van Peet.”
“Things happen for a reason, cousin, and I am ecstatic for you. You deserve a good man, and you have found one.”
Before Christina could reply, two maids entered, both carrying large trays. Soon she and her cousin were surrounded by tea and all manner of sandwiches and cakes.
Patricia placed two almond cookies and one cream puff on her plate. “You were saying Mr. Hawkes was quite handsome . . .”
Christina poured the tea. “I said no such thing.”
“Well, I know his looks have not gone unnoticed. I saw the way you gazed at him last night.”
“And how was that?”
“Like I am now staring at the cream puff on my plate.”
Christina could not help but laugh. “You are incorrigible.”
“True, but you love me.”
“Yes, I do. So what did my parents say last night after you mentioned my visits here?”
“They were livid—up until the point when my mother explained about the Hawkes fortune. Then they began scheming on how to get him to marry you.”
The tea turned bitter in Christina’s mouth. She forced it down anyway. “That sounds like them.” Undoubtedly they had thought it would be easy. Little had they known Oliver would refuse. “However did you get him to agree, by the way?”
“I wore him down. Adorable man wanted to do the right thing but merely needed a little push.”
Christina frowned into her teacup. What a mess she had made of things. Poor Oliver. His entire life had now been upended, thanks to her.
“So tell me,” Patricia continued. “What is it like being married to a person who cannot hear?”
“It has not even been a full day,” Christina pointed out. “My insight into marriage is woefully thin, I am afraid.”
“You know what I mean,” her cousin said before biting into a cream puff. “What about in the bedroom?”
Christina choked on a bite of cookie and Patricia chuckled. “Come now. You are married. It is your duty to tell us unmarried types what it is really like. You know my mother never will. She keeps saying I will learn to like it. That only begs more questions in my mind.”
“Oliver and I have not . . . That is, we are not that kind of married.”
“Oh.” Patricia wiped her fingers on a linen napkin. “He seemed perfectly healthy to me last night. Is he unable to . . . perform because of his condition?”
“He is deaf, not disfigured,” Christina whispered. “Besides, he has not even kissed me.”
“What? Oh, my dear Tina. You must do something about that. As in today.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes, why do I need him to kiss me?”
Patricia’s gaze went soft. “Because it is like breathing for two. You are inseparable. It is impossible to tell where you end and he begins, and your mind clouds over and all you are able to concentrate on is his mouth. Your body breaks out in a fever, like your clothes are too tight everywhere, and you cannot get enough, just need to get closer to him.” She fanned her face with her hand. “Merely thinking on it makes me wish to track Felton down at his club and steal him away to somewhere private.”
Christina had to admit the description seemed enticing. Would Oliver ever kiss her? He’d made it clear they would not consummate the marriage—but then he had also said they would live separate lives before inviting her to dinner tonight. So who knew where things stood? “I shall let you do the kissing for both of us. Oliver has no interest in me like that, not in a physical way. We are friends. He has agreed to marry me for a year, long enough to get me away from the earl and countess. Then we shall have the marriage annulled and go our separate ways.”
“A year? Then annulment? I do not believe you.”
“He thinks of me as a friend in need of a
ssistance. That is all.”
Patricia threw her head back and laughed. “You cannot honestly think that.”
“Why would I not?”
Patricia’s brows rose, her eyes rounding. “I saw the way he looked at you last night. It was not the way a friend stares at another friend. Remember what I said about the cream puff? Trust me, he is attracted to you.”
“That cannot be true.” Oliver had no interest in anything romantic with her.
“Have you looked in a mirror recently?”
Of course, though Christina never liked what was reflected there. She always wished for different this and something else that.
“Tina, you are beautiful,” Patricia said. “Have you not seen the jealous looks the other girls give you at parties?”
No, she hadn’t. Those looks were daggers to keep her at a distance, more proof that she did not measure up as someone worth befriending. The men had stared as well, but in a way that made her uncomfortable. She had hated those gatherings.
Patricia slid closer and clasped Christina’s hand. “I have never been more grateful to a recluse in all my life. Thank goodness you are away from your parents. Perhaps you will start to see yourself in a different, more flattering light. The way I—and your new husband—see you.”
The reference to Oliver caused Christina to shake her head. “You are relentless.”
“True, and I think all your situation with Mr. Hawkes needs is time.”
Christina wished that were the case, that Oliver could be hers, if even for a moment. He was kind and intelligent. Handsome and strong. Had faced so much adversity and triumphed—unlike her, who had turned into a timid mouse. He could teach her so much, if only he would try.
She recalled the day he’d shown her to knee a man between the legs. The way he had held her and looked at her . . . Had there been something in his eyes, a hint of desire for her? It seemed so implausible but her cousin might be right. Perhaps they merely needed time.
“I have two friends I wish for you to meet,” Patricia said, setting her saucer down and rising. “They are clever and fun. You will like them, I promise. Would you join us for ice cream tomorrow?”