by Joanna Shupe
“What did they say the last time you spoke, exactly?” Oliver signed.
“That they were still considering it and would not agree to anything rashly.”
Unbelievable. “I have reason to believe they have asked my wife to intervene on their behalf. To plead for more money.”
Frank’s eyes rounded. “I understood them to be estranged.”
“Not estranged, per se,” Oliver signed. “I have barred the earl and countess from seeing her unless she invites them. However, one of them, likely her mother, approached her outside this morning.”
“What did they ask for?”
“I do not know, but one may only assume more money. Mrs. Hawkes mentioned nothing of the visit to me.”
“You offered them a king’s ransom. I would not advise adding to that amount.”
“I have no intention of offering them more money,” Oliver signed. “What I want now is leverage. Buy up every debt, every holding. Every piece of property. It is undoubtedly all in England, but I want everything down to the last farthing.”
“That won’t pose a problem.” Frank scratched on his pad, making notes. “Creditors are likely desperate to unload the debt. I shall contact a friend of mine in London straightaway.”
“Thank you. The sooner, the better. If they had accepted the money and gone quietly, I would have let this go. However, if they would like a fight I am happy to provide them with one.”
“Then you probably will not appreciate to learn that the word incompetent was thrown about quite a bit in the meeting with her parents. They specifically asked if your mental state had ever been evaluated.”
Oliver gripped the arms of his chair tighter, the wood digging into his palms as his chest burned. “They dared to question my competency?” Christ, it was his greatest fear. Tests, doctors, hospitals, asylums . . . He had lived with that threat ever since losing his parents. The deaf were often misunderstood and mistreated, thought to be insane or of lower intellect. He had tried to combat this by circulating in society, to prove he was “normal” but it had failed. His existence had only provided fodder for their gossip and, infuriated, he had turned his back on all of them.
Now he was even more resolved to fight Christina’s parents, to acquire their debts and ruin them.
“A pointless endeavor, Oliver. They have no case, other than you have married their daughter in a bit of a rush and have refused to let anyone see her.”
“I have not locked her away in a tower,” he signed. “She has complete freedom. I merely wished to keep her away from her parents.”
“Well, that will sort itself out when you escort her out on the town.”
Oliver said nothing, knowing he would do no such thing. “If anyone’s mental state should be questioned, it is theirs. They were planning to marry my wife off to Van Peet, you know.” The idea still turned Oliver’s stomach.
“Van Peet?” Frank’s jaw fell open. “The old man? He’s at least three times her age.”
“More like four—which brings me to my next problem,” Oliver signed. “I have the funds to buy out Van Peet’s holdings but I would rather not make it quite so easy on him. He does not deserve full price.”
Frank stroked his jaw, his gaze thoughtful. “We could drive down the stock price, then wrest control from him. Julius Hatcher is a friend and client. I could ask him for advice.”
Oliver looked at Gill for clarification, certain he’d read Frank’s lips incorrectly. After Gill spelled the letters, Oliver leaned back in his chair. “You know Julius Hatcher?”
“Yes, and if anyone is able to bankrupt Van Peet, it is Julius. Incidentally, he is married to an Englishwoman. Aristocracy. Might know your wife.”
Oliver had not heard this, but it was welcome news. Christina needed more friends and someone from England might be a welcome reminder of home. If London society was as incestuous as New York’s, she most likely knew Hatcher’s wife. “Are you able to get them both here?”
Frank ran a finger over his brow to smooth it, clearly hesitating. “You might be the only person more reclusive than Hatcher. I shall try.” He held out his palms. “I cannot promise, but I will ask.”
“Thank you.”
“I must point out the obvious, Oliver. You pay me a fortune so I am not complaining, but using a lawyer for these kinds of things would be unnecessary if you’d only hire a secretary. Have someone come in once a week or so and manage your affairs.”
“No.” They’d had this conversation before. “I hardly require anything and I trust you. I do not want someone here underfoot all the time.”
“Cannot say I did not try—and you might not be so grateful when you get my bill.”
“Whatever you charge I shall happily pay it. You are worth every penny.”
“Aw, you will turn a girl’s head with all that flattery. Now, let us move on to the other piece of business. I received a note from Milton to request the funds for some alpaca farm in—”
Oliver sat up straighter. “I never agreed to that.” He had expressly refused his cousin’s request. Milton was trying to outright steal from him now?
“No?”
“No.”
“I see. Five thousand for a bunch of big sheep seemed a tad crazy to me.”
“Because it is crazy.” Was Milton under the misguided impression that Oliver did not carefully scrutinize the family finances? That Frank would approve this expenditure without first checking with Oliver? He would need to set his cousin straight. In fact, a dose of punishment seemed in order. “Clearly I have been too generous with my cousin. Please inform him his monthly allowance will be reduced by ten percent.”
“I will let him know.” Frank slipped his papers and notes back in his leather satchel. “So when may I meet her?”
Oliver frowned at Frank. “Meet who?”
“Your wife. I am dying to see the woman that convinced the notorious recluse to marry her.”
“I am not a recluse.” Moreover, he did not wish for Frank to meet Christina. Frank was handsome, charming. A bon vivant who went out with a different woman every night. He did not need Frank flirting with her, causing her to realize how lacking Oliver was in every respect.
Well, that will sort itself out when you escort her out on the town.
He contemplated Frank’s earlier words. Had Christina’s absence from society really been remarked upon? He had not stopped to consider that gossip might spread about them. The last thing they needed was for anyone to believe he was keeping her here against her will.
Oliver could not escort her about town to quell the rumors. However, someone else was able to do the escorting. After all, this was not a real marriage. Though they had been intimate last evening they would still split at the end of a year. He had no hold over her, not really. She was free to pursue her own life, her own relationships. Why should she stay inside day after day, miserable, because Oliver would not show her around town? Better she go out and enjoy herself now and again.
And what better man than Frank to show her about? He seemed to know lots of people and was well familiar with the New York nighttime scene, if the newspapers were to be believed. He was the epitome of the perfect escort.
Every word burning a hole in his brain with its absolute wrongness, Oliver signed, “Actually, I need another favor. Have you plans this evening?”
“You wish for me to do what?” Christina could not have heard Oliver correctly. The request was ludicrous at best. At worst, insulting.
They were standing in the greenhouse, Oliver having summoned her here a few moments ago.
“My attorney, Frank Tripp. He wishes to escort you to dinner this evening. To Sherry’s. He shall arrive at half past eight.”
Dear God, she had not misheard him. “Another man will take me to dinner? Alone?”
Oliver nodded, his mouth flat as his hands moved. “You should enjoy the city. Go out. See the town. Frank is a lot of fun, I am led to believe.”
Her heart squeezed painfully in
her chest. She and Oliver had spent last evening in bed, intimate and close, sharing something wonderful and intensely personal. Then there had been the morning in his workshop, with her reading to Sarah while he tinkered. The companionship had been lovely, fostering a belief that perhaps this could be . . . more between them. She’d begun to think he cared for her, that he might desire her as a real wife.
How wrong she had been.
Now he was attempting to pawn her off on another man, a stranger. Men who cared for their wives did not send them off with other unmarried men. You are so stupid. You thought one night of passion and everything would change.
Separate lives, annulment after one year. She must never forget again.
Clasping her hands tightly, she stood and stared at him, thoughts swirling in her brain. She wanted to refuse, to tell him how the request pained her, but the words would not come. It was like facing her parents, where no one gave a fig about her wishes. It was another stark reminder that her life was not her own to control, not even after marriage.
“What are you thinking?” Oliver’s brows dipped, his green eyes intense as he studied her expression.
As if he cared. If he had wanted her opinion, he would have asked her before arranging the evening’s plans with Mr. Tripp. No, he had gone and planned this without her involvement, just like her parents.
“Christina, please. Talk to me.”
You look absurd, standing here not saying anything. Tell him. Tell him what you think.
She pressed her lips together. Talking would not change anything; it never did. Yet she had to refuse this request. Perhaps she could sneak away and hide somewhere, just until Frank left—
Oliver let out a frustrated huff and withdrew his ledger and pencil. Then he slapped them on the table. “Write,” he signed and spoke, his voice clipped.
She picked up the pencil and moved it between her fingers. Writing was easier than speaking, at least for her. Chances were high that her argument would end up more articulate on paper.
Opening the ledger, she found a blank page and wrote. I have no need to see the town. I am quite happy staying here.
“Nonsense,” Oliver said when he finished reading. He took the pencil from her. Every woman enjoys to be seen at the popular places. You shall have a gay time.
I am not every woman, she wrote.
He frowned at this, and she thought she might have convinced him. Granted, they were near strangers, but he should know her well enough by now to understand that she would much rather hide than be seen. Moreover, if anyone was to escort her to dinner, it should be Oliver.
It would benefit you to be seen in public, merely enjoying a quiet dinner with a friend.
She took the pencil from his hand. One could make the same argument for you.
He waved his hand then wrote, No, not me. It is better if I am not there.
That made no sense. I do not understand why you cannot come as well, she wrote.
The answer arrived quickly, as if it were obvious. Because I hate that sort of thing.
She looked down at her shoes and mumbled, “So do I.”
“What did you say? You were staring at the ground.”
She did not repeat herself. Instead, she merely took the pencil and scrawled, I do not wish to go.
When he read the words, he looked at her earnestly. “It is important for you to be seen,” he said, not bothering to write. “For people to see the recluse has not injured or corrupted you, that you are perfectly healthy. Then your parents cannot claim otherwise.”
The words caught her by surprise and her head jerked slightly. “Have they . . . Have my parents threatened you in some way?”
“It is nothing you need worry over. However, it would be beneficial for you to be seen having a grand time with friends.”
So her parents had threatened him. She rubbed her temples against the sudden ache building there. Would there be no end to the trouble her parents caused in her life?
“Please, Christina,” Oliver said. “Will you go?”
It felt churlish to refuse, now that she knew the circumstances. Moreover, it was one dinner. She could survive one dinner in a crowded public restaurant, could she not? She had not yet dined at Sherry’s, and everyone raved about the service and the view. Perhaps it would be nice to experience it once. Still, she did not care to be pawned off on a stranger. “I would prefer for you to come with us.”
He shook his head, a lock of dark hair falling over his forehead. Her hands had caressed those soft strands last night, holding on as he performed wickedness all over her body. “I cannot.”
“Why?”
His skin turned a dull red, the angles of his face sharpening. A large palm slapped the table, startling her. “Because I cannot,” he said, his voice loud. “This is not a true marriage, Christina. We shall never take drives in the park and attend the opera together. I am not made for that—and I cannot allow you to bully me into it, either. So go with Frank. If not Frank, then someone else. Enjoy yourself.”
The words knocked the breath from her chest. The pain inside her multiplied and bloomed until it threatened to crush her lungs. He could not have put their situation in any plainer terms. Even an idiot could see how he felt about her, which was that he had no intention of deepening their relationship—even after what they had shared last night. Oliver did not wish for more, as he’d made quite clear before, during, and after their wedding.
We shall live totally separate lives.
Everything he had said last night—the kind words, the tenderness—all a lie.
She hardened her heart, as she’d done before when the whispers and giggles threatened to crack her in half. Feel nothing. Be hollow inside. “Please inform Mr. Tripp I shall be ready at half past eight o’clock.”
Turning, she left the greenhouse and started walking. It hardly mattered where.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time eight thirty arrived, Christina had resolved to go to dinner and not make a fool of herself that evening. She would stay quiet and soak in the atmosphere, not give the crowd cause to notice or remark on her negatively in any way. She’d been in New York for little more than a month and had not experienced much in that time beyond society dinners and balls. Tonight, she would visit one of the city’s renowned restaurants. Not embarrassing herself or Mr. Tripp seemed of the highest priority.
“I hear you met Miss Sarah today,” Shannon said, draping a sapphire and diamond necklace around Christina’s neck. The deep blue stones matched the evening dress, an off-the-shoulder ensemble that Christina had only dared to wear once before. She thought it too revealing, but her mother had insisted, saying a little skin would cause the suitors to salivate. It hadn’t, of course.
“Yes, I did. She is lovely. I can see that she may be a handful.”
“Loads of energy, that one. Not a shy bone in her body. Miss Sarah’s good at making this big house feel lively, that is for certain.”
That would be nice, considering Christina and Oliver would no longer interact. Perhaps having Sarah around for a few weeks would give Christina someone to talk with.
“There,” the maid said. “You look lovely, ma’am.”
Christina studied herself in the mirror. Shannon had taken great care with Christina’s appearance tonight. Her brown hair had been piled on top of her head in a complicated style, secured with Oliver’s mother’s diamond combs. In addition to the necklace, there were ear bobs and a thick bracelet worn over the elbow-length dark gloves. It was as if Shannon were trying to gain Oliver’s attention on Christina’s behalf. Christina did not have the heart to tell her not to bother.
“You shall be the talk of the restaurant, I’ve no doubt,” Shannon said.
Dear God, Christina sincerely hoped not.
A knock on the door sounded and Shannon went to answer. Christina heard the footman relay the message that Mr. Tripp had arrived and was waiting downstairs.
Exhaling a long breath, Christina stood from her dre
ssing table and smoothed her skirts. Think of it as an adventure. One you neither asked for nor wanted.
“Have a nice time, madam.”
“Thank you, Shannon.” She left her suite and started toward the stairs. There was no sound inside Oliver’s rooms and she assumed he was busy elsewhere, living his separate life. Well, she would do the same.
No matter how much it hurt.
Lingering in the entryway stood a tall, dark-haired man. He was dressed in black evening attire, a black overcoat thrown over his arm as he waited, staring at a painting on the far wall. When he heard her approach, he turned and smiled at her. Goodness. She had not expected him to be so devastatingly handsome. Strong jaw, chiseled cheekbones, sharp blue eyes . . .
His perfect features made her feel worse. There would be no chance of hiding tonight or avoiding attention, not with this man along.
“Mrs. Hawkes, I presume.” He bowed dramatically. “How lovely to meet you. I am Mr. Frank Tripp.”
“Mr. Tripp.” She descended the last step and held out her hand. “A pleasure, sir.”
He took her hand into his large grip, holding tight. “The pleasure is most definitely mine. It is not often I am able to escort such a beautiful woman to dinner. Shall we?”
The compliment unnerved her and she could only mumble, “Of course.”
Gill appeared from seemingly nowhere, a heavy woolen overcoat in his hands. He brought the garment to Christina and held it up, and she noticed the bright red lining inside. “That is not mine,” she said. The garment was much too fine to be hers.
“Mr. Hawkes had this sent over from Lord & Taylor today, along with some other items.”
“Oh.” Oliver had bought her a coat? How was that living separately? Mercy, that man was the most perplexing creature on earth.
Gill slipped the overcoat up her arms and over her shoulders. Warm wool designed in the military style, the garment was absolutely glorious. It also fit her perfectly. How had Oliver managed it?
The butler opened the front door. “Your carriage is outside, sir.”