by Sarita Leone
It was good that they were all back at Willowbrook. But how to keep the peace? So much went with being lord of the manor, things he had never realized, that before he left the breakfast table that morning he thanked Father.
Shock colored the old gentleman’s face red. He waved the unlit pipe that was never far from his hand. “Oh, all in the life of a peer, my son. You will find out when I am gone, that running an estate—or two, or three—takes a firm hand. Patience. And—” he gazed at his wife before finishing, “—a loving heart. You will do well when I am gone.”
“Thank you for your confidence. I hope I make you proud.”
Lady Gregory lifted her cheek when he bent to kiss her. “Get yourself a wife, Oliver. A good woman to help you, someone to share your days and nights with, a loving woman to give you sons and daughters. That is what life is about, really…happiness and family.”
Father nodded, the few white curls left on his head bobbing as he did. “Your mother is quite right, son. A wife, that is the ticket.”
They were the only ones who appeared for breakfast so he did not hesitate to reply openly.
“It is what I hope to do, sooner rather than later. I am at the point in life where someone to share the joys with sounds like a dream come true. I have not wished to make a match before now, but it is time.”
His mother clapped her hands, a smile stretched across her face. She was giddy as a girl at the announcement. As he expected, she did not let him get off with just proclaiming his intention.
When he began to walk away, Mother grabbed his wrist. For a lady getting on in years, her grip was surprisingly firm.
“Who? Please, tell. Why, I couldn’t stand the wondering if you do not.”
“That is right, son. She would drive me mad trying to puzzle out the rest, so please, if you care one whit about my sanity, tell your mother whatever she wants to know.” He stuck the pipe between his teeth and bit down.
“Yes, I shall badger your father night and day until I know the truth.” Her grip loosened. She put her hands together, imploring as only a mother can. “So you really think you are ready to make a match?”
“I not only think I am ready…I know I am ready, Mother.” He put a hand on one of her shoulders. The other, he put on his father’s shoulder. Linked thusly, he added, “I have already chosen a wife. Now, to make her choose me, as well…that is the difficult part, it seems.”
His parents exchanged surprised glances.
“Show her how much you love her, and she will not be able to resist your charms. After all, that is what every woman wants, to love and be loved.”
His father took the pipe from his mouth and looked at his wife. “It is what everyone wants, my dear. Not just women, but everyone.”
Oliver left them smiling at each other and went in search of Amy.
She was where he thought she might be. And, she was alone.
“Do you mind if I join you?”
She looked up from her canvas, but not at him. The glance was for the rosebushes she painted, making them more vibrant in her oils than they were hanging from the vines.
“If you wish.” Three cold, clipped words.
He would not be discouraged. A woman in her state had a right to be out of sorts, so he moved her paint box off the chair beside her, placed it on the grass, and sat. They did not speak for many minutes. As he watched, she made the painting come more fully alive. A spot of color, a bit of feathering, and flowers stood out so beautifully he was tempted to lean close and inhale their aroma.
When she could go no further without waiting for the paint to dry, she set aside her palette and brush. She folded her hands in her lap and refused to look at him.
“Amy—”
“Thank you for bringing Miranda back.” She spoke as if she rehearsed the words. No emotion, with her hands clasped tightly where they lay. “I am grateful.”
“You’re welcome.” He waited, but when she did not say anything more, he began again. “Amy, we need to discuss some very important things.”
“There is nothing to discuss.”
Her jaw clenched, and a vein throbbed in her temple. They were the only signs of her duress. He ached to reach over and still the throbbing, unclench the jaw, but knew better than to try. Not yet. She was not ready.
“I think we have much to discuss, if only you will give us a chance.”
“Chances are for children. We are adults, and there is nothing for us to talk about.”
Amy rose and undid the tie that held her painting smock in place. She removed the smock, crumpled it into a wad and tossed it onto her chair. The canvas was too wet by far to pack up and move, so she stalked off toward the closest rose hedge.
Not an easy nut to crack, he thought. But, he hadn’t expected she would fall over at his feet when she saw him.
He left his seat and went to where she stood. The arbor shaded them, and the air was a riot of spicy scents. The rosebushes here were delicate shades of pink. It was where his mother came to read, beneath the pergola.
It was where father had proposed marriage, so many years ago, in the very same spot.
“You cannot be so hardened against me that you will not even speak with me.”
He had considered his words all night long, but when it came down to it, there had been no need to rehearse a speech or decipher his feelings. All he had to do was speak from his heart and pray her heart could hear his.
“There is nothing—”
It was impolite, but he did not allow her to finish.
“Yes, I heard that. But you are wrong.” The powers of persuasion had to be heartfelt if they were going to make this happen. “There is a great deal to discuss. But first, I need to ask a question, and I pray you will give me an honest answer.”
She looked up with frightened eyes.
“You have nothing to fear from me—why do you look like a startled rabbit about to be devoured by a lion? For goodness sake, you know me well enough to know I will never harm you.”
“Don’t ask any questions. Please, just don’t.”
“I must. And I will not leave until you answer honestly.”
“Honestly? Isn’t that a loose term coming from a man?” The hurt in her voice made the words less insulting.
“I am not just any man. And, all men are not the same.”
“That is what all men say, Oliver. So, who can believe that?”
He took a deep breath. Fighting would get them nowhere, so he did not push back. The verbal war had to end.
“My question…do you love Lyle Roarke?”
Her eyes rounded in surprise. “Are you mad? Why would you ask such a question?”
Was he mad? At one time, perhaps, but not any longer.
“I need to know. That is reason enough to ask.” He paused, studying the beautiful eyes he knew so well for a sign of her affections. There was nothing to indicate the heart of the woman behind the eyes. “I ask again: Do you love Lyle Roarke?”
“No. I do not.”
He was so elated, he could have picked her up, whirled her around and kissed her. But, the stormy expression on her face had not gone away, so he hid his relief.
A very restrained nod, when he wished to scream with joy. “That—well, that is good. I am glad to hear you are not in love with him.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you. And if you love another…well, it would make things rather difficult.”
There. It was out. He had said the words, and so far she had not run off. But, there were no doors here for him to hold closed. If she chose to, she could be lost in the labyrinth of roses faster than the rabbit she had so recently resembled.
Amy’s shoulders fell. “Oliver, don’t…”
He stepped closer, so close they were nearly nose to nose. This was his one chance, his only chance and he’d be damned if he let it slip away.
“Don’t what? Tell you the truth—that I have loved you for so long I cannot recall when my loving you began? That
I cannot think of anyone but you—and when I fall asleep at night you are the last person I think of? Or that when I wake in the morning, you are on my mind and in my heart before my eyes are even open? Don’t? Can’t you see I must?”
He hadn’t meant to become so impassioned but it all came tumbling from his mouth in a rush.
She spun and would have run, but he reached out and caught her in his arms. Turned her to face him, and asked, “Amy? Don’t you understand how much I love you?”
“Please, can’t you leave me alone?”
She began to cry, but he was quite sure she was not even aware of the tears. They slid down her cheeks and dripped onto her butter yellow morning gown. A tendril of hair escaped her white lace cap, so he swept it off her face with a thumb. He cradled her head in his hand, searched her eyes for an answer. So much pain, in someone so lovely—it was an abomination, this torture.
“I cannot leave you alone. You see, you have my heart, and where one’s heart goes, one must also go.”
The tears fell more swiftly. “I don’t deserve your love.”
“How can you say that? Of course you do—and I have loved you without realizing that was the emotion I have been feeling. I am not experienced in this matchmaking business. I am a fool, honestly, for not professing my love to you before it was this late.”
She scrubbed a hand over her eyes. They were stunning, even reddened and tear-soaked.
“It is too late.” Amy caught her breath and slowed her crying. He watched her take control, saw how she did not allow herself to continue to let the teardrops fall.
“It is never too late,” he said softly. “Never.”
The breath was long and jagged, but she pulled it in and steadied herself. “It is for me. Find someone else, please.”
“There is no one else.”
“There has to be.” She shook in his arms, and he hated the sadness in her voice. “I’m not good enough for you, don’t you understand? I have made mistakes that cannot be undone. I am not—oh, Oliver, I am not who you think I am.”
When she pulled loose, he released her. Not because he wanted to let her go, but because he did not want to hold her confined. When she came to him, if she came to him, it had to be out of love, not because he trapped her. But he did not let her get far. When she reached the end of the pergola, he reached for her again.
“Amy, please. This is ridiculous—I swear, I will follow you to the ends of the earth if you force me to do so. And you are wrong; you are who I think you are. It is not your fault that your first affair was with a rake—you could not know.”
She whirled to face him. Color drained from her cheeks, and her mouth opened wide. She inhaled sharply, placing a hand on her chest.
“You know?”
He ran a hand through his hair. Suddenly this was not going as he hoped. She looked scandalized, and of course she would, but a man could only dance around the truth for so long without pulling it out into the light of day.
“It does not matter to me, whatever happened between you and him—I do not care, it is not important. It does not change how I feel about you.”
She stared at him as if he had gone crazy right before her eyes.
“How can it not? Honestly, it changes how I feel about myself. That a man could treat a woman that way. Use her for his own purposes, then toss her aside—oh, God, I am ruined—and you say it does not matter? It matters!”
A granite bench ran the length of the pergola. Amy sat, looking as if her legs simply gave out. She put a hand on her face and began to cry.
Dropping to his knees before her, he placed himself so she had no choice but to look at him. Having watched his parents, he knew that marriage was not all roses. It was not always easy. It had its share of messy moments. They did not scare him. And, the time to begin to show that was at the very start.
“What matters is how you are now. This…ah, this matter is only going to get bigger. We need to consult the doctor.”
“We?”
He nodded. There was no going back. Whatever had happened, he could not undo. All he had was now, and their futures depended on how they dealt with whatever obstacles stood in their way.
“You are not alone. Amy, I love you. Do you feel even the tiniest bit of emotion for me? Please, don’t spare my feelings. I need to know the truth.”
She swallowed hard. Wiped a tear from her cheek. Searched his eyes with a long, soulful stare. Quietly, she said, “I am ruined. Do you understand what I am saying?”
It was hard for a man to take, but he hadn’t been a choirboy when he’d been lured in by the addiction. He had done some things he would never be proud of, and had seen things he wished he hadn’t. Everyone had demons they fought, secrets they carried…he could not fault her for being human.
“I understand. You gave yourself to—”
“No—I did not! I never gave myself to him.” Her tone became frantic, her eyes pleading with him to believe her. “He wanted me to, but I couldn’t. I thought that if he loved me, he would marry me. And then—well, then I would do what every wife does. But no, I never gave myself to him, I swear to you.”
Confusion flashed through his mind, but the flash was ever-so brief. Cold hatred for the man filled him when he realized what she had not been able to say.
“He forced himself on you?”
Amy glanced at his hands. They had curled into fists without any conscious effort. Oliver took a deep breath and relaxed his fingers. She watched, and when he did not appear ready to punch something, nodded.
“I tried to make him stop. He was drunk, after the Farthington Ball, when everyone was walking on the terrace. He pulled me into a side room, in the back hallway. I thought he would steal a kiss, and he was drunk. And I did not want to make a scene, but…” Amy covered her face with her hands and sobbed. He cradled her shaking body against his chest. The storm did not pass quickly, but he held her close. She needed to release the wretchedness she had held inside all these weeks. He thought back; the Farthington Ball had been three weeks prior. It had been since then that she had been ill, not quite herself. It all made sense now.
Roarke would get his due. Eventually. Now, Amy was far more important than that miserable excuse for a man.
When she sniffled, but no longer sobbed, he took his handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed her eyes, then handed it to her so she could blow her nose. She did, then clutched the white linen in one hand.
“I need to ask…”
She met his gaze. They were close enough to kiss, but it was hardly the time. She did not look away, and he was grateful.
“You want to know what happened. There is not much to tell, really. I hit my head and do not remember—well, I do not remember all of it.”
The more he heard, the more furious he became, but he could not let her know that.
“How did you hit your head?”
Amy rubbed a spot on her temple. He reached out, felt it with gentle fingertips. There was a small lump.
It made him see red. Still, he did not let on.
She sighed. “He was drunk, as I said. He wanted—well, he wanted what I would not willingly give, so he pushed me against a wall and…my clothing was ripping, I could hear buttons hitting the floor as they flew off my gown. I remember trying to push him away, but he was strong. The more I pushed, the more he insisted. He tore my bodice, and…” Amy looked down at her hands. “He exposed my breasts. I wanted to scream, but I did not wish everyone to see me that way, so I pushed hard against him. And, I fell. There was a bookcase—my head hit and that was that. When I woke, he was gone.”
That bastard! Oliver fought for control. He was nearly out of his mind with rage, yet he could not show the state of his emotion. It would not help Amy, and until she was sorted out, killing the scoundrel would have to wait.
“So you do not remember what he did to you?”
A fast head shake of denial. “I don’t. It’s all a blur, after I fell. When I woke, I wore a shawl I found
in a dresser in the room to cover myself. I came home with the others. I never saw him again. Nor do I want to.”
“You need never see that man again, I promise. I must ask, did you seek help for your injuries?”
“My head? No, I just took to my bed for a day or two. I didn’t want to speak with anyone after what happened.” She looked at him, offering a tight smile. “I didn’t have anything to say.”
“But your other injuries? Surely, when he violated you—ah…”
“No. No, he did not.” Amy colored, but shook her head. “I am sure, he did not. My clothing was intact…ah, it was not disturbed. And, there was no…oh, believe me, he did not do what you are thinking.”
Relief washed over him. Not that it would have made a difference in how he felt for her, but it made a difference in how she felt about herself.
“Well that is good news. I hate that he did that to you, and I am sorry I cannot change what has been done.” He had been sitting beside her ever since she began to cry. Holding her in his arms, he had no wish to ever let her go. “But you have been so ill. I thought you might be with child.”
“No, it is not that.” She shrugged. “I am just prone to unfortunate nervousness when I cannot stand something. And being in this situation…well, it has definitely had me at sixes and sevens. I have felt so foolish. But, not in the family way, thankfully.”
“Yes, that is more good news. And I pray your nerves will settle, now that you have unburdened yourself.”
“Time heals. I am not upset that he is gone. I did not love him. I tried, but I couldn’t. He was not the man for me, and it is good he is out of my life. It is too bad he ruined me, though. I hate that thought.”
Oliver’s hope lifted.
“No one knows what happened. And, as you said, he did not—well, he was not as brutal as he could have been. I give you my word that you will never again be bothered by that man. Not for the rest of your life. So, why not put it out of your mind, and don’t let yourself dwell on what cannot be changed. You are not ruined—you could never be ruined.”
Her eyes were less troubled. Her brow had relaxed. And the vein that throbbed in her temple still pulsed, but less stringently. Her body was not as taut in his arms. They were making progress, but there were still hurdles to face.