Philip smiled. “I suppose I could call you patriotic, but you are intending to make a profit off of war.”
Mr. Winter glanced at Philip with a wry grin. “I am both patriotic and capitalistic, my young friend. If I succeed at only one that is fine, but if I can succeed at both, my life shall be complete.”
Philip chuckled. “You are a credit to all of Britain, Mr. Winter, surely.”
“Don’t you paint me to be a vulture, my young friend,” said Mr. Winter. “The men who ride into battle could be anyone’s son. Even mine, if Richard were to choose to take up arms. Someone needs to supply them with reliable horses and I intend to be one of those someones.”
“Good morning, Papa.”
Philip couldn’t explain why, but the sound of Olivia’s voice sent a jolt throughout his body. He turned to face her and another jolt fired in his stomach. This time, it was because of her clothes. She had chosen again to wear those damn breeches. The impulse to run his hands over her thighs slammed into him with a fierceness he struggled to hide. Surely the other men nearby were thinking the same thing. He wanted to rip off his coat and wrap it around her waist. Did she not realize all the men had suddenly chosen to neglect their duties to stare at her? Didn’t Mr. Winter see it? Philip noticed, and it annoyed him.
“Good morning, strawberry,” said Mr. Winter cheerfully and leaned down to kiss Olivia’s cheek. “Going for a ride then?”
Olivia glanced at Philip. He could see the triumph on her face and it only worsened his agitation. God, when would this woman cease to be so infuriating?
• • •
Olivia could see the irritation on Lord Philip’s face and it only improved her good mood. She wanted him to be angry over her attire. It would teach him a valuable lesson, indeed: he did not own her. And the best part was he couldn’t say anything about her clothing without insulting his business partner.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “Emily loves to ride in the morning just as much as I.”
“Well, be careful, my dear. I shall see you at lunch.”
“Wait just a moment,” said Philip suddenly before Olivia could walk away. “Ah, Mr. Winter, I realize it is not exactly my place to mention this, but if I may point it out … Olivia should not be wearing … what she is currently wearing.”
Mr. Winter drew back slightly. “And why not?” he asked indignantly.
“Well, she is of age, as you know, and for her to wear such things around so many hired men is most certainly a dangerous gamble. Even more dangerous is that she rides off alone after doing so. Lord knows what could happen.”
Olivia felt her heart plummet to the pit of her stomach. She had never thought in a thousand years that Lord Philip would dare mention her attire to her father, but he had. She only hoped her father would bounce back and deny such claims, which were ridiculous, of course. Her home was perfectly safe. No one would ever —
“By Jove,” said Mr. Winter. “She has always worn them and I’ve thought nothing of it. But now that she is older … you are absolutely right, Philip.”
Olivia shook her head frantically. “No, Papa,” she said. “I will be fine. Nothing could — ”
“Hush, Olivia,” her father interrupted. “Lord Philip is right. I cannot believe I’ve missed it for so long. If only your mother were alive. She would’ve seen to such things immediately.”
“Papa, please,” Olivia begged. “I will be perfectly fine.”
“Yes, you will,” her father agreed, and for a moment Olivia’s last little flicker of hope burned strong, but then …
“From now on, you shall wear a riding habit and ride as a lady should. And,” he added as Olivia attempted to protest, “You shall not leave the Manor without an escort.”
Air left her lungs on a violent surge. It was over. Her freedom was over. The very freedom she had cherished so thankfully just that morning was gone. And she had Lord Philip Ravenshaw to thank for her destruction.
• • •
Philip had imagined himself feeling victorious after winning the Battle of the Breeches, and he did. But it was dulled slightly by the distraught look on Olivia’s face. He hadn’t expected her to look quite so sad. He had envisioned her being more angry, furious, or enraged, certainly. Any one or more of those emotions was more her style. Defeated, however, was not. To see her face take on such a depressed look was troubling. It was enough to make him regret that he’d brought up the subject at all. But that feeling of regret was quickly lost amidst reason.
She really was endangering herself by wearing those breeches. If anything happened to her, he would blame himself for not having said a thing. He didn’t want or need that kind of guilt weighing down his mind. But that was only half of the truth. Well, less than half, actually. The main motivation Philip had for relieving Olivia of her breeches was he couldn’t stand the thought of any man enjoying the sight of her shape. God, he was venturing into dangerous territory with thoughts like that.
“Run along, Olivia,” said Mr. Winter. “Change into a habit and have Mr. Stanley ride along with you.”
“But I don’t have a habit.”
“Then I shall send for one. Until then, you shall not ride. Furthermore, you are forbidden from wearing those breeches, or anything else of your brother’s, ever again. Give them all to Mrs. Stanley. I will see to it that they are all disposed of properly.”
“Father, I — ”
“I don’t want to hear it, Olivia. I have made my decision and that is final. If you want to ride, from now on you shall do it properly dressed and accompanied.”
Philip could see Olivia’s eyes gleaming with moisture and it made him feel like the worst sort of villain. Crying definitely did not seem her character. She looked at him for a moment, her eyes clearly asking him “why?” before she turned and ran back to the house. Philip watched her as she ran, as she threw herself against the heavy wooden door of Whistler Manor and pushed it open hastily, only to slam it behind her.
Was she really so upset over breeches? Her pride certainly might keep her from admitting he was right about the matter, but she could see his reason, couldn’t she? Could she really be so hurt over such a silly thing as breeches in light of such a sound argument?
“Thank you, Philip,” said Mr. Winter.
“Sorry?” Philip asked, still staring at the door.
“Thank you for pointing out the crudeness of her apparel. I suppose I’ve refused to realize that she is no longer a child. She was our last, you see, for my dear wife and me. That makes her special in a way.”
“Yes,” said Philip absently, and finally tore his eyes away from the door. But his thoughts remained on Olivia. Would she have rushed straight up to her room? Was she sobbing in earnest now that she was alone? For some unexplainable reason, the thought of Olivia crying troubled him more deeply than having seen the mere glimmer of tears in her eyes. She was entirely too strong a person to cry.
“ … stay the night,” said Mr. Winter.
“Sorry?” Philip asked again and this time turned his gaze back to his friend.
“I said that we’ll be spending the day going over the Connemara’s lineages to see which mare will be the best for cross breeding with the Friesian. I suggested you stay for dinner and then the night. I know Tyndall Hall is a mere half-hour ride away, but there is no sense in you riding back home after dark when you are welcome here.”
“Oh yes,” Philip agreed quickly. “That would be excellent.”
Very excellent, in fact, Philip thought. If he stayed at Whistler Manor, he could be near Olivia. He had to make certain she was alright. His mind was suddenly fixated on nothing else but making certain she was all right. He ardently hoped that by lunch, he would see her recovered and they would find something else to fight over.
• • •
Olivia was not at lunch. What was more troubling to Philip was that her absence was shrugged off by Mr. Winter.
“Perhaps she is napping,” Mr. Winter had suggested.
&nbs
p; Philip was less certain, and infinitely more concerned than Mr. Winter. Why couldn’t the man see his daughter was upset?
When Olivia wasn’t in attendance at dinner, however, Mr. Winter finally began to share a bit of Philip’s concern.
“She’s not feeling well, sir,” Mrs. Stanley had told Mr. Winter upon his inquiries about his daughter’s whereabouts.
“Well, send her a tray just in case, Fannie. I don’t want her to be without food if she suddenly feels the urge to eat.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Philip’s guilt over making Olivia cry had chased away his own appetite, but he forced down all the food that was placed before him. Really, he shouldn’t feel this way. He had done the right thing. Olivia needed to behave more like a lady. Philip had absolutely no cause to feel guilty or foolish over a pair of Godforsaken breeches, especially when Olivia had no decent reason for wearing them. Yet he did.
Oh, for God’s sake, damn her tears and her tantrum! Philip just needed to learn to be stricter. He truly was a silly fool when it came to women. Not a single one of them could ever fail at making him a prize idiot. Olivia was no exception.
Let her be mad, let her hate him. Let her cry in her room because of him. He would not allow her to prance around in those damned breeches if he could put a stop to it. And he had stopped it, he thought with a smile as he forced down another spoonful of potatoes. She had been taught a lesson — end of story, end of problem, time to move on.
But still he couldn’t stop thinking about the pain he had seen so clearly etched on her face. All through dinner, all through sharing a nightcap with Mr. Winter in the parlor, and now, drinking his second brandy in the parlor alone before the fire, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Why was he so concerned about her anyway? He didn’t have the slightest bit of interest in her. To start, she wasn’t his type. Her hair was too light, her skin was too pale, and her eyes were too dark. Were they? He realized suddenly that he didn’t know the color of her eyes. He had never paid any sort of particular attention to them. Next time I see her, I must remember to check…
“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” he said gruffly to himself when he regained his senses. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, and pressed his glass to his forehead. The color of her eyes did not matter. Even if they turned out to be the most beautiful color he had ever seen, there were plenty of other reasons why he should not be interested in Miss Olivia Winter.
She was too improper, too ill-tempered, too honest —
Too honest?
Could he really fault her for being in possession of a quality he believed was in short supply amongst women of society? Perhaps not logically, but he would do it anyway. Honesty was good, but Olivia’s brand was too sharp and painful to hear.
He slung back the rest of his brandy and rose from the sofa. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep for a while, but he wanted to at least try to. The events of the day were still bothering him, but Philip was convinced that after a night’s rest they would seem unimportant, or, in the very least, dulled in severity. Problems always seemed easier after sleep.
He shuffled groggily towards the parlor door and turned the knob. The door was less than a foot away from its frame when a tiny figure burst forth and lunged at him.
“You rotten bastard!”
Hands slapped at his chest, face, and arms.
“Good Christ, Olivia!” Philip whispered harshly and grabbed her arms to set her away from him. “What the devil are you doing?”
“You ruined everything!” she cried and wrenched her arms out of his grasp. “You’ve ruined it all.”
“I’ve done no such thing. What could I possibly have ruined?”
“My life,” she said plainly.
Philip cocked a suspicious brow and placed his hands on his hips. “I hardly think making certain you dress properly credits me with ruining your life. Don’t be so dramatic, please.”
“It’s not just that,” she said. Tears spilled from her eyes — eyes that Philip could see, even in the dim light, were filled with rage. Yet despite her current fury, Philip could not stop himself from noticing Miss Winter’s appearance. Her hair was down (again) and lying in sleek, shiny curls down past her shoulders.
She was dressed in a nightgown and robe. Both were loose, white, made of linen, and far too transparent in the firelight. He could see the gentle curve of her hips, her thin waist, and the outline of her breasts. Oh Lord, no. Please don’t do this to me, Philip prayed silently. But God was apparently not listening, because, try as he might, Philip could not prevent himself from feeling very attracted to Miss Olivia Winter. She looked vulnerable and soft to the touch with her candied eyes, and Philip found himself with the intense desire to cover her body, to kiss it, to taste it, and above all, to enter it. All this Philip wanted despite the fact that Olivia was presently scolding him.
“It’s not just the clothes you’ve taken from me,” she said.
God, don’t let her talk about me taking her clothes. Not right now.
“I can’t ride alone anymore…”
Or riding — no clothes, legs straddled…
“I can’t have a moment to myself outside of the walls of this house … all because of you.”
She lunged at him again, slapping and punching.
“Be still, woman!”
He grabbed her wrist before her hand connected with his face and yanked her too him, spinning her around so that her back collided with his chest. He trapped her there and restricted any further movements by crossing his arms around her front. He felt her tense little body sag instantly in defeat before she began shaking with sobs.
He could feel every part of the tiny body he had just admired through the thin linen of her nightclothes — her round bottom against his groin, her small waist against his right forearm; her breasts against his left. And in a moment of true weakness, he bent his head down to smell her hair. He breathed in one deep breath, pulling in the scent of lavender and soap. The feel and smell of her was altogether too seductive, and he began to feel the first stirrings of arousal. Good God, that was the last thing he needed right now.
“Calm down,” said Philip, to himself more than to Olivia.
“You don’t understand,” said Olivia through her tears. “You can never understand because you are a man.”
“What do you mean?”
Olivia wriggled out of his arms and whipped around to face him. “My brother is away at university,” she said, once again boring into his eyes with her heated gaze. “I’m sure you went to university as well. As of late, you chose to move to Dorset and breed horses with my father because that was what you wanted to do. I can do nothing. I want to go to university, but I cannot. I want to do what I want, but I cannot. I have no choices. And when I marry, the law will deem me the property of my husband. I will be legally the same as his horse. Do you understand?”
“No, I don’t,” Philip answered thickly (he was too busy admiring her figure again).
Fed up with his apparent lack of attention, Olivia slapped him quite smartly across the cheek. “Listen to me!”
Philip took a step back and merely blinked at Olivia in shock.
“I shall never own anything,” she said. “Not even myself. You will always be able to acquire whatever you want, and do whatever you want because you are a man. You will always be free. Riding alone was my only freedom. It was the only time in which I could pretend to belong to myself. And you stole that from me.”
It was the second time one of her heated speeches had left Philip mute. And this time he had a painful stinging feeling in his face to go along with the speechless sensation. He had suspected he hurt her, but this? She was accusing him of catching and caging her very spirit. He didn’t quite know how to respond to such an accusation.
“Olivia,” he began. “I am tru — ”
“I hate you,” she interrupted. “I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone.”
• • •<
br />
Olivia ran back to her room as her tears became uncontrollable. Lord Philip had just seen her cry, but she didn’t want him to see her break down entirely. She threw herself on her bed and buried her face into her pillow, saying “I hate him” again and again inside her head. It was a childish remark, Olivia realized, but that didn’t make it any less true. During all her time in London, none of the people who had tortured her — not even that black-haired girl — had brought her more pain than Lord Philip. In less than three months, he had altered her life beyond recognition or belief. And for his offenses against her, Olivia would hate Lord Philip Ravenshaw until her dying day.
• • •
Dear Olivia,
I am glad father’s new venture is likely to thrive and that he and Lord Philip get on well. As for your low opinion of our father’s new partner, I believe you are fooling yourself, dear sister. I believe you like Lord Philip just fine. Really, you must let me know the date of your wedding. I simply must be in attendance …
Richard Winter’s letter to his sister, Olivia.
Spring 1808
Chapter Six
Instead of merely the night, Philip ended up agreeing to stay the week. At first, he had politely declined the extension Mr. Winter added to his invitation, but after a footman arrived from Tyndall Hall with a message from Henri, Philip’s plans changed.
The note had stated that Henri was to begin decorating Philip’s master chamber that day, and that the decorating was expected to last most of the week. Naturally, the letter pointed out, Philip was now without a place to sleep. However, the letter went on to reassure him that Henri would be doubly honored to find his lordship the best and most comfortable position available.
Not only did Philip think it would be very awkward to be around a man who lusted after him while the lecher in question decorated his personal bedchamber, but the idea of Henri finding any sort of sleeping position him was more than awkward — it was disturbing.
Stephanie James Page 6