His Wicked Heart (20 page)

Jasper guided her toward the rear of the
entry hall where a marbled staircase climbed to the second-floor
gallery. “You did well this morning. You needn’t ride after lunch,
unless you want to. Aunt Louisa can be a force of nature.”

Her lips curved up. “I like that about her.
She has such vitality.”

“Yes.” He liked that about her, too. Loved
that about her, actually.

He led Olivia up the stairs and then along
the portrait gallery. “These are well-known artists.” He gestured
to the first painting, a landscape. “Poussin.”

Candlelight from the sconces between the
portraits washed over her auburn hair. The color was lush and
vibrant, like her.

She continued to the next portrait.
“Rembrandt?”

Surprising. “Yes.”

“I can tell from the glow. His paintings have
a kind of light burning within them, do they not?”

An excellent observation. He hadn’t expected
to be impressed by her, but all morning she’d exhibited courage,
intelligence, and wit. “What you describe is called chiaroscuro.
This refers to how artists employ lightness and darkness within
their paintings. You’ve an exceptional eye.”

She blushed. “My experience is rather
limited. Louisa took me to Somerset House. I liked the
Rembrandts.”

That was one of the days he’d avoided them. A
shame, for he would have enjoyed seeing the paintings with her and
discussing them. Her passionate interest reminded him of Uncle
Merry who’d also particularly liked Rembrandt. Was there perhaps a
chance she
was
related to Merry?

They moved to the next painting. He watched
her study the portrait of two boys. One sat in a chair beneath a
sweeping oak tree reading a book. The other ran across the lawn,
two dogs racing behind him.

At length, she said, “Merry painted
this.”

Incredibly good eye. He held his breath,
wondering what else she would notice about the painting. “Yes.”

Another moment. Then she tilted her head to
look at him. “Is that you?” She pointed to the boy running.

“Yes. The boy reading is my brother.” Why had
he told her that? He hadn’t planned to.

“Louisa said he died.” She looked up at him.
“I’m sorry.”

He should’ve expected Louisa would share that
information. It wasn’t, after all, a secret. Just something his
family chose to ignore. “I was very young, and we weren’t close. As
you can see, we didn’t share the same interests.”

She smiled, easing the tension he felt
discussing his long-dead brother. “You seem so carefree there. A
different Lord Saxton is teaching me to ride and showing me his
favorite paintings.”

“I’m not Lord Saxton in that portrait.”

“Ah, of course. Your brother was.” She was
very perceptive, even if she couldn’t begin to understand what
James’ death had done to Jasper, to their entire family.

Moments passed, but Jasper could think of no
response that wouldn’t lead down a path he didn’t wish to traverse.
He gestured to the next portrait. “This is another of Merry’s. My
sister, Miranda.”

She walked with him to view the painting of a
ten-year-old Miranda petting the nose of her horse beside a lake.
“Louisa has told me about her. Is it true she and her husband
operate an orphanage in Wiltshire?”

Jasper quirked a smile. “Oddly enough, they
do. Well, odd for Miranda. I never would’ve thought she’d marry a
provincial gentleman and live away from London, let alone work at
an orphanage.”

Olivia looked up at him. “She must be
happy.”

Blissfully so. “Yes, she’s happy.” And he’d
ensured that by agreeing to marry whomever Holborn decreed by the
end of September. The duke had been ready to destroy Miranda’s
husband to keep them from marrying, so Jasper had traded his
freedom for hers. Holborn hadn’t cared that Miranda loved Fox
beyond all else—a love he returned with a ferocity that made Jasper
question whether what he’d felt for Abigail a decade ago had truly
been love at all.

Olivia gestured to the painting. “She looks
happy there, too. Everything Merry painted is so…alive, or maybe
tangible. I can’t think of the right word. He captured perfect
moments in time.”

He was struck by how lovely she was, how
poised. Such a shame she wasn’t really Merry’s cousin. She still
wouldn’t be acceptable enough in the duke’s eyes, but remove that
obstacle and she was everything Louisa had said Jasper wanted in a
wife…save her inability to be honest.

He turned toward her, so he was facing her
instead of the painting. “Why can’t you tell me the truth? I
wouldn’t use it to hurt you. Louisa’s happiness is my primary
goal.”

“I’ve told you the truth.” Her tone was
steady. She kept herself positioned toward the portrait.

He frowned. “Do you understand why I don’t
believe you? You’ve lied to me from the start.”

She blanched, but somehow found the courage
to look at him. “I did—in the beginning—and I’m still so ashamed of
what I tried to do.”

For the first time, he believed her, or at
least he wanted to. She clearly demonstrated regret.

He moved closer. “So you maintain that all of
this business with Louisa and Merry is the truth?”

“Yes.” Her gaze didn’t waver. Either her
acting ability really was spectacular or she
was
telling the
truth. Time would tell. His investigator would be able to confirm
her relationship to Merry, and perhaps where she’d gotten Merry’s
painted box. In the meantime, he could conduct an investigation of
his own.

“Do you miss your parents?” he asked, curious
to see what she might reveal.

She blinked then pivoted to survey the
painting on the opposite wall. “Somewhat.”

“Only somewhat?”

“We weren’t terribly close. I thought, that
is, I wondered if you might understand such a relationship.”

Extremely perceptive, but then it didn’t take
a scholar to see the cavernous divide separating him from the duke
and duchess. “I do.” They moved to the next painting. “How long ago
did they pass?”

“Just last year.”

He would’ve sworn she’d been in London longer
than that. She didn’t have a country girl’s sensibilities. It would
be easy enough for him to find out, so he decided to ask her
outright. “I’ve sent someone to Newton Abbott to verify your
claims. Tell me, what will he find?”

She turned to look at him, her eyes
surprisingly cool and serene. “Louisa insists I’m Merry’s family.
Why do you want to upset her?”

She’d cut to the very thing that would most
wound him—Louisa’s well-being. “I’ve no wish to, but I must protect
her from harm.” He held up a hand to halt any argument. “I know you
claim you won’t hurt her, but we’ve already discussed my
understandable lack of faith in you. Now, you didn’t answer my
question. What will I find?”

He pinned her with the blistering stare the
duke had taught him so well. She blinked quickly, but not before he
caught the barest flash of something.

“You won’t find anything but the truth as
Louisa presented it.”

“So I’ll find records of your birth and that
of your parents, tying all of you to the Merriweathers?”

“No, because those records were destroyed in
a fire.”

“How convenient. Still, I imagine the
townspeople will be quite helpful. One year is not such a long time
to forget a family’s existence.”

She lifted a shoulder, seemingly unaffected
by the suspicion in his tone. She turned back to the painting.
“Does Louisa know you sent someone to Devon?”

“No.” He stepped toward her, enjoying their
game of cat and mouse despite her lies. “Why, do you think I should
tell her?”

She threw him a dark look. “Yes. Or I
can.”

He begrudgingly gave her credit. Louisa would
be furious with him, and Olivia knew it. “Or you could tell me the
truth right now, and we’ll call a halt to this entire farce.”

“There is no farce. There is only you looking
for nefarious intent where there is none.”

He snaked his hand around her upper arm and
pulled her toward him. “You had plenty of ‘nefarious intent’ when
we met. It seems logical you would continue in that vein. Women
like you don’t wake up with a conscience.”

Her eyes were full of storms now. “You were
angry when I made an assumption about the kind of man you are, so
don’t do it to me. You’ve no idea what sort of woman I am.” She
gave her arm a shake, and he let her go.

He moved forward, and she pivoted back until
she came into contact with the wall between the paintings. “I know
you’re an actress,” he said smoothly, “capable of weaving all
manner of deception.”

Her lips curved up in a humorless smile.
“Misassumption number one. I’m not really an actress. I was only on
the stage for a fortnight.”

“And why is it you haven’t shared that with
Louisa if you’ve nothing to hide? I grant she’d be disappointed,
but mostly because you withheld the truth. You should consider
telling her. Like me, Louisa prizes honesty.”

She arched a brow. “Perhaps I will.”

He admired her just then, even if he didn’t
believe her. “An excellent notion. I’m sure your reasons for
working at the Haymarket are sound. How did that come to pass
anyway?”

She stood taller and thrust her chin at him.
“I came from Devon several months ago and took a position at the
theatre as a seamstress. I only filled in onstage for an actress
who left temporarily to care for a sick relative. It was then I had
the misfortune of encountering—and being bedeviled—by you.”

Bedeviled? He’d show her bedeviled. He closed
the gap between them until they nearly touched. “And when is it
exactly
that you came from Devon?”

She tipped her head back, but didn’t shrink
from him. An auburn curl loosened and grazed her ivory cheek.
“March.”

He took in the graceful sweep of her neck,
partially covered from his hungry gaze by the starched collar of
her shirt beneath the deep sage green of her riding habit. His lust
threatened to destroy any semblance of propriety, which, alone as
they were in the gallery, was nonexistent. “So you really are from
Devon.”

“Yes.” Her voice deepened, stirring his
desire further.

He tucked the stray lock of hair behind her
ear. “And your parents died last year. Were they ill?”

Her breathing hitched as his fingers skimmed
the outer shell, and he felt a surge of triumph. “A coaching
accident.”

“You said you didn’t own any horses.”

The flash of disquiet in her eyes confirmed
the lie. She drew back, and his body regretted that his mind had
pursued this course instead of kissing her senseless. “They’d
borrowed someone else’s carriage.” A plausible excuse, but he still
didn’t believe her.

So disappointing—both her dishonesty and his
unquenched lust. “Ah, and therein lies the tragedy.”

She turned, quickly, before she showed him
any emotion.

Liar
.

HE didn’t believe her. And why should he
after she’d deceived him,
and
he’d caught her in another lie
that afternoon? Keeping the lies separate from the truth was
beginning to take a toll on Olivia’s brain. She had a monstrous
headache. If her hands hadn’t been occupied with carrying a tea
tray to Louisa’s room, she would’ve massaged her temples.

“Is that you, dear?” called Louisa from the
massive four-poster cloaked with pale blue hangings.

“Yes, I’ve brought your tea.” Olivia toted
the tray into the large bedchamber and placed it on the table
beside the bed. Due to Louisa’s swollen ankle, they’d decided to
remain at Benfield overnight.

Louisa sat propped against an array of
sunshine-yellow and ivory pillows. She smiled while Olivia poured
out. “Lovely, thank you.”

Olivia pulled a chair near the bed and sat
with her teacup. “How is your ankle?”

“It still pains a bit, but it shan’t keep me
awake tonight. You did splash a bit of brandy in the teapot like I
asked?”

“I did.” Olivia tasted the brew and decided
it was an acquired appreciation.

Louisa sipped her tea and gave a contented
sigh. “Wonderful, dear. Are you sorry we weren’t able to attend the
musicale in Town?”

“Goodness, no. I prefer your company to
people I scarcely know.” Olivia was grateful for the reprieve from
the likes of Lady Lydia Prewitt.

Louisa’s forehead creased. “You’re not
unhappy, are you dear?”

“Of course not. I simply relish our time
together.” Indeed, today had been nearly idyllic, save Louisa’s
injury and Jasper’s interrogation.

“I do, too.” Louisa smiled warmly.

How was it that Olivia could be so fond of
Louisa in such a short time? Probably because she knew Louisa felt
it, too.

“Oh, we forgot about your sketches for
Jasper’s waistcoat.” Louisa sighed. “This troublesome ankle upset
the entire day. I don’t suppose you showed him your drawings when
he gave you a tour of the house?”

“No, he showed me Merry’s paintings, and I’m
afraid we quite forgot about the waistcoat.” He’d been too busy
questioning her, and she’d been too busy trying not to tell him
everything.

After the gallery, she and Jasper had
returned to the library to dine with Louisa, and he’d left almost
immediately thereafter. He hadn’t offered a second ride, not that
Olivia had minded. Her posterior was a bit sore, and she wasn’t
sure she trusted herself to be alone with him again—and a groom
holding her reins didn’t qualify as a chaperone as far as Olivia
was concerned.

“Pity. Ah well, I’m sure we’ll see him
tomorrow.”

So soon? His probing questions had further
undermined any sense of security she’d managed. He’d sent someone
to Newton Abbott, and what he’d find—though of course she couldn’t
admit it to him—was evidence of her lies. There were no parents
who’d died in a carriage accident, or any other way. And she’d left
seven years ago, not earlier this year. Her aunt would surely tell
Jasper’s investigator precisely when, and probably even why, Olivia
had left. It was only a matter of time before Jasper knew
everything.