His Wicked Heart (5 page)

He leaned forward and inhaled her scent. “Are
you being overly discriminating, or is it that you haven’t yet
engaged in your mother’s trade? I find that inconceivable.” His
eyes lit. “Ah! You’ve a protector, perhaps? He can’t pay you very
well if you’re looking for work in a lowly dress shop.”

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She’d
been propositioned before—twice just last night, in fact—but never
in so awful a fashion. “I’m not interested in that type of
work.”

“Now see here, gel.” He snagged her wrist in
a brutal grip. Olivia tried to wrench free, but he pulled her
against his barrel-sized chest. His fingers bit into her flesh,
sure to leave a mark. Cruelly, he grasped her chin while he lowered
his head. “Open up now.” His humid breath washed over her, and she
gagged. N
o, no, no, this couldn’t happen
! She brought her
knee up and delivered the blow her mother had assured her would
wound any man.

Sure enough, Clifton howled with pain and
fell to the side onto one of the chairs. The wood splintered
beneath his weight and he crashed to the floor in an ungainly mess.
Olivia didn’t wait to see if he got up. She turned on her heel,
plucked up her basket, and raced through the curtain, running into
Mrs. Johnson in her dash to safety.

The shopkeeper held her steady for a moment
then dropped her arms, glaring at Olivia. “What did you do?”

Miss Clifton, ribbons cascading from her
fingertips, gaped at Olivia.

“I protected myself. Mr. Clifton was…too
familiar.”

Mrs. Johnson sucked in a breath. “Did you
hurt him? I heard a noise.” She peered around Olivia.

Fright and anxiety suffused Olivia in sweat.
She had to get out of the shop. “He’s fine. I think.”

The shopkeeper returned her narrowed gaze to
Olivia. “If you’ve done him harm, pray he doesn’t notify the
watch.”

Olivia’s fear crested into panic. She tried
to push past Mrs. Johnson, but the older woman grabbed her arm.
“You’re a fool to refuse his offer.”

“I’m not for sale, Mrs. Johnson.” Olivia’s
voice shook with anger and revulsion. “I was raised as a
gentlewoman.”

Mrs. Johnson sneered, revealing yellowed
teeth. “You’re no gentlewoman now. From what I’ve seen, you can’t
afford to refuse Clifton, and
I
refuse to lose his business!
If you leave now, you’ll never work for me again.”

“I know. Here.” She pulled the dresses from
the basket and thrust them at Mrs. Johnson so the shopkeeper had to
let go of her arm. The loss of income, especially for the dresses
she’d just brought, was something she’d contemplate—and bitterly
regret—later, but now she just had to get out of the shop.

The curtain behind her rustled. Olivia turned
her head just as Mr. Clifton’s beet-colored face appeared. Sweat
ran down his cheek as he limped into the shop, retribution etched
into his angry features.

Olivia sprinted for the door and freedom
beyond.

“I’m not finished with you!” Clifton’s
furious promise chased her from the shop.

Olivia ran until perspiration trailed down
her back in rivulets. When her lungs felt close to bursting, she
slowed. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed she hadn’t been
followed. At least not that she could see.

She walked quickly, her breathing coming in
fast, hard pants. Mr. Clifton may not be on her heels, but his
declaration still rang in her ears.

Twice in as many days she’d suffered attacks
on her person. The protective cocoon she’d carefully built in the
months since her mother’s death was crumbling around her. She
supposed it was bound to happen. How safe could a young, unmarried
woman with no family hope to be in London?

Olivia forced her panic into a cold knot of
determination. Though she’d lived with her mother the past seven
years, she’d spent the entirety ensuring her own well-being.

If she could manage to find
employment—honest, decent employment—she could continue as she’d
done. She’d survived nearly a year on her own, and she refused to
let these two lamentable occurrences beat her down. She simply had
to find more sewing work immediately. Several embroidered
handkerchiefs sat at the bottom of her basket. She made her way
toward the Strand where there were several shops that might be
interested in purchasing her work.

Her options, like her meager savings and her
food stores, were dwindling. She could almost see how her mother
had fallen into the position of courtesan. How easy it must have
been to accept a protector and enjoy all of the luxuries that
accompanied such an arrangement. But Olivia couldn’t countenance
suffering the unsavory proclivities of the man who all but owned
her.

Unless the man wasn’t unsavory at all. Like
Lord Saxton. Little flutters danced in her belly as she recalled
his fair hair and pale blue eyes.

She cringed at the direction of her mind. She
wasn’t yet willing to take on her mother’s trade. And there was the
key:
yet
. Which meant she was already beginning to consider
it.

THAT AFTERNOON, Jasper strode into his
parents’ drawing room. As the space was not yet filled to the brim
with Important Persons, he was able to make his way quickly to his
aunt, the only person he really cared to see. In truth, he’d rather
be anywhere else, but duty dictated he suffer his mother’s
bi-weekly tea, which was a means to another dutiful end—selecting a
wife.

Aunt Louisa, perched upon a settee newly
covered with rich olive-green damask, grinned at him. “Sit with
me.”

Gratefully, he took the empty space beside
her. Aunt Louisa’s presence might keep the marriage-hunting debs at
bay—Jasper preferred to conduct his wife hunt on his own terms—as
well as his mother, who coldly tolerated Louisa’s presence because
one simply didn’t ignore one’s sister-in-law.

She stared at his face. “However did you get
that nasty bruise and that cut on your cheek?”

He’d expected the question given last
evening’s spontaneous activities. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“When have I ever laughed at you, dear
boy?”

“I tripped into the doorframe of my
office.”

She set her teacup on the table and
chuckled.

“You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”

Her robin’s egg blue eyes crackled with
mirth. “Sorry, dear. You mustn’t tell anyone else that story.
Though it will go against your image, say you got into a
fight.”

Jasper smiled in spite of himself. “If you
say so.”

“I do. I suppose that explains why you
weren’t at de Longley’s rout last night, but it was unkind of you
to make me go alone.”

After the devastating loss of her husband
three years ago, Jasper had taken special care of her and almost
always escorted her to events when he was in Town. “My apologies,
Aunt. I confess I needed a respite from Holborn.”

She gave him a knowing look. Of anyone, she
knew her brother’s cruelties best. “Still harassing you about
marriage, I suppose.”

“Among other things.” The duke never suffered
a dearth of complaints where Jasper was concerned.

“Have you any say in your future
countess?”

Holborn preferred to dictate his choice of
bride—had in fact prevented Jasper from marrying once—but Jasper
would be damned if he’d allow such interference again. It was
precisely that interference that had prevented Jasper from seeking
a wife during the past decade. However, now he
had
to marry
or suffer his father’s meddling. He’d made a deal nearly one year
ago to wed, a deal that had allowed his sister to choose her
spouse. At least one of them would be happy.

The duke had demanded Jasper marry a woman
bearing his approval within one year. And the year was almost up.
Jasper needed to declare his intentions soon, before the duke
organized a marital situation on his own. He wouldn’t put it past
his father to concoct some sort of compromise to ensure Jasper
married someone ‘appropriate.’

“The choice is mine.”
For now
.

She pursed her lips while her eyes found the
broad shoulders of the duke across the room. His back to them, he
stood before the windows facing Grosvenor Square talking with the
prime minister and the Earl of Witton.

“I hope he isn’t being difficult.” Her gaze
flashed toward Jasper’s cheek for the barest moment, but he caught
it—and the unspoken question.

His father hadn’t lifted a hand to him in
years. Not since Jasper had fought back. “No, not that. I’m quite
capable, Aunt.”

She patted his knee. “Of course you are,
dear. Now then, let me help you.” She perused the room. “Berwick’s
daughter?”

“Fuzzy blonde hair and a sing-song voice?
No.”

“Miss Donnel? She’s lovely at the
pianoforte.”

Jasper had no intention of selecting a wife
based on musical skill. This talk was making him claustrophobic.
“She’s clearly interested in Foley.”

“Ah yes, you might be right. Very astute, my
dear. You pay more attention than you let on.” She continued her
search. “Miss Stone?”

“God, no. The duke keeps suggesting her.”

Louisa wrinkled her nose. “Never her, then.”
She tapped her finger against her knee. “You need someone with
above average intelligence. Not too young or silly-mannered. I
suppose you’d prefer a beauty.”

Surprisingly, he thought of Miss West. She
certainly looked the part, but was of course utterly lacking birth.
And, whether he liked it or not, his future wife’s pedigree was the
most important thing of all. Begrudgingly, he knew his father had
been right about Abigail at least in one respect—Society may have
accepted her as Jasper’s countess, but she would never have fit in,
nor would she have been happy. She’d been a country miss through
and through. Jasper needed a wife who was both capable of mastering
Society and eager to do so.

A jab to his side drew him from his thoughts.
Louisa peered up at him. “You’re thinking of a specific girl. Do
tell.”

He had to be careful. Louisa always saw what
others never bothered to look for. “No one.”

The corners of her mouth pulled down, and
Jasper knew she meant to call him on his fib. Instead, he got to
his feet. “Pardon me, but I need to speak with someone.”

“Coward.”

He leaned down and took her hand, quickly
pressing a kiss to her knuckles. They both knew he’d immediately
make his exit.

Except the duke stepped into his path just as
he made the door. “Leaving so soon? After last night’s pointed
absence?” He didn’t wait for Jasper’s response before launching his
next volley. “What the hell happened to your face? You look as
though you’ve been run down by a coach and four. Good God, did you
lose at Jackson’s?”

Jasper curled his fingers into his palms, a
typical response to the duke’s presence. Jasper didn’t want him to
know about the club, but his attempts at hiding things from Holborn
always ended badly—from the figurine he’d broken at five, to the
bottle of brandy he’d downed at twelve, to the girl he’d fallen in
love with at eighteen. As punishment the duke had ensured the
consequences of each transgression hurt: the destruction of all of
his toys, a diet of bread, cheese, and water for a month, and, most
excruciating of all, the complete excision of Abigail from his
life.

“No. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

“It bloody well is. Everything you do is my
concern until you provide an heir. Then everything he does will be
my concern.”

A well-worn conversation. “The poor child’s
doomed, and he hasn’t even been conceived yet.”

Holborn unclasped his hands. “What are you
doing to secure a wife?”

He wasn’t going to question Jasper about the
fighting? Jasper, rarely surprised by the duke, blinked. But then
Holborn was so fixated on Jasper’s bride, he likely didn’t care
about anything else. At least for now.

Jasper kept a firm grasp on his temper. “I’ll
meet your silly deadline. Stop pestering me.”

“I’ll do more than pester. I still like
Stone’s chit.” His gaze strayed to where the young lady in question
stood talking with her mother and another pair of women. “Her
dowry’s nice, and her tits are even nicer.”

Jasper stifled a twitch of revulsion. He
refused to discuss a female’s physical attributes with his father
as if she were a piece of horseflesh. “You needn’t concern yourself
with my selection.”

Holborn made a sound that was half snort and
half grunt, though soft enough so no one could possibly overhear. A
sound he never, ever made in polite company, but then he’d
subjected Jasper to many things he’d never do in public. “Of course
I do. Your taste tends to run to the gutter, if memory serves.” He
paused to let the insult—and reminder—hang in the air.

Jasper stepped around Holborn, eager to be on
his way.