My Only Love (14 page)

His
gaze dropped again to her breast, and remained there while the silence
stretched out and Olivia felt the first flush of discomfiture and chagrin turn
her flesh to fire.

At
last, Warwick's lips curved, and causing Olivia to catch her breath, he lightly
pressed one fingertip to the rose stem and slowly drew his finger up, up to the

Katherine
Sutcliffe

pink
bloom where he hesitated, bringing his eyes back to hers. "Very nice. If I
cry encore will you remove something else?"

She
clutched her blouse shut at her throat.

"You'll
learn soon enough that I'm not easily shocked, Miss Devonshire. Not nearly so
easily as you."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning
that your face turned a magnificent shade of crimson the moment I touched your
breast. I wonder how deeply it would blush if I stroked your—"

"Good
evening, Mr. Warwick."

Olivia
turned her back on Warwick, and with spine rigid, made for the stairs.

Her
father, his robust face the color of a turnip, exited an adjoining doorway,
arms thrown wide and his round body bouncing in anticipation. "So a
wedding it will be! By Jove, what a day when both of my daughters are
betrothed!"

"Miss
Devonshire!" Warwick called.

She
slowed.

"Those
godawful spectacles fog up when you get angry. Just thought you'd appreciate
knowing."

"Go
to hell!" she snapped, bringing her father to an abrupt stop.

"Right,"
Warwick retorted. "I'll see you there."

Then
the front door slammed, then another and another, up and down the hallway and
throughout the house as the eavesdropping servants suddenly discovered the
fracas had ended. Olivia stood simmering at the foot of the stairs, as angry at
herself for allowing her emotions to get out of control as she was at Warwick
for ... for ... every reason imaginable.

For
not going down on one knee and proposing.

For
not holding her in the slightest esteem, or even pretending to. For being
honest. For being arrogant.

For
being so devastatingly handsome, and lonely, and hurting so passionately over
his past—just as she was over hers—that she would throw caution and care to the
wind and agree to marry him no matter how loudly the voice in her head screamed
that she shouldn't.

She
moved toward the front door, stiffly at first, then faster.

"Olivia!"
Emily flew down the stairs, one hand gripping the rail, the other grappling with
her skirts. "Don't do it! You mustn't! You know what it'll mean! Olivia!
I'll never speak to you again!" Emily caught up to Olivia as she reached
the door, and grabbing her arm, dragged her around.

"He
doesn't love you!" Emily cried.

Olivia
reached for the door.

"He's
marrying you for only one reason. Your dowry. He'll spend your money on his
scores of mistresses and gambling and horses and that crumbling relic of a
house, and when he's used that up he'll toss you away like old tea draff."

"Get
out of my way, Emily."

"For
the love of God," their father bellowed. "Come away, Em, and leave
the gal be."

"Tell
her, Papa! Tell her not to marry him! I beg you!"

Staring
in disbelief at her sister's tear-swollen eyes, Olivia shook her head.
"Would you refuse me this one, and possibly only, chance for freedom,
Emily?"

"He's
detestable!"

"You
didn't think so once." "Think of Bryan."

"That's
exactly who I'm thinking of."

"Come,
come, Emily." Devonshire took his daughter by her shoulders and did his
best to pull her aside. "Gads, gel, you act as if you're caught in some
jealous fit—"

"Jealous!"
Emily laughed and cried at once, and beat his hands away. "Jealous of her?
Of him? Surely you jest, Papa. Why, it's me he loves. He's only trying to pay
me back because ..."

"Because
what?" he demanded.

Emily
turned her burning eyes on Olivia again, and thrusting her face near Olivia's
ear, whispered harshly, "How could you live with the idea that your
husband and sister have been lovers—that when he's bedding you he's no doubt thinking
of me."

"What
in God's name have I ever done to you to make you hate me so?" Olivia
asked softly, her sadness closing off her throat like a fist. "I've raised
you and loved you like a mother. I've sacrificed everything I hold dear so that
you might glide through life without a care, that you might marry a man with
great power and position like Lord Willowby, yet you begrudge me this one
opportunity."

"But
Bryan deserves—"

"Don't
you dare even mutter his name; you aren't worthy. Save your hypocritical show
of concern over my son for someone it'll impress. Now ... get out of my
way."

Slipping
past her sister, Olivia flung open the door, gasping and stepping back as the
first brace of cold air rushed over her. Gripping her skirts, she ran down the
brick steps and onto the drive, squinting to make out the disappearing shape of
Warwick's coach.

"Wait!"
she cried, walking, then running down the drive, certain the driver would not
hear her over the clattering of hooves and the jangle of harnesses. Yet she called
out again anyway, running gingerly on the rain-slick surface.

Olivia
practically ran headlong into the back of the coach before she realized the
conveyance had been brought to a halt. Suddenly the driver was there, and the
coach door swung open, and Warwick's hazy form gracefully stepped to the
ground.

She
was breathless from the sprint down the drive and now that she'd achieved her
goal she was suddenly swamped by a sense of regret for acting so desperate.

"Damn,"
she muttered, and as Warwick walked toward her, she closed her eyes in
mortification. Dear God, she must surely look the imbecile, she thought, as she
realized that her feet and shins and skirt hem were doused liberally with muddy
water, and her hair had spilled over her shoulders, and her blouse was gaping
open and clinging damply to her body.

"Miss
Devonshire."

She
turned her head sharply toward the sound of Warwick's voice. His form seemed
very hazy.

He
reached for her glasses and gently removed them from her face. The world
instantly regained its clarity. Warwick was regarding her with one raised
eyebrow while his hands cleaned the condensation from the spectacle lenses
with the lapel of his coat.

"You
wished to tell me something," he said.

She
stared at the swagging fob of a pocket watch that was tucked into a vent in his
waistcoat. Odd that she hadn't noticed it before; it glimmered now.
"Yes," she finally managed to respond. "I..." She swallowed
and tried to breathe, finding the effort difficult when paralyzed by
discomposure.

Warwick
tipped her eyeglasses up toward the sky and, squinting, regarded the lenses
intently. Satisfied, he carefully put them back on Olivia's nose, and eased the
wire end pieces around her ears. His fingers trailed through the fine hair at
her temples, and slid along the rim of her ear. "I told you those
eyeglasses fog up when you get angry. Didn't I, Miss Devonshire?"

She
nodded.

He
proceeded to button her blouse while she stood like a statue and watched the
fading light heighten each angle of his face. Her heart pounded double time as
his fingers brushed her breasts. "I still believe that you can see better
without those bloody things," he said, "but never mind. You didn't
haul down my coach to discuss your eyesight. I take it that you've experienced
a rather sudden and drastic change of heart considering my proposal."

She
nodded.

"And
I assume that you've decided that a union between us would serve to ameliorate
our circumstances."

She
nodded.

"And
would you agree that the sooner we can bring this about the better for us
both?" She nodded.

"Very
well. I'll speak to the Superintendent Registrar. Normally, I believe it's
customary to post banns three weeks before a marriage, but I happen to know Registrar
Hargreaves, with an adequate enough incentive, is willing to overlook the
normal procedures. Can we agree that the ceremony will take place one week from
today at the Registrar's office?" "One week?"

"I
realize that doesn't leave you much time to prepare, then again a regular
ceremony isn't necessary considering our circumstances."

She
nodded.

He
stood watching her in silence for a long moment. She had begun to shiver;
whether from the cold, or from the shock of realizing that she had just agreed
to marry Miles Warwick (in one week, no less, and without having said a word),
Olivia couldn't tell. Her teeth had begun to chatter and the damp was crawling
its way up her stockings to her knees.

Removing
his cloak, Miles swung the wrap around her shoulders and pulled it closed
around her throat. The warmth of his body still permeated the expensive wool
and the shabby satin lining of the coat. She could detect, too, the vague scent
of his bay rum cologne. 'Thank you." she told him.

He
smiled briefly and appeared thoughtful before bending slightly, and brushing
her lips lightly with his. "You're welcome," he whispered.

He
turned back to the coach, and as the driver waited by the steps, he swung up
through the door with the grace of an acrobat. "Good night, Miss
Devonshire," came his voice from within. "You'll be hearing from me."

The
driver slammed the door and scrambled up to his chair. "Good night,"
she said, and watched as the coach rolled underway, and disappeared into the
dark.

You did not come,

And marching Time drew
on, and wore

me numb.—

Yet less for loss of
your dear presence there

 Than that I thus found
lacking in your make

That high compassion
which can overbear

Reluctance for pure
lovingkindness' sake

Grieved I, when, as the
hope-hour stroked

its sum

You did not come.

 —Thomas Hardy

CHAPTER SEVEN

"I'm
certain you can appreciate my reasons for this. Warwick. I don't wish to appear
callous to your feelings—by Jove, we are men, and being men who pride
themselves in controlling their own destinies I'm certain such conditions as
those I've laid out for you will initially be hard to accept. However..."
Devonshire cleared his throat and fixed Miles with a penetrating look, while
outside the wind howled and pounded frigid fists against the windowpanes.
"I'm sure you can understand the reasoning behind my motives. First and
foremost, I must consider Olivia's future. In doing so, of course, I must look
closely at your history. Obviously, you have a weakness for the sport of
gambling. You have no business sense. Mind you," he hurried to add,
"you cannot be faulted for that, considering your upbringing . . . Are you
listening to me, Warwick?"

"Of
course." Miles's voice was caustic but controlled. Olivia thought she had
never witnessed such contained fury in a man's being.

"Thus
I have put before you the conditions of this dowry. Olivia is to have complete
control of the finances. She, of course, will be fair and considerate of your
specific needs."

"What
you're saying," he directed to Olivia, "is that I'll be forced to beg
money from you." She swallowed.

"
'Beg' is such a harsh word," Devonshire said. "Please do try to keep
this all in perspective. Considering your record—"

"This
isn't the way it's done. Wives don't keep their husbands on an allowance. It's
the other way around."

Devonshire
moved between Olivia and Miles, and smiled down into his face. "Surely you
understand my concern. Why, stories abound of rounders who squander their
wives' dowries, then the poor lass is forced to live in less than pleasant
conditions for the remainder of her days. Obviously, this is hardly a love
match. It would be a crime if Olivia woke up one morning to find herself, and
her son, cast aside for another woman."