My Only Love (18 page)

"I
fear your staff has grown fat and lazy, sir." "Sally is my staff, for
the most part."

"Then
I shall endeavor to remedy that situation as soon as possible."

His
eyes appeared to narrow. His mouth curled. Olivia wondered briefly if she had
overstepped her position, then decided not.

"Well,
I think this calls for a drink. Come along, and I'll buy you a brandy,
Olivia."

She
followed Miles down the gallery to a small, glass-fronted room that faced the
west horizon. "Please sit down," Miles told her, as he opened a
cabinet of liquors and proceeded to pour them a small measure of brandy into
two snifters. Olivia did her best to focus her attention on the moor beyond
Braithwaite's overgrown gardens, and not on her husband.

Her
husband.

Dear
God, to think only a week ago she had imagined her life as beginning and ending
at Devonswick. Now she was married.

"Olivia?"

She
looked around to find Miles next to her chair, brandy extended. She took it but
didn't drink.

Miles
eased into a chair near hers and swirled the brandy round and round in the
glass. "Do you like this room?" he asked.

it's
very pretty."

"It's
feminine. Damien's mother used to come here. She'd sit for hours in that chair,
reading to her children."

"And
where were you?" "Outside listening."

"Were
you never invited to join them?"

"Frequently."

"But
you didn't."

"I
never allowed myself to believe they really wanted me here."

'That
was very foolish."

"I
was only a child. Besides, I wanted my own mother to read to me."

Olivia
put her drink down. "You're very angry with your mother."

No
response. Miles stood abruptly and moved around the room, crossing to a table
covered with a fine film of gray dust. A book lay there, dusty as well. He
flipped open the cover, then as quickly shut it. "You're very
straightforward," he finally said without looking at her.

"Does
that bother you?"

He
shrugged and a look of anger crossed his features. "I didn't bring you
here to discuss Alyson Kemball."

"Really?
As I recall, you brought up the matter. Not I. However, perhaps you wish to
talk about business. Very well. We can begin with the books—"

"Olivia."

Miles
put down his snifter and regarded his wife's profile as she gazed out on the
darkening panorama. He felt... disturbed. Strangely nervous. Perplexed by his
awkwardness. "We have the rest of our lives to deal with Braithwaite
business. For now, I feel we should discuss us."

He
wondered if she had heard him as she continued to focus on some distant object.
Then, by a little upward movement of her head she showed that she was waiting
for him to continue.

"This
is our wedding day, is it not?"

"How
very ironic that you should be reminding me."

"There
are certain aspects of this arrangement that should be discussed."

Color
crept into her cheeks. She reached for the snifter she had earlier discarded.
"I was under the impression that our union was little more than a business
arrangement—a marriage of convenience only."

The
dry finality of her voice puzzled him a moment. "Then perhaps I didn't
make myself very clear."

"You
made yourself perfectly clear. I was to allow you to take lovers, while you
weren't inclined to return the liberties. You aren't fond of me, therefore you have
no desire to bed me."

"Since
when did fondness for one another become crucial for a man and woman to enjoy
sex together?" "I can't imagine it otherwise." Her frankness
left him momentarily speechless. Final-he said, "What about desire for
desire's sake?" "Desire?" Her dark brows drew together.
"How does one desire a person they don't like?" "I never said
that I don't like you." "You never said you liked me either."
"I don't know you." "Yet you married me."

"Am
I to be crucified for that? After all, you married

as
well, and you don't know me." "I know you. I've known you for years.
We met fif-years ago, when I was twelve. You were, perhaps, twenty-four or
-five. I came upon you at Margrave Bluff, ou were standing upon the summit
looking out toward thwaite. You became angry when you found me Ling you from
behind the stump of an old rowan ." She finally looked at him. "You
said, 'Who the ~z are you and what are you doing hiding behind tree?'"

Intrigued,
Miles asked, "And what did you say?"

"I
fear I was too stricken to say anything."

"Stricken
by what? Fear? Was I so formidable?"

"For
a country-bred and -raised girl who had yet to make her first sojourn to London
you were very formidable. Aloof. Sophisticated. So very aristocratic. I
thought for certain you must be some gallant knight. After all, you rode that
beautiful black stallion—"

"Gdansk."

"I
thought he suited you tremendously."

"We
had the same disposition. Wild and belligerent." He smiled with the
memory.

Olivia
stared into the amber liquid. "You embodied my every fantasy," she
said softly, sounding oddly vulnerable—more vulnerable than he would have ever
imagined her being. "You were beautiful and defiant. Free. I would ride to
Margrave every day with the hopes of seeing you. Sometimes I would even ride
bareback and drive my little mare as fast as I could across the moor and
pretend that I was you and that she was a black stallion with wings on his
hooves."

Raising
the glass to her mouth, she slightly moistened her lips with the drink and
breathed deeply, as if finding some puissance in the bouquet. "Then you
left Braithwaite for a number of years, returning infrequently. Every time I
rode to Margrave, I thought of you and imagined the life you must be living
abroad. Perhaps I even hoped that, if I continued to ride to Margrave, I would
eventually see you again. So you see, sir, you are hardly a stranger to
me."

Gently,
Miles put his drink down and walked over to Olivia. He stooped beside her
chair, and being slightly lower than she, looked up into her face. "Why
did you marry me, Olivia, if you knew me so well? Were my foibles, my heritage,
my reputation and demeanor not repugnant to you?"

Turning
her face away, she cast down her eyes, briefly—so briefly a stranger would not
have noticed. "Because," she replied in a resolute voice, "I
feel in my innermost heart that you are worth saving."

"I do not love
thee!—no! I do not love thee!

And yet when thou art
absent I am sad;

And envy even the bright
blue sky above thee,

Whose quiet stars may
see thee and be glad."

—Caroline Norton

CHAPTER NINE

Jfc
laid his hand on her knee. olivia looked down hmo his face, his eyes—those eyes
that had brought her so many sleepless nights. What did-she see there? Disbelief?
Confusion? Would he suddenly see through her motives and recognize the fact
that she, in fact, was in love with him and had been since that moment he had
found her spying on him from behind the old rowan tree so many years ago?

"I
am worth saving?" he said softly, thoughtfully, his expression one of
bemusement, if not amazement. Yet, Ae smile that curved his lips was cynical.
"Do you think Olivia?"

Suddenly,
feeling immensely embarrassed, she turned her face away. She had revealed too
much. No doubt he »ould laugh at her, perhaps scorn her for her naivete, and
for her childish romanticism.

Why
did he continue to stare at her?

"Look
at me," he commanded, and when she refused, he caught her chin with his
finger. His eyes gleamed strangely. "Why?" he asked simply.

"Why
not? You are my husband. Is it not my place?"

"Your
place or your obligation? You felt obligated to please your father and sister,
therefore you married me. You felt obligated to better your son's
circumstances, therefore you married me. Yet you sit there and make me believe
that you entered this marriage in order to save me—as if you truly care for
me." A bitterness crept into his voice as he continued in a lower tone,
"No one has ever believed that I am worth saving, dear heart. Why should
I, even for a moment, believe that you do? You, who are a stranger to me no
matter that we met briefly half a lifetime ago."

She
had no answer for that, except for the truth, and the truth in itself seemed
absurd even to her. Therefore she remained silent, her gaze drifting to the
hand he had placed on her knee, the singular feel of it warming her body like
the sun.

The
moment ended as Sally stepped into the room. Bryan burst through the threshold
behind the servant, setting her back on her heels with a little squeal.

"Mummy!"
the lad cried and squirmed into Olivia's lap. Wrapping her arms around him, she
turned her eyes to Miles as he stood and regarded the scene rather stiffly.

Bertrice
wandered in, looking somewhat baffled. Bryan giggled. "She's havin'
another one of her spells again," he said. "She made Deets stop by
the road and look for kitty."

"Good
God," Miles mumbled and returned to the table where he had put his drink.

"I
can't imagine where he's got off to," Bertrice murmured sadly.

Turning
his attention to Olivia, Miles declared, "You tailed to mention that she
would be moving in with you."

"It
should go without saying, sir. She's my son's nanny." "Is she
safe?"

"Very
trustworthy, I assure you." "I'm hungry," Bryan informed them.
"Miss Pinney has prepared meat pies and tea for sup-per."

"I
don't like meat pies." Sally huffed and left the room. "Perhaps you
can make an exception today." This house is cold and dark and smells
funny. Is it haunted?" "I think not." "I want to see my
room."

Olivia
glanced at Miles. "Have you prepared him a room, sir?" it didn't
occur to me."

"Then
I shall do so. Where would you have him stay?"

Plunking
his snifter on the table, he snapped, "There are twenty-five bedrooms in
this house—give or take. Take your pick."

Gathering
the child in her arms, Olivia walked to the door, hesitating briefly as she
looked somewhat cautiously, and curiously, at her husband's dark face.
"Come along, Bertrice," she said, and quit the room.

Miles
did not take supper with the others. Instead, |i chose to barricade himself in
his office and stand at the window overlooking the pitiful rose garden. The beast
of responsibility loomed over him with gargantuan presence. It was one thing to
take a wife—especially a woman as strong and independent as Olivia. But a child
still in knickers and a crazy old woman?

He
groaned. Children, it seemed, had an unnerving way of looking beyond one's
facade to see the truth behind a person's motives.

Imagine
the little brat wondering if the house was haunted.

Miles
grinned then frowned as he suddenly recalled the evening he'd first arrived at
Braithwaite. He'd been eight years old. Alone. Having never set eyes on his
father before. With a grubby note clutched in his hand, he'd stood alone in the
foyer staring up the massive staircase. At that moment he'd thought for certain
that the ghost of King Richard would come careening at him down the balustrade.
No apparition appeared, of course. Only his father, whose stern and furious
demeanor had caused him more consternation than a dozen disembodied souls.

With
his hands in his pockets, Miles left the office and wandered to the dining
hall, only to discover the old table cluttered with dirty dishes. No doubt
Olivia was accustomed to servants clearing away after her meals.

Sally
entered the room behind him, her face as red as her hair. "I ain't ever
been so insulted." She snatched up a china cup and saucer, sloshing cold
tea down the front of her apron. "I reckon I ought to quit and see who the
blazes sees to her bloody bath then."

Miles
raised one eyebrow as she plunked the china onto the table again and propped
her fists on her ample hips, squaring him with a look of immense indignation.
"I ain't got to take that treatment from her, have I?"