Stephanie James (8 page)

“ … 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.

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.”

• • •

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.

• • •

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.

After reading the letter, Philip immediately sought out Mr. Winter to say that he would stay the week after all. Though this did arouse curiosity in Mr. Winter — “Why the sudden change,” the man had asked — Philip could hardly tell Mr. Winter the specifics of his apparent indecisiveness.

How could Philip tell Mr. Winter that his initial reason for declining to stay at Whistler Manor had been Olivia? Her attack on him in the parlor the other night, as well as her heated speech, had elevated their relationship to a new level of discomfort, which was hardly something Philip could reveal to her father. What was more impossible to reveal to Mr. Winter was that Philip had a male admirer who was just as undesirable to be around, but for entirely different reasons. And so when he had been forced to choose between Olivia and Henri, Philip decided he would gladly suffer the pains of being around a woman who hated him. But all he told Mr. Winter — with a casual shrug of his shoulders — was: “I changed my mind.”

At least he was eating well through all his current struggles. Mr. Winter’s cook, Mrs. Stanley, was a true culinary gem. Philip’s own cook was exemplary, but far less creative in her use of spices and herbs.
Oh, Lord, Mrs. Stanley is a master of spices,
Philip thought as he shoveled another fork-load of garlic and pepper eggs into his mouth. Next he would attack his bacon, then the sausages, and then most definitely the pudding.

It was Philip’s third morning at Whistler Manor and he was beginning to think he’d never leave if he continued to eat so well. Not only would he be reluctant to give up such fine meals, but he feared he might end up too fat to fit through the door.

He was alone at the breakfast table on this, his third morning, with only the stoic footmen along the wall of the breakfast room for company. Mr. Winter had left early to go to the village on business, and Olivia, of course, had refused to come down yet again.

Her avoidance came as no surprise. She hated him now, or at least that was what she had said. If she were any other woman, Philip would have simply disregarded Olivia’s outburst as being part of overzealous dramatics, and then relied on time to smooth over her mood. As it was, Olivia was not any other woman, and her hatred was not a passing emotion that would dwindle with time and distance. Indeed, Philip feared Olivia would always hate him for what he had done.

What he had done …

He almost could not blame her for striking him … almost. But it was still undeniable that he had hurt Olivia more than her hand had hurt his cheek. Philip never would have thought he possessed the power to hurt her so badly. And he most certainly never would have thought for a minute that she equated riding alone to freedom. He would have wondered endlessly how he could have overlooked such a thing were it not for Olivia’s own explanation.

He was a man.

She had been right. Philip had never given a thought to his freedom, because, as a man (especially one with wealth), he could do whatever he wanted. Propriety, society, and ethics dictated that he could not do
some
things, but, even with those boundaries, Philip could still do whatever he wanted.