Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Olivia stared at the formidable man who towered above her in the modest cottage, his shoulders broad beneath the sweep of his coat, his presence impossible to ignore. “I beg your pardon. I thought you said marriage.”
“I did. A convenient arrangement to suit us both.”
Her mouth fell open. Of all the reasons for his visit, marriage was the last she’d expected. “But that’s absurd. You’re a marquess.” A striking one at that. He could have his pick of society brides.
“You make it sound like a problem, not a solution.”
“It’s unthinkable. Quite ludicrous.”
The man had lost his wits. Yes, they could converse on all manner of subjects, but he was stern and steadfast in his opinions. He despised liars, and she had barely spoken an honest word since they’d met.
“Why? Lord Gillingham married his housekeeper. And you’re a respectable woman with titled friends.” His midnight eyes darkened, as unreadable as ever. “Do you think I give a damn what people say?”
“No, which is why I wonder if this is an act of defiance. Perhaps you wish to add rebel to your long list of monikers.” But why choose her as his accomplice? “What point do you wish to prove? Because whatever it is, I want no part of it.”
Instead of biting back, he grinned.
“You find my opposition amusing, my lord?”
“Delightfully amusing. Few women have the courage to berate me. That bodes well for the future.”
Heaven help her. Had he woken this morning with pebbles for brains? “Besides the obvious—”
“Which is?”
She waved a hand over his impressive physique, searching for the right words. “I cannot lie with a man who means nothing to me, no matter how handsome he might be.”
“Nor shall I force myself upon you. Should you agree, a relationship based on friendship and mutual respect will suffice. I have estates scattered across the country, though I must insist you make Studland Park your home for the foreseeable future.”
“Studland Park?” It sounded like a stable for thoroughbreds, yet here he was, choosing the common hack.
“My estate in Islington. A vast house with over two hundred rooms, though I’ve never bothered to count them.”
Two hundred? She glanced around the humble sitting room and felt faint. “Surely you know I cannot accept.” She reached for the arm of the chair and sat before her knees buckled.
He fell silent, the brooding weight of it heavy in the room.
Something in his expression, a flicker of vulnerability beneath the control, made her confess what she’d sworn to conceal. “You were right. I am hiding. I cannot do that while living as your wife in a grand mansion.”
He gazed at her from under hooded eyes. “Believe me, I can end your torment, by whatever means necessary.” The quiet severity of his words struck harder than a judge’s gavel. “Is that not what you want, Miss Woolf? A man to protect you? A man who would die to keep you safe?”
She knew better. Men were vipers hiding behind polished words and fine tailoring. Still, the marquess struck her as more honourable than most. “I could never live with myself if you were harmed.”
“You truly think I can be broken?”
“No, you look strong enough to fight an army.” Her gaze betrayed her, drawn to the breadth of his arms beneath the fitted coat. “But we both know strength of mind matters most.”
“You’ll meet no one with wits sharper than mine.”
What was this about? Boredom? Loneliness?
He could have his choice of titled daughters, but still he lingered here.
They said he was haunted by his past, and so was she.
Perhaps he sensed a kinship, though she could not imagine herself his marchioness, jewels at her throat and silk upon her skin.
Such pretence would dull her spirit, corrode her soul.
“A man with your generous heart deserves someone worthier,” she said, certain he would one day regret being burdened with her misfortunes.
From the corner of the room, a parrot squawked, “Show him the door!” as if fate urged her to be rid of him.
He tsked at the birds before facing her, uttering the words every woman longed to hear. “What if I want it to be you?”
They pierced her defences, a dangerous whisper to the part of her that longed to believe him. Her resolve faltered, if only for a heartbeat. “Trust me. I’m not who you think I am.”
“None of us are.”
“A marriage without love will be a prison sentence.”
His lips curled in a bitter sneer. “Love is a death sentence. You’re intelligent enough to know that.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the modest room. “Name your terms. There is nothing you could ask of me that I would not give you.”
“Except love.” That much was certain.
“When the poets wrote about love, they were high on opium.”
“And yet you loved someone once.” Only those who had been hurt were so dismissive. “Perhaps you should be honest with me. I’m not the first woman you’ve offered for.” Though this was hardly a proposal of marriage, more a conundrum of sorts.
A muscle in his cheek twitched. “I was in love once, or so I believed. But she accepted my father’s bribe and was never seen or heard from again. There’s nothing quite like the sting of betrayal. It still throbs when least expected.”
She wasn’t sure which cut deeper, his father’s duplicity or the woman’s treachery, but it gave her a reason to enforce her refusal.
“It sounds like you’re still in love with her.” People often spoke in the past tense to dull the pain. “Am I your revenge? Nothing more than a token to prove you’ve moved on?”
She had been used before. Never again.
He studied her for one unnerving moment. “You’re the air in a smoke-filled room. Somehow, I find it easier to breathe around you.”
Heavens, the man was a thief in the night, out to steal a lady’s sanity. But she knew better than to fall for his flattery. “Because you seek a purpose and think I fit the mould.”
Perhaps he couldn’t see it, but men of rank needed something to possess. Now that his friends were married, was the Marquess of Rothley looking for a pet?
“One day your lost love might return to you.” She moved towards the door.
“Perhaps then you’ll find the answers you seek.
” She squared her shoulders, summoning what strength she could.
“Good night, my lord. I plan to cancel my membership at The Burnished Jade. I will be leaving London soon. I doubt we’ll meet again, but I wish you well. ”
He shook his head as if confused. “Leaving London? Where will you go?”
“As far as money allows.”
“What about the friends you’ve made? The ladies at the club are fond of you. They’ll be distraught if you leave.”
She closed her eyes to the memories and the bonds of sisterhood. For the first time in her life she truly belonged, yet the past had caught up with her, leaving her no choice but to flee. “I cannot think about that now.”
“There must be something I can say to change your mind.”
He could swear he would never regret making the proposal, never grow to hate her in time. But that would be another lie among the many. “No. I am resigned to my decision. Please, don’t ask me again.”
His deep sigh almost made her falter. He looked at her for a long moment, then reached into his coat pocket. “Permit me to contribute to—”
“No!” She clamped her hand around his wrist, stalling him. The air shifted, thick with the dangerous undercurrent that always left her feeling unmoored. “Allow me some dignity. I don’t need your charity.”
The stalemate lasted for a heartbeat or two.
Long enough for her to imagine what it might be like to know him better, to test his resilience, to find hope where there was none.
He withdrew his hand from his pocket and bowed with polished grace. “Wherever you are, Miss Woolf, know you always have a friend, and a place to rest should you need one.”
She managed a smile. Miss Woolf wasn’t her name, but it reminded her to scent danger before it struck.
“That’s very generous. In return, please accept this book.
” She offered him the volume of poetry, her companion in troubling times, pressing it firmly into his hands.
“A reminder that friends may be found in the least likely places.”
He smoothed his large hands over the board and glanced at the spine, his dark eyes softening. “There’s nothing quite like a gift that means something. I’ll not forget it. Good night, Miss Woolf.”
When he left, the place felt empty, though the spicy scent of his cologne lingered, conjuring visions of a distant market in Marrakesh. The fragrance would fade, but not the memory she wished she could forget.
Strange, that he said good night, not goodbye.
Her eyes burned with tears she refused to shed.
It was foolish, but she hid behind the curtain and watched him mount his horse. He paused on the lane, scanning the graveyard and house before nudging the animal into a trot and vanishing into the gloom.
Still, she remained there, staring into the shadows, her pulse thrumming with unease. It was foolish to think she was safe out here. Somehow the marquess had found her, and in her shock she had failed to ask how. If he could track her, others could too.
“Good riddance!” a parrot screeched.
“Be quiet, Figaro.” She didn’t share the bird’s sentiment. She wanted to trust the marquess. The title, the wealth, the comfort of a grand house meant nothing. But she would sell her soul for a measure of peace.
Instead, she would spend her life looking over her shoulder, with nowhere to call home, no way of discovering why the past still haunted—
A sudden thud of hooves on the lane shattered the thought. Her heart leapt to her throat. Had the marquess returned, unwilling to accept her refusal?
Hope guttered like a dying candle as she strained to see through the blackness, catching only a glimpse of a chestnut horse passing beneath a sliver of moonlight.
The rider kept his gaze ahead and continued on, swallowed by the night. The silence that followed pressed all the heavier, and she wished she wasn’t so alone.