Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Wynbury Hall
Islington
“Do you know what ails Mrs Culpepper?” Olivia asked as they waited in the fusty hall of the old Elizabethan manor house. “None of the servants at Studland Park seem to know.”
Gabriel was almost grateful for the diversion. He hadn’t set foot in the house for ten years. Not since the day he pounded the door, demanding to know what had happened to Miss Bourne. The memory brought the sharp sting of bile to his throat. Some mistakes deserved to haunt him.
“Gentry spoke to her physician, who mentioned a heart complaint, offered no further explanation, and declined his offer of assistance.”
Olivia lifted her chin and sniffed the air. “They’re treating her with herbs and opiate tinctures. The scent cuts through the stale stench of neglect.” She studied him as if seeing the man behind the mask. “But that’s not what’s troubling you. You’re thinking about the last time you were here.”
“Yes.” Shame pressed close, unwelcome yet all too familiar. It had been his greatest moment of weakness. “A clueless fool searching for answers.”
“You’re not a fool, Gabriel.” She stepped closer, her calm presence settling his pulse. “A fool would punish every woman for the sins of one. An intelligent man punishes himself. A wise one learns it’s all part of a greater design. Isn’t that why you find solace in graveyard poems?”
“Lately, I read them and think only of you.” He wished they were home in bed—her heat, her breath, her closeness replacing the chill of this centuries-old mausoleum and its ghostly echoes.
She smiled like she wanted to believe him, but he saw her silent misgivings and hoped time would erase them.
The butler reappeared, a middle-aged man Gabriel barely knew. “Mrs Culpepper has agreed to see you, my lord. But only for a few minutes. I’m afraid her strength is slowly ebbing.”
“We’ll be mindful of her frailty,” he said.
“We?” The butler hesitated. “Mrs Culpepper will see only you.”
Gabriel stiffened. The woman sought to control everyone and bore some blame for Miss Bourne accepting the bribe. Once, he might have cursed her to Hades. Now he felt like kneeling at her bedside and offering a prayer of thanks.
“I insist my wife accompany me.”
“My mistress was quite adamant, my lord.”
Olivia touched his arm. “I’ll wait in the carriage. It’s important you speak to her, to ensure there are no misunderstandings.”
He covered her hand with his, reluctant to release her. “Not without you.”
“We need to put the past behind us. Speak to her. Make your intentions clear. Let there be no more confusion.”
Despite his grumble of frustration, he knew she was right. He escorted her to the carriage before returning to the house and following the butler’s trudge upstairs.
“Is Miss Bourne at home?” he asked, not because he gave a damn, but because it was odd she hadn’t swept into the hall and made a grand entrance.
“Not at present, my lord.”
He was led into Mrs Culpepper’s dark, curtained chamber, the air laced with the cloying scent of sickness and medicine. The sixty-year-old woman sat propped against a snowy mound of pillows, some spotted with blood, her grey hair tucked beneath an ugly yellow turban.
She raised a gaunt hand, beckoning him to the foot of the poster bed. “Come closer. It’s my heart that’s failing, not my lungs. You’ll not catch scarlet fever.” She waved the butler away. “Close the door on your way out, Jenkins.”
After a brief coughing fit that had Gabriel reaching for the glass of herbal infusion on the nightstand, Mrs Culpepper sipped and found her voice again.
“Well? Is it true? Did you marry the chit?”
He ground his teeth so hard he might chip one. “I did, and you’ll speak of my wife with more respect.”
Mrs Culpepper’s weak sneer was barely audible. “Why? You married her to spite Katherine, to prove you’ve not been pining for her all these years.”
“Pining?” He scoffed. “All I’ve ever wanted are answers.” An end to the constant questions. An explanation for all the lies.
“Who told you my niece had returned to England?”
“No one. I made the discovery when she called at Studland Park.” A wraith in the night, so confident she would earn his forgiveness. “And I married for many reasons, none as petty as spite.”
Mrs Culpepper drew a stained handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her lips. “There’s talk you married a wanted felon.”
“That’s a lie. I’m her alibi.” Someone had betrayed them. In his own damned house. “As for my visit, tell your niece I’ll have her hauled before the assizes for trespass if I so much as see her shadow on my land again.”
Mrs Culpepper’s mocking snort dissolved into a cough. When she finally spoke, she lifted her chin, her tone clipped and sour.
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten the night I caught you kissing her in the garden. I’ve never seen a man so besotted. Such love cannot be supplanted. How long before you send your wife to live at Eaton Chase, so you may court the woman you truly desire?”
The words should have cut deep.
They should have stirred an old ache.
They did neither.
What he’d felt then was infatuation. What he felt for Olivia ran deeper. It was desire, yes, but anchored in devotion. She was everything the girl in the garden had only pretended to be.
He met her gaze. “I’m in love with my wife.”
He pitched the words to land hard, but even as he spoke, something shifted inside him, as though saying it aloud carved it deeper into his soul.
“Some rumours about me are true. I’d die to protect what is mine. If your niece is seen sneaking about my estate again, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“My niece is the devil. Surely you’ve realised that.”
Though he laughed, fear sliced through him. For the first time in his life, he had something he couldn’t bear to lose. “Be assured, she has met her match.”
“It’s because you’re her match that she’ll need your help running Wynbury Hall when I’m gone.
” Mrs Culpepper tried to stifle another cough and failed, doubling forward as a harsh retch tore from her.
Gabriel steadied her with a hand. “And as for your wife,” she croaked, clutching his coat sleeve, “if you married for love, why have you not spent a night in her bed?”
Damnation. He’d string his loose-tongued servant up by the ballocks.
He stepped away from the bed. “I don’t know which of my servants is spreading lies, but I have made love to my wife.” At least in thought, if not in deed. “There’ll be no annulment.”
“No, I’ll give the chit her due. She was clever enough to snare you, but I doubt she’s clever enough to keep you. Not now Katherine has come home.”
His temper flared. He turned for the door before he lost the last shred of his patience. “Rest, madam. If you survive another day, you’ll need your strength to meddle.”
He marched from the room and descended the stairs, resisting the urge to sprint to the carriage and take Olivia far from this accursed place.
She seemed surprised he was back so soon.
“What happened? Was Mrs Culpepper too ill to speak?”
“Take us home, Kincaid.” He closed the carriage door with a weary sigh. “Miss Bourne responds to bribery. When her aunt is dead, I shall purchase the house for an extortionate sum and ensure she can trouble us no more.”
“I see.” Her voice was calm, but she lowered her gaze. The meaning beneath was clear. She thought he wished to be rid of temptation, not trouble.
“Protecting you is my only concern,” he said.
“Of course.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you want to think so, but something Mrs Culpepper said has clearly left you unsettled.”
As the carriage rattled down the drive, he repeated the exchange so she could be under no illusion. “What concerns me most is who’s been feeding the gossip mill. The bitter take comfort in making others suffer. I’ll not permit Miss Bourne to hurt you to spite me.”
He took her hand and held it in his lap, threading his fingers through hers. Yet it felt as if they teetered on a precipice, and she was slowly slipping from his grasp.
“I suspect Mrs Culpepper believes her niece is incapable of managing the estate,” Olivia said, staring at the passing scenery, “and assumed you would welcome her back with open arms.”
“Then she was sorely mistaken.” The future seemed remarkably clear to him now. “All I want is peace. And you, Olivia. I want you, not some boyish fantasy that turned into a blasted nightmare.”
“It’s hard to think amid these wicked machinations.” She looked at him then, but her light had dimmed. “Things seem so simple when we’re alone together, when no one interferes.”
His stomach flipped. What was she trying to say? “Because we’re open and honest and can speak freely.” Still, he couldn’t tell her that she made him feel alive, that his heart had never beaten so fast, that every thought revolved around her.
“They’re the makings of an excellent friendship,” she said.
Friends? Like hell that was all they’d ever be. A woman didn’t kiss the way she did unless she wanted a man for her lover.
“But what I feel for you is no mere friendship, Olivia. I want you. In every way a man can want a woman.” He wanted her to feel the depth of his devotion, even if she couldn’t yet trust his words.
“Don’t answer now. Wait until this wretched business is behind us.
But if you want me, you know where to find me.
Just … don’t come to my bed out of obligation. ”
After a pause, she said, “It may be hard to believe, but everything I’ve done with you, I’ve done because I wanted to.”
The tension in his shoulders eased. “Shall I remove your hatpin, so we might make another blood oath?”
“There’s no need. We must learn to trust each other.”
Her words stayed with him as he dressed for dinner. Trust. That was the real oath, and far harder to offer than blood. It led him to consider the note left with his gold button:
Judge not the hand that bears the mark,
for it guards thee unawares.