Chapter 11 #2
“Aye, ye never,” Lysander said, dropping his hands to his side and taking two steps toward her.
“Ye never think of Tiffany, much less Bonnie. Their accomplishments only serve to highlight what ye want and further yer goals. Well, let me tell ye this much, Baroness Oliphant…” He lowered his chin, and his voice.
“If I should ever become yer son-in-law, ye and yer influence will be staying far away from Tiffany. I’ll no’ have ye poisoning her anymore, and I’ll no’ have ye stay here to listen when I beg her apology. ”
“Oh, bravo,” murmured Bonnie.
Tiffany’s knees went weak, and she wasn’t even certain how Mother reacted to that glorious, horrible, remarkable burst of passion from the man Tiffany was now certain she loved.
In fact, if Bonnie hadn’t helped her to the settee, Tiffany was afraid she might’ve collapsed right there into a puddle of goo on the parlor floor.
Wait a moment.
If I should ever become yer son-in-law…
What was that supposed to mean?
Her gaze snapped up, suddenly unsure if she should’ve been flattered or angered by his defense of her. When she did, she realized her sister had stepped away from the settee and was wringing her hands as she looked between Tiffany and Lysander. And Lysander was looking a bit uncertain himself.
The door closed on her mother’s angry huff, and he blew out a breath. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head, wincing. “I’m sorry for many things, but perhaps I shouldnae have been so harsh. She’s yer mother after all.”
“She needed to be told,” Bonnie blurted.
When both of them glanced at her, she shrugged.
“Everything you said was true, Lord Blabloblal. I have said it before: Mother’s manipulations and her way of spoiling and rewarding Tiffany for something she cannot control is what ultimately muddled up her brain and made her— You know what?
I will just sit over there in that corner with my mouth shut,” she finished weakly, as they both continued to stare at her.
“Actually, Bonnie,” Tiffany began in a small voice, “I think it might be best if Lord Blabloblal said whatever he has to say to me…in private.”
“Please call me Lysander.” There was a yearning in his eyes when Tiffany met them, but he quickly cleared his throat and glanced at Bonnie to include her. “Ye too. We are to be family.”
“Are we?” Bonnie lifted a brow. “Are you?” she asked Tiffany.
Is that what Lysander had meant?
“Did you come to propose marriage then?” Her voice was dull, empty, unsure how she should feel about this.
There’d been a time, only a month ago, when marriage to Lysander Oliphant, Viscount Blabloblal, was all she’d ever wanted. She’d been so certain she was in love with the man and had dreamed of becoming his viscountess.
But now she realized she’d been in love with…well, with the idea of becoming a viscountess, not Lysander himself.
It had taken an adventure with a different man—one who’d allowed her to see her true self—to show her the truth. She could love a man, regardless of what he looked like or what his title was. She could love a man for himself.
As she loved her Lunzie. As she loved Lysander.
Bonnie made a noise which might’ve been a chuckle, might’ve been a cough. When Tiffany glanced at her, she winked and offered them both a little curtsey.
“Propriety demands I offer tea again, so perhaps I will run along to the kitchens and ask for a tray. That should leave you two some time alone.”
“Do not run,” Tiffany told her. “Walk.”
“Walk slowly,” Lysander added.
Bonnie was grinning when she slipped from the door, and as soon as she did, Lysander let out another great sigh and scrubbed his hand over his face.
Before Tiffany could comment on being left alone with him, he spoke instead. “I should’ve come earlier, Tiffany, but I kenned if I didnae prove to ye how sorry I was, ye’d never believe me.”
She pushed herself to her feet on wobbly knees, already shaking her head.
“I am the one who owes you an apology. I know what you heard me say right here in this room. I was speaking to Bonnie, out in the corridor, and although I did not intend my words to be heard by anyone else, you did, and I am so sorry.”
He’d looked as if he’d intended to interrupt, but at her words, he’d slowly closed his mouth. Now, he cocked his head. “Ye are sorry I overheard the things ye said about Lyon?”
“No, I am sorry I said them.” Her hands gripped one another in front of her, but she didn’t look away.
If she didn’t say this now, she might never have the nerve again.
“Your brother has been through much and deserves my understanding, not my scorn. I insulted his character as well as his appearance, which was shallow of me. His disposition is likely a result of his loss, not his choices.” She blew out a breath.
“I am very aware of how cruel it is to be judged by a metric one has no control over, like appearances.”
To her surprise, he crossed the room to stand in front of her. Once there—close enough to touch, if he gave her any indication he wanted that—he took a deep breath. She did her best not to drop her eyes to watch his chest expand, but it was difficult with him being such a well-built man.
“Thank ye for yer apology, love, but it’s been recently pointed out to me, the things which ye said, have been said before.”
“That does not make it right to say them.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. But my brother is scarred and, well, no’ brutal exactly, but he spends too much of his day wearing too little clothing, engaged in activities designed to make himself sweat and other men bleed. And he does prefer grunting to talking.”
Oh.
“You make him sound quite…”
“Barbaric?” Lysander’s lips twitched. “He is the Beast of the Oliphants.”
Why was he ruining a perfectly good apology? She flushed and shook her head. “That does not excuse my words. I am sorry, Lysander—I mean, milord.”
It wasn’t until he reached out to cover her hands in his that she realized she was gripping her fingers together tightly enough to cause pain.
“Tiffany,” he coaxed in a whisper, as he gently untangled her fingers from one another and lifted her hands in his. “Lysander please.”
Unable to quell the shiver of need which shot up her arm at his touch, she numbly nodded. “Lysander.”
He smiled again, and her knees went weak.
“Now,” he began in a no-nonsense tone, “it is my turn to apologize to ye. Are ye prepared?” Without giving her time to answer—not that she could’ve done anything more than nod mutely—he took a deep breath and launched into what was obviously a prepared speech.
“Tiffany Oliphant, I have done ye a grave injustice. Ye are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and I also kenned ye kenned yer own appeal. I was entranced by ye at the ball—by yer beauty, and the way ye charmed me.”
When he paused, she murmured, “Thank you,” which clearly startled him.
With a quick frown, he shook his head. “It was no’ a compliment.
I understand how to be charming, ye recall, and I kenned the women around me were trying to charm me as well.
Charm me into offering them marriage. I met ye, and…
” He blew out a breath. “I wasnae thinking of marriage, no’ yet, but I was thinking, ‘Oliphant, here’s a beautiful woman whom ye wouldnae mind getting to ken better,’ and that’s why I called upon ye here at yer home. ”
“You call yerself Oliphant?”
“What?”
Her lips twitched. “When you talk to yourself, you call yourself Oliphant? Do you not confuse yourself with all the other Oliphants running around?”
“Well, of course.” His brows dipped in. “It’s my name. Better than calling myself viscount— Why are we talking about this?” he blurted. “I had this apology memorized!”
“Mea culpa,” Tiffany intoned, inclining her head regally. “Please continue.”
He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, momentarily tightening his hold on her hand. “Where was I?”
“I was entrancing you at the ball, and you called on me for tea.”
“Och, aye. Thank ye.” His lovely hazel eyes went out of focus for a moment, as if he were reading over internal notes. His muttering confirmed it. “Beautiful…own appeal…tea— Nay, we covered that.” He blinked. “Did I get to the bit about yer being haughty and self-centered?”
“No,” she said drily, “I am certain I would remember that.”
“Good.” He nodded once more, cleared his throat, and launched into his speech again.
“I kenned ye thought highly of yer own beauty, and having met yer mother, I could understand why. She’s the reason ye were vain, I ken that now.
But when I overheard ye say those things about my brother, an entirely new vision of ye coalesced in my head.
” He paused to squeeze her hands and wince apologetically.
“I was certain that understanding was correct. I was certain ye were vain and self-centered, thinking yer beauty put ye above others and allowed ye to say things like that.”
Unable to stay quiet, Tiffany pushed herself up on her toes—not quite close enough to kiss him, but close enough to cause him to blink in surprise. “You were not wrong, Lysander. I was vain and self-centered—”
“Nay. Ye kenned yer beauty, but ye were also caring and loving, Tiffany.” His expression softened as his gaze caressed her face.
“The verra first time ye met me as Laird Gaberlunzie, ye offered me charity. I’d been so certain going to ye poor and dirty and ill-mannered and disfigured would expose the prejudices and cruelty ye’d been hiding from me in an attempt to charm me. ”
Now it was her turn to blink in confusion. “You thought I would…what?”
He winced again. “I thought ye’d kick me aside, stick yer nose in the air haughtily, and perhaps piss on me on yer way to better things.”
“It does not work that way.”
“What? Ye dinnae think women are capable of acting that way?”
Her lips had thinned. “Women can be cruel, yes, but we are incapable of pissing on anything as we pass by. Have you seen how many petticoats we must wear?”