Chapter 19
Are you going to tell me what really happened that night?” Diane asked as the wind blew a red curl across her forehead. She stood beside Ivy, watching as the eldest set of twins practiced their fencing footwork without swords.
It had cooled considerably overnight, the wind heightening until Ivy’s cheeks were chapped.
Winter was well on its way, but that did not mean the girls had to be imprisoned indoors when a warm cloak would do.
Fortunately, Diane was Ivy’s closest friend and knew all about her lessons with the girls, and had wholeheartedly agreed to continue their defensive education.
“I told you: The viscount was shot by a highwayman.”
“And he arrived home fully sewn.” At Ivy’s look she grinned. “I have ears. You are not the only person who enjoys a bit of gossip.”
Ivy’s brows drew together and she called, “Odette, you must remain on the balls of your feet. Imagine you are as light as a hummingbird, buzzing and darting and striking with speed.”
Odette flashed her a smile with a missing a tooth and bounced on her toes.
Diane, fortunately, moved to the next topic. “I am so happy here. The girls are full of fire and vinegar, and I love them already.”
The girls began giggling and playing a game, lessons officially over for the moment. “I am happy you are here, too, Diane,” Ivy said, her heart twisting at the reminder that her time with the Brackleys was temporary.
“I will be even happier when Barnes leaves,” Diane added, laughing as Ollie spun so fast that she fell into a pile of leaves. “He is a bore. I do not know how you tolerate him lording over you.”
“It is not as if I have a choice.”
“Oh! I know that. I apologize.”
“No, it is fine. I know how my brother is.”
“Handsome, charming, and shouldering the burden of unwieldy siblings?” The deep, cantankerous voice came from just behind them, and Ivy flinched, thanking the heavens the girls were playing now instead of engaging in their other studies.
“Ah, here you are,” Diane said brightly. “Did you sense happiness and come to destroy it?”
Barnes’s scowl deepened. “A sharp tongue befits no one, Miss Wixby.”
“You mean it befits no woman.”
“Did I say that? Or are you once again putting words into my mouth?”
“I would like to stuff a sock in your mouth,” she muttered.
“What was that?” Barnes’s steely voice dripped with disdain. Other than Owen and their father, Ivy had never seen him dislike someone as much as he did Diane.
“Can I help you, brother?” Ivy interrupted before either of them could draw blood.
“Brackley wants to see you,” he said, still staring at Diane. She stared right back, as defiant as always.
Ivy doled out hugs as the little ones asked for them and brushed back wild hair from the older girls’ faces. “Behave for Miss Wixby.”
“I do not think she would give us any other choice,” Ophelia said, but even though her teeth were showing, her lower lip trembled.
Ivy briefly cupped the oldest girl’s cheek. “You saw that he is awake,” she said firmly. “Awake and roaring down the house, and you may visit again soon.”
Ophelia nodded and gave her a quick, hard squeeze. “Thank you, Miss Bennett,” she whispered.
Ivy joined Barnes as he escorted her back to the main house. “You are too attached,” he said once they were out of earshot. “You are leaving. You should be putting distance between yourself and the girls, not acting as if you are their mother.”
“Has anyone ever told you how insufferable you are?”
“Yes. Ivy, I have been thinking: What were you doing on the road with Brackley, unchaperoned, in the middle of the night?”
“It was eight o’clock in the evening, first of all,” she said, although she knew the time was not the real issue, “and I was visiting my modiste friend. Owen caught me leaving the stables and insisted on escorting me.”
“He should have forbidden you from leaving. Then none of this would have happened.”
Ivy looked up at her brother, so tall and handsome and utterly unyielding. “Forbid me? Barnes, when did you become such a barbarian?”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, and he had the grace to look ashamed. “I am sorry. It is not you, Trouble, but Brackley I do not trust.”
“Again, the highwayman was responsible, not Owen. I know you want to think the worst of him, but—”
“I think the worst of him for a reason, Ivy. I wish you would trust my judgment for once.”
“Then tell me!” she shouted. “Tell me why you hate him so much.”
He turned his face away, but not before she caught the flash of pain, and on its heels, disgust. “All you need to know is that he is wildly unworthy of your kindness.”
Ivy sighed at her stubborn brother’s refusal to tell her what Owen had done to turn him, one of the most loyal people she knew, so thoroughly and irrevocably against him.
Barnes’s fists clenched. “Forty-six days, Ivy. Forty-six days until you never see that lout again.”
Owen was lounging in a chair, the drapes opened and the sun gleaming on the mahogany grain of the table beside him.
His hair was wet and curling slightly over his ears, meaning he had somehow threatened or bullied his valet into letting him bathe.
His shirt was open at the collar, and he wore trousers and boots.
If it were not for his pallor, or the skin pulled slightly too tight over his cheekbones from missing several days of meals, she would not have known he was ill at all.
“What are you doing out of bed?” Ivy chided, sitting when he gestured with his good arm to the chair on the opposite side of the small table.
The room smelled of his signature scent mixed with the hydrangeas that had been delivered that morning.
A glass of water stood beside the book he had set down upon her entry, the pages splayed open to mark his place.
Curious to see what type of literature he enjoyed, she read the upside-down gold lettering and bit back a sigh.
It was a reference book on horse breeds.
“I could not stay abed one more moment.” His eyes traced her wind-flushed cheeks. “Did you enjoy outdoor prayer with the girls?”
“Yes. ’Tis getting quite chilly now, and the trees are mostly bare.
” She laughed at his poorly concealed jealousy.
“You will be out of doors soon enough. The doctor is visiting again tomorrow, and I am sure he will give you a time when you may leave your sickbed—one that you will completely ignore.”
“I am not a fool. I will heed his advice within reason. I wish to regain full function of my arm.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Yes. I was shot.”
She could not help smiling at his put-out look, as if it galled him to say the very words. “Has the nurse given you laudanum?”
“She has offered, but I will be fine with a few nips of brandy to stave off the worst of it.”
She could not blame him for refusing after having witnessed the effects of opium on the dowager viscountess. The dowager seemed to have stopped relying on the opium since the viscount had come, but Ivy would never forget her corpse-like existence before he had arrived.
“My recovery should not impact our plans to attend the opening ball of the London Season, but I fear we will be absent from social events until then. I apologize. I know it is not ideal.”
“That is not—that is fine, Lord Brackley.” He had been shot by a man out for revenge, and his concern was that she was missing out on social events?
“Will you come closer?” Although it was phrased as a question, his tone held a hint of command, and she found herself standing before she had fully made the decision to do so.
Ivy rounded the table and closed the short distance between them. When she stood before him, Owen reached for her hand, the warmth of his fingers contrasting against the chill of her own. His gaze was hooded when he said, “What have I told you about calling me Lord Brackley?”
“Owen.”
“Better.” His thumb swept over her knuckle, leaving heated prickles in its wake. “I wanted you to have as much exposure to Lord Hartford as you wished, although considering the books and flowers he has sent, I believe you have already succeeded in catching his interest.”
Ivy gave him a questioning look. “Flowers?”
“Ostensibly they are for me, but since I have not exchanged more than a few words with the man, I suspect they are truly for you.” He nodded toward a bouquet of pink dahlias standing beside the vase of hydrangeas.
They were stunning, but rather than feeling excited that she had piqued Lord Hartford’s interest, Ivy’s chest felt curiously empty.
She waited for a delayed glow, but nothing came.
She had already known there would be no violent twists and that her heart would not jump or wring the way it did in Owen’s presence, but she had thought she would at least feel something. The lack of emotion was worrisome.
Owen made a grumbling noise and cast a dark look at the flowers. “Take them when you leave.”
“Mayhap he was genuinely worried about you.”
“He was not.”
“Mayhap he wants a horse?”
“He does not. He wants you.” He tugged her closer, until she took a step between his open thighs. It was inappropriate, and she should remove her hand from his palm and retreat. They were discussing how to make Hartford her husband—which meant she should not be holding Owen’s hand.
She stayed in place.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
“If you call sipping broth eating. They refuse to give me anything else, as if it is my stomach injured and not my shoulder.”
“I shall sneak you something.” She gently patted his cheek with her free hand, as she would one of the girls, but she knew it was a mistake the moment her palm touched the rough rasp of his skin. Before she could yank her hand away, he caught her wrist and held it in place.
Ivy’s pulse fluttered.
“I cannot stop seeing you walking toward the highwayman and knowing I could do nothing to stop it. It will haunt me for years to come.” Slowly, so slowly that she could have stopped him if she wanted to, he turned his face until his mouth brushed against the center of her palm.
It was not a kiss, but it was alarmingly close.
“I am fine,” she said softly, chastising herself for her reaction to him.
The viscount had made it clear that this was a ruse only and that he was unaffected by her, and yet her body did not seem to understand.
It was embarrassing to have such a visceral response to a man who would only kiss her if she were the last woman in England.
Owen was a tactile person, and this exchange was nothing more than him reassuring himself that she was alive and well and that he did not fail someone under his protection.
He opened his mouth to speak, but instead released both her hands. Ivy let out a breath and quickly stepped back. Owen dragged his palm down his face. “I cannot stay in this room. I will go mad. Promise me you will visit again, and that you will soon send the girls.”
“I will.” She inserted more space between them, even as she thought of the Dove and the mission she had been given. News of the hysteria had crowded the papers that morning. She had to find a way to help, and soon. “I will visit you daily—for a trade.”
His eyes narrowed. “What is your price?”
“I will visit in exchange for your honest answer to three questions each day.”
He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “My life is not so interesting. You are squandering an opportunity. I am so desperate for relief from this interminable boredom that the world is yours for the taking.”
“That is my price.”
“You must stay for a minimum of an hour.”
“I can accept that.”
He nodded. “Then it is a done deal.”
She backed so far from him that she bumped into the door. “I will see you tomorrow, Owen.”
He traced a finger over his lip and smirked. “Tomorrow, Sunshine.”