Chapter Twelve
Oliver rolled over and tried to smother himself with his pillow. It didn’t work. Then he kicked off his blankets and lay there letting his body cool. Why could he not stop thinking about Lisbeth?
Her lips, they were so soft and plump, like a feast for a starving man. Her magnetic blue eyes could burn a man’s soul, and he would gladly die in the inferno. Her breasts… yes, her breasts could burst a man’s blood vessels, and still he would smile while bleeding.
Lisbeth, Beth, Lizzy. He chuckled. She’d hate being called Lizzy—he should try it on her sometime.
He was asking for trouble.
He was doomed!
He was ten types of a fool to feel like this about her.
The worst being: stupid fool, idiotic fool, insane fool, and of course, bloody fool.
He was sure there were more than ten types and if so he would still fall into whatever category they might represent.
Ashton could probably come up with fifty but that was because he would find perverse pleasure in reciting them to him one by one, probably for days on end—without a breath.
He had to keep Lisbeth on a shorter rein. Huh! Add, naive fool to the list, if you please, Ashton.
If he had learned anything in the last couple of weeks, it was the Countess of Blackhurst was a determined little baggage.
He got up, washed, and dressed for the day, but his mind was full of the woman with the incredible eyes. Eyes that could make one suffer both pain and desire.
He was so confused, especially after yesterday.
Now he knew there was so much more to her story, and damn if he didn’t want to read the whole book.
Her cold beauty masked a woman who had endured more than her share of ugliness.
He understood masks. He wore one too, but now he felt like his reasons were far more trivial than hers.
He took on the facade of one who was in control, who cared little for financial matters, like he did not have a huge debt and potential failure looming above him.
He wanted to make Henry proud, make his parents proud.
He wanted to prove he could come rising out of the ashes of this financial debacle like a phoenix rising—wings spread wide and ready to fly once more.
Oliver was determined he would not put his aunt through the scandal of having his pecuniary state exposed to all and sundry.
If he could just pay back the bank and show that he was capable of repaying his debts, he may have some hope to rebuild his legacy.
He was under no illusion; it would take years to gain any real profit from his estates.
He would just fade into the shadows of the ton and reside in the country until he felt he was worthy to take a wife.
A wife! Where had that come from?
Oliver moved from the window overlooking the road below and sat behind his brother’s large desk. Lord, he missed his old life. Gaining his title had lost him more than just his brother. He’d lost his sense of being something useful, his sense of control. It was a sad state of affairs.
His position as a code breaker under Scovell had been an important but unglamorous position, but because he had shown skill in the fighting arts, he’d been assigned under Captain Markham, writing or breaking a coded message by spluttering candlelight at midnight.
It was how he’d reunited with Ashton. It was because of Ashton that Oliver had become an unofficial member of The Ring, a small network of specialty agents who work for the King.
He laughed remembering Lisbeth’s whispered words of confusion when she couldn’t make head or tail of his list at Costello’s musicale.
Only a handful of people in all of England could read the code.
However, that part of his life was over and now here he was, in his brother’s house, surrounded by things that were not his and never should have been.
Picking up Lisbeth’s little pistol, he glared at it as if it represented his life—shiny and impressive on the outside but empty and useless on the inside.
He’d been furious upon finding the gun was neither loaded nor primed.
The worst she could have done with it was hit him over the head.
He put it in the box that held her sketches.
He had looked at those sketches too many times to count but it seemed a fitting place to put her puny pistol.
Picking up his coded note from Ashton he deciphered.
Client wants you to dig deeper, get closer. He warns not to fall for her manipulations and falsehoods. There are many who would take matters into their own hands. Beware.
I would like you to bring Lady Blackhurst to my sister’s coming out ball. My mother and Warrington have agreed. I want to meet her. Make sure she attends.
Ashton.
Oliver stood, threw the missive into the fire, and wiped a hand down his face.
He had hoped Ashton’s client would give up on this madness.
Obviously not. He knew things looked bad for Lisbeth, especially considering what had come to light yesterday regarding her marriage to Blackhurst. She had every motivation to kill the bastard.
But then, so did a dozen more—including his own dear departed brother.
What a mess this was all turning out to be.
Returning to his brother’s desk, he picked up Lady Blackhurst’s schedule—Mozart’s Don Giovanni at the opera. It looked like her grandmother came through after all.
*
Oliver. Lisbeth could not stop thinking about him. Part of her didn’t want to but she couldn’t help it. The way he had held her, whispered those ridiculous endearments in her ear, and helped her vent some of her anger on Nathaniel’s study was something she would always be grateful for.
She felt her face flush red at the thought of what had happened in Nathaniel’s study.
Such an embarrassing display would have made most men run for their lives and not stop until they hit Portsmouth and yet Oliver had stayed.
Not only stayed but comforted her and asked for nothing in return. It was strange.
Stranger still, he had not even tried to kiss her.
It was unlike him not to at least try. It was unlike her to be disappointed by the fact, but she was.
She wanted Oliver to kiss her. She had thought she would never want to kiss another man, not ever, not after Nathaniel. So this was quite a revelation.
She picked up her quill and let the feathered end whisper across her cheek.
She wondered briefly if Oliver had inherited his strong jaw line from his mother or his father’s side of the family.
Were his warm chocolate eyes a Whitely trait?
Henry had brown eyes too from memory, but she could not remember him specifically.
He may have looked similar to Oliver, but her memory of his brother eluded her.
She heard the knock and glanced up to see Rollands come into the room.
“Is it strange, Rollands, to want to know everything about him?” she asked when he deposited her afternoon post on the table.
“About who, my lady?”
“Bellamy, of course.”
“Oh, him,” Rollands replied.
She looked up at him, surprised by his tone. “I thought you liked him.”
“I am unsure of my exact thoughts on the matter at this time, my lady.”
“Is this because of yesterday? He didn’t know about my fear of Nathaniel’s study, you know.”
“Yet he man-handled you into the room by force. It was not his place.”
“You are right. It was not his place, but I cannot be angry with him. He did me a great service.”
“I wish you had let me accompany you into that room instead. It would have been less… messy.”
Lisbeth stifled a laugh. “I agree, but it was most cathartic. Was Mrs. Rollands terribly upset with us?”
“She has been in a mood for some time and has the poor maids in fear of their lives.”
“Oh dear. Should I have a word?”
“I have already spoken with her.”
“And?”
“She is now in a mood with me.” He smiled. “I am quite used to her moods, my lady.”
“Oh, but Rollands, I cannot be the cause of your marital misery.”
“I assure you her mood will pass. Do not worry. You might, however, want to worry about Lord Bellamy.”
“Why should I worry about Lord Bellamy?”
“It has come to my notice that he has not collected on any wagers.”
She gasped in surprise. “None? That cannot be!” She stood and stalked over to the window to look out at the busy street below then turned back towards her butler, a frown between her brows.
He shrugged. “Perhaps he has another reason for aiding you.”
Shock made her seek a chair. “He cannot have known why I let him in back then, that I had needed his assistance to re-enter the ton. He cannot… I thought he was without funds?” None of this made any sense.
How had he been living all this time without claiming his wagers?
She did not want to think he was deceiving her about his financial standing.
She did not want to think ill of him. Not now, not after yesterday.
“Odd, is it not?” Rollands asked. “Especially as my source tells me Lord Bellamy is racking up debts as we speak.”
“It does not make sense. Why would he continue to carry out the wagers and then not collect the money? Does he plan to pauper the ton all at once?”
“He may still be living off the money he received when he cashed in his commission.”
Yes, of course. “You are right. Perhaps he has just been too busy.”
“Too busy? To collect money?”
“There has to be a reason.” She sat back down at her desk. She needed to be still, to think why he would not have collected the money owed to him. They both looked at each other for a moment, both thinking.
“Have you considered his pride?” Rollands suggested.
“His pride? No, I had not considered it because I thought him a man who possessed neither sense nor pride.” She tapped the letter opener on the table. “I was wrong about his sense. Perhaps I am wrong about his pride as well.”
“I will look into it further. I should not have mentioned it until I knew for sure.”