Chapter Thirteen
“He’s here!” Olivia said, entering her sister-in-law’s parlor, her heart fluttering. “They’re in Montague’s study and have been talking for a quarter of an hour.”
Eleanor looked up from her easel. “Olivia dear, you’ll never hear anything to your benefit if you eavesdrop.”
“But they’re discussing me,” Olivia said. “Don’t I have the right to hear what they’re saying?”
“Men speak very differently to each other when not in the presence of women,” Eleanor said.
She gave a grin. “Just as we talk very differently when there are no men present. Of course, our reason for doing so is that men lack the intellectual capacity to understand what we’re saying.
And you wouldn’t want to hear what they’re saying today, dearest.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re discussing the marriage contract.
” Eleanor swept her brush across her painting, then dipped it into a jar.
“To us, marriage is a union of souls, a mark of the love that two people share. To have such a union set out on paper, much as the sale of goods is itemized, is not something a woman wishes to hear, particularly when she’s the commodity being discussed.
I’d rather see you spared the humiliation of such a discussion. ”
“There’s no love in the marriage I’m about to enter into,” Olivia said. “He doesn’t even like me.”
“He likes you enough to come here today,” Eleanor said. “And he liked you well enough last night. My opinion of him improved when he pulled you away from that broken glass.”
“Do you think so?” Olivia asked, giving free rein to the hope that had been simmering inside her from the moment she’d woken that morning.
Last night, he’d entered her dreams and taken her into his arms—arms strong enough to crush the life out of a thousand men but which held her tenderly as if she were as fragile as a blackbird’s egg.
She had drifted into sleep, filled with sensations of pleasure, of soft, whispered words of love while she soared into ecstasy.
Just imagine! She would soon understand what men and women indulged in—the pleasure that made Eleanor so blissfully happy each morning, such that her eyes sparkled with delight over breakfast.
Olivia approached a mirror on the wall and turned her head to one side, patting the ribbons that adorned her hair. Might he like how Eleanor’s maid had fashioned it? Or perhaps her gown, which she’d trimmed with a deep-brown sash to match the color of his eyes?
“Come away from the mirror, dearest. You look very pretty, as you always do,” Eleanor said. “He cannot fail to admire you, but if you continue to pull at your ribbons, your hair will come loose. Harriet made it up so carefully.”
“What if he doesn’t stay for tea?” Olivia said. “Montague might forget to invite him, and I don’t want the next time I see him to be at the altar. I want to get to know him a little, to…to lessen the…”
To lessen the fear.
Eleanor had always said that fear arose out of ignorance, that the more she knew about a subject, or a person, the less capacity they had to induce fear.
She set her brush aside and rose. Then she took Olivia’s hand and kissed it.
“Have no fear, dearest,” she said. “I’ll issue the invitation.”
“Montague forbade me at breakfast to disturb him when Lord”—Olivia hesitated, fighting the apprehension at voicing the name of the man to whom she’d soon belong—“when L-lord Devereux was here,” she continued, her cheeks warming.
“He didn’t forbid me,” Eleanor said. “It would be improper to not issue an invitation to tea to your betrothed, would it not? And you know how I insist on adhering to propriety.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Did you not once say ‘propriety be damned’ in front of the dowager duchess?” Olivia said.
“I think what I said was ‘propriety can go and wallow in a pile of horseshit.’”
Olivia couldn’t help a smile, and Eleanor drew her close.
“There’s my Olivia!” she said. “It’s good to see you smile again. You have such a kind and merry disposition that Devereaux cannot fail to love you. If he doesn’t, I’ll personally throw him into a pile of horseshit.”
Olivia couldn’t contain her laughter at the notion of the duchess picking up such a giant of a man and tossing him about. Eleanor kissed her forehead, then the two women exited the parlor.
As they approached the study, they heard muffled voices. Eleanor lowered her voice to a whisper.
“Go to the morning room.”
Olivia nodded, optimism rising in her heart, then a voice filtered through the study door.
“My master has said he appreciates your wish to keep your sister behind closed doors, given her birth and the events of last night. He does not want her to disgrace herself and him any more than she has already.”
Olivia drew in a sharp breath, her stomach twisting with horror.
“Come away, dearest,” Eleanor whispered. “No good can arise from…”
Tears stung Olivia’s eyes as the voices continued.
He thought her a disgrace, to be hidden away lest she taint his good name.
Then she heard her brother’s voice.
“You may go, unless you wish for an audience with my sister?”
She paused, grasping a weak flicker of hope—which died at her brother’s next words.
“I thought not.”
The study door burst open, and the huge man strode out, slamming into her. She caught her breath and cried out, but before she could dart free, two muscular arms wrapped around her—the same arms that had embraced her last night…
…and, to her shame, the same arms she’d dreamed of in her bedchamber while she imagined them holding her, cherishing her.
But it had been just that—a dream. He was no suitor, nor a lover. He was merely a beast who wanted nothing to do with her.
She let out a cry, and the beast’s nostrils flared, the anger in his eyes intensifying. Then she caught a flicker of desire in them before he released her.
“F-forgive me, sir,” she stammered, and approached the stairs, driven by shame and the need to be in her chamber—anywhere but next to the man who so clearly despised her.
“Olivia.”
She froze at her brother’s voice.
He emerged from the study, together with a smartly dressed young man. While Montague’s expression radiated anger, the young man’s eyes showed nothing but guilt, which turned into frank admiration as he cast his gaze over her.
“Where are your manners, sister?” Montague said. “We observe propriety in this house, even if others do not. You must invite your betrothed to take tea.”
My betrothed…
“B-but I heard you say…” Olivia said. Shame engulfed her and her eyes misted with tears.
“We were on our way to invite Lord Devereaux to tea, my love,” Eleanor said, taking Olivia’s hand. “We know how forgetful you can be at times in issuing such invitations.”
She turned to the beast. “Lord Devereaux, will you take tea?” She nodded toward his companion. “Your man is invited also, of course. We have some excellent shortbread, do we not, Olivia?”
Olivia cringed as the beast’s dark eyes turned to her once more.
“Y-yes, I baked them myself, with a little vanilla to make them—”
“Olivia,” her brother warned. “Of course, we keep a cook here, Devereaux. The kitchen is no place for my sister.”
She cursed herself. How many times had Montague told her that she was no longer to engage in activities best left to the staff? What must the beast think of her?
His exchanged a glance with his companion.
“My master is of the opinion that an understanding of how a household is run is a quality required of a wife,” the other man said. “That understanding will naturally include the practical application of household duties.”
The beast frowned, then gestured with his hands. Olivia watched as they moved in a fluid motion, as if engaging in a dance.
The young man let out a sharp sigh. “My master wishes to convey his regrets that he’s otherwise engaged this morning. However, he has a gift for Miss Whitcombe.”
Olivia cringed.
Miss Whitcombe. Not Lady Olivia. So, he knew she was a bastard. They both did.
And yet he’d still agreed to marry her.
The beast thrust his hands into his jacket pocket then pulled out a small box. He hesitated, meeting Olivia’s gaze, then offered it to Montague.
“I think, Devereaux, any young woman receiving a gift from her betrothed would rather he gave it to her than to her brother,” Montague said. “You’re marrying my sister, not me.”
“N-no, brother,” Olivia stammered. “If he doesn’t want to…”
“Sir?”
The beast glanced at his companion, then stiffly offered the box to Olivia.
She took it, and as their fingers touched, her skin tightened at the spark of need. He drew in a sharp breath, the first sound he’d made, and she glanced up and met his gaze. Then he withdrew and gestured toward the box.
She opened it and let out a low cry. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a ring bearing the largest ruby she’d ever seen.
“I-I couldn’t possibly…” she began, then hesitated as Lord Devereaux raised his hand.
“What do you say, sister?” her brother said.
“Montague!” Eleanor said. “Leave her be.”
Her cheeks warming, Olivia plucked the ring from the box and flicked her gaze to her betrothed. He nodded, and she slipped it on the third finger of her left hand, where it met resistance at the knuckle before finally settling at the base of her finger as if it belonged there.
But it didn’t. It was a ring for a countess, whereas she was only…
She caught sight of Lord Devereaux moving his hands again.
“My master wishes to know if you like it,” the young man said.
“Y-yes, though it’s too grand for me. I don’t know if I should…”
“It was the late countess’s ring, and as you’re soon to be the countess, it’s yours by right.”
Olivia lifted her gaze to her betrothed. “It was your mother’s?”
He narrowed his eyes, and she caught a flicker of pain in their dark depths.
She turned the ring on her finger and ran her fingertip over the stone. As she moved her hand it seemed to pulse with life, the facets reflecting the light in differing shades of red, from light pink to deep crimson, as if the stone were alive.
“Thank you,” she whispered, meeting his gaze, striving to conquer the need to look away and hide from his scrutiny. “I-I’ll do my best to deserve it.”
His frown deepening, he gestured with his hands.
Olivia swallowed a knot of shame. He had every right to object to her owning such a precious heirloom. Perhaps he considered her so unworthy that there was nothing she could ever do to deserve the ring—or deserve him.
“Lord Devereaux, are you quite certain that you cannot take tea with us?” Eleanor said. “It seems a pity, given that the next time we meet will be your wedding. Don’t you wish to spend time with Olivia?”
“I’m afraid my master has an appointment scheduled with his banker,” his companion said. “Perhaps another time.”
An appointment with his banker. Presumably he was eager to secure the dowry.
More eager to do that than spend time with me, Olivia thought.
The beast moved his hands again—hands that were large and strong enough to tear a wild animal to pieces, and yet the motion had a fluidity and grace that rendered them more elegant than the perfectly manicured hands of any fine lady.
“My master wishes to convey his sincerest regrets,” the companion said, “and his assurances that he’ll present himself, as required, at the wedding.”
So formal an address, delivered as if Lord Devereaux were promising to present himself before a magistrate, or an executioner, to suffer his penance.
“Th-thank you, sir,” Olivia said. “I’m sorry for…”
The beast raised his hand and shook his head.
He moved toward Olivia, and she caught the earthy, primal scent of him.
She tilted her head back to meet his gaze as he towered over her, and a warmth shimmered in the air as their bodies almost touched.
He reached toward her, and she caught sight of the signet ring on his right hand, a thick gold band set with a ruby to match the one now adorning her own finger.
She held her breath in anticipation of his touch that had sent a pulse of longing through her before.
Then he let out a sigh and withdrew his hand, running a fingertip over the surface of the ruby.
Olivia shivered as if his rejection cast a frost in the air.
He bowed, stiffly, and his companion followed suit. Then they strode toward the main doors, accompanied by Montague. After a brief exchange, they stepped out onto the street and she flinched as the door slammed shut behind them.
Unable to stem the tears, Olivia let them slip down her cheeks while her brother pulled her into an embrace.
“Have no fear, Livvie,” he said. “He’s not like other men, but that may be to his advantage. And he signed the contract, so you’re protected by the law, at least.”
“I don’t want to have to be protected, Montague,” she said, “at least not from him.”
“It’s just a precaution,” he replied. “For all his outward appearance of uncongeniality, he’s an honorable man who will treat you better than most.”
“Hardly the best recommendation,” Eleanor said, a sharp edge to her voice. “Montague, perhaps you should refrain from—”
“H-he didn’t even want to spend time with me!” Olivia said.
“Gentlemen are notorious about wanting to keep their appointments.”
“But not about spending time with the women they’re supposed to—”
Olivia broke off.
Supposed to what? Love? Lord Devereaux didn’t even like her, let alone love her.
In fact, he couldn’t even tolerate her company.
Her brother let out a sigh, his warm breath fanning her cheek. “You’ll have the rest of your lives to spend in each other’s company.”
The rest of her life…
With a man who didn’t want her—who couldn’t bear to be in the same room as her.
Olivia clung to her brother. Montague had a reputation for sternness that was well deserved, but he loved her. And now, she was about to remove herself from his protection and place herself into the hands of a man capable of snapping her in two if she displeased him.