Chapter Twenty-Two
He doesn’t want you.
You disgust him…
Olivia stumbled on the path as she turned her foot on a stone.
A jolt of pain shot through her ankle, and she lifted her head upward and screamed at the sky through the treetops.
“Leave me be!”
But no matter how hard she strove to banish the voices from her mind, they followed her everywhere.
Even in this remote part of the estate they plagued her with their taunts, sharpening into the brittle tones of the debutantes who’d triumphed over her as she limped through her Season from one disastrous party to another.
Her husband had made no attempt to conceal his lack of regard for her, but it was another level of torment to hear his disdain declared so starkly by his valet.
Surely you can’t find her that repulsive…
How he must loathe her if he couldn’t bring himself to touch her, not even for ten thousand pounds.
As for Montague…
Her brother—the one man she believed actually cared for her—thought so little of her that he had to bribe her husband to bed her.
After the initial shock of hearing the valet so casually refer to the transaction as if she were a piece of rotten meat that not even a ravenous dog would dare take a bite of, Olivia had summoned sufficient courage, aided by a little brandy she’d appropriated from a nearby parlor, to return to the breakfast room to confront her husband.
But he’d gone. According to the footman, Devereaux had ridden out with his steward and was not expected to return before supper.
An afternoon touring the gardens had only served to increase her despair.
They were in a worse state than the house—overgrown, choked with weeds and the rosebushes in desperate need of attention, their leaves dotted with brown specks.
As to her companions—Jacob was gallant enough, but his deep-set eyes only served to remind her of the man who’d declared his disgust of her.
And Nicola—though more congenial than at their first meeting, showering Olivia with gratitude for employing her younger sister—could do nothing to lessen Olivia’s melancholy.
For Nicola clung to Jacob, her eyes filled with devotion and desire as he steered her about the gardens.
And Jacob, though not returning Nicola’s devotion, at least didn’t look on her with distaste.
After she’d had her fill of their company, Olivia sought solitude elsewhere, unable any longer to conquer the sour taste of envy that clung to her soul at the sight of a couple who, while perhaps not in love, at least took pleasure in each other’s company.
And the only refuge to be had was in the forest, away from the house, hidden deep among the trees.
Her foot caught another stone and pain exploded in her ankle as she crashed to the ground, reaching out to break her fall. For a moment, she lay still, biting her lip to stem the sobs, waiting for the pain to subside. What a pathetic creature she was, shedding tears at the slightest provocation!
No wonder he despises me.
When the pain had lessened to a dull, throbbing ache, Olivia struggled to her feet, wincing at the soreness in her palms, then limped toward a tree.
Heavens! That hurt.
She stiffened as she heard a rustle from behind and leaned against the tree. Then she heard a high-pitched squeal that was quickly silenced.
A mouse, most likely, meeting its end at the talons of a predator. A fox, perhaps? When she’d crossed the open land leading toward the forest, she’d spotted a russet-brown, bushy-tailed creature darting toward the tree line.
She glanced back, but there was no sign of a creature. Nor could she see the main house, concealed by the trees and the brow of the land, which sloped downward.
It would be a long trek back, but she had no wish to return just yet. For the first time since she arrived at Penham Park, she was free of its inhabitants, at least for a while, her only companions the rooks circling overhead, and the occasional cow lowing in the distance.
At least they won’t judge me for my birth or think me repulsive.
Or have so little regard for her that they felt the need to pay another a fortune to bed her.
“Oh, brother, why?”
The forest muffled her cry, and she continued along the path, each step taking her further away from torment.
The scent of pine filled the air, and she drew in a lungful, willing her mind to calm.
Pain flared in her ankle again and she paused and drew her shawl about her shoulders, listening to the song of the wind through the trees.
But there was no wind. Closing her eyes, she focused on the sound. It was deeper, more musical, varying in tone, and it came from ahead, not above. The rush of water, perhaps? Jacob had said something about a nearby river earlier that afternoon, though he’d warned her not to look for it on her own.
Yet another man who considered her incapable, unworthy.
Olivia glanced at her palms where the skin was grazed and smeared with dirt, then she flexed her fingers, flinching at the soreness. If she could get to the water, she could at least wash the dirt off.
Jacob be damned. Devereaux be damned.
She glanced about, her heart beating in anticipation even though she’d spoken in her mind. But no response came. Emboldened, she tilted her head up once more and raised her voice, venting her frustration at the husband who did not want her.
“Devil take him!”
A twig snapped from behind, and Olivia stifled a scream.
It’s just a fox, you simpleton.
Footsteps approached, and her gut twisted in fear.
Ignoring the pain in her ankle, she continued toward the sound of the water. She’d be safe there. Most animals disliked the water. Her brother’s pointer refused to get his feet wet, much to Montague’s frustration.
She heard another footstep, this time closer. Gripped by panic, she started to run. She cried out as pain shot through her ankle, and stumbled forward, almost losing her footing. The footsteps gathered in pace, the very earth beneath her feet seeming to vibrate, and she broke into a sprint.
Then a large hand caught her arm. She screamed, but the hand yanked her back and slammed her against a hard object. She struggled to break free, but an arm snaked around her waist.
“Let me go!” she cried, but her assailant made no move. She tore at the arms holding her, but they remained firm, neither tightening nor loosening their grip. They merely waited in silent patience, as if her captor knew she would tire eventually.
And he—or it—was right. Gasping for breath, an ache forming in her chest, Olivia’s struggles weakened and, sobbing, she grew limp.
“Shh…”
The warm breath of a whisper caressed her neck, and she lifted her gaze and froze.
It was her husband.
Jaw bulging as if he gritted his teeth, he regarded her through hooded eyes. His brow was furrowed into the frown he permanently wore, but rather than anger in his eyes, she saw fear.
Then she blinked, a film of moisture covering her eyes. What a fool she was! As if he’d be afraid, while chasing her down like a hunted animal!
She resumed her struggles, but he remained firm, his expression unchanging, body unyielding. Then, slowly, he turned and nodded to the path. She blinked once more, then looked ahead.
Her heart plummeted at what she saw.
Not more than three feet ahead, the path disappeared. The ground fell away in a sheer drop to a mass of dark water that boiled and swirled some fifty feet below, forming spray that danced over jagged rocks.
Olivia curled her fingers into her husband’s sleeve, clinging to his solid form. He stepped backward, slowly, until they were clear of the edge. Only then did he release her.
He gestured with his hands, and she shook her head, unable to temper the tremors in her body.
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.”
He pointed to the cliff edge, then repeated the gesture.
“I don’t understand!” she cried. “Why won’t you speak to me? Or is the notion of such a thing even more repulsive than the notion of being married to me?”
He flinched and shook his head. Then he gestured more slowly, pressed his hand to his heart, and pointed to the cliff edge once more.
“Are you saying I was a fool for placing myself in danger?”
He shook his head again and held his hands to his heart.
“Or…or that you feared I might fall?”
He nodded, then drew a finger along his throat.
“You feared I might die?” Olivia glanced toward the cliff edge, then the understanding that had sparked in her consciousness the moment she saw the river at the bottom of a sheer fifty-foot drop pushed to the forefront of her mind.
Had he not caught her, she would have fallen to her death.
She convulsed with nausea. A huge hand caught her sleeve, but this time she did not struggle as he drew her to him, holding her against his chest, his heartbeat pulsing faintly against her ear. A sob escaped her lips, but he remained still, the warmth from his big body seeping into her.
As her sobs subsided, he released her, then offered his hand. For a heartbeat, she hesitated, glancing up at him. But his eyes held no anger, nor judgment, only a plea. He gestured to the path leading back, and, understanding his meaning, she nodded.
The corner of his mouth quirked into a smile, but the smile morphed into a grimace as she stepped forward and stumbled against him with a moan of pain. He lifted his eyebrows in inquiry.
“My ankle’s a little sore,” she said.
His frown deepened, then, in a swift, smooth motion, he scooped her into his arms as if she weighed no more than a mouse.
“No, please! I can walk.”
He arched an eyebrow and tilted his head to one side in the manner of a parent that refused to be deceived by a wayward child. Then he nodded toward her hands and dropped his gaze to his shoulders.
“Y-you want me to put my arms around your neck?”
His mouth quirked upward a little and he nodded.
“You’re not going to put me down, are you?”
He shook his head.
She circled his neck with her arms, and a jolt of need rippled through her as she touched his skin. Then she winced at the soreness in her palms, and he frowned.
“I-I grazed my hands when I fell.”
He dipped his head until his chin came into contact with her arm, closed his eyes, and inhaled. Then, tightening his hold, he opened them again, a determined expression in his eyes, and set off, following the path toward the edge of the forest.
Though Olivia had felt she’d been in the forest for hours, the return journey seemed to take mere moments.
Her husband never broke his stride once, moving swiftly through the forest and the meadows, not slowing when the ground sloped upward more steeply.
As they approached the house, Olivia caught sight of her maid running toward them, followed by the housekeeper.
“Oh, thank the Almighty!” Mrs. Brougham cried. “Lady Devereaux, I was so worried. We’ve been looking all over…” Then she let out a cry. “Oh my, look at the state of your gown! What’s happened?”
Devereaux set her down, then made a series of gestures.
The housekeeper nodded. “Very good, sir. Come, Susie, stop dawdling and give me a hand.”
Devereaux carried Olivia into the house, his boots clacking on the marble floor. He strode toward the morning room and kicked at the door, which swung back and slammed into the wall. Then he crossed the floor and laid her on the sofa.
“Really, there’s no need…” she began, sitting up, but then he took her shoulder and gently, but firmly, pushed her back. He slipped a cushion under her feet, his touch featherlight despite the size of his hands.
Then he drew up a chair and sat. He placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, fixing his gaze on her.
“Husband, I—”
“Shh…” He placed a finger on her lips, and she held her breath as he traced the outline of her mouth with his fingertip.
His eyes, which she had thought a dark, unforgiving color, were, at close quarters, the color of rich chocolate, with small accents of gold that seemed to glow in the candlelight.
Her skin tightened with want as he caressed her jaw, and her breath hitched as he placed his fingertip under her chin and tilted her head upward to bring her lips closer to his.
She parted them in anticipation, pushing aside the disappointment of their wedding day, when he’d refused to kiss her. He moved a fraction closer, and her heart soared with hope.
Then the door burst open, and he withdrew. He leaped to his feet as Mrs. Broughman entered with a tray laden with bandages and bottles, followed by Susie carrying a brandy decanter—the same decanter that Olivia had taken an illicit sip from earlier that afternoon.
“Susie and I can take care of the mistress now, if you’re wanting to get on, sir,” Mrs. Brougham said. “Men are neither use nor decoration when it comes to tending to the sick.”
Anger flared in his eyes, and he made a gesture.
“Very well, have it your own way,” the housekeeper said, an undertone of mirth in her voice.
“Far be it for me to interrupt when you’re atoning for your neglect of your wife.
” She gestured to a jar on the tray. “Don’t be putting that on her foot, now.
It’s for her hands. Though I wouldn’t be surprised if you tried to feed it to her. ”
Olivia held her breath. Such incivility in a servant would surely warrant dismissal. But her husband merely rolled his eyes, then made another gesture. Mrs. Brougham raised her eyebrows in mock horror.
“The same goes to you, Master Charles. You’re not too old for the strap, you know.” Then she gave a smile of indulgence. “Now don’t be drinking all the brandy. It’s for Lady Devereaux, though you may pour yourself one as a reward when you’ve done your duty.”
Behind her, Susie stood, eyes widened in fear as she glanced from the housekeeper to their master.
“Come along, girl, there’s no need to be standing here gawking,” Mrs. Brougham said. Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Your mistress is in good hands, though I hesitate to say that in front of the master in case it goes to his head.”
“Yes, Mrs. Brougham.” Susie bobbed a curtsey then exited the room, and the housekeeper followed, leaving Olivia with her husband.