Chapter Thirty-Four
Olivia clung to her husband’s arm, struggling to keep pace with him as he steered her through the gardens in long strides.
She’d almost forgotten how huge he was. His frame had filled the stable, and she had been beset with fear as she saw the anger in his eyes, but that ire had been directed at Jacob.
It was the anger of a male beast laying claim to his female and warding off a rival.
Primal and raw, it should have disgusted her, but she couldn’t help the secret thrill coursing through her veins when he drew her close and caressed her hair, his huge hands gentle, treating her with something akin to reverence.
When he’d caught sight of his horse, his anger had been replaced by pure joy. Olivia’s heart had almost broken at the sheen of moisture in his eyes. He—a brooding, taciturn man large enough to fell a dozen opponents at once—had revealed a piece of his soul as he caressed his horse’s flank.
Then, when she offered to leave him alone, he’d pleaded for her to stay, almost as if…
No.
A voice whispered in her mind not to yield to the hope that he might love her. She still feared his anger if he discovered her secret—that she carried a child he did not want.
Another wave of nausea caught her, and she stumbled sideways. But before she could fall, her husband swept her into his arms.
“Charles!” she protested. “Put me down. I can walk.”
He shook his head. He was not a man to be denied, and, in truth, she had no wish to deny him anything. She wrapped her arms around his neck then placed her head on his shoulder, breathing in his woody scent.
He carried her to the house, refusing to set her down until they reached the dining room, where he nudged open the door with his foot and set her on the chair at one end of the table.
“Shall I ring for Colin to serve us?”
He shook his head.
Instead of taking his place at the opposite end of the table, he picked up his cutlery and set himself a place next to her. Then he gestured to the pie in the center of the table and raised his eyebrows.
“I-I baked it, yes.”
Would he be angry that she’d displayed such unladylike behavior as working in the kitchen?
He moved his hands again, and she shook her head.
“Forgive me, I don’t understand.”
He reached for the stack of paper and pencil on the side table, then scratched out a few words and held it up.
I’m blessed to have such a talented wife.
“Y-you don’t mind that I’ve been in the kitchen?”
He took her hand and brushed his lips against it, and she suppressed the shiver of need rippling over her skin.
Then he made another gesture, slowly, which she recognized.
Thank you.
Her heart warmed at the softness in his eyes, which had turned a rich, warm chocolate.
“It was my pleasure.”
He picked up a knife and cut into the pie. Olivia held her breath—she never knew whether a pie was a triumph or disaster until it was cut open. He made another cut, then lifted a wedge onto his plate.
Encased in crisp, light-brown pastry, the meat was a soft rose color mottled with different shades of pink and red. It formed three layers, separated by the pale-green slices of apple. Between the meat and pastry, a thick jelly glistened in the afternoon light.
Thank heaven! The meat was cooked through and the jelly set. Charles picked up the wedge and took a bite. He frowned in concentration, and his jaw moved up and down, then his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“Is it not to your liking?” she said.
He blinked, and a sheen of moisture glistened in his eyes, then he drew back his chair and stood.
“Charles?”
Olivia’s stomach flipped at the dark intensity in his eyes.
“I-I know I should have sought your permission before instructing Mr. Carlton to assist me with the garden, and the purchase of your h—”
She broke off as he placed a finger on her lips.
Slowly and awkwardly, he lowered himself to his knees. He took her hands and dipped his head, his chest rising and falling as he drew in a deep breath, followed by a long sigh that rippled over her skirts. He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to her knees, as if in prayer, and grew still.
Not daring to speak, Olivia held her breath and waited.
Then, at length, he looked up. Her heart almost cleaved in two at the expression in his eyes.
He lifted a hand and cupped her cheek, caressing her skin with his fingertips.
Then he blinked and a tear splashed onto his cheek.
He opened his mouth, and her heart gave a jolt.
Would he speak—say her name?
Then he closed it again and shook his head. He lifted his hands and gestured, but his hands were shaking, and she could only make out a few words.
“Forgive me, Charles, I-I cannot understand you.”
He nodded, then reached for the paper and scribbled on it.
Never ask for my forgiveness.
“But…”
“Shh…” He squeezed her hand, then continued writing.
It is I, not you, who requires forgiveness. I am proud to have you as my wife. The pie. The garden. My beloved Destriero. I am most fortunate.
Her heart soared as she read the words, but her joy was tempered by the absence of a declaration of love.
Would it have hurt him to have spoken the words?
His horse he referred to as beloved. But he’d known the horse longer than he’d known her.
Doubtless he’d chosen the horse as his companion himself, whereas she…
He’d had no choice in marrying her. Their union had been one of necessity, on Montague’s insistence, to prevent a scandal. Perhaps the best she could hope for was that he’d not regret that choice.
Then she lowered her gaze to her belly.
His regret would come soon enough.
She withdrew her hands, and a flicker of hurt crossed his expression. Then he resumed his seat beside her and cut her a slice of pie. But she could only eat a few bites. After he’d cleared his plate, he leaned toward her, his eyes narrowed with concern.
“I-I’m not very hungry,” she said. “I think I might retire early.”
As she rose, he caught her sleeve, unexpected shyness in his eyes. He paused, staring at her for a moment, as if contemplating something. Then, trembling, he scribbled on the paper once more.
May I visit your bed?
She stared at the words. After a pause, he started to scrunch up the paper, but she took his hand.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”
Joy shimmered in his eyes, and he gestured once more, but she shook her head.
He let out a sigh, then scribbled on the paper again.
Go. Now. I’ll join you as soon as I can.
He dipped his head and brushed his lips against hers. Pleasure tightened within her, and she parted her lips in invitation—but he withdrew, his cheeks turning pink, as if he were a callow youth wooing a young girl for the first time, fearful of rejection.
She placed a hand on his arm. “I shall await you with eagerness, Charles.”
He closed his eyes, and his nostrils flared as she spoke his name.
Then he shifted on his feet, his brow creasing as if in discomfort.
She retreated to the door and glanced over her shoulder to see him seated at the table once more, scribbling on the paper, his hands shaking.
Then she ascended the stairs, issuing instructions to a passing footman that she was not to be disturbed until morning, and made her way to her chamber.
*
By the time she heard her husband’s footsteps, Olivia had lit the fire, changed into her nightgown, and climbed into bed.
A little pulse throbbed in her center as she glanced out of the window.
There was something that felt so decadent, so wicked, about a marital visit in the afternoon.
Eleanor had spoken of how a little wickedness enhanced the pleasure of a coupling—how Montague spent many hours loving her in all manner of positions and locations, including outdoors, where the risk of being observed added a piquancy to the occasion.
Would she ever know that pleasure herself?
When Charles took her for the first time, her heart had ached at how gently he held her.
But she couldn’t forget the sting of pain or the absence of pleasure, save for the far-off promise of ecstasy that never came—like the end of a rainbow that she used to chase over the fields as a child but could never reach, no matter how fast she ran.
A soft knock came on the door, and she called out, her throat dry with anticipation. Her husband entered, fully clothed, clutching a folded note in his hands. He set the note aside then shed his jacket and shirt, fumbling at his necktie before it came loose.
Silence thickened the air, save for his breathing, and Olvia’s nerves overcame her with the need to fill it with something—anything.
“D-did you enjoy your trip to London?”
The corner of his lip curved in a smile, and he nodded, then began to unbutton his breeches.
“Perhaps, if it’s not too much to ask, you might take me with you next time? Eleanor said in her letter that she was disappointed to see you when—”
He lost his balance and stumbled against a chair, knocking it over. Olivia pulled back the bedsheet to climb out, but he raised his hand, shaking his head. She met his gaze and her stomach fluttered at the guilt in his eyes.
“Charles? What’s the matter? Is it something to do with Eleanor?”
He gestured, slowly, with his hands.
I’m sorry.
“Sorry?” Olivia swallowed her apprehension. “Wh-what for? Is Eleanor unwell?”
He shook his head, then gestured again.
“I don’t understand…”
He reached for the paper on her dressing table, wrote on it, and held it up.
I visited a doxy in London, but I did not touch her. I’ve not touched another woman since I married you. I swear on my mother’s grave.
She read the words, suppressing the ache in her heart.
“And—Eleanor?”
He frowned.
“Did Eleanor see you there?”
He nodded.
“She didn’t mention it in her letter.” Olivia curled her fingers around the bedsheets. “Why did you visit a…a doxy?”
He gestured, slowly.