Chapter Thirty-One
Pain exploded across Oliver’s head. In a distant way, he knew shards of glass had sliced into his skin. His head rang, and his vision blurred. Someone screamed—Isabella.
A bang.
Shaking the dizziness away, Oliver moved, grabbing Marlbury with his good arm and hurling him at the ground. A vase crashed against the floor.
Blood dripped down the side of Oliver’s face.
To his right, he could see a hole through the wallpaper where Emily’s shot had hit.
Good thing it hadn’t hit Marlbury; she might have wanted her revenge, but she didn’t want to be a killer, and heaven knew he didn’t want that for her, either.
Marlbury groaned, sprawled across the floor on broken glass. Oliver hoped it cut him. His head throbbed, and there was blood sliding into his eye.
“Oliver!” Emily was by his side, her hands cupping his face and trying to wipe away the blood. He thought she might have been crying, but he couldn’t quite see.
“I’m all right,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Get Isabella. We’re leaving.”
Emily pointed the pistol at where Marlbury was now sitting up, his palms as bloody as Oliver’s temple. There was no more ammunition in the pistol, but if there had been, he was certain she would have fired.
“Steady, sweetheart,” Oliver said. At the endearment, she glanced at him. “If you kill him, I’ll be forced to flee to Europe with you, and then you’ll have to marry me.”
A tiny smile flitted across her face. “Is that what it will take for you to ask me again?”
“No. You only need to tell me you love me, and I will get on one knee. But not here, darling, please. I must have my dignity.” He kissed her forehead, hoping he got no blood on her. “Fetch Isabella now, and take her to the carriage.”
Marlbury groaned, his eyes unfocused. “What the devil—”
“Quiet,” Oliver snapped.
Isabella descended to the bottom of the stairs, white-knuckled fingers holding the cloak in place. “Emily,” she said, her voice faint. “You tried to shoot him.”
“Don’t worry, dearest. I missed.” Emily once again put her arm around Isabella and ushered her from the room. This time, either because of the pistol Emily still held or because it had finally become evident that Marlbury had no honourable intentions, Isabella put up no resistance.
Oliver turned back to Marlbury as his former friend hauled himself to his feet. “It’s over,” he said. “Just let her go.”
“You’ve changed.” Marlbury’s face twisted. “What does it matter who I entertain myself with?”
“If you’ve paid a whore, that’s one thing, but this is entirely different. She’s a lady. Respectable—or was.”
“Is that what you thought when you took off with the sister?” Marlbury’s lip curled. “I got there first, you know.”
Oliver moved before he knew what he had done. His fist connected with a satisfying thud against Marlbury’s jaw, and he shook out his hand as Marlbury staggered back. Rage boiled in his chest—not that Emily had lain with another man before, but that the man in question had seduced her so callously.
He might have been able to forgive many things, but he could not forgive Marlbury hurting the woman he loved.
“That was for her,” Oliver hissed. He swung again, planting his fist in Marlbury’s side. Marlbury choked, doubling over, and Oliver kicked him to the ground. “And that was for me.”
Marlbury coughed and spat. “All this over a girl?”
“All this because you never learnt basic respect, and I never thought to teach it to you.”
“Respect?” Marlbury choked a laugh tinged with insanity. “We are the same, you and I. You know it and I know it. I wouldn’t have even chased the girl if you hadn’t wanted her first.”
They might have been more similar once, but Oliver barely recognised the man he had been.
And there was one crucial difference. “No,” he said.
“I intended to marry her. You intended to use and discard her, just the same way you used and discarded Emily.” Disgusted with Marlbury and the conversation, he turned to leave, wiping the blood on his cheek with the back of his hand.
“So you’ll marry the shrew?” Marlbury slurred, staggering to his feet. “Is that it?”
Oliver turned and bowed, channelling Henry’s icy disdain.
“If she deigns to have me, I will be the most fortunate of men,” he said, and grinned.
“Oh, and one more thing. Your father will be hearing of this. Pack your bags, Marlbury; I doubt he’ll have you remain in London much longer.
I wouldn’t even be surprised if he disinherited you. And good riddance.”
Isabella huddled in a corner of the carriage, Emily’s cloak around her shoulders. Oliver dabbed at his cheek with a handkerchief, wiping away the worst of the blood. He was fortunate the glass hadn’t gone into his eye, but the injury didn’t seem to bother him overmuch.
Emily kept replacing the scene in her head, the way Marlbury had raised the glass and brought it down on Oliver’s face. The way her finger had squeezed the trigger without even meaning to; the jump of the gun in her hands.
Oliver, promising he would ask her to marry him so long as she told him she loved him. Asking her not to kill Marlbury, as though he had thought it was a possibility.
And Isabella. For a moment, Emily had thought Isabella would choose Marlbury over her. Over her family. Even knowing that Marlbury was a good-for-nothing rake, Emily had thought Isabella would choose to stay with him.
Oliver hissed a breath as he dabbed at his cut. “I’m all right,” he said before she could even ask. “It’ll heal into a very fetching scar.”
Emily didn’t have the energy to reply in kind. All her words had dried into nothing. There was just a hard ball of emotion in her chest, wrapped up so tightly she hardly knew what it was.
Finally, Isabella sniffled and looked at Emily. “Are you happy now?” she demanded in a whisper. “Now you have stolen both my chances of happiness from me?”
The ball of emotion splintered, releasing pity and anger in equal measure. “Is that what you think happened? That Marlbury was a chance of happiness?”
“I was happy with him. Besides, I saw you.” Isabella raised an accusatory hand and pointed it at Oliver. “I saw you get into his carriage. How can you argue that you weren’t trying to steal my chance of happiness?”
“Because I thought he was trying to arrange an assignation with you,” Emily snapped. “And I wanted to confront him somewhere private. With this.” She held up the pistol.
“Now that I can confirm,” Oliver said. “She threatened me with it once we reached Gretna Green.”
“I felt so dreadful when I realised Mr Beaumont intended marriage—after my experience with Lord Marlbury, I came to expect the worst.” She softened her voice. “I am sorry you were hurt. And about . . .”
Isabella hugged the cloak tighter around herself. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
They would have to at some point, but now wasn’t the time. Isabella would need time to lick her metaphorical wounds; even if she didn’t love Marlbury, she had still believed he would marry her, and that disappointment would be hard to overcome.
Eynsham House, by the time they arrived, was alive with lights and bustling servants. Emily wrapped an arm around Isabella’s shoulders as she hurried inside, trying to shield her from any prying eyes.
Louisa was there to greet them in the vast hallway, the picture of reliability and calm. Emily felt the last of her jangled nerves ease at the sight. They had done it. Isabella was safe; Marlbury would suffer at least a little for the consequences of his actions, and she had Oliver.
He loved her. He still wanted to marry her even after all this.
Some part of her would always be afraid, she imagined.
Both of losing him and of losing herself, but when she had seen Marlbury raise his hand against Oliver, she had known with sickening clarity that she would suffer just as much if she lost him now, when there was nothing but emotion between them, than she would if she was his wife.
If all they would ever have were a few years, she would rather spend them together and brave the rest of her life without him than start now, mourning his loss without any of the joy being with him would bring.
“This is my sister,” Emily said. “Miss Isabella.”
Louisa smiled kindly at her. “I’m Lady Eynsham, Mr Beaumont’s sister-in-law. Welcome to my home.” She glanced at Oliver and tutted. “You do always seem to be in the wars, Oliver. Are you much hurt?”
“Just a scratch,” Oliver said cheerfully. Considering all they had been through, he seemed in remarkably good spirits. “Where’s Henry?”
“Out, but if you wait for him in the library, I’ll make sure Branson sends him to you.”
“Excellent.” Oliver touched Emily’s hand. “I’ll find you when I’m done,” he said, his eyes holding a promise that set her heart on fire. Then he strode away, taking the stairs two at a time.
“Come with me,” Louisa said, beckoning Emily and Isabella upstairs. “I have a room made up for each of you. Miss Isabella, today has probably been a shock. I recommend you eat up and sleep.”
“I will—” Isabella pressed her lips together, but her eyes brimmed with tears. “All my gowns are with Lord Marlbury.”
“Then we will have to find you some new ones,” Louisa said, her pace almost a stride. “That shouldn’t be too much of a trial, I think. We are in London, after all.”
“Then what?” Isabella asked in a small voice.
“My husband has some relations in the country; you may live with them for a year or so until this nonsense has died down and you’ve got some sense in your head.
” Louisa paused by a door, glancing over her shoulder at Isabella.
“And then, if you can prove that you have enough common sense to warrant it, I will sponsor a Season or two in London so you might have an opportunity to find a real husband.”