“Why are you so averse to my compliments?”

“I can’t let you say those things to me,” Olivia replied. “I can’t, even for a moment, let myself be flattered by your pretty words.”

Nick was close enough to her to reach out a hand and lay it on the side of her face. “Why can’t you let me tell you how I feel?”

Olivia’s disgust at the injustice of the situation rolled forth in a consuming wave. “How could I expect you to understand what I’m saying when no one knows?”

“Knows what?” he asked with a furrowed brow.

“Nothing.” She’d already said far more than was safe.

“I thought we were done with the secrets.”

“I still have a few more,” she said quietly.

“You’re going to have to trust someone eventually,” he told her as he withdrew his hand. “I was hoping you might let it be me.”

She turned to him, with her dashed hopes, fear and sadness in her eyes. “It can’t ever be you,” she whispered.

MANDY GOFF

began her foray into the literary world when just a young child. Her first masterwork, a vivid portrayal of the life and times of her stuffed animals, was met with great acclaim from her parents…and an uninterested eye roll from her sister. In spite of the mixed reviews, however, Mandy knew she had found her calling.

After graduating cum laude from North Greenville University with a bachelor’s degree in English, Mandy surrendered her heart—and her pen—to fulfilling God’s call on her life…to write fiction that both entertains and uplifts.

Mandy lives in Greenville, South Carolina, with her husband and three-year-old daughter. And when she is not doing laundry or scouring the house for her daughter’s once-again-missing “Pup-pup,” she enjoys reading good books, having incredibly long phone conversations and finding creative ways to get out of cooking.

Mandy Goff
The Blackmailed Bride

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.

—The Song of Solomon 2:11

To Daniel and Brie. I could never eloquently convey how much I love and thank God for you both.

I am blessed beyond measure.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to Mom and Dad, for giving me the freedom to dream crazy dreams and for providing me with the support and encouragement to achieve them. To Megan, whom I am prouder than I could say to call both sister and friend and who has believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. To Dennis and Sue, for accepting me into their family long before I married into it. To Elizabeth Mazer, my editor extraordinaire, for being wonderful and long-suffering and for seeing possibilities in the mess. And to Cheryl, who has been my professor, mentor and finally VBFF, and someone I could not thank enough for everything even if I were to say it again…and again…and again.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

“You should probably stand up now.” Lady Olivia Fairfax looked at the gentleman kneeling by her feet and barely resisted the urge to kick him.

“Not before you consent to be my wife,” the Viscount Danfield said.

She suppressed a sigh. “I’m afraid you’ll be there for quite some time, then.” Rising from her chair, she moved several steps away, ill at ease with the young man so close to her. “I could ask someone to fetch a pillow for your knees, if you wish—I assume the floor will grow uncomfortable eventually.”

Viscount Danfield was unfazed. “You jest with me.”

“I assure you, I do not,” she argued.

He blinked. “Surely you see the wisdom in this arrangement.”

“I doubt I, or anyone else, would call a union between us wise.” Olivia hated her necessary cruelty but, goodness, this was his third proposal.

“But your brother has consented,” he said, grabbing the corner of a table and struggling to his feet.

“Marcus agreed you may ask. He never guaranteed my answer.”

Judging from Lord Danfield’s confused expression, he didn’t understand the difference.

At the less-than-discreet sound of a throat being cleared, both Olivia and Danfield turned toward the open door of the morning room.

Gibbons, the family butler, stood in the entryway with a brocade pillow. “I see I have not been quick enough,” the elderly man said with a sigh. “Should I leave this here for the next time he proposes, Lady Olivia?”

Olivia smothered a laugh, grateful—for once—for Gibbons’ penchant for eavesdropping. “That will be fine.”

After depositing the pillow on the nearest chair and turning to leave, Gibbons looked back at Danfield. “Next time, my lord, might I suggest a bit of poetry and perhaps a song or two?”

The obtuse viscount furrowed his brow. “Would it work?”

“No. But I, for one, would find it vastly more entertaining than your usual attempts.”

Danfield stared after Gibbons’s retreating figure, trying to discern whether he’d been insulted. It took him a surprisingly long time.

In spite of her aggravation, Olivia couldn’t help but feel the faintest stirrings of pity for the young man. “I think we would better part as friends,” she suggested. Perhaps niceness would make her refusal easier to handle.

Never one to take unnecessary chances, however, Olivia edged her way toward the door, hoping he would follow.

“We have always been great friends, haven’t we?” he agreed, a little too enthusiastically.

She nodded, wondering how two months in London gave the man leave to claim anything of permanence between them but willing to agree in order to speed his leaving.

“Which is why we should marry,” he said with a nod. “It’s just as Mother said this morning, ‘The best marriages grow on mutual indifference that is rooted in the soil of friendship.’”

“Your mother is…profound…beyond comprehension.” Which was the least insulting thing she could think to say about the staid, arrogant matriarch.

A smile lit his face. “I’m glad you agree. And when I tell you Mother has graciously agreed to instruct you on the art of governing the household affairs after our nuptials…well, I can only imagine how delighted that must make you,” he said.

“How magnanimous,” Olivia muttered through gritted teeth, wondering who he thought had overseen the affairs at Westin Park for the last five years. Whatever inklings of pity she’d felt dissipated.

Danfield missed the warning in her tone. “We—Mother and I—are also concerned over your tendency to bury your nose in a book. That can’t be healthy for a woman. You’ll go blind. And, really, Lady Danfield suggested you learn to think before you speak. Your frankness is fairly scandalizing.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Is it, now?”

Danfield stiffened. “Most women would be grateful we are prepared to help.”

“Well,” Olivia said, brushing her hands together, “you should begin looking for this other paragon. For the last time, Lord Danfield, I will not marry you.”

The refusal seemed to register. His smile fell, and his shoulders sagged. “Will anything change your mind?”

She shook her head.

After a pause, he said, “I think, perhaps, this might.”

He strode toward her, smoothly stepping around the furniture obstacles, and Olivia had no recourse but to retreat, until she was flush against the wall. Danfield’s hot breath puffed against her face.

He was going to kiss her. And her reaction when she realized this was purely instinctual.

She flailed her arms behind her and grabbed a vase off a side table.

And hit him in the head.

Hard.

The young man fell to the floor with a dull thud, covered in bits of broken pottery.

Wonderful. She’d killed a peer of the realm.

Olivia knelt beside the viscount, wondering if she should loosen his cravat, find some smelling salts or perhaps retrieve a wet cloth for him. Although she doubted any of those considerations would be helpful if he were dead.

Reaching out, Olivia shook his shoulder gently, hoping to elicit a response. A groan? A flinch? An apology perhaps?

Nothing.

If the worst had happened, however, Olivia reasoned that as the sister of an earl she would get special privileges in New gate Prison. Such as an extra cup of water a day. Or a stick to beat back the rats.

She was so engrossed by her bleak future as a prisoner of the Crown she jumped at the pained moan of the supposedly dead viscount.

“Lord Danfield?” she asked hesitantly. No response. “Are you quite well?” Still nothing.

Olivia stood. If the man weren’t dead, he didn’t appear to be in a hurry to leave. She hadn’t the time to wait on him to do so, either.

There was nothing to be done but tell her brother. If she caught him in a jovial mood, Marcus might find the situation amusing.

Although, she thought, probably not.

Fortunately—or perhaps not—her brother was easy to find.

“Through already?” Marcus, the Earl of Westin, asked, startling her as he approached from behind.

“I suppose you could say that.”

He chuckled. “Amazing. I thought we would have to knock him out and drag him away just to get him out of the house.”

“I suppose you could say that, too.” Olivia wrung her hands together.

Her brother appeared oblivious to her distress. “An old friend of mine will be joining us for luncheon today…” But an anguished groan echoed through the hall, interrupting his thought.

“What was that?” Marcus walked in the groan’s direction.

“Let me explain before you—” Olivia tried, hurrying after him.

She winced as Marcus bellowed her name before she could catch up with him.

Marcus fixed her with a hard stare. “What happened in here?”

“There was a bit of an accident.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “At least he’s alive,” she offered.

Marcus stopped his pacing. “Was that ever in question?”

Olivia thought it best not to comment. But then, she heard the crunch of a shard of vase under Marcus’s heel and cringed.

Olivia watched as her brother knelt to pick up a fragment of his artifact. “Please tell me that’s not my Ming Dynasty vase in pieces on the floor?”

“All right,” she said slowly. “It’s not—” only to be silenced by a wave of his hand.

“Never mind that,” he huffed. “We have to get him back to his house.”

She and Marcus were studying the unmoving viscount when Gibbons reappeared in the doorway. “Lord Westin, Lady Olivia, his lordship, the Marquess of Huntsford is here.”

Nick processed the scene before him in less than two minutes. Then, he spent sixty seconds deciding whether he should turn and walk back out the door. His friend Marcus was staring at his butler, who was stifling a chuckle. What appeared to be the recently deceased Viscount Danfield was lying on the floor with pieces of pottery sprinkled around his head.

After years of acquaintance fostered through attending the same schools and the same endless society functions, Nick could well sympathize with the desire to hit Danfield over the head with whatever came to hand, yet he couldn’t help but wonder who was responsible for the attack. Marcus certainly appeared murderously angry, but his eyes glared daggers at the butler, who was showing no signs of sorrow at the loss of Danfield’s company in such a permanent manner. And as for the last person in the room…

The lady in the center of the fray made Nick forget everything else he’d seen. She was staring at him, her expression a mixture of surprise and something he couldn’t identify, couldn’t name—wasn’t sure he wanted to.

The butler finally broke the silence. “You requested earlier, my lord, that I show his lordship in immediately upon his arrival.”

“Would it not have been prudent to make sure our last guest had departed first?” Marcus asked.

“Perhaps if the two of you would refrain from rendering your guests immobile, such conflicts could be easily avoided,” Gibbons sniffed.

Nick’s head swiveled back and forth between the two combatants.

Before Marcus could retort, the gentleman on the floor decided to make a last, impressive rally. He struggled onto his elbows and groaned. “Wha-what happened?”

Nick waited to hear the explanation himself, but neither brother nor sister answered.

“You,” Danfield said, looking at the Lady Olivia. “You did this.” He remained propped on one elbow and used his free hand to massage the back of his head.

Every eye, including Nick’s, turned to look at the young woman who appeared to be trying to edge behind her brother. In spite of the seriousness of the moment, Nick felt a chuckle lodge in his throat. The dainty lady hardly looked capable of physical violence. But the evidence was rather irrefutable.

He didn’t know whether to applaud her handiness or say a prayer for his own well-being.

“It was a misunderstanding,” the young woman de fended.

“My…my mother will hear…” The words died as the butler slid his foot out to knock the man’s elbow from under him. Without the support, Danfield fell back to the floor, bumping his head again on the way.

The siblings and Nick turned to stare at the butler.

“He was starting to aggravate me,” the older man said with a shrug.

Marcus looked around at the occupants in the room. “Has everyone lost hold of their senses?”

“I still have mine, I think,” Nick said as he knelt over the viscount and raised the man’s eyelids one after another, looking at them intently.

At least he appeared to be still alive. “We should get him home before he wakes up again,” Nick suggested.

“I’ll have a carriage brought around,” the butler intoned, disappearing into the hallway.

After carrying the viscount to his carriage, Nick stood back while Marcus slipped several banknotes into the driver’s hands and whispered instructions. Seconds later, the coachman flicked the reins, and the conveyance rumbled down the road.

Nick dutifully followed the pair of siblings into a sitting room, curious to hear whatever explanation the lady had to offer. Not that he minded a bit of excitement, of course, provided he wasn’t the unconscious body on the floor.

Once in the room, Marcus’s sister, the Lady Olivia, curtsied to him again and began edging toward the door. “I’ll leave you two to yourselves. Surely, there is a great deal of catching up to be done.” She then practically ran toward the cracked opening and supposed safety.

“I think you should stay awhile.” Marcus’s voice stopped her hasty retreat.

“Whatever for?” Her tone suggested he would be wiser to simply let her walk away.

“Allow me first to make introductions.” Marcus turned toward Nick. “I hope you’ll forgive the rather odd circumstances you found upon your arrival and meet the cause of them, my sister, Lady Olivia.”

Nick took a few steps forward and bowed over her hand. “A pleasure,” he murmured, smiling to himself when she blushed.

Thick lashes framed her dark eyes, which widened as he spoke. She was more beautiful than he’d originally thought. As she stood close to the window, the sun streaming in made her hair seem as though the rich brown was shot through with threads of amber.

He was unaware he was still lightly holding her hand until she hastily withdrew it. The blush on her cheeks deepened, and Marcus’s sister glanced with apparent nervousness at him and then her brother.

“And, Olivia, this is Nick, my old friend and the new Marquess of Huntsford.”

Nick watched as she dropped a flawless curtsy.

“Well, I suppose I should leave you to your meeting, brother.” She briskly turned on her heel and this time made good her escape before her brother could stop her.

Nick was sad to see her go.

He turned back to Marcus, who was looking at the open door with a mix of harried resignation and amusement. Nick was familiar with the look—Marcus often wore it when they were in school together, while reading letters from his sister.

“Your sister is an interesting woman,” Nick commented.

Marcus stared at him for a long moment, then grinned. “Interesting is a good word. If she weren’t my sister I would maybe say troublesome…” Marcus let the sentence trail off.

“Are you implying there’s been more than one suitor found unconscious on your floor?”

His friend shook his head, “No, but I’ve fielded a fair amount of offers for her.”

Nick could understand that. Lady Olivia was a beauty. A beauty who probably had an uncommonly large dowry, and came from an old, highly respected family. Those factors combined would be enough to have every young buck and eligible bachelor knocking on the front door.

“I can’t see how that would be anything but good. Isn’t the point of the Season to marry off all the young, single ladies?” Nick asked.

“If it is the point, someone needs to tell Olivia that. She’s determined to spurn the offer of any man who asks. And I nearly have to twist her arm to get her to attend a ball.”

The lady grew more puzzling with each revelation. Wasn’t it every woman’s ambition to marry? To enjoy a glamorous Season in London, filled with balls, dinner parties and elegant luncheons?

And if those weren’t her aims, why was Marcus insisting on her attendance?

What reason would any sane man have for enduring—even wanting—to experience the fripperies of the Season?

“Don’t tell me you’re here looking for a wife,” Nick said in mock horror.

Marcus shuddered. “Absolutely not. I’ve no interest in marriage. At least not right now. I’d like to see Olivia settled with a suitable gentleman before I turn my own ambitions to the marriage mart.”

If finding a husband for his sister was his friend’s goal, Nick thought Marcus was going to have his hands full. If this trip to London was solely for his sister’s benefit—who showed not even the slightest inkling of interest in marriage—Marcus would likely end up being in London for a long time.

“What about you?” Marcus asked. “What’s made you come to town—to England, for that matter—after all those years on the continent?”

Nick hesitated.

“Other than your father’s death,” Marcus said before Nick could decide exactly what to say. “I heard about that, and I’m sorry.”

Marcus knew the relationship, or lack thereof, between Nick and the deceased marquess. It wasn’t good. Not by any stretch of the imagination. As soon as Nick had reached the age of majority, he’d also reached the conclusion that he could no longer abide living beneath his father’s roof. So he left, with the intention of distancing himself as much as possible from the scandalous reputation his parents had brought to his family name.

“It was time to retire, so to speak,” Nick said. He’d returned because as the only heir to the marquessdom, he had responsibilities that couldn’t be taken care of unless he came home. To England.

“Are you going to miss it?” Marcus asked.

Nick didn’t have to think about his answer at all. “No.” His escape to France had been exactly that, a way to get as far from his father as possible. While he might have enjoyed the work at first, the excitement had waned, giving way to an aching hollowness.

But Marcus didn’t really know what he was asking. He knew Nick’s reasons for leaving, but didn’t know exactly what he would be doing while he was away. The Home Office was strict about who was allowed to know about his activities—the espionage he’d performed in the service of his country.

Which was, essentially, no one.

And since it wasn’t common knowledge what Nick had been doing for the past six years, there’d been some rather colorful tales circulating about his activities. Nick hadn’t been home a week before he’d begun hearing whispers about himself.

Not surprisingly, they weren’t whispers about his valor or cunning. The ton speculated on the number of women he’d seduced between the docks of London to the ballrooms of Paris.

But Nick didn’t want his oldest, and most loyal, friend believing the nonsense.

“I worked for the Home Office,” Nick announced suddenly.

Marcus didn’t give any visible reaction. Nick could have just as easily said he preferred chicken to pheasant.

“I was a spy,” he tried again. Worry settled in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Marcus wouldn’t want anything to do with him after this revelation. Nick was as much a God-fearing man as his friend, but that didn’t mean that some of the things he’d had to do for Crown and Country didn’t look suspect. Maybe Marcus wouldn’t want that taint anywhere near him or his sister.

“Were you a good one?” Marcus asked finally.

Nick nodded.

Marcus grinned. “I always knew you were a bit crazy,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure this proves it.”

Nick chuckled but still waited for the final either endorsement or condemnation of his chosen occupation. “So…”

Marcus’s expression sobered. “Nick, I don’t care if you were a juggler in Napoleon’s court. I’m just glad you’re back.”

Because of Marcus’s ready acceptance, Nick felt the burden of uncertainty roll away. He’d been more concerned than he cared to admit that Marcus would no longer want to be associated with him.

“If you don’t mind, I need to finish a few papers before we leave. It shouldn’t take long,” Marcus said to Nick.

Nick assured him he was fine to wait.

“Feel free to peruse the library,” Marcus offered. “Although I must warn you to watch out. Olivia might be in there, and there’s no lack of vases in the room.”

The earl smirked as he walked out of the door.

Rather than being cautioned by this warning, Nick felt his pulse speed up…no doubt in response to the possibility of talking further with the lady. And he was surprised to find he’d risk bodily injury for the opportunity.

Olivia strained on tiptoes, struggling to grasp a book located on a too-high shelf. She muttered under her breath and let out an uncharacteristic huff.

“Stupid book,” she grumbled.

Then she thought better about it; the book could hardly be blamed for where it had been placed. So she amended, “Stupid shelf.”

That didn’t seem quite fair, either…

Rather suddenly, she felt a presence behind her.

“Allow me,” the presence said, and its hand effortlessly plucked the volume from the shelf.

She turned to find herself staring at the Marquess of Huntsford’s chest. And as much as Olivia had always prided herself on her self-possession, she couldn’t help but blush as she stepped away.

The Marquess of Huntsford was devastatingly handsome.

His dark hair was mussed, as though he’d recently raked a hand through it. His face was perfectly chiseled; Olivia doubted an artist with the skill of Michelangelo could have crafted a sculpture to do the reality justice. And then, his eyes…before, she had thought them blue, or perhaps gray, but now she could tell, from where she stood, that they were green flecks of crystal that were shrewd, piercing and utterly captivating.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

“My pleasure,” he said as he took a small step back.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she explained feebly.

“I only entered a moment ago. Marcus wanted to finish some papers before we ventured to Tattersall’s to look at a new pair of bays for my stables. I sought to amuse myself here, but I can leave, if you wish to be alone.”

“That’s not necessary, my lord.”

“Perhaps you could call me Nick?” His smile was roguish and made her feel a bit light-headed.

“Gentle ladies shouldn’t be so familiar with men,” she deferred.

“I was under the impression gentle ladies shouldn’t bash others with vases, either.” While his face remained impassive, Olivia detected traces of laughter in the lines around his eyes.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s not very gentlemanly to bring that up.”

He leaned forward menacingly. “Perhaps I’m not a gentleman.”

Olivia’s mouth gaped. She stared at him in shock before he began laughing uproariously.

“I’m sorry,” he said in between bouts of guffaws, “but you looked truly horrified just then.”

Her blush was fast and made her feel hot to the roots of her hair. “Well…” She tried to defend herself but could think of nothing to say.

“I was simply teasing, Lady Olivia,” he clarified.

She stood there for a moment, trying to pretend she wasn’t watching him. He was handsome enough to be a rogue, she thought.

“Weren’t you going to read that book?” he asked with a half smile. So, he’d noticed her staring at him in spite of her attempts to hide it? “Would you like me to leave?”

“No,” she sputtered before she could stop the word. Olivia couldn’t understand her own desire to be near him. The men of her acquaintance were generally easy to dismiss. Nothing about any of the gentlemen she’d met in London appealed to her quite the way this one man did. The instantaneous attraction was disconcerting. And inexplicable. And uncomfortable. It seemed dangerous in the worst sort of way. “I mean, you’re our guest,” she finished lamely.

He didn’t say anything but gave her another aggravating half smile.

“I’m going to take this to the garden.” She gestured out the window with the volume, resolving herself to do without his company. “So, you enjoy yourself.”

“I have been,” she thought she heard him say as she left the room.

She refused to admit to herself that this was the first conversation she’d had with a man since this silly Season had begun where she had enjoyed herself, too.

Chapter Two

Several days had passed since Lord Danfield had been escorted from her house, and Olivia was just beginning to breathe a bit easier. She stopped expecting Gibbons to open the door to an irate Lady Danfield, and she no longer anticipated the scandal sheets announcing her violent tendencies.

The young man, it would seem, had decided to suffer in silence.

“Lady Olivia, there is a person awaiting you in the drawing room,” Gibbons announced as he entered her small parlor.

She looked at the butler in expectation. The old fear re turned. “It’s not Danfield, is it?”

The butler shook his head, but his face offered no other visual assessment on who was calling.

She entered the drawing room to find Lord Finley, their closest neighbor to their estate in Yorkshire and someone she’d known for years. Her smile of greeting was genuine.

“Lord Finley,” she said.

“Lady Olivia, you’re looking well,” he returned with a smile as he took her proffered hand. “Very well indeed.”

Olivia was accustomed to Lord Finley’s words of flattery; in truth, his compliments were so silly she usually didn’t mind them. “I’m surprised to see you here. I’d not heard you were in town.”

Lord Finley was a baron, and his land adjoined the Fairfax holding Westin Park on the north side. When the boys were children, the two were close friends. But that had been a long time ago.

Olivia herself valued her friendship with Lord Finley. After her mother’s death, he’d been a constant presence at her home, offering comfort and solace in the dark days that followed.

But she was confused as to why he’d chosen to leave his estate and come to town. Most years, Lord Finley bypassed the amusements of the Season. His complete disregard for the entertainments and activities of town life was another similarity they shared.

“My wish was to come see for myself how you are adjusting to life in London.” His gaze was appraising…and appreciative. “You don’t look worse for the experience.”

“I’ve not moldered away from lack of the country, yet,” Olivia said with a sad smile, thinking perhaps “not moldering” was the best she could say. “But I certainly have not kept my wish to return a secret.”

“Then why do you not go home?” Finley asked.

“Care for some tea?” she asked, ignoring his question. And at his nodded assent, Olivia crossed over to the bellpull in order to summon a servant.

Once the request had been dispatched, Olivia faced the baron; his stare was unnerving, and she remembered she’d yet to answer him. “Marcus wishes to remain in town. I certainly wouldn’t try to convince him to stay here without me.” After the ridiculously grand plans Marcus had devised for her, demanding to return to Westin Park would crush him.

At her brother’s name, the baron grimaced. She thought she heard him say, “Ah, yes. Wouldn’t want to upset Marcus would we?” But the statement was muttered, and Olivia couldn’t be sure of exactly what he’d said.

“Did Marcus say what inspired his sudden interest in town life?” he asked.

Confessing Marcus wanted her to make friends seemed rather embarrassing, so she shrugged as though to say his reasoning was a complete mystery to her.

“Did he know how vehemently you opposed leaving home?” Finley pressed.

The line of questioning made her uncomfortable. Finley’s fascination seemed something more than friendly curiosity.

“He knows my wishes, but he feels an obligation to introduce me to society,” she said in Marcus’s defense.

Finley stalked around to a side table, picked up a trinket, looked at it and quickly set it down. The movements were jerky, and his breathing was harsh. His back stiffened and his arms angled against his body. Olivia wondered if perhaps he were going to have an attack of some kind.

“Marcus didn’t tell you I came to see him before you left for town, then?” The words were clipped.

“No,” she answered cautiously.

His brows lowered, making angry, dark slashes, which obscured his eyes. “I thought as much.”

“Was there something he should have told me?” she asked. It was unlike Marcus to keep anything from her, and now, she was curious.

“Yes. You should have been consulted before our meeting was over,” he answered hotly.

The subject of their meeting and her role in the matter were a mystery. The only thing that could possibly have necessitated her involvement would have been if Finley were propos—

Oh, no, not that.

Finley was a friend, but he would never be more. While she liked him quite well, there was no tension, no attraction…nothing deeper than admiration and respect. And while admiration and respect were essential in a marriage, Olivia wanted something completely unfashionable in hers—love. And she’d certainly never led the baron to think she harbored any romantic feelings for him.

They’d been familiar, of course, but far from suggestive. The thought made her breathe a bit easier. Finley knew her views on marriage, just as he knew she did not feel that way about him. So something else must have been a subject of interest between the two men.

A maid entered with tea, and Olivia was able to busy herself with the preparation of their cups. She didn’t ask for a reminder of how he liked his as this was a scene they had played many times in the past. Although perhaps not with this level of discomfort.

“Would you care to tell me now what it is you were discussing with Marcus?” she asked as the baron took a seat.

Finley paused, as though he were not certain of what should be said. “Yes. You have a right to know,” he returned. “I wished to consult with your brother on a matter very dear to my heart—”

What? This was becoming the most peculiar conversation she’d had in some time.

“But your brother wouldn’t give me the time to explain my case before denying my request,” Finley continued, clearly agitated. “Now, I ask you, what kind of gentleman does not grant a serious proposal his full consideration before offering an answer?”

Olivia didn’t have a response.

“After abruptly and unfairly turning me away, Marcus didn’t want you to see me and hear what he’d done. That’s your reason for leaving the country so quickly.” He nodded once, apparently already convinced of the truth of his explanation.

“I still don’t understand.”

“I petitioned Marcus to let me make you my bride.”

Her stomach plummeted. She could think of nothing to say in response.

It would have been much easier if Finley had accepted Marcus’s refusal…something she needed to discuss with her brother later. How dare he not tell her about Finley’s proposal? Had he done so, at least she would have been prepared.

Because, by all appearances, Finley was unwilling to abide by Marcus’s ruling, and it seemed she must be the one to say the words.

“You wished me to be your wife?” she asked unnecessarily.

“I still wish it. Why else would I have followed you here?”

His declaration would have sent most women collapsing into the nearest chair in a flutter. What woman didn’t wish to hear such tender words? Finley was titled, wealthy, handsome and charming. His blond hair was always perfectly arranged, his blue eyes were bright and his features were pleasing.

“I am honored by your offer…truly I am…”

Perhaps he sensed her impending refusal because he hastened to add, “I have feelings for you I’d not thought myself capable of. And I think, were you to give this matter your full consideration, you would see we are well suited for one an other.”

She managed nothing more than an indrawn breath before he continued. “You would be taken care of and would have anything you wanted. I can assure you. You could live wherever you wished. I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to do with your time.”

“I have no doubt you will make a very attentive husband,” Olivia rushed on when she saw his self-assured smile. He thought he had swayed her so easily with a few pretty words. “But I’m afraid I must decline the offer. I am your friend, but I wouldn’t make you a good wife.”

Finley’s mouth was a tight line.

“I really am sorry,” she hastened to add.

He cut off any further apologies with a slash of his hand. “You should give yourself time to adjust to the idea. It does you credit that you are not overly eager. I would like for my future wife to weigh her decisions carefully.”

Did he have to make this any harder for her? Had she not had enough groveling with the Viscount Danfield? Why were men so determined to believe that when a woman turned down their proposal the no was negotiable?

“I’m certain, in time, you will meet a woman whom embodies all of those qualities,” Olivia said.

“You are that woman.” Finley’s voice burned with such intensity she instinctively shied away.

“I count our friendship very dear,” her assurances continued.

“And would it not be the natural extension of our friendship to commit our lives to each other?” he asked. “You’ve told me you are closer to me than anyone else…save your brother,” he snarled the last word. “Imagine how comfortable we could be together.”

“I could never be that comfortable with you.” Olivia’s voice was shrill, several pitches higher than normal, an indication of her frustration. “I will not marry you. A union between us is both unwise and impossible.” She had to stop herself before any more words tumbled out.

“I see.” Finley’s response was toneless, an odd counterpart to the emotion so evident in his voice earlier.

“I don’t mean to hurt you, Julian,” she said his name quietly. “Especially not after you have done so much for me.”

His eyes met hers, and she was surprised by the venom there. “Yes, I’ve done quite a bit, haven’t I? I looked after you when no one else could be bothered. Your father and mother both gone…your brother busy with something else more than not.”

“Marcus had estate matters to attend to,” she argued.

He waved away her excuse. “I was there for you whenever you needed after your mother’s unfortunate accident.” He sneered as he said the words.

“I will be forever in your debt for helping me over the years. But you’ll have to accept my gratitude because that’s all I have to give.” She hoped he’d take the proffered olive branch.

His smile was swift but lacked its earlier charm. It was sinister, and Olivia couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her friend. “Why would I settle for gratitude or friendship when I want so much more?” he asked.

“It’s all I’m going to offer,” she repeated.

“A shame. I’d hoped this wouldn’t have to get unpleasant.” He shrugged. “I can see I’ve been too optimistic.”

Unpleasant?

“Let me be clear,” he continued, “you have something I want, and I think you’ll find I have something you want as well. A wedding between the two of us will guarantee our mutual happiness.”

“What could you possibly have that I would want now?” Olivia was starting to get angry. This didn’t have to destroy their friendship, but Finley seemed unwilling to leave any strand of their former relationship intact. “Why,” she continued, “would I consent to being your wife when you have shown such disregard for my wishes today? I don’t appreciate being ignored and bullied.”

“You will be my wife, and I don’t care if you’re agreeable. When we come before a minister, you will say your lines and you will not argue. And you will at least look happy.”

Olivia couldn’t help herself. The demand was so ridiculous, she laughed.

Finley’s hands clenched.

“I’m sorry,” she said between chuckles she couldn’t seem to stem. “It’s just…you’re jesting aren’t you…that’s not very nice.”

Finley sighed. “I’m not jesting. And I have to ask you to stop this foolish display. We have much to discuss before I leave.”

The next bubble of laughter died in her throat, choking her. “Lord Finley, I grow weary of having to say it and am running out of ways to do so. I will not marry you. Not now. Not ever.”

Finley paid the outburst no mind. “You do not wish to make me unhappy. You won’t like what I have to do if you displease me.”

Olivia ground her teeth together, “I can’t imagine any threat that would make me agreeable to becoming your wife.”

“This is becoming tiresome. Unless you wish me to share with the world what I know about your mother, I suggest you silence yourself.” The words your mother sent an icy pang of fear straight through her. He doesn’t know, does he? He couldn’t possibly. She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the notion but didn’t because she feared ever being able to stop again.

“I see I have your attention now.” Finley’s smile was smug—and satisfied. “It really would be a shame to have your clever intruder story discredited. I’m sure someone went to a lot of trouble to make that look authentic.”

He does know.

“Whatever you are trying to insinuate is ludicrous,” she scoffed.

“Is it?” he asked, walking around her in a wide circle. His stride and manner were predatory. Stalking her fluidly, the baron had disposed of the vestige of the debonair gentle man.

“Perhaps you should leave now.” Her voice remained firm despite her insides churning with worry and the fear of discovery.

Finley shook his head, the gesture patently sorrowful and clearly mocking. “I’m afraid I’m not going anywhere. You and I need to talk about your little secret. Or should I say—our little secret?”

“There’s no reason to waste my afternoon discussing your madness.”

Finley clapped his hands together, as though she were an actress on the Drury Lane stage. “Brava. Should you turn down my offer, and find your family disgraced and penniless, you could tread the boards for your living. Your acting skills are sublime.”

He stopped his applause. “Because I will,” he threatened. “Disgrace you, that is, if you continue to refuse me.”

What was the point of pretending she didn’t understand?

So she said, “You couldn’t prove it.”

“Couldn’t I?” He raised his eyebrows, daring her to contradict him.

Olivia counted to three, hoping to calm herself and the rising hysteria. Then, she supposed it was better to be certain she was composed and counted to ten.

She stopped at twenty. “What supposed proof do you possess?”

“Rather condemning proof. Something our peers would find quite fascinating.”

“You don’t have anything,” she countered. But inside, she was reeling with the implications of what he said—if his words were the truth. Her mother had left behind a letter, explaining to whoever had found her that she still loved her family and begged their forgiveness for what she planned to do.

Could that be his proof? It had to be. But how had he gotten his hands on it? The letter had been safely kept at Westin Park.

Three steps brought him right in front of her. His hand reached and caressed her cheek, and she couldn’t stop her small tremor of revulsion.

“Don’t touch me,” she bit out.

He didn’t withdraw his hand. If anything, his smile grew wider. “You’re not in the position to make demands.”

“This is my house.”

“That may be, but you’re going to be my wife.”

She felt sick. “I’m not going to marry you,” she protested, but the words sounded weak and unconvincing.

“You don’t have a choice.” His voice was mild, as though they were discussing the pleasant turn of the weather. He had her and knew it. “Unless, of course, you wish for the world to know your mother wasn’t murdered by a burglar, but instead committed suicide.”

She cringed at the word.

Finley saw the response and correctly interpreted it. “I thought not,” he said.

“Don’t make me do this.” Her voice was pleading. Olivia doubted that beseeching would make any difference, but she had to try. “I’ll hate you,” she threatened.

“Don’t blame me. We could have done this amicably….” He trailed off. Of course, she was the one at fault for making him stoop to blackmail. “And your hatred bothers me not in the least.”

“But I don’t love you!” She slumped against a table, defeated. She doubted he would be bothered by her lack of devotion, either.

He wasn’t. “That’s not a requirement. It might have made things easier for you, but I’ll get what I want out of this anyway.”

What did he want? Money? Finances seemed the most obvious motivation. Her dowry was uncommonly large, something that couldn’t have been a secret among the wagging tongues of the ton. Of course, gossip also claimed that he was wealthy on his own merits, but perhaps his fortune was as much a sham as the kind demeanor he’d always shown her up until now.

“I can pay you for the proof,” she offered.

“Tempting,” he said, “but you wouldn’t be able to give me enough. I’m getting more from this than just the money you’d bring me.”

The hand that had been lingering on her cheek moved lower to caress her jaw, the side of her neck, settling eventually at the base of her throat. His fingers were smooth—and cold—but there seemed to be steel underneath the skin. He squeezed, the tiniest bit, and without any real pressure. The intended message, however, was clear. She was powerless against him.

“I need time,” she stammered.

He looked at her, and his eyes were skeptical.

“To prepare,” she rushed on, but a new thought was forming. A small, minuscule seed of hope that was barely visible through the haze of her despair. Perhaps he was bluffing about the letter. He might have seen it but not taken it.

“My brother will not be happy to hear of this,” she continued. “I wish for some time to try to change his mind about you. I would rather not have my brother and future husband—” she gulped at the word “—at odds for the rest of their lives.”

Finley considered the wisdom of eventually attaining Marcus’s blessing and nodded his assent. “Fine. I don’t wish to wait forever, though,” he warned.

“A few days, that’s all I require,” she affirmed. Olivia desperately wanted to clutch at this delay. Once she convinced Marcus to take her home, she could see for herself whether the letter was safe. If what she hoped were true, she could return to town and challenge Finley.

If the baron was telling the truth…well, she would think of what to do then.

“I expect to hear from you within a few days,” Finley reminded her as he took his leave.

Olivia was proud of herself. She waited until the front door clicked shut before bursting into tears.

Nick and Marcus were preparing to play a game of billiards when Marcus’s sister nearly ripped the door from its hinges.

“Marcus,” she gasped. Her chest rose and fell heavily, and Nick thought she must have raced her way up the stairs.

Nick snapped to attention when she entered, some instinct driving him to want to protect her from her obvious distress.

Marcus obviously agreed with Nick’s silent assessment. “Do you need a physician?” her brother asked.

“I need to go home,” she said. Her eyes darted frantically around the room. And when Nick shifted from his place in the shadows, she noticed his presence for the first time. He could tell from the subtle widening of her eyes.

“Please, Marcus.” Her voice dropped lower.

“What is wrong with you?” her brother asked, shaking his head.

Before she could answer, Marcus’s butler opened the door to the room. The servant’s gaze swung around and landed on his mistress. “My lady, Lord Finley left before retrieving his hat and gloves.” The butler let the statement dangle in the air. “Would you like me to send them with a messenger?”

“Finley was here?” Marcus growled. Nick understood the anger. He wouldn’t let Finley anywhere near his sister, if he had one.

“Briefly,” she answered. The look she gave the butler was withering.

“When did Finley arrive in town?” Marcus asked the room in general.

Gibbons shrugged. “I work for you, my lord, not him.”

Nick didn’t know, and Olivia didn’t appear to be open to sharing.

His friend muttered something unintelligible. “Go pack your things,” he told her shortly. “I will take you back to Westin Park.”

Marcus’s sister looked so relieved, Nick thought she might faint, or worse, cry. Before she could turn to leave, however, Marcus grabbed her hand, stopping her flight.

“Did Finley say something to upset you?” he asked.

She shook her head and tugged herself free from his hold.

Nick stared after the beautiful woman as she departed. The gentleman in him knew that the proper thing to do would be to ignore her distress, and let her have the comfort of believing her discomposure had gone unnoted. But he couldn’t deny that there was a part of him that wanted to go after her, to hold and comfort her until she was no longer afraid.

What was wrong with him?

Marcus still had his attention focused after his sister. “I’m sorry for that,” he said. “She’s not usually so…frantic.”

Nick brushed aside the apology. “When will you leave?” he asked.

“I guess at first opportunity. Perhaps in the morning. It’s several days’ journey to Westin Park.” Marcus put away his cue. The game of billiards now forgotten in the wake of Olivia’s appearance. “Can you spare the time?” Marcus asked.

“I suppose so, why?”

“Come with us. We’ve known each other for years, yet you’ve never seen my home.”

Nick considered the offer. He had no wish to intrude upon the siblings’ time together, but he couldn’t deny there was something infinitely alluring about escaping the scrutiny of town for a few days. And while he could have easily visited his country estate, Nick wasn’t ready for that yet. Wasn’t ready for whatever memories awaited him there.

“I don’t guess anyone will miss me.” And Nick was surprised to find he was swayed by the thought of having more time to study the fascinating Olivia.

The idea appealed to him more than it should.

Chapter Three

It wasn’t there.

The letter she’d believed would be in the rosewood box in the library at Westin Park was missing.

For a moment, Olivia could think of nothing. She stared at the dark velvet lining of the empty container as though the parchment would somehow mysteriously reappear. Olivia watched for several moments, waiting for one of the miracles Marcus so believed in to happen.

It didn’t.

The severity of her predicament overwhelmed her.

What was she going to do? Unfortunately, there were few choices…and none of them held much appeal.

Ignoring Lord Finley was definitely what she would prefer to do. Perhaps if she could keep her distance from him, making sure that he never had cause to be alone with her, he would give up his quest to make her his wife. But even as Olivia thought that, she knew the baron wouldn’t cave so easily. He would expose them. For herself, Olivia didn’t much care. She had no use for society or its good opinion. Marcus, however, would be laughed out of the House of Lords, unable to push through the legislation he’d been working on. And when her brother decided it was time to marry, no eligible woman would want to link her name with such a damaged and scandalized family.

So pretending she and Finley had never even talked wouldn’t work—much as she might have wished otherwise.

That left confessing this to her brother. But what would he say when he realized the secret she’d been harboring for years? Telling him the truth was the only option, wasn’t it? With Marcus’s help, she could devise a way to nullify Lord Finley’s threat and prevent their family disgrace from becoming common knowledge. Perhaps her brother could write him a bank draft. Or maybe they could figure a way to get the letter back, which would make Finley’s accusations—should he make any—seem like nothing more than spiteful fabrications.

But what would the revelation do to Marcus? Would he be reduced to the person she’d let herself become? Would the truth strip him of his faith in a God who would allow such things to occur the way it had to her? And what would he think of her part in the charade, and the fact that she’d hidden the truth from him for so long?

Marcus would be disappointed. Well, disappointed was probably not the right word. But she refused to consider a harsher emotion, one that would forever change the way Marcus looked at her.

She’d become a liar in order to protect him, never anticipating he’d discover the truth…either about her mother or about her.

She wasn’t sure which revelation would crush him more.

I could accept Finley’s proposal.

The thought repulsed her.

But was it worse than confessing to Marcus?

Could she bear to hurt her brother when she had another option?

No, she couldn’t.

Olivia thought she’d cried all the tears she had, but a few slipped down her cheeks anyway. Consigning herself to a loveless marriage—one built on deception and manipulation—was a heavy decision. But it was one she would make rather than becoming the instrument of disillusionment for her brother.

This was all because of that stupid letter. Had their mother only kept her last words—her selfish confessional—to herself, Olivia wouldn’t be in this predicament.

But no sooner had the hateful thought taken root than she chastised herself. She should have burned the letter immediately after reading it all those years ago. As long as those precious, final words remained undestroyed, Olivia had assumed the risk of someone finding it.

It was her fault. She’d been too weak, too overcome with grief and loneliness to destroy the last tangible link to her mother.

And now, it appeared she would pay for her weakness.

“How long have you been in here?” Marcus’s voice startled her so much she jerked, and the lid on the box slammed closed.

Turning, Olivia thrust her hands behind her back as though they were holding something worth hiding. How long had her brother been watching?

“Just a few moments,” she answered.

“Have you been crying?” Marcus asked in near horror as he came closer to examine her face.

“Perhaps.” She couldn’t stop the following sniffle.

“Would it be too much to ask why you are weeping in the library?” His voice was mild.

“I’ve missed my books.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She had missed her books. She’d miss them even more soon—along with the library itself, and the house and the life she’d be giving up when she married Finley.

“You took most of your books to London with you,” Marcus returned.

“Just my favorites,” she argued.

“I think we carried at least fifty volumes with us.” He was beginning to look less suspicious and more amused.

“I have a lot of favorites.”

He shrugged. “I believe Sarah is unpacking your things in your room. Do you wish to lie down for a few minutes?” he asked, eyeing her skeptically. “We’re not dining for many hours yet.”

“No, I’ll find something to amuse myself until then.” Or, more likely, she would obsess about what she was going to do, until she realized there was nothing to be done.

Then, she would cry some more.

“So you don’t have any pressing plans at the moment?” he asked, moving to one of the settees and sitting rather indecorously. He rested his head against the back of the piece of furniture.

She shook her head, wondering if he could see her with his eyes closed like that.

Apparently, he could.

“Excellent,” her brother said. “I planned to take Nick around the estate on horseback. Would you care to join us? I know how much you’ve missed being able to ride.”

She could tell Marcus she didn’t want to spend any more time with his friend than she had to, but her brother would chastise her for her rudeness. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. The marquess was just a man, one she barely knew. But she didn’t like the way she felt when he was near. Nervous. Jumpy. Fluttery.

Olivia had counted herself fortunate Marcus and Lord Huntsford had decided to take their horses on the journey to Westin Park. She’d ridden in the carriage alone, which had been preferable to having to share a confined space with the marquess.

But they had still taken a few breaks, allowing Olivia to exit the carriage and stretch her legs. The marquess had the annoying tendency to seek her out during those moments. Much like when he’d found her in the library back in London, Lord Huntsford was nothing but cordial…so she couldn’t explain why he made her feel so unlike herself.

But she couldn’t avoid the gentleman indefinitely. She wasn’t going to stay locked in her room for days, and running into him or having meals together was inevitable.

Besides, London had offered limited opportunities to ride. Olivia didn’t care much for the sedate, stately stroll through the park. She liked to feel the wind in her hair, whipping it around and into a nest her maid would complain about later. Would she still be able to ride like that as Finley’s wife? She shuddered at the thought of the restrictions that he, as her husband, would be able to place on her freedom. But no, she wouldn’t let herself think about that today. She wasn’t Finley’s wife yet—she still had time to enjoy all the things she loved.

So she agreed.

“Excellent.” Marcus hopped up from his seat. “Shall we meet in half an hour?”

Olivia nodded. And she looked at her brother, thought about how much she was going to break his heart and couldn’t stop the impulse to hug him. Which she did.

Perhaps a touch too tightly.

“Olivia?” he asked.

Marcus was probably wondering if he would need to have a doctor come and examine her.

“I love you,” she told him. She might have sniffled, but if so, it was done very, very quietly.

He patted her on the back, used to her spontaneous shows of affection. “I love you as well.” He pulled back and looked at her face. “Perhaps the fresh air will make you feel better. You look peaked.”

She looked like a wreck. Leave it to Marcus to try and soften the ugly truth. He’d been protecting her all her life.

It was her turn to do so for him.

“You’re right. The country air will be refreshing. The carriage ride must have unsettled me.” She wondered if he could see signs of her deception in her face, but Marcus looked oblivious.

“See you shortly,” he called after her as she left the room.

Fortunately for her, once her back was to him, he couldn’t see the fresh tears that had started to fall.

How was she going to tell Marcus?

Not about their mother—no, she’d resolved that Marcus would never learn about that. But to keep the secret meant accepting Finley’s proposal, and if the way he’d rushed her out of London was any indication, Marcus would not be pleased with the news. What words could she possibly speak that would make him agree to her marrying Finley? How would she handle his disappointment? How would he handle his disappointment?

The litany of unanswerable questions kept her mind busy and her stomach churning. She could think of nothing that would make her task easier.

But after her maid Sarah helped her into her riding habit, Olivia had to scold herself. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life moping around. For the moment, she was still free and would enjoy herself. And for right now, that meant spending the afternoon with her brother.

“You look lovely,” Marcus greeted a short time later as she joined him and Lord Huntsford outside.

After thanking Marcus, Olivia forced herself to give Lord Huntsford a cursory glance. In deference to his presence, she inclined her head and murmured a greeting.

If Marcus noticed her rudeness, he didn’t comment on it. Olivia felt a pang of guilt and shame, but her coldness was for her own defense. Something about the marquess was irresistible. Certainly, he was handsome. But her attraction to him wasn’t purely physical. He exuded a strength and mystery that she found alluring. That appeal put her in an unenviable position.

She wasn’t free to develop any interest in him.

So she would keep her distance.

“Care for a race?” she asked her brother with a smile after they’d ridden along the length of the west perimeter of the property. The happy expression didn’t feel quite right on her face, but neither of the men noticed the subtle difference.

Marcus shuddered dramatically. “I don’t think so. I have enough pride to want no one to witness me losing to a woman.” Then he grinned at her.

Olivia could almost pretend as though she’d altered time and returned to her life as it was a few days before. She felt carefree and uninhibited.

Which, surely, was the reason she turned to the marquess next.

“What about you, my lord?” she asked.

Lord Huntsford turned the full force of his smile on her, and Olivia had to remind herself to breathe. “Now I feel I must, if only to prove I could do better than Marcus,” he said. “Anyone could do better than Marcus, my lord,” she exaggerated, simply because Marcus prided himself on his horsemanship—with just cause—and she knew it would aggravate him.

Marcus’s friend laughed. “Do you wish a lead? It would only be gentlemanly of me.”

Marcus laughed this time.

Olivia smiled and shook her head no. “To the stone wall to the east.” She pointed out a straight path with her hand. “Shouldn’t be too difficult, my lord. I’ll see you when you get there.”

Marcus called their start, and Olivia took off. Hooves pounded the ground, sending clumps of earth flying. She laughed and felt the sound trailing out behind her. It almost seemed as if she were leaving all her troubles behind. For this one, brief moment, she allowed herself to be happy.

Lady Olivia won the race. And if she suspected that Nick might have pulled on his reins just a bit at the end, for the sheer pleasure of seeing her victorious smile, then she had no way to prove it. He was basking in that smile when the lady realized that Marcus had been waylaid along the path, leaving the two of them to return to the house together without his moderating presence.

The realization seemed to make her uncomfortable. The young woman shifted in her sidesaddle several times and fidgeted with the reins.

“You have a beautiful home,” Nick commented after a long stretch of silence.

“Thank you. I’ve always thought it was uncommonly lovely here.” Her sigh seemed wistful, and the forlorn noise drew his eye to her.

Mercy. She was uncommonly lovely herself. Their breakneck ride had completely mussed her hair. Tendrils framed her face, both wild and flattering against cheeks slightly pink with exertion.

“Are you staring at me, Lord Huntsford?”

Nick looked quickly away, a reflex more suited to a child who’d been caught peering at presents hidden in a closet than a powerful noble. But her question was quiet, genuinely curious. Flirtation didn’t appear to be her aim.

What kind of woman is she?

“I apologize,” he said. “I was merely thinking of how different you are.”

“That doesn’t sound very complimentary.”

“It is a compliment of the highest order. The ladies of my acquaintance wouldn’t be content to ride through the country when the amusements of town are within a day’s travel distance,” he assured her.

Olivia pursed her full lips. “London holds no allure for me.”

“We are kindred souls in that regard.”

“Then why do you stay in town?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. “You answer to no one. You may come and go as you wish. I should think, were I you, I wouldn’t step a toe inside the limits of London.”

He smiled at her and wished it were so simple. “Since my father’s death, I must take all the responsibilities of the marquessdom—unfortunately, that includes business in town. The mantle is heavy and not one I wear joyfully.”

Her expression instantly sobered. “I’m sorry about your father. How long has it been?”

“A year,” he answered. “I would have returned to England immediately after his death, but by the time news reached me, I was mired in business I couldn’t leave unfinished.” Why did he feel compelled to offer an explanation, vague though it might have been?

She didn’t ask what kind of business.

He wouldn’t have told her if she had.

“I didn’t wear mourning for him.” The confession was out before he could think of any reason why he would tell her this.

“I’m sure he would have understood your decision,” Lady Olivia said.

“I’m sure he wouldn’t.” Actually, the deceased marquess would have seethed with anger to know his son didn’t wear all black for him.

Nick had been so consumed with his own rage toward his father, he couldn’t fathom showing him that level of respect. “Our relationship was…strained.”

The woman at his side still said nothing.

In the silence, Nick warred with regret at a broken relationship with his father. But his father had insisted Nick yield to his wishes. Nick couldn’t do that.

So he’d left.

Which had created an even larger gulf, not just physically, between them. The only heir to the marquessdom running away to foreign lands, doing things nobody wanted to imagine…his father had been furious Nick would risk his life, and most important, risk the title leaving the immediate family if something were to happen to Nick.

Nick determined not to look at Lady Olivia, but when he felt a slight pressure on his hand, he looked down to find she was touching him to get his attention.

“I understand.” The two words held a wealth of untold sympathy. And he felt as though she truly did.

They both turned at the sound of an approaching rider.

“Apologies,” Marcus said as he came abreast of the pair. “One of the tenant farmers wanted to ask about repairing his roof. He stopped me before I could catch up with you.”

“That’s all right,” Lady Olivia said. “Now that you can finish giving Lord Huntsford a tour, I should probably return inside.”

If Nick thought her manner was abrupt, he had no reasonable explanation for the behavior. Just moments before, she’d been perfectly cordial.

Marcus, however, seemed concerned. “Perhaps you should rest before dinner.”

She nodded, but Nick noticed she didn’t voice an agreement. With a quick turn of the reins, she had her horse pointed back in the direction of the house. She waved a brief farewell then kicked her horse into motion.

Marcus had begun a conversation—something about the crops he was planning for the upcoming season. Nick listened as best he could with his attention diverted. Why was it that Lady Olivia could alternately be so charming and agreeable, but the next moment seek the quickest way to escape his presence?

Her retreating figure didn’t offer any clues, however. And while he hated the fact that he couldn’t seem to do otherwise, Nick stared at her even after she could no longer be seen in the distance.

Chapter Four

The next morning, Olivia wandered through the countryside just beyond the gardens at Westin Park. Traipsing feet had left trails through the growth, making it easy for her to simply meander. The day was beautiful. The green hills stretched as far as she could see, and the trees swayed with the gentle, rifling breeze.

She felt herself calming. She’d not cried this morning at all. She could do this. She would agree to Finley’s proposal. Olivia had no other choice.

But she wouldn’t let it destroy her. Finley was only a person after all.

And hadn’t she faced worse?

And done so alone?

“Lady Olivia, is that you?”

Olivia started at the voice, wondering who had intercepted her on the path. She turned toward the sound, finding the parish vicar strolling behind her.

“Reverend Thomas,” she greeted. The minister had been in his position since before she was born. He was a grandfatherly man. And while she no longer ascribed to his particular view of God, she was glad to see him.

“It is an unexpected pleasure to see you,” he said, coming abreast of her. “Is your brother in residence as well?”

“Yes. We returned this morning.”

“Have you given up on London already?” he asked with a conspiratorial wink. He knew how Olivia had fought to stay home after Marcus’s decree.

“I’m afraid we’ll be returning in a few days.”

“Will you be coming to the service tomorrow?” he asked hopefully.

The thought made her uncomfortable. “I am not certain what my brother intends.”

“Well, we’ve certainly missed you here,” the minister said.

She smiled at him, hoping it reached all the way to her eyes. “I can’t tell you how difficult it’s been being in London and knowing I must stay there until the end of the Season.”

“Surely it’s been enjoyable as well?” he asked her.

“I prefer the assemblies here over the balls there. And nothing compares to an evening staring at the sky and the stars from my bedroom window at Westin Park.”

Reverend Thomas smiled knowingly. “Well, I, for one, am surprised some gentleman hasn’t swept you off your feet yet.”

“Actually, Reverend, I swept one off his feet,” she said, thinking of the Viscount Danfield. That evoked perhaps the first genuine smile of the day. She wondered if the young man had recovered from his mishap.

But thinking about proposals made her mind naturally wander to Finley’s, which erased the smile.

“I’m not surprised to hear that,” he answered. But then Reverend Thomas scrutinized her, sensing the change in her mood. Olivia could feel his old, almost rheumy eyes on her. The man was much too perceptive.

“How have you been faring, dear?” The concern in his gaze was genuine, and, at his caring expression, she felt the tears well and threaten to spill over.

“I’m not entirely sure,” she confessed.

He nodded sagely. “Understandable.”

“Do you have a cure?” she asked with the glimmer of a smile.

He stopped, and the suddenness had Olivia backtracking to stand beside him. “Would you want the one I have to offer?” he asked.

She didn’t have to think about her answer. “No.”

It seemed her destiny was to disappoint everyone whose path she crossed today. The vicar looked absolutely crestfallen.

“I wish you would talk to me about it, Lady Olivia. We have known each other many years, have we not?” She nodded.

“I can bear the weight of whatever pain you carry. Or better, we’ll give it to God. He can shoulder it better than both of us.” His tone was hopeful, as though she might decide to trust him after five years of faith in nothing.

“Christ had His cross, Reverend,” she said, thinking back on the days when the words of the Bible meant something to her. “This one’s mine to carry.”

“Because you refuse to lay it down,” he said quietly. She heard him anyway.

Olivia was comfortable enough with Reverend Thomas to be abrupt and honest with him. “I don’t wish to talk about this anymore.”

The old man nodded but added, “God loves you.” He spoke slowly, as though she were a child.

“Not enough.” While anyone else might have needed further explanation, Olivia knew Reverend Thomas didn’t. He didn’t agree, but he understood.

“Don’t blame God for the actions of men, Lady Olivia.”

How little did Reverend Thomas know that she blamed God and her mother.

“I’ll grant you God didn’t pull the trigger that ended my mother’s life, but did He not hear all my prayers for her before?” Olivia couldn’t have foreseen the suicide, but she had feared her mother would drink herself into an early grave. And where had been the deliverance God supposedly granted to those who needed it?

“I can assure you, child, He heard your prayers.”

“Oh, did He not care enough to answer them, then? Is that it?” Her frustration, anger and latent grief made the words harsh. “How long can you talk to someone who never answers back?”

“Perhaps He didn’t answer,” the vicar allowed with a subtle nod. “Or perhaps, for reasons we may never understand, His answer was no.”

“It’s not fair,” she said quietly.

“Nor is it easy,” he said in agreement.

“So, I ask you, what can I expect from the hands of such a loving God?” she sneered.

“Grace, mercy and forgiveness,” he answered without hesitation.

But she doubted the truth of all three.

Nick ambled down the country paths, enjoying for himself the lush beauty of Westin Park. His friend’s estate created in him a stab of longing for his own country lodging—the estate he hadn’t seen in more than five years.

His country home should have been the first place he went upon returning to England. Instead, he’d opened up the Huntsford mansion in London. And he’d kept promising himself he’d return as soon as his affairs were in order.

But he knew that for the stalling tactic it was.

No longer was he the frightened five-year-old boy, jumping at shadows and cringing at the jeers and leers from his father’s friends. Nor was he the twelve-year-old, convinced he was a man already, who had to confront the truth that his mother’s appetites for deviance were no more refined than her husband’s. Nick wasn’t even the angry twenty-three-year-old who’d stormed from the house in a cloud of disgust and righteous indignation.

So why hadn’t he been back?

He wasn’t sure.

Perhaps he worried that his parents had desecrated the place of his childhood beyond redemption. Would he be able to walk down the halls and through the rooms without feeling that the lewd images of “parties” and drunken festivities had been imprinted on the very fabric of the house?

Maybe before he went back, he should hire a decorator to strip everything inside and refurnish the house.

And it was in the midst of his internal debate over what to do with his inherited estate that he heard two voices coming from the other side of the trees. The man’s voice was unfamiliar, but the woman’s voice was immediately recognizable. Lady Olivia.

Perhaps it was badly done of him, but there remained too much of the spy in Nick for him not to still immediately and remain absolutely quiet to hear what was being said.

What struck him, immediately upon overhearing the exchange, was that Lady Olivia’s words revealed a young woman who was hurt, angry and no longer trusting of God’s goodness. His heart ached for the bitterness and pain laced through each word she spoke. As before, he felt the uncommonly strong urge to reach out and comfort her. But within moments, the opportunity slipped away as the lady began walking back in the direction of the house.

Nick’s feet were moving before his mind fully recognized what he planned to do. Crashing through the brush and foliage, no longer caring to conceal his presence, he went after Lady Olivia. Nick couldn’t see her any longer, but he took a few steps on the worn path, figuring she must have been walking back home.

“Hello, there!”

Nick turned around and barely managed to stifle his grimace at being interrupted in his quest. He’d completely forgotten about the vicar once he’d seen Lady Olivia in tears.

“Hello,” Nick returned, striding back to where the minister stood in the middle of the path. He introduced himself, waiting impatiently while the Reverend did the same.

“What has brought you to Westin Park?” the older man asked. His eyes were full of genuine curiosity.

“I’ve come with my friend Marcus. I’ve only recently re turned to England and wanted a bit of time away from London.”

The minister smiled. “There seems to be quite a bit of that going around.”

Nick wasn’t sure what else to say. He never used to have a difficult time making conversation, but with Olivia’s flight weighing on his mind, his concern was finding out what was wrong.

He figured he might as well ask.

The worst Reverend Thomas could do would be to not answer his question.

“Was that Lady Olivia I saw leaving?” he asked.

Reverend Thomas smiled, but his eyes still look worried. “Yes.”

“Was she unwell?” he asked.

The older man looked as if he wasn’t going to answer the question. Nick was quickly losing the tenuous hold he had on his patience. Trying not to think of his friend’s little sister crying somewhere in the woods by herself, he waited for the minister’s answer.

“Lady Olivia has had a difficult time adjusting to leaving home,” he finally said.

Nick already knew that, and he thought he understood part of the reason why. Judging from the snippet of conversation he’d heard, however, Olivia sounded as though she had more to worry about than just being homesick. Marcus’s sister genuinely sounded bitter…and upset with God.

But Nick knew the family confidant wouldn’t tell him anything further than the surface truth. For all he knew, Nick was a stranger, and had no right to ask anything about Lady Olivia.

And he was suddenly, and surprisingly, disappointed to realize that he had no right at all.

Chapter Five

The next morning, Olivia rolled over in her bed, looked at the open drapes over the window and groaned. The bright sun streamed into the room, and she squinted against the light. All she had to do was roll over again and bury herself beneath the blankets, but sleep seemed far beyond her reach.

“Sarah?” she said to her maid, whom she heard bustling in her wardrobe.

“Yes, my lady?” the young girl asked.

“What time is it?”

“Time for you to get ready for church.”

“I’d really rather not,” Olivia grumbled, pulling the blanket over her head. It was a futile attempt to stop the inevitable; before long, Marcus would enter and drag her out of bed.

Sarah stopped at the head of the bed, and Olivia didn’t have to pull the cover down to see the look of indecision she knew would be on the young girl’s face.

“My lady?” Sarah asked.

“Yes?” The covers muffled the word.

“His lordship wanted me to come and help you dress for service.”

“I don’t feel well,” Olivia hedged. In truth, she felt sick to her stomach, though she knew it was an illness no amount of rest would cure. It had been years since she had been truly at peace with church attendance, but she had always borne through it for Marcus’s sake. Yet now, the idea of attending services in the church where Finley would likely expect her to stand as she pledged her life to him…no, she could not bear it. Not yet. Not today.

“Do you wish for me to inform the earl?” Sarah’s voice plainly begged her to say no.

“I’ll tell him when he comes in.” Olivia suppressed a smile at the girl’s sigh of relief.

“Thank you, my lady.”

Olivia didn’t have long to enjoy the sanctuary of her bed before Marcus came striding into the room.

“Wake up,” he said unceremoniously.

While Olivia was contemplating feigning sleep, her brother moved closer.

“I see Sarah has failed in her duties,” he said from directly above her. “I suppose I shall have to dismiss her.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Olivia said as she flung back the covers. She looked around, ready to stop her maid from leaving. But Sarah was already gone.

Marcus smiled. “I could, but I won’t. I just wanted to prove you were awake.”

“Hateful,” she muttered.

“So you say.” He picked up her cup of chocolate and handed it to her. “You had best hurry or we’ll not make the service in time.”

“I have a headache,” she said, trying to convince him to let her stay home.

“Convenient.” He dismissed her imaginary illness without another thought. “Now get out of bed. I shouldn’t have to fight with you as though you were still twelve.”

Olivia pursed her lips. “Fine, I’ll be downstairs shortly.”

“Sarah will return to help you dress,” Marcus said on his way out of the room.

Two hours later, Olivia sat between Marcus and the Marquess of Huntsford on the church pew. If there were a God, surely He was laughing at her now.

Both men barely noticed her presence once the minister began his sermon, but every other eye in the building was firmly fixed on the back of their heads. The congregants were, of course, used to seeing the earl and his sister, but this new visitor was something altogether different. Olivia didn’t have to turn around to know nearly every woman eyed the marquess speculatively. It didn’t help that Lord Huntsford walked in the chapel as though it were something he had been doing every Sunday of his life. His self-confidence and total lack of discomfort were aggravating.

Almost as aggravating as his cheery facade first thing in the morning.

“I trust you rested well,” he had greeted her with a beaming smile once she descended the stairs.

She had inclined her head, but nothing more.

And now, nearly two hours later, she was irrevocably stuck with him. Lord Huntsford was planted firmly on her right, Marcus on her left. Olivia wished she had sat on the aisle, so she wouldn’t feel so confined by the two large men. Not that either of them was aware of her distress.

The congregation stood, singing one last hymn, and Olivia, as usual, only mouthed the words. The marquess’s voice, however, sang loud and true—his clear baritone rising high into the chapel. She tried not to listen to him, tried not to think about how inevitably soon her voice would fill this very space as she pledged herself to Baron Finley as his wife.

It had been years since church had symbolized any sort of refuge for her, but now it seemed to represent the trap she’d fallen into that would bind her for the rest of her life. The very idea made her feel truly ill. So instead of dwelling on the horrible future that awaited her, Olivia devoted her attention to the meticulous counting of panes in the glass windows.

By the twelfth pane, she could barely hear the singers through the suddenly shrill ringing in her ears. The noise was so deafening she almost clapped her hands over her ears to stifle it. Olivia stopped herself when she realized that probably wouldn’t help at all.

At twenty-eight, her stomach roiled, and she forced herself to resist the urge to sit back on the pew.

At fifty-seven, she swayed, luckily catching herself in time before she pitched forward into the people in front of her.

Something was sitting on her chest, cutting off her air sup ply. The pressure was a vise. Her heart beat an irregular rhythm, and Olivia tried to ignore the thump, thump, pound sensation. Her lips were still moving, still attempting to appear as though she were singing, but Olivia doubted anyone, if he were to look closely, would be fooled.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Lord Huntsford leaned over and whispered in her ear.

She shook her head.

He grunted in disbelief, and while she didn’t dare venture a look at his face, she knew he’d look skeptical.

Olivia hardly cared to try and convince him. She was still trying to hold the impending feeling of panic at bay—and was failing miserably.

Lord Huntsford might have still been singing, but Olivia could feel his eyes firmly on her. And when she swayed—just the smallest bit of unnatural movement—his hand reached out to steady her.

“Come with me” was his whispered order. He set down his hymnal and took her by the elbow.

Her protests were irrelevant, and Marcus, so engrossed in his singing, didn’t notice the two of them leaving.

Olivia held her head high as they exited toward the rear of the sanctuary. Her eyes were trained ahead, avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze. She could hear the whispers as she walked by, but the man at her side didn’t seem to mind them, so she supposed she could stand the scrutiny for a few seconds.

Lord Huntsford led her outside, guiding her to a stone bench nestled in the church’s garden.

She resisted the urge to take large, gulping breaths once outside in the fresh air. The gasping would only confirm Lord Huntsford’s suspicions. She couldn’t even thank him for his help without admitting that she’d needed the escape he’d offered.

“Are you unwell?” he asked gently, kneeling beside her.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, but her voice was breathy.

She sank back farther into the bench. Outside the walls of the church, the ache inside began to abate. And now, inhaling deeply the scent of roses and gardenias, her heart wasn’t pounding so fiercely.

“You looked quite ill in there,” he persisted. “Are you certain you’re feeling better?”

“The closed space made it hard to breathe,” she said, hoping he would let the matter rest. Olivia concentrated on the pace of her breathing, trying to steady the gasps so he’d not have any further reason to be suspicious.

“Sometimes I feel that way when I’m hiding, too.” His voice was barely a whisper, and he could easily have been speaking solely to himself.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” But she tried to offer a smile in gratitude so the words didn’t sound harsh. He was being very conciliatory, after all. And she had the oddest feeling that he did understand. That he sympathized with her struggle and disillusionment. But surely that was just a cruel trick of her imagination, fooling her into believing she wasn’t quite so desperately alone. “Feel free to return inside—I just need a moment.”

“I’ll sit here with you…if you don’t mind,” he added as an afterthought.

But Lord Huntsford gave her no chance to answer. She stilled as he took up the remaining space on the bench, afraid if she moved the slightest fraction of an inch, she might brush against him.

“I really think some time alone would help me feel better,” she ventured. Regaining her composure was impossible with him sitting in such close proximity.

“I have no intention of leaving you out here alone.” His crossed arms declared he would brook no argument.

Fine.

She would simply pretend he wasn’t there. Something that, in theory, seemed relatively easy. But as he sat beside her, also in silence, Olivia found her eyes involuntarily moving to watch him. Each time, she would wrest her gaze away. Not that it did any good, of course; she was certain the marquess realized each time she did so.

“Did you see the two of them?”

The whispered question floated on the wind to Olivia and Nick, and both immediately straightened.

“How could you not see them? Shameful. And in church, no less.”

“Now, Josephine,” came a third voice, “they were hardly doing anything shameful. They were sitting in front of God and the whole congregation.”

“Well, where are they now?” one of the other women— Olivia assumed it was Josephine—shot back.

Silence followed. Apparently this question stymied the other two ladies.

Olivia started to rise, prepared to step from behind the shelter of the towering rosebushes and into the women’s path, but Nick laid a hand on her arm, stilling her. His touch scorched her skin. But she didn’t recoil from it.

“Well,” the third woman, who Olivia was beginning to think of as her champion, began, “I’m sure they both have a perfectly innocent explanation. Perhaps Lady Olivia had a headache,” she offered.

One of the other women made a ribald joke, and Olivia cringed. Humiliation alone was bad enough, but humiliation in front of the marquess was unbearable.

“Well, I’m not surprised,” another voice returned. “The marquess has quite a way with women, at least that’s what I heard from Eleanor at the dressmaker’s.”

Their advocate scoffed. “The man was in church.”

The cynical woman laughed. “Probably looking for an innocent woman to corrupt.” She made the statement as calmly as one might if she were suggesting he’d gone to the market to select produce.

Judging from the fact that the voices had stopped wafting to her from different points down the path, Olivia knew the women were standing not too far from where she and Nick were sitting.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” one returned. Olivia was beginning to lose track of who was speaking. “Alfred was telling me all sorts of lurid tales of the marquess’s exploits in France. Shocking,” she added unnecessarily.

“Well, he won’t be able to parade about in polite society for long. He’s no better than his parents. And his bad blood will out eventually.”

Lord Huntsford’s grip on her arm tightened, and she looked at him in surprise. His jaw was clenched, and while Olivia didn’t know him well enough to be able to decipher his moods with any accuracy, he looked furious.

What would he do? Charge out from behind the bushes and defend her honor? Defend his? But the marquess had been correct in the beginning; it was best they remain undiscovered.

She laid her hand atop his, hoping to both comfort and subdue him. It was the least she could do after he’d set himself up for this sort of slander just by helping her out of doors. Besides, it certainly wouldn’t do for the three women to happen upon them. Or for him to step out and confront them.

Once Lord Huntsford felt her touch, he turned to look at her, and his pursed lips and set jaw were the only visible signs he was warring with indecision. Casting another glance to where the women had resumed strolling by, he sighed. As he looked back at her, his face softened. He ventured a tentative smile, and Olivia couldn’t help but return it.

She wondered how he had managed to so completely erase the anxiety and panic she’d felt only moments earlier. Yet even with a feeling of peace and contentment stealing over her, a small voice in the back of her mind cautioned against softening toward him and warned that she’d have to double her efforts to stay away from the marquess.

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