Chapter Seven
Oliver stared out the carriage window, watching the rolling countryside fall away, resisting the urge to glance at the woman who sat across from him.
The night before, he’d followed Diana back to town, but at a distance, until he’d seen her slip safely back into Ainsworth House. And then he had walked the darkened beaches for hours, dazed and aroused and cursing himself alternatively for not stopping that kiss before it had ever started and ending it when he had. He wanted her. Wanted her with such single-minded desperation that it made him think he might simply be reduced to ash from the inferno of need that had razed his control and his inhibitions. That kiss had left him shaken. Left him completely adrift, every predictable and familiar anchor to which he’d thought he had his life moored obliterated in a single minute.
Returning to his rented rooms, he’d discovered that Diana had sent him a concise message, stating that the dowager’s carriage would collect him at eight o’clock sharp. No mention of anything that might be construed as remotely personal. No clue as to what she might be thinking. Oliver had tossed and turned until dawn crept through the windows. He told himself over and over that that kiss had been a mistake. A mistake that tarnished whatever honor he still had left. No matter how much he wanted Diana, no matter how much his heart hurt with the thought of losing her, he couldn’t simply abandon Miss Burton. He couldn’t renege on a promise he made to their families a lifetime ago.
Abandoning his promise to Miss Burton and her family would make him no better than the blackguard who had undoubtedly made promises to his sister and then left her because she was inconvenient. He was not that man. He could not be that man and live with himself.
Yet, kissing Diana Thompson hadn’t felt like a mistake. Kissing Diana had felt like heaven. Kissing Diana had felt perfect and real and right.
Except now he sat opposite her in a comfortable carriage feeling anything but right. Her greeting this morning had been polite, her demeanor distant, her subsequent conversation almost non-existent. Oliver had had no idea what to do from there. So he sat, looking out the window, until he couldn’t stand the silence any longer.
“Why did you come today?” He pulled his eyes from the countryside and faced her.
“Because I promised you I would.”
“Are we going to talk about what happened last night?” he asked recklessly.
“Should we?”
Her voice was quiet, and he tried not to remember the way it had caressed him on that beach. Tried not recall the soft sounds she had made as he had explored her skin first with his hands and then with his mouth. Tried not to dwell on the way her body had felt against his—
He ran his hands over his thighs, his palms damp, hating that his composure was slipping away from him despite his best efforts. “I kissed you.”
“You did.”
“I shouldn’t have done that.” Even though I want to do it again. Right now. Badly.
“Perhaps.” Diana looked out the window. A muscle flexed near the underside of her jaw. “She’s in Brighton, you know.”
“Who?”
“Hannah. She’s staying with her aunt at their country home.”
“What?” Oliver sat up straighter, the mention of Hannah Burton’s name slicing through his desire like an icy knife.
“I thought you should know.”
“I was told that the Burtons were in Bath.”
“The rest of her family is. Hannah came to Brighton with her aunt.”
Well, that would explain why none of his messages had been answered. “Why is she not with her family? Why did she come to Brighton?”
Diana shrugged, the movement looking forced and stiff. “Maybe you should ask her.”
Guilt chased away whatever lust lingered. Diana was right. This was a conversation he needed to be having with Miss Burton.
Oliver frowned as another thought struck him. “Does she know that I am also staying in Brighton?”
Diana kept her eyes averted. “Yes.”
But avoiding him, it would seem. Oliver had no idea what to make of that, other than it was a reminder that since he’d been back, he’d allowed himself to become distracted. He needed to focus on the future and his duty to it. A future that did not and could not include kissing Diana Thompson.
The carriage turned sharply and lurched to a halt.
“We’re here,” Diana said, gathering her skirts.
The door to the carriage swung open, and she allowed herself to be helped down by an ever-efficient servant in Ainsworth livery. Oliver followed, glancing up at a sky that was starting to darken ominously, bruised clouds heavy with rain approaching from the west. His eyes fell on the stone building in front of them, its crenellated tower jutting up from the end of the steeply pitched roof as if to challenge the elements.
“A castle,” he mumbled, hope flickering.
“But no destriers.”
Whatever this was between them, it would have to keep for now. For now, he would concentrate on finding the family that had been lost to him. Concentrate on feeling nothing but gratitude toward the woman who had helped Madelene and was now helping him.
Diana picked up her skirts. “Let’s go find your sister.”
Oliver nodded, unable to answer. He led them up the crooked, uneven path toward the arched entrance that was tacked onto the base of the tower like an afterthought. They passed under the covered entrance and pushed open the iron-bound door.
The hinges squealed as the door closed behind them, and they took a moment to let their eyes adjust to the dimness. Above their heads, the ceiling soared, unlit chandeliers hanging in neat intervals. To their right, at the far end, a long window reached toward the heavens, divided and framed, and putting Oliver in mind of a great cathedral. The air was thick with the scent of candle wax and wood polish.
“Good morning, friends.” An elderly clergyman was approaching them. He wore the collar of a priest, and a heavy crucifix hung from his neck. “May I offer you assistance?”
“I hope so,” Diana answered. She was dressed in a blue so pale it was nearly white, and with her beautiful eyes and golden curls, she looked rather like an angel. By the slightly transfixed expression on the priest’s face, it seemed he thought so too.
“We’re looking for a woman,” she said in a soft, musical voice. “We think she lives here.”
“In Beddingham?” the priest asked, his eyes drifting over Diana’s shoulder to where Oliver stood.
“Yes.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Madelene.” Oliver spoke up for the first time. “Madelene Graham.” Belatedly, Oliver realized that if Madelene had started a new life, she might not be using her real name any longer.
“Indeed.” The old priest folded his hands in front of him, his bushy gray brows furrowing. “And who is this woman to you?”
Oliver nearly came out of his skin. The priest hadn’t said, I don’t know her, or, I can’t help you. As in the bookseller’s shop, Oliver was struck again by the feeling that this was all dreamlike. That finding Madelene after all these years couldn’t be this simple. “She’s my sister,” he croaked.
“Yes, I can see the resemblance.” The priest nodded slowly.
It was all Oliver could do not to grab the priest and shake Madelene’s whereabouts out of him.
“Where is she?” Diana asked in a much more civilized fashion, as if sensing his unrest. “May we see her?”
The priest tipped his head. “I think that those are questions best put to Madelene.” He paused. “I will send her a message and leave those answers to her.”
He should be grateful to the priest, Oliver knew. He should be thanking him for taking such care with Madelene’s well-being. If he wasn’t wound tighter than a clock, he would be.
“That’s fair,” Diana said. As if all this subterfuge was expected.
“What message would you like to pass along?”
“Tell Madelene that Oliver is here,” he said hoarsely. “And that I’m not leaving without seeing my little sister.”
The priest glanced back at Diana, who only nodded.
“Very good,” the old man said. “I’ll see it done. Wait here.”
The man shuffled away through a door off to their left.
“Wait here?” Oliver ran his hands through his hair in agitation. “What does that mean? Wait here for how long? A minute? A day? A week?”
“I don’t know.” Diana looked at him helplessly, her blue eyes wide and almost violet in the hazy light.
Outside, thunder rumbled menacingly.
“I’ll direct the driver to the nearest inn,” she said, glancing out the thick-walled window nearest them. “There’s no point in subjecting him or the team to the elements when we don’t know how long we’ll be.”
“I can do that.”
“No,” she assured him. “You wait here in case the priest comes back. I’ll be but a minute.” She slipped from the church before he could answer.
Oliver heard the door close, and he paced through the nave, stopping in front of a thick, wide arch that loomed above his head. On the surface, in an ancient, dark paint almost the color of dried blood, a robed figure was drawn, his hands clasped in silent prayer. A savior, no doubt, meant to—
“Who are you?”
Oliver started and turned to find a girl of no more than four years standing in the center of the aisle, gazing up at him. In a blinding flash, he was whisked back in time, a four-year-old Madelene gazing up at him, begging to be allowed to come along with him as he and Diana had set out on one of their adventures in the dales. He blinked, and the present reasserted itself.
“Oliver,” he said, unable to tear his eyes away from the brown eyes and dark hair so like his own. So like Madelene’s.
“My mama knows a man named Oliver. But she says he lives in a country far away.”
Oliver put a hand out to steady himself against the side of the arch. “Do you and your mama live here?”
“No one lives in a church.” She giggled, making a face. “Except mice. And Father Hubert.”
“Father Hubert is the priest?”
“No, silly.” She laughed again. “Father Hubert is the cat. He eats mice.”
“Ah.” Oliver was having a hard time thinking. This girl wasn’t old enough to be the child Madelene had been carrying when she fled London. But the coincidences were stacking up in neat, orderly rows, and all Oliver could think was—
“My mama says I can have a cat when I’m older. Do you have a cat?” she asked, her face solemn now.
“No,” he managed to answer. “I don’t.”
“I’m going to call my cat Queen Eleanor. My mama says she was a good queen.”
“Your mama is right. What if your cat’s a boy?”
“Then I’ll call him King Eleanor.”
“Sounds reasonable. What’s your name?”
“Diana,” she said proudly. “Diana Seymour.”
“Diana,” he repeated faintly.
“My mama says she named me after a beautiful, kind lady,” the little girl continued. “She says she hopes I grow up to be just as kind. That’s why I came to talk to you, even though I’m supposed to be helping my mama clean the church,” she confided. “You looked sad.”
Oliver crouched, afraid his legs were going to betray him if he didn’t. “I think you’re already very kind. And I think your mama is very wise.”
She smiled at him, and Oliver’s heart melted into a messy puddle. “Do you know my mama?”
“He does.”
Oliver staggered to his feet and whirled. A woman, clad in a plain brown dress, a dusty apron tied over the front, her dark hair pulled back into a simple braid, and tears in her warm brown eyes, stood before him.
“Welcome home, big brother.”