Chapter Twenty-One
12:16 p.m.
Sebastian took refuge in a parlor in the medieval wing of the castle. Refuge from the uproar of preparations, but not from the thought of Olivia marrying her cousin or of James’s plea to intercede on his behalf. An over-stuffed leather chair brought up to a fire that glowed with the promise of warmth invited him to sit. Jesus, he was tired. His chest ached, and his throat hurt. Light through the window slanted across the floor and illuminated a table on which there sat a bottle of brandy. French brandy. Some portion of the prizes awarded him over the years. He’d shipped everything to Andrew who converted what he sent to cash. But, it seemed, not everything. Delicate stuff, French brandy. He walked to the table, found a glass near the bottle and poured himself two fingers. He ought to be upstairs resting before the evening’s madness, but he didn’t fancy McNaught and his potions just now. Not when he could have brandy instead and a moment’s rare and welcome solitude.
Glass in hand, he made a circuit of the room and found it disturbingly familiar. A charming room he was certain he’d never been in before. Marble columns rose to the ceiling at either side of the mantel. Over the fireplace a painting of peonies looked so lifelike he expected any moment to catch their scent. Open curtains of cobalt blue contrasted with the orange plaster walls. Near the oriel the surface of a walnut desk was cluttered with all the implements of a letter-writer; pen, ink, seals, wax, blotter and several sheets of paper bearing the Tiern-Cope crest. Obviously, someone used this room. He extended a fingertip from the hand holding the brandy and moved the papers. Underneath lay a clothbound book such as anyone might purchase in the lower sort of shops. A green cover, much battered with corners bent and frayed. He opened it, saw two thirds of the pages filled with a neat feminine script, and closed it against farther invasion. His head ached, or put better, felt stuffed full. The coals shifted with a hiss of flaring ember. He shivered. Pennhyll could be damned cold sometimes.
Intending to sit out of the draft, he turned—and stopped in his tracks at the sight of a man lounging on the sofa, legs stretched in a disrespectful sprawl. He wore dark leggings and a blue tunic worked with red and gold. A baldric crossed from right shoulder to left, but his scabbarded sword rested against the sofa, well within reach. Spurs at his heels clinked when he shifted his legs. His eyes burned like blue coals. Alexander eyes.
“Et voila,” the man said, lifting one hand.
The door opened, and Sebastian watched Olivia Willow walk in with a confidence that told of her conviction she was the only person to use the parlor. Curls tumbled unchecked around her face, her hairpins not up to the task of holding her hair in place. What the woman needed was combs, he thought, something substantial to keep that mass of hair in check. She went to the desk, moved the stack of papers, then rifled through the books piled near one corner.
“Blast,” she whispered, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. One at a time, she opened the drawers and searched without finding what she was after.
He thought the man on the sofa spoke in a chilling drawl, but in fact, Sebastian discovered, it was he himself who said, “Looking for this?”
She whirled, scattering some of the papers on the desktop. She looked right through the man on the sofa. Past him as if he weren’t there. Jesus.
“Oh. It’s you,” she said.
Sebastian put down his brandy. “Miss Willow.”
“I haven’t thanked you for saving my life.”
Sebastian waved a dismissive hand.
“I can’t ever repay you.” She took a step toward him. “If there’s anything I can do….”
“In good time.” He lifted the clothbound book he’d found on the desk. Without even opening it, he knew what she’d written inside.
“May I have it please?” She held out her hand.
Sebastian ignored the Black Earl, but goose pimples raced down his back and arms when he reached for the bottle of brandy on the nearby table and poured himself a nearly full glass.
“Are you drunk?” Olivia asked.
“Not in the slightest.”
The Black Earl glanced at him but Sebastian refused to meet the look.
“My lord,” she said. “That’s mine. Give it me. Please.”
The Black Earl’s attention returned to Olivia. “A woman with eyes like yours oughtn’t pretend to be anything but what she is.”
“I’m sure I don’t understand what you mean.”
“And I’m bloody well certain you do.” Sebastian heard his voice as if it came from outside him. Did he always sound that forbidding? No wonder she disliked him. He took a long pull from his brandy. “Tell me, Olivia, has that peacock Fitzalan confessed that he loves you?”
“You told me he does not.”
“He’ll soon come around. He does love you. Perhaps you should accept him when he offers.”
“If he offers.” She laughed. “If he does, I’ll know he doesn’t mean it.”
“Oh, he will mean it.”
“Make up your mind. Who am I to marry? Lord Fitzalan or Hew?” Her smile cracked for just a moment.
Sebastian gave her a sidelong glance.
“What I need,” she said, “is a rich aunt with no living relative but me.”
Glass lifted, he smiled. “A very old and infirm aunt. Have you got one of those?”
“Why, my lord Tiern-Cope. I do believe you’ve made a joke.”
“I am not without humor, Olivia.” Sebastian saw Olivia’s breath catch. “If you want your journal, come get it. I wonder if you have written as stingingly of Mr. Hew Willow as you do of me. I don’t deserve it, you know.”
“You’re in a quite strange mood, my lord.”
“Yes.” His eyes roved up and down, devouring her.
She tipped her head, considering. “You are drunk.”
His mouth quirked. “Tell me, Miss Willow, has it been difficult for you, caring for your mother all on your own? No father or elder brother looking after you? No husband to whom you may cleave?”
She shrugged.
“This morning, everything but the clothes on your back burned. You have no place to live. No money to replace your losses. What will you do now?”
She shrugged again. “Make do.”
He held out the journal. “Come get the damned thing.”
But she stood by the desk and, watching her, Sebastian knew her pulse leapt, that her blood heated, and that someplace low in her belly seemed empty and in need of filling.
“No? Well, then. Perhaps I’ll keep it.” He tossed it beside him, then sprawled beside it, ignoring the Black Earl who sat on the sofa arranged across from him. Sebastian looked her over, shaking his head. “What will you do?”
“We’ve managed, Mama and I.”
“How often do you tell her you’ve already eaten and then go without? Never any new clothes, wearing your shoes through to your stockings. I’ll wager you’ve taken in lodgers. Your Mrs. Goody. Is that her name? Struggling to pay some fool of a lawyer holding out hope of a miracle recovery.”
Hope and denial and despair flickered over her face, one after the other, and in place of that, last of all, resignation. The collapse of all hope.
“Your fortune is gone. You will never have it back.” He sat forward, one hand over a knee.
“I’ll have the teaching post soon, I’m sure. I’ll be able to put away something for the future.”
“And if the post goes to someone else?”
She swallowed. “Since I haven’t a rich aunt, I suppose a husband will have to do.”
“But which husband?” He made a gesture that prevented her reply. “I’ve seen too much death, too many men reach the end of their hopes and dreams, and I am tired of it. Sick with it. Just once, just once in the whole of my eternally damned life I want to know something turned out right.”
“I’m sure it will, my lord.”
“Olivia Willow, my heart, you are a decent woman who doesn’t deserve her lot in life.”
She went still, eyes large and full of emotion locked away tight.
The Black Earl glanced at Sebastian. He leaned forward. “I’d give my life for you,” he said to Olivia. “You know that.”
“That’s the sort of man you are,” she said. “Brave.”
Sebastian tried to breathe normally but couldn’t. “Come get your damned journal. You’re safe with me, if that’s what’s got you worried. As you are not safe with Fitzalan. And most certainly not safe with Hew Willow.”
“Very well.” She walked toward him, extending a hand.
The moment she was near enough, he grasped her wrist and tugged her toward him. “Sit, Olivia.”
She twisted, trying to land so they wouldn’t be close. Despite her efforts, she ended next to him anyway. Not touching, but quite close. Laughter rang out, his. Not hers.
“Now, answer a few questions for me, if you please.”
“What questions?”
“About your family. Your father and brother. God’s teeth. Never mind them. Tell me about you. What do you feel when you are with me?”
“You are drunk.”
“Hm. A little, I think.” He returned his glass to the table. Sebastian started when the Black Earl looked directly at him. A knot of pain flared behind his eyes, and he squeezed them closed, hands to his temples.
“Are you all right?”
He grasped her arm, curling his fingers around her wrist. With his free hand he lifted a hand to her hair. First, just his fingertips touched. He slid his fingers into her curls, skimming the curve of her skull. “Like silk when it ought to burn.” He breathed in and Sebastian caught a trace of verbena in the air. “You’re right. I am drunk. Jesu, I am drunk from you.”
“My lord.”
“We’re good together, you and I.” He could not take his eyes off her mouth. “Your mouth is luscious.” The words weren’t his, but he spoke them. The feeling was his though. He straddled her, one knee on either side of her thighs, his hands on the back of the sofa to either side of her face, the better to glare at her, to accuse her of creating this great gout of lust that threatened his control. She gasped. Her hands came up and pushed against his chest, though he noted she was careful to avoid his wounded side. “I told you, you are safe with me.”
“Yes, always.”
He let his weight swing forward so that the only thing keeping them apart was her hands braced against his chest. He ignored the trickle of pain along his side. The heat of brandy and verbena flared into desire. “I’m going up in flames. Olivia.”
“My lord—” Her eyes widened.
“You have the same dreams I do, don’t you? Is this what you’re dreaming right now? My hands on your body, my mouth on you.” He cupped her face. “We should make love and have done with it. He’ll be happy then. I’ll wager you’re snug in that room of yours having this very same dream.”
“Please.”
He held her gaze and put a finger on one of the fastenings at the front of her gown. He did hope they weren’t decorative. “Please, what?” He slipped the button free of the loop of fabric. “Stop?” Methodically, he continued with another and another. “I will if you say so. All you have to do is say yes.”
He heard her breath leaving her lungs while he pushed aside the two halves of her bodice. She wore a chemise of ivory linen, round at the neck with shoulders no more than two fingers in width. No lace, ribbon or tucks. Plain linen. Her corset pushed her bosom upward, but made a further exploration a matter of some struggle and disappointment.
“My lord.” Her whisper trembled in the air.
“What?”
“Is this real?”
“I don’t know. What’s more, I don’t give a damn if it is or not. You feel so good.” He put a hand on her throat, the palm of his hand just above the swell of her bosom, curling his fingers around and sliding them upward until her chin tipped toward him. Her hands fell to her sides and because of his position, landed on his thighs. “Olivia.”
He leaned forward and kissed her mouth, trapping her against him while he fought to loosen his cuffs. She sighed against his lips, and he kissed her. Her fingers tightened over the large muscles of his thigh. He got one cufflink through his sleeve and with the dangling cuff, slid his hands down to just beneath her shoulder blades.
“Sod it,” he said, tugging on the other shirtcuff until he felt it give. He curled one arm around her, holding her close so that when he pulled away and rolled to put his back against the sofa, he brought her with him, reversing their position. She straddled him. Her eyes went wide. She braced her palms against his shoulders to keep herself from falling onto him. His thighs parted, further separating her legs. He slipped a hand to the back of her head and brought her mouth to within inches of his own. He needed her. He angled his other hand, which lay at the small of her back, around to her waist.
“I want you to call my name,” he said. His fingers pressed against her waist and came around to her rib cage. He swept a thumb over her breast, pressing upward, stroking, moving, until her eyes dazed. “Say my name, Olivia.”
“My lord.” She gasped, and he heard confusion and wonder and passion in the sound.
“Not that,” he murmured. He struggled with fastenings of his upper clothes, pulling at his shirt. “Captain Alexander. Say, ‘yes, Captain Alexander, I will do whatever you ask.” The other cufflink refused to come apart. A tug and the bit of metal flew through the air to land God knew where.
“Captain Alexander.”
“That’s it,” he said, at last letting his mouth brush over hers. She let out a cry when he stood up with her in his arms. Slowly, he slid her down and stood with his hands on her shoulders.
“Let me go,” she said, eyes wide and staring past his shoulder. Her fingers trembled while she tried to rearrange the front of her gown. “Fix your shirt, my lord.”
“I’ll never let you go,” he said. “Never in a thousand years.”
“My lord,” she whispered. Her shaking hands plucked at his shirt, trying to put him to rights, too. “Price is at the door.”
Sebastian cursed.
“My lord.” Hell. Indeed his butler’s voice.
He took a long, deep breath before he turned his head toward the door. “Yes, Price?”
“Captain Clinton Egremont has arrived.”