CHAPTER EIGHT
fter she had overcome the worst symptoms of withdrawal, Olivia began working tirelessly to regain her strength. It was as if, now that the fog of laudanum had lifted, she could see the world, the people in it, and herself far clearer.
Things were not perfect; she had not been cured of the malady of her mind as far as she could tell. Even so, she felt stronger now, more capable of fighting it, or living with it—whichever came easier at any given moment. Her dreams were still plagued by frightening tricks of her subconscious mingled with her memories. She could not close her eyes without being tormented by her demon, his clawed fingers smeared with her blood, dark malice glittering in his hard, cold eyes. She could not sleep without the voice of the dragon echoing through her head, calling her a whore, condemning her to Hell for having become pregnant out of wedlock.
Despite that, she rose each morning determined to find peace in her waking hours, making her way to some place where she could live without fear, or doubt, or pain. Her body had been weakened by her bout of withdrawal, requiring her to take her time leaving the sickbed. She sent Maeve to the kitchen each morning for a substantial breakfast, forcing herself to eat every bite so she would have a full belly to rely on for strength. Then, she insisted upon leaving the bed to bathe, dress, and walk. Clutching tight to the arm of whomever had been chosen to attend her, she attempted to make her way farther beyond her bedchamber each day.
The betrayal of her own body was frustrating, but she grew more and more determined not to let it stop her. She had been frail and helpless for so long, drowning in her own misery. Now, she wanted nothing more than to swim to the surface, pull herself up out of the mire, and stand upon her own two feet.
A physician had come to inspect the gouges in her arms, declaring he was happy with the rate at which they’d begun healing. The stitches still itched like the very devil, but the time had not come to remove them. Aside from that minor annoyance, the pain had grown far less noticeable, only pestering her when she dwelled on it overmuch—which actually proved to be a good thing, at times. The pain reminded her of what was real; that she was not only alive, but living.
Niall remained steadfastly at her side through it all—holding her during the nights when her hellish nightmares awakened her so she felt safe, brightening her room with flowers brought from the garden, ensuring she got to spend as much time with Serena as possible. Seeing the two of them seated on the edge of her bed, smiling and laughing as they related the events of their day to her, made her heart pang with a bittersweet ache.
She had always imagined moments like this, with Niall and a child that was theirs, with laughter and love and happiness. Seeing the way Serena adored him, the way Niall treated her as if she were his own … it made her want to smile and weep all at once. Despite the heartwarming picture they made, the truth of their situation was never far from her mind. Too much had happened for her to ever forget that nothing had turned out the way she’d dreamed. Niall was not her husband, and Serena, who she loved so dearly, was not theirs. Not by blood, or by any sort of physical or familial bond, anyway. There would always be the startling show of red hair and freckled cheeks to remind them both exactly where Serena had come from.
It left her wondering if it might not be too late for her and Niall; if even after she’d begun to feel more like herself, they might still be doomed to remain apart. A younger, more whimsical Olivia might have said that nothing was impossible, and of course she and Niall still stood a chance. Perhaps a part of her still believed that, as the young, idyllic woman who’d fallen in love with a stable groom could never be completely snuffed out by all that had been done to her. However, now older and wiser, she could not help dwelling on all that had happened to keep them apart, their past deeds and the consequences of them stretching between them like a wide, deep ocean.
As she would lay abed, snuggling Serena close to her side while Niall read to them each night before bed, a part of her could not help clinging to the future they had planned together. The one in which they ran off to live their own life neatly tucked away from the world, where they could raise their children in peace, loomed so far out of her reach. Still, she wanted it, held out hope that it could someday cease being a dream and become real.
However, her hope was a fragile one—as tentative and weak as the newly tested legs of a baby deer. It had not become strong enough for her to rely upon it, to rest her faith in it … because experience had taught her that every time she’d thought she might finally have what she wanted with Niall, something would inevitably happen to destroy it, tearing them apart.
She was not certain if, this time, she would have the strength to survive it.
1814
Five years earlier…
Olivia glanced left and right as she entered the stable, her heart lifting as she realized no one else was about. It had been her hope to find Niall alone so she could discover whether he’d had time to plan their elopement. Days had passed since their last night in the hayloft, the night they had agreed to throw caution and propriety to the wind so that they could be together. She had awakened just before sunrise, finding that Niall still slept beside her. After pressing a kiss to his brow, she had risen to dress, hurrying from the stable so that she could sneak back into her own chambers before anyone was the wiser. She had been a bit more reckless than usual, spending most of the night with Niall instead of going back to her own bed after a few hours of passionate exploration. However, she hadn’t had it in her to feel fear or trepidation over it; not after the decision they had just come to. Nothing mattered any longer—not society’s expectations of her, or her stepfather’s plans for her life. None of it mattered because, soon, she was going to be Niall’s wife, and the only thing she would need concern herself with was his happiness.
A little laugh bubbled up in her throat as she entered the stable, the familiar scent of horse and hay wafting up her nostrils. She did not think she had ever been so happy, or felt so free. For so long, she had been aware that her life must happen a certain way, her course charted before she’d been old enough to have a say. She’d accepted this because she hadn’t known any better, hadn’t experienced what it was to wonder what could happen next, where her own choices could take her. Now, she would know. Life with Niall might be riddled with uncertainties and difficult decisions, but what mattered most was that they would navigate those things together. If she’d be forced to abandon her way of life, leaving behind everything she’d ever known, Niall was the only person she’d want to do that with.
The setting sun cast a muted orange glow into the dim interior of the stable. She found Niall coming from one of the stalls, a saddle held over one big shoulder, his long legs propelling him toward the set of sliding doors that opened the stable up to the carriage house. Even with his back turned to her, she could see the tension stiffening his shoulders and clenching his free hand into a tight ball at his side. Something troubled him.
“Niall,” she called out, hurrying toward him with skirts held in hand. “I’ve been trying to find you alone for days.”
He paused in the opening to the carriage house, and if she weren’t mistaken, he tensed even more, his entire body winding taut. She frowned as he stood with his back to her for a moment without speaking or turning around, his head lowering slightly and his clenched hand opening and closing in rhythmic spasms. Something was definitely wrong.
“Niall?”
He dropped the saddle to the ground, sending a small cloud of dust wafting up into the air. With a heavy sigh, he turned to face her, his face hard and expressionless as if carved from granite. For reasons she could not understand, her stomach lurched, her heartbeat quickening at the sight of him. Having known him all of her life, Olivia had seen Niall in just about every mood imaginable. She had been witness to his anger and rage, his sadness, his grief following the death of his mother. She’d seen him smiling and laughing; she had even seen him weep. But this … she had never seen him like this—his mouth a harsh line, eyes ringed with dark circles, forehead furrowed with deep lines. He appeared to have aged by years in a matter of days, the grave expression he wore reminding her too much of her stepfather.
“Ye shouldnae be in here,” he said, folding his arms over his chest and staring down at her in a way that made her blood run cold.
What the devil was the matter with him?
“Why not? I thought you might have come up with a plan for … well, you know.”
She did not want to say it aloud on the chance someone happened upon them. There was another reason she could not say it, though she still did not fully understand. This dread opening like a yawning, black pit in her middle warned her that something had gone terribly awry.
A muscle in his jaw clenched as he took a step toward her, his gaze cutting through her with all the sharpness of a dagger. “Ye cannae think I really meant any of that, could ye?”
A gasp burned in her throat, trapped there by the tightening of her airway. Something indescribable traveled through her, like ripples over the surface of a pond. It made her head spin and her mouth go dry, confusion swirling with hurt inside of her in a torrent.
“Wh-what do you mean?” she stammered. “You said …”
“I told ye we cannae do somethin’ so stupid,” he snapped. “Then, ye wouldnae leave well enough alone, so I said what I thought ye wanted to hear, Livvie. But we both know it was ridiculous. Us, get married? It’ll never happen.”
Her eyes stung with tears that would not come, a sudden coldness washing over her like the blast of a winter wind. A thousand icicles seemed to penetrate the surface of her skin, making it difficult to feel anything beyond the sick sensation of betrayal.
“I do not understand. I … you … I thought you loved me. You said—”
“God, yer a green one, aren’t ye? I’da said anything to get ye to spread yer legs for me.”
In the far reaches of her mind, a part of her railed and screamed, urging her to hit him, to lash out and hurt him the way he’d just hurt her. But, she could only stand there, dumbfounded, feeling as if she stared at some other person. This man saying such horrible things to her … he was not her Niall.
“Why are you doing this?” she whispered as the first of her tears fell.
If at all possible, his expression hardened even more, his upper lip curling as he loomed over her. “Because it has to be done. We had fun, Livvie, but it was never meant to last. Ye know that. It’s over now, ye ken?”
She sniffled, shaking her head as another tear fell, and then another, the hot splash searing her face, her throat, wetting the neckline of her gown. “I do not believe you. You love me, Niall. I know you do. You’re just afraid. What we’re about to do … it is frightening. But, we will be all right. We have each other, we … we can do this.”
He took hold of her, his fingers biting into her arms as he drew her up until they were nearly nose to nose, her feet just barely touching the ground. “Ye just dinnae get it, ye little fool. I’m done with ye now. Go away!”
She gripped the front of his shirt and held fast, not caring now how ridiculous she might look or sound. He could not do this, not when they had been so close to finally being happy together. She was convinced this was fear talking; he did not truly mean the things he said. He was trying to push her away, the noble idiot. He thought hurting her would make it easier, that if he made her hate him, it would be over for good. Little did he know she could not have hated him if she’d tried with every fiber of her being.
“No. I will not go away. Not when I know you do not really mean any of it. You are afraid, and so am I. But, we cannot give in to it, Niall. We have to face it, overcome it together. And I know that we can do it, you and I. You are still my strong, fearless knight … I know you are. And I … I love you.”
He made a little shocked sound, his face shifting for just a moment before he schooled it into its hard mask again—as if he hadn’t meant to display his astonishment. She had never said the words to him aloud because, like Niall, she had been petrified. Why should she confess her love when she’d be forced to leave him in the end? Perhaps he had always known. She liked to believe he had. But, she needed him to understand, to hear what she’d never said but had always understood. She felt as if she’d been born to love him and belong to him.
“No,” he rasped, shaking his head, his hold on her tightening until it began to hurt. “Ye dinnae love me. How could ye? I was always just a diversion for ye. The dirty, lowly stable boy ye could coerce into fuckin’ ye—”
“No, that isn’t true!”
“It is! Ye know it’s true! Ye’re always beggin’ me for more … ‘please, Niall … take me, Niall … fuck me, Niall’ … like the little tart ye are. And when ye were done with me, I s’pose ye might have made yer way through the footmen next!”
Each word fell on her like a physical blow, and still, she did her best to remain strong in the face of it, to get through to him no matter what.
“You do not believe that,” she managed between sobs. “I know better, and so do you.”
“Ye dinnae know anything, and that’s yer problem. Yer just a little girl livin’ in a fantasy. So let me tell ye how it is going to be. Yer gonna go to London and have yer bloody Season. Ye’re gonna dance and drink champagne and flirt with those fancy lairds until ye find one ye like. Ye’ll let him court ye and woo ye, and when he asks ye to wed him, ye’ll say yes. Ye’ll go off to some big country mansion and host parties and have his bairns and be a grand lady like ye were raised to be. And ye’ll forget about me.”
She shook her head. “No … I won’t.”
“Ye will,” he insisted, giving her a shake so hard, it rattled her teeth. “Grow up, Livvie. Take a good look around ye. We are in a stable. This is where I belong. Ye belong in London with men who have titles and money and … just go. We’re done. It is over.”
He set her away from him then, taking a step back, then another, his chest heaving and a thick vein standing out along the side of his neck. He was trembling, even the clench of his hands not enough to keep her from seeing it. The tears were coming so fast, she had no hope of trying to stifle them. But, why should she? He had to know how this hurt her, how devastating it was to experience the sting of scorn from someone who had only ever handled her with affection and care.
“You are a coward,” she sobbed, swiping the back of her hand across her watery eyes. “I could never have thought it true, but I can see now that it is. You’re a bloody coward!”
Setting his gaze someplace beyond her, he shrugged one shoulder as if what she’d said—as if she herself—meant nothing to him.
“And ye’re a spoiled, petulant little brat. Now, go. I cannae even stand the sight of ye anymore.”
The last of her defenses crumbled, his cruelty and coldness having destroyed them. She turned to flee, certain she might collapse at his feet and begin to beg in earnest if she did not get away from him. And what would that serve, other than to make her look like even more a fool than she already did? No, she must escape this with what was left of her dignity.
Still swiping at her eyes, she ran from the stable, her chest burning as she fought to breathe past the sobs ripping through her chest, compressing her lungs until she was certain she might collapse from lack of air. She ran, and did not stop running until she had burst into her chamber.
Maeve came rushing from the dressing room, eyes wide at the sight of Olivia, face reddened and streaked with tears. “Goodness, my lady! What’s happened? Are you all right?”
“Get out!” Olivia screamed, her body shaken from the force of the anger that came pouring out of her just then. “Get out and leave me alone!”
She did not make a habit of treating servants badly and had never raised her voice at Maeve. Thankfully, the maid must have realized she only needed to be left alone and fled without another word.
The moment the dressing room door clicked shut, she crumbled to her knees, every bit of what she’d tried to hold back rushing out of her all at once. She sobbed like some wounded animal, the sounds she made foreign and shrill, echoing from the walls and ceiling. Tears raced down her face and neck like rivers of fire, her cries tearing her fragile body with a force that left her breathless. Before long, she could not even hold herself up anymore, lying down upon the floor as her crying quieted to hiccups and pants, her tears drying upon her face. Curling into herself, she closed her eyes and tried to pull herself back together, to mend what Niall had just torn to pieces.
“I hate him,” she whispered, her voice gone hoarse from crying. “I hate him, I hate him!”
But, even as she spat the words, they made her feel no better. They were not true. She did not hate him, could never bring herself to hate him.
Nevertheless, he had spurned her, tossed her aside, and made it clear that the future she had wanted with him would never happen. She did not know what had caused this, if it were something she had done, or if she was right to assume that Niall had simply grown afraid. Couldn’t he see that she was afraid, too? But, she had been willing to face it all as long as she’d had him. Now, what was she to do?
Thank goodness Adam was not here, having set off for his Grand Tour days prior. She would not see him again for at least two years, his travels taking him to faraway and exciting places. Before leaving, he had asked her what she wanted, if she were certain she knew what she was doing with Niall. Adam had no idea of the depth of her love for their friend, nor was he privy to their plans to elope. She had tried to make light of her dalliance with Niall, insisting that she knew it could not last, all the while praying that it would. When he had asked her what she wanted for her life, the answer had been simple.
“Happiness, I suppose,” she had told him. “In whatever way I can find it.”
And that was exactly what she would do. This hurt more than anything she had ever experienced. It would probably always hurt, though like any other wound, would become less painful over time. She would find the strength, day by day, to put Niall behind her and force her memories of him into the deepest, darkest corner of her mind.
Happiness … she would find it without him. She no longer had any choice.
London would give her the chance to start over. There, she would become a new person. She would be beautiful and charming enough to catch the eye of a good man. Perhaps not a man as perfect as Niall … but he would care for her. He would treat her well and please her stepfather with his connections and wealth. She would marry him and go on to do all the things that would be expected of her. And somehow, she would find a way to be content with her lot in life. She would do it if it killed her.
“Good-bye, Niall,” she whispered as the setting sun began casting her room into darkness. “I hope someday you can be happy, too.”
Two months in London did very little to cure Olivia of her melancholy. She spent her days paying calls, taking walks, exploring the city—which proved to be her favorite part of the entire experience. There were museums and parks, coffee houses, and Bond Street! There was always something to see, do, or explore … all under the watchful eye of her cousin or his wife. She would much rather have done it all with Adam, but could not begrudge him his time on the Continent.
She had already received a letter from him, filled with a recounting of his sea voyage and his first days in Paris. He’d promised to send her gifts from every stop and had thus far purchased a parasol, several silk fans, and a volume of poetry written in French just for her.
When writing him back, she kept her words light so he would not suspect the pain she hid. It would worry him to know she went about her first Season lonely and missing Niall. She would not ruin his trip by burdening him with her troubles. As well, it would destroy the men’s friendship, so she kept it all to herself. None of it mattered, anyway. She had come here to find a husband, and by the time Adam set foot back on English soil, Niall would be far behind her.
The evening was when the true husband hunt began, with weekly trips to Almack’s where she sipped watery lemonade and danced with the men who inspected her as if she were a prized mare. There were also the parties and balls she received invitations for. Being the sister of the rebellious future Earl of Hartmoor had her quite in demand, her social calendar always filled.
Between her busy days and whirlwind nights, she should not have time to pine after Niall. Yet, that was exactly what she did. Mostly at night when she lay alone in the dark, thinking of the times she’d spent in his arms. Their game of ‘what-ifs’ plagued her dreams, their whispered wishes floating up to the stars.
He had told her to forget about him. That proved harder than she could have ever thought. She’d met many men since coming to London, a handful of whom were genuinely interested in her. There was a viscount, the second son of a duke, and a baron … all three handsome, charming, wealthy, and possessing all their teeth. According to her dear friend, Avis, these were the most important qualities for one to consider while on the Marriage Mart. After all, a girl could wind up with a man old enough to be her father, or with a dying estate, or putrid breath.
Still, when she tried to picture life with any of these men, Olivia could not conjure any excitement over it. If only she could bring herself to feel something … anything other than friendship or camaraderie toward one of them. Instead, she could only compare them to Niall and find them lacking. While it was not well done of her, she still found herself wishing they were taller and broader in the shoulders. Their faces were too boyish, too smooth, lacking all the character and ruggedness of the visage she loved most. When their soft, gloved hands took hers, she longed for calloused fingers and a firm grip.
Each night before falling asleep, she would remind herself that she could not have what she truly wanted and must make do. If she could only find a man to take her mind off Niall, someone who made her feel … well, anything, then perhaps, she might stop feeling as if she would curl up and die.
Another month passed her by, then another, and day by day she began to lose hope. Oh, she was having a perfectly lovely time in London and rather thought she might enjoy living here instead of Edinburgh. She’d made wonderful friends, gotten to experience the opera and the theater and so many other exciting things. In truth, she found more comfort in her friends and new adventures than in the prospect of marriage, which still did not appeal. Thus far, she had rebuffed the viscount’s clumsy proposal and dashed the hopes of the son of the duke, who had hinted that he might be working himself up to offering for her. She liked both gentlemen well enough, but knew she’d never be happy with them.
Olivia had given up the husband hunt and settled on enjoying what time she had left in London when a hand tapping her upon the shoulder one evening at Almack’s changed everything.
She turned, fan fluttering to ward off the stifling heat. At first, she saw only a man’s waistcoat, having nearly bumped her nose against it turning to face someone standing far too close even in such a crowd.
But then, she glanced up, up past the white swirl of a whimsically tied cravat adorned with sapphire tiepin, into the face of the prettiest man she had ever seen.
His skin was pale and smooth like marble, emphasizing a shock of rich, auburn hair which fell over his forehead in a tumble of artful curls in the style of Byron. There was something decidedly haughty about his face. Though, it proved more alluring than off-putting. Perhaps that was because in the midst of those prominent cheekbones, straight nose, and angular jaw sat a merry pair of blue eyes. They matched his tiepin in their dark hue, and she wondered if he or his valet had achieved the effect on purpose.
“Pardon me,” he murmured, his affected accent as haughty as his face. “But I practically stepped on this a moment ago and thought it might belong to you.”
He raised one gloved hand, revealing that it held her beaded silk reticule. Raising her arm, she found that the string had snapped completely.
“Goodness,” she said, reaching out to accept it from him. “I am not certain how that happened!”
“Looks as if the string has frayed,” he remarked, reaching out to grasp her wrist and inspecting the broken cord.
“Th-thank you for returning it to me.”
His boldness took her aback, but she had the devil of a time pulling her arm away, or finding some way to demur. In a transition so smooth she’d hardly registered it until it had happened, he’d turned her hand over and lifted it, pressing his lips to her knuckles.
“Lord Bertram Fairchild,” he murmured, still hovering over her hand as he glanced expectantly up at her.
“L-Lady Olivia Goodall. How do you do?”
“Quite well at the moment,” he said, finally releasing her hand. “Though lacking for dance partners having arrived so late. Do not tell me your card is completely filled?”
This man’s charm served to put her at ease quite effectively. There was something about him that drew a smile from her as easily as a bee drew nectar from a flower. Lifting the hand he had just kissed, along with the broken string of her reticule and the silver dance card case tied around her wrist, she smiled.
“One dance left,” she told him as he opened the case.
As she’d said, the next to last dance had been left unclaimed, just above the waltz that she could not participate in. She had neatly marked it through with a line so that no one would attempt signing for it.
“No waltzing for you this year?” he asked while scribbling his name on her card.
“The patronesses have not permitted me to waltz this year. Perhaps next Season.”
“If someone hasn’t already made an honest woman of you by then, which I find unlikely.”
Her eyes went wide as he replaced the tiny pencil in her case and dropped it to dangle from her wrist. He was so nonchalant standing in the midst of the crowded assembly room, saying such bold things.
“Lord Fairchild …”
“Forgive me,” he said with another one of his bright smiles. “It is only that … well, if someone were to make off with you to the altar before I’ve come to know you, I should think it quite a tragedy.”
Olivia could only stare at him, slack-jawed, as he began backing away from her, gaze lingering on her face, then sweeping lower over her body. She shivered, experiencing the trickle of attraction down her spine for the first time since coming to London.
“Until our dance, Lady Olivia,” he said, giving her a wink. “I am looking forward to it.”
He disappeared into the crowd before she had a chance to respond. But, really, she did not think she would have been able to speak, her tongue stuck tight to the roof of her mouth.
She watched the top of his bright head float across the room, then blinked and forced herself to look away before her woolgathering attracted someone’s attention. She went off in search of more lemonade, her stomach doing a little flip at the thought of the upcoming dance with the mysterious and handsome young lord.
Had she, at last, found the man she might experience a romance of sorts with while in London? God, she hoped so. She’d grown weary of sadness and grief. She wanted dancing and smiles and secretive glances across the room.
Lord Bertram Fairchild had just become her best chance.