Chapter Thirteen
As Oliver and Freddy pulled away from the Blue Swan, Oliver paid little heed to the lad’s chatter about his spectacular meal. All he could hear was Maria calling him my lord, as if she hadn’t just been trembling in his arms.
And the look on her face! Had she been insulted? Or just ashamed? How the devil had she stayed so collected, when he’d felt ready to explode after seeing her find her pleasure so sweetly in his arms? He’d actually come in his trousers, like a randy lad with no control over his urges. Now he had to keep his cloak buttoned up until he could reach Halstead Hall and change his clothes.
She’d made light of their encounter, damn her. Though I thank you for the lesson in passion . . . Had it meant nothing more to her? Apparently not, since she’d said, It isn’t something we should repeat.
Though the idea grated, she was right. They should stay apart, for his sake as well as hers. He’d actually offered to make her his mistress! He, who’d never kept a mistress in his life, who’d joked to his friends that mistresses were more trouble than they were worth since one woman was as good as another.
He’d always been driven by the fear that a mistress might tempt him to let down his guard and reveal his secrets. Then even his family would desert him, and he couldn’t bear that.
Even with his friends, he kept the strongbox of his secrets firmly closed. But with Maria . . .
He stared out the window, trying to figure out at what point in their conversation he’d lost all good sense. Had it been when she’d said she didn’t believe the gossip about him? Or before that, when she’d chastised Pinter for telling it to her?
No. Astonishing as those things had been, what had prompted his rash offer was the lost look on her face after he’d pointed out that Hyatt might not wish to be found. Even now he could see the fear rising in her eyes, much like the fear he’d seen in Mother’s eyes—of being inconsequential, unwanted.
And suddenly he’d desired nothing more than to make Maria feel wanted.
Not that he’d succeeded very well. She could hardly be flattered that he wanted her only for a mistress. He hadn’t meant it to insult her—he’d just been utterly swept up in the idea of her and him in a cottage together somewhere, without the rest of the world to muddy their lives.
Marriage meant jointures and pin money and siring an heir to continue the dynasty. A cottage meant just him and Maria.
What a fool he was. Even a woman with Maria’s low connections wanted more. And he couldn’t give it. The very thought of attempting it made him ill, because he could never make her happy. He would muck it up, and the legacy of misery would go on.
But he’d be damned if he’d watch her throw herself away on that fool Hyatt. She deserved better than an indifferent fiancé who had no clue how to make her eyes darken in passion as she shuddered and trembled and gave her mouth so sweetly . . .
He groaned. He shouldn’t have gone so far with her. It had frightened her. Worse yet, his reaction to it bloody well terrified him—because he’d give a great deal to be able to do it again. He’d never felt that way for any other woman.
Freddy was still blathering on, and suddenly a word arrested him.
“What was that you said?” Oliver asked.
“The beefsteak needed a bit more salt—”
“Before that,” he ground out.
“Oh. Right. There was a chap in that club claiming he was your cousin. Mr. Desmond Plumtree, I think.”
His stomach sank. When had Desmond gained member-ship at such a selective club? Did it mean the bastard was finally becoming accepted in society?
“Though if you ask me,” Freddy went on, “with family like him, who needs enemies? Insulting fellow. Told me a bunch of nonsense about how you’d killed your father and everybody knew it.” Freddy sniffed. “I told him he was a scurrilous lout, and if he couldn’t see that you were a good sort of chap, then he was as blind as a town crier with a broken lantern. And he didn’t belong in the Blue Swan with all those amiable gents, neither.”
For a moment, speech utterly failed Oliver. He could only imagine Desmond’s reaction to that little lecture. “And . . . er . . . what did he say?”
“He looked surprised, then muttered something about playing cards and trotted off to a card room. Good riddance, too—he was eating up all the macaroons.”
Oliver gaped at him, then began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You and Maria—don’t you Americans ever pay attention to gossip?”
“Well, sure, if it makes sense. But that didn’t make sense. If everybody knew you’d killed your father, you’d have been hanged by now. Since you’re sitting right here, you can’t have done it.” Freddy tapped his forehead. “Simple logic is all.”
“Right,” Oliver said. “Simple logic.” A lump caught in his throat. Maria’s defending him was one thing; she was a woman and softhearted, though that had certainly never kept any other woman from gossiping about him.
But to have an impressionable pup like Freddy defend him . . . he didn’t know whether to scoff at the fellow’s naïveté or clap him on the shoulder and pronounce him a “good sort of chap” as well.
“Oh, look,” Freddy said, already on to the next subject as they pulled up before the shop. “It appears that Mopsy is done shopping already, thank God.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. Either “Mopsy” chose her clothes with less care than most females, or something was amiss.
After they left the coach, a few short words with the shopkeeper revealed that Maria had traded her mourning gowns to pay for the new ones, which had left her with a decidedly smaller clothing budget than she needed. He understood pride, but this was too much.
“My fiancée isn’t finished shopping,” he told the shopkeeper. “With a whole trousseau to buy, she needs quite a few more items.”
“Oliver, please,” Maria hissed under her breath as she drew him aside. “They’ll think—”
“That I can afford to outfit my fiancée properly? I hope they do.” He used the only argument that might influence her. “Otherwise, they’ll assume I’m even more in debt than has been rumored. Of course, if you enjoy watching people heap gossip on me . . .”
“Certainly not!” With a glance at the shopkeeper, she lowered her voice. “But I don’t want to bear any greater obligation to you than I already do.”
“Now you sound like Pinter.”
Her gaze shot to his, full of concern. “I didn’t mean—”
“I owe you clothes,” he clipped out. “There’s no obligation. Especially with Pinter refusing to charge me a fee.” Besides, he wanted to see her dressed well, with her beautiful blue eyes complemented by a gown of periwinkle silk, and her fine bosom displayed properly so she felt no need to hide it with a stupid pelerine.
Not that he could tell her that. It would only alarm her.
“No one will believe that I would betroth myself to a woman who dresses poorly,” he went on. “We must preserve the illusion. I thought Gran would surely relent the first night when I passed you off as a . . . woman of a certain kind, but she didn’t. When she sees me spending money on you, she’ll have to believe I’m serious.”
He could see her wavering, so he pressed his advantage. “If you don’t let me do this, I’ll assume that I insulted you earlier in the carriage.”
Blushing deeply, she dropped her gaze to his chest. “You didn’t insult me. I let it go on when I shouldn’t have.”
“You did nothing wrong,” he said sharply. “I’m the one who behaved badly, and to make amends for that, I’m more than willing to buy you a few fripperies.” Without waiting for further protests, he turned to the shopkeeper and said, “Miss Butterfield has agreed that she needs a more extensive wardrobe.”
“Very good, sir. I have some special items I’ve been holding in the back. With a few alterations, I believe they would fit your fiancée.” As the shopkeeper hurried off to fetch them, Oliver bent close to whisper, “If it will soothe your fears, I withdraw my earlier offer to make you my mistress. I meant no insult, and I wish you to be easy on that score.”
“Thank you,” she said, though she didn’t look as relieved as he’d expected.
He didn’t feel as relieved as he’d expected, either.
Now he had to watch her try on respectable gowns more suited to her station. That further muddied the waters, reminding him that no matter how exquisitely she’d come apart in his arms, she was still respectable. Suddenly, the woman he’d felt free to caress most inappropriately had become one of those women—the ones he avoided, the untouchable virgins. Something he must not forget again.
Two hours later, they left the dress shop with an abundance of gowns and other necessities. He’d been able to indulge her in shawls and reticules and shoes, though it irritated him to have to buy them in so mean a place. Mrs. Tweedy’s might be the best of the secondhand shops, but it was still secondhand.
He wanted to see her dressed in expensive silks of the latest fashions, with costly jewels about her neck. It was a mad desire he’d never experienced, never having cared how his bed partners dressed. But the wistful look she’d cast at items she’d obviously felt were beyond his purse made something clench in his gut.
Which was precisely why he’d never taken a mistress. Once a woman tugged at your sympathies, you were lost. She could twist you about her fingers like twine in a cat’s cradle. From there, it was only a short step to opening up the strongbox and letting her see your secrets . . . and finding yourself hated for them.
Their ride back to Ealing was quiet. She avoided looking at him, while he couldn’t seem to stop looking at her. He tried to engage her in conversation, but the tart-tongued angel was in hiding, and he didn’t know how to get her back. Even Freddy must have realized that something had changed, for he kept his inane chatter to a minimum. By the time they reached Halstead Hall, Oliver’s nerves were on edge.
He was relieved that he could excuse himself to go work in his study on the ledgers he’d ignored last night, but he didn’t get very far. Even after an hour of turning pages and noting transactions, he kept hearing Maria’s sighs of pleasure, kept seeing her teasing smile as she said, “Would you offer to ravish me?”
Damned right he would.
A knock came at the door, jerking him from his disturbing reverie. As he glanced at the clock, shocked to discover that two hours had passed, Jarret entered and strolled over to the desk.
“Amazing,” the scapegrace said. “When the servant said you were in here working, I thought surely I’d misheard him.”
“Very amusing. If we’re to live here even for a few weeks, some matters must be handled.” Leaning back, he arched one eyebrow at his brother. “Unless you want to take over the task. You’re better at numbers than I am.”
Jarret turned the ledger so he could glance at it. “I don’t know. Appears to me that you know a thing or two.” He plopped down in the chair opposite Oliver. “Besides, I’m riding into town tomorrow to spend my Saturday at the Blue Swan. Kirkwood’s brother will be there, and you know he always plays deep.”
“And badly, too, when he’s in his cups—a fact that you take advantage of.”
With a shrug, Jarret folded his hands over his midsection. “I thought I should make some attempt to add to the family coffers.”
“Then you’d be better off playing cards with bankers, not barristers. It will take more than anything Giles Masters can offer to dig us out of this hole.”
“Interesting that you should say that. Minerva told me last night about Miss Butterfield’s missing fiancé. So I had a little chat with young Freddy this morning, and learned that Miss Butterfield is due to come into a tidy fortune, assuming she doesn’t marry her Mr. Hyatt. Were you aware of that?”
Oliver poured himself a glass of brandy from the decanter on the desk. “I don’t know how tidy it will be. How much could one small shipping company in America be worth?”
“Have you really never heard of New Bedford Ships?”
“Why should I have?” He drank some brandy. “It’s not exactly an industry I’m familiar with.”
“Well, it happens to be an industry I invest in when I have extra funds, which isn’t often.”
Jarret was an excellent gambler and generally won more than he lost, but he had a deplorable habit of risking too much from time to time, which often sank him in the end. Oliver had never understood it; his brother seemed compelled to tempt Fate.
“I rode into town earlier to talk to my sources,” Jarret went on, “to see what I could learn about the company. By all accounts, New Bedford Ships is worth a quarter of a million pounds. Assuming that she gets half, she’ll come into a cool 125,000 pounds.”
Oliver choked on his brandy. “You’ve got to be joking.”
“I never joke about money.”
It took Oliver a moment to register that incredible bit of news. “Is she aware that it’s so much?”
“I don’t think so. Freddy speculated that it might be as much as ‘ten thousand dollars,’ which the pup seemed to think was an enormous amount. I gather that her father was the frugal sort, and she was kept in the dark about many things concerning his business.”
Oliver knew why, too. He’d already figured out that Adam Butterfield had wanted to run his daughter’s life even from beyond the grave. The man must have known that if she were aware of the magnitude of her fortune, she might balk at his choice for a husband.
It also explained why Hyatt had agreed to marry her despite showing her no real affection. If she chose to sell her half, he probably couldn’t afford to buy it, so marriage was clearly more advantageous to Hyatt. And less advantageous to her.
He scowled at the thought.
“So you see, my dear brother,” Jarret continued, “the answer to our problems is right before you. You could forget about the pretense and marry her for real. That would solve all our problems.”
A cold rage seized Oliver. “It would also make me as bad as Father.”
“Of course it bothers me! He practically drove Mother to the grave.” Though Oliver had given the final push. “You can forget my marrying Miss Butterfield for her money.” The very idea sickened him.
“Then perhaps you shouldn’t be attempting to seduce her in your carriage,” Jarret said in a steely voice.
Oliver froze. “I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.” Jarret’s face wore that stiff look he sometimes got whenever people insulted their sisters within his hearing. “John informed me that you and Miss Butterfield were stopped in front of the dress shop for several minutes with the curtains closed and without Freddy in attendance. He also said that when you finally emerged, Miss Butterfield was quite agitated.”
Oliver’s fury found a new object. “I see I’ll have to have a word with my gossiping servant. He’s well paid to keep his mouth shut.”
“All the money in the world won’t keep a good man silent when something offends his conscience. Besides, he seems to like Miss Butterfield.” Jarret’s tone hardened. “We all do. You know damned well that she isn’t one of your opera dancers whom you can toy with and cast aside. She’s a respectable woman. If you’re so determined not to be like Father, perhaps you should remember that the next time you think to put your hands on her.”
The fact that Jarret had a point didn’t dim Oliver’s fury one bit. “You don’t know anything about her.”
“Are you saying she’s not respectable?”
“No, damn it! I’m saying . . .” He strove to contain his temper, which was unreasonably high. “That ass Hyatt wants to marry her for her money, and she’s letting herself be coaxed into it out of some sense of duty to her father or some foolish hope that it will turn out well. I have to convince her she’s making a mistake.”
“I can think of better ways to do that than seducing her,” Jarret said dryly. “Try talking to her instead. You might even spend time getting to know her. I realize that’s not your usual style, but you might have more success if you treat her like the reasonable female she seems to be, instead of another conquest.”
“I’m not treating her like—” He caught himself before he said too much. “Thank you for the advice, but I know how to comport myself with Maria.”
“That remains to be seen.” Jarret rose, then bent to plant his hands on the desk. “But know this—none of us will stand by and let you ruin a young woman just to provoke Gran.”
Oliver shot to his feet. That his brother thought him capable of such a thing infuriated him, as did being lectured by him. It had never happened before, and he wasn’t about to allow it now.
Leaning forward until he and Jarret were eye to eye over the desk, he growled, “And what the deuce do you think you can do to stop me from acting as I please?”
A grim smile touched Jarret’s lips. “I could attempt to steal her from you.”
Somewhere in the recesses of his sanity, Oliver knew he was being baited, yet it made no difference. Just the idea of Jarret seeking to engage Maria’s affections crushed his usual control.
“If you lay a hand on her,” he ground out, “Gabe won’t be the only one wearing a sling in this family.”
With an enigmatic look, Jarret pushed back from the desk. “Fine.” His eyes turned to ice. “But be warned—the rest of us intend to make sure that you never lay a hand on her, either.” Without waiting for a response, he strode from the room.
Oliver stood there shaking while anger and some other, indefinable emotion swept through him. The sheer audacity of his brother—to command what he must do! It was laughable. And to think that his most loyal footman had dared—
All the money in the world won’t keep a good man silent when something offends his conscience.
He grimaced. John’s conscience must have been offended indeed, if he’d gone to Jarret about it. And the very fact that the footman had guessed at what had been going on made Oliver’s blood run cold. Why hadn’t he realized what his servants would think?
Suddenly he remembered the look on Maria’s face when he’d said that the servants understood not to open the door when the curtains were closed.
Dropping into the chair, he stared blindly at the fireplace. What was wrong with him? He’d thought himself guilty only of insulting and frightening her, but he’d been guilty of so much more. No wonder she’d behaved so differently after leaving the carriage. No wonder she’d balked at his purchasing gowns for her. He’d practically proclaimed her one of his whores before his servants, and she was damned sensitive about that.
With good reason, of course. She was a respectable woman. And an heiress. A very rich heiress.
Damn it all to hell. He hadn’t guessed she was worth so much. And if she didn’t realize it herself, she was even more susceptible to being taken advantage of by that scoundrel Hyatt.
Oliver downed the rest of his brandy, then set the glass firmly on the desk. He had to save her from the man. He owed her that for her help with Gran.
When this was done, Miss Maria Butterfield would no longer be shackled to some ambitious weasel with an eye on her fortune. Not if he could help it
HETTY WAS AWAKENED from a doze in a chair by the sound of a door opening. She was about to make herself known to whoever had entered the library when someone else entered, too, and she heard Minerva say, “Well? What do you think? Am I right about Oliver and Miss Butterfield?”
Shrinking into the chair, she prayed she wouldn’t be noticed in the corner.
“It certainly looks that way.” It was Jarret’s voice. “He does seem to have genuine feelings for her. I’ve never witnessed him act like that over a woman. You should have seen him—ready to strike me when I suggested going after her myself.”
“What a brilliant touch!” Minerva cried. “I told you he liked her. And I’ll hazard a guess that she likes him, too. I went up to her room after they got back, and she blushed furiously when I asked if Oliver had behaved himself.”
“That’s the problem. Liking her is one thing, but whether he’ll act on the attraction honorably is another matter entirely. Oliver isn’t used to being around a woman he’s not allowed to . . . er . . .”
“Take to bed.”
Hetty blinked.
“My God, Minerva, don’t say things like that! You’re not supposed to know about such matters.”
“Pish posh. I could hardly grow up with a rogue for a father and three rogue brothers without hearing a few things.”
Hetty had to chomp on the inside of her cheek to stifle her laugh.
“Well, at least pretend you don’t know, will you?” Jarret grumbled. “One day you’ll say something like that in public and give me heart failure.”
“We have to find a way to push them together,” Minerva said. “You know perfectly well that if Oliver marries, Gran will forget this ridiculous idea of hers about the rest of us marrying. She just wants him to produce an heir.”
Hetty’s eyebrows shot high. Her granddaughter had a big surprise coming down the road.
“And you’re willing to throw him under the wheels of the coach to save yourself, is that it?” Jarret quipped.
“No!” Her voice softened. “You and I both know he needs someone to drag him out of himself. Or he’s just going to get scarier as he gets older.” She paused. “Did you tell him about Miss Butterfield’s being an heiress?”
That certainly arrested Hetty’s attention. She hadn’t dreamed that the girl had money.
“Yes, but I fear that might have been a mistake—when I suggested that he marry her for her fortune, he got angry.”
Of course he got angry, you fool, Hetty thought with a roll of her eyes. Honestly, did her grandson know nothing about his brother?
“For goodness sake, Jarret, you weren’t supposed to suggest that. You were supposed to get him concerned that she might fall prey to fortune hunters.”
At least Minerva had a brain.
“Damn,” Jarret said. “Then I probably shouldn’t have exaggerated the amount.”
“Oh, Lord.” Minerva sighed. “By how much?”
“I kind of . . . tripled it.”
Minerva released an unladylike oath. “Why did you do that? Now he won’t go near her. Haven’t you noticed how much he hates talk of marrying for money?”
“Men say things like that, but in the end they’re practical.”
“Not Oliver! You’ve just ruined everything!”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Jarret said. “Besides, I have a plan—I laid the seeds for it before I even left Oliver’s study. Come, let’s go talk to the others. It will take all of us working together.” His voice receded as the two of them apparently left the room. “If we merely . . .”
Hetty strained to hear, but she lost the thread of the conversation. Not that it mattered.
A smile tugged at her mouth. It appeared she would not have to carry off this match alone. All she need do was sit back and watch Jarret work on Oliver. In the meantime, she would let Minerva go on thinking that finding Oliver a wife would solve their dilemma. That would spur the girl to try harder.
In the end, it didn’t matter why or how they managed it, as long as they did. Thank God her grandchildren had inherited her capacity for scheming. It made her proud.
So Oliver thought he was going to get around her this time, did he? Well, he was in for a shock. This time he had more than just her to worry about. And with every one of the Sharpe children on Miss Butterfield’s side? She laughed.
Poor Oliver didn’t stand a chance.