The minute Maria saw the regal dining room with its ornate plasterwork and walls of niches containing gorgeous marble statues, she had a fresh moment of panic. The long table was set with gold-chased goblets and fine china. The damask napkins might be frayed and the crystal finger bowls chipped, but there were pieces of silver on the table that she’d never even seen before, much less knew how to use. Meanwhile, several servants stood at the ready to do their master’s bidding.
Freddy, too, looked as if someone had just dropped him into a mathematics equation. How were they to navigate among such sophisticated people?
Especially given what they must think of her. It still mortified Maria to remember his sisters’ shocked looks when Oliver said they’d met in a brothel. She could never forgive him for that. She didn’t like being made a fool of, especially by a man who seemed to think that women existed only for his pleasure.
A wave of heat rose in her face. He’d kissed her, for pity’s sake! And for a moment, a very brief moment, it had done exactly what she’d always thought that a kiss was supposed to do—made her heart race and her pulse pound. That was the greatest indignity of all.
It had to be because of how Oliver had done it. Maybe Nathan just didn’t know much about kissing. She’d assumed that her lack of feeling when Nathan had kissed her was her fault, but maybe it was his.
Or maybe the intensity of her anger at Oliver had caused her to feel something she normally wouldn’t. Yes, that must be it. Her anger had merely riled up other passionate emotions.
At the moment he seemed angry himself, although clearly not at her. With a scowl, he left her at her chair, which thankfully was right next to Freddy’s, and went to the head of the table. He didn’t sit down.
“You may serve now,” his grandmother told the nearest servant.
“Not yet.” Oliver nodded to the servants. “Leave us.”
“What on earth—” his grandmother began.
“This is a rather splendid dinner, wouldn’t you say, Gran?” Waiting until after the servants were gone, Oliver strode to the sideboard and lifted the tops off the dishes one by one. “Fillet of veal. A sirloin of beef in wine sauce. Prawns and lobster . . .” He fixed his grandmother with a dark glance. “You brought your French chef with you. And apparently a goodly portion of the most expensive produce in London’s markets.”
“There’s no reason I shouldn’t eat well while I’m here,” she said with a sniff.
“Except that it’s my property.” He strode to the head of the table. “You’re in my house now, so while you’re here, you’ll eat what the estate can provide—venison and mutton and partridge—like the rest of us. There will be no more beeswax candles burning at all hours, and we’ll keep open only the rooms we need.”
“Come now, Oliver—”
“My own servants can accommodate you, so I want yours packed off to London in the morning. If these terms don’t suit you, then I suggest you return to London as well.”
His grandmother’s eyes glittered at him. “I suppose this is your way of punishing me for the demands I’m making on the five of you.”
“Not at all. For better or worse, this is my estate. You’ve never supported it before with your money, and you’ll not begin doing so now. I take care of my own.” His tone sharpened. “Think of it this way: it will demonstrate to my brothers and sisters exactly what they can expect if they don’t do your bidding.”
The elderly lady cast him a searching glance. “And make me feel sorry enough for them to relent in my plans, is that it?”
“You wanted me here showing an interest, and now I am. Those are my terms.”
“Oh, very well,” she said with a wave of her hand. “But the servants are here for tonight and the food is already laid out, so you might as well enjoy it.”
He hesitated before conceding that point with a nod.
“Thank God,” muttered the brother sitting on Maria’s other side—the blonder one named Lord Gabriel. “I adore prawns.”
“So do I,” Freddy said.
Busy trying to understand Oliver, Maria paid them no mind. She watched as he called the servants back in, then took his seat stiffly at the head of the table. Apparently he was a prouder man than she would have expected after his cavalier remarks.
Until now she’d assumed he was just some spoiled rich lord, willing to go to any length to gain his creature comforts. But his anger at his grandmother didn’t fit with that.
Nor did his seeming hatred of the place. She could tell from the musty smell pervading the rooms that he hadn’t lied about its having been closed up, but why would a man choose to let such a glorious place rot? Was it just a matter of money? Or did it have something to do with the bleak look she’d seen in his eyes more than once since they’d first approached Halstead Hall?
One thing was certain—there was more to the Marquess of Stoneville than met the eye. And more to this battle with his grandmother than she’d expected.
Maria shot a furtive glance to where Mrs. Plumtree sat at the other end of the table. She was as stubborn as he, and just as bent on getting her way. Something simmered beneath the surface whenever the two sparred, and Mrs. Plumtree gave as good as she got. Even after the shocking way he’d presented Maria, his grandmother hadn’t wavered. But was their conflict just about the woman’s demands? Or was there some other, more ancient, grievance between them?
And did that grievance extend to the others, as well? She didn’t think so. They seemed perfectly content to dine with her. Lord Jarret, the brother sitting directly across from Maria between his two sisters, had asked Mrs. Plumtree about her day. Lady Celia had made a joke that had her grandmother chuckling. Lady Minerva had observed the exchange with an indulgent smile.
Minerva. How odd that Oliver’s sister should have the same Christian name as Miss Sharpe. It must be very popular for ladies in England. Never having heard it until discovering Miss Sharpe’s books, she’d assumed that Minerva Sharpe was merely a pen name. But maybe not.
The footman coming around with a tureen asked if she wanted any eel soup, and Maria blinked, then nodded. People actually ate eels? Was it just an affectation of lords in England?
And how exactly was she to eat it? There were three spoons at her disposal: one that looked like a miniature spade, a lovely one with strange designs on it, and a plain one about the same size. Which was for the soup, curse it? The spade one didn’t make sense, but she wasn’t sure which of the other two to choose. Neither looked much like a soup spoon.
She was staring blindly at them, terrified she’d choose the wrong one, when Lady Minerva softly cleared her throat. Maria looked up to find the woman casting her a meaningful glance as she picked up the plain spoon and dipped it into the soup.
With a grateful smile, Maria did the same. The eel soup was actually quite good. She dipped her spoon again.
“So, Miss Butterfield,” Mrs. Plumtree asked, “what brings you to England?”
Maria froze, her mind racing. What was she supposed to say to that?
“Came looking for Nathan,” Freddy said blithely beside her.
“My cousin,” Maria put in quickly as she pinched Freddy’s arm beneath the table. “Freddy’s brother. Nathan came here on business. My aunt needs him at home, but he hasn’t answered her letters.”
“And have you found him?” Mrs. Plumtree asked.
“Not yet,” Maria said. “Oliver has promised to help us look, though.”
“Least I could do,” Oliver said smoothly.
A long silence ensued, during which she wondered how many more such slips Freddy would make before the night was over. When engrossed in eating, he tended to forget anything but that.
“Have you any brothers or sisters of your own, Miss Butterfield?” Lord Jarret asked.
“I’m afraid not,” Maria said. “Just Freddy and his three brothers, all of whom grew up in the same house as I did.”
“Four boys in the same house with you?” Lady Celia exclaimed. “You poor dear. I can hardly endure it when my brothers are staying at the town house. They’re always causing some trouble or another.”
“Oh, yes, and you never cause any trouble,” Oliver teased. “Never mind the shooting match where you brought three men to blows over whose rifle you should deign to use. Or the spectacle you made of yourself when you dressed as a man to enter a match. Or—”
“You can shoot a rifle, Lady Celia?” Maria leaned forward. “How did you learn? I’ve always wanted to myself, but Papa and my cousins refused to show me how a rifle works. Could you teach me?”
“No!” Oliver and Freddy said in unison. Then Oliver added, “Absolutely not.”
Lord Gabriel leaned close. “I’d be happy to teach you, Miss Butterfield.”
“Stay out of this, Gabe,” Oliver growled. “Bad enough you taught Celia. Maria already has enough weapons at her disposal.”
His grandmother arched one eyebrow. “Pray tell, what sort of weapons do you mean?”
Oliver paused, then gave a lazy smile. “Why, her beauty, of course. That weapon is devastating enough.”
“It won’t stop a scoundrel from manhandling a woman,” Lady Minerva put in.
“As if you know anything about that,” Lord Jarret pointed out. “Just because the heroines in your books get manhandled with nauseating regularity doesn’t mean the average woman does.”
Maria stared at Lady Minerva, heart pounding. Had she actually stumbled into the presence of— “Are you by any chance the authoress, Minerva Sharpe?”
Lady Minerva smiled. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Good God, Miss Butterfield,” Lord Jarret said. “Don’t tell me you read Minerva’s Gothic horrors.”
“They’re not Gothic horrors!” Maria protested. “They’re wonderful books! And yes, I’ve read every single one, more than once.”
“Well, that explains a few things,” Oliver remarked. “I suppose I have my sister to thank for your turning a sword on me at the brothel.”
Lord Gabriel laughed. “You took a sword to old Oliver? Oh, God, that’s rich!”
Lord Jarret sipped some wine. “At least the mystery of the ‘weapons at her disposal’ is now solved.”
“He was misbehaving,” Maria said, with a warning glance for Oliver. Did he want them to know everything, for pity’s sake? “He left me no choice.”
“Oh, Maria’s always doing things like that,” Freddy said through a mouth full of eel. “That’s why we won’t teach her to shoot. She always goes off half-cocked.”
Maria thrust out her chin. “A woman has to stand up for herself.”
“Hear, hear!” Lady Celia raised her goblet of wine to Maria. “Don’t mind these clod-pates. What can you expect from a group of men? They would prefer we let them run roughshod over us.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Lord Gabriel protested. “I like a woman with a little fire. Of course, I can’t speak for Oliver—”
“I assure you, I rarely feel the need to run roughshod over a woman,” Oliver drawled. An arch smile touched his lips as his gaze locked with Maria’s. “I’ve kissed one or two when they weren’t prepared for it, but every man does that.”
Lady Minerva snorted. “Yes, and most of them get slapped, but not you, I expect. Even when you misbehave, you have a talent for turning ladies up sweet. How else would you go from having a sword thrust at you to gaining Miss Butterfield’s consent to be your bride—eh, Miss Butterfield?”
Maria didn’t answer. Something was nagging at the back of her brain—a vaguely familiar line from one of Lady Minerva’s books: “He had a talent for turning ladies up sweet, which both thrilled and alarmed her.”
“Heavens alive.” She stared at Oliver. “You’re the Marquess of Rockton!”
She hardly realized she’d said it aloud until his brothers and sisters laughed.
A pained look crossed Oliver’s face. “Don’t remind me.” Sparing a glare for his sister, Oliver muttered, “You have no idea how my friends revel in the fact that my sister made me a villain in her novel.”
“They only revel because she made them into heroes,” Lord Jarret pointed out, eyes twinkling. “Foxmoor got quite a big head over it, and Kirkwood’s been strutting around ever since the last one came out. He loved that he got to trounce you.”
“That’s because he knows he couldn’t trounce me in real life,” Oliver remarked. “Though he keeps suggesting we should have a ‘rapier duel’ to prove whether he could.”
Maria stared at them agape. “Do you mean that the Viscount Churchgrove is real? And Foxmoor . . . great heavens, that’s Wolfplain!”
“Yes.” Oliver rolled his eyes. “Churchgrove is my friend, the Viscount Kirkwood, and Wolfplain is another friend, the Duke of Foxmoor. Apparently Minerva has trouble coming up with original characters.”
“You know perfectly well that I only used a version of their names,” Lady Minerva said smoothly. “The characters are my own.”
“Except for you, Oliver,” Lord Jarret remarked. “You’re clearly Rockton.”
Oh yes. Like Lord Rockton, he had a dry wit, shrewd intelligence, and a face like a prince, albeit an Italian one. His blithe unconcern for gentlemanly honor mirrored Lord Rockton’s, as did his ruthless determination to get whatever he wanted.
But she began to understand that he wasn’t entirely a villain. For one thing, he cared for his family. The way he’d spoken of his siblings and their right not to marry showed he was carrying on this masquerade on behalf of them all, not just himself.
And though he’d obviously intended from the first to present her as a whore to shock his grandmother, he’d changed his mind with surprisingly little persuasion when Maria had opposed the idea. Considering how she’d kicked him—where she’d kicked him—he could have had them carted off in chains. Instead, he’d repeated his offer to find her fiancé. He’d given her an out, too, by saying that if she wished to leave tomorrow, he would accept her decision.
Of course, she wasn’t sure if she believed him. He was abominably arrogant and annoying, and he possessed an appalling cynicism. But sometimes, when he got that bleak look in his eyes, she felt almost . . . sorry for him.
Which was ridiculous. Clearly there was something wrong with her to feel such a thing for the scoundrel.
“Rockton is no more Oliver than Churchgrove is Lord Kirkwood,” Lady Minerva said stoutly.
“Then why did you steal my name for him?” Oliver asked.
“It’s not quite your name, old chap,” Lord Gabriel said. “And you know perfectly well that Minerva likes to tweak your nose from time to time.”
“Stop calling me ‘old,’ blast it,” Oliver grumbled. “I’m not some doddering fool.”
“How old are you, anyway?” Maria asked him, amused by his vanity.
“Thirty-five.” Mrs. Plumtree had said little until now, but apparently the conversation had piqued her interest. “That’s long past the age when a man should marry, don’t you think, Miss Butterfield?”
Aware of Oliver’s gaze on her, Maria chose her words carefully. “I suppose it depends on the man. Papa didn’t marry until he was nearly that age. He was too busy fighting in the Revolutionary War to court anyone.”
When the blood drained from Mrs. Plumtree’s face, Oliver’s eyes held a glint of triumph. “Ah, yes, the Revolutionary War. Did I forget to mention, Gran, that Mr. Butterfield was a soldier in the Continental Marines?”
The table got very quiet. Lady Minerva focused on eating her soup, Lady Celia took several sips of wine, one after another, and Lord Jarret stared into his soup bowl as if it contained the secret to life. The only real sound punctuating the silence was Lord Gabriel’s muttered “bloody hell.”
Clearly, there was some undercurrent here that Maria didn’t understand. Oliver was watching his grandmother again like a wolf about to pounce, and Mrs. Plumtree was clearly contemplating which weapon would best hold the wolf at bay.
“Uncle Adam was a hero,” Freddy put in, oblivious as usual to undercurrents of any kind. “At the Battle of Princeton, he held off ten of the British until help could arrive. It was just him and his bayonet, slashing and stabbing—”
“Freddy,” Maria chided under her breath, “our hosts are British, remember?”
Freddy blinked. “Oh. Right.” He waved his spoon. “But the war was a long time ago. Nobody cares about it now.”
One look at Mrs. Plumtree’s rigid face told Maria otherwise. “I daresay Oliver’s grandmother cares.”
Mrs. Plumtree drew herself up stiffly. “My only son was killed fighting the Colonials. He, too, was a hero. He just didn’t get to live to tell the tale.”
Maria’s heart broke for the woman. How could Oliver do this to her? Maria glared at him, but he was staring at his grandmother with his jaw set. Why did she consistently bring out the devil in him?
Mrs. Plumtree glowered at him. “That is why I am forced to leave my business and my money to my daughter’s children. To this lot of ingrates.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, but you aren’t leaving them to us, are you, Gran? Not without getting your pound of flesh.”
Lips thinning, his grandmother rose abruptly. “Miss Butterfield, might I have a word with you in private?”
Maria glanced to Oliver, whose gaze was fixed on his grandmother.
“Why?” he bit out.
“If I wanted to tell you why,” the woman said coldly, “I would ask you to join us, which I decidedly did not.”
“Maria has barely had a chance to eat,” he said. “Leave her be.”
“It’s all right,” Maria put in. “I’d be happy to speak to your grandmother.” She wanted to know what was going on, and with any luck she could find out from Mrs. Plumtree without giving away her role. Though it appeared that Mrs. Plumtree had already guessed what Maria’s role was.
Oliver looked fit to be tied. “Maria, there’s no reason—”
“I don’t mind.” She rose and laid her napkin on the table. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”
“Do I have to go, too?” Freddy asked in a plaintive voice.
“No, Freddy,” Maria said, stifling a hysterical laugh. “I imagine that’s unnecessary.”
Mrs. Plumtree walked out, and Maria followed. As soon as they passed into a nearby parlor and the woman shut the door, she whirled on Maria with a look of barely controlled anger. “How much money do you want to put an end to this farce?”
Maria blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Come now, Miss Butterfield,” she said coldly. “I know that my grandson must have offered you money to pretend to be his fiancée until I come to my senses. I can double whatever he offered. Just tell me how much that is.”
For a moment, Maria could only gape at her. Insulting as the woman’s offer was, Maria briefly considered accepting it. With money, she could hire someone herself to find Nathan and wash her hands of this mad family. She didn’t owe Oliver anything—he’d behaved abominably so far.
Well . . . he’d saved her and Freddy from that mob at the brothel. And though his grandmother would probably make sure he didn’t follow through on his threats to have them arrested, Maria had promised to maintain the “farce” through tonight at least. She had no right to rail at him about morals if she couldn’t keep her own word.
Besides, it annoyed her how his grandmother seemed to think everyone could be bought. Weren’t the English gentry supposed to be too lofty to concern themselves with the exchange of filthy lucre? Mercy, they were worse than American captains of industry.
Mrs. Plumtree tapped her cane on the floor. “I need your answer.”
“I beg your pardon.” Maria lifted her chin. “I’m stunned by your assertion that this is a farce. Are you saying your grandson does not want to marry me?”
“Do not play me for a fool, girl.” Mrs. Plumtree moved toward her with surprising agility for a woman of her age. “My grandson knows you are exactly the sort of woman who would not meet my requirements of a wife for him. That is the only reason he chose you.” She stamped her cane on the floor. “And I will not tolerate it! So tell me how much money you want, damn you!”
Well! The woman had certainly made herself clear. But if Mrs. Plumtree thought Maria would turn tail and run simply because of some blustering, the lady didn’t know whom she was dealing with.
“I don’t want your money. I don’t want anything from you. Oliver ‘chose’ me, as you put it, because he had feelings for me.” Not the kind Mrs. Plumtree would think she meant, but at least it wasn’t a lie. “I’m sorry if that grieves you, but since I have feelings for him as well, you’ll have to endure it.”
“So you admit that you aren’t in love with him?” she pressed.
Even for her agreement with Oliver, she couldn’t lie that blatantly. “I’ve hardly known him long enough to claim to be in love. But I do like him a great deal.” When he was being genuine and not playing the bored and cynical villain. “He seems to find my liking for him sufficient and is rather eager to marry, so his feelings are the only things that matter.”
Mrs. Plumtree stepped up close, her blue eyes ablaze in the pale ice of her face. “If you think to get a greater reward by marrying him, think again. He owns this house and its contents and little more. Without money from me, he will not be able to buy you fancy gowns or take you to Paris or whatever it is your grasping little heart has seized upon. And I promise you, if he marries so far beneath him just to spite me, I will cut him off.”
Maria’s gaze narrowed. “I thought you said that this was a farce. That he never intends to marry me.”
“It is.” A hard smile touched Mrs. Plumtree’s face. “But men follow their cocks.” While Maria was struck speechless to hear a woman using such a vulgarity, Mrs. Plumtree went on with no hint of shame. “A clever woman, as you appear to be, will use her beauty and her close proximity to ensnare even a wily gentleman like my grandson.”
“Oliver? Ensnared? You clearly don’t know him very well if you think he can be coaxed into doing anything against his will.” That’s what had brought about this whole mess in the first place—Mrs. Plumtree’s foolish belief that she could force his hand.
“I know my grandson better than you. He has vulnerabilities that you cannot even begin to imagine.”
The words echoed hollowly in her chest. “What sort of vulnerabilities?”
Mrs. Plumtree snorted. “Do you think I would tell you? So you could use them to get him in your clutches? Not on your life.” She loomed closer. “For the last time, Miss Butterfield, will you reconsider my offer of money?”
Tired of being painted as a schemer, Maria stared her down. “I will not.”
“Even though you won’t ever get a penny—”
“I don’t care.” Though she wasn’t marrying him, she was just willful enough to resent his grandmother’s high-handedness and just compassionate enough to sympathize with his determination to thwart the woman. “I don’t break my promises.”
“Do not let Minerva and the others fool you. You would never be fully accepted in this family, never be accepted in good society, never—”
“If Oliver doesn’t care, I certainly don’t. This discussion is done, Mrs. Plumtree.” Turning on her heel, she walked back the way she came, seething. And she had thought Oliver insulting! At least now she knew where he got it from. Heavens alive, what a family!
She almost felt sorry for him, having a grandmother that condescending. No wonder he had thought his plan would work.
In that moment, she decided to see this out. If he wanted to thwart his grandmother, she would help, as long as he held up his end of the bargain and hired someone to look for Nathan.
She was doing this for Nathan alone. And no amount of nastiness from Oliver’s grandmother was going to stop her from following through.
IT TOOK EVERY ounce of Hetty’s will to hold her stern expression until she was certain Miss Butterfield was gone. Then she allowed a smile to break over her face.
Strolling to the brandy decanter, she poured herself a healthy amount. The girl was perfect. Perfect! Draw a sword on him? Take him to task for implying that she was a whore? Then refuse any amount of money that was offered to betray him?
Hetty sipped her brandy. She supposed the girl really could be some grasping wench hoping for a fortune in the end, but it was unlikely. Hetty hadn’t risen in the world without learning how to read people, and she would swear that Miss Butterfield was a woman of character. The young lady hadn’t claimed to be madly in love with Oliver, even though it would have been to her benefit to do so. And she had shown pride and backbone in standing up for herself.
Oliver had obviously manipulated the poor girl into playing out this farce—something havey-cavey was going on behind the scenes. But that did not mean it couldn’t still work.
For one thing, Miss Butterfield was his preferred physical type—blond, buxom, and blue-eyed. And he was clearly attracted to her. While Oliver was attracted to many women, he generally avoided innocent young females, wary of being “ensnared.” And this girl was definitely an innocent young female—her shock when Hetty used the word “cocks” clearly showed it.
Yet Oliver had chosen her over one of his opera dancers or some whore, which would have been more typical of him. He clearly thought that the girl’s flawed background would make Hetty admit defeat. Hah! He didn’t know his Gran very well. She would marry him to a fishmonger’s daughter if it meant getting the man settled.
But she was not about to let him know that, or Miss Butterfield, either. A little opposition from the scary matriarch whom Hetty so enjoyed playing was guaranteed to have those two joining forces against her. Joining forces meant private conversations, learning to trust each other . . . even falling in love, if she were lucky.
She owed Oliver that much. Thanks to her own mistakes, he had spent too long building his castle of wickedness, believing it was the sum total of who he was.
She knew better. He was capable of greatness, if only he allowed himself to find it within. Miss Butterfield would help him with that—Hetty just knew it.
And she was never wrong.