A Season of Hope (4 page)

“Is that all?” Marcus drawled.

“Well, you must know Lord DeWitt. Quite the mother’s boy. The woman appeared absolutely horrified at my pronouncement.” She gave a mock shudder. “I could never marry a mother’s boy.

“Hmm,” he said, his tone non-committal.

Olivia pursed her lips, not appreciating Marcus’s lack of awe for her skills. “There was the time I raced father’s phaeton through Hyde Park in front of Lord Masterson and Lord Denny.” That particular scandal had gotten her into a good deal of trouble in the scandal sheets…and at home. Her father had been none too pleased.

“Oh, and there was the European honeybee bit.” She frowned. Then, she couldn’t really count that as a success considering the Earl of
Ellsworth had gone and offered for her anyway.

“What was the European honeybee bit?” At last, the
apathy had lifted from the mask he kept in place.

Olivia folded her arms across her chest and inhaled deep of the winter air. “I’m afraid I can’t count that as a victory,” she said.

“Ahh, Ellsworth?”

She gave a curt nod.
“Yes, Ellsworth.”

A thick gloom descended. The future had reared its ugly head and erased all happiness she’d known this day. “We should go back,” Olivia murmured. She turned on her heel and started back on the trail to the duke’s castle.

Marcus shot out an arm and halted her. He turned her around. “A tree.”

Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“We need to find His Grace the perfect Christmastide tree.”

At this glimpse of the man he’d been, Olivia’s throat worked up and down. She drew in a shuddery breath. “Yes. You are correct.”

Marcus held his elbow out. “My lady? Will you accompany me?”

Olivia slipped her fingers along his cloak.

I would have followed you anywhere had you merely asked
.

Ensconced in his own quarters for the better part of four hours, Marcus observed that the household appeared to have finally slept. He held a copy of
A Legend of Montrose
, one of Sir Walter Scott’s more recent works.

He’d read the same line over and over.

Usually, he could lose himself in the written word but Olivia, with her antics that day, had managed to weave her way into his thoughts. First there had been the snowball fight, then the chopping of the yew tree, and supper. The old duke had insisted that Marcus join him and Olivia for the evening meal.

Marcus had tried his best, citing a breach in propriety
, but that had only fueled the duke’s insistence. Danby answered to no one. No, Society’s strictures didn’t apply to Danby or any of his off-spring, it seemed.

Marcus had been forced to labor through the partridge soup,
baked egg Florentine, roast beef, and rout drop cakes. Olivia had sat across from him, her gaze cast down upon her plate. She’d shoved her fork around her barely touched food.

All the while, Danby had filled the silence.

Marcus closed the book and set it aside his nightstand table. Had it been that she’d been unable to stomach the sight of his hideous visage while she supped?

She
wouldn’t be the first person to lose her appetite in his presence.

The thought of that stung like so many knives being plunged in his stomach.

Except, she had not shunned his presence earlier that afternoon. She’d looked at him. Talked to him. Treated him as a whole man. Something, really only Danby had done since he’d returned from war.

Even the household
staff who answered to Marcus were careful to avert their gazes whenever he spoke to them. Over the years, he had caught enough glimpses of horror and repulsion that that he didn’t delude himself into believing the staff’s reactions stemmed out of respect for his position as steward.

He’d ceased caring about such reaction years ago.

Until Olivia.

He didn’t want her to look at him and see a monster of a man.

Marcus swiped a hand over his disfigured cheek. Little hope wishing for things that couldn’t be.

As it was, Olivia would remain with Danby another ten days and then would return to her parents. At which time she would wed that old bastard, Lord
Ellsworth.

Marcus jumped to his feet and began to pace his quarters.
He raked a hand through his hair.

He had done a remarkable job of shoving thoughts of her to the side.
Lady Olivia Foster deserved more in a husband that a nearly faceless monster. Through the years, there had been moments when he had picked up a pen to write her. In the end, he’d wrinkled the parchment into a messy ball and hurled the missive into his hearth. What young lady would desire a husband whose mere appearance roused revulsion in young and old alike?

He’d thought he’d buried Olivia, along with the dreams he’d had for their future.

Then in the span of a few days, she’d gone and upended his entire world.

Marcus stopped pacing, and stood in front of the window. He drew back the thick brocaded curtain and stared out into the black night sky, dotted with gleaming stars. A fresh blanket of snow layered the earth.

She’d thrown a snowball at him. And he’d thrown one back.

When was the last time he’d done anything just for the sheer pleasure of it? Since his days in the military to the day he’d returned and found work with Danby, Marcus’s life had been driven by order, reason, logic, and responsibility. There wasn’t room for yew trees and frivolous jaunts in the snow.

So why did he feel more alive than he had in years?

It was because of her.

Marcus l
owered his head to the windowpane and slowly beat his brow against the cold glass. He could ill-afford to turn himself over to foolish yearnings. He’d made peace with his life. There was no place for a wife and children. Yet, being near Olivia had roused the hope he’d carried deep within his breast—the dream to be more than a beast, hidden away at Danby Castle.

He blamed this madness on the Christmastide season. At this time of year, the promise of hope and new
beginnings filled the air. With the purity of the Season, the horror of a man’s everyday life could be drowned out in the spirit of the holiday. Damn Danby for shaking up his world.

Marcus dropped the curtain. It fluttered back into place. There would be no sleep this evening.

He found his jacket and tugged it on.

He needed to escape the disquiet of his rooms. Mayhap then he could put thoughts of Olivia to the side.

Marcus made his way through the mammoth castle. His Hessian boots silent upon the marble floors. At last he reached the kitchens. He’d always had a strong desire for sweet treats. It had been a source of great amusement between him and Olivia. She’d preferred cherry tarts and he, well he’d always teased that he preferred all treats equally.

Cook had used the stale Savoy cake to make a tipsy cake. During the evening meal, Marcus had little appetite. Now
, the almond studded treat beckoned.

He paused at the kitchen door. The faint glow of a candle shone from beneath the crack of the entrance-way. He frowned. He needed to speak with the
staff of the dangers of leaving rooms ablaze. Even a single candle could prove lethal to a household.

Marcus opened the door
and words escaped him.

Olivia glanced up from the dish in front of her. Cornflower blue eyes went wide in her face, giving her the look of a night owl. “Oh,” she said around a
bite full of tipsy cake.

For the first time in five years, Marcus managed his first real smile.

“Olivia.”

***

Olivia gulped down a large mouthful of Cook’s evening treat.

She’d retired to bed shortly after supper, but sleep had eluded her. Giving up on sleep, she’d made her way down to the
kitchens for a glass of wine and some tipsy cake.

“Marcus,” she said when she trusted herself to speak.

He looked over his shoulder and eyed the door as though contemplating escape.

“Don’t go,” she blurted.

Marcus turned back around.

Olivia wet her lips. “I-uh-that is, please don’t leave on my account.” And because she used to know him so very well, cut a large slice of cake and set it on her now empty plate. “Would you like a slice?”

He hesitated so long she thought he was going to ignore her offering.

Wordlessly, he strode over and claimed the seat opposite her.

She shoved the dish closer to him.

Marcus picked up the fork, and then speared a piece of the almond confection.

They sat there. The silence between them not the stilted, awkwardness Olivia had come to expect but rather the ease they’d once known in each other’s company.

She trailed the tip of her nail along the wood surface of the table in a slow, meticulous circle.

“Thank you,” he said.

Her finger ceased its distracted movement. Olivia picked
up her gaze from his partially eaten cake and looked at him.

Marcus pushed the plate toward her. “Would you like another bite?” He held out the fork in his hands.

Olivia stared down at the scars that marred the tops of his hand. Oh, what he’d endured. She shoved back the traces of regret and pity. Marcus was a proud man. He didn’t want her pity, nor did he need it. None of the scars he now bore detracted from his vitality and absolute strength. When she looked up at him, there was an emptiness in his expression. She reached for the fork and their fingers brushed.

The touch of his hand transported her back to that simpler time and place when the most complicated thing between them had been who would get the last cherry tart.

Tears filled her eyes and she dropped her gaze again lest he see and erroneously assume that it was pity that made her cry. She broke off a piece of the cake with the fork and nibbled at it. There was something terribly intimate about sharing the utensil. Moments ago, lips had closed over it and oh, how she longed for him to take her mouth beneath his, once again.

“You’re far more serious than I remember you,” Marcus’ quiet murmur filled the void of silence.

Olivia shrugged. “I’ve changed.”

“
Because of me.”

She looked him in the eye. “Because of me. I’m not the same
innocent young lady you left behind.”

A gleam of sadness filled his solitary eye.

“Don’t pity me, Marcus,” she ordered. He didn’t want such paltry sentiments from her and she most certainly didn’t want them from him.

“You never fell in love.”

Again
—the word hung in the air between them, unspoken.

She gave her head a sad little shake. “
You must have taken me as fickle as the empty-headed debutantes who clamored for your notice.”

He snorted. “As a
viscount’s second son, I was hardly the catch of the Season.”

If it were any other gentlemen, she’d believe he w
as scouring for compliments. Not this new, hardened, self-deprecating stranger.

Marcus had possessed the kind of masculine beauty that artist’s put to canvas. She imagined how very hard it was for him to accept the changes the war had wrought.

“Hardly the kind of face that’s going to attract any ladies, now,” he said, as if interpreting the direction her thoughts had wandered.

“You’re beautiful,” she said. A wave of heat flooded her cheeks and she prayed the dark of the night hid the twin signs of embarrassment.

Marcus reached for the fork. He took it from her fingers and helped himself to another bite of cake. “You always called me beautiful.”

“Well, you were.”
You are.

Olivia drew in a slow breath. “You know, I never cared what you looked like, Marcus. I loved you.” She needed him to know that. Needed him to know
, so that in nine days, when her carriage departed and returned her to Father and Mother, where she would be wed to the Earl of Ellsworth…that she would have danced through the flames of hell just to be with him.

She waited for him to make similar claims…but the words did not come because to Marcus, what he’d felt for her represented something of a different time
, she imagined. A moment in history that he would never retrieve and so he didn’t bother trying.

“I don’t want to fight, Marcus.”

“Have we been?”

“There was the snow,” she said, with a small smile.

He inclined his head. “Ahh, yes. The snow fight.”

Olivia shoved aside all manner of joke. “I won’t be here much longer. I’ll return to London where I’ll be…” Her words trailed off. It was one thing to think the hideous thought, but quite another to say it aloud.

“Where you’ll…?” he prodded.

“Married. Where I’ll be married,” she forced the words out past brittle lips.
“My grandfather has asked me for a wonderful Christmastide season and I want to give him that, Marcus.” Their gazes caught and held. “I want to give him that. Would you help me?”

Marcus folded his hands and studied her. Then slowly, nodded. “I will.”

Olivia managed a smile. “Thank you.”

Her gaze went to the now empty plate; a stark reminder that the treat was finished, and so was their time here.

As if anticipating her thoughts, Marcus rose as if they were in attendance at a fine dinner party and not hiding like two naughty children in Cook’s kitchens.

Olivia rose and dipped a curtsy. “Good night, Marcus.”

She hurried out of the room, and abovestairs, knowing all the while that any attempt at sleep would be futile.