Cheryl Holt (30 page)

“Marvelous,” Margaret crooned.

He frowned at Olivia. She was ashen, shivering, pale with trepidation and repugnance, and he was so annoyed. What did the damned girl want? She’d traveled to Salisbury, seeking a husband, and his head had been served to her on a platter. Any female in England would have sacrificed an arm and a leg to be in her shoes.

What was the matter with her? She should be jumping for joy, not slumped in a heap, ready to sob.

Chomping down on his aggravation, he recollected her age, her overt astonishment at the stunning debacle they’d fallen into through his negligence. He patted her shoulder.

“Don’t fret, Livvie,” he consoled, intending to be friendly and supportive, but on hearing the pet nickname, she lurched as if he’d struck her.

“Don’t
ever
call me Livvie,” she asserted, much too sharply.

“As you wish.” He nodded. “It will work out. Don’t trouble yourself.”

“I won’t,” she groused.

“Now then, Edward,” Margaret said, “if you’ll excuse us?” Exuding authority, and dismissing him, she gestured for him to exit.

“Of course. I’ll confer with you in the morning to finalize the plans.”

“I look forward to it.”

Staring at Olivia, he was daring her—practically pleading with her—to acknowledge him, but she was coolly, maddeningly removed, reluctant to display any courtesy.

What was vexing her? Hadn’t she wanted the union? Had Margaret coerced her into it? Well, it was too bloody late to quibble. Their path was set, and there could be no retreat.

His pride dented, he spun on his heel and stalked out, much more angry than he should have been, and he pulled the door closed with a determined click.

Across the hall was Margaret’s bedroom, and Penelope was standing on the threshold, gawking at him. In the dark, her eyes seemed to glow, a weird green, like a feral cat’s. Her auburn hair gleamed, too, as though it were afire.

She was grinning, her teeth white and straight, but it was a peculiar, insidious smile, as though she’d gotten just what she wanted and was eager to let him know it.

Did you have a role in this charade?
he nearly roared. And,
Where the hell is Winnie?

Was she secluded with Penelope? A participant? A prisoner? He was too furious to care.

Penelope continued to watch him, so eerie that she resembled a witch, or perhaps a witch’s familiar, and his skin crawled.

Tamping down a shudder, he strolled away without remarking or glancing back, but he could sense her studying his every step. The corridor was a gauntlet that went on forever, and as the distance between them expanded, she came into the hall so that she could spy on him the rest of the way.

If she’d started to cackle, or spout incantations, he wouldn’t have been surprised, and when he strode into his suite and slammed the door, he sagged with relief.

The girl terrified him, and bizarre as it sounded, he grabbed the key and rotated it in the lock, sealing himself in—and her out!

Betrothed, how galling
, he thought. To be wed in five days. To a woman he didn’t even especially like. Feeling ill, he stumbled to the bed and lay down. Blindly, he pondered a chink in the ceiling, the long, arduous night stretching ahead.

Olivia strolled the estate grounds, arm in arm with Edward. Attractive, stylishly dressed, poised and assured, they were a handsome couple. People stared as they walked past.

A straw bonnet, with an extra wide brim, shielded her face, and she was glad for the protection it offered. She’d hardly slept a wink, and she was wan and pale, exhausted and achy. The sun shone down, making her eyes throb and water, and her knees wobbled so badly that she could barely take the next step.

Word of their betrothal had spread rapidly and far—Margaret had seen to it—so that by the time she’d dared to show herself downstairs at noon, her engagement wasn’t news to anyone. Her destiny was winging toward her, and she was too paralyzed to jump out of the way.

When she’d been merely Edward’s bridal candidate, the servants had been polite and helpful, but now, they were in awe of her new status. They studied her keenly, eager to please.

Soon, she would be their countess, and they all sought her favor. Wherever she went, employees stopped to congratulate her, with respectful bows and curtsies, exclaiming their joy over the pending nuptials. Edward took it in stride, cordially and generously thanking everyone for their felicitations, but she was terribly uncomfortable.

She felt like an impostor, that she’d earned the coming distinction through default.

Her mind was spinning over what had happened. How was it that, in a few short hours, she’d gone from incarceration in Winnie’s room to being plighted to Edward?

Margaret had orchestrated the debacle—Olivia was certain of it—but how she’d accomplished the deed, and with so little fuss, was a mystery that had Olivia perplexed.

How had Margaret done it?

The bedchamber door had been locked. She knew because, over the interminable evening, she’d repeatedly tried the knob, hoping against hope that Margaret would make a mistake, that she would be able to sneak out.

She’d been desperate to send a letter to their housekeeper in London, inquiring as to Helen’s whereabouts. Margaret had sworn that she’d dispatched Helen to an institution. Was it true? Or was it a lie Margaret had concocted to coerce Olivia into submitting to her scheme?

Was Helen safe at home? Or was she abandoned in some godforsaken place?

The grim prospects tormented her.

She’d wanted to speak with Phillip, to tell him about Margaret’s threats, to seek his advice and assistance. In a crisis, he was the logical one to consult. He’d have traveled to the city if she’d asked him, and she’d intended to, needing proof as to Helen’s location, but whenever she’d checked the door, she’d been imprisoned.

Fatigue had finally forced her to bed, and she’d dropped into oblivion, so that when Edward had entered, she hadn’t had any idea. After he’d awakened her, several seconds had elapsed before she’d realized it was he.

How had Margaret lured Edward to her? How had she arranged it so that he’d appeared just when the door had been unlocked?

The questions were like an annoying sliver she couldn’t extricate. They jabbed and poked at her, giving
her no relief. Yet, what did it signify if she unscrambled the puzzle?

She couldn’t change what had transpired. Couldn’t roll back the clock so that Edward hadn’t intruded, or that Margaret and Penny hadn’t followed him in. Nor could she alter the conclusion Margaret had executed. She could only trudge forward, trusting that she could survive her wedding day—and night!—without embarrassing herself.

Oh, Margaret
, she wailed silently,
how could you have done this to me?

Margaret had always been a cold, reserved individual, with a temperament that didn’t lend itself to spontaneity or whimsy, but Olivia had never understood how ruthless, how calculating and crafty, she was.

To the point of obsession, they’d haggled over their financial affairs, and Margaret had lamented their grave circumstances, as well as how serious she was about resolving their dilemma. But in a thousand years, Olivia couldn’t have imagined that Margaret would go to such lengths to garner the resolution she desired.

Olivia felt as if she were a goose that had been cooked and served up as the main course in Margaret’s machinations. She was bitter, furious, grieving, fearful, but she had to keep her agitation bottled up inside. By all accounts, Edward was a marvelous catch. There was no reason for her to be disconsolate, and she couldn’t let him know she was distressed. He’d been naught but kind and courteous, and he definitely didn’t warrant her rancor or disappointment.

She was dying to ask him why he’d been in her bedchamber. She had no clue, and curiosity was eating her alive. He hadn’t been bent on ravishment, so for what other purpose could he have come?

If he’d wanted to propose—which, from his despondent, perfunctory attitude, he clearly hadn’t—he could have done so any afternoon they’d socialized. Had he been looking for Winnie? It was her room. But he was scarcely acquainted with Winnie, so why would he have trespassed?

She remembered him whispering a remark to her, but she’d been slumbering so deeply that she couldn’t recall what it was. She recollected opening her eyes and being shocked, but before she’d made sense of his arrival, Margaret had barged in.

How could she interrogate the man she was about to marry as to why he had deposited them in this predicament?

He wasn’t any happier than she was. His reticence and melancholy were palpable, but he was too much of a gentleman to insult her by implying that he was less than ecstatic, and he was doing his best to hide his feelings.

She needed to confide in someone, to unburden her conscience, and voice her astonishment and incredulity. The world had suddenly speeded up, and it was whirling so quickly that events were evolving faster than she could track them. At the same time, she was moving in a type of dream state, where her conduct was slow and leaden. She was so confused and overwhelmed!

Phillip was the sole person to whom she could vent her woes, but she was praying she wouldn’t run into him.

Ever since Edward had stormed out of her bedchamber, she’d been trying to deduce a method of contacting and warning him. But Margaret had confined her the entire night, and after she’d been released in the morning, she hadn’t had any privacy. Either Margaret or Edward had been with her, so there’d been no opportunity to slip away, or pen a hasty message.

During their last, poignant, exceptional tryst, she’d sworn to him that she would never marry his father. She’d promised! Yet, not twenty-four hours later, she and Edward were engaged.

Had Phillip been notified?

She and Edward had been parading about the property, and Edward had maneuvered them away from the stables, as though he too was fretting over Phillip’s reaction.

With every corner they’d turned, every row of bushes they’d skirted, every bench where they had tarried, she’d been afraid Phillip would pop up, that he would be waiting for them, grim and determined to hash it out, but he was conspicuously absent.

He was a proud man, with a temper, and his relationship with Edward had never been steady. When he was apprised of the situation, he’d be irate, indignant, he’d demand explanations and answers.

If he confronted them, how should she behave?

She wasn’t supposed to know who he was, so she couldn’t give the slightest hint of recognition. Yet, chances were great that she would never again be alone with him, so she wouldn’t be able to relate how the betrothal had resulted. There would be no way of calming him, or having him grasp how inevitable it had all been.

Phillip was going to be hurt. Badly. He would never forgive her—or Edward—for what they were about to do to him. Edward would never comprehend why, but the tentative bond he’d been working to establish with Phillip would be shattered.

As for herself, till her dying day, she would rue and regret the role she’d played in breaking Phillip’s heart and ruining his connection with Edward.

Edward had ushered them to the verandah. A romantic repast had been laid out for the two of them, and he
escorted her to the table, held the chair while she seated herself.

This was the most difficult moment she’d endured so far. Up until now, they’d been walking, greeting the staff, so there’d been others to act as a buffer. Though there was a footman ready to serve the food, he was posted at a distance, furnishing them with a solitude she didn’t want.

Nervously, she fussed with the silver, the napkin. The footman poured her a glass of wine, and she gripped the stem of the goblet, eager to do something normal, tangible.

Edward joined her, sipping morosely, staring off across the grounds and lost in thought.

“This is so awkward,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she replied, relieved that he’d acknowledged it.

“It will get easier.”

“No doubt,” she agreed.

“Where is your cousin, Miss Stewart?” he oddly queried. “I haven’t seen her in ages. Will she be attending the wedding?”

“Winnie?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t think so. She went back to London.”

As though poked with a sharp stick, he stiffened. “When?”

“Yesterday.”

“What time?”

“I don’t know. Early.”

“Did she say why?”

“I didn’t speak with her. Margaret handled the details. But she’s been very dejected.”

“Margaret . . . hmm . . .”

She studied him, and it occurred to her that she had to disclose their fiscal quandary, Helen, and so much more.
A spark of optimism ignited. Perhaps, upon learning of her family’s deceit, he would cry off.

If he tossed her over, it would be humiliating, and she would be compromised beyond repair, but it would be an escape.

In London, when she’d allowed Margaret to persuade her of the viability of their crazed conspiracy, the plan had seemed so prudent and rational, but now, it had been reduced to a disgraceful confession. She took a breath.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“I hope you won’t be angry.”

“I’ll try to control myself.”

He flashed a wry smile so much like Phillip’s that she flinched. Was this how the rest of her life was to proceed? Would she spend each and every minute gazing at her husband, but searching for signs of her beloved?

“Our financial status might not be exactly as we’ve led you to believe.”

“I’m conscious of that fact,” he said, surprising her. “Margaret advised me this morning, but I was cognizant of your plight.”

“But . . . how?”

“My solicitors had been investigating.”

“You knew all along?”

“Yes.”

She blushed, wondering how he had tolerated being so civil to them. “I apologize.”

“Accepted.”

She suffered from a contemptible need to defend her duplicity. “We were so desperate.”

“I realize that.”