In Your Arms Again (33 page)

“Time to leave,” Francis said softly. “Mr. Harker, I am afraid your men have fallen asleep on the job. You might want to speak to them about that.”

Never had North been so pleased to have Francis follow him in all his life. Slowly, he withdrew the blade from Harker’s thigh and wiped it clean on the criminal’s trousers. Then he slid it into the sheath in his boot and slowly rose from the table.

“We are not finished, Sheffield,” Harker snarled, shoving a wadded napkin into his lap.

North smiled as he backed toward the door. “We might not be, but you certainly are.”

I
t was the next morning before Octavia summoned the courage to call upon Spinton. She had missed him the day before when she went to visit Cassie, and he hadn’t joined her and Beatrice for dinner that night. The time for procrastination was past, however. This wasn’t merely her life affected by her decision, it was Beatrice’s and Spinton’s as well. The time to hesitate was over.

Dressed in a lovely new gown of gray-blue, a darker blue pelisse, and matching bonnet, Octavia stepped into the carriage and rapped on the roof with her umbrella for the driver to be on his way. Her stomach was twisted into knots and her neck was stiff with tension. Why was she so nervous about this? If Spinton returned Beatrice’s feelings, then this could only be a happy occasion. But if he didn’t return her cousin’s regard…Well, that wasn’t something she should consider. She had to let him go. It was in both their best interests.

A weak chuckle escaped her. Now she was the one thinking she knew what was in someone’s
best interest.

Spinton resided in the same house where Octavia had
spent the years leading up to her grandfather’s death. It still seemed strange to take the carriage to Grosvenor Square and enter that house as a guest, especially since Spinton hadn’t changed a single thing.

It was a warm morning, with bouts of bright sunshine periodically breaking through the cover of clouds. Spinton was strolling through the garden, looking very cool and fashionable in a pale blue coat and biscuit-colored trousers. He was a handsome man in a very English sort of way. Too bad she liked her men—man—a little rougher around the edges, a little less polished.

Her heart thumped with dread as she approached him, her damp fingers clutching at the blue muslin of her skirts. She did not want to do this. Did not want to hurt him or offend him in any way, but how could she possibly avoid it? How could a man not be hurt when the woman he planned to marry told him she simply couldn’t go through with the wedding? Even if he loved Beatrice, it was bound to wound him to know that Octavia didn’t want him.

Gravel crunched beneath her slippers; a pebble stabbed the delicate skin of her right arch, making her hiss in pain.

Spinton, who had paused to admire a bush of roses, looked up. He smiled.

It was not, Octavia noticed, the kind of smile a man gave to the woman he hoped to marry. While Spinton certainly looked pleased to see her, he did not look overjoyed to see her, which was how a bridegroom should look. It was how North usually looked—when he didn’t want to throttle her.

“Octavia. What a pleasure.”

If this was his idea of pleasure, she would hate to see what happened if he ended up with a rock stuck in his foot. “How are you, Fitzwilliam?”

They exchanged the necessary pleasantries before touring the garden together. Octavia was going to miss this garden.

Today might very well be the last time she ever had to enjoy the many colors and fragrances it afforded.

“How is Miss Henry?” he asked as he plucked a red hollyhock from its vine.

Not even five minutes into their visit and he inquired after Beatrice’s well-being before he asked after Octavia’s own.

“She is well. She sends her regards.”

He brightened at that, adding to her suspicions. In fact, he looked more pleased by that remark than he had been to see Octavia in person. That settled it. She was bringing this melodrama to its close. Curtain call, final bow, exit to the greenroom.

“We need to talk,” she blurted, wincing at her own bluntness.

Stopping on the path, his golden hair lightened by a sudden burst of sunshine, Spinton regarded her with uncensored concern. He really was a good man. “About?”

“About our marriage.”

Was it her imagination or did he pale somewhat? He started walking again, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. “What about it?”

How to put this? She should be delicate, considerate. There was a right way and a wrong way to do this. “I do not think we should go through with it.”

He froze again, and this time she knew it was
not
her imagination. He was pleased. Startled, but far more pleased than dismayed. The bounder didn’t want to marry her either!

He was, however, still a gentleman and managed to contain himself. “Might I ask why?”

Turning, she faced him with an earnest and open expression. “Does it matter?”

Flushing, Spinton shook his head. “Not really.”

She answered him anyway—he deserved that much at least. “I do not believe we suit one another.” There, that was a bit more delicate than her earlier admissions.

He nodded. “Perhaps you are right.”

Octavia placed her gloved hand on his arm and met his kind gaze from beneath the brim of her bonnet. There was no censure in his gaze—nothing but understanding, acceptance, and yes, that little spark of happiness he couldn’t quite hide.

“Somehow, I do not think you are injured by my decision. Are you, Fitzwilliam?”

He placed his other hand over hers, the red hollyhock fluttering in the breeze. “My dear Octavia, while it grieves me to discover that you do not think of me as a pleasing candidate for your husband, I cannot pretend that I do not share your misgivings.”

Now
that
was the right way to tell someone you didn’t want to marry them. Trust Spinton to be a true gentleman in every situation.

She smiled and dropped her hand. “I thought you might be suffering from a change of heart.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” he assured her as they began walking once more. “Please do not think otherwise.”

Linking her hands in front of her, Octavia continued to smile. It felt as though a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “I would not dream of it. I believe it has more to do with Beatrice than with myself.”

Again he blushed—she watched him color out of the corner of her eye. “You are right again. Am I that transparent?”

“On the contrary,” she replied, bending to smell a bright yellow bloom. “How could a man as good as yourself help falling in love with a woman equally as good?”

He shot her a startled glance. “But you are good as well, Octavia!”

Chuckling, she shook her head. What an odd conversation this was! “Not like you and Beatrice. You two are much better suited to each other. You have similar likes and dislikes. You were even born into similar situations.”

Now he frowned. “But you were born into the same sphere as Beatrice and I. Better in fact than Beatrice, for she is but your distant relation.”

She noticed he had stopped referring to her cousin as Miss Henry. “Spinton, I am going to tell you something I swore to my grandfather I would never tell another soul. In fact, only a few other people know this secret.”

His expression was somewhere between concern and trepidation, as though he wanted to know but feared what she might say. “Go on.”

Octavia linked her fingers again, staring straight ahead at the pale gravel and green grass spread out before her. “I was not born into the same sphere as you and Beatrice. Not truly. I was raised in Covent Garden by my mother, Maggie Marsh.”

She cast a glance at him, eager to see his reaction to her confession. It was as she expected—his eyes were round and his jaw slack with disbelief. “The actress?”

Octavia nodded. “The same. She and my father eloped when they were very young. My grandfather disapproved of the match, and when my father died, he blamed my mother and refused to support her. She was a very proud sort and was determined to make it on her own. By then she already knew she was carrying me, so she stayed with friends until after I was born and then she went back to work.”

Spinton’s cheeks flushed. Did he find her distasteful now? It didn’t truly matter, but after all they had been through, she would like to think they might still be friends of a sort. “I cannot believe your grandfather told you to keep such a secret from me,” he said at last.

What a relief. He didn’t see her as a pariah.

“Not just from you,” she reminded him, in an effort to soothe his wounded pride. “From everyone. He was heartily ashamed of his actress daughter-in-law, but when he found
out he had a granddaughter—a little reminder of his dead son—well, he decided to take me in and make me the lady he and my mother thought I should be.”

His expression still tinged with incredulity, Spinton smiled. “But not the lady you thought you should be?”

Octavia returned his grin. “Something like that.”

Spinton’s gaze turned thoughtful. “That was why you did not want me to hire Sheffield, was it not? You knew him from your past.”

The Earl Spinton might be a lot of things, but stupid was not one of them. “Yes.”

His eyes narrowed. “There is more to your relationship than simply sharing a similar background, isn’t there?”

Her cheeks warming, Octavia nodded. “Yes. Much more, I am afraid.”

His eyes lighting as though he had just solved a baffling mystery, Spinton snapped his fingers. “I knew it! He tried to deny it, but I knew he had designs on you.” Then, as the thought occurred to him, “If I had not brought him back into your life you would have gone through with our marriage, would you not?”

The fire in her cheeks burned even hotter. “Yes.”

Stopping once more, Spinton flashed her a grin more roguish than she had ever seen grace his features. “Then are you not pleased that I stuck my nose into your business?”

Octavia laughed. How could she not? “Yes! And I am sorry for giving you such a tongue-lashing for it.”

They rounded a curve in the path in comfortable silence, turning back toward the main house.

“Does he know you love him?”

Spinton’s question caught her off guard. She never would have expected such a personal inquiry from him. “Yes.”

“And he returns the feeling?”

She frowned. “I believe so. I hope so.”

“How could a man as difficult as Sheffield not love a woman as difficult as you?” Spinton asked with a wink.

Openmouthed, Octavia stared at him. “You were never this amusing or smart-mouthed as a fiancé.”

He shrugged. “You were much more intimidating as my betrothed than you are now.”

Flabbergasted, she couldn’t think of a suitable reply. Still smiling smugly, Spinton handed her the hollyhock. “Tell Beatrice that I will be joining the two of you for dinner tonight, would you?” He climbed the steps to the house. “And feel free to roam around the garden some more if you wish. I am afraid I have business to attend to.”

That was it? He was dismissing her? Just because she’d jilted him was no reason to be rude!

On the top of the stone steps, he turned and smiled. “Thank you for not marrying me, Octavia. I would have hated making you miserable.”

She smiled. That was better. That was almost sweet. “And I you, Fitzwilliam.”

How long she stood there after he disappeared through the French doors into the house was a mystery. She was like a statue—trying to make sense of what had just happened.

She was free. Totally and without restriction. No one was in control of her destiny now but herself. It was a heady feeling. And more than a little frightening. Where did she start?

She could start by leaving her erstwhile betrothed’s home.

She was drifting lazily down the corridor, gazing at the portraits of her ancestors with a lingering feeling of giddiness when she collided with something hard and strangely familiar-smelling.

“Christ!” The something growled.

North
. If she never saw him again for the rest of her life, she would recognize his voice in heaven.

She looked up—into glacial blue eyes that stared at her as though they had never seen a face like hers before.

Does he know you love him?

Yes.

And does he return the feeling?

I believe so. I hope so.
The conversation she and Spinton had shared rang in her mind.

She smiled, her heart pounding wildly in her throat. It was so very good to see him again. “Hello, Norrie.”

He did not smile. In fact, he looked rather pained. “Vie.”

Well, just because he looked as though he’d rather be anywhere but there with her didn’t mean she was going to be as rude. “What are you doing here?”

He took a step backward, robbing her of his heat and strength. “I am here to see Spinton.”

And was that all the explanation she was to expect? Probably. “I see.”

His gaze dropped and then shuttered. “What is that?”

Octavia followed his line of vision. It was the hollyhock. Somewhat bedraggled from having been crushed between them, the delicate flower was still pretty if not a little lopsided.

“It was a flower.” She couldn’t help but smile a little. “Now I believe it is little more than a mess.”

He nodded, not sharing her humor. “A gift from your fiancé?”

How wonderfully, stupidly jealous he sounded! He was the one who told her to marry Spinton. He was the one who rejected her love when she offered it to him. What amazing nerve to now look at her as though she were somehow betraying him.

“It was a gift from Spinton, yes.” She could tell him the truth, but a part of her wanted him to suffer just a little while longer. Now was not the time or the place to have this
conversation. When North admitted his feelings for her—whatever they might be—it would not be in her grandfather’s house.

He stared at her, the muscle in his left jaw twitching. “How thoughtful.”

Octavia couldn’t resist raising a brow at that. “Sarcasm does not suit you, Norrie.”

“Reckless stupidity does not suit you, Vie,” he shot back, eyes narrow.

“Reckless stupidity?” How dare he! Her good humor fled as though snatched by the wind. “What the devil are you talking about?”

His expression was just as acrimonious as his tone. “Your little visit to a certain coffee house on Russell Street.”

“Oh.” So he knew then. Well, she had known that he would find out eventually. Hadn’t she hoped he would find out? After all, she had counted on it bringing him back to her. So far her gamble was a huge loss.

He scowled. “Is that all you have to say?”