Miss Goldsleigh's Secret (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

“Please excuse my intrusion, but if you don’t mind, what do you mean by ‘his reign of terror’?”

What did she mean by his reign of terror? Oh dear, well this opened a big box of worms, now didn’t it. She’d been distracted by a beautiful man and walked right into verbal quicksand.

Olivia forced herself to take a deep breath and remain calm so she could think clearly. Lying to this man was unconscionable, but what choice did she have? The minute the marquess found out she’d killed Reginald, she and Warren would be out on their ears. There’d be no transport to Australia for her. She’d hang for certain.

No one cared to hear the words self-defense or rape, either. None of that mattered. What mattered was a titled man was dead at their hand. Her hand. It also didn’t matter that she hadn’t shot the gun. She’d tell everyone she did. She’d rather the authorities thought she’d done it in order to give Warren a chance at a normal life.

She stroked the massive gray neck of the horse and glanced over at Lord Dalton. He watched her with a look of patient interest. His lips formed a small, encouraging smile. Would she feel as guilty about lying if she wasn’t so attracted to him?

“My cousin was never a pleasant person,” Olivia began tentatively, feeling her way. “He swept in and routed the entire house. He treated Warren abominably and for all intents and purposes kept me prisoner there.” She’d kept as close to the truth as possible but didn’t give away too much of the story, hoping Dalton would be too well-mannered to demand more details.

No luck. Lord Dalton’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean he kept you prisoner?”

Sigh. “Prisoner only in the sense that he wouldn’t let me leave.”

Dalton’s eyebrows rose. “What other sense of prisoner is there?”

Olivia blinked at him several times and patted the horse’s neck in an effort to give herself a minute to think.

“How long did he keep you there?” Dalton demanded, bringing his horse to a stop and grabbing the bridle of her mount to halt it next to his.

“Several weeks,” but then she added hastily when Dalton’s mien darkened, “but it wasn’t that way in the beginning.”

“Then please tell me from the beginning.” He didn’t look like he was going to release her horse anytime soon.

“When he arrived, he…well he didn’t do anything wrong other than act like himself. He terrorized the housekeeper into leaving. I’d known Mrs. Humphrey all my life, and it was horrible to see her go, but she was under his employ in his house. The first week he was there…” Olivia paused and took in a deep breath, “…he emptied Father’s library and burned all his books in the garden.” Her voice ended in a hiccup while she tried to control her emotions. She mustn’t cry over this in front of him. She would never get the books back. There was no use crying over it.

“Burned the books? Why?” Dalton shook his head. “Why?”

Olivia pinched her nose to stop the tears. “He said books were for weak men. I tried to stop him, and I burned my hand.” She clinched her right fist at the memory of that pain, healed now without even a scar to show for it. She couldn’t bring herself to say Reginald had slapped her that day, too. After the days her parents died, that was the worst day of her life. It was like losing her father all over again.

“Now I’ve upset you.” Lord Dalton handed her a starched square of linen. “Miss Goldsleigh, I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m quite all right.” Olivia dabbed at the tears she couldn’t stop from coming after all. “It’s just that the books were… When I was in the library…I felt closest to my father there.”

“Certainly, I understand.” Dalton smiled at her, his deep blue eyes so much gentler than they were minutes before. “My room, my sanctuary, was my father’s room, too. It’s been twelve years and I still feel him there.”

Maybe he did understand. “It never gets better?” Her life had been upside down since her parents got sick, and now she’d give almost anything to smell Poppa’s pipe and talk about something interesting one of them had read. She had been living on the faith that impossible desire would pass.

Dalton released the bridle of her horse and smiled at her with obvious empathy. “It does get easier. Give yourself some time.” His voice soothed, the baritone rumbling over her and shoring up her waning strength. He clucked his tongue, and his horse eased into a walk ending the overwrought moment.

“It sounds to me as though you and Warren got out just in time.” Lord Dalton nodded at another rider as they passed.

Alarm bells rang in Olivia’s head. “What do you mean?” she asked, taking care to modulate her voice.

“Keeping you prisoner is one thing, as heinous as it was, but it could have become much, much worse.”

Olivia swallowed hard. “Indeed.”

“Pardon my language, Miss Goldsleigh, but the man sounds like a real blackguard. I’d never want you back in the state you were in mere days ago, but I must say how brave it was of you to get away.”

“I find your views on this very enlightened, my lord.”

Lord Dalton’s horse shimmied to the side before he corrected him. “Why? Because I don’t believe anyone should be abused? One cannot live in my house with all my opinionated women and not be attuned to the importance of social injustices.”

Olivia lifted her eyebrows. “You don’t think the best thing to do would be to go back home to him? He is my guardian, my lord and master, is he not?”

“If I thought that was true, don’t you think I would have contacted him already to come and fetch his wayward ward? Who’s to say I haven’t done that already?” He never wavered under her steady gaze. “I’ve pledged you safe harbor in my home, Miss Goldsleigh, and as much assistance as you’ve been willing to accept.”

How refreshing. After the distasteful sojourn in the dregs of London, Olivia never thought she’d hear such progressive opinions from a member of the peerage—rich member at that. She’d come to believe such thoughts were relegated to the philosophers such as her father.

“I believe you’ll have to trust me,” he said.

Olivia smiled at the handsome marquess again and nodded. Trust was turning into a nasty word. How much could she trust him when he had no business trusting her?

“You mentioned your father’s solicitor before.” Thomas nodded to a gentleman on a bay stallion. “He wasn’t able to help you.”

She shrugged.

“So what happened?”

Olivia exhaled a frustrated sigh. Her horse raised its head and rotated its ears at his rider’s distress. “The solicitor’s office has been unavailable. I’ve been to his office several times since we arrived, and he’s always
indisposed
.” She mimicked the snotty tone of the law clerk. “It’s not as if I expect to be an heiress, but I can’t believe Father left me with nothing.” What she didn’t disclose to Lord Dalton was that she’d never inquired under her real name. She’d hoped to get the solicitor alone and appeal to him as a friend of her father’s to assist her. Still, they’d never seen him enter or leave the establishment, even when she and Warren had sat outside watching for days on end.

“Let me see to that. I’ll send my man around first thing in the morning.” Lord Dalton nodded with finality. “I’m certain he’ll have the situation well in hand in no time.”

Olivia appreciated his willingness to step in and help resolve the problem, but she couldn’t allow him to bring up her name and risk being found. It seemed impossible, and she didn’t have a solution. If the solicitor really had her inheritance, her troubles were over, but getting to the money compounded her risk exponentially. She watched the marquess and thought back to his family, their open goodness and their generosity. It was painfully obvious she was a failure at surviving on her own. It was time to trust someone. She had no choice.

She gave him the name of the solicitor. The expanse between them was not too wide to reach across and lay her hand on his forearm. “It is of the utmost importance that my name not be bandied about. I’m sure you understand that Warren and I are in great danger.”

Lord Dalton nodded with concern. “My man will be most discreet, I assure you. You’ve earned a respite from worry.”

Olivia almost laughed out loud. She’d never stop worrying.

There were so many things she was sorry for, but that the man was dead wasn’t one of them. She wasn’t even especially sorry she’d had a hand in it. One time was too many for Reginald to have knocked Warren unconscious. The guilt she bore at having allowed that to happen more than once still haunted her. She was sorry Warren still had nightmares. She was sorry her little brother’s life would never be the same.

As bad as the fear and hunger had been in London, when she thought back to ducking Reginald’s heavy fisted attacks and his drunken pawing of her, she didn’t feel near as guilty about his death as she should.

But, no, she would never stop worrying.

Dalton watched her as they let the horses have their head and gallop across the grass. She was far away, inside her head, and he supposed she had many months or years left of grieving for her parents. He remembered all too well the feeling of loneliness and despair that seemed to envelope him for days and weeks after his father died. He could imagine how bad it must be for her with no mother to comfort her, no family but a small boy to provide protection when she needed it most.

Lord Dalton’s urge to safeguard her felt elemental, primal. He considered how he’d react if such a thing ever happened to one of his sisters, and he felt homicidal.

He wanted to know more about this cousin of hers, Reginald. He couldn’t bring himself to ask her any more questions. There was no way he could cause her more hurt. It was clearly painful for her to talk about, but that didn’t reduce his need for more information. He didn’t remember hearing her cousin’s name in London, but unless the man went to the same schools he did and ran in the same circles, the odds he’d be acquainted with him were slim. However, Dalton knew people. People who knew people. He’d send a message to his man straightaway and have him start some investigating in Staffordshire. He was also friendly with the chief magistrate at Bow Street. Dalton wanted to learn everything there was to know about Reginald Goldsleigh.

He didn’t think the solicitor would be a problem. If it came down to a legal battle, his own solicitor was top-notch, and he was certain Olivia would prevail with his solicitor’s assistance.

The bastard cousin was out there somewhere, and he deserved, at the very least, a giant piece of Dalton’s mind in the form of a fist to the face.

The man in the trees grimaced and shook his head with callousness when the girl smiled. He noted in his book each time the man touched her. Everything went into the notebook. He was always paid better when the notes were extensive.

Chapter Twelve

When Olivia entered her first London ballroom, it quite frankly took her breath away. She was already dazzled from the line of carriages clogging the streets surrounding the Johnston-Smythe mansion. Even though it was a mild night, it had been decided they would take the enclosed, crested coach as it was the only one big enough for all six of them to arrive together. The windows had been lowered, and a breeze drifted in. Still, the interior of the carriage was crowded with five finely dressed women and one squished gentleman.

It was everything Olivia could do to keep her excitement level under control. As much as the shopping trip had been hectic, getting ready for the ball had turned out to be much more complicated than she’d ever expected. Honestly, preparing for a county assembly did not hold a candle to the womanly rituals involved in a
ton
ball.

The ladies had been washed and powdered, perfumed and dusted, molded and sculpted into form-flattering undergarments and obscenely expensive dresses. Their hair was brushed and teased and pinned to within an inch of its life. Her neck and wrists were draped with borrowed jewelry, pieces that, if brought back to Seven Dials and pawned, would have bought her and Warren a lifetime of gentle hiding. Regardless of the frivolity of it all her maid, Natalie, had done a marvelous job, and Olivia truly felt like a princess.

When their carriage arrived at the front of the house, their small group paraded up the steps to the grand mansion, the Marchioness of Dalton on her son’s arm as rank required. The young sisters looped arms and walked in together behind them. Lady Evelyn held back and walked with Olivia, taking her hand in both of hers as they made their way through the crowd and over the threshold of the imposing double doors, opened wide to allow the throng past.

Evelyn smiled with satisfaction at the look of wonder Olivia knew must be on her face. “Aren’t you glad you let me sponsor you?”

Olivia gently squeezed her benefactor’s hand. She couldn’t help herself. “Everything is so beautiful. It’s astounding really.”

In the background, the butler announced the Marquess and Marchioness of Dalton, followed by Lady Penelope and Lady Cassandra. She realized with trepidation, but also a little thrill, that she was next. Evelyn whispered to the butler, and then Olivia heard him call out in a steady, clear voice, “Lady Evelyn Langford and Miss Olivia Goldsleigh.” Being announced in a ballroom in such a manner wasn’t precisely incognito, but anyone looking for her wouldn’t be lurking around
tonnish
ballrooms anyway. Of course, no one paid any attention; after all, one had ever heard of her before.

Relax, for one night. Relax and let yourself feel young again.

Olivia followed Cassandra and Penelope’s lead, smiling at the scores of people to whom she was introduced, knowing she’d never remember their names or titles. Lady Evelyn nodded her approval and smiled triumphantly as her dance card filled with names of eager gentlemen.

She had never been a wallflower at the assemblies back home, but she’d also known every single one of her partners since birth, and often her dance partner was an old man complete with whiskers and false teeth. Despite the voice in her head telling her not to lose perspective in all the excitement, she couldn’t help herself. The candles, the chandeliers, the beautiful people – all of those things, plus a glass or two of champagne, and everything around her sparkled and enticed her with the intoxification of it all.

The orchestra took a small break, and her benefactress tucked Olivia’s hand into the crook of her elbow and drew her into a slow promenade around the outskirts of the ballroom. “How are you enjoying the evening thus far?”

“Very much.”

Lady Evelyn laughed. The happy sound drew looks from other members of the
beau monde
who smiled in return without even knowing the joke. Olivia was quickly learning the marquess and his family were highly sought after within London’s social circles. It didn’t matter if the gathering was at White’s, or a social committee, or a house party because the Cavendishes were good company, and a party was always that much better if one of them was in attendance.

Olivia wondered how much her involvement with their family would harm their reputation and social standing if she was ever found out. The thought made her stomach clench.

“…and Beatrice told Celeste that very thing, but she’s liable to disagree out of meanness.”
Oh dear.
Lady Evelyn had been speaking the entire time.

“Ermm.” Olivia nodded as noncommittally as possible.

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t.”

Lady Evelyn’s laugh twinkled through the air around her. “Beatrice and Celeste are unimportant for now. Don’t concern yourself about it.” Lady Evelyn pulled Olivia closer and dropped her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “I noticed your dance card filled very quickly.”

“I can barely believe it myself,” Olivia admitted. “Who would have thought?”

“
I
would have thought. I did think.” Lady Evelyn smiled at another couple passing in the opposite direction. “I had no doubt you would slip right into London society with no problem. Have you met any gentlemen you’ve found interesting?”

Olivia’s face warmed. “Everyone has been so nice.”

“Of course, dear. You’re a very lovely and charming young lady, and there are a great many gentlemen here tonight who recognize that. You’ll have no problem finding a suitor this season.”

“That remains to be seen.” Olivia chuckled at Lady Evelyn’s confidence. “A dance does not a proposal make.”

The tinkling laugh reappeared. “Just you wait and see if I’m not right.” The ladies passed the open terrace doors, where the breeze drifted in and played with the loose tendrils of Olivia’s hair. “Humor an old lady and tell me if you’ve found any of the gentlemen promising.”

She’d never really bought into the idea of finding a husband during the season Lady Evelyn sponsored for her. She glanced about the room, scanning the gentlemen in attendance. She’d met several that night who were very handsome, complimentary, or good conversationalists. She did recall a certain dark-haired gentleman who smelled deliciously of warm leather and pipe smoke, and an auburn-haired man whose hair curled enticingly around his ears who’d made her giggle with funny stories while they danced. There were others, too, gentlemen whom she wouldn’t be opposed to spending more time with. One quadrille over the course of one evening, however, didn’t guarantee compatibility. It barely even suggested at it, in fact. How could she know if any of these gentlemen, while pleasing to the eye or her intellect, would accept Warren?

Her gaze continued to travel over the broad shoulders and taller heads of the gentlemen in the room until her eye landed on the one particular man her subconscious had been searching for all along. Lord Dalton had penciled his name on her dance card for the final waltz of the evening, and Olivia, quite unwisely she was sure, anticipated his hands at her waist in a way that didn’t seem prudent.

The evening had moved along at lightning speed. It was hard to worry and self-flagellate when one was
chasse jette-
ing and counting
poussettes
in a cotillion, all while maintaining one’s end of a socially acceptable conversation.

Her last partner handed her off to Lord Dalton as the announcing strains of the final waltz filled the room. A little thrill of anticipation skittered through her belly.

“Finally, I get my chance with the belle of the ball.” Lord Dalton placed her hand on his forearm as he led them through the crowd to an empty space on the dance floor.

“The belle.” Olivia tsked. “You’re much too kind, Lord Dalton.”

“I am not too kind. My sisters will assure you I have no qualms expressing my displeasure of them all the time.”

Olivia turned to face Lord Dalton and placed her gloved hand on his shoulder. “But they are your sisters. I am merely a houseguest, and you should feel no need to flatter me, my lord.”

“I’m quite certain you’ve received plenty of flattery from your rampant admirers this night without my contributing anything false. My point was I don’t give insincere compliments, Miss Goldsleigh.”

His right hand slid into position on her back, and his left gently clasped her hand. It was no wonder the waltz was so scandalous in the ton. Even though they were arm’s length apart, the position still felt intimate, like a loose embrace.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned this evening in my first foray into London’s society, is that compliments are loosely given.”
But I wouldn’t mind hearing more from you, even if they are exaggerated.

The first bar of the Sussex Waltz filled the room. Lord Dalton’s hand tightened almost imperceptibly on her back, and they began the fluid movement characteristic of the slow waltz. Olivia concentrated on the dancing, otherwise she’d be forced to contemplate how handsome her dance partner was, and nothing good could come from that.

“As I suspected.” Lord Dalton’s voice was low and modulated, loud enough for her ears in the crowd of dancers. “What uninspired compliments did those blighters try to woo you with? I’m sure your radiant beauty was mentioned.”

Olivia blinked at him. “How am I to answer that question without sounding like the shallowest lady in the room?”

“It wasn’t a question. They would be idiots not to mention your beauty.” They drew closer as he navigated them through a turn. One of her earlier partners smiled broadly at her over the head of his unsuspecting partner. “There’s a perfect example of an idiot.”

Olivia remembered the man. He’d been flirtatious, but not obnoxiously so. “Oh, I thought him quite nice.”

“I’m sure. His two mistresses and passel of illegitimate children probably agree.”

Well, that was an eye-opening revelation. She glanced upward to verify Dalton’s veracity. Was he jesting with her? He didn’t seem to be—there wasn’t even a hint of a grin on his face. She stared at his lips for a second longer than was acceptable. He must have felt her gaze on him because he glanced down at her, his ice-blue eyes pinched in a squint.

“Did any of them get specific with their compliments?”

“My lord?” she asked. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

The man didn’t reply right away. His jaw tick under his ear. He darted a glance her way before shifting his gaze over her head. “Your hair or your eyes. Maybe your lips. Did any of them mention anything specific?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” She had no idea why she was being coy with him.

“If I’m to escort you about town like my sisters, then it’s my responsibility to protect you from bounders and rakes with no good intentions.”

Of course, his responsibility. Olivia sighed.

“So, did any of them say anything untoward?” he demanded.

“Lord Dalton, I assure you, not a one of the men I danced with tonight made any unacceptable advances.”

The marquess looked down at her, disbelief evident on his face. “Not a one of them mentioned your hair or eyes or form? Not a one?”

Olivia kept her countenance perfectly still and despised herself for fishing for compliments. “What would they have said about my eyes other than there are two, or my hair of which there is plenty, though it rarely behaves, my lord?”

She guessed Lord Dalton gathered her purpose when his expression eased and the tension in his jaw relaxed. He didn’t bother to suppress the start of a grin.

“Is this quid pro quo from earlier then?” he asked.

This time Olivia didn’t know what he meant. She sought through her recollections of their conversation this morning and blushed when she remembered him catching her at a blatant appraisal of his masculine assets.

“Fair is fair, Miss Goldsleigh.” His palm urged her into his loose waltzing embrace, closing the distance between them by several inches. His voice deepened and sank into a whisper which, combined with his masculine heat, enveloped her within a shroud of intimacy that sped up her pulse and quickened her breathing. “Should I want to woo you, my luscious little pixie of a lady, I would start with an ode to your lovely face, your skin like the freshest cream and ripest peaches. I would recite sonnets to your eyes of robin’s-egg blue, and I would mention your honey-colored hair which is matched in its glory only by your lovely figure.” His liquid gaze traveled down the length of her body, pausing at the curves of her breasts and hips before it traveled its way back up to her meet her eyes. “I would liken you to Créide, the Irish Goddess of women and fairies, because certainly you must be both. Did the goddess gather all the best, most beautiful aspects of nature and combine them to weave you into the most ethereal beauty? You say you came from the country, but I say you must be made of the country.”

Olivia was breathless. His mouth was so close to her ear, each syllable, each exhalation, caressed her face and neck. It would take only the tiniest movement to turn her face and tilt her chin, and her lips would meet his. One moment of hesitation was too much. Lord Dalton rose to his full height, and the space between them resumed an acceptable distance, the opportunity over. Olivia marshaled her composure and opened her mouth to give some sort of pithy response, but Lord Dalton’s face was inscrutable.

His choice of compliment mirrored exactly how she felt. Olivia wore the gold. Madam Bolivant had been right, she looked fantastic in it. The low-cut bodice showed off a wide expanse of chest, and the satin ribbon at the empire waist displayed her bosom to its finest. The pale-yellow silk underskirt hugged her curves, not necessarily in the fashion of the day, but when paired with the sheer gold lace overdress, the effect was ethereal and, as Penny had described it with an awed sigh, breathtaking. Bugle beads started around her hips, spread all the way to the hem, and made an entrancing rustling sound when she walked. Natalie had done something magical with her unruly hair so it looped in twists and curls, and tendrils twined down her nape to frame her face. In that dress, under the twinkling chandeliers, she felt like the fairy princess he mentioned.