My Only Love (10 page)

"Considering
he turned Papa's offer down, Em, I hardly think you or I have anything to worry
about. Now please, I have work to finish and my head is killing me. If you wish
to take up the subject of Miles again, do so with Father."

There
came a knock on the door, and Jonah entered. He regarded Emily with one lifted
eyebrow, then smiled at Olivia. "Miss, young Bryan is ready for his
outing."

Relieved
to have a graceful exit, Olivia put aside her pen and sat back in her chair.
"Thank you, Jonah. Will you have Deets bring up the coach? And would you
mind terribly to get my wrap?"

Her
face clouding, Emily frowned. "Surely you aren't going out in this cold,
Olivia."

"A
little cold never hurt anyone, Emily, and besides, Bryan looks forward to his
outings. A child needs fresh air and exercise if he's to maintain good health
and a proper attitude. Or perhaps, being the doting, loving, and concerned aunt
that you are, you would rather entertain him for the remainder of the
afternoon?"

Emily's
face flushed a brilliant red, and she averted her eyes. Olivia allowed herself
the pleasure of smiling, if only slightly. It wasn't often that Emily had the
good grace to show her discomfiture.

Jonah
cleared his throat, and Olivia looked around. "Is there something
else?" she asked.

"Yes,
miss. There's a guest waiting."

"Oh?"

"Miles
Warwick." Warwick.

"Warwick?"
she repeated. "Yes, miss."

"I.
.. see. Well, simply tell him that my father—"

"He's
not here to see your father, miss."

Olivia
glanced at Emily. Emily's blue eyes were round and her pink lips were forming
an O of surprise that, in a fraction of a second, melted into a moue of
displeasure. With a toss of her blond curls, she announced, "I refuse to
see him. Tell him to go away, Jonah, I—"

"I
beg your pardon, Miss Emily, but he isn't here to see you. He's here to speak
with Miss Olivia."

A
bubble of something that felt suspiciously close to excitement centered in
Olivia's stomach. And this after spending the entire night convincing herself
that Miles Warwick wasn't worth the effort it took to worry about his opinion
of her. Setting her shoulders, she took a much-needed breath and said,
"Tell him I'm unable to receive him. Bryan is waiting, after all, and ...
well... just tell him, if you please."

Jonah
nodded and quit the room.

Stepping
over the heap of dresses at her feet, Emily planted herself before the desk,
and leaning toward Olivia, demanded in an urgent voice, "What is he doing
here?"

"He's
brought Bertrice home. I'm sure that's it. Calm down, Em, you look as if you've
seen a banshee rise out of a fog."

"You're
not looking so well yourself," she snapped. "Or perhaps that flush on
your cheeks stems from excitement instead of anxiety."

"Don't
be daft."

Wringing
her hands, Emily cast a frantic glance toward the door. "Oh, God, what if
he were to meet Lord Willowby? Knowing Miles, he'd take grand pleasure in
telling His Lordship every disgusting detail of our relationship. Get rid of
him, Oli, before he destroys my entire future!"

Olivia
moved toward the door just as Bryan's laughter rang out in the hallway, along
with the sound of running feet. Then the child was there, flinging himself into
her arms, his green eyes dancing with merriment.

"Mummy,"
he cried, "Cook prepared me pudding!"

Olivia
sank to one knee and hugged the warmly bundled boy tightly. His breath smelled
of orange marmalade, and there was a mustache of milk over his lip that felt
moist as he kissed her cheek. She laughed and kissed him back, momentarily
forgetting Warwick .. . until Jonah's weak voice called out:

"Here
now, my good man, Miss Olivia cannot be disturbed!"

She
turned her head, and there he stood, legs slightly spread and his cloak hanging
loosely from his shoulders

to
his shins. Jonah, not far behind him, looked helplessly at Olivia. She sent him
away with a nod of her head, and slowly stood up.

"Do
you commonly walk into a woman's home under protest?" she asked Warwick.

"If
the occasion suits. Do you always show up on a man's doorstep after dark and
uninvited?"

Olivia
forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. "Touche. I assume you've
returned Bertrice?"

He
nodded and a dark strand of hair spilled over his forehead.

"Well..
. please accept my gratitude, Mr. Warwick. As well as my apologies for the loss
of your bed. Now, if you'll excuse us—"

"I'd
like to speak with you," he interrupted.

"That
won't be possible, alas. I was preparing to leave, you see. With my son."

She
watched Warwick's gaze drop to the child, who was clinging to her leg and
partially burying his little face in her skirt as he peered up at the tall,
dark stranger.

"It's
routine," Olivia hurried to add, bringing Warwick's attention back to
her. "I take him out every morning."

"How
very touching." The words were drolly spoken, yet his features didn't
change. His eyes were hard, his expression uncompromising, giving Olivia the
impression that he was going to say what he wanted, regardless.

Seeing
that he wouldn't be easily dissuaded, she said, "Perhaps you would care to
join us."

Emily,
who had remained in the study, gasped softly. In truth, Olivia was more than a
little shocked at her offer as well. She had put her foot in it again. Still,
she would rather that he say what was on his mind in private.

Silence
ensued for a long moment as Warwick's gaze shifted from her to the boy, then
back to her again. "Very well," he finally replied.

Miles
had only meant to escort Bertrice home. He'd never intended to confront Olivia.
Certainly not after last night—when he'd made a total idiot out of himself.
First by drinking too much, then by prattling about his personal woes.

And
there was, of course, the little matter of that kiss.

Couldn't
quite shake the idea that he'd enjoyed it.

Very
much.

Fact
is, he'd walked the house the better part of the night thinking about it.

The
coach hit a bump in the road, jarring Miles's discomforting thoughts back to
the present. He sat directly across from Olivia, who was wrapped in a cloak
with a fox collar. Beside her sat the boy, apple-cheeked with cold, a blanket
tucked snuggly over his lap. The lad's green eyes were wide and staring at him.
His small but pudgy fingers were laced very properly on his lap.

"Well?"
came Olivia's voice, drawing Miles's attention back to her. In the shadowed
quarters, and hidden partially by her cowl—as it had been yesterday— her face
looked the color of velvety cream; her eyes were large, perhaps enhanced by the
darkness and length of her thick lashes. "What did you wish to say, Mr.
Warwick?"

He
thought hard for a moment, then reached into his pocket, withdrawing her
eyeglasses. Tapping them on his knee, he glanced again at the boy, then tossed
them onto Olivia's lap.

'That's
it?" She didn't smile. "You could have returned the eyeglasses with
Bertrice, or left them with Jonah."

He
shrugged and crossed one leg over the other, bumping hers in the process.

"If
you have something to say, sir, then say it. You needn't worry about Bryan,
unless, of course, you wish to dwell again on his parentage—a subject that I
don't intend to discuss."

He
watched her gloved fingers toy with the stems of her glasses; she did not,
however, put them on. "Perhaps I was simply in the mood for a bit of
conversation," he said.

"I
doubt it. You don't strike me as the kind of man who trifles with
chitchat."

"You're
a very straightforward young woman, Miss Devonshire."

"I'm
hardly young, sir, and therefore am not often entertained by my own coquetry.
I've grown too old for games, and have come to appreciate honesty above all
else."

"Honesty
is often unkind and can cut more painfully than a lie. It's been my experience
that people prefer lies, Miss Devonshire."

"Yourself
included, Mr. Warwick?"

He
smiled a little. "I have a reputation for being blatantly honest, I fear.
In that respect my repute is often held in less than admirable esteem."

The
coach rocked; a horse whinnied. Deets, the driver, cracked a whip and
encouraged the animals on with a sharp whistle.

They
sat in stilted silence while Bryan played with his fingers and continually
stared at Miles, who returned the lad's interest with a lifted eyebrow. No
doubt the child had inherited many of the Devonshire traits. Miles found
himself looking from the boy to his mother, comparing their eyes, nose, mouth.
Very similar. The hair, however, must have been inherited from his father. No
one in the Devonshire family could boast of such a thick crop of curly
black-brown hair.

Frowning,
Miles forced himself to look out the window and did his best to dispel the
image of Olivia Devonshire dancing naked with a lot of Gypsies.

Margrove
Bluff, a long gray claw of sheer flint that thrust itself above the meandering
river Ure, was the highest point on the Colsterdale Moor. Grooved into the
surrounding hillside were the remnants of hushes produced hundreds of years ago
as early miners dammed streams in order to uncover veins of lead. That had been
the ancient way, of course, before shafts and levels— before the miners gave up
hope of discovering ore riches in the vicinity and moved off to Gunnerside
Gill.

The
centuries and weather hadn't totally decimated the relics of those days,
however, because scattered over the surrounding hills and dales were the debris
of stone ruins and heaps of tippings. Folk in the area swore that on cold
winter nights they could hear the ghosts of miners singing—as the men always
did when they trooped to and from their dangerous job.

From
the bluff's peak one could see all the way to Middleham on a clear day, across
the wild country, the empty rolling miles of browns and greens and yellows. As
it was, the wind had scattered the fog just enough to reveal the high-pitched
gables of what was once Caldbergh Workhouse, and beyond that, the rooftop and
chimneys of Braithwaite Manor.

With
his hands in his pockets and his back to the wind, Miles regarded the panorama
and wondered what the blazes he was doing here, surprised he was out here with
Olivia and her boy. The ground was crunchy with frost and the wind sharp enough
to blister his face. His fingers and toes and nose were turning numb, yet the
lad seemed hardly to notice. With a scarf wrapped around his head, and mittens
covering his hands, Bryan went scooting down a long, sloping hill on his little
backside while his mother stood rigidly at the top of the rise, hands at her
sides, looking like some ice doll who would shatter with the least pressure.

No
doubt about it, Olivia Devonshire was a stuffy little thing. Intense.
Unfriendly . .. unless she'd quaffed two portions of whisky, of course, as she
had the previous night. He had to hand it to her, most ladies would have
passed out with a mere whiff of the stuff.

He
watched as she cupped her hands around her mouth and called out for her son to
come away from the Ure's icy shoal. Immediately, he scampered away, skidded and
plunked hard on his bottom, only to scramble to his feet and dash off again,
his breath puffing from his mouth like a steam locomotive. Miles reflected, for
a moment, on the times he had come here—always alone—to sit atop the bluff and
contemplate life and love; at least until he had grown old enough to realize
that life could be experienced without living—"existing" seemed to be
a more appropriate verb. And love? There had never been that, as far as he
could remember. Standing there now, with the wind moaning over the moor, he
tried to recall if his own mother had ever played with him in some frozen
Parisian fields.

Not
likely. She would have been too busy entertaining her latest paramour.

Olivia
turned to look at him. A wind rounded the bluff in that moment and belled the
cloak around her ankles and stirred the strands of brown grass that peaked over
the snow like ripples on a calm pond. Then she walked toward him, never once
taking her eyes from his—no pretense at helplessness common with most females
who gave the impression they might swoon if they soiled their shoes or the hem
of their dress. It struck him in that moment that Olivia Devonshire was not
beautiful, in any conventional sense, yet there was something noble in her
features. Her skin seemed almost ruddy with cold; she had a strong nose and a
stubborn jaw; her lips were tinged slightly blue.

Stopping
an arm's length from him, she said nothing, just fixed him with a steadfast
look as if waiting for him to spark the conversation. "I was only
thinking," he found himself stating. "Wondering, I suppose, what you
would be doing if I wasn't here."

"What
do you think?" she asked.

He
shrugged. "I can imagine you removing your cowl and turning your face into
the wind. Perhaps you might even let down your hair. I'm quite certain you
would be sliding down the hill on your backside, just like the boy."

"And
no doubt you would find such behavior scandalous and unacceptable."

"I'm
hardly in a position to judge." "True."

He
pulled his cloak tighter and turned the collar up around his ears. The need to
stomp his feet against the ground to warm them seemed tempting, but he
resisted.

She,
after all, appeared to be unbothered by the cold.

"Why
are you here?" she asked, never faltering in her penetrating gaze.

"I
don't know, Miss Devonshire; I was asking myself the same; I'm bloody freezing
and it's obvious you're more inclined to keep company with your son."

"Bryan
is the most important person in my life."

"He
is the only person in your life, aside from your father and sister, of course.
Both of whom are hardly the most stimulating company."

"You
certainly didn't think that way four years ago, when you were courting my
sister."

"Courting?
A misnomer, I'm sure."

"I'm
sure."

"She
doesn't appear to have suffered for it."

"I
fear Emily doesn't have the depth of character to suffer overly much about
anything. While I love her deeply I'm not so fond that I cannot recognize her
shortcomings."

"Like
your father, for instance?"

"Emily
has a way of blinding men."

"Hardly
a phenomenon where women are concerned. I've always had the impression that
females come into this world with a chameleonlike ability to transform into
whatever is necessary to attract the desired mate."

"You
do us an injustice, I think. We don't all live and breathe for the love of a
man. Nor would we sacrifice our dignity to trap some unsuspecting fool into
matrimony," she said pointedly. "Besides, I cannot imagine loving a
man long who did not love me in return. It seems a dreadful waste of
time."

"Ah.
I begin to understand."

Her
brow knit slightly in contemplation.

"Perhaps
we've all unjustly accused the boy's father. Perhaps his only crime, aside from
seduction, was his lack of heartfelt affection. Perhaps he was willing to marry
you after all, but you weren't about to settle for anything less than a love
match. My dear Miss Devonshire, do you know how many marriages would not have
taken place if either party waited for Cupid's arrow to strike him, or her?
Good God, I fear the human race would have grown extinct a very long time
ago."

"Do
you deny that marriages of love exist?"

"Quite
the contrary. Take my brother and his wife, for instance. They are more than a
little fond of one another."

"As
were my parents. Then again, my mother was an incredible beauty. Every man who
ever met her fell in love immediately. Emily is the very image of her in every
way."

At
last her features changed, albeit subtly. It was in the eyes. They became
distant and somehow tragic; a sea-green well of sorrow that made him
temporarily forget about the icy wind. In that space of time—no more than three
or four seconds—she said nothing, just looked away over the moor; then she
resumed her study of him, all emotion washed from her features, but there was a
difference. Her shoulders did not seem quite so rigid. In truth, they appeared
burdened by some colossal invisible weight. He saw it all, the reality. It sang
in the air like wind whipping around a kite string—all the reasons why Olivia
Devonshire had so meekly accepted her reputation of spinster, and worse.

Precisely
then a cry rang out. A curlew, perhaps, or a jackdaw. Yet the sky showed no hint
of birds, and a cursory look over the frosty landscape revealed no human or
animal shape. Then the realization struck him...

"Bryan?"
Olivia called. "Where is he? Bryan!"

Frowning,
Miles directed his gaze toward the river. There was nothing there but the
ice-covered water, with an occasional clump of spiky weeds thrusting up through
the frozen mire.

"Bryan!"
Olivia called more loudly, turning and turning in a frantic effort to locate
her suddenly missing son. She ran toward the bluff's precipice, her cloak
flying out behind her, her ankles twisting as her shoes tangled in her skirt
and the dense sodden overgrowth blanketing the moor.

"Miss
Devonshire!" Miles shouted, as he watched her stumble. He moved swiftly up
the incline, reaching Olivia as she struggled to her feet.

"Let
me go," she demanded as he grabbed her shoulders and held her. "My
son is missing—"

"You're
sure as hell not going to help him if you go plunging headfirst off this
precipice. Listen to me!" He shook her.

The
cry came again. Olivia shoved Miles away and ran to the crown of the cliff,
crying aloud as a covey of brown birds exploded from their hiding place amid a
snarl of briars. Cursing, Miles grabbed her from behind and pinned her against
him as he searched the rock-studded face and floor of the bluff for any sign
that the lad had toppled over the ledge.

Nothing.

Olivia
squirmed from his arms and stumbled back down the hill, crying Bryan's name and
calling for Deets who, having heard her cries, came rushing toward them.
Breathing hard, Miles searched the undulating ground, his mind scrambling for
any plausible way the lad could simply disappear without a trace. He, himself,
had played here as a youth; as far as he could remember, aside from the sheer
drop of the bluff itself, there had been no hazards ... except for ...

He
struck out running, half sliding down the steep incline, tearing off his cloak
and flinging it away in an effort to move more swiftly, while his eyes
frantically scanned the terrain and his ears strained to detect the boy's
cries.

There!

He
almost stumbled into the sinkhole before locating the black pit with his eyes.
Bryan's terrified wails were muffled by the depth of the cavity, and the dense
coverage of vegetation hadn't helped. Falling to his knees, he focused hard on
the darkness and called Bryan's name.

The
lad responded with a terrified sob.

"Don't
move, Bryan," Miles said as calmly as possible. "Your Mummy and I
will have you out of there in a wink."

Silence
for a moment. A sniffle. Then a quaking: "Promise?"

He
grinned. "Promise."

Miles
stood as Olivia ran toward him, Deets close on her heels. Her face white and
eyes glassy with fear, she did her best to push past him while he held her
fiercely and did his best to push her back. "Listen to me," he told
her, and shook her until her hair spilled down her back and her body turned
rigid. "Hysteria won't help your son, Miss Devonshire. He's safe enough
where he is as long as he doesn't try to move."

"Is
it a well of some sort?" Deets asked, peering concernedly over the lip of
the pit.

"A
sinkhole. These bluffs are full of them. Some of them are simply caused by the
roofs of underground caves falling in."

"How
deep is it?" Olivia demanded as she gripped his shirt in her fists.

"I
can't tell, but he seems to be well enough so far." Looking at Deets, he
said, "I'll need a rope."

"I'll
be needin' to return to Devonswick for that," the driver replied.

'There
isn't time for that!" Olivia cried.

Stepping
around her, Miles stared down into the black void as he removed his suit coat
and began rolling up his shirtsleeves. Then he dropped to his knees.

Deets
did likewise, and as Miles eased over the ledge of the pit, the driver grabbed
his ankles.

Hanging
upside down, the jagged edges of flint scraping his face, arms, and chest,
Miles stretched his hands toward the child's blurry form huddled against the
earthen wall. "Give me your hand," he ordered quietly. When the lad
refused, he repeated the directive more forcefully and stretched harder. There
came a mutter, a curse, a frantic scramble from above just as Miles felt
himself sliding farther into the hole. He made a desperate grab for something,
anything, to stop the inevitable fall, only to find himself plummeting
headfirst into the cold, rank-smelling morass a dozen feet below.

Far
above him Olivia cried out in alarm. Deets, forgetting himself, yelled an
explicit curse and profuse apologies for his clumsiness, while just above his
head Bryan wailed in fear. Miles floundered in the slime and mire, and dragged
himself up on the ledge where Bryan perched. They each sat there on the narrow
lip, shivering, staring at the other's dim features in the dark.

Finally,
Miles raised a hand to him, and the boy scrambled onto his lap, buried his
face in Miles's chest and sobbed.

"There,
there," Miles said, blinking grit from his eyes. Hesitantly, he wrapped
one arm around the little form and gazed up at the spherical gray sky overhead.

"Mr.
Warwick!" Olivia called. "Can you hear me?"