My Only Love (15 page)

Devonshire's
eyes hardened and his smile became brittle. "Take your own mother and
father, for instance. The Warwicks' history of fidelity leaves a great deal to
be desired."

The
conversation droned on. Olivia barely listened. Instead, she stared into the
face of her future husband and watched his features go from stupefied, to
angry, to frightfully furious. A tiny voice in her mind whispered that she
should be finding some pleasure in the scene— after all, his reasons for
marrying her were far from chivalrous—so why wasn't she? Why did she feel as if
she wanted to jump up and scream at her father that the idea of her totally
controlling the fortune she would bring to this marriage was ludicrous? Miles's
pride had been wounded enough, being forced, as he was, into marriage. He had
every right to withdraw his proposal, just on principle. But would he? Just how
desperate was he? she wondered.

Olivia
recalled the previous night of tossing and turning and dreading this meeting,
fearing Warwick's reaction when the contracts were laid before him and the
ugly reality of his situation was spelled out in legal jargon.

She
had dreamt throughout the night that he refused the conditions of the dowry and
stormed from the house.

She
dreamt, too, that he'd dropped to his knees and professed his undying devotion,
and because he loved her so intensely, he would agree to anything—anything—just
so he could have her as his wife.

So
far, neither had happened.

'Tell
me, Warwick. Are you agreeable to these terms?" Devonshire asked.

Miles
sat in a straight-backed chair, appearing for all the world as if he were relaxed
and unbothered by this shocking turn of events. How very composed and arrogant
he looked, dressed in his finest navy blue broadcloth jacket with gold buttons,
leather breeches, and highly polished Hessians. Yet, it was his eyes that gave
away his immense anger. They were like a forest burning— gray-green with a
frightening light. As she waited for his response, a clock in the hallway
ticked the seconds into silence, and the sound of each swing of the pendulum
grew louder and louder in the stillness.

"It
seems I have little choice," he finally replied.

Devonswick
smiled and offered his hand. Miles ignored it.

The
smile fading, Olivia's father said, "There is one other matter."

"You
don't say. Let me guess. I'm to slit my wrist and sign those contracts in
blood."

"Nothing
so radical, my good man. Actually, it concerns the boy." He shuffled
through the papers. "If by chance the marriage between you should be
dissolved, his mother will retain custody."

Miles
laughed softly, his only response. Then he left his chair. To Olivia, he said,
"I've spoken with the proper officials at the Registry office. I'll leave
the rest up to you, since you appear to be inclined toward controlling the
situation."

He
turned on his heels and quit the room without so much as an adieu. Olivia
hurried after him. "What time—" she called out.

"Noon,"
came the short response.

She
followed him to the foyer, where Jonah stood with Miles's cloak and gloves. The
old butler helped him into the cloak before opening the door. "Mr.
Warwick," she called.

Pausing
in the threshold, Miles looked back, obviously furious. She considered
informing him that the shocking conditions of her dowry contract had been her
father's idea, but what good would it do?

"I.
.. understand how you must be feeling," she said.

"Really?"
He raised his eyebrows in feigned amusement as he slid one hand into a
kid-leather riding glove. 'Tell me, Miss Devonshire, how am I feeling?"

"Emasculated."

"Ah."
He flashed her a cold smile. "Well put, love." "No one will hold
a gun to your head and force you to go through with it."

"That
is a matter of opinion."

Olivia
took a deep breath. "You must be very desperate, sir."

He
shrugged and tugged on the other glove. "No more than you, I
suppose."

She
frowned and her eyes grew larger as Warwick walked slowly toward her, the wind
through the open door buffeting his shoulders and hair. Only it wasn't the wind
that caused his cheeks to blaze with hot color, and his eyes to glitter like
fire.

"Indeed
you will have to be exceedingly desperate to marry me, Miss Devonshire,"
he said in a chillingly unemotional tone. "Because I'm not a man who concedes
his dignity willingly. Chance a glance at my rather notorious history and
you'll understand my meaning. Those who have sought to trip me lip usually have
found themselves tripped facedown in their own stupidity."

"Is
that a threat?" she demanded, sounding far braver than she felt.

"I
don't threaten, Miss Devonshire. I'm not like an American rattlesnake that
shakes his tail to warn some hapless little creature that he's about to strike.
I'm much more subtle." Olivia stiffened as he lightly placed one finger
upon her breast, precisely where the tattoo lay hidden beneath her blouse, then
drew his finger up, up, slowly to her throat and around the back of her neck
until his big hand cradled her nape and his gloved fingers buried into her
hair. His head lowered over hers, and her heartbeat quickened. She couldn't
think. Or move. His eyes were hypnotic and she vaguely wondered if it was fear
or thrill that made her knees feel as if they would give beneath her at any
moment.

"Oh,
I'm much more subtle than that," he said softly.

"I'm
more like an asp, Miss Devonshire. I slither into your bed and coil up between
the sheets. I wait until you're most vulnerable before I strike."

"If
you're trying to frighten me—"

"Hardly.
Just a friendly warning among friends. We are friends, aren't we, Miss
Devonshire?"

She
tried to nod. Impossible.

Behind
her, her father left his office and stood rooted to the floor at the sight of
Olivia and Miles. "Here now," came his concerned voice. "What's
this?"

His
eyes not leaving hers, Miles said, "Just a kiss before I go. I think I
have that right, my lord. Don't you? After all, what sort of fiance would I be
not to show my one and only love my heartfelt affection?"

Olivia
watched him, a tinge of fear reflected in her features. Oh, yes, she was
frightened; he had succeeded at that most impressively. And she was uncertain,
yet without the hostility he might have expected from a weaker woman.

She
held him with her inscrutable eyes for what felt like an eternity longer, until
his anger at her and her wily old father turned in on itself.

He
bent and kissed her fully on her mouth—as he had before—opening his lips as she
opened hers and tasting the spicy flavor of her tongue.

His
breath caught.

He
pulled away.

Turning
on his heels, Miles left the house.

On
Saturday morning Olivia awoke with a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
It was her wedding day and she'd heard not a word from her fiance since he'd
stormed from the house five days ago.

The
night before she had lain out her wedding attire, as humble as it was: a
home-stitched gown void of the lace that normally adorned a bride's dress.
There were her usual stockings—not the fine silk embroidered ones with flowers
on the ankles. The maid had managed to shine her shoes well enough and replaced
the soiled lace-up ribbons with new ones. Once or twice as the morning rolled
on she'd been tempted to ask Emily if she might borrow one of the two dozen
pairs of shoes from her impressive Parisian collection, but she hadn't. Such a
request would only upset Emily. As it was, her sister had taken to her bed
pleading a sick headache. She simply couldn't go through with the awful ordeal
of standing as Olivia's witness in the ceremony, therefore Olivia had asked
Bertrice.

Olivia
spent the early hours of morning with her son. They took their traditional walk
around the estate pathways, strolled down to a garden pond. As they huddled
together on a marble bench, Olivia did her best to explain to her son just what
was about to take place in their lives.

"Will
we be happier there?" he asked.

"Yes,"
she replied. "We'll be very happy."

"I'll
have a papa?"

"Very
definitely."

"Do
he love you?"

Olivia
smiled and watched a rabbit scurry through the snow.

Bryan
took her face in his small hands. His eyes were large and searching and far
wiser than they should have been at his age. "Do he love you, Mummy?"

"Yes,
he does."

"Do
he love me?"

"Of
course. He loves us both or ... he wouldn't care to marry us, would he?"

Those
words followed her throughout the morning, as she bathed and donned her gown.
Sitting before her dressing table, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror
while Bertrice brushed and plaited her hair. Her cheeks were as pale as ash,
her eyes startlingly glassy.

As
if reading her thoughts, Bertrice offered her a reassuring hug. " 'Tis
only natural, lass. It's called preweddin' jitters. It isn't as if you're
havin' second thoughts about marrying Warwick, is it?"

"Of
course not. It's just.. ." Olivia shrugged and looked away. "I
suppose I'm only feeling a little sorry for myself."

Taking
Olivia's hand, Bertrice pulled her over to the bed where they sat side by side.
Today was one of Bertrice's more lucid days. "Tell Bertrice what's wrong,
lass."

Olivia
didn't want to elaborate, and Bertrice would have forgotten within the hour
anyway. "How very ironic that things have turned out as they have,"
she said thoughtfully, and with a faint smile on her lips. "And yet..."
She turned back to face Bertrice, who continued to watch her from the shadow of
the tester bed. "Yet, when once I would have chosen marriage to Miles
under any circumstances, now I feel as if. .."

"As
if what, love? Tell Bertrice what's botherin' you."

Olivia
sighed. "I would rather that he loved me."

Having
been shown to a private chamber by the Superintendent Registrar, Olivia sat in
a chair and stared at a china clock shaped like bells. The room had been
decorated for weddings. The window, door, and paintings of loving couples on
the walls were all framed with wreaths of leaves tied with long white ribbons.
A table dressed in white lace and linen took up one wall. Normally wedding
favors would be placed there until they were moved into the vestry for the
guests. Not knowing if Miles had invited anyone as a witness, Olivia had only
made a dozen favors that consisted of white ribbon, lace, flowers, and silver
leaves. As it was, by a quarter to twelve only one guest had arrived, that
being Miles's brother, Earl Warwick, who congratulated her with a smile and an
apology on his wife's behalf. The Countess Warwick was expecting their third
child just any day.

The
ceremony was to have begun at straight up noon. Bryan had perched himself on a
cushion near the window and assured her that he would announce the moment his
new "Papa" arrived. Yet, as the clock struck noon, the wedding party,
seated expectantly in the Marriage Room, waited for the arrival of the groom,
and the groom did not appear.

At
twelve-fifteen Olivia sat calmly on the lip of her chair and occasionally toyed
with her gown sleeves, and still Miles did not show.

Twelve-thirty
and Bryan continued to stare out onto the street, squirm on his seat, and ask
repeatedly, "Mummy, is he comin' yet?"

"Soon,"
she replied staunchly.

"Soon,"
she replied, worried.

"Soon,"
she replied in a voice that made her throat ache and her chest hurt so badly
she couldn't catch her breath.

"Mummy?"
Bryan asked, wrapping his little fingers around her hand. "Are you cryin',
Mummy?"

*     *     *

The
Hound and Hearth tavern was unusually packed for so early in the day. Men
pressed close to the bar and tipped up their pints to an occasional hardy cheer
and a facetious toast to the bride and groom at Braithwaite.

"Here's
to that bastard Kemball who never saw a decent day's work in his worthless
life. May he and his wife forever enjoy the fruits of his labor!"

"OT
Kemball knows how to pick 'em, don't he?"

They
burst out in ribald laughter again.

"I
ain't seen that Devonshire woman in years, but I hear she's plain as a
post."

"And
she's got that brat some says was fathered by a Romanian Gypsy."

"Word
is she's got a pair of dragons tattooed on her fanny. One on each cheek. When
she walks they look as if they're trippin' an Irish jig."

Laughter
again, shaking the walls of the smoke-filled tavern.

Little
by little the laughter dwindled as heads turned, one by one, toward the doorway
where Earl Warwick stood, resplendent in an exquisite, finely tailored gray
dress coat and pleated trousers. His peach-colored cravat was slightly
lopsided, however, and his black hair an unruly mess.