My Only Love (26 page)

"Now
wait just a bloody minute," Warwick said behind her. "You can't
simply waltz out of here. I have a few things I intend to say to you."

"Oh?"
Tipping her chin, she glanced at Miles over her shoulder. He stood in the
center of the foyer, legs slightly spread and his cloak dripping rain and mud
on the spotlessly clean floor. His mouth was pressed thin and his eyes looked
troubled.

"Perhaps,"
he said with more control, "you would care to join me in my office so we
can discuss this in privacy."

His
face drained of color, he walked less than gracefully down the corridor,
stepping over a ladder and knocking a can of paint with his boot. Taking a deep
breath, Olivia followed at a safe distance, entering the office behind him.

He
fell into the chair behind the desk, appearing to relax as he took a visual
inventory of his surroundings and found nothing amiss. He barely glanced at the
stack of ledgers placed neatly to one side.

"I
admit to having overstepped the boundaries of good judgment, sir. I apologize.
My only excuse is my extreme love for ... this house, and my desire to please
you. If I've caused you any ill feelings, I'm truly sorry."

230

Katherine
Sutcliffe

Miles
wearily closed his eyes. "Ah, God. What am I to do with you? I've never
known a woman who, one minute makes me want to strangle her, and the next.
.."

"And
the next, sir?"

He
regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes, then left the chair and strode to the
decanters of liquor on a table against the wall. He splashed a portion into a
snifter and tossed it back before slamming the fragile glass onto the table and
refilling it. "So tell me. How is my mother? No doubt the two of you have
become great friends in my absence. She was always very good at making ...
friends."

"I
thought by now that you would have grown more accustomed to the idea of her
remaining here."

"Then
you don't know me nearly as well as you think you do, dear heart." He
drank again, more slowly. "Ironic, isn't it? That the woman who cared so
little for me when I was only eight is now dependent on me."

"I'm
certain she must have had her reasons—"

"Certainly.
She could hardly carry on her affairs with a child underfoot. As you well know,
my love, bastards have a way of disrupting a woman's love life."

The
caustic comment speared Olivia senseless for an instant. 'That's very
unkind," she remarked softly.

"But
true."

Her
hands clasped together, she joined Miles at the decanters. "Do you hate her
for what she did?"

"Do
you mean for deserting me for most of my life, or for giving birth to me in the
first place?"

"For
having you."

He
tipped his head and his stormy eyes met hers. "What's wrong? Has the idea
just occurred to you that your handsome, strapping son might one day grow up to
resent you for his parentage, or lack thereof? I think you needn't worry, dear
heart." He cupped her cheek in his big palm. "There is a difference
between you and my mother. You love your son."

The
fleeting pain reflected in Miles's eyes and in the tone of his voice made
Olivia's heart skip a beat. The fact that he was cradling her face so
tenderly—almost like a lover—made her breathless.

Sally
appeared at the door, wearing a freshly laundered uniform. Her hair had been
brushed and knotted at her nape and secured with a black net and satin bow. She
curtsied and politely said, "Good evenin', sir and madam. Armand says Mr.
Warwick is in need of a bath."

Olivia
rewarded the obedient servant with a smile and a smug lift of her eyebrow as
she caught Warwick's disbelieving expression. "Armand is correct, Sally.
Please have Mr. Warwick's bath drawn."

"Will
ya be needin' me to help with his bath?" Sally asked, bringing Olivia's
gaze to hers, then to Warwick's.

"Do
you normally attend Mr. Warwick with his toilette?" she asked, taking
note of the color creeping up the girl's throat.

"Well,
mum, it ain't as if he has a valet. .."

"I
see." Olivia pursed her lips in disapproval. The images of the two of them
gamboling about in some sort of sordid disport brought a burning to her cheeks.
"I feel Mr. Warwick is capable of bathing himself," she replied as
indifferently as she was capable. "Just see to the hot water,
please."

Olivia
took dinner with Bryan, Bertrice, and Alyson. Miles was conspicuously absent.
Olivia, of course, did her best to make excuses for her husband: important business
to attend to. Simply exhausted and must have fallen straight into bed.

By
the time Jacques carted out the lemon pudding, Olivia had lost what little appetite
she had. Alyson had obviously taken great pains in preparing herself for the
meal. Bertrice had plaited her hair and fixed it into a coronet about her head.
She'd dressed in one of Olivia's gowns, which was loose on her frail body.

At
last, unable to tolerate the hurt in the woman's eyes another minute, Olivia
excused herself and went in search of her husband, her anger mounting.

According
to Sally, Olivia could find her husband in the pool room, a vast marble chamber
reached through a brick and mortar tunnel off the east wing of the house.
Olivia had visited the rooms only once, during her initial investigation of
Braithwaite. Consisting of two immense rooms with pillars "and skylights,
they each held a large pool, one cold, the other hot, filled with steaming
water from an underground hot spring. Upon her initial visit, the rooms and
pools had been empty and frigid, reminding her of a mausoleum. Tonight,
however, as she marched through the tunnel and into the cold pool room, lights
from the sconces on the walls reflected in gold puddles from the surface of the
water.

Miles
wasn't in the cold room, so she took a deep breath and entered the steam room,
only to be brought up short by the sudden blast of humidity that fogged up her
second pair of glasses and made her gasp. Carefully, she walked to the edge of
the pool and did her best to see through the steam.

"Miles,"
she called. "A word with you, please." Nothing.

"Sir,
I know you're here. I wish a word with you and I have no intention of leaving
until we've spoken."

There
came a splash of water near the far end of the pool. Removing her glasses,
Olivia stared hard through the condensation, finally locating her husband where
he partially reclined upon the pool's marble steps, buried to his waist in
water. "Oh," she said, and straightened at the sight of his naked,
glistening torso.

"What
did you expect?" he asked softly, a bit drunken-ly. "Isn't a man
allowed the opportunity to bathe nude in the privacy of his bath?"

"Perhaps
we'll speak later." She began to retreat.

"We'll
speak now," he replied, stopping her in her tracks as the water splashed
again and it became obvious that he was leaving the pool. Staring straight
ahead, her heart beating against her ribs, Olivia listened to the drip of water
splashing on the marble tiles at Miles's feet. Then came the slight clink of
glass against glass as he poured himself another drink from some decanter
buried amid the mist.

"You'll
join me, of course," he said, and she heard the glass clink again. "A
man may have no say in the running of his house, but he should have a say in
whether his wife joins him in a drink. You, of course, being the wife, will no
doubt argue the issue."

"I've
no wish to argue with you at all, sir."

"No?
Then what are you doing here? Surely it wasn't to join me in a bath, though I
admit I find the idea appealing. Tell me, Olivia, have you ever bathed with a
man? Come, come, sweetheart. You can tell me. I'm your husband, after
all."

Olivia
stared straight ahead and said nothing.

"Really,
dear heart. Any woman who would dance with Gypsies and brand her breast with a
tattoo has surely bathed naked with a man. Did you enjoy it?"

"I
came here to ask for your consideration," she said.

"For
whom?"

"Your
mother."

"Ah.
Of course. No doubt she wept pitifully over her quenelles of partridge."
"No."

He
was silent.

"She
has her pride," Olivia added. "Don't we all, dear heart?"

Her
frustration mounting, Olivia turned to discover Miles lounging on a bed of
tapestry pillows with bright-colored tassels. He lay completely naked but for a
red cloth towel wrapped across his loins.

Placing
her drink on the floor beside him, he smiled up at her.

Speechless,
Olivia could do nothing for a moment but stare, all too aware, suddenly, of the
oppressive heat and the discomfort of her heavy woolen clothes that clung
damply to her flushed skin. "Why are you so damned angry?" she
demanded.

"I'm
not angry. I'm drunk. I'll warn you now because I'm very unpredictable when I'm
drunk."

"Has
it occurred to you that your mother simply wishes to make peace with you?"

"My
mother wants to soothe her own conscience before she dies. No doubt she's
terrified of writhing in hell for eternity with the memory of her sins eating
away at her. Besides, I don't believe for a minute that's why you came
here."

"I
beg your pardon?"

"You
didn't come here to discuss Alyson. Oh, you may be using her as an excuse. No
doubt you're angry because I haven't fallen to my knees in gratitude over the
mines."

"I
hadn't thought about it."

He
laughed softly. Disbelievingly.

"If
the reason why you've buried yourself in this .. . tomb is because you're
brooding over my involvement with the mines, then, sir, the problem can be
easily resolved. I can wash my hands of it completely."

Miles
drank his sherry without taking his gaze from hers. "Blackmail suits you,
my love. The concept puts fire in your green eyes and color in your cheeks.
You're quite beautiful when you're angry."

"It
isn't my intention to blackmail you, sir."

"What
a shame. I do so enjoy sparring with my adversaries. I used to be quite good
at'it, before I ensconced myself in this house and attempted to turn my life
around—to put my hedonistic ways behind me and start anew. I was once very,
very good at being very naughty. Would you care to see how naughty I can be,
love?"

Frowning
and feeling unbalanced by his mercurial mood, Olivia forced her eyes away from
his, finding the effort to ignore his exposed, heat-flushed body impossible as
he sat up. His shoulders glistened with sweat and candlelight. His chest was
lean and hard, tapering to a stomach that was rippled by muscle and flat as the
floor on which he sat.

"I
have agreed to help you any way that I can with the mines and I shall do
so," she managed. "You'll find that I'm not a woman who goes back on
her word. I'm also not a woman who can turn a blind eye to the needy."

"Obviously.
No doubt in a hundred years the religions of the world will vie to make you a
saint. The question is . . . the saint of what? Saint Olivia of the sick and
dying? Of the ruined and destitute? Or of the bastards of the world?"

"Why
do you hate me so when all I want is to help you?"

"
'Hate' is such a harsh word, and inappropriate. I don't hate you, dear
heart." "But you don't love me."

"You
mustn't take it personally. I've never vowed such an emotion to anyone."

"Are
you incapable of love, sir, or just afraid of it?" "Afraid?"

"Of
not being loved in return. Perhaps you're still that little boy who loved his
mother desperately, but felt unloved in return. You're terrified of experiencing
that pain again."

He
reached for her drink and turned it up to his mouth, pausing only long enough
to say, "You talk too much, love. Besides, you give me far too much
credit. You should know by now that I'm not a very nice man."

"I
disagree. According to Janet Hooper you're a very concerned, kind man."

"Ah."
He flashed her a smile. "Now we get to the crux of this visit. You want to
know about Janet."

"Jealous,
pet?"

She
suddenly wanted to run. She felt foolish. Chagrined that he could see through
her motives even better than she—and he had the audacity to acknowledge it when
she wouldn't.

"Well?"
he said. "Are you jealous?"

"Should
I be?"

"You're
wanting to know if she's my mistress. Don't deny it. I've sensed there's been
something bothering you since you showed up at Gunnerside. At first I
attributed your mood to irritation over my sudden disappearance. Just now I
considered your apparent pique to be over my not showing at dinner. Then I
suspected differently. Janet," he said, then laughed lightly.

"Well?"
she said.

"Well
what? Are we lovers?" He smiled. "Tell you what, dear heart. If you
confess your peccadilloes, I'll confess mine." He stood and the red cloth
spilled to the floor. Olivia stared, transfixed, vaguely aware that her body
had turned as incapable of moving as the statues of nymphs gazing out at her
from the shadowed and misty corners of the room.