My Only Love (3 page)

"Have you any idea why he was here?"

"No, ma'am." Gertrude shook her head.
"I've been tending young Bryan since Bertrice was taken to bed with wind.
Explicit instructions from your father to keep the lad hidden and quiet."

"Um. He would."

"I beg your pardon, miss?"

"Father, I mean. Wish to keep Bryan hidden
and quiet. You know how Bryan's existence unnerves him."

"Now, don't you let such foolishness upset
you, Miss Olivia. Regardless of the circumstances, your father's quite fond of
the lad."

"Is he?" Olivia stepped from the room,
closing the door gently behind her. Only then did she look at the rosy-cheeked
maid and smile. "You're free for a while, Gertrude. Why don't you take the
time for a cup of tea?"

"You're most kind, miss. I'd like that, I
think."

Dismissing the woman with a nod of her head,
Olivia watched her disappear down the stairwell, then headed to her own room
adjacent to the nursery, stopping only long enough to peer in on Bertrice, her
gray-haired nanny who had come to Devonswick twenty-seven years ago, soon after
Olivia had been born. All her life she had cared for the girls, and now at age
seventy, she lived in a foggy world. Apart from the four years Olivia had spent
in Europe and Asia, Bertrice had been a constant companion and friend
throughout her life. Now she cared for Olivia's son.

When Olivia was young Bertrice had held her in
her arms and promised that someday she would discover her own Prince Charming.

But it hadn't worked out that way for Olivia.
And why should it? She fell far short of what Society deemed as de rigueur in
appearance. She was not delicate as the petal of a flower. Her skin wasn't pale
as the proverbial porcelain. Her face wasn't fashionably oval and she didn't
swoon at swear words.

Stepping into her own room, Olivia locked the
door. She covered her face with her hands and stared through her fingers.
"Stay calm," she told herself. "There is absolutely nothing to
get excited about..."

But still she was excited. Hurrying to the west
window, she threw back the drapes and stared out over the fog-drenched
countryside. From this window she could normally see riders approaching
Devonswick from half a mile away. But the weather wouldn't allow it today,
which was just as well. She didn't need visible evidence to prove to her that
Miles Kemball Warwick had confronted her face to face just moments before.

Time hadn't changed him, alas. He was still as
arrogant and belligerent as always. And still as devastatingly handsome—like
all the Warwicks. However, while other young ladies in the region had swooned
and pondered over Randolf and Damien, she had always been fascinated with
Miles—the outcast son who thrived on scandal. Olivia, an outcast herself, had
always imagined that her caring and understanding would soothe the anger from
Miles's soul.

On the other hand, Emily was the pretty one and
pursuing Miles Warwick had been a game to prove to herself that she could
capture any man—rakehell or angel— on whom she set her sights. But she'd gotten
more than she'd bargained for with Miles. Instead of finding herself the user,
for the first time Emily Devonshire had found herself used. So neither daughter
had won him.

Allowing the drape to slide from her fingers,
Olivia glanced about her room. A fire blazing in the small hearth cast a cozy
glow to the comfortable chamber. The massive tester bed looked inviting with
its plump goose-down mattress and pillows, but she couldn't sleep. Too
restless. Her walk on the bluff had invigorated her. Then the shock of seeing
Warwick . ..

What was he doing here? she wondered again. What
possible business could her father have with a man like Miles Warwick? Everyone
knew he'd made a complete failure out of his attempts to run his mines; the miners
deplored him, indeed, the entire mining village of Gunnerside would have liked
to string up Miles Warwick. And he didn't dare show his face again in London
for fear that an unscrupulous gambling proprietor would take out the debts he
owed them in blood.

Pacing, she tugged the combs from her hair,
allowing the heavy dark tresses to spill down her back. Then she removed her
damp dress and kicked it aside. She remembered a time when she'd danced in
front of a campfire, dressed in far less than this shift. It seemed like
another life. Standing before the fireplace, she watched the play of yellow and
orange light on her skin, then thought again how Miles Kemball Warwick had
looked with his loosely curling hair silvered with falling ice. His face had
been pale from the cold, a striking contrast to his thick black hair. And his
eyes . .. she'd always been mesmerized by his eyes. Despite the aura of danger
and passion that whirled about Joseph Warwick's illegitimate son, his
eyes—those fascinating eyes—were frightening-ly lifeless. His moods were
volatile and mercurial. And his sudden spates of violence in the past had left
many a gentleman's club in ruin. Rumor was he once spent an entire fortnight
incarcerated for breaking a chair over a policeman who had been summoned to
remove him from the premises.

How very scandalous.

Intriguing.

Exciting.

Had she been fortunate enough to be born a man
she liked to think that she would have rivaled his contumacious nature. After
all, men needn't suffer beneath the burden of scandal; they effected scandal
and relished in the consequences.

Thank God, the years hadn't tamed Warwick. To a
Society that was suffocated by its own pomposity and sense of worth Miles was
an invigorating breath of fresh air.

And now?

She frowned and stared harder into the fire. An
uneasiness settled in her stomach. The last thing any of them needed was to become
involved in any way with the man.

Olivia moved to the door leading from her room
to the nursery. The vast chamber she had decorated with murals of nursery rhyme
characters glowed rosy from a dwindling fire in the hearth. The lad lay among
mounds of cozy comforters and goose-down pillows as he sleepily gazed at the
ceiling. Hearing her enter the room, he turned his head and regarded her with
big dark eyes.

"Here, now," she whispered, easing
onto the bed beside him. "You're supposed to be napping, Master
Bryan."

His pink, moist lips smiled as he reached for
her. "Kiss, Mummy?" he said.

"Of course."

Olivia pressed her lips to the child's forehead,
allowing herself to linger much longer than necessary as she closed her eyes
and inhaled his familiar and much-loved scent of warm skin and talc, and
perhaps just a mere touch of the orange marmalade he'd enjoyed for breakfast;
she stroked his thick dark hair, and nestled him more snugly into the blankets,
humming to him softly until his lids grew heavy and started to close. Still, he
fought sleep, preferring instead to gaze adoringly up at Olivia, his tiny
fingers toying with the satin ribbons on her chemise.

"Flower," he said, brushing her skin
with the cool tips of his fingers.

"Rose," she explained as her gaze
moved to the delicate, pale pink image of a rose tattoo that curved up the
inside of her breast.

"Pretty," he whispered, and drifted
off to sleep at last, leaving Olivia to watch his angelic features and smile
wistfully. As a child he saw beauty in that which the world deemed
unacceptable. At what point, she wondered, did humankind cease to look for the
good in any object, and instead search out and dwell on the flaws?

With a last kiss on his forehead, Olivia
returned to her room. She would have loved to cozy down into the comforter with
her son and spend the remainder of the bleak afternoon napping with him. Alas,
there was pressing business to attend.

Grabbing up a brush, she tugged it through her
hair and tossed it on the dresser. With little effort, she coiled and twisted
and plaited the tresses into a chignon and anchored it once again with her
combs, then she dug through her wardrobe until she dragged out a severe gray
dress that hugged her body from her chin to her toes.

Positioning her eyeglasses on her nose, she
thought
: Lord Devonshire—dear, sweet, manipulative Father— has some
answering to do.

Oh! love is such a
strange affair;

So strange to all.

It cometh from above

And lighteth like a dove

On some.

But some it never hits

Unless it give them
fits.

 Oh, hum.

 —J. S. OciLVIE

CHAPTER
TWO

Olivia
stared at her father. "Marriage," she repeated, fighting the stunned
disbelief from her voice. "To Miles Warwick. I—I don't understand—"

" 'Tis simple enough, girl. You need a
husband. The lad needs a father, and—"

"But Miles Warwick." She looked
directly at her sister to determine if Emily had been aware of their father's
plans. Emily's round blue eyes met hers in equal amazement, and shock. Her
naturally pale cheeks bleached as white as flour.

"There, there," Lord Devonshire said.
"There's no reason to look so forlorn—"

"How could you, Father? How dare you
attempt to manipulate my life in such a despicable, underhanded manner? I'm
hardly a child any longer—"

"Hardly," he grumbled.

"I deserve to be consulted about plans
before you act on them."

 He winced.

"I'm not a side of mutton to be bargained
over!"

"As your father, I have that
prerogative."

"Perhaps if I was some naive child whose
only education was that of coquetry, but Father, I'm twenty-seven years
old—"

"With a four-year-old fatherless son."
Planting his palms upon the desk, Lord Devonshire hefted himself from his chair
and looked at Olivia without blinking. "We both know that I'm not well; I
grow weaker every day, Olivia."

"Oh really, Father. Surely you didn't use
such a lame excuse on Warwick. You've whined of afflictions every day for the
past decade. We all know you're healthy as a horse."

Devonshire scowled and muttered,
"Impertinent chit. Be that as it may, the promise you made your mother as
she was dying wasn't meant to rob you of a life—"

"Don't!" Slamming her fist against the
desk, Olivia shook her head. "Don't dare speak to me of promises. I've
sacrificed years of my life to fulfill them. I vowed to my mother on her
deathbed that I would watch over you and Emily the best that I was capable, and
until this moment you've been perfectly content that I do so!"

"And you've done a damned impeccable job of
it. Too much so, I'm afraid. My dependence on you has caused me to grow
lazy—but most important, it's caused me to grow selfish. When your mother
instructed you to take care of us, she never meant for you to 'sacrifice your
life,' I'm certain. I regret that I cannot give you those years back; if I
could then perhaps we could have avoided your. .. mistake." Devonshire
shook his head, and the lines of weariness and regret deepened in his face.
"Blast it, Olivia, had you only confessed your predicament before dashing
off to Europe with Emily, this entire mess might have been remedied. Had you
told me who the father was—"

"Never."

"Never." His face turned a slow
burning red. "Should I ever learn who the bastard was who took advantage
of you, I'll strangle him with my own hands. I'll have him quartered and hung
from the gibbet—even that would be too good for him!" Glaring at her with
the intensity of a cobra, he said, "Was he married?"

Olivia set her chin.

"Philandering cock," he muttered.
"Castration would be too good for him."

"There's no need in discussing—"

"When did it happen? Will you tell me that?
Here? In London? God forbid that it's one of my tenants—tell me which one it is
or I'll line them all up in front of you and flog each one until—"

"You'll do no such thing! Just leave it
alone, Father. What's done is done and no amount of swearing and flailing and
threatening is going to remedy the situation. You have a beautiful grandson
whom you should be proud of; he loves you deeply, Father, as do I."