My Only Love (32 page)

"Perhaps."
Olivia gazed up at the cloudless sky. "There was a dress, once, in a tiny
shop in Paris. A very pretty gown of pale blue organdy with ivory lace trim. I
imagined how I would look in it every time we came in for one of Emily's
fittings. Then one day I put it on, it fit me perfectly; for the one and only
time in my life, I actually felt beautiful."

"Why
didn't you buy it?" he asked softly.

"There
was Emily to buy for. And my father needed new boots. Besides." She
shrugged offhandedly, finding she felt both thrilled and anxious at this new
closeness she was sharing with Miles. She was actually revealing a very small
part of her soul, and he was listening—what's more, the compassion she saw in
his eyes meant he cared. "Would a blue dress keep me warmer in the winter?
Or cooler in the summer? Would blue, as opposed to brown, feel better against
my skin? I think not."

"Perhaps
not. Silk, as opposed to cotton, does feel immensely better against the skin,
however."

Olivia
looked directly at her husband at last, one eyebrow raised. "You're
referring, of course, to the fact that recently I instructed your tailor to
seam your shirts in cotton instead of silk. Cotton is much less costly, and
better falls within the limits of your budget."

"I
assume the same goes for my boots?"

"There
is an excellent cobbler in Middleham who can make your boots for a third of the
cost of your London maker."

"Do
tell."

Her
enthusiasm for the subject grew. "Not only that, but by our investing
money in the local businesses, I'm certain the townspeople will regard us in a
more favorable light."

"What
gives you the idea that I give a damn about the townspeople's attitude toward
us? Personally, I like my boots made in London. Milo Jones has been making my
boots since I was twelve."

"Obviously,
you're opposed to change. Very well. If you insist—"

"Good
God." Sitting up, Miles tossed out his wine and pitched his cup to the
ground. "You must be more miserable than I thought."

"I
beg your pardon?"

"I
can't even get a rousing argument out of you any longer. But never mind. Back
to this friend business. I've pointed out that I'm hardly a confidant. I think
you mentioned a companion, yet you avoid me at every opportunity."

"We're
together now."

"And
you look as if you're about to scramble to safety like a frightened rabbit if I
make a single untoward advance—as if any advance toward my wife could be
considered untoward by anyone except you. Explain to me, Mrs. Warwick, how you
can find a man acceptable to marry, yet unacceptable to bed."

She
shifted uncomfortably on the granite crag and watched the horses. "I vow
Charles Fowles has grown more than a little fond of your mother. He's taken to
writing poetry for her."

"Answer
my question," he snapped.

Somehow,
Olivia managed to take a deep breath. "Simply put, our marriage was to be
strictly for convenience— or so I thought."

"Otherwise
you would not have married me?"

"I'm
not one to dwell on what ifs. It serves no purpose. What's done is done."

"Just
what the blazes are you afraid of?"

Olivia
put down her uneaten croissant and swiped crumbs from her lap. Afraid. Yes, she
had many unspoken fears. Her face felt warm, growing warmer by the second, and
her body became tense. Yet... her heart raced with the realization that Miles
Kemball Warwick wanted her in that moment as desperately as he had that night
in the bath. It showed in his rigid posture, in his burning gaze.

Leaving
her perch, Olivia walked a short distance and turned her face into the warmish
breeze. Miles moved up behind her; she could feel the heat of his body—the
fierceness of his stare. She thought: If he touches me I'll crumble. I'll
confess my every sin, uncover all the lies. I'll melt in his hands like warm wax—as
I did that night in the bath.

"Olivia..."

She
moved away, farther up the incline where the wind gusted more briskly.

"Look
at me," came his voice from below her.

Gradually,
she turned. He stood amid the bracken, the wind fluttering the sleeves of his
white shirt and scattering his hair over his brow. "I'd like to make love
to you," he said.

Briefly,
she closed her eyes, overwhelmed by the thrill of hearing him speak the words .
.. but just as shaken by the blow of desire.

"No,"
she replied softly.

His
face turned dark and almost savage. "As your husband I demand to know
why."

"It
was agreed that this marriage—"

'To
hell with old agreements! God, but I grow weary of this wheel, Olivia. Two
strangers in the depths of desperation. We're hardly strangers any
longer." He moved up the incline, sending stones bouncing down the
hillside.

Olivia
backed away.

"On
our wedding night," he began with strained patience, "you asked me if
I cared for you a little. Another man might have lied to you. He might have
replied with a lot of pretty lies in order to enjoy the use of your body. I
didn't. Now if you asked me if I care, I would happily say .. . yes. I've grown
quite fond of you, Olivia. I care for that crazy old nanny, and I care very
much for your son. You said once that you thought I was worth saving. I thought
you an idiot—I was beyond saving. But lately . . . God, Olivia, I feel saved.

"I'm
actually enjoying my life. Looking forward to the time spent with your son—and
with you. For the first time in a very long time I feel hope." He laughed
shortly, almost angrily. "Listen to me. I'm baring my soul to you and you
stand there like wood. For the love of God, talk to me. At least assure me that
we have a future."

She
longed to cover her ears with her hands. She did not want to hear his
vulnerability, his honesty. She would rather that he declared his loathing. It
would make living this shameful lie easier.

Suddenly,
he moved up beside her; his hand firmly gripped her arm as she attempted to
turn away. He turned her to face him, his head lowered over hers. "Tell me
the truth, damn you. Are you still so in love with Bryan's father?"

"Why
must our conversations always come back to my past?" she demanded
heatedly, and struggled to escape.

He
only gripped her more tightly. "Because part of your past makes you what
you are now. Because somehow your ties to your past bind you so tightly that
you can't allow your own husband inside your heart."

She
stared at him hopelessly, unable to reply.

"Do
you feel anything, Olivia, or has he so slain the woman who once loved with
such an intensity that she sacrificed her life to have—and keep—his son that
you're simply no longer capable of loving?"

She
didn't say a word, as she watched his gaze turn from pleading, to frustration,
and then fury.

Grabbing
her with both hands, his fingers dug painfully into her arms. He shook her
until she cried aloud, "Stop. I beg you to stop!"

"Beg?
The Olivia Devonshire I first met would never have begged me for anything. She
would have clawed my face. For the love of God, I would rather be married to
the wanton who danced with Gypsies than the icicle you've become."

"But
you don't understand—oh, God, it's so hopeless ..."

Finally,
he loosened his hold, and Olivia turned away, refusing to look at him while she
stood with her back to the wind and hugged herself as tightly as she could,
praying the emotions churning at her insides would not spill forth. What was
the solution? They couldn't pass the rest of their years in this state of
limbo.

At
last, she looked around and found that he had walked down the hill toward the
horses, the bridles swinging from his hand. She thought of going after
him—considered confessing.

If
she weren't so certain the truth would destroy her.

The rest is silence.

—William Shakespeare

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Bryan
leapt from behind the door and flung him-self on Miles's back. "1 have you
now, Black Knight!" Bryan crowed then giggled with the pleasure of having
surprised Miles and Olivia as they entered the house. Jacques dashed from the
kitchen, the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread wafting around him.

"Madame!
Monsieur! You are just in time for my dejeuner d la fourchette. I—"

"I'm
not hungry," Miles grumbled to the stunned cook, and swung Bryan to the
floor.

"I'm
sorry, Jacques. Maybe later," Olivia said.

She
took Bryan's hand and they walked without speaking down the gallery to the
morning room. Coming to the doorway, Olivia paused and gripped her son's hand
tightly, a sense of despondency sweeping her.

Alyson
sat in her usual chair—the one Charles had made for her—a blanket tucked snugly
over her lap. The morning sun spilled through the sparkling window-panes, warm
and as yellow as pale butter. It flowed over Alyson's face and closed eyes, and
onto the hands lying limply in her lap.

Olivia's
gaze shifted to her husband.

He
stood at Alyson's side and gazed out at the moor, a book in his hand.

"Is
Grandmama sleepin'?" Bryan whispered.

Olivia
closed her eyes against the sudden burning of tears. "Go find Bertrice and
Charles," she ordered him firmly, but gently.

"But—"

"Quickly,
Bryan!"

The
boy dashed away; his hurried footsteps faded in the quiet.

Olivia
moved silently into the room, and to Miles, who continued to stare out the
window.

"It
seems she went peacefully," he said. Olivia, very tentatively, put her
hand on him. He tensed.

"I'm
desperately sorry," she said.

He
took a long, shuddering breath, but his face showed no emotion. "Just as
we were becoming close . . . she's left me."

"She's
free of pain—"

"She's
free," he repeated. "What about my pain? No one has ever given a damn
about me or my pain." His fingers gripped the book tightly—so tightly his
fingertips turned white, then he made a clumsy attempt to flip through the
pages to the poem Alyson had marked with a satin ribbon. "What the hell am
I supposed to do now?" Miles whispered.

The
decision to see Earl Warwick, and ask—plead, if need be—for his permission to
allow Alyson to be buried in the Warwick crypt had been precipitous. Her only
thought had been to ease her husband's emotional suffering. She hadn't
considered how foolhardy the request would appear to a man who'd previously
voiced his disapproval of Miles's mother in no uncertain terms. Yet, as he had
so often done of late, Damien Warwick had complied, though with extreme
reluctance.

Olivia
returned to Braithwaite with a sense of relief that quickly turned into shock
the moment she stepped into Braithwaite's front door.

"He
were like a madman," Sally declared as she swept up bits of shattered
glass from the foyer floor. "I've seen Warwick in some moods, but nothin'
like this. He were drunker than the proverbial skunk—breakin' vases and kickin'
over the furniture. It were right frightenin'."

Olivia
surveyed the ravaged room, her heart sinking. Armand stood calmly amid the
confusion and directed the cleanup. To have caused such destruction, her
husband must surely have been in tremendous emotional pain. What could she have
been thinking to have left him, even for a moment, when he was so obviously
unable to deal with his fresh loss?

"Where
are Bryan and Bertrice?" Olivia asked.

"They
took to their rooms and locked the door. They ain't been out since," Sally
explained. "I don't blame them either. He were like a mad—"

"Where
is my husband now?"

"Took
off to the stables 'bout ten minutes ago."

Stepping
carefully around the glass fragments, Olivia hurried down corridor after
corridor until, exiting the house, her pace grew faster and more frantic as she
ran down the bricked pathways to the stables. Charles stood at the door,
preparing to mount Perlagal.