The Truth About Lord Stoneville (15 page)

Oliver knew why, too. He’d already figured out that Adam Butterfield had wanted to run his daughter’s life even from beyond the grave. The man must have known that if she were aware of the magnitude of her fortune, she might balk at his choice for a husband.

It also explained why Hyatt had agreed to marry her despite showing her no real affection. If she chose to sell her half, he probably couldn’t afford to buy it, so marriage was clearly more advantageous to Hyatt. And
less
advantageous to her.

He scowled at the thought.

“So you see, my dear brother,” Jarret continued, “the answer to our problems is right before you. You could forget about the pretense and marry her for real. That would solve all our problems.”

A cold rage seized Oliver. “It would also make me as bad as Father.”

“And that bothers you?”

“Of course it bothers me! He practically drove Mother to the grave.” Though Oliver had given the final push. “You can forget my marrying Miss Butterfield for her money.” The very idea sickened him.

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t be attempting to seduce her in your carriage,” Jarret said in a steely voice.

Oliver froze. “I don’t know what the devil you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” Jarret’s face wore that stiff look he sometimes got whenever people insulted their sisters within his hearing. “John informed me that you and Miss Butterfield were stopped in front of the dress shop for several minutes with the curtains closed and without Freddy in attendance. He also said that when you finally emerged, Miss Butterfield was quite agitated.”

Oliver’s fury found a new object. “I see I’ll have to have a word with my gossiping servant. He’s well paid to keep his mouth shut.”

“All the money in the world won’t keep a good man silent when something offends his conscience. Besides, he seems to like Miss Butterfield.” Jarret’s tone hardened. “We all do. You know damned well that she isn’t one of your opera dancers whom you can toy with and cast aside. She’s a respectable woman. If you’re so determined not to be like Father, perhaps you should remember that the next time you think to put your hands on her.”

The fact that Jarret had a point didn’t dim Oliver’s fury one bit. “You don’t know anything about her.”

“Are you saying she’s
not
respectable?”

“No, damn it! I’m saying . . .” He strove to contain his temper, which was unreasonably high. “That ass Hyatt wants to marry her for her money, and she’s letting herself be coaxed into it out of some sense of duty to her father or some foolish hope that it will turn out well. I have to convince her she’s making a mistake.”

“I can think of better ways to do that than seducing her,” Jarret said dryly. “Try talking to her instead. You might even spend time getting to know her. I realize that’s not your usual style, but you might have more success if you treat her like the reasonable female she seems to be, instead of another conquest.”

“I’m not treating her like—” He caught himself before he said too much. “Thank you for the advice, but I know how to comport myself with Maria.”

“That remains to be seen.” Jarret rose, then bent to plant his hands on the desk. “But know this—none of us will stand by and let you ruin a young woman just to provoke Gran.”

Oliver shot to his feet. That his brother thought him capable of such a thing infuriated him, as did being lectured by him. It had never happened before, and he wasn’t about to allow it now.

Leaning forward until he and Jarret were eye to eye over the desk, he growled, “And what the deuce do you think you can do to stop me from acting as I please?”

A grim smile touched Jarret’s lips. “I could attempt to steal her from you.”

Somewhere in the recesses of his sanity, Oliver knew he was being baited, yet it made no difference. Just the idea of Jarret seeking to engage Maria’s affections crushed his usual control.

“If you lay a hand on her,” he ground out, “Gabe won’t be the only one wearing a sling in this family.”

With an enigmatic look, Jarret pushed back from the desk. “Fine.” His eyes turned to ice. “But be warned—the rest of us intend to make sure that
you
never lay a hand on her, either.” Without waiting for a response, he strode from the room.

Oliver stood there shaking while anger and some other, indefinable emotion swept through him. The sheer audacity of his brother—to command what he must do! It was laughable. And to think that his most loyal footman had dared—

All the money in the world won’t keep a good man silent when something offends his conscience.

He grimaced. John’s conscience must have been offended indeed, if he’d gone to Jarret about it. And the very fact that the footman had guessed at what had been going on made Oliver’s blood run cold. Why hadn’t he realized what his servants would think?

Suddenly he remembered the look on Maria’s face when he’d said that the servants understood not to open the door when the curtains were closed.

Dropping into the chair, he stared blindly at the fireplace. What was
wrong
with him? He’d thought himself guilty only of insulting and frightening her, but he’d been guilty of so much more. No wonder she’d behaved so differently after leaving the carriage. No wonder she’d balked at his purchasing gowns for her. He’d practically proclaimed her one of his whores before his servants, and she was damned sensitive about that.

With good reason, of course. She
was
a respectable woman. And an heiress. A very rich heiress.

Damn it all to hell. He hadn’t guessed she was worth so much. And if she didn’t realize it herself, she was even more susceptible to being taken advantage of by that scoundrel Hyatt.

Oliver downed the rest of his brandy, then set the glass firmly on the desk. He had to save her from the man. He owed her that for her help with Gran.

When this was done, Miss Maria Butterfield would no longer be shackled to some ambitious weasel with an eye on her fortune. Not if he could help it

H
ETTY WAS AWAKENED
from a doze in a chair by the sound of a door opening. She was about to make herself known to whoever had entered the library when someone else entered, too, and she heard Minerva say, “Well? What do you think? Am I right about Oliver and Miss Butterfield?”

Shrinking into the chair, she prayed she wouldn’t be noticed in the corner.

“It certainly looks that way.” It was Jarret’s voice. “He does seem to have genuine feelings for her. I’ve never witnessed him act like that over a woman. You should have seen him—ready to strike me when I suggested going after her myself.”

“What a brilliant touch!” Minerva cried. “I
told
you he liked her. And I’ll hazard a guess that she likes him, too. I went up to her room after they got back, and she blushed furiously when I asked if Oliver had behaved himself.”

“That’s the problem. Liking her is one thing, but whether he’ll act on the attraction honorably is another matter entirely. Oliver isn’t used to being around a woman he’s not allowed to . . . er . . .”

“Take to bed.”

Hetty blinked.

“My God, Minerva, don’t say things like that! You’re not supposed to know about such matters.”

“Pish posh. I could hardly grow up with a rogue for a father and three rogue brothers without hearing a few things.”

Hetty had to chomp on the inside of her cheek to stifle her laugh.

“Well, at least
pretend
you don’t know, will you?” Jarret grumbled. “One day you’ll say something like that in public and give me heart failure.”

“We have to find a way to push them together,” Minerva said. “You know perfectly well that if Oliver marries, Gran will forget this ridiculous idea of hers about the rest of us marrying. She just wants him to produce an heir.”

Hetty’s eyebrows shot high. Her granddaughter had a big surprise coming down the road.

“And you’re willing to throw him under the wheels of the coach to save yourself, is that it?” Jarret quipped.

“No!” Her voice softened. “You and I both know he needs someone to drag him out of himself. Or he’s just going to get scarier as he gets older.” She paused. “Did you tell him about Miss Butterfield’s being an heiress?”

That
certainly arrested Hetty’s attention. She hadn’t dreamed that the girl had money.

“Yes, but I fear that might have been a mistake—when I suggested that he marry her for her fortune, he got angry.”

Of course he got angry, you fool,
Hetty thought with a roll of her eyes. Honestly, did her grandson know nothing about his brother?

“For goodness sake, Jarret, you weren’t supposed to suggest that. You were supposed to get him concerned that she might fall prey to fortune hunters.”

At least Minerva had a brain.

“Damn,” Jarret said. “Then I probably shouldn’t have exaggerated the amount.”

“Oh, Lord.” Minerva sighed. “By how much?”

“I kind of . . . tripled it.”

Minerva released an unladylike oath. “Why did you do that? Now he won’t go
near
her. Haven’t you noticed how much he hates talk of marrying for money?”

“Men say things like that, but in the end they’re practical.”

“Not Oliver! You’ve just ruined everything!”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Jarret said. “Besides, I have a plan—I laid the seeds for it before I even left Oliver’s study. Come, let’s go talk to the others. It will take all of us working together.” His voice receded as the two of them apparently left the room. “If we merely . . .”

Hetty strained to hear, but she lost the thread of the conversation. Not that it mattered.

A smile tugged at her mouth. It appeared she would not have to carry off this match alone. All she need do was sit back and watch Jarret work on Oliver. In the meantime, she would let Minerva go on thinking that finding Oliver a wife would solve their dilemma. That would spur the girl to try harder.

In the end, it didn’t matter why or how they managed it, as long as they did. Thank God her grandchildren had inherited her capacity for scheming. It made her proud.

So Oliver thought he was going to get around her this time, did he? Well, he was in for a shock. This time he had more than just
her
to worry about. And with every one of the Sharpe children on Miss Butterfield’s side? She laughed.

Poor Oliver didn’t stand a chance.

Chapter Fourteen

When Maria left her room, headed for dinner, a deep voice said, “I see you’ve recovered from our trip to town.”

She whirled to find Oliver sitting in a chair near her door. Had he been waiting for her? “Good evening, my lord,” she said as he rose. “You look well.”

In truth, he looked amazing in dinner dress—it suited him better than any man she knew. The stark white of his shirt and cravat contrasted beautifully with his olive skin, and his black swallowtail coat with its high velvet collar enhanced the velvety black of his eyes. Unfortunately, his figured waistcoat of gold silk also reminded her that he was far above her in station, no matter what his finances, and the tight trousers of black kerseymere molded to his flesh reminded her of . . .

No, she could
not
be thinking about their encounter this afternoon, of all things. That was behind her.

“You look like a goddess,” he murmured as he raked his eyes down her form.

And she melted into a puddle.

“Thank you.” She tried to sound cool and sophisticated. “I much prefer wearing a gown that’s not too tight.”

“Except where it should be.” He dropped his gaze pointedly to her bosom.

The frank admiration in his eyes made her glad that she’d let Betty guide her choice for tonight. After that other scandalous gown, she’d been reluctant to wear anything low cut, but this one did look beautiful on her, even with its décolletage. Salmon had always been a good color for her, and the satin rouleaux trim made her feel pretty and elegant.

“So it’s presentable enough for dinner with your family?” she asked.

“They don’t even deserve to see you in it.” The low rumble of his voice made her breath catch in her throat. “I only wish that you and I could—”

“You do look lovely,” said another voice. Lord Gabriel came up from behind Oliver, dressed all in black as usual. A look of pure mischief crossed his face. “Sorry I’m late, Miss Butterfield, but thank you, brother, for keeping her company until I arrived.”

Oliver glared at him. “What the devil do you mean?”

“I’m taking the young lady down to dinner.”

“That office should be left to her fiancé, don’t you think?” Oliver bit out.

“Pretend fiancé. You have no real claim on her. And since you had her to yourself all day . . .” Lord Gabriel offered his arm. “Shall we, Miss Butterfield?”

Maria hesitated, unsure what to do. But Oliver was a danger to her sanity, and his brother wasn’t. So she was better off with Lord Gabriel.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, taking his arm.

“Now just wait one blasted minute. You can’t—”

“What? Be friendly to our guest?” Lord Gabriel asked, his face a mask of innocence. “Really, old boy, I didn’t realize it mattered that much. But if it upsets you to see Miss Butterfield on the arm of another man, I’ll certainly yield the field.”

Lord Gabriel’s words seemed to give Oliver pause. Glancing from Maria to his brother, he smiled, though it didn’t nearly reach his eyes. “No, it’s fine,” he said tightly. “Perfectly fine.”

When they headed down the hall with Oliver following behind, Lord Gabriel flashed her a conspiratorial glance. She wasn’t sure what the conspiracy was, but since it seemed to irritate Oliver, she went along.

The incident was only the first in a series that continued throughout the week. Whenever she and Oliver found themselves alone, even for a moment, one of his siblings popped up to offer some entertainment—a stroll in the gardens, a ride into Ealing, a game of loo. With each instance, Oliver grew more annoyed, for no reason that she could see.

Unless . . .

No, that was crazy. If his family’s blatant attempts to separate them irritated him, it was only because he hated losing the chance to seduce her. After all, he had offered to make her his mistress. It wasn’t as if he truly cared for her. There was no point in hoping for anything more from him.

Hoping? That was equally absurd. She wasn’t hoping for anything from him—she already had a fiancé.

The trouble was, it was hard to think of Nathan at Halstead Hall. The place’s otherworldly antiquity made every day in it seem like something out of a book. One day she would stumble across a Rembrandt hung carelessly in a boudoir, and another day a rat would scurry across her path. The house was rags and riches all in one.

And the servants! Mercy, they buzzed around her like bees serving the queen of the hive. She couldn’t understand it—there weren’t that many of them. So how was it she was always finding one or two underfoot whenever she carried something, or moved a chair into a patch of light so she could read better, or went to the kitchen for a snack? She didn’t know how the Sharpe family could stand it.

Meanwhile, Oliver’s siblings talked incessantly about the upcoming St. Valentine’s Day ball being held by the Duchess of Foxmoor. The closer it got, the more nervous she became, since Mrs. Plumtree kept speaking of it as the event where Oliver would announce their betrothal. Clearly, she was not backing down as quickly as Oliver had predicted.

So Maria was relieved when, on the day before the ball, a servant informed her that his lordship wished to speak to her in his study. This was her chance to talk to him alone. She hurried there, praying that for once none of his siblings would appear.

As soon as she entered, he closed the door and gestured for her to take a seat. Then he began to pace, clearly uncomfortable. Her heart began to pound. Had he heard from Mr. Pinter? Was there bad news about Nathan?

At last, he stopped behind his desk. “Have my servants displeased you?”

She blinked.
That
was completely unexpected. “Certainly not.”

“They’re laboring under the impression that they have.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“They say you make up your own bed in the morning.”

“Well, yes, of course.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “And build your own fire in the grate, and fetch your own tea.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

His eyes narrowed. “Had you no servants at home?”

“Certainly.” She tipped up her chin. “We had a coachman and a groom, and two maids to help me and my aunt with the laundry and the cooking.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Ah, I begin to see the problem.”

“I certainly hope you’ll explain it to me, since I don’t see it at all.”

“Servants in England aren’t there to help. They’re there to
do
.”

“What do you mean?”

He propped one hip on his desk. “Whenever you make your own bed, they assume it’s because you disapprove of how they do it. The same is true for building the fire and fetching tea. They want to serve you, and when you don’t allow them to, they think they’ve failed you.”

“That’s absurd. I’m always telling them I don’t need any help.”

“Precisely. And with those words, you take away their purpose in life, which hurts their pride.”

She winced as she thought of the anxious look Betty always wore. “Surely no one’s ultimate purpose in life is to be a servant.”

“In England, it is.” His voice gentled. “I know it’s hard for you as an American to understand this, but English servants are very proud of what they do, of the family they serve, of how important their positions are within that family. When you deny them the chance to do their duty, you make them feel as if you don’t respect them.”

Heat spread over her cheeks. “Oh, dear. Is that why they’re always underfoot, trying to do things for me?”

“Yes. The more you take upon yourself, the more they think they’ve erred.”

Heavens alive. “I only wanted to make things easier for them. With your grandmother’s servants returned to London, and such a big house needing so much work—”

“I know. It’s all right.” He took a seat behind the desk. “Just let them do their jobs. They believe that you’ll soon be their mistress, so they’re eager to please you.”

She swallowed. This was the opening she’d been waiting for. “About that—do you really intend to announce our ‘engagement’ at the ball tomorrow night?”

He shook his head. “It won’t go that far. Gran may have been calling my bluff until now, but she’ll never carry our battle into the public eye. She’s too aware of the family’s consequence. In the end, she’ll back down, I assure you.”

“What if she doesn’t? If you make it public, word of it might reach Nathan . . .”

His face hardened. “Word of it won’t reach anyone, because the announcement will never happen.”

“I hope you’re right.” Lately her conscience had really begun to plague her about Nathan. She’d agreed to marry him; she’d made a solemn promise. And every time she let Oliver get in the way of it, she behaved dishonorably.

“Trust me, Maria, it’ll be fine.”

An awkward silence fell. She rose. “Well, then, if that’s all—”

“Don’t go,” he murmured as he rose, too.

Her gaze shot to him. His eyes scoured her in a most alarming fashion, yet she seemed powerless to turn away. “Why?”

“We’ve scarcely had any time to chat of late, what with my brothers and sisters keeping you so well occupied.” His voice held an edge. “Sit down. Please. We’ll talk.”

Talk? That didn’t sound like Oliver. “All right.” She took her seat again, bemused by his change of mood. “What do you wish to talk about?”

He suddenly looked at a loss, which was unexpectedly endearing. No doubt he spent most of his time with women doing things other than talking.

She spied a book atop his desk, and a mischievous impulse seized her. “I see you’re reading Minerva’s latest novel.”

To her shock, he colored. “I figured I should find out what my sister is up to.”

“So is this your first foray into Minerva’s world of ‘Gothic horrors’?”

“Yes.” He looked uncomfortable with the topic, which of course made her only more eager to pursue it.

“You made an excellent first choice.
The Stranger of the Lake
is my favorite.”

He scowled. “Why? Because Rockton gets his come-uppance in that damned rapier duel?”

A smile tugged at her lips. “Because Minerva lets him live. She usually kills the villain off in a very gruesome manner.”

“Ah, and you hate the gruesome parts.”

“Actually, no, I love them. It’s too awful, isn’t it? She almost can’t make it gruesome enough for me.” When he blinked at her, she added with a grin, “At home, I had a subscription to
The Newgate Calendar.
Well, Freddy had a subscription. Father didn’t approve of my fascination with murder and mayhem.”

“I imagine he didn’t.” He sat back in the chair to stare at her. “So, if you like the gruesome parts, why are you glad she didn’t kill off Rockton?”

“She gives just enough hints about him to make you wonder why he became so villainous. And if he dies, I’ll never learn the answer.”

Oliver eyed her closely. “Perhaps he was born villainous.”

“No one is born villainous.”

“Oh?” he said with raised eyebrow. “So we’re all born good?”

“Neither. We start as animals, with an animal’s needs and desires. It takes parents and teachers and other good examples to show us how to restrain those needs and desires, when necessary, for the greater good. But it’s still our choice whether to heed that education or to do as we please.”

“For a woman who loves murder and mayhem, you’re quite the philosopher.”

“I like to understand how things work. Why people behave as they do.”

He digested that for a moment. “I happen to think that some of us, like Rockton, are born with a wicked bent.”

She chose her words carefully. “That certainly provides Rockton with a convenient excuse for his behavior.”

His features turned stony. “What do you mean?”

“Being moral and disciplined is hard work. Being wicked requires no effort at all—one merely indulges every desire and impulse, no matter how hurtful or immoral. By claiming to be born wicked, Rockton ensures that he doesn’t have to struggle to be good. He can just protest that he can’t help himself.”

“Perhaps he can’t,” he clipped out.

“Or maybe he’s simply unwilling to fight his impulses. And I want to know the reason for that. That’s why I keep reading Minerva’s books.”

Did Oliver actually believe he’d been born irredeemably wicked? How tragic! It lent a hopelessness to his life that helped to explain his mindless pursuit of pleasure.

“I can tell you the reason for Rockton’s villainy.” Oliver rose to round the desk. Propping his hip on the edge near her, he reached out to tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear.

A sweet shudder swept over her. Why must he have this effect on her? It simply wasn’t fair. “Oh?” she managed.

“Rockton knows he can’t have everything he wants,” he said hoarsely, his hand drifting to her cheek. “He can’t have the heroine, for example. She would never tolerate his . . . wicked impulses. Yet he still wants her. And his wanting consumes him.”