The Truth About Lord Stoneville (18 page)

“You have no idea what I was,” he hissed. “You never did.”

The harsh words reverberated in the coach. Maria felt Mrs. Plumtree stiffen beside her, and her heart went out to the woman. Oliver’s grandmother might be too aware of her own consequence, and she might have some draconian ideas about how her grandchildren’s lives should play out, but anyone could see that she cared about them in her own way.

Oliver took a shuddering breath. “Forgive me,” he said tightly. “That was uncalled for.”

“It certainly was,” Maria said. “She was saying nice things about you.”

His gaze shot to her. “She was pointing out, yet again, how I’ve failed my family.”

“If you don’t like it,” Maria countered, “why don’t you
stop
failing them?”

“Touché, Maria,” Minerva said softly.

Gritting his teeth, Oliver turned his gaze out the window, no doubt wishing he could be well away from them all. And as he retreated into himself, Minerva began to tell one story after another about Oliver as a boy.

Maria didn’t want to be enchanted by them, but she couldn’t help herself. She laughed at the tale of how he’d fallen into the pond in front of Halstead Hall while trying to “charm” fish into the boat the way Indians charmed snakes out of their baskets. She tried
not
to laugh at the one where he coaxed Gabe into sharing Gabe’s piece of cake by claiming that it might have been poisoned, requiring Oliver to “taste it and make sure it was safe.”

But the tale about some lad pulling five-year-old Minerva’s hair, and Oliver jumping to her rescue by punching Minerva’s attacker, made Maria want to cry. The Oliver who’d defended his sister still existed—she glimpsed him from time to time. So where had the other, carefree Oliver gone? His siblings didn’t seem nearly as bitter over the tragedy of their parents’ deaths as he. Was it simply because he’d been older? Or did something else about it plague him?

A sudden jolt made her glance out the window. They were already in town and she hadn’t noticed, too caught up in Minerva’s tales. Now they were stopped in a queue of other vehicles on a gaslit street with a row of amazingly lavish houses. This must be the wealthy part of London.

“Ah,” Mrs. Plumtree said, “we’re nearing Foxmoor’s. I should have known there would be a crush.” She fixed her gaze on Oliver. “I suppose you mean to scandalize society by announcing your betrothal to Miss Butterfield tonight.”

“Of course,” Oliver said, without a trace of irritation. “Unless you’d rather do it yourself. I’m more than happy to hand the office over to you, Gran. Maria and I will just nod and smile while you get all the glory for making the match.”

Mercy. Talk about throwing down the gauntlet.

Mrs. Plumtree’s mouth fell open. Then snapped shut. When she spoke again, her voice sounded strained, though Maria could have sworn she caught a gleam in the elderly lady’s eye. “Perhaps I will. God knows you won’t do it properly.”

“Go ahead.” His eyes said,
I dare you.

There was a trace of smugness on his face now, as if he knew he was on the verge of winning.

A tense quiet fell over the carriage. Clearly Mrs. Plumtree and Oliver were each waiting for the other to back down.

Then the carriage halted before the mansion, and the moment was broken. A footman scurried to put down the step and open the door. Oliver got out to help each of them down.

As Oliver took Maria’s arm and led her up the entrance steps, she whispered, “You’re playing with fire. Your grandmother just might go through with it.”

“Not on your life,” he whispered back. “You don’t know Gran like I do.” He patted her hand. “She’ll never make the announcement. You’ll see.”

Maria sneaked a glance back at Mrs. Plumtree, and her heart sank. The woman wore a secretive smile, though she wiped it off her face as soon as she caught Maria’s eye on her. Uh-oh. That boded ill for Oliver’s plans.

“Oliver—” she began.

“Oliver, thank heavens you’re here!” Celia exclaimed. She was at the top of the steps, an anxious expression on her face. “You have to go rescue Gabe before he does something foolish. Chetwin is here and they’re near to coming to blows over that stupid race. They’re in the card room.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I can’t believe Foxmoor invited that idiot.” He hurried off.

As soon as Oliver disappeared into the house, Celia and Minerva tugged Maria inside, grinning. “Hurry, before he gets back.”

They were met by Lord Gabriel and Lord Jarret, who strode up with several young men in tow.

“Lord Gabriel!” Maria exclaimed. “Your brother—”

“Yes, I know. And while he’s gone . . .”

He and Jarret introduced the other gentlemen to her. By the time Oliver returned, she’d promised dances to all of his brothers’ friends.

Oliver’s frown deepened as he saw Gabe standing there, blithe as could be. He raised an eyebrow at his sister. “Was running me off in search of Chetwin your idea of a joke?”

“I got confused, that’s all,” Celia said brightly. “We’ve been introducing Maria around while you were gone.”

“Thank you for making her feel welcome,” he said, though he eyed the other gentlemen warily. Then he held out his arm to Maria. “Come, my dear, let me introduce you to our hosts, so we can dance.”

“Sorry, old chap,” Gabe said, stepping between them, “but she’s already promised the first dance to me.”

Oliver’s gaze swung to her, dark and accusing. “You didn’t.”

She started to feel guilty, then caught herself. What did she have to feel guilty about?
He
was the one who’d spent last night at a brothel.
He
was the one who’d been so caught up in his battle with his grandmother that he hadn’t even bothered to ask her for a dance. He’d just assumed that she would give him one, because he’d “paid” for her services. Well, a pox on him.

Meeting his gaze steadily, she thrust out her chin. “You never mentioned it. I had no idea you wanted the first dance.”

A black scowl formed on his brow. “Then I get the second dance.”

“I’m afraid that one’s mine,” Jarret put in. “Indeed, I believe Miss Butterfield is engaged for every single dance. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

A male swell of assent turned Oliver’s scowl into a glower. “The hell she is.”

Mrs. Plumtree slapped his arm with her fan. “Really, Oliver, you must watch your language around young ladies. This is a respectable gathering.”

“I don’t care. She’s
my
fi—” He caught himself just in time. “Maria came with me. I deserve at least one dance.”

“Then perhaps you should have asked for one before she became otherwise engaged,” Celia said with a mischievous smile.

Gabe held out his arm to Maria. “Come, Miss Butterfield,” he said in an echo of his older brother’s words, “I’ll introduce you to our hosts.” As she took his arm, he grinned at Oliver. “You’d better start hoping you draw her name in the lottery for the supper waltz, old boy. Because that’s the only way you’re going to get to dance with her tonight.”

Chapter Eighteen

“I’m going to kill him,” Oliver muttered under his breath as he watched his brother walk off with Maria. Jarret and the other gentlemen also headed for the ballroom with Celia and Minerva in tow, leaving him standing in the foyer with Gran.

“She is an American,” Gran said in a cool voice. “They do not know how to behave themselves anywhere except in some colonial barn. She doesn’t realize she ought to have held a dance for you. Although I must say, you did take your time about asking her for one.”

He glared at her. “I’m her fiancé.”

“Well, you certainly have not been acting like it. Considering where you went last night . . .”

Heat rose in his cheeks. “Damn it, Gran—”

She slapped his arm with her fan again. “I do not know where you learned these horrible manners.”

“Would you stop that?” He grabbed her fan. “I swear, sometimes you and Maria are enough to make a man run screaming into the night.”

With a sniff, she snatched her fan back. “You need to do some screaming. It would be good for your soul.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “You and Maria make quite a pair.
She
thinks to save my soul, too. Someone needs to tell her that it’s a lost cause.”

“Is it?” Gran said quietly.

There’s still hope for him,
he could hear Maria saying about his alter ego, Rockton.
There is always hope.

It sounded so much like something Gran would say that he cast her a sharp glance. Was it possible that she had softened toward Maria?

Gran scowled. “I cannot believe you gave Prudence’s pearls to that chit.”

He relaxed. Gran would never find Maria suitable to be his wife. “They were mine to give.”

In truth, he’d intended merely to offer them as an accessory for the evening. But then he’d seen her in that dress, and felt her embarrassment at Gran’s disapproval, and something in him had snapped.

It was just as well, he told himself defensively. How better to convince Gran that he meant to go through with marrying Maria? That was the
only
reason he’d given Maria the pearls.

“Let’s go find Foxmoor,” he said. “I need to speak to him about something. And you need to talk to his wife about announcing my betrothal.”

Gran’s eyes narrowed on him. “You know, you do not have to go through with this farce. You could end it now.”

“Or you could drop your ultimatum,” he shot back.

“Never,” she said.

“Your choice.” He cast her a hard glance. “But if you don’t make the announcement, I will.”

Making her see that he wouldn’t back down was the only way to make her give in, and he felt certain she would do so. Because if the betrothal was announced before everyone, Gran would feel compelled to let it stand to save the family honor, and she was never going to accept some Catholic American.

They found Foxmoor standing at the entrance to the ballroom receiving guests with the duchess, though he was more than ready to let Oliver pull him aside. Meanwhile, Gran went off to speak to his wife. Of course, Oliver knew better than to believe she was actually asking about making a betrothal announcement. It was all a show for his benefit.

“Why are you here?” Foxmoor asked. “As I recall, last year you swore that the only way you’d attend a ball on St. Valentine’s Day was in a casket.” He glanced behind Oliver. “So where is it?”

“Plague me if you must, as long as you do me one favor. I need you to help me rig the drawing.”

Foxmoor’s eyes narrowed. “If you think I’ll let you use my wife’s favorite social occasion to play a trick on one of your hapless brothers—”

“Not a trick. I want to rig it so a certain female will end up dancing the supper waltz with me.”

Clutching his hand dramatically to his chest, Foxmoor staggered backward. “
You?
Wanting to dance with an eligible female?” He eyed Oliver closely. “You do know that the only women who participate in the drawing are young, unattached, and respectable.”

Oliver gritted his teeth. “I’m perfectly aware of that.”

“And you want to dance with one of them.” Laughter erupted from Foxmoor.

“Oh, for God’s sake, can you do it?”

“Certainly,” his friend said merrily. “Whatever you wish. And while I’m at it, I’ll snatch the moon from the sky to be your dinner plate and the stars to light your way to supper.”

“I mean it, damn you. I need to dance with her, all right? It’s important.”

“Then why don’t you just ask her?”

“I did, but my brothers played a trick on me.” He ran his fingers through his hair distractedly. “By the time I got to her, they’d convinced every one of their friends to claim a dance with her.”

“Good God, you’re talking about that pretty little chit that Gabe introduced to me and Louisa, aren’t you? Miss . . . Butter something? The one who’s visiting at Halstead Hall?”

“That’s her, yes.”

Foxmoor scowled. “Now I know why you want to dance with her. You’ve got seduction on your mind. She’s exactly your preference, so you mean to use my wife’s ball—”

“Deuce take it, Foxmoor! For once in your life, could you just do as I ask without making judgments about it? You’re as bad as Maria, with all her talk of morality and compassion and saving one’s soul. I just want one favor, one dance with the blasted woman, and you won’t even help me with that!”

When Foxmoor looked taken aback, Oliver realized he’d expressed himself too forcefully.

Then his friend’s expression shifted to a more enigmatic one. “Maria, is it?”

“It’s her Christian name.”

“Yes. I gathered that.” He stared out over the ballroom. “You want the drawing fixed? Very well. When she throws her name into the hat, I’ll use a little sleight of hand to snag it, then hand it off to you so you can ‘draw’ it out of the hat. Very simple.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve done it before.”

Foxmoor smiled faintly. “Once or twice. Men in love generally don’t like to risk their ladies being chosen by some other man on St. Valentine’s Day.”

“I’m not in love,” Oliver snapped. “So if that’s what you’re thinking—”

“Of course not.” But the duke looked unconvinced.

Oliver was tempted to tell the idiot that he really
did
have seduction on his mind, if only to wipe that suspicious expression away. But he wasn’t about to risk losing his chance of having Maria partner him for the supper dance. That might be his only opportunity to speak to her alone, since his siblings were doing their best to “protect” her.

He turned to search the crowd for her. She was dancing with Gabe in that angelic-looking gown that made him feel like the devil just for lusting after her in it.

And God, how he lusted after her. He wanted to kiss her rich, heady mouth while he took down that hair one amber lock at a time. Then he wanted to slip that creamy bodice off the shoulders it barely clung to and lavish her full breasts with caresses, tonguing the nipples into fine little points. He wanted to see her smile warmly at him as he lifted her skirts and buried his mouth between her legs to taste her pungent nectar.

He wanted to see her smile at him, period. He wanted it almost more than he wanted to have her in his bed.

Christ, what was wrong with him? How could he even compare a smile to a good swiving?

Yet his pulse pounded in his veins just remembering her smiles in his study yesterday. He wanted her to talk to him as she had before, to tease him and even chide him. Anything but these aloof glances and her insistence upon avoiding him. But after tonight . . .

It struck him like a thunderbolt. If he won his battle with Gran tonight, Maria would have no more reason to stay. Their arrangement would be done.

A chill crept over him. He wouldn’t allow it. He’d renew his offer to make her his mistress, and this time he’d convince her, too. He’d seduce her into it. She couldn’t leave—not yet. He couldn’t stand even the thought of it.

“Don’t you agree?” Foxmoor said beside him.

Oliver blinked. “Of course,” he said, praying that was the right answer.

“You’re not going to make some snide remark about marriage being the ruin of every man?” Foxmoor pressed. “That’s your usual response to any comment on someone’s happy union.”

“I’m not in the mood for snide remarks tonight.”

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

He grimaced. Foxmoor was far too astute for his own good.

The duke smirked at him. “I was talking about Kirkwood. About how he looks lost without Lady Kirkwood by his side tonight.”

“Has the bloom left the rose already?” Oliver said, strangely disappointed by that thought.

“Ah, there’s the Stoneville I’m used to. But no; hadn’t you heard? She’s in her confinement. They expect the arrival of their first child any day now.”

Unexpectedly, he felt a blow to his chest. Kirkwood, a father. He’d never thought to see that day. Now every one of his friends would have children . . . and he would not.

He scowled. What did it matter? He didn’t want children. He couldn’t imagine a worse father than himself.

So why did an image of Maria, heavy with his child, dart into his mind? Why was it he could picture himself sitting in the old rowboat with a blue-eyed lad as he pointed out the best fishing spots on Halstead Hall’s pond? Or imagine himself reading a story to a dark-haired girl who kept her thumb tucked in her mouth as Celia used to do?

Deuce take it. All Minerva’s talk of his boyish escapades was poisoning his mind, making him yearn for the idyllic childhood she’d thought he’d had. Making him wish he could give it to some child.

But he could not.

“I gather that Kirkwood didn’t want to come tonight,” Foxmoor said, “but his wife insisted. She said she wanted to hear all the latest gossip, and he would have to gather it.” The duke snorted. “As if Kirkwood would know how to glean gossip! The woman is clearly blinded by love.”

And
that
was the trouble: love blinded you only until it ensnared you. Once ensnared, you saw everything clearly enough to sink you into misery.

He was too smart for that.

But as the evening wore on and he was forced to watch Maria dance with a succession of young and handsome gentlemen, he began to wonder if he was so smart after all. Because seeing her with them was really chafing him raw.

One of the idiots made her laugh several times—an egregious transgression. Another let his hand linger on her waist after the dance was done—a cardinal sin. And the last one before the drawing had the audacity to whisper something in her ear that made her blush—a crime so unpardonable that Oliver wished he could thrash the man senseless for it. He’d never wanted to thrash so many men at one time in his whole life.

Somehow he managed to remain calm as the gentlemen gathered for the drawing. He watched Maria write her name on a slip of paper and put it into Foxmoor’s top hat, but he couldn’t tell if Foxmoor succeeded in snagging it. He held his breath through the entire process, only relaxing when the men started drawing names and Foxmoor dropped a slip of paper into the hat with a meaningful smile just as Oliver reached in.

Pulling the slip out, he read aloud, “Miss Maria Butterfield.”

Maria didn’t say a thing, her expression unreadable.

But she was his for the next dance whether she liked it or not, and his for supper, too. He meant to make the most of it.

M
ARIA HAD SPENT
the entire night putting a good face on things. Although Gabe’s and Jarret’s friends were nice, polite men, she felt as if all the other guests were whispering about her. The whispers were at their greatest whenever she was with one of the Sharpes, and this was at a ball held by their friends! She could only imagine what it must be like for them at other affairs.

Then again, maybe they weren’t invited to other affairs. It seemed as if Celia and Minerva danced only with their brothers or their brothers’ friends, who’d apparently also been called into service for the Sharpe women. Maria had seen Minerva standing alone for more than one dance, though the look on her face had made it clear she refused to be cowed by a bunch of rumormongers.

Between the dances, Maria had heard murmurs of “the poor American girl . . . yes, the Sharpes . . . can you believe it?” One particularly nasty harpy resurrected the old scandal with great relish. Fortunately Maria’s partner, one of Gabe’s good friends, clipped the woman’s wings with a blistering rejoinder.

Throughout it all, Maria had been aware every moment of where Oliver stood and what he was doing. He hadn’t danced with a single woman, which she found curious. And flattering, though she knew she shouldn’t. Mostly he watched her—though it was more like devouring her with his eyes.

When he wasn’t doing that, he was scowling at her dance partners. One fellow had even mentioned that Lord Stoneville appeared to be jealous.

She found that highly unlikely.

Yet as he headed toward her now, she felt disturbingly happy that he’d drawn her name. After spending the whole evening smiling until her face hurt, ignoring spiteful comments and pretending to be in England in search of Freddy’s “brother Nathan,” she ached to be with someone who knew her for what she was.