Timeless Tales of Honor (89 page)

E
nsconced
in his own quarters for the better part of four hours, Marcus observed that the household appeared to have finally slept. He held a copy of
A Legend of Montrose
, one of Sir Walter Scott’s more recent works.

He’d read the same line over and over.

Usually, he could lose himself in the written word but Olivia, with her antics that day, had managed to weave her way into his thoughts. First there had been the snowball fight, then the chopping of the yew tree, and supper. The old duke had insisted that Marcus join him and Olivia for the evening meal.

Marcus had tried his best, citing a breach in propriety, but that had only fueled the duke’s insistence. Danby answered to no one. No, Society’s strictures didn’t apply to Danby or any of his off-spring, it seemed.

Marcus had been forced to labor through the partridge soup, baked egg Florentine, roast beef, and rout drop cakes. Olivia had sat across from him, her gaze cast down upon her plate. She’d shoved her fork around her barely touched plates.

All the while, Danby had filled the silence.

Marcus closed the book and set it aside his nightstand table. Had it been that she’d been unable to stomach the sight of his hideous visage while she supped?

She wouldn’t be the first person to lose her appetite in his presence.

The thought of that stung like so many knives being plunged in his stomach.

Except, she had not shunned his presence earlier that afternoon. She’d looked at him. Talked to him. Treated him as a whole man. Something, really only Danby had done since he’d returned from war.

Even the household staff who answered to Marcus were careful to avert their gazes whenever he spoke to them. Over the years, he had caught enough glimpses of horror and repulsion that that he didn’t delude himself into believing the staff’s downcast gazes stemmed out of respect for his position as steward.

He’d ceased caring about such reaction years ago.

Until Olivia.

He didn’t want her to look at him and see a monster of a man.

Marcus swiped a hand over his disfigured cheek. Little hope wishing for things that couldn’t be.

As it was, Olivia would remain with Danby another ten days and then would return to her parents. At which time she would wed that old bastard, Lord Ellsworth.

Marcus jumped to his feet and began to pace his quarters. He raked a hand through his hair.

He had done a remarkable job of shoving thoughts of her to the side. Lady Olivia Foster deserved more in a husband that a nearly faceless monster. Through the years, there had been moments when he had picked up a pen to write her. In the end, he’d wrinkled the parchment into a messy ball and hurled the missive into his hearth. What young lady would desire a husband whose mere appearance roused revulsion in young and old alike?

He’d thought he’d buried Olivia, along with the dreams he’d had for their future.

Then in the span of a few days, she’d gone and upended his entire world.

Marcus stopped pacing, and stood in front of the window. He drew back the thick brocaded curtain and stared out into the black night sky, dotted with gleaming stars. A fresh blanket of snow layered the earth.

She’d thrown a snowball at him. And he’d thrown one back.

When was the last time he’d done anything just for the sheer pleasure of it? Since his days in the military to the day he’d returned and found work with Danby, Marcus’s life had been driven by order, reason, logic, and responsibility. There wasn’t room for yew trees and frivolous jaunts in the snow.

So why did he feel more alive than he had in years?

It was because of her.

Marcus lowered his head to the windowpane and slowly beat his brow against the cold glass. He could ill-afford to turn himself over to foolish yearnings. He’d made peace with his life. There was no place for a wife and children. Yet, being near Olivia had roused the hope he’d carried deep within his breast—the dream to be more than a beast, hidden away at Danby Castle.

He blamed this madness on the Christmastide season. At this time of year, the promise of hope and new beginnings filled the air. With the purity of the Season, the horror of a man’s everyday life could be drowned out in the spirit of the holiday. Damn Danby for shaking up his world.

Marcus dropped the curtain. It fluttered back into place. There would be no sleep this evening.

He found his jacket and tugged it on.

He needed to escape the disquiet of his rooms. Mayhap then he could put thoughts of Olivia to the side.

Marcus made his way through the mammoth castle. His Hessian boots silent upon the marble floors. At last he reached the kitchens. He’d always had a strong desire for sweet treats. It had been a source of great amusement between him and Olivia. She’d preferred cherry tarts and he, well he’d always teased that he preferred all treats equally.

Cook had used the stale Savoy cake to make a tipsy cake. During the evening meal, Marcus had little appetite. Now, the almond studded treat beckoned.

He paused at the kitchen door. The faint glow of a candle shone from beneath the crack of the entrance-way. He frowned. He needed to speak with the staff of the dangers of leaving rooms ablaze. Even a single candle could prove lethal to a household.

Marcus opened the door and words escaped him.

Olivia glanced up from the dish in front of her. Cornflower blue eyes went wide in her face, giving her the look of a night owl. “Oh,” she said around a bite full of tipsy cake.

For the first time in five years, Marcus managed his first real smile.

“Olivia.”

O
livia gulped
down a large mouthful of Cook’s evening treat.

She’d retired to bed shortly after supper, but sleep had eluded her. Giving up on sleep, she’d made her way down to the kitchens for a glass of wine and some tipsy cake.

“Marcus,” she said when she trusted herself to speak.

He looked over his shoulder and eyed the door as though contemplating escape.

“Don’t go,” she blurted.

Marcus turned back around.

Olivia wet her lips. “I-uh-that is, please don’t leave on my account.” And because she used to know him so very well, cut a large slice of cake and set it on her now empty plate. “Would you like a slice?”

He hesitated so long she thought he was going to ignore her offering.

Wordlessly, he strode over and claimed the seat opposite her.

She shoved the dish closer to him.

Marcus picked up the fork, and then speared a piece of the almond confection.

They sat there. The silence between them not the stilted, awkwardness Olivia had come to expect but rather the ease they’d once known in each other’s company.

She trailed the tip of her nail along the wood surface of the table in a slow, meticulous circle.

“Thank you,” he said.

Her finger ceased its distracted movement. Olivia picked up her gaze from his partially eaten cake and looked at him.

Marcus pushed the plate toward her. “Would you like another bite?” He held out the fork in his hands.

Olivia stared down at the scars that marred the tops of his hand. Oh, what he’d endured. She shoved back the traces of regret and pity. Marcus was a proud man. He didn’t want her pity, nor did he need it. None of the scars he now bore detracted from his vitality and absolute strength. When she looked up at him, there was an emptiness in his expression. She reached for the fork and their fingers brushed.

The touch of his hand transported her back to that simpler time and place when the most complicated thing between them had been who would get the last cherry tart.

Tears filled her eyes and she dropped her gaze again lest he see and erroneously assume that it was pity that made her cry. She broke off a piece of the cake with the fork and nibbled at it. There was something terribly intimate about sharing the utensil. Moments ago, lips had closed over it and oh, how she longed for him to take her mouth beneath his, once again.

“You’re far more serious than I remember you,” Marcus’ quiet murmur filled the void of silence.

Olivia shrugged. “I’ve changed.”

“Because of me.”

She looked him in the eye. “Because of me. I’m not the same innocent young lady you left behind.”

A gleam of sadness filled his solitary eye.

“Don’t pity me, Marcus,” she ordered. He didn’t want such paltry sentiments from her and she most certainly didn’t want them from him.

“You never fell in love.”

Again
—the word hung in the air between them, unspoken.

She gave her head a sad little shake. “You must have taken me as fickle as the empty-headed debutantes who clamored for your notice.”

He snorted. “As a viscount’s second son, I was hardly the catch of the Season.”

If it were any other gentlemen, she’d believe he was scouring for compliments. Not this new, hardened, self-deprecating stranger.

Marcus had possessed the kind of masculine beauty that artist’s put to canvas. She imagined how very hard it was for him to accept the changes the war had wrought.

“Hardly the kind of face that’s going to attract any ladies, now,” he said, as if interpreting the direction her thoughts had wandered.

“You’re beautiful,” she said. A wave of heat flooded her cheeks and she prayed the dark of the night hid the twin signs of embarrassment.

Marcus reached for the fork. He took it from her fingers and helped himself to another bite of cake. “You always called me beautiful.”

“Well, you were.”
You are.

Olivia drew in a slow breath. “You know, I never cared what you looked like, Marcus. I loved you.” She needed him to know that. Needed him to know, so that in nine days, when her carriage departed and returned her to Father and Mother, where she would be wed to the Earl of Ellsworth…that she would have danced through the flames of hell just to be with him.

She waited for him to make similar claims…but the words did not come because to Marcus, what he’d felt for her represented something of a different time, she imagined. A moment in history that he would never retrieve and so he didn’t bother trying.

“I don’t want to fight, Marcus.”

“Have we been?”

“There was the snow,” she said, with a small smile.

He inclined his head. “Ahh, yes. The snow fight.”

Olivia shoved aside all manner of joke. “I won’t be here much longer. I’ll return to London where I’ll be…” Her words trailed off. It was one thing to think the hideous thought, but quite another to say it aloud.

“Where you’ll…?” he prodded.

“Married. Where I’ll be married,” she forced the words out past brittle lips. “My grandfather has asked me for a wonderful Christmas season and I want to give him that, Marcus.” Their gazes caught and held. “I want to give him that. Would you help me?”

Marcus folded his hands and studied her. Then slowly, nodded. “I will.”

Olivia managed a smile. “Thank you.”

Her gaze went to the now empty plate; a stark reminder that the treat was finished, and so was their time here.

As if anticipating her thoughts, Marcus rose as if they were in attendance at a fine dinner party and not hiding like two naughty children in Cook’s kitchens.

Olivia rose and dipped a curtsy. “Good night, Marcus.”

She hurried out of the room, and abovestairs, knowing all the while that any attempt at sleep would be futile.

O
livia craned
her head back until her neck ached. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and studied the towering tree. Each year, she looked forward to Christmas with a breathless anticipation. This year was so vastly different. She’d been at her grandfather’s for a full week and instead of the budding excitement for the carols, yew boughs, and holiday trappings that would come on the eve of Christmas, all this season represented was an end.

An end to her time here.

A new start.

A new life.

One that did not include Marcus Wheatley.

Her time here was nearing an end.

Feeling his gaze upon her, Olivia looked to Marcus.

He held her stare and then slowly winked.

Her heart froze. Why must he do that? If he were the same, snarling boor who’d mocked her and taunted her upon her arrival, then it would be at least bearable to leave Danby Castle and forget him.

Liar. She’d never be able to ever forget Marcus Wheatley.

Marcus seemed to remember his need for seriousness and glanced away.

“This is what you two came up with?”

Olivia jumped at her grandfather’s booming question.

“It’s lovely,” she said, defending the fourteen-foot yew tree.

“You’ve seen the size of this parlor, girl?”

Her gaze did a quick sweep of the gold and red parlor with its towering ceilings adorned in fresco murals. The duke could fit the whole of Almack’s inside the grandiose setting.

“It is just a touch small,” Olivia said, a touch of defensiveness in her words.

Danby snorted. “Just a touch? I’d say it’s the ugliest tree yew tree I’ve ever seen.”

She studied the tree yet again and angled her head. “That is wholly unfair, Your Grace.”

Marcus interrupted the duke’s response. “Let me say, Your Grace, if you were to see the first tree selected by Lady Olivia, you’d be more than pleased with the final selection.”

Olivia’s brow furrowed. She wasn’t entirely certain that was much of a compliment. “Mr. Wheatley also aided in the selection.” If she were going to earn Danby’s displeasure at the first holiday task set before them, well then, Marcus would take ownership for their decision as well.

“Bahh.” Danby slashed the air with his hand. “I don’t care if it were one of you or both of you. It’s a miserable tree.”

“It will look much improved when we decorate it on the eve of Christmas,” Olivia ventured.

Her grandfather continued to eye the tree, with no small amount of skepticism. “No, I rather think it will not.” He banged his cane twice upon the floor. “And I’m old, girl. I don’t want to wait. Dress up this tree and parlor.”

“Your Grace?”

“You heard me,” he barked, and then Danby turned on his heel and stomped off.

“Are you certain, Grandfather?” Olivia called out, her voice echoed throughout the empty space of the parlor. “It isn’t tradition…”

The aging, old duke didn’t break stride. “I don’t give a plum fig for tradition. See to the trimmings.”

When he’d gone, Olivia tapped her finger along her jawline. “It really is a lovely tree.”

“Absolutely,” Marcus said.

She turned in a small circle and surveyed the room. “You know, I do believe it isn’t the tree that is the problem but rather this place?”

“Oh?”

Olivia pursed her lips at his bored tone. “You might not take this particular responsibility seriously, Marcus, but I do.” She walked the perimeter of the parlor, all the while aware of him standing off to the side of the room, his gaze trained upon her.

How to convert the duke’s home into a festive, Christmas setting?

“Perhaps we might be better served visiting Cook and seeing what pastries she’s prepared for the day,” Marcus said.

Olivia shook her head. “Marcus, I’m going to need more that fruit p…” Her eyes widened.

She all but flew across the room and clasped his hands in her own. “You brilliant man!” She leaned up and placed a kiss upon his cheek. “We need servants! A good deal of them.”

Marcus hesitated a moment, and then called over the footman who stood at the entrance of the parlor.

The young man in his precisely tailored uniform came over. “Mr. Wheatley?”

Marcus gestured to Olivia. “Lady Olivia has a request.”

The servant turned to her.

“Servants,” she began. “At least twenty of them. And fruits. Apples. Oranges. Plums. We’ll need no fewer than a hundred yew boughs cut and brought to the parlor. Oh, and almonds and paper, and beading!”

“Will that be all, my lady?”

Olivia steepled her fingers beneath her chin. “Walnuts. I also require walnuts.”

N
early ten hours later
, Marcus stared at the bevy of servants as they departed the transformed hall. Candlelight played off the walls and fairly gleamed at the masterpiece Olivia had created.

A raise. Every last one of the servants who’d assisted in Olivia’s venture would see an increase in their funds. They had so flawlessly executed her vision, and had done so with smiles and laughter. More than that…they were responsible for the joyous sparkle in her eyes.

Olivia clapped her hands and spun around. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

None of this which she’d created in the duke’s parlor could even compare to her radiant beauty. The blue of her eyes sparkled like the same stars that now dotted the night sky.

Marcus gave his head a shake, in desperate attempt to dislodge such foolish musings. If he continued to study her so, he would do something foolhardy, like beg forgiveness for having left, and plead with her not to wed Lord Ellsworth.

“Well?”

Marcus looked at the wonder she’d created. The gold parlor had been transformed into an enchanted world. Yards of yew boughs draped along the perimeter of the hall, adorned in bright fruits and beading. Almonds and raisins draped in paper peeked out throughout the boughs.

Marcus’ throat bobbed up and down. After he’d returned from France, he’d been so focused on not feeling anything ever again. To feel made one vulnerable. It drove the knife of pain deep inside, and was unrelenting. Seeing such beauty in the duke’s normally empty, cold monstrosity of a home filled Marcus with a searing warmth. He should want to tamp down the growing weakness, but in that moment, he felt alive…for the first time in years, and he was loathe to lose grasp of it.

“It’s remarkable, Olivia. You’ve given the duke something very special.”

Her smile grew, like he’d handed her the king’s crown and not a mere compliment. She swatted at his arm. “
We’ve
done something very special. You did this, too.”

“But it was your vision.”

“You were always ever so modest, Marcus.”

Not really. He’d been a cocksure youth so certain he’d return from battling French forces, none the different for his experience.

“Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” he asked.

“Sad, of a sudden. What are you thinking?”

He’d not spoken to anyone of the hell he’d endured. There’d been a time he’d never have concealed anything from Olivia, but what he’d done, what had happened to him…he’d not sully her purity with such ugliness. Especially not at this perfect moment.

He held out his arm. “Will you dance with me?”

Olivia started. Her smile grew. “I’d be honored, Mr. Wheatley.”

She placed her hand in his and allowed him to waltz her around the festive parlor to the sound of un-played music that only they could hear. Marcus twirled her in dizzying circles, heady with the taste of the past. Olivia’s eyes slid closed and it was as though she as well had drifted off into the world he imagined for them. He increased their rhythm, willing time to go back to before he’d left, and before he’d become the monster before her.

Olivia lost her footing and stumbled. Marcus caught her against him, pulling her close to his chest. Their breath mingled, blurred as one.

Several gold-kissed locks tumbled free of her haphazard chignon. Marcus caught the tresses between his thumb and forefinger. He inhaled the floral scent that lingered in her hair and wondered if her whole body carried the scent of summer. “Like silk,” he said, and jerked as he realized he’d spoken aloud.

Long golden lashes fluttered, and she leaned into him and, God help him, he was lost. His physical disfigurement, her upcoming marriage to the earl, all of it, slipped away as he lost himself in the remembrance of her kiss.

His lips slanted over hers as he reacquainted himself with the pink bow-shaped flesh.

Olivia moaned and arched against him. She looped her hands behind his neck and raised herself up.

Marcus slipped his tongue inside and explored the taste of her: cinnamon and chocolate, a heady sensation. He’d never taste the like again without remembering this moment.

Her fingers smoothed the expanse of his shoulders and then traversed a path along his jaw.

Marcus’s body jerked as though he’d been shot. He set her away and took several retreating steps back from her. God, if he didn’t put distance between them and soon, he would do something utterly foolish, like take her in his arms again.

Olivia touched her fingers to swollen lips. “Marcus?” she whispered. “I have missed you.”

He took a steadying breath. “This was a mistake.”

The cold, flat delivery of his statement seemed to rob Olivia of speech. She shook her head several times and then found her words. “Don’t say that. You still love me as I…”

Marcus strode over to her. The rapidity of his movement sent her scurrying until she froze, and then held her ground. He ripped the patch off his empty socket and revealed the depths of his physical scar.

Olivia gasped. A hand fluttered to her breast.

Her reaction struck him like a lash across the back. “This,” he hissed. “This is why it is a mistake. I’m a beast. A monster.”

She reached tremulous fingers toward him. “You aren’t.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he cried. “I know what I am. I’m the scarred second son of a viscount and you,” he raked a gaze over her, “are to be the wife of a wealthy earl. Now, go, Olivia.”

Go before I get on my knees and beg you to never leave.

“Go,” he roared.

Olivia fled as though the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels and mayhap they were.

It would appear he was a beast, after all.