WidowsWickedWish (22 page)

“I can’t give you what you want.” Olivia barely heard her
own words over the roaring in her ears.

“You bloody well can and will,” he gritted out between
clenched teeth as his hands came up to grip her arms, to pin her to the wall.
“You are likely carrying my son in your body even now. God knows I’ve been killing
myself swiving you silly.”

Olivia saw his mouth moving but his words seemed to be
coming to her from a great distance, bouncing off the walls and ricocheting
around the shadowy stables. They lambasted her from every direction and she
slammed her eyes shut as if that would somehow silence them.

She struggled to draw air into her lungs, pinpoints of light
bouncing around beneath her eyelids. She wondered if she might faint, if she
might fall to her knees, thought it likely. Except she stood pinned between the
wall and Jack’s body, the same tall, brawny body she’d held in her arms as
desire overcame them.

But it hadn’t been desire at all. Every time he’d touched
her, kissed her, made love to her, it had been with cold calculation, not
passion.

“Olivia.”

She opened her eyes with effort, saw him looking down at her
with what, once upon a time, she might have believed to be genuine concern,
affection, regret. Now she saw only cunning blue eyes beneath slanting dark
brows.

“Step back,” she whispered. “I cannot breath.”

Immediately Jack dropped his hands and stepped away until
they were separated by a dozen feet.

Olivia drew a tortured breath into her lungs, held it there,
her gaze never wavering from his face. She exhaled and whatever small measure
of calm she’d managed to retain in the face of his revelations deserted her.

“You never wanted me at all!”

“Livy—” he began his eyes wide and unblinking.

“You never wanted me,” she repeated bringing her hands up to
press against her racing heart. “You only wanted vengeance, retribution. You
wanted the life you think should have been yours, the life you believe I stole
from you. A proper wife and a house full of children. The Countess of
Palmerton, London’s Darling. You wanted my bloodlines, my connections, my
womb.”

“Jesus, Livy, no,” he whispered, taking one step toward her.

Olivia dropped her hands to her belly, pushed her palms
against the soft flesh, and the empty pit beneath. Jack froze, his gaze
dropping to her hands.

She curled her fingers into fists, pressed them to her
abdomen, as rage and sorrow and regret roiled through her. “My useless,
ravaged, barren womb!”

Jack shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze
fixed upon the intricately carved doors at the end of the long aisle of St.
George’s Church.

The Earl of Hastings’ carriage had arrived more than ten
minutes previously. Any moment now his bride would appear on her brother’s arm.

His bride. Soon to be his wife.

He’d seen her only a handful of times in the three days since
their encounter in the stables and never alone. Always she’d been surrounded by
her siblings and her cousins, her aunts and uncles. Her illustrious family had
rallied around her, graciously inviting him and his into the fold, fawning over
Justine, courteously receiving his father and Lucille into their homes,
pretending the upcoming marriage was a welcome match.

Only Lady Hastings had refused to play along with the
charade. She’d kept to her chamber in Hastings House while the servants had
moved her possessions from her Portman Square house into her son’s home.

Jack wondered briefly if she would make an appearance at the
wedding breakfast to follow the ceremony.

The doors were thrown open and Olivia appeared on Hastings’
arm. They hesitated at the threshold, sunlight slanting over and around them.

Jack had never seen anything as beautiful as the woman who
raised her head and slowly walked down the long aisle. She wore a gown of
palest-blue silk with small pearls sewn along the modest neckline and white lace
trimming the wrists and hem. A wide matching ribbon was tied around her waist,
the ends trailing over her billowing skirts as she made her way to where he
stood at the altar.

When she stopped before him, Jack studied her upturned face,
not in the least surprised to see a small, serene smile drifting over her lips.
She’d greeted him in the same manner every time he’d he seen her in the last
days. With her Countess Countenance firmly in place, her face devoid of emotion
but for that damn smile that rarely faltered.

Now she looked back at him, her gray eyes not quite meeting
his, instead drifting over his face, lingering for a moment on his jaw before
she turned toward Reverend Jones.

Jack supposed the ceremony was well done, was everything it
ought to be when a countess married a commoner. He barely heard the words that
would join them as man and wife. As Mr. Jones droned on, he looked down at
Olivia’s hand resting on his arm so lightly he barely felt the touch of her
gloved fingers. He lifted his gaze to her profile, watched as her lips parted
and her tongue came out to coast along her bottom lip. She swallowed and her
eyes drifted closed.

She stood thus, her hand upon his arm, her lashes fluttering
against her cheek and the reverend’s words penetrated his mind for the first
time.

“As marriage is a gift from God, so too is the begetting of
children.” The man’s words reverberated around the cavernous church.

Olivia’s fingers trembled on his arm, briefly clutching his
gray brocade coat sleeve before relaxing once more. Her eyes opened and she
stared straight ahead, her smile returning.

Jack took in a bracing breath, undone by the words, by the
first show of emotion he’d seen in the woman since he’d bungled their future so
dreadfully.

Not for the first time, Jack called himself every sort of
fool.

With their pincers. The forceps came later.

He should have known as soon as she’d told him of the ordeal
she’d endured to bring Palmerton’s heir into the world.

My useless, ravaged, barren womb.

Of course she could not have suffered through the
physician’s barbaric practices without injury.

Somehow he knew the babe was a boy.

As if that one fact made it acceptable to torture the mother
to pull the child from her body.

He wondered how close she’d come to death. Likely too close.

It was a miracle Olivia had ever allowed him into her bed.

A bloody miracle.

I fancied myself in love with you.

He’d suspected it of course. But to hear the words falling
from her lips, to know that he’d been right all those years ago, that what he’d
seen, what he’d felt had been true, was a balm to his soul. Almost from the
first moment he’d seen her, when he’d been a mere boy of thirteen and Olivia a
girl of six, he’d felt his heart shift and expand in his chest.

She’d been all gangly limbs and huge eyes then, a shy little
girl who’d smiled up at him as if he’d hung the moon. Over the years he’d
visited her father’s country estate every summer and occasionally the Hastings’
town house for a day or two with Simon. He’d grown accustomed to the gray-eyed
girl trailing along in his wake, gratified by her adoration.

Until that spring when, at twenty-three, he’d returned from
the Grand Tour to find that Olivia had grown from a girl into a young woman
with soft, round curves and long, willowy limbs. He’d felt like the worst sort
of debauched rake, longing for his friend’s young cousin.

Two weeks he’d spent in London with Simon, bouncing from
Viscount Easton’s house to Hastings House, basking in her presence nearly every
day, dreaming of her every night. By that fateful afternoon he’d been a
walking, talking tangle of frustrated lust. So he hadn’t turned around when
he’d spotted Elizabeth in the stables. He’d heard the tales of her exploits
and, led by his cock, he’d walked right into the trap.

It had been the end of his dreams, especially those that
he’d barely acknowledged. The dreams of a future with Olivia, of marrying her
when she came of age, of spending his life surrounded by the peaceful aura that
surrounded her, of discovering passion in their marriage bed, of fathering
children with gray eyes and tilt-tipped noses.

Today he would recapture those dreams. All but one.

There would be no children for them.

So be it. He would have Olivia. He would finally have the
wife he’d dreamed of, a warm-hearted passionate woman, a loving stepmother for
Justine, entrée into Society.

By some miracle, Olivia’s family had managed to quell the
gossip. Lady Piedmont had spirited the twin parlor maids off to the country and
at last report the girls were so happy to be reunited they’d promised to keep
quiet. Johnston and the footman had been silenced with a raise in their wages
and the threat of dismissal should they spread tales. Lady Hastings’ maid was a
loyal soul and had vowed to keep the knowledge of her mistress’s daughter’s
antics to herself.

In truth, Jack had been living in dread of Olivia ending
their betrothal. Each morning he’d arisen from his bed certain that this would
be the day she’d call off the wedding. And why not?

If the threat of scandal no longer existed, what reason did
she have to tie herself to him?

She believed he’d only wanted to marry her to reclaim what
he’d lost, what he’d mistakenly believed she’d stolen from him. She believed
he’d sought her out solely for her connections, for her noble blood, for her
ability to give him children of that noble blood.

Jack might have disabused her of the notion, except he’d
never had a moment alone with her. He had not so much as kissed her, held her,
talked to her. Really talked to her. It was as if she’d surrounded herself with
sentinels, barring him from any sort of intimacy.

But that was at an end. After today, she would be his wife.
Tonight he would explain the madness that had gripped him for more than a
decade. He would explain that while he’d intended to wed her for all of those
reasons, somewhere along the way he’d fallen under her spell.

Olivia would understand. He would make her understand.

“Do you Jack Edward Bentley take Olivia Anne Gibbons to be
your lawful wedded wife?”

Reverend Jones’ words brought Jack back to the moment.

“I do,” he vowed, his hand coming up to covers Olivia’s
where it rested on his arm. He feasted his gaze on her profile, hoping she
would turn to him and see the sincerity of his pledge.

“Do you Olivia Anne Gibbons take Jack Edward Bentley to be
your lawful wedded husband?”

There was a beat of silence as if every guest witnessing the
ceremony held their breath.

“I do.” Her words were little more than a whisper. Her eyes
remained fixed on some point before her, perhaps on the reverend’s smiling
face.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Olivia twisted toward Jack, her face pale but composed, her
gaze fastened on his lips. He smiled as he took her hands in his and slowly
bent to place his mouth on hers. He felt her lips tremble beneath his, felt a
small puff of breath blow across his cheek as she turned away just enough so
that his kiss landed on the corner of her mouth.

He lifted his head in surprise, but she was already pulling
her hands from his, rotating to face the ladies and gentlemen who rose to their
feet in the pews. She took a step forward and Jack realized she intended to
walk down the aisle without him.

With a muttered oath, he clasped her hand and tucked it into
the crook of his elbow.

“Oh, yes, of course,” she murmured, her eyes finally meeting
his as her family surrounded them. She met his gaze only long enough for him to
see confusion and some other emotion he was loath to name hovering in their
silvery depths.

“Well done, Bentley.” Hastings slapped him on the back
before leaning down to buss his sister’s cheek. “I’ve never seen a lovelier
bride.”

“Thank you, Henry,” she replied with a smile.

“Lovely,” Jack echoed, feeling foolish for only now saying
so.

“Thank you, Mr. Bentley.”

“Shall we, Mrs. Bentley?” He led her down the aisle, her
fingers held snug in his hand, her family trailing behind them.

Jack wanted nothing so much as to pull her into the privacy
of his carriage and into his arms. Instead he endured an endless parade of
well-wishers congratulating them and complimenting his bride’s beauty.

After nearly twenty minutes, the wedding guests allowed him
to hand his wife into the carriage. He followed behind only to find her sitting
in the center of the carriage seat, her gown spread out around her, taking up
all of the available space. With no other choice, he lowered himself across
from her and rapped his knuckles on the roof. The carriage lurched before the
horses settled into their traces.

“I’m glad that’s over,” he said, leaning back with a sigh.

“Yes.” Olivia met his gaze briefly, her eyes flicking away
before he could determine her mood.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you.”

They rode in silence. Jack looked at her hands resting in
her lap, her fingers twisting around one another.

“Are you nervous?” he asked.

“It isn’t every day a lady marries,” she answered with a
smile that seemed forced. “Which reminds me. We hadn’t discussed whether or not
you’d prefer I continue to title myself Lady.”

“Have you a choice?”

“Oh yes. My aunt assures me I might be addressed as Lady
Bentley rather than Mrs. Bentley,” she replied, finally unlacing her fingers to
wave one hand in the air. “I had thought that as one of my duties as your wife
will be to see Justine well married, you might prefer Lady Bentley. A reminder
to all that you’ve married the daughter of an earl.”

It made perfect sense. And yet Jack felt his temper rise.
“Which would you prefer?”

“It is not for me to choose,” she responded.

“It’s your name,” he muttered.

“I am your wife now.”

Jack waited for her to continue until he realized that was
the sum of her thoughts on the matter.

“Are you telling me you will simply do as I say?”

“You are my husband. Naturally I will do as you say.” She
tilted her head as if confused by his question, by the frustration evident in
his tone.

“I don’t give a damn,” he growled.

“If you truly have no opinion one way or the other, I shall
be Lady Bentley. For Justine’s sake.”

Jack gave a sharp nod in acceptance of her decision.

“I’ve been giving some thought to Justine’s future,” she
said after a few minutes of silence between them. “If she is to take her place
in Society when the time comes we really must begin to introduce her to the
right girls. She should be sent to school where she can make the sort of
friends she will need when she comes out.”

“She’s only twelve,” he argued.

“Already many of the daughters of the nobility are at school
building friendships, forging connections that will stay with them throughout
their lives. I was sent to Mrs. Smith’s academy in Bath when I was twelve.”

“To build friendships and forge connections?” he drawled in
irritation.

“In my case such things were not as important,” she replied
with a delicate shrug of one shoulder. “I am related to most of the great
families, after all. Justine’s origins are…a bit more obscure. It will be
doubly important that she surround herself with highly placed young ladies. It
will be the brothers and cousins of those ladies who will make up the marriage
pool from which she will choose when the time comes.”

Jack looked away from the earnest expression on her pale
face, not at all certain why this conversation left him feeling annoyed and a
bit deflated.

“If you intend to allow her a choice in the matter,” she
continued carefully.

“Of course she will have a choice,” he replied.

“I thought I would take a journey to Bath to speak with Mrs.
Smith and ascertain whether or not Justine might attend in the autumn.”

“We could stop at Bath on the way to Sedgefield.”

“Are we to depart London right away?”

“Would you rather stay in Town for a bit?”

“I leave the choice entirely to you,” she answered promptly.
“Whither thou goest…”

Her words drifted away and her eyes dropped to her fingers
once more laced together in her lap.