Chapter Three

"They are here!" Amelia yelped, tugging on Evan's arm as he stood by the drawing room window, staring out at the long gravel drive.

"I have eyes, Aunt. I can see they are here." His stomach clenched, his discomfort rising.

Amelia tutted at him. "Adjust your cravat, make yourself presentable and, above all, be nice!"

"I am always nice," he replied, already imagining his "betrothed's" face when she realized who he was. If she was the sheltered sort who never touched the scandal sheets or deigned to enjoy a ball or gathering where gossip prevailed, he would just have to leave the evidence where she would be left in no doubt.

Amelia hurried toward the door, turning back on the threshold. "Are you not coming?"

"I will wait in the adjoining room until you have given your welcome speech," he replied. "Indeed, I thought it best to allow you and the ladies to adjust before making my entrance."

Amelia rolled her eyes. "Very well, but do not think you can make a sly escape. I have the groundskeepers watching every possible exit."

"I would not dream of it." He put on a smile, wishing he did not adore her so much. If he liked her just a little bit less, perhaps he would have found the nerve to flee back to his own estate before his betrothed could be shoved into his path.

* * *

"It is my great pleasure to welcome you to my humble abode," an older woman announced, waiting at the bottom of the steps as Olivia and her mother alighted from the carriage. The Dowager Countess, presumably.

Olivia mustered a weary smile. "I hardly think you can call such a residence "humble." I cannot imagine a hermit or a cleric living a modest life within such walls." Her mother flashed her a warning look, prompting Olivia to add, "What I mean to say, rather clumsily, is that it is a beautiful house, and we are so very grateful to be welcomed."

Olivia was surprised by the earnest note in her voice, entirely fabricated.

The Dowager Countess chuckled. "You must be nervous," she said, "but there is no need to be. I am certain we shall enjoy ourselves during your stay. Why, it is always a delight to breathe new vigor into these hallways."

"You are too kind, My Lady," Olivia replied, dipping into a curtsy.

"Indeed, we are so very happy to be here," Olivia's mother agreed, weaving her arm through Olivia's.

The Dowager gestured toward the house. "If you will follow me, I thought we might take tea in the drawing room so that you can rest yourselves, and then I shall show you everything there is to see at my admittedly not-so humble abode." She flashed a wink at Olivia, who had the slightest inkling that she might come to like the Dowager.

With that, Olivia and her mother followed the Dowager into the pretty sandstone manor—smaller than Olivia's residence of Canrave Hall, yet somehow more striking with its porticoed entrance and cloistered front terrace that resembled an ancient temple of some kind.

Soon enough, the three women were comfortably situated in a grand drawing room, sharing a pot of tea as birds squabbled for crumbs out on that beautiful, cloistered terrace.

"We must apologize for our untidy appearance," Olivia's mother said, sipping her tea as if she had drunk nothing for a week. "Our departure from Canrave was somewhat chaotic, and we thought it best not to pause on our journey to seek rest at one of the charming countryside inns that we passed on our way."

The Dowager batted a dismissive hand. "Not at all, dear Viscountess. You both look lovely."

We look as if we have just come from a ball, dragged behind the horses instead of sitting in the carriage, Olivia desperately wanted to quip, but she held her tongue, remembering that her entire performance over the next week or so would rely upon her gentility and pleasantness, at least, toward her mother and the Dowager.

Olivia was about to take a refreshing sip of her own tea when a side-door suddenly screeched open and a figure strode inside, halting her with her lips upon the hot rim of the teacup. Her eyes widened, her hand still tipping the cup until it was too late, and steaming tea spilled down her chin. In a clumsy rush, she set down her cup and wiped her mouth upon the back of her gown's sleeve, forgetting that there was a perfectly good napkin on the table in front of her.

Goodness, a sly voice in her mind whispered as she did anything she could not to stare at the gentleman who had just entered the room again.

The Marquess of Bridfield certainly had the appearance to make his reputation believable. Heroically tall, mythologically broad in the shoulders and chest, with a rod-straight posture that practically forced her eyes to admire him from head to toe. His garments were exquisitely tailored, his tailcoat a dark, forest green that strained against the muscle of powerful arms, and light-colored trousers that suffered the same struggle in containing mighty thighs. Hessian boots completed the image of a gentleman who understood just how pleasing he was to the eye.

Goodness, her mind whispered again, as a haze of sunlight caught the golden-blond of his hair, and made his eyes—the same dark, forest green as his tailcoat—glitter as he caught her eye for just a moment, before she quickly dropped her gaze.

Since departing the ball the previous night, she had wondered what the marquess might look like, for though she had attended countless balls throughout every season since her debut, she could not recall a Marquess of Bridfield at all. Now that he was standing in the same room as her, she was certain she would have remembered ever seeing such a man.

Yet, because you are a Marquess and you are unjustly handsome, you are not cast from society as a woman in your position would be, she grumbled inwardly to distract herself, deciding in that moment that it would not be difficult to hate him as long as she kept thoughts like that at the forefront of her mind. Her father had been infuriatingly handsome in his youth, according to her mother, so it seemed that her father and her "betrothed" had even more in common.

Of course, you would choose such a man for me, Father, Olivia let her anger replace her shock. I imagine you think it is fitting to punish me with someone like you, so I will be doomed to repeat my mother's life.

"Good afternoon, ladies." The Marquess bowed, his curly blond hair falling over his face as he did so. As he stood back up to his full, tremendous height, he swept a hand through his hair and, for a moment, Olivia could have sworn that time slowed. "I am Evan Thorne, the Marquess of Bridfield. And while I would relish the opportunity to stay and sip tea and chatter about the weather and how dainty the lemon tarts are, I thought a walk in the gardens might be less… intense for a first meeting." His enchanting eyes fixed upon Olivia. "Miss Agarn, would you care to join me?"

Olivia blinked. "I… should like that very much," she replied, reminding herself to be nice.

"A fine idea!" the Dowager agreed, though Olivia's mother looked like she wanted to curl up on the comfortable settee and fall asleep. The Dowager seemed to notice, offering a fond smile. "Viscountess Agarn, it might be better for you to oversee the arrangement of your respective belongings. I shall have the housekeeper show you to your chambers, and then I shall accompany these two on their walk."

Olivia's mother expelled a subtle sigh of relief. "Certainly, My Lady. That is a most thoughtful notion."

"In that case, I shall await you outside," Evan said, bowing once more before leaving through the door where he had entered.

So, he has manners, Olivia pondered, frowning at the now-closed door. She had assumed that a notorious rake would seize upon an opportunity to be alone with a woman, particularly one he was betrothed to. Then again, perhaps a rake with manners and charm was a far more dangerous creature than an opportunist.

As she was left alone in the drawing room, she began to feel, for the first time, like she was in great peril indeed.

* * *

"Is that silk from the Orient?" Evan asked, folding his arms behind his back as he walked at his future bride's side, through the ornamental garden to the west of the Dowager House.

Miss Agarn glanced down at her gown. "I could not tell you. It was not my choice of gown."

"Was it a gift?"

She shrugged. "More of a demand." She shook her head as if a fly had buzzed too close to her ear. "What I mean is, I was asked if I might like to wear it, and I am always prepared to do as I am asked. My father chose it while he was in London. It is rather pretty, is it not?"

"It becomes you well," Evan lied, for the orange hue of the gown did nothing to complement her exceptional complexion, nor did such an elaborate gown suit the grounds of a countryside manor in the fiercest heat of a summer afternoon. The glisten upon her rosy-cheeked, angelically pale face was testament to that.

He had not shown it in the drawing room for obvious reasons, but Miss Olivia Agarn was undoubtedly one of the prettiest ladies he had ever beheld, with silky dark hair, the color of autumn chestnuts, and blue eyes that reminded him of dusk. Her lips were full and pink, matching the roses in her cheeks and filling him with a desire to know what she looked like when she smiled; but, thus far, she had not even managed the ghost of one.

"Thank you," she replied, her gaze fixed forward.

He dipped his head. "It is my pleasure." Fumbling for conversation, he continued, "Do you enjoy walks? I suppose I should have asked that before I invited you to join me in a turn around the gardens, but nevertheless..."

"I enjoy walks very much," she said flatly, and Evan groaned inwardly.

She is beautiful, yes, but possesses only beauty. He supposed he should not have been surprised that she was like every other woman he had encountered in the ton. She was simply a young lady, edging toward spinsterhood, in search of a husband, exactly like the rest of them. After hearing his aunt mention that Olivia had a similarly controversial reputation to him, he had expected some liveliness or intrigue at least, but merits other than beauty seemed to be as absent as her ability to smile.

He tried again. "What else do you favor? Are you fond of poetry, music, literature? Do you… like to embroider?" He grimaced, wishing the gravel pathways and blooming flowerbeds would swallow him up.

Olivia looked back over her shoulder and Evan followed her gaze absently, noting that his aunt was farther behind them than he had realized, pretending to stop and admire some hydrangeas. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, understanding that she was being mischievous again, giving them some privacy to converse.

"Forgive her," Evan said. "She means well."

Olivia peered up at him, transforming before his very eyes. Where she had been placid and somewhat dull a moment ago, there was now a fire in her gaze and a coldness in her expression, as if she had just happened upon something grotesque.

"What else do I favor? What sort of question is that?" she remarked curtly, in a hushed tone. "If you believe your usual charms and lures will work upon me, you are to be sorely mistaken. Of course, you can try, but it will be a tremendous waste of your breath, and rather akin to hitting your head against a wall."

He blinked in surprise. "Pardon?"

"Do the ladies you ask that to usually cover their face and giggle behind a fan?" she went on, completely changed. "If I were to say poetry or literature, would you recite a passage or verse you have learned by heart because you know na?ve ladies love such things? I imagine you feel awash with triumph when they swoon, do you not? Well, it is my pleasure to inform you that I am not the swooning kind. I tried once and hit my head, yet I do believe it made me impervious to ulterior charm, so I cannot curse the bruising too much."

He stared at her as if he had woken from a nightmare and could see the monster right in front of him. "I… was merely asking a civil question," he said, finding his voice. "I thought that might be more interesting than walking through these gardens in stony silence."

"The statues seem to endure quite well in stony silence," she remarked, and he laughed despite himself. Her eyes narrowed, and he immediately swallowed his amusement.

Clearing his throat, he put on his most polite voice. "Very well, what would you like to talk about? Perhaps, if you begin the conversation, you might feel more comfortable."

"In your company, there is no comfort," she shot back, pressing on into a walled area of the garden, where roses bloomed.

Somewhat rankled by her damning assertion, he followed her into the walled garden. "Have I said something to offend, Miss Agarn? I assure you, it is not my intention. Perhaps, you are simply nervous about this—"

"I am nervous of being left alone with you, but I am not nervous about this meeting," she cut him off. "I know what manner of man you are, My Lord. Indeed, much like this hideous gown that my father demanded I wear, I am convinced that being matched with you is one of his wretched little jokes: an attempt to make me compliant by way of humiliation."

Evan was stunned by the change in Olivia, uncertain of whether to leave the walled garden or stay where he was. After all, he was the one who had fueled the rumors of his rakish behavior. He only had himself to blame. Indeed, this was precisely what he had wanted, when he heard that he was to be married off without delay.

"With respect, Miss Agarn, you do not know me," he said, wondering why his heart thudded with anger instead of relief and why his mind prickled with irritation when he should have been grateful that he would not have to leave fake letters and scandal sheets lying around.

Olivia smirked. "I know you by reputation, and that is all I need to know."

"So, why are you here?" Evan sniffed, playing her at her own game.

"Excuse me?"

"Why are you here if you have already decided to detest me?" He paused, frowning. "Why have you not fled this entire arrangement if I am so reprehensible to you?"

Something like fear twitched her eyelids. "Because… I understand my duty as the only child of a good family. At least, as the only daughter of a beloved mother."

"You despise me, but you still intend to marry me?" There was something in her tone he did not believe.

She shrugged. "Of course. There are plenty of husbands and wives who loathe one another." She paused, averting her gaze. "But if you are not interested in marrying me anymore, then there is nothing I can do. My mother will be disappointed, but she will recover… and I do not much care if my father is exasperated. He ought to be accustomed to the feeling by now."

There it is… He swallowed the urge to smile at the surprising guile from her. She wants me to break our engagement. He might have been more pleased by the revelation if it had not been for the memory of his promise. A promise he had made to his aunt to at least endure the fortnight to come and to try and make this betrothal work.

Understanding dawned on a wave of frustration: to avoid breaking his aunt's heart, he needed to make Olivia end the engagement. And though he was no true rogue or rake, he would need to play the part of one to send her away.

"I did not say I was not interested," he said, taking a few steps toward Olivia.

Her eyes widened and she staggered back, bumping into the wall behind her. Her mouth opened and closed as if she meant to say something, but no words came out, just a wheeze of breath.

He edged closer until he was no more than half a step away from her. Desperately struggling to think of what a rake would do, he lifted his hand and pressed it against the wall she stood flush against. Leaning in until he was so close to her face that he could see a tiny mole beneath her right eye—a sole "blemish" upon the porcelain smoothness of her face—he mustered his most charming smile.

"In truth, you have aroused my intrigue, for I thought you a little dull until you transformed like that, showing me a glimpse of your true character," he told her in what he hoped was a sultry voice, as he lightly pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Now, I must say, I am very much looking forward to spending the next two weeks in your company."

Olivia stared up at him like a panicked animal, her breath ragged, her chest rising and falling so fast he feared she might actually faint. Her mask had slipped once more, revealing a real sliver of who she was beneath both the cold fa?ade and the veneer of a tedious socialite.

Evan could not help but smirk, realizing that chasing her away might be easier than he thought. "What a pleasant walk, Miss Agarn," he murmured. "Indeed, I find myself rather… exhilarated."

Pushing off the wall, he flashed her a wink and walked away, his heart beating fast as he stepped out of the walled garden and into the wider world again. There, he took a breath and clasped his hands behind his back once more, his fingertips still tingling with the silky sensation of her hair against his bare skin.

"Evan?" his aunt called to him. "Where is Miss Agarn?"

Evan put on a smile. "She is admiring the roses, Aunt. I must tend to something; I trust you can keep the young lady amused?"

"Of course, but—" Amelia began to say, but he was already walking away, shocked to his core that playing the role of an infamous rake had come so naturally.

Two weeks, he told himself. Two weeks, and I will be free again.

But, considering both he and Olivia desired the same thing, it remained to be seen who had the fortitude to uphold the engagement and who would be the one to surrender, ending it first.