Chapter 17

Chapter

Seventeen

N ic didn't know where his manservant had gone and he told himself he didn't care. Abbot would only give him one of his disappointed looks, and Nic didn't need to be reminded of what he'd done. And he certainly didn't want to think about why he'd done it. He bathed and donned his silk dressing gown and removed himself to the sanctuary of the library. There was much to think about and consider, and he preferred to do it alone and uninterrupted.

The scene on the terrace had been appalling. His mother, whitefaced and shocked, and Olivia standing there, seeing it all. He could imagine how it had looked to her. What must she have thought? He admitted to himself now that he'd had an overwhelming impulse to spill everything into her sympathetic ears, all his secrets, all his lies. Olivia was so easy to talk to, so comfortable to be with. But how could he do that to her? How could he begin to explain?

Besides, she would never forgive him.

Suddenly he wanted to see her again. Her cool beauty had drawn him from the first, and when he discovered the hot and passionate woman beneath, Nic knew he'd already been more than half in lust with her. But love . . . well, that was another matter. He didn't think he'd ever been in love.

There was a time he'd come close to it, when he was a callow youth at Cambridge. He'd been visiting with friends and set eyes on the sister of one of them. She was called Miriam, and although she was a "lady," she was already a practiced flirt and more—she'd introduced him to the pleasures to be found in a woman's body—and he'd dreamed of making an honest woman of her. But Miriam had other plans and soon lost interest in him, moving on to other conquests. It had been painful and for a time he'd been a mess—that was early in the summer when he'd pulled tenyearold Olivia from the stream.

Nic remembered he'd taken a bottle of his father's best brandy up to his room and drunk most of it. He was still tipsy when he wandered down to the stepping stones, but luckily not so far gone that he couldn't play the hero and save Olivia Monteith . That afternoon, as he sat with her, basking in her admiration, Nic had come to the realization that there were more important things in life than Miriam, and he'd determined to be the son and heir his father wanted him to be.

Now he sat, alone, in the chair that was once his father's, surrounded by the books his father had spent a lifetime collecting, and the past rushed in on him, try though he might to stem the tide.

There was his father, redfaced, furious, his mouth wide as he said things Nic had never heard him say before. It was like looking at a stranger, and the shock and shame Nic felt rendered him a stranger, too. They were father and son, how could this be? He heard his own voice shouting back, saying things he now regretted, intensely regretted. But how was he to know that his father would be dead before nightfall?

If one good thing had come out of it all, then it was the child: Jonah.

He hated the name. The child's mother had named him, claiming it was a suitable punishment for them all. She had always been dramatic, nothing was ever simple when it came to dealing with her. The reason she gave for naming the boy was that they had flouted the laws of the church and man, and been punished for it, and Jonah would remind them of that, always. But Jonah himself was an intelligent, bright boy with Nic's dark eyes and a laugh that was delightfully infectious. Nic preferred to think of him as a blessing rather than a curse.

Over the years he'd made certain Jonah wanted for nothing. The boy lived a quiet life, that was a necessary requirement, but it was a full one, a rich one in many ways. Jonah's mother had been obedient to Nic's wishes, well most of them, although lately she had begun to grow more difficult. Her family had long ago cast her off, but they still lived in the village. Nic saw them occasionally, when their paths crossed, but nothing was ever said about the past.

It was as if the seas had closed over the truth, leaving little trace. If you didn't look closely you wouldn't have known it had happened.

And now Olivia had come into his life.

In other circumstances he would have thought her the perfect companion—intelligent, beautiful, educated, knowledgeable in the ways of society, and eager for him to tutor her in the pleasures of the flesh. But how could he think of making a life with her, in the circumstances? And yet that was exactly what he was doing.

He'd known that to touch her was to ruin her, and still he'd done it. Almost as if he'd planned to surrender his principles so that he could have her, despite what her parents, his mother, Abbot, Theodore Garsed, and anyone else might say. Was that why he'd taken her over and over again? So there could be no doubt that she belonged to him?

Nic's musings were interrupted by a commotion in the hall. He could hear voices—for a moment he thought it was his mother, but of course he knew he must be mistaken. His mother hadn't set foot in Castle Lacey for years, and after what had happened tonight he didn't expect her to change her mind. But then he heard the voices again, and this time he was certain.

He rose to his feet, but before he could open the door, a wideeyed servant burst in. "Lady Lacey is here to see you, my lord," she said, as if she could hardly believe her own words, before scuttling away again.

And then there she was standing in the doorway—his mother.

Her face was flushed and her dark eyes snapping with anger, and in that moment he was thrust back into the past again, to that time after his father died and she blamed him.

Nic took a shaky breath. No, he wouldn't let himself be drawn into those bitter, murky waters. He was older and wiser now, and he knew what he wanted and what was important. He forced his voice to be calm.

"Will you sit down, Mother?"

Her hand trembled as she rested it on the back of a leather chair, and he wondered if she was seeing his father sitting there. But like him she rallied, and when she answered, her voice was as calm as his.

"Thank you, I think I will."

The good old aristocracy, Nic thought, with an inner smile. The rules had been drummed into them for generations. Don't show your feelings, keep it all chained up inside, and under no circumstances be impolite.

"This room hasn't changed at all," she said, gazing about her in surprise.

"Nothing has changed, as you'd know if you visited more often."

She flared up like a firework. "How could I visit you after what you did?" she burst out, her voice shaking, rising to her feet. "And now I am glad I didn't. I thought after last time you had learned your lesson but you haven't. You haven't changed at—at—"

"Mother, sit down. Please."

Her knees gave way and she sank heavily into her chair. Nic reached to take her hand, but she immediately stiffened and turned her face away, refusing to speak or look at him until he moved away. With a weary sigh Nic did so, sitting down opposite her and watching her profile.

"Why have you come to see me, Mother? What do you want?"

"I don't want to hear any excuses," she said in a low, wavering voice. "Not this time. This time, Dominic, you will do what is right. This time, you will marry Miss Monteith."

Nic stood up and poured himself a drink. He took his time. The clink of the glass against the decanter, the gurgle of the liquid, the first sip, and the lingering taste on his tongue. He allowed himself to get over the shock of his mother's words and the strange tingling joy that had filled him when she spoke them.

"Miss Monteith is a beautiful young woman from a respectable and wealthy family. She can have her pick of husbands, Mother. I am definitely not a suitable candidate."

She stared at him with narrowed eyes. "You have ruined her, Dominic, that makes you a very suitable candidate."

"I can't marry her. Surely you can see that? The whole thing is complicated enough without making it worse."

"You're young, titled, and wealthy. Your bloodline goes back to the Norman conquest and you have a fine estate. What else could a woman want when she marries, especially when her own family are so much less distinguished than yours? I don't pretend I didn't hope for better . . . the daughter of a duke, perhaps, or even minor royalty."

"Mother . . ."

"You think the past will be a stumbling block, Dominic, but you wouldn't be the first man with a past to marry and make a new beginning."

"The Monteiths will refuse permission. How can it be otherwise?"

"The benefits will outweigh the difficulties where her family are concerned. They would be very foolish indeed if they denied you permission to marry because of a longago scandal."

"You make it sound inconsequential, Mother," he groaned, shaking his head. "Olivia doesn't know. What if she finds out? What if she couldn't forgive me? I can't take the risk."

She looked at him, her dark eyes compelling. "What risk, Dominic? I don't understand you. She will be gaining a fine name and a title, and a grand home. You will have a beautiful wife on your arm, and in time an heir. Why should that be a risk? What does it matter if she finds out, or what she thinks? You will have your roles to play in public, and I'm sure she will play hers no matter how she might feel behind closed doors. That is part of the marriage contract, and Miss Monteith has been brought up to keep her true feelings well hidden."

"I agree that would be so if this was one of those cold and soulless marriages. A mating of convenience. But that's not what I want. You loved my father. You often said yours was a love match. Why should I have anything less?"

Now when she looked at him she was really looking at him, properly, for the first time since his father died, and Nic wondered what she saw to make her mouth curl into a smile.

"Dominic, happiness in marriage is elusive. Who knows, you may find it. I did, and for that I consider myself more fortunate than many of my peers. But if you're waiting for a love match, then you're more of a fool than I thought you. People of our class and position cannot expect to marry for love. Imagine the chaos if we did? Every second duchess would be a parlor maid!"

Nic laughed. "And every second duke would be a groom. You are speaking of lust, Mother, not love."

She waved her hand impatiently, as if the conversation was beginning to tire her. "Dominic, you know what you must do. What your father would tell you to do, if he were here. Marry Miss Monteith."

She was right, of course she was. He would have to marry Olivia Monteith; even a rake accepted when something was inevitable. But the strange thing was, despite all his protests . . .

Nic didn't mind at all.