Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

" I won't cry, I will not cry," Olivia murmured to herself as she walked through the garden, blind to the beauties of perennial borders with their swaying foxgloves, and pleached arches of pear trees, and climbing roses of extravagant blooms. He'd made her feel as if this was her fault, and she knew he'd planned it that way. But he couldn't destroy the feelings she'd had when she'd touched him and seen the desire in his face and his eyes. Desire for her , whatever he tried to tell her.

She'd been so certain she could win him over, and she wondered now if it had been that very certainty that was her downfall. Had she gone about it all wrong? She had tried to persuade Nic to her point of view by being herself—respectable , innocent, wideeyed. But he'd seen her as someone to be protected from his reputation , an untouchable creature, totally off limits. English society was very strict in its boundaries; it worshipped the purity of respectable womanhood. Nic might be a rake, but she did not think he would ever set out consciously to ruin an innocent young lady, no matter what he claimed to the contrary.

So, instead of seducing her, he'd been nobly protecting her.

Olivia needed to adjust her strategy. Husband hunting involved taking risks, and so far she had taken very few, and none of them particularly dangerous, no matter what Nic said. She'd always known he wouldn't harm her, so where was the risk? If she wanted him then she must be prepared to throw caution to the winds.

Excitement gripped her. Yes, what she needed to do was shrug off the trappings of Miss Olivia Monteith and plunge into Nic's world. She must mingle with the shadowy, disreputable women of the demimonde. She must show him that she wasn't a statue on a pedestal, but a living, breathing woman, and that she was not untouchable where he was concerned. In fact she was very touchable indeed.

He wanted her. Now all she had to do was show him that it was all right to want her, to take her, and to love her. She was perfectly willing to go to Paris with him and be dissipated, in fact she would insist upon it. They could be happy together.

If only Nic would allow himself to be happy.

Her steps slowed and she stopped, staring blindly at a statue of Pan set in the midst of a lily pond. She still burned with the sensations he'd created, excitement and need and daring. Whenever she was with him she felt that, but more, she felt alive, so that the rest of her life became dull and flavorless by comparison. Not being with him was something she could not contemplate; not being with him made her feel desperate.

"I will have him," she breathed. "I love him!"

"I beg your pardon?"

The imperious voice came from right behind her. Olivia turned and found a woman in a black silk mourning dress, wearing a black bonnet with a black dyed ostrich feather on her head. Her face had once been beautiful, but time and grief had aged it, pulling her mouth down at the corners, and turning her youthful skin to the consistency of crepe. But her eyes, Olivia saw with a jolt of shock, were Nic's eyes—dark and intense and passionate.

"Lady Lacey," she said, recovering herself. "I'm sorry if I intruded upon your solitude. I didn't realize—"

"Who are you? I did not know I had a visitor, and you certainly are not one of the gardeners." Was there a twinkle of a smile in her dark eyes? It gave Olivia courage.

"I have been to call on your son, my lady."

In an instant Lady Lacey's expression had hardened, the smile quite gone. Her voice into even haughtier heights. "I do not believe it proper for a young lady to visit my son without a chaperone. "

"I have my maid . . ." Olivia glanced about, as if expecting Estelle to pop up from behind the shrubs. "And we are neighbors, my lady. I am Olivia Monteith."

"Monteith? I have heard the name. Weren't your family once our tenants? You had an elder sister—"

"My father is a businessman, my lady. A banker." Olivia tried not to be annoyed by her attitude. "We haven't been tenants of the Laceys for over fifty years."

Lady Lacey dismissed that with a wave of her hand—the Monteiths might have risen in the world but they were evidently still beneath her notice. "You should go home, Miss Monteith. My son is not to be trusted with young women. You are not safe here."

"I beg your pardon, my lady, but I disagree," Olivia said, her voice calm, while inside anger was beginning to simmer on Nic's behalf. "I trust your son and I feel perfectly safe with him. He would never hurt me."

Lady Lacey seemed startled by Olivia's answer, or perhaps she just wasn't used to being contradicted. "Would he not? How do you know what Dominic would do, Miss Monteith? You know nothing about him."

"Yes, I do. He isn't the man he pretends to be, my lady. But surely you must know that—he is your son. You must know him better than anyone. "

Lady Lacey's face twisted, as if some great emotion had caught her unawares. "My son. Yes, he is my son, I cannot deny that. But he has destroyed himself, and me, and I can never forgive him for it."

The outburst was bitter and shocking, and Olivia searched for an answer. She knew there was something, an awful scandal—her father had hinted as much, as had Nic himself. I have done things . . . But surely his mother, of all people, would be on his side whatever awful crime he might have committed? And Olivia did not for a moment believe it was so awful.

"Lady Lacey, I do not pretend to know what it is that he has done," she began tentatively. "But I am sure that—"

"You are sure that what, Miss Monteith? That he is very sorry? Please, keep your opinions to yourself. You are ignorant of our circumstances, more ignorant than you know. Now, will you please leave me."

"Lady Lacey—"

"I am not in the habit of asking for something twice, Miss Monteith." Her voice was icy. "Leave me. Now."

For the second time that day, Olivia walked away, her back straight, her fingers clenched on the parasol. Tears stung her eyes but she would not let them fall. Perhaps Lady Lacey was right, perhaps she was ignorant and foolish and knew nothing of Nic. I was bored. His words came back to her. At the time she'd believed he was simply trying to drive her away, but now she wondered if they were true. She had loved Nic all her life, but what if she had been in love with a man who didn't exist?

Olivia stood alone in the gardens, remembering the past, every treasured memory, from the age of ten until just a few moments ago. There were reasons to doubt, yes, but there were also reasons to believe in her vision of Nic. Olivia , he'd groaned as she held him against her breast, and she'd heard all the longing in his voice, all the need he could not express for fear of hurting her or being hurt.

Whatever the real reason for his abandoning her three years ago, she would discover it, and she was certain it was not due to boredom. Nic, the Nic she knew, wouldn't do that.

"I am not going to be beaten," she told herself for the second time. So Nic thought of her as too fragile and innocent to be in his company? He would not soil her with his presence? Olivia smiled to herself, her plans crystallizing in her mind. What better way to convince him otherwise than to go to the demimonde ball? And Estelle would help her.

Gripping his cane in one hand, Nic heaved himself up from his chair. Slowly, painfully, he began to make his way down the long walk, every step exquisite agony. He refused to rest any longer like a cripple. He must get away from Castle Lacey and leave behind the memories of his past .

The demimonde ball was less than two weeks off, and he was damned if he was going to miss it. He needed the hot forgetfulness of being with a stranger, when nothing mattered but losing himself in the pleasure of the moment. No past, just the here and now.

Then why did an image of Olivia's face pop into his head, as he ordered her to leave? Betrayed, abandoned. And why could he think of nothing but the sweet anguish of her hand stroking his cock?

Irritably, he turned down another avenue, which ran beside the old bailey wall. He remembered his father scaling that wall, turning his head to grin down at him, urging him on. Come on, son, you can do it. You should see the view from the top. This will all be yours when I'm gone, the Lacey estate.

His mother always said that one day his mountaineering father would fall and kill himself, but in the end it wasn't he who fell, it was Nic. And it was Nic who killed his father.

He stopped and placed his hand against the wall, feeling the warmth of the sun on the aged stones. Hard to believe he'd been happy once, hard to believe it could have been destroyed so completely in a moment of bad decision.

He heard the sound of a step and he turned, just in time to see his mother's black skirts swirl as she spun around and made her way swiftly back the way she'd come. No words, no glances, nothing. He didn't exist for her; he hadn't existed since 1828 .

Nic didn't feel this was his home, not any longer. He could never be happy here with the past suffocating him, and now there was Olivia to confuse matters. It was time, he thought bitterly. Time he left Castle Lacey, and with any luck he wouldn't be back for a very long while.

Abbot stroked Estelle's bare back as she snuggled closer to him in the narrow bed. They'd taken advantage of Olivia's visit to slip away to his room and spend some time together.

"He plans to send her away once and for good," Abbot explained, as they lay quiet, pondering their situation.

"Can't you persuade him to see her again?" Estelle murmured at last, her breath soft against his neck.

"He won't. He thinks he's being noble, or as noble as it's in his nature to be."

"I thought he was a rake. Don't rakes seduce girls?"

"Lord Lacey may be a rake but he has his self-imposed limits."

"Scruples! What sort of rake is he if he has scruples?" Her voice trembled. "There must be a way. There has to be a way."

Abbot tried to move aside to see her face, but she clung closer. "Estelle? What is it? Are you crying?"

"They have to marry, they have to . . ."

Her tears were hot and damp against his skin, trickling down into the bedclothes .

"My love, tell me what is wrong?"

It took a while but eventually she did tell him. And Abbot, stunned, didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"I'm going to be a father?"

Estelle nodded, wiping her cheeks, watching him anxiously.

"Then we need to marry."

Her eyes met his, filling with tears once more, and that was when he saw the problem. Married or not, they would remain separated, unless . . .

"We need Nic to marry Olivia," Estelle spoke his thoughts aloud. "And as soon as possible. That is the only way we can be together, Abbot."

"Estelle, you know I can only do so much to bring this about. I will not force Miss Monteith into matrimony with Lord Lacey, not if they end in misery."

"So we end in misery instead," she said dully.

Abbot didn't know what to say to her. His position, his loyalty to his master, were integral to him as a person. How could he put his own needs first? And yet he wanted to. Right now, he wanted to carry Estelle away from here and keep her safe. But that was a fantasy and this was real life. Estelle needed him to be strong, but she also needed him to be honest.

"No, my love, that will not happen," he said firmly. "Everything will be all right. Even if I have to leave you for a time, be assured you will be safe and well looked after. I will not abandon you. I would never do that. "

Estelle's eyes grew sad, but she quickly buried her face in his shoulder. He held her, telling himself she would just have to accept that perfect happiness might not be for them. He knew of many other couples in their situation, and they managed with what they had. He was old enough not to expect miracles, but Estelle was young and idealistic. He hoped she would be content, but he had a niggling feeling that she wouldn't, and she was already making her own plans.