Chapter 3

Three

L ate summer always brought an extra degree of melancholy to Oliver Hartwell. August was the month his second wife had died giving birth to his son, and his first wife had perished on this very day in September, ten years ago.

No wonder he had left Crossthwaite a few days early and pushed on well past nightfall in order to arrive at his friend's house. Tonight was not a night for Oliver Hartwell to be alone.

The duke had warned him by letter that Bexton Manor might still be overrun with shooting party guests, but Oliver hoped this place could still be a haven for him, just as it had been for so many years.

He was comforted as his carriage came down the drive. Despite the late hour, lamplight streamed from at least half a dozen windows, and the house looked as welcoming as ever.

Of course, he would have preferred to have his friend and the Stafford family to himself, to know he might walk with Crispin tomorrow morning, talking over Dalrymple's theory of an undiscovered southern continent. And then an afternoon of whisky in the study and a dinner presided over by the lovely duchess who would discourse on ?thelwad and ?lfthryth and ?thelred while the flock of redheaded children laughed and scrapped good-naturedly.

There was so much life in this house, so different from the quiet shadows of Crossthwaite. No wonder he travelled to London on the flimsiest of pretexts only to have a reason to stop over at Bexton Manor.

Oliver knew most would consider his friendship with Crispin Stafford an unlikely one. They had been at school together but separated by several years. Crispin was a duke, while Oliver could be considered, at best, a somewhat-gentleman farmer with a father whose wealth had come from trade, a mother whose sister had married nobility, a cousin who was a viscount, et cetera .

And the characters of the two men were a study in contrasts. Crispin was all ebullient vigor. Oliver was all sedate reserve. Crispin was never alone and always happy. Oliver was always alone and never happy.

Except here.

"Oliver!"

In the front hall of Bexton Manor, Crispin strode forward and shook his hand and then embraced him.

"Welcome, welcome, dear friend. Didn't expect you tonight, but it's no trouble at all, and I am so happy you've arrived. Just let me introduce you to the gentlemen. We're all in here." Crispin guided him towards the billiards room. "Having a tournament. Will you join us? A glass of whisky? Oh, I better keep my voice down. The ladies and children are abed."

Oliver craved distraction, but he didn't think he could tolerate the privileged—dare he say smug?—bonhomie radiating from all the titled gentlemen in the billiards room. Crispin was different, of course, but at the moment Oliver felt far too vulnerable to exchange polite remarks with strangers with whom he could have nothing in common.

After pouring him a glass of whisky and making introductions, Crispin changed his tack. No one ever understood Oliver as well as Crispin did.

"No, after a long journey, I'm sure you want some peace. Shall Catesby show you to your bedchamber? Or will you retire to my study? Stretch out your legs in front of the fire?"

Oliver thanked Crispin for the whisky and said he would make his own way to the study.

"I'll come join you when this lot are done putting balls in pockets," Crispin whispered in his ear as he clapped him on the back.

Those words gave Oliver some succor as he walked to the study, but as soon as he sank down into his accustomed chair, his dark thoughts returned. If he had been in Crispin's company, Oliver might have been able to reason with himself, banish his guilt.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he was a wife-killer.

He had married two fragile women—each damaged in different ways—and he was complicit in their deaths.

One wife dead through neglect. He should have known the depths of Violet's unhappiness and found a way to free her instead of burying his head in the sand.

One wife dead from bearing his son. Because he had foisted his desire on Emily. Because he had wanted to bed his wife like a normal husband would. Because he had wanted children and thought he could create something like the chaotic amity of Bexton Manor at Crossthwaite.

He should have known better. Oliver Hartwell was not fit for family, for fathering, for husbanding anything except sheep.

Nathaniel was three years of age now. Sickly like his dead mother. Silent and withdrawn like his wretch of a father. Fated either for an early death or a lifetime of loneliness.

And Oliver felt powerless to force a change in his son's destiny or his own. He was doomed to stand by and watch as his little boy dwindled and diminished.

He had not cried since his own boyhood, but in this familiar chair, alone in the one place where he had found friendship and affection, Oliver abandoned himself to self-pity and despair.

He drained his whisky and wept.

Henrietta threw the counterpane to the side. She couldn't find sleep and the longer she lay in her bed, the farther away it seemed. She kept thinking of what Geoffrey had said this afternoon.

She was dwelling on it, and Henrietta was not a dweller.

She sat up. She needed company. Ellen and Amelia and her mother had surely fallen asleep long ago. There was nothing for it except a visit to Zephyr.

She lit a lamp. Should she dress? No. Just a dressing gown over her nightdress and she would lace up her boots. None of the guests would be about this late at night. She'd nip out to the stables quicker than lightning.

She crept from her room and descended the stairs. On the next floor down, she saw light coming from under the door of her father's study. Papa was up. They could play draughts. That would be even more comforting than a visit to Zephyr. She might mention what Geoffrey had said, and her father would tell her what to make of it.

She opened the study door and saw a figure in a chair, dark head bent, narrow shoulders shaking, and immediately knew to whom the head and shoulders belonged.

Mr. Hartwell. He had arrived!

Her niggling little hurt was instantly blotted out by the excitement she always felt in his presence. True, she had been holding back her most fetching dinner dress for his first night at Bexton Manor and now he was going to see her wearing her oldest dressing gown and boots, her hair in a messy plait. Of course, it wouldn't make any difference to him how she looked, but her own vanity suffered a small sting. Only a small one, though, because it was just so wonderful Mr. Hartwell was here.

He raised his head, and the light from the fire revealed the tears streaming down his cheeks.

It was as she had always suspected. Mr. Hartwell felt very deeply. His manner might be restrained, but that was because he felt so much and so strongly, he had no choice but to tamp down all his emotions lest he be swept away by them.

She put her lamp down and rushed to him and even though he was already rising to his feet, she seized both his hands and dragged him back down into the chair and went to her knees on the carpet in front of him.

"I'm sorry you're so sad, Mr. Hartwell. I wish you wouldn't be."

"I—" He tried to remove his hands from hers, but she held him fast.

"You must miss Mrs. Hartwell terribly."

His face was shadowed. "I—please?—"

"I can't allow you to cry alone. I'm sure your grief is too much to bear."

"This isn't?.?.?.?you must go, Lady—" He mumbled something. "Or I must go. Please let me stand."

She looked down to where she had clasped his hands, holding them so tightly his fingers were white.

"Oh. Oh, yes."

She let go of him and got to her feet with difficulty, her boots tangling in her nightdress. He unfolded his long, thin body from the chair and rose with far more dignity than she had.

He kept his head down. "Please forgive me. A momentary weakness."

He walked away from the fire, giving her his back. From the movements of his arms, she guessed he was taking out a handkerchief and wiping away his tears.

He turned, and although his face was now dry, his wet lashes clung to each other, ebony spikes rimming his reddened eyes. She'd known him her whole life, and she'd never noticed his long, sooty eyelashes. Such a softness in the middle of that austere face, those chiseled cheekbones, that angled jaw and pointed chin. How could she have missed his eyelashes before?

"I hope you can forget this unfortunate circumstance. I will retire now so you can have the use of the study."

"The use of?.?.?.?? Oh, no, I only came in here because I saw the light. I was on my way to the stables." She lifted her dressing gown and nightdress to show him her boots.

"Ah," he said and raised his dark eyebrows.

It was the first time Mr. Hartwell had ever raised his eyebrows at her. She couldn't think. Her breath got short. She waited for him to say something more, not wanting to leave yet, needing to make sure he was truly all right.

The air in the room felt very hot and close.

Finally, he bowed again and said, "Well, still, you must excuse me." He moved towards the door.

She couldn't let their encounter end this way. Here, at last, was her chance to help him. But her words had vanished and there was no custard to hand.

She darted forward and hugged him.

He shuddered but did not resist. He let her embrace his lean body and pin his long arms to his sides.

She looked up at him and said the only thing she could think of—the truth.

"I want you to be happy."

Her beautiful, young, strong, healthy, decidedly female body against Oliver's. Her breasts, her belly, her thighs.

She was one of the Stafford daughters. The oldest one. The tallest one. The gorgeous one. The one he had suddenly noticed for the first time in London a few months ago. Noticed , as a man notices a woman. Her flawless figure, her winsome face, her bright smile. But he had told himself to avert his eyes, that part of his life was over, he was a lecher, she was a child, she was his friend's daughter, for God's sake.

In fact, he had done such a good job of pushing her out of his mind that suddenly he couldn't remember her name. It had slipped away. What did everyone call her? Duck? Goose?

Hen .

She looked up at him, her eyes shining in sympathy, and told him she wanted him to be happy.

He was doing his best to rebuild his stoic fa?ade, but her words made him want to sob again. What generous hearts these Staffords had! And, in contrast, what a pitiful, mean creature he was, crying for himself.

She tried to get closer to him and stepped on his shoes. This made her stumble and he had to catch her to keep her from falling, and she burst into laughter. She was so pretty, so rosy and sweet as she laughed in his arms that he quite lost his head.

Those pink lips. That warm breath with the scent of sugared violets. He wanted those lips, that breath. That delight, that promise. That hope. That kindness.

This soft, abundant, feminine flesh and these shimmering locks of fire.

He pulled her closer, bent his head, and kissed her laughing mouth.

She stopped laughing. She stopped doing anything at all. She was immobile. A heated, statuesque goddess against him. Her lips tender and pliant and seemingly made for his.

A hunger he had long thought dead rose up in him. He wanted her naked, underneath him, begging him to take her. He wanted his face buried in her voluptuous breasts, his hands on her lush bottom, his cock in her cunt. He wanted her with a ruthless savagery that knew no reason.

His depraved thoughts surging, his mouth still joined to hers and his arms still locked around her, he heard the library door open and his friend's shocked gasp.

"Oliver. Henrietta."

Henrietta . The girl in his arms was Henrietta.

But even as her name branded itself on his heart and his cock, the animal part of his brain would not allow him to release her.

Mine .

She was the one who pushed him away and put a distance between them.

"Papa, I fell and Mr. Hartwell saved me."

A slow dawning.

Something deplorable had just occurred and he was the agent of it. Oliver took two halting steps away from Henrietta and turned and bowed to Crispin.

"Your Grace."

When he straightened from the bow, he saw Danforth, Burchester, Ramsey, and Ramsey's son standing behind his friend.

His muzzy head whirred and clicked like his old viameter as he grappled with the immense ramifications of the kiss he had just stolen.

Damn, damn, damn, damn. Damn you to hell, Oliver Hartwell .

If it had been only Crispin who had found them thus, the situation might be salvaged for the girl. No matter what, Oliver had lost the duke's trust—and almost certainly, his friendship— and that was a lethal blow. The worst thing he could imagine. The end of everything good in his life. But only for him. No harm would come to Lady Henrietta.

But for her to be discovered in the arms of a man in the middle of the night in front of witnesses outside the family? A scandal of the worst kind.

Poor girl. He had ruined her as he had ruined everything and everyone else in his life.

Oliver glanced quickly at Henrietta. Her whole face was red, making the freckles that dotted her snub nose disappear.

"Papa, you aren't angry, are you? I was on my way to the stables."

The duke turned to the other men. "If you'll excuse us."

"Certainly," Lord Ramsey huffed, and the four men disappeared.

"Henrietta, go to your bedchamber. Now. Mr. Hartwell and I must talk."

"No, no— What are you going to talk about? You mustn't think, I just wanted to, I mean, I saw the light in the study." Henrietta poked a foot out from under her nightdress. "See? I have boots on. I'm going out to the stables."

"Hen. Your bedchamber. Now."

The girl chewed her lip and scurried from the room.

The duke closed the door but did not turn around. Instead, he put his forehead and both hands on the wide oak slab as if the ancient wood could lend him strength.

Oliver took a deep breath. "Lady Henrietta is innocent in this matter." His voice cracked. "She happened upon me, and she did fall, and I did catch her, and I was the one who took advantage."

Crispin finally pushed away from the door and began pacing, running both hands through his red hair.

"Shit, shit, shit. Of all men, I would have never thought you— How could you, Oliver?"

He didn't know. Even now, it was inconceivable to him that he had kissed his friend's daughter.

"I— I have no excuse. I am unworthy, but I will, of course, offer for your daughter's hand."

"This is a hell of a thing. The gossip will be sickening."

"I hope you believe Lady Henrietta was not at fault here. I am entirely to blame."

Crispin finally faced Oliver. The duke radiated fury, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his brow thunderous, his eyes flashing with a murderous, green fire.

"Of course, she's not at fault. She doesn't have a devious bone in her body. Couldn't lay a plan to trap a man if her life depended on it."

Oliver steeled himself for a blow, but suddenly the duke's rage drained away and his broad shoulders slumped. It was a monstrous thing to see Crispin reduced and defeated this way.

And Oliver had been the cause.

When Crispin spoke again, it was an anguished mutter. "I will go wake my wife. Maybe she'll have some idea of what to do. Because, at this moment, I can think of no solution except?—"

Crispin cut himself short as he flung the door open and strode from the room, cursing.

Except , Oliver was sure he had been about to say, giving my precious daughter away to a man who wouldn't know the first thing about treating a wife well.

Henrietta fretted. There was no question of sleep. Something terrible was going to happen.

Perhaps it could all be hushed up? She had heard whispers about other young ladies being compromised and ruined. But that hadn't been what had been going on. Not at all.

Poor Mr. Hartwell, having to face her father's anger. When it was her fault.

But she never could have let him cry alone. She never could have let him leave the room without trying to make him feel better.

And she couldn't regret she had had her first kiss. And for that first kiss to have come from Mr. Hartwell? For her to have wished for him to be happy and he had decided what would make him happy was kissing her? Such things didn't happen to Henrietta. It was a kiss out of someone else's life.

She put her fingers to her mouth. How idiotic she had been. Turning to stone like that, not knowing what to do. Not taking advantage of those brief seconds of closeness. Not kissing him back. If only she had been paying better attention while it was happening. The memory of the sensation was already fading, and she wanted to grab it and hold it tightly so she could remember the kiss forever.

After what seemed hours and just when she was on the verge of falling sleep while sitting up on the edge of her bed, her mother swept in without knocking, wringing her hands, her usual dreamy vagueness nowhere to be seen.

"Are you all right, my darling girl?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Hen, I'm so sorry. I've failed you."

"No, Mama. What do you mean?"

Her mother tilted Henrietta's chin up and examined her. "Dear heart, you are so much like your father, all impulsive passion and tenderness. And I love that about both of you, so I never taught you to guard against it."

"But I didn't do anything wrong, I promise. And neither did Mr. Hartwell. Not really, I don't think. It was just a kiss."

Her mother sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed beside her. "In this stupid, modern age and in the idiotically narrow-minded circles we move in, there's no such thing as just a kiss . There should be, but there isn't. And it's all made worse because the kiss was in front of the Ramseys and the other gentlemen. With you in your nightdress. Mr. Hartwell understands how it must appear. He immediately offered for your hand to spare you scandal."

"But he's still mourning his wife, Mama. He doesn't want to marry me!"

"He has taken responsibility and is quite ashamed he might have caused you harm?—"

"He didn't harm me!"

"Your reputation, Hen."

"I don't care about my reputation. I just don't want Papa to be angry with Mr. Hartwell. Will they still be friends? Does Papa know Mr. Hartwell didn't do anything wrong and this is all my fault?"

Her mother smiled sadly and stroked Henrietta's hair. "Your father understands men because he is one."

"Mama—"

"But your father has also lived nineteen years with you. He knows how you're apt to do things out of the goodness of your heart without a thought for the consequences."

Henrietta had had a thought. Her thought had been that Mr. Hartwell was crying and she might comfort him. True, she hadn't thought much beyond that. She certainly hadn't thought of a kiss. A kiss from Mr. Hartwell was the stuff of secret, impossible dreams.

Let alone an offer of marriage.

Henrietta bent her neck to lean her head on her much shorter mother's shoulder. "What's going to happen now?"

"I want you to sleep for a bit, if you can. All right? Then, when you wake up, you can hear what Mr. Hartwell has to say, and you and I and your father will have a confab. Don't worry, dearest. We love you, and we would never force you to do anything you didn't want to do."

But what did Henrietta want to do? What did she want, besides everyone to be happy?

Everyone.

But especially Mr. Hartwell.