Sara Bennett (12 page)

“But I know nothing yet!” Vivianna had wailed to Dobson, who had come to the room to deliver the message and the parasol. “I need to understand more, to learn…oh, just to know what to do!”

“What’s to know?” Dobson had retorted. “I think you’re a lovely girl, Miss Greentree, and if Lord Montegomery don’t know that already, then he’s a fool and not worth bothering with.”

Vivianna hadn’t been able to help smiling at his simplistic view of things, even as the fact that he knew her secret caused her some consternation. “When can I see Miss Aphrodite, Dobson?”

Dobson had avoided her eyes. “Don’t you worry, she’s just a little under the weather. It happens sometimes. She’ll be all right soon. Call back in a day or two, miss.”

“Dobson, it wasn’t anything I said, was it? That made her ill?”

Dobson’s gray eyes had met her worried ones. “No, miss,” he assured her, his battered face turning gentle. “It wasn’t nothing you said. She’s a strong lady, but she’s had tragedy in her life, and sometimes it all gets
too much for her. She’ll be right as rain soon, you’ll see.”

“I hope so.”

“That umbrella there,” he had added, nodding at the parasol and giving her a wink. “Used that on a French count, she did. He fell in love with her as soon as he saw her with it. Can’t go wrong with that, miss.”

So, reassured, Vivianna had left, clutching her new belongings and the parasol as if they were her ticket to win a lottery. The softer hairstyle had been her own idea, with Lil’s help, and modeled on Aphrodite.

Now, as the cab rattled along, Vivianna remembered the look on Oliver’s face when he had first set eyes on her across the lawn. He might have been struck by lightning. Oh yes, she recognized the expression in his eyes; she knew it well. It was very similar to the sensation that she, too, had felt when she set eyes upon him.

At least she had managed to persuade him to come with her to Candlewood. Or rather, Lady Marsh had done the persuading. Perhaps Lady Marsh would turn out to be an unexpected ally. Vivianna did not really understand why, but did it matter? As long as she won in the end, did anything else matter at all?

Vivianna reached the Russell house in Queen’s Square, still full of her triumph. She couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she stripped off her gloves, until she realized that Toby was standing near the door to the dining room, watching her with that detestable smirk on his face.

Vivianna didn’t trust him an inch.

“And where has my niece been? And looking absolutely scrumptious, I must say!”

“Visiting friends,” she said shortly, and moved toward the stairs.

“Don’t run off, my dear.” He moved quickly, his hand upon her arm. Vivianna would have liked to wrench it off, but that would be rude; this was her aunt’s husband, after all. So she straightened and looked him in the eye, as if daring him to insult her.

Toby smiled. He had always been a handsome man and still was, but the depredations of drink and hard living were taking their toll. There were small veins reddening his cheeks and nose, and pouches under his eyes, which were particularly noticeable if he had been out very late the night before.

Vivianna could not help but wonder, as she did every time she saw him, how Helen could have married such a man. Love had much to answer for!

And yet, Vivianna knew how tempting a handsome smile could be. She should not pretend she was any more high and mighty than Helen, she thought bleakly. Not when she herself was moving nearer and nearer to the edge of that same precipice.

“I must get on, Uncle Toby, please excuse me.”

“Of course, of course. Things to do, eh?”

Vivianna hurried past him and up the stairs, but she could feel his eyes on her all the way. Lil was waiting for her at the entrance to her bedchamber.

“I heard you come in, miss, but I didn’t come down. That Mr. Toby likes to touch maids in places he’s got no right to.”

“If he is a danger to you, you must tell me so, and I will put a stop to it. I do not like him any more than you.”

“He’s no danger,” Lil replied scornfully. “More a bloomin’ nuisance. Don’t worry, I can handle meself all right, miss.”

Vivianna knew she was right. Lil had seen the seamier side of life, and no doubt had handled many
Toby Russells. Still, she did not like to think of Lil being under siege. Perhaps when she took Oliver to Candlewood he would have an epiphany, and she and Lil could go home, as unlikely as that seemed.

And then you will never see him again.

Vivianna stilled, overcome by the realization that that wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t what she wanted at all.

Oliver ran up the steps to White’s and entered the club, tossing his hat and cane to the doorman. The dining room was crowded, waiters in starched shirts hurrying about, diners chatting with each other across linen tablecloths. Oliver swept his gaze over the room, searching for, and finding, Lord Lawson.

Tall, with graying side-whiskers and an exuberant mane of salt-and-pepper hair, Lawson was in his fifties and looked every bit the important man in Sir Robert Peel’s Tory party. He was to be the next prime minister, if gossip could be believed, despite the fact that Peel had been tipped for the job—the thing was, the queen did not like Peel and she did like Lawson. She said she found Sir Robert too reticent, whereas Lord Lawson was a man she could talk to.

Of course, Lord Melbourne had to be got rid of first, but going by his present showing in the House that would not take long. The queen had been very much influenced by Melbourne in her youth, just as her mother, the Duchess of Kent, had been influenced by her comptroller of the household, the debonair and power-hungry Sir John Conroy. Although Victoria would not have thanked anyone for drawing comparisons. She hated Sir John Conroy with a passion bordering on mania—whisperers had it that when she was
a child, she had come upon him and her mother in a very compromising position.

Lord Lawson had made a public speech of support last year when the queen had been embroiled in a scandal concerning Sir John and one of her ladies-in-waiting. The queen had come out of it badly—the lady was not pregnant with Sir John’s child at all, but suffering from a terminal growth, and the public had turned nasty, booing the queen and calling her “Mrs. Melbourne.”

Lawson’s vocal support had pleased Her Majesty greatly, and the Tory party were beginning to see him as their answer to Lord Melbourne. Only a matter of time, then, before his star shone bright.

Oliver’s hand clenched at his side.
Not if I can help it….

As if sensing his gaze, Lawson looked up. Those famous ice-blue eyes narrowed, and he leaned over to say something to his dining companion before making his way through the crowded room toward Oliver.

Oliver waited, leaning against a chair back as though he were weary. Or half drunk. He blinked at Lawson and returned his bow casually, his gaze wandering past the older man as if he didn’t quite know where he was.

“Oliver.” Lord Lawson eyed him with thinly disguised disgust. “I haven’t seen you about for weeks. Been out of town?”

“Have I?” Oliver blinked. “I don’t think so, Lawson, but you might be right. The days seem to blur into each other. Sometimes I sleep right through them—saves confusion.”

Lawson smiled, but there was no humor in it. Oliver knew the other man thought him a wastrel and a nuisance—someone going from bad to worse
through his own lack of backbone. Lawson was a great believer in backbone, according to Anthony.

“Your aunt, Lady Marsh, must despair of you, Oliver. Hasn’t she tried to talk you ’round? You are her heir, aren’t you?”

“My aunt is a most forbearing woman.”

“She must be.”

Oliver gave him another vacant and unthreatening smile. Lawson shifted impatiently, his gaze also skimming the room, or perhaps he was just checking to see who was within earshot and whether their presence mattered to him. He waited until a waiter circled them with a steaming plate.

“I believe you are selling Candlewood, Oliver.”

“That’s right. It’s a monstrosity, always was, and it’s falling down.”

Lawson frowned. “Your brother was very fond of that house.”

“Yes. He died in it.”

Lawson’s gaze sharpened, but when Oliver affected a yawn and leaned even harder against the chair, he relaxed again. Over the past year, as he had watched Oliver slowly slipping into the void, he had treated him with more and more contempt. He no longer thought Oliver capable of duplicity, and that made it so much easier to dismiss him. It was also probably the only reason Oliver was still alive.

“It’s an amusing thing,” Oliver went on disingenuously, “but there was talk that my grandfather built a secret chamber into the house. Rumor had it that he kept his fortune hidden there.”

“A secret chamber?” Lord Lawson seemed to have solidified—rather like a dried frog Oliver had once found when he was a boy.

“Not that I believe it,” Oliver drawled.

“So there is no secret chamber?” Lawson said sharply.

“Oh yes!” Oliver raised his brows. “Yes, there is a secret chamber. I meant I don’t believe he had a fortune. If he had, he’d have spent it on Candlewood. Maybe, though, there are a few bits and pieces left. Jewelry and the like. I’ll know soon enough.”

“How will you know?” Lawson’s voice was a hiss, his eyes blazing.

“Well…” Oliver blinked sleepily, pretending his heart wasn’t thudding in his chest as if he were going into battle. “When the place is torn down, I thought I’d instruct the men doing the job to keep an eye out, eh? Do it a brick at a time, you see, and if they notice anything odd they can tell me.”

“If you’re sober,” Lawson snarled, but he looked sick. As if he had just sustained a nasty shock.

Oliver smiled. “Oh, I’ll make certain of it. Anything they find at Candlewood, I want to see it.”

Lawson made a jerky movement, smoothing his waistcoat and then taking out his silver pocket watch to stare blindly at its face. Oliver watched him without comment, completely relaxed.

“Hmm, I must go. I have an appointment with Sir Robert.” He snapped the cover of his watch closed and looked at Oliver under beetling brows. “When are you planning to begin the demolition?”

“Soon.” Oliver yawned again. “Have to get those pesky women and children out first. Once they’re gone, I’ll have it down in a trice.” He leaned closer, and smiled inwardly as Lawson edged away. “Need the blunt, you see.”

Lawson gave him a cold, scornful glare. “You’re a disgrace, Oliver. Your brother was worth a dozen of
you.” And then, without another word, he walked away.

Oliver watched him. It had all gone very well, no doubt about it. He had smashed Lawson’s smug self-assurance to bits, so much so that he had been reading his watch upside down and didn’t even notice it. Oh yes, Lord Lawson was a worried man. A very worried man.

With a smile he ordered a brandy—to celebrate. Anything that upset Lawson was worth celebrating. Now it was just a matter of waiting. What would Lawson’s next move be? His lordship had been counting the days until Candlewood was demolished, but now he would be dreading the moment. He would be wondering whether or not there really was a secret chamber, and if so, whether it would be discovered. And if it was discovered, what would be found inside it. He must be beginning to feel a real sense of panic; Lawson had a lot to lose, after all.

Murderer.

Oliver bared his teeth in a wolfish smile, and it was far removed from the vacant one he had assumed for Lawson’s benefit. Lawson would pay, by God he would, and soon….

T
he Montegomery coach seemed very luxurious after the hackneys, or the Russells’ hired vehicle, which Vivianna had been using to take her about. She supposed that to own something like this was an extravagance, but the feel of the padded leather was sheer heaven, and the well-sprung body was far easier on her stomach.

Maybe there was some point to being a member of an old and aristocratic family after all.

Vivianna glanced across at Oliver.

Just as she feared—and hoped—he was watching her. Aphrodite had sent her another message with her newest gown, and although Lil’s suspicious, hovering presence had prevented her from reading it all—she had finally stuffed the letter into her bag—she had read enough. Aphrodite predicted that Oliver would look at her, but warned that she must not be self-conscious about it. That she should feel secure in the knowledge of her own beauty. The list of instructions was burned into her brain.

Easier said than done, Vivianna thought. She was not secure in the knowledge of her own beauty. She was not the slightest bit interested in the scenery. And the fact that he was watching her with such unwavering intensity made the nerves in her stomach jump like crickets.

Vivianna was not usually so edgy around men—even handsome gentlemen like Oliver. What was it about him that was so different? From the first moment she had seen him standing upon the steps outside his house in Berkeley Square, she had felt he was unlike anyone she had ever known before. How could she pretend indifference to him when he seemed to possess the dangerous ability to unsettle her so?

“I did not know if you would come,” she said, just to say something, and rearranged her skirts, smoothing the cloth. The dress was cream silk with a mauve stripe, and had been sent around that morning from Elena, Aphrodite’s modiste. Very flattering, with full upper sleeves and a boned, closely fitting, low-cut bodice, as well as a tightly fitted, slightly pointed waist—a new fashion. The addition of a straw bonnet with red ribbons, and Vivianna felt quite giddy—like the frivolous girl she had never been…never
allowed
herself to be.

“I said I would. I am not in the habit of changing my mind.” He was watching her hands, his eyes half closed as he settled back in his corner, so elegantly
fluid. And yet the relaxed pose was a sham. His jacket might be tailored to fit his broad shoulders without padding or a single crease, and his glossy hair might be slightly disordered by the removal of his hat. But Oliver was alert and watching her.
Waiting to pounce?

Vivianna shivered and drew her red Norwich shawl closer about her shoulders. She was watching him. Again.

She turned to the window and stared hard at the view.

“I am hoping that isn’t true; I am hoping you will change your mind with regard to the shelter,” she said evenly.

“Ah, but as I said, I am not in the habit of changing my mind, Miss Greentree. Candlewood must be taken down, brick by brick, stone by stone, until there is nothing left of it.”

“And you can live upon the proceeds like some despicable potentate?” She shot him an accusing look.

The corners of his mouth curled. “Careful, Miss Greentree, your claws are showing. And you were doing so well, too.”

Did he know what she planned? No, how could he, he was just being his usual obnoxious self. Vivianna turned to stare blindly out of the window once more, wishing she could scream and fling herself at him, and shake him until…Well, such thoughts were useless, of course. She may as well be a moth beating against a windowpane, for all the good it would do her.

After a moment, when she felt sufficiently calm again, she said, “I don’t care what you think of me, my lord. Your opinion means nothing.
You
are nothing to me. You are like a bleak wind blowing across the moors at Greentree Manor—something to be endured but hopefully of short duration.”

He laughed in genuine amusement. “I have never been likened to a bleak wind before. I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. You have made me as important and fundamental as the weather. Perhaps”—and his voice dropped teasingly—“that is why I make you shiver, Miss Greentree.”

“You do not make me shiver.”

She turned and glared at him long enough to let him know she was very indifferent to him indeed,
very indifferent,
and then for good measure she yawned beneath her gloved hand and turned back to the scenery as she had been instructed by Aphrodite. There, she thought, let him see she did not care in the least for him. Aphrodite was right—men like Oliver needed to be treated with indifference to put them in their place. Under no circumstances must he ever guess just how disconcerting to her mind and body he could be.

Oliver grinned to himself. Just when he was trying to convince himself Miss Vivianna Greentree was a preaching crusader for good causes, who would have him falling asleep after ten minutes in her company she blew his argument to bits.

Of course, the fact that she was looking quite delightful this morning may have had something to do with it. Her cheeks glowed with temper, her eyes shone with emotion, and he wanted to take advantage of her. In every way. Not a gentlemanly thing to admit, perhaps, but Oliver had been playing a wastrel and a complete scoundrel for a year now. He had begun to wonder if, in some ways, it was more fun than being a gentleman.

He reached out and touched her wrist, where a strip of bare flesh lay between the hem of her sleeve and the fastening of her glove. Her skin was warm and soft,
and a tingle ran all the way up his arm. Vivianna seemed to feel it, too. She gasped and turned to him with wide, startled eyes.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Making you shiver.”

He lifted her wrist—she did not resist. Bending his head, he placed a light kiss upon the inside of it, where the blue veins ran close to the skin, and appeared so fragile. He smiled to think that Vivianna should seem fragile, and his mouth opened against her flesh, tasting her.

“Oh.”

He looked up at her through his lashes, and now there was more than just a tingle between them. Her eyes had darkened, her lips were parted, and there was a faint flush along her cheekbones.

“Stop it,” she said in a strangled whisper.

“Why? You are enjoying it, aren’t you?”

“That isn’t the point—”

Oliver tried to see past her hazel eyes. As well as the green and brown there were flecks of gold. Her pupils were large and black, and he could see his own reflection there. She blinked, her lashes sweeping down.

“There are more important matters to discuss,” she said primly.

Were women all so irrational, or was it just her? One moment she didn’t seem to care how far he went, and the next she was untouchable. Oliver shrugged and slumped back into his corner. She could please herself, he didn’t want to be here anyway, and once he had visited the bloody shelter he could go home to his own “more important matters.” Lord Lawson, for instance. What would his brother’s murderer do next? Lawson could never be underestimated. No, Oliver really didn’t have time for Vivianna Greentree and her orphans….

Gradually he became aware of a rustling sound coming from Vivianna’s side of the coach. He glanced curiously in her direction and saw that she had taken a piece of correspondence from her bag and was reading it, holding it close to her eyes in the swaying vehicle. His gaze slid over her, observing her tense shoulders and the pulse jumping under the fragile skin at her neck, and he wondered what it was she was reading that made her so edgy. She was delightful, but he couldn’t let her know he felt that way. She was insufferable enough as it was.

“A note from some grateful and worthy charity?” he drawled sardonically.

She sniffed, and stuffed the paper back into her bag, not caring if she creased it. But she did not seem herself, and the tension had not left her shoulders. Oliver’s gaze sharpened. She knew he was watching her, but she did not return his gaze. Her breasts rose and fell on a deep, quiet breath, and the red shawl slipped from her shoulders and pooled about her on the seat.

“Have I displeased you in some way, Vivianna?” he mocked, trying to invoke her temper. “I can’t help it if I have a weakness for beautiful, bossy reformers. Perhaps if you were to let me kiss you more often I might begin to recover from this most worrying malady.”

He was enjoying teasing her. At any moment he expected her to give him a look from those brilliant eyes, or unleash her tongue on him, and he was looking forward to it. Instead she did something utterly astounding.

Vivianna glanced down and smiled a small, secretive smile, and smoothed her hands down over her skirts.

But it wasn’t the same as when she had smoothed
her skirts a moment ago. This was different, so different that it made his heart rate double. She ran her hands over the silk in a manner so sensual that he forgot to breathe. Her gloves glided over the shiny cloth slowly, and he could tell she was thinking about her body underneath. One hand rested momentarily at her waist, and then brushed upward, her fingers barely touching the tight boned bodice, brushing across the full curve of one breast, and lingering there. Almost, but not quite, cupping herself.

He felt light-headed. Her fingers began stroking idly against her skin, as if she were enjoying it too much to stop, and his imagination went wild, and then she lifted her hand to her face and fiddled with a curl of hair that had freed itself from beneath the straw hat.

She was watching him, her hazel eyes fixed on his. Could she see the state he was in? Probably. If she dropped her gaze to his groin she’d realize he was almost beyond thought, unless she was too innocent to know what the heavy swelling pressing to his trouser buttons meant.

Oliver let out a relieved breath. But of course. She
was
an innocent—a spinster and a virgin. She did not know what she was doing, she did not understand how he was…

Vivianna licked her lips. Just a brief flick of that delectable little tongue, and then again, as if she had some particularly sticky toffee adhering to the plump, sleek surface.

It was amazingly erotic. He almost groaned aloud, and he was certain that his cock grew another inch. Two, maybe.

“Oliver,” she said, her voice low, and leaned forward slightly. His eyes slid to the shadow of her cleavage, and he was so busy enjoying the curves of her
breasts swelling over the top of her dress that when her hand pressed his knee he swore and nearly leapt through the window.

Vivianna jerked back, blushing. “I—I’m sorry,” she managed stiffly. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I wanted to say how grateful I—I was that you had agreed to come with me to Candlewood. How much I—I appreciate it.”

Oliver wondered if he had heard right. It crossed his mind to puzzle what had had this amazing effect upon her, but then she was licking her lips again and he found he couldn’t think straight anymore, and he really didn’t care anyway.

“You appreciate it?” he asked, watching her through narrowed eyes. His blood was pulsing through his veins and he had the urge to loosen his cravat so that he could breathe properly again.

“Oh, I do. I do.” She smiled, her mouth curved in a pink bow, her eyes slanted and mysterious, promising him…things.

Bloody hell!

She wriggled a little in her seat, and he felt a bead of sweat gather on his temple, picturing that curvaceous bottom beneath her petticoats, and then she pouted as if she could not get comfortable. Vivianna reached up and began to undo the red satin ribbons that held her straw bonnet in place. It slid down from her chestnut hair, slowly over her back, the ribbons trailing across her breasts. She placed her bonnet on the seat beside her.

“That’s better,” she said.

Today she had coiled those thick, wavy locks into braids and wound them around her head. His fingers itched to unwind her hair and rub his face against the silky strands. To take in her womanly scent.

He was watching her, he realized, with a mixture of fascination and suspicion. She could be a viper ready to strike, but although somewhere deep in his brain he knew the danger, he lusted after her too much to care.

Oliver watched, his body rigid, his throat dry, as she leaned forward again and slowly, carefully, began to remove her gloves in front of his unblinking gaze. She peeled them down and eased out each finger with exquisite care. Such a simple procedure—he had seen it hundreds of times—and yet she turned it into something so sensual, so stimulating he was nearly panting.

Vivianna had placed the gloves upon her straw hat, smoothing them, petting them, as if they were alive.

“Ah, that’s better,” she said again.

He cleared his throat. “Much better,” he drawled, but she wasn’t fooled. There was a glitter in her eyes now that told him she knew she had him in the palm of one of her soft, white hands.

“I believe that when you are not playing the black sheep you are a very nice man. I believe that, deep in your heart, you really want to give me Candlewood. Don’t you?”

He laughed; he couldn’t help it.

Chagrin filled her face and she turned away, but this time he wasn’t having it. His hands snaked out and he grasped her fingers and held them tightly.

“I am not a nice man at all,” he said in a low, husky voice. “I am a very bad man, and I give you fair warning.”

“If you were a ‘very bad man’ you wouldn’t give me a warning, fair or otherwise,” she retorted, her hazel eyes a little bright as she tugged against his grip. “Let me go!”

“I don’t think so.”

And Oliver did what he had been wanting to do ever since she climbed into his coach. Claimed her mouth.

For a moment she was still, too surprised to protest, and then her lips seemed to melt against his, all trembling and soft and eager. He refused to let reason enter his head, and deepened the kiss.