Six Degrees of Scandal (15 page)

“You didn't even come to tell me you were leaving,” she said, puncturing his thoughts and laying another lash of guilt across his soul.

“I sent you a note,” he said, knowing it was no excuse at all. “I was impatient to be off; I needed an income of my own to be able to support a wife. It was the first time my father sent me to view an investment on my own, and I was eager to prove myself worthy of his respect . . .” His voice died. He didn't remember a bloody thing about that canal, which his father decided not to invest in after all. And in the end he'd cost himself something far more dear than his father's esteem.

She stirred. “I understand. That's reasonable—”

“It wasn't,” Jamie retorted. “It was rude and inconsiderate.”

“Well.” She cleared her throat. “It was a long time ago.”

“It was,” he murmured. A lifetime ago. “And it taught me a very hard lesson.”

Olivia seemed fascinated by her fingers. She was clasping and unclasping them together in her lap. “It might not have mattered. My father . . . He needed money quite desperately, you know. I don't think he would have waited a year, as you and I wished to do.”

With some effort he repressed a snort. Sir Alfred would have said yes, no matter how he
and his wife looked down on the Westons as nouveau riche upstarts. Jamie had known, with the clear-eyed brutality of youth, that the baronet was easily bought, and for that Jamie had disdained him. If he'd been even slightly worried about securing Sir Alfred's blessing, he would have gone to the man at once and begged permission to court Olivia. Instead he charged off to Wiltshire, supremely confident that Sir Alfred would wait until Jamie deigned to visit him.

But while Jamie was willing to admit his own fault—which was considerable—he refused to absolve Olivia's father of
his
fault. “You were too young to be married, to me or to anyone. No father should marry off his daughter, for any reason, when she's barely seventeen years old. He should have told me or any other suitor to wait a year.”

Even in the firelight he could see her blush. “Not too young to be wed. Not too young to make love.”

Lord. There it was. The thing that made his desertion unpardonable. He could have left her pregnant with his child while he roamed about the country. If he'd been man enough to make love to her, he should have been man enough to go straight to her father and do whatever it took to secure her hand in marriage. He'd behaved no better than the most heartless rake in London, taking his pleasure and leaving her to face the consequences.

Still . . .

“I can't apologize for making love to you,” he said, so softly he could barely hear his own words.

Her blush deepened but she jerked up her head
and met his gaze directly. “I didn't ask you to apologize.”

A firm knock on the door make them both jump. Olivia hit the edge of her plate, making the silverware rattle. “Come in,” called Jamie, swiping away the wine he'd spilled at the knock. He hadn't even been aware he was still holding his glass.

The serving maid appeared. “I've come to say your room is prepared upstairs, Mr. Collins,” she said with a quick curtsy. “And to take away the dinner, if you're ready to go up.”

He flicked open his watch, startled to see how late it was. “Yes,” he said as Olivia pushed back her chair. “We're ready.”

They followed the maid, first Olivia, then Jamie. His gaze fell on her hips as she climbed the stairs in front of him.
I didn't ask you to apologize
. He wanted to know why not. He wanted to know why she wouldn't have turned to him for help. He wanted to know why she said she understood his reasons for leaving her years ago. And most of all he wanted to know what she wanted now.

The room was large and clean, sparsely furnished but with a lively fire in the grate. A desk stood by the window, two chairs sat in front of the fire, and a wide bed occupied the space opposite the hearth. Jamie went to the desk to set down his writing case. The window overlooked the stable yard. A quick glance showed no sign of any arrivals. He closed the shutters, wondering how far behind them Clary might be.

The door closed. He turned around and saw Olivia leaning against it, watching him. Suddenly
all thoughts of Clary and missing treasure and smugglers vanished from his mind, and all he saw was her, looking at him with those clear blue eyes. Trustingly, he thought.

I didn't ask you to apologize.

“You must be tired.” He turned back to the desk and busied himself with the lamp. “We'll start early tomorrow, with the vicar here in town. With any luck, he'll know where to find Miss Charters.”

“We're due for some luck,” she murmured.

Jamie nodded without turning around. The lamp was lit, but he kept adjusting the wick. “I'll step out so you can”—he cleared his throat, trying not to picture her unbuttoning her dress and sliding off her stockings—“prepare for bed.”

“There's no need,” came her calm reply. “I can step behind the screen.”

He jerked his head. “Right.” He tried to focus on his writing case, sitting in front of him. As Olivia opened her valise and unpinned her hair, he made himself dash off a quick note to Daniel Crawford, letting him know where they were. No more letters from London had reached him, although given the way they had raced across the country, that was no surprise. But Jamie expected to remain in Ramsgate at least a day or two, plenty of time for Daniel to send any news he might have heard via a fast messenger. It also gave him an excuse to leave the room while Olivia undressed. He went down to arrange for his letter to be sent express to London at first light. Then he spoke to the innkeeper about the carriage before finally heading back up the stairs.

She was sitting in front of the fire, combing
her hair. It rippled down her back and over her shoulders like dark silk, curling at the ends as she pulled the comb through it. Jamie stopped dead in the doorway. He hadn't seen her hair down in years—not since the day by the pond when he'd plowed his fingers through it while he made love to her.

Olivia looked up at his entrance. “Can your letter go out tomorrow?”

His tongue felt paralyzed, as did his brain. “Yes,” he finally managed to say, tearing his eyes away from her. “First thing.”

“Do you expect your friend to have any news?”

“If he does, I want him to know where to send it.” He closed and bolted the door.

“Come sit by the fire,” she said.

He removed his coat and took the chair opposite her, trying to keep his attention fixed on appropriate topics and not on the fact that Olivia wore her nightgown already, a garment so thin and worn he could see the lines of her legs as she moved. He also tried not to notice that there was no pile of blankets on the floor waiting for him. His heart seemed to be striking his breastbone like a hammer as he bent down and pried off his boots. His fingers were clumsy as he untied his cravat and pulled the cloth free of his collar.

I didn't ask you to apologize.

“Jamie.”

“Hmm?” He flexed his arm and squeezed his fist, still wrapped in the linen, until his fingers went numb. Did she mean for him to sleep beside her in the bed? No, that couldn't be—even Olivia must know that was asking too much. He'd get
more sleep sitting here in the hard wooden chair.

“I have something to say to you,” she said, and finally he heard the faint note of tension in her voice.

Instantly he snapped to alertness. “What? Did you see something? Remember something?”

Her smile was a little embarrassed. “No, no, it's nothing about Clary.” She was fiddling with the fringe of the thick gray shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “I have blamed you for ten years for deserting me.”

It landed like a punch to the gut. Jamie flinched, feeling physical pain at her confession, this confirmation of what he had suspected—and feared—for so long. “Livie,” he said, devastated all over again.

“Let me finish.” She had the air of someone bracing herself, but she met his tormented gaze evenly enough. “I was wrong.”

He stared. “No. No, you weren't.”

“Partly wrong,” she amended, with a look that reproved him for interrupting. “It was my father's doing, mostly, and Mr. Townsend's. Father wanted the marriage settlement and Mr. Townsend wanted someone to keep Henry in line. Even Henry was to blame, for he knew marrying would loosen his father's purse strings and he must have guessed I wouldn't stand up to him.

“But I was most angry at you. It was easy to think everything was your fault for not speaking to my father before you left, even though I'm no longer certain that would have made much difference.”

Each word was like the lash of a whip. Jamie
sat rigidly in his chair, telling himself he deserved this. He should not be able to cling to any idea that there was a chance they could start anew.

“But,” Olivia went on more slowly, “I've also been thinking of other things you've said to me these last few days, and they have made me see my own part. When my father said I must marry Henry, I went to my room and wept. You pointed out that Penelope would have run away with pirates to avoid marrying a man she didn't want, yet I walked into the church, knowing what awaited me. I could have run off—to your family, if not to hide in the woods—but I didn't even try.”

“Don't.” He surged out of his chair. “You were only a girl—”

“And you were barely three years older,” she retorted. “Hardly older and wiser.”

Jamie scowled. “It's different.”

“Is it?” She raised her brows. “Because you were a man? Because you had money? Because your wishes counted for more than mine? It was my life, my person. Why should I have looked only to you to save me? You called me strong last night. It takes strength to admit I was wrong, don't you think?”

It did. He didn't care. “It's foolishness to think you should have run away,” he argued. “As you pointed out, I was old enough to make love to you, and if I'd acted more responsibly, you never would have married Henry—and never found yourself in the trouble you're in today.”

“My
father
made me marry Henry. Not you. It was his inability to live within his means, or to compromise, or even to take pity on his daugh
ter's wishes, that drove him. He cared for the money, not for me; he always did. I don't think running away would have changed any of that but it would have bought time.”

Time for him to come home and do the decent thing. Jamie didn't feel absolved. “I spoke in jest about Penelope running away with pirates. And in any event, you're nothing like her.”

“I know.” She swiped one hand across her eyes, making him feel even worse. “I don't blame you for what's become of my life since then.”

Jamie muttered a curse and paced to the fire and back, the room feeling close and small around them.

“Henry and Clary are the villains there,” Olivia said. Her voice cracked on the viscount's name. “But I blame myself for pushing you away, thinking it was for my own good. The problem is that it cost me more than it helped.”

Still vibrating with loathing that she felt herself at fault in any way, he glanced her way, not certain he heard correctly. “How so?”

She ducked her head, and her hair fell forward, a shining curtain of curls that shielded her expression. “You've been the most important person in the world to me, almost my entire life. I never loved anyone the way I love you, and losing you hurt too much to bear.”

The words seemed to echo in the still, quiet air, over and over.
I never loved anyone the way I love you
.

Love
. Not past, but present.

She rose from her chair as he stood stunned, the blood roaring in his ears. The shawl slipped
from her shoulders. “Can you forgive me, Jamie?”

“Forgive—?” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Livie, there's nothing for me to forgive.”

“I forgive
you
.”

Jamie backed up a step.

Olivia stared steadily at him. “Well? Can you?”

“Yes,” he said, “if I had ever harbored any feeling that you wronged me.”

“Then you don't care that I barely spoke to you for all these years.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it without a word.

Olivia took a step forward. “If you don't, I will understand. I know you want to prosecute Clary for what he did to Penelope, and helping me may be secondary, or something you feel you owe me out of guilt.”

He ran his hands through his hair and felt like cursing again. How could he say he forgave her, when he was the one at fault? But everything she was saying made him think—hope—“That's not it . . .”

“And if my persistence in keeping you at arm's length has ruined any chance that you could still want me—”

That thought blew away the fog that seemed to have engulfed him. Not want her? “Never,” he said, and caught her around the waist, pulling her hard against him. “Never think I don't want you.” He kissed her, unable to resist but meaning it to be quick because there was more to be said between them, but she put her hands on the sides of his face and held him, kissing him back in a way that almost made his heart stop.

Talking could wait.

He lifted her and walked blindly toward the bed. She clung to him, her arms sliding around his neck, her fingers in his hair, and the blood seemed to roar through his veins. He lowered them onto the bed before breaking the kiss, pushing himself up on both arms.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped even as he tugged at the ribbon holding her nightgown closed. “If you don't want me to make love to you, tell me . . .”

“Never stop,” she whispered, her blue eyes glowing. “Never stop again.”

Time seemed to slow. For a moment his world revolved around her, and he held her tighter to avoid being flung off into the abyss. He wanted to savor this, and drive her wild with passion . . . and he wanted to slake the years of heartache by driving himself inside her right this second, making her his so completely, no one ever would—or could—deny it again.