Tempting the Marquess (5 page)

“Well, you must concede that you reacted most ungraciously to all the work Olivia has done—”

Jason waved a hand to stop her, a terrible suspicion taking root in his mind.

“Right, I understand. Your niece is the patron saint of libraries and I’m the big, bad dragon.”

Miss Weston laughed. It was a warm, rich sound, clear and true, and it made him think of happier times, of racing through snowy fields in a sleigh pulled by horses with jingling bells on their harnesses, of drinking brandy before a crackling fire, of wicked, whispered promises, of heated glances, of making love—

He stopped himself.

He would not go there.

It was too painful.

“What did you mean, I would be close at hand should Miss Weston need someone in the night?”

Katherine smiled at him, a gleam of wicked amusement in her eyes. “There was a slight problem with the room that was prepared for Olivia. It should all be taken care of in a matter of days, but as you never entertain, all of the rooms are kept closed up. Olivia offered to share a chamber with Charlotte, but I thought that unfair as Charlotte kicks dreadfully in her sleep. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Er, quite, but I’m afraid I don’t follow. How could a room have been prepared for Miss Weston when she’s only just arrived?”

“My dear boy, you can’t think I expected Mrs. Maddoc to accommodate an extra guest with no forewarning. No, I wrote to her as soon as it was decided Olivia would be traveling with us. I knew you would not object to Olivia’s presence once you met her and realized what a pleasant companion she is.”

Jason found her presence entirely objectionable, but he held his tongue.

“If you can believe it,” Katherine went on, “there is only one room in this great behemoth of a place that is aired out and suitable for someone to stay the night in. Can you guess?”

Jason knew what was coming. He knew, and yet he hoped his stepmother was going to mention some part of the castle hitherto unknown to him. Perhaps some lovely little one-room cottage on the perimeter of the estate.

It was not to be.

“Very well, I shall tell you: the Marchioness’s Chambers.”

Jason considered bashing his head into the table. “Are you certain that is proper?” he ventured. “The chambers adjoin.”

His stepmother shrugged. “I grant you the situation is not ideal, but needs must suffice. I very much doubt that my innocent niece is going to take advantage of you.”

Funny, that was exactly what he feared was going to happen. At least, the rational part of him feared it. From the neck down, he was only too eager to be compromised.

“In any case,” she continued, “this arrangement will only be until Mrs. Maddoc can arrange for a glazier to repair the window in the tower bedroom. If you fear for your virtue, you can lock your door. Does that set your mind at ease, sir?”

It did not set Jason’s mind, or any other part of his body, at ease, but he saw there was little to be done. “Madam, if you are not troubled by the impropriety of the situation, I certainly shan’t lose sleep over it.”

That was a lie. He wouldn’t sleep a wink. Knowing the delectable Miss Weston was in the chamber next to his was going to be pure torture. To have a willing woman so close at hand . . .

And she
would
be willing. Even if she were a complete innocent, which he doubted, Jason hadn’t missed her earlier reaction to him. Not the reaction earlier that evening when she had all but accused him of being a selfish monster, but earlier that day, first when he had caught her looking at a part of him no innocent miss would know about, and again when he had held her in his arms.

He had heard the slight hitch to her breathing . . . felt her heart pounding . . . watched as a rosy flush stained her cheeks. He’d been affected then, and that had been before he’d had a taste of her saucy little mouth. What wouldn’t he give to taste her in truth. . . .

He dug his nails into his palms.

His stepmother had somehow arranged for her niece to be placed in the bedchamber adjoining his and, innocent or no, that young lady was a tender pullet ripe for the plucking. And no mistake, he was a man in need of a good pluck. The events of the day had borne in on him just how desperate was his need.

Christ. If a locked door was the only obstacle in his path, Miss Weston would be lucky to last the night.

“I certainly don’t have to worry
you
will misbehave,” Katherine added. “You haven’t so much as looked at a woman since . . .”

Since Laura,
Jason silently finished for her.

The mention of his wife was like a bucket of icy water thrown upon the flames of his desire. Good God, what had he been thinking? How had he let himself forget, even for a moment—

He needed to do more than lock his door that night. He needed to lock up, batten down, strengthen, fortify, and otherwise secure every portion of himself that was vulnerable to Miss Weston. He wasn’t entirely surprised by his body’s enthusiastic response—in truth, he was relieved such bountiful stimulus still elicited the proper reaction—but he couldn’t go about with a cock-stand for the duration of the gel’s stay.

Nor could he allow himself the fun of teasing her and drawing her into a battle of wits. That bespoke a closer relationship than he planned on having with Miss Weston or any other female. No, it was essential he remain detached. His heart was a stronghold with sentries at every entrance. If he relaxed his guard, if he allowed her to affect him, she might have a chance at breaking in.

A chance at breaking
him
.

A man could only bear so much hurt in a lifetime before the pain became crippling. He couldn’t risk that, for his son’s sake. Edward needed him to be strong. To protect his son, Jason would be invulnerable. Invincible. Infallible. And, if such behavior kept the castle’s inhabitants at a safe distance, he would be utterly inhospitable, inimical, and otherwise insufferable.

If Miss Weston thought to ride roughshod over him as she so clearly did her aunt, she was going to be sorely disappointed. Arlyss was his domain, and he would not tolerate any interference. In the event his unwanted guest made advances toward either himself or his home, she would not get far. He was going to lock his door at night, to be sure, but just in case Miss Weston thought to go traipsing about the castle in search of some new project, Jason decided to lock the door to the library as well.

Livvy guessed that after the marchioness’s death, the London servants had packed her belongings and sent them to the family seat at Haile Castle. When the trunks were unpacked and the contents sorted through, the diary must have been mistaken for a novel and placed in the library. That was where Livvy had found it.

Taking the diary, which was carefully hidden at the bottom of her trunk, was an even worse transgression than taking the brooch.

She had stolen from a dead woman.

Twice.

But, she consoled herself, Laura had never actually found the brooch, so perhaps it wasn’t really hers. Besides, the poor woman had no need for it now, or for her journal. Livvy needed them. She needed every fragment she could glean from these glimpses into his past to piece together the puzzle Lord Sheldon presented.

There was another matter nagging at her as well. She did not much care whether or not she adhered to her mother’s steadfast notions of propriety, but she did mind—or tried to mind—her parents’ insistence on civility. She had been less than civil—hostile, even—to her host, and while she had been provoked, the marquess had apologized for his behavior and she had not.

She was fairly certain the marquess had not yet gone to bed, so she decided to wait in the hall until he came upstairs. All that was needed was the word “sorry,” and though it might choke her, she wouldn’t die from it. She got out of bed and donned slippers and the quilted flannel wrapper that Alice, her aunt’s maid, had laid out in case she got chilled at night.

It was cold in the hall, and dark, and there was no place to sit other than the floor. The carpet was probably priceless, but it did little to soften the hard wood beneath. Her physical discomfort made it difficult for Livvy to focus on anything worthwhile, and she soon stopped trying. She wondered how long Lord Sheldon would take before coming to bed. Minutes? Hours? Oh, perish the thought!

She counted to one hundred. She counted backward down to zero. She counted all her fingers and toes, wiggling them to make sure they had not succumbed to frost-bite. All were cold but accounted for. She thought about making a list—Appendages I Would Be Loath to Lose to Extreme Cold, Beginning with Those Least Important to Survival—but she got stuck on the first point, trying to decide if each toe should be numbered independently, or whether all ten toes comprised an item. . . .

“Miss Weston?”

The marquess’s deep voice startled her awake. She scrambled to her feet and rubbed her eyes.

“I know there must be a reason you are sleeping in the hall, Miss Weston, but I don’t particularly care to hear. I’ll ring for Mrs. Maddoc.” He reached for the door handle.

“No, wait,” Olivia said quickly. “That is, I need only you.”

One dark eyebrow shot up and Olivia blushed furiously as she realized how her words must have come across.

“That did not come out right at all.” She shook her head. “What I meant to say is that you were the person with whom I wished to speak.”

“Pity,” he murmured.

Livvy stared at him, wondering what exactly he thought a pity.

“There was something you wished to speak to me about, was there not?”

“Oh, yes, of course. I want to apologize. My behavior at dinner was shameful.”

“Mine was no better,” he admitted.

“Yes, but you apologized. What’s more, I have been invited into your home against your wishes—”

He held up a hand. “Miss Weston, this is as much your aunt and Charlotte’s home as it is mine. If they wish to bring a guest with them when they visit, such is their prerogative.”

“But—”

“No, wait. I have made you feel most unwelcome and it is not well done of me. I pray you will forgive me, Miss Weston, for I have been a very ill- mannered host. May we begin again?”

His smile was just a bit crooked, and it made him look boyish and vulnerable. Something warm unfurled in the region of Olivia’s chest. She dropped a quick curtsy and smiled up at him.

“Olivia Jane Weston.”

He bowed, a faint twinkle in his eyes. “Jason Traherne. I won’t bore you with the litany of names betwixt the first and last.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

“Now what happens?” he asked.

“You should express your delight or at least your very great pleasure at making my acquaintance,” Livvy told him.

Lord Sheldon stroked his chin as if in deep thought. “Delight?” he repeated aloud. “No, I don’t believe that is quite the word I want.”

Olivia pursed her lips. Really, the man was insufferable.

“A very great pleasure, eh? No, that’s not right, either.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, lie if you must,” she bit out.

“Do you know,” he mused, “I don’t think that will be necessary. Miss Weston, I say this with the greatest sincerity. Heaven knows why, but I find myself charmed.”

Livvy could have dealt without the “heaven knows why,” but beggars could not be choosers. This teasing man with the twinkle in his eyes was the man she had hoped to find. The man who wrote atrocious poetry and hid presents for his wife’s amusement. The man she had come here to save, but had feared was lost.

Her fall to the ground wasn’t the only knock she had suffered since entering Castle Arlyss. No matter that Aunt Kate had warned her, the marquess’s acrid, disdainful manner had shaken Olivia’s confidence. His behavior at dinner only cast her down further. Now her spirits shot back into the air.

“I do believe there’s hope for you yet, my lord.”

It was the wrong thing to say. She knew it as soon as the words left her lips. He stiffened and drew away, physically and emotionally.

“No.” He shook his head. “I am past hope. Or perhaps hope is past me. Either way, we would both do well to remember it.”

“You are too young to have such a dismal view of the future,” Olivia protested.

“Experience has made me old.”

“In spirit, perhaps, but it will not make the years fly by any faster. You have a long life ahead of you.”

“If there is one thing I have learned, Miss Weston, it is that none of us knows how much time we have been given on this earth.”

Livvy knew he was thinking of his wife.

“All the more reason to spend every day full of hope and wonder for life’s possibilities,” she countered.

“You are young. I am afraid you will come to find that expectation leads to disappointment.”

“I am not so young as I look. I am very nearly nineteen. I should have come out this past spring, but my sister needed me. I shouldn’t mind putting it off another year, but one doesn’t want to run the risk of being thought an old maid.”

“An old maid at twenty.” He shook his head. “And I have nearly ten years on you. By your calculations I must be ancient.”

“Men are not held to the same standards. You are in the very prime of life. But you are a marquess and so would be thought a good catch even if you had one foot in the grave.”

“Pursued for my title.” He heaved a sigh. “And all these years I thought it was my sunny disposition.”

Olivia choked on a laugh. “If ever I were to pursue you, my lord, it would certainly be for that.”

“And if I were to pursue you, Miss Weston?”

Livvy’s heart jumped. “I beg your pardon?”

“If I were to pursue you, what would be your great attraction?”

“My dowry, likely.”

“I have no need of funds.”

“My connections, then. My father is a viscount, and my grandfather on my mother’s side was a duke. My brother-in-law is the Earl of Dunston.”

He shrugged. “Good breeding is important, but as you pointed out, I am a marquess. I don’t particularly need to cultivate aristocratic connections.”

“I tell very good bedtime stories.”

The corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “I am not a child.”

“No, but you have one.”

“You speak of your maternal abilities. A good try, Miss Weston, but a nursemaid serves the same purpose.”

Olivia folded her arms across her chest. “Then apparently I hold no attraction for you, my lord, and you will not be pursuing me. I must hold I am greatly relieved.”

He shook a finger at her. “I didn’t take you for a liar, Miss Weston.”

“You plan to pursue me, my lord?” Olivia smiled sweetly.

“No. On that count you were correct. You are not, however, greatly relieved to hear it. That was your lie. All women wish to be pursued.”

She braced her hands on her hips. “Why should I, or any female for that matter, wish to be pursued by someone for whom I hold not the slightest attraction?”

“Ah, but I never said you held no attraction for me. You came to that conclusion on your own.”

“You made it quite clear—”

“As it happens, you failed to mention your greatest attraction.”

“Oh?” She regarded him suspiciously. “And what might that be?”

“Why, your equally sunny disposition to be sure, though I’ve not discounted your apparent gift for, er, organization. Tell me, does this talent extend to all rooms, or is it particular to the library?”

Livvy took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then to fifty. It didn’t calm her in the slightest. First the man had tried to kill her by ordering his dog to attack her, and then he’d had the temerity to be ungrateful about all her hard work on his library. And now
he
had the gall to criticize
her
personality, which was charming most of the time . . . just not around him.

This was not to be borne!

“You can forget that apology, my lord,” she hissed.

The low, gravelly sound of his amused chuckle rang in her ears. He leaned forward to chuck her under the chin.
“Charmed,”
he whispered, his breath hot against her cheek.

Before she did something she would regret, Olivia turned and hurried into her chamber. She resisted slamming the door, but only because she was certain the action would further amuse the wretch next door. When Aunt Kate had spoken of the changes in her stepson, Livvy had imagined a quiet, sorrowful recluse. She would coax him into the holiday spirit, gently remind him of the pleasure to be had in good company, and perhaps permit a kiss beneath the mistletoe. . . . This was not the sort of adventure she had reckoned on!

But then, that was the problem with adventures. You could organize and plan and make lists all you liked, but you were never prepared for the actual setbacks, all of the unforeseen problems and pitfalls. By then it was usually too late and, for better or for worse, there was no turning back. Not that she was thinking of turning back.

She reached down absentmindedly for the familiar lump of the brooch, and then realized she had hidden it away for the night. The marquess was unlike what she had expected, to be sure, but he was still—or he had been—the tender, passionate father and husband depicted in his wife’s diary. She had not come this far to give up at the first sign of adversity. She fetched the book she was reading—or purporting to read—off the writing table where she had abandoned it earlier. She flipped through the pages . . . There!

She removed the loose paper and moved to the window. Standing in the silvery moonlight, she whispered the words, weaving them into a healing prayer.

Livvy had to concede his rhyming of “cleric” and “esoteric” was clever, and it had taken her no little amount of time to puzzle out that her next clue was hidden in the castle’s priest hole, but as far as poetry was concerned, Lord Sheldon was past saving. But, she assured herself as she hid the paper back inside the book, the rest of him was not. A man who had written poetry for his wife—however grating and unmelodic his verse—was not past redemption. He could be saved. No, he
would
be saved, and she, the ordinary (and ordinarily charming) Olivia Jane Weston, would be the one to do it.