A Regency Christmas Pact Collection (30 page)

“Oof!”

Olivia had been so lost in her admiration of the architecture that she’d not seen the column rise up before her. Such irony was not lost on her as she stumbled back several paces. A pair of hands grabbed onto her arms and pulled her upright before she fell over.

“Oh, bugger,” she whispered when she realized she’d not run into a column at all, but rather, a person. The very person she’d been trying to avoid, in fact.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Edwards?” Rowan stared down at her, the hint of a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

Olivia couldn’t move. Her limbs were frozen, despite the warmth emanating from the man who held her against him.  All the memories of that one, fateful night came rushing back to her, and desire coiled itself through her belly. “I’m—um—” She shifted away, hoping to regain her senses by removing herself from his personage. “Yes. I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You seem flustered,” he pressed. “Are you sure I can’t be of service?”

“I just—I wasn’t expecting you,” she blurted out, and then added, “to be standing there.” Because really, she’d not been expecting him at all. Ever. Olivia had resigned herself to never seeing Rowan Findley again for as long as she lived. She’d married another man and moved to a tiny village in Kent. Who was to know he’d show up at a neighbor’s house for dinner seven years later?

“You have to be careful. People can turn up anywhere.”

Olivia stilled and finally dared to look at him, right in his dark brown eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. “I suppose they can.”

There was a beat of silence and then Rowan asked, “Who are you?”

It was the one question Olivia didn’t care to answer. “Mrs. Edwards,” she replied, evasively, smoothing her sweaty hands down her gown.

“Your married name?”

Olivia’s heart thumped loudly in her ears. She nodded.

“And your maiden name?” Rowan’s voice was so gentle, so tender, as if Olivia were a frightened animal he didn’t want to scare away.

“M–Morgan,” she finally said.

The name hung in the air for a moment. Did he recognize it? Did he remember her now? His expression gave nothing away, and Olivia remembered he was rather skilled at the Hazard tables.

He cleared his throat and shifted his feet uncomfortably. “Well, Mrs. Morgan-Edwards, it was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I suppose I shall see you on Thursday for the sleigh ride.”

With that, he walked away, leaving a stunned Olivia standing alone in the corridor. She would have been lying if she had said she wasn’t a bit stung. After all that—all her worrying—he didn’t even remember. Olivia should have been thrilled, but all she felt was a sadness that gripped her heart and made her wish she’d never met Rowan Findley—not seven years ago, and not this evening.

Rowan strode down the corridor the way he’d come, intent on making it to his chamber before anyone spotted him. He needed to be alone. To think. To remember. Good God, was it really her? How could he have forgotten that shimmering red hair? Those soft, pink lips? The gentle smell of lilacs that wafted about her person?

But in an instant, it all came rushing back. Not just to his head, either. There were other parts of him that hadn’t forgotten her.

Images flashed across his mind—a young, eager redhead, an empty stable, moonlight, hay, passion like he’d never known. They’d only met that evening, at a dimly lit ball—it was no wonder Rowan hadn’t recognized her right away. But as soon as she’d told him her maiden name, he knew. He remembered a pair of stoic, overbearing parents the girl was desperate to defy. It had seemed the perfect opportunity for a randy young man to take advantage of.

Hell, Rowan almost took advantage of her tonight in a well-lit corridor. However, he wasn’t about to cuckold her poor husband. Rowan might not be the most respectable man about Town, but he did have
some
scruples. She was married with a child, apparently. He wasn’t about to come between a woman and her family, no matter how strong the pull to her was.

Olivia Morgan was a brief moment in his past that he’d completely forgotten about until this evening. It wouldn’t make sense to get himself into a tizzy over her now, just because he’d run into her at a dinner party. He’d run into plenty of former lovers about London. It wasn’t anything new to him.

He paused for a moment at the bottom of the staircase and heaved a sigh. If it wasn’t anything new to him, then why did he feel this way? What was this odd churning in his gut? The tingling in his fingers, as if they itched to touch her soft skin and flaming hair?

Rowan shook his head and started up the stairs. It wasn’t anything. Probably too much brandy. He’d get a good night’s sleep and surely Mrs. Edwards would seem like a groggy, distant memory by morning.

Olivia scurried through the door of her tiny cottage, welcoming the warmth of the fire after a chilling carriage ride from Hamlin Abbey. Her neighbor and friend, Mrs. Stilton, lay snoring in the dilapidated chair nearest the hearth. Olivia tiptoed to her side and laid a gentle hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“Mrs. Stilton,” she whispered, trying not to wake Marcus, who was hopefully sleeping soundly in the small bedroom.

The woman stirred and then sat up with a start.

Olivia tried not to giggle at her frazzled expression. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stilton. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Mrs. Stilton clutched her chest and breathed heavily. “Not to worry, dearie. I’m sure my heart will be back in my chest momentarily.”

Olivia stood by patiently while the older woman gathered her wits about her.

“You had a good time, then?” Mrs. Stilton asked after a moment.

How to answer that question?
It was a lovely party with interesting people. Oh, and my former lover, who also happens to be Marcus’s father, was there too!
Somehow, Olivia didn’t think that would go over terribly well with the likes of Mrs. Stilton.

“I did,” she finally answered, choosing to omit any details. “And Marcus?”

“Sleeping like a log, last I checked.” Mrs. Stilton groaned as she used her arms to push her plump body out of the chair. “I best be getting to bed myself, dearie.”

“Oh, of course, Mrs. Stilton. Sleep well.” Olivia handed the woman her coat and then held the door open. Her friend hobbled through the snow to her little cottage next door, and once she was safely inside, Olivia closed her own door.

The poor woman was getting on in years. She was sharp as a tack, but she walked slower these days and the wrinkles on her face were getting deeper. It made Olivia’s heart ache to think about a world without her dear, old friend. Mrs. Stilton had been their neighbor for many years, and she’d been taking care of Marcus ever since Mr. Edwards had died, forcing Olivia to work.

Olivia shook her head, hoping to free her mind of the maudlin thoughts. It was late and she needed to go to sleep. Morning came much earlier for those who had to earn their keep. Part of her missed the late night soirees she’d attended as a young debutante. Perhaps it was because she’d not been able to attend very many. Rowan had come in and out of her life like a phantom, stealing her heart and her youth in one fell swoop.

She didn’t hold it against him, though. She’d gotten Marcus out of the deal, and how could she ever regret
him
?

If Rowan had been smart, he would have woken up that morning having completely forgotten about Mrs. Edwards and gone about his life with nary a thought for her.

As it was, he’d barely gotten any sleep, thinking about the blasted redhead. He’d tossed and turned, and even tried other less innocent activities in an effort to rid his mind of her. But none of it worked. None. He still tossed and turned, waiting and praying for the sun to come up to put him out of his misery.

“You look like Hell, Findley.” This kind morning greeting came from his cousin’s husband, who didn’t exactly look the picture of rest himself.

“Good morning to you too, Swaffham,” Rowan replied, his tone droll, as he didn’t have the energy to muster more than that.

Swaffham sat down at the table and ordered the footman to bring him a plate of eggs and dry toast, along with a mug of coffee. “You left the party early last night, I assumed to go to bed. But looking at you now, it’s clear you didn’t actually sleep. Am I to assume you had a tryst with one of my housemaids?”

Rowan rolled his eyes as he shoved the last bite of egg into his mouth. Despite the fact Swaffham was happily married, his past experiences always led his thoughts to the naughtiest of scenarios. 

“Of course not,” Rowan replied.

“Then what the devil were you doing? And don’t say reading, because I won’t believe you.”

Damn. “I’ll thank you to mind your own business this morning.” Rowan ignored the smirk on his friend’s face as he stood and tossed his napkin to the table. “I’m going into town.”

“What the devil for?”

“Do you never mind your own affairs?”

Swaffham wore a smug smile as he leaned casually into his chair back. “There’s something afoot with you.”

“There’s nothing afoot.” Rowan strode for the door. “I just don’t fancy another day filled with your wife’s parlor games.”

“And
what
is the matter with my parlor games?”

Damn and blast
. “Good morning, cousin,” Rowan said, allowing Patience to slide past him into the dining room.

“I’ll have you know people are dying to come to my house parties just so they can play games in the parlor with me.”

“I’m certain they are,” Rowan replied, wondering why on earth anyone would willingly play games with his cousin. She was more determined to win those bloody games than Napoleon was to win the war. “But I’ll be honest, cousin,
I
am not one of them.”

She frowned at him. “Spoil sport. You used to love parlor games.”

“Perhaps I’m just feeling a bit out of sorts,” he offered.

“He didn’t sleep well,” Swaffham put in, and Rowan shot him a perturbed glance.

“Why ever not?” Patience’s dark brow furrowed with concern. “Was your chamber too cold? The bed too firm?”

Bloody Hell. “No, nothing like that, cousin. Now if you will excuse me, I’ll just be on my way.”

Before anyone could utter another word, Rowan dashed out the doors of the dining room and practically ran down the corridor to the front door.

“My coat, please,” he instructed the waiting footman. “I’m going out.”

The footman disappeared and returned moments later with Rowan’s coat, as well as the necessary accoutrements for going out on such a frigid day.

“The carriage will be right ‘round, sir,” the man said.

Rowan took his cane and tipped his hat. “That won’t be necessary. I prefer to walk.”

“Very good, sir.”

Rowan stepped out into the cold and immediately regretted not taking the carriage. The wind was bitter as it whipped across his cheeks. They’d be rosy as two ripe tomatoes soon. And his hands would surely be frostbitten.

On the other hand, a good walk in the icy weather might do him good. Cool him down after a night of reliving his passionate rendezvous with a younger Mrs. Edwards over and over.

Damn. The last thing he wanted was to lust after another man’s wife. He didn’t need such complications in his life.

He picked up his pace and tried to shift his thoughts to other, less sultry things. Like the silk business he was to inherit. After Christmas he’d have to join his uncle at the factory. Patience’s father was getting on in years, and it was time Rowan stepped up to take his place. Or at the very least learn enough so that he’d be ready to take his place when the time came. It was his inheritance, and while he wasn’t terribly enthusiastic about textiles, it was at least something to give purpose to his otherwise meaningless life.

He slowed his pace again as he approached the edge of town. The day was overcast, but the shops emanated their orangey glow onto the snow. Just the sight warmed Rowan a bit. The thought of sitting down near the fireplace in the tavern warmed him even more.

Rowan, with his gloved hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets, walked slowly by the shops, glancing in their windows, taking note of what they offered. He chuckled at the thought he might give Swaffham a book from the tiny bookshop for Christmas. It would be apropos after his comment this morning. But it was the confectioner’s shop that really drew him in. His cousin had quite the sweet tooth, and seeing as Rowan was feeling a bit guilty for his criticism of her parlor games this morning, a box of sweetmeats was probably in order.

He pushed through the door into the sweet-smelling establishment and then closed it behind him, grateful the owners kept a fire going nice and strong in the grate. There was no one there to greet him, so he took a look around. The shop was well appointed and the sweets were colorful and shimmering behind their cases.

“May I be of service to you, sir?” came a feminine voice from behind him.

He pivoted on his heel and then froze. Was he hallucinating? Why on earth was Mrs. Edwards standing before him in an apron as if she worked here?

Clearly she was just as taken off guard, and perhaps a bit embarrassed, if her flaming cheeks and splotchy chest were any indication.