A Regency Christmas Pact Collection (32 page)

Rowan could hardly believe what he was looking at. Good Lord, was he hallucinating? It couldn’t possibly—he
couldn’t
be! But then, why the devil did that child look just like the portrait of Rowan as a small boy?

No. She would have told him. Olivia would have tracked him down, brought him up to scratch. Wouldn’t she have?

A cold feeling washed over Rowan that had nothing to do with the temperature outside. It was a deep foreboding that settled in his bones and made his gut churn with uneasiness. Had she kept the truth from him and let another man raise his son? Rowan had never considered himself a family man, and indeed, hadn’t he recently made a pact to remain a bachelor for as long as he lived so as to avoid the wrath of a woman scorned? For surely Rowan wouldn’t be able to stay faithful to one woman for the rest of his life, and he didn’t fancy the same fate Arrington had faced. But the thought of another man raising his progeny…

“Rowan, what’s happened?”

His cousin approached, clearly frantic with worry. Probably that her sleigh party might be ruined, but perhaps Rowan was being unfair.

“I’m afraid I twisted my ankle,” Olivia replied, and Rowan bristled at her sweet, innocent tone.

How could he have been so naïve? This woman was diabolical. To deny a man the opportunity to do the right thing. To take away the opportunity to raise his own son.

“Oh, my dear Mrs. Edwards!” Patience truly did seem worried for the woman. “Rowan, take her inside. Clara will make you comfortable while you wait for the doctor. I’m so sorry I can’t wait with you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Lady Swaffham.” Olivia smiled as sweetly as she could, though it was obvious she was in a good deal of pain. “I’ll be fine with Clara. And Mr. Findley has offered to watch over Marcus, if that’s all right with you.”

Patience took Marcus by the hand. “Of course it is. We’ll wait together while Rowan deposits you in the drawing room.”

Rowan started walking toward the house, his steps strong and purposeful, while Marcus and Olivia yelled their goodbyes to one another. He barely heard them, though. All he could think about was finding out the truth.

As they neared the front door, he could feel Olivia’s gaze on him, practically burning a hole through his cheek.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Findley?” she asked, and the breathlessness in her voice gave her away. She was nervous, as she very well should be.

He didn’t answer her, not right away at least. He wanted her out of his arms as soon as possible, and then he’d be able to think straight enough to unleash his fury on her. The footman held the door open for them and Rowan strode quickly into the drawing room. He unceremoniously deposited her to the sofa near the fireplace and then loomed over her.

“Mr. Findley, whatever is the matter?” Her stunning blue eyes held a slight bit of terror in them.

“The truth,” he said plainly. “Now.”

“I-I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

That was unlikely. He’d never seen a woman so flustered in all her life. He leaned closer, hoping to intimidate.

“The. Truth.”

Damn, he was
too
close now. Her perfect little nostrils flared in and out, in and out, just above her soft pink lips and right in between her rosy cheeks. Throw in those captivating sapphire eyes and Rowan completely forgot what he was about.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Findley, but—”

“Mrs. Edwards?”

Rowan spun on his heel, annoyed by the interruption, to find a scrawny little maid standing in the doorway.

“Yes?” Olivia replied.

“I’m Clara,” said the maid. “I’ve been sent to take care of you. The doctor is on his way. Can I get you anything in the meantime?”

Olivia paused for a moment before replying and finally said, “I don’t think I need anything, except for, perhaps, your company.” She smiled sweetly and gestured to the armchair beside her.

Damn woman. Clearly, she was trying to avoid any further conversation with Rowan. Well, she may have won this time, but he
would
have his answers. He would get the truth out of her if it was the last thing he did.

“Mr. Findley, you ought not to hold up the party. Go on. I’ll be just fine with Clara here to look after me.”

Rowan looked down at her and scowled, but Olivia gave no indication that she noticed anything was the matter with him. A tricky little vixen.

“Yes, well…I wouldn’t want to disappoint Marcus by cutting his day short, would I?”

There. Finally a flicker of apprehension. She didn’t want them to be together, him and Marcus. But what could she say now?

“No, I suppose not. Goodbye, Mr. Findley.”

Blasted man! She never should have brought Marcus here with Rowan Findley lurking about. The likeness really was uncanny, especially when they were standing side-by-side. Good heavens. What was she going to do now?

Clearly he was on to her, and much to her surprise, he wasn’t happy about the deception. She thought he’d be thrilled not to be forced to take on the responsibility of a wife and child all those years ago. She’d done him a favor, really, so why did he seem so angry with her now? Would he rather have been given the option to reject her?

It wasn’t a very charitable thought, but she was certain he wouldn’t have married her after one night of passion that she’d forced him into, so it was the most logical explanation she could come up with.

She leaned back with a sigh. The boredom was starting to settle in. The doctor had come and gone, assessing that she had only a slight injury—nothing was broken or even sprained. He did want Olivia, however, to stay off of it for a few days. That would never do, of course. She had to work. With Christmas coming, she couldn’t afford to lose the pay. Marcus would have a proper holiday with presents and a goose and all the trimmings.

The sound of jingling bells outside drew her attention to the window. She was a bit too far away to see much of anything, but it was obvious the party was back from their ride. Butterflies took up residence in her belly, fluttering wildly about and making her a bit nauseated. What had Rowan and Marcus talked about? Did Marcus notice his resemblance to Rowan? Had he revealed that his father had passed away several years ago?

Olivia chewed on her fingernails while she sat there alone, waiting. Part of her wished they would never come inside, but another part of her was nearly dying of anticipation to find out what had happened during the outing.

There was a flurry of activity in the corridor as servants rushed to the foyer to assist with coats and hats and such. A cold draft snaked its way into the drawing room, followed by the jovial sounds of laughter and chatter as the party made its way into the house.

Olivia waited, trying to settle her nerves with deep breaths. It wasn’t working, of course. But in the next moment, Marcus came barreling into the room and practically launched himself into her arms.

“Mama!”

Olivia laughed and squealed as his cold body collided with hers. “Goodness, Marcus, you’re frozen!”

“I didn’t even notice the cold,” he exclaimed. “Mr. Findley and I had a grand time on the ride.”

Rowan appeared in the doorway and Olivia’s heart skipped several whole beats. He had always been handsome, but it still took her aback whenever she laid eyes on him. He no longer wore his hat, and his dark hair was ruffled a bit. An errant curl fell over his forehead to just above his left eyebrow, giving him a boyish charm, reminding her of the night they’d met. He’d seemed so much older then—a man to her, since she was still only a girl—but seven years had turned him into a real man. And Olivia into a real woman. Her body reacted, not like a green girl’s of seventeen, but like a woman who knew of desire.

“What did the doctor say?” Rowan asked as he crossed the room and sat down in the chair beside her. His forehead crinkled with genuine concern, but the furthest thing from Olivia’s mind right now was her blasted ankle.

“Oh, um…I’m going to be fine, actually. He thinks I should be right as rain by tomorrow morning.” She wasn’t exactly telling the truth, but perhaps if she told the lie often enough it would come true.

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Rowan turned to Marcus. “I think you ought to go find the others in the dining room.”

“All right!”

Well, blast. He wasn’t going to make this easy on her, was he?

“Aren’t you hungry, Mr. Findley?” she asked, trying to appear as innocent as possible.

He leveled her with an intimidating glare. “Not in the least.”

“Oh, well...” She had to get him to leave her alone. As much as her body longed to be near him, she knew she’d tell him everything if he stayed around much longer. She couldn’t risk it. “I’m famished, myself. Would you mind bringing me a plate?”

There. That ought to do it.

“Certainly, Mrs. Edwards.”

He stood and started across the room. Olivia felt triumphant. This would at least buy her a little more time. But then he veered off to the right and marched up to the bellpulls. Darn him.

“Someone will be here presently to take your order, I’m sure.” And then he sat back down beside her. “Now, where did we leave off? Oh, yes, I think you were about to tell me whether or not Marcus is actually
my
son.”

Olivia’s heart raced and she felt all at sea, floundering for a way to deny the accusation without giving herself away. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Rowan narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps I could take you to my uncle’s portrait gallery in his London townhome,” he said. “Show you a portrait of myself as a boy. Or of my father, perhaps. My uncle. Any number of my male relatives that bear similar features to Marcus.”

“I can’t see what good that would do. So you have similar features. Brown hair and brown eyes are common enough. What would it prove?”

Clearly Rowan was tiring of her lame arguments. “Admit it to me, Olivia.” It was the first time he’d used her given name, and it did something strange to her belly. The way it rolled off his tongue, the way his lips wrapped around the vowels. Good heavens, her resolve was weakening by the moment.

“There is nothing to admit,” she said, with as much of a biting tone as she could muster. She’d always been soft-spoken, so it wasn’t easy.

“You’re lying.”

She wished she could get up and walk away. Blast this blasted ankle!

“How would you know?” she retorted. “You know nothing of me, except…”

A sly smile spread across Rowan’s lips. This was the first time either of them had mentioned that night, but clearly it held the same fond memories for him as it did for her. “So you remember?”

How could she forget? She had a constant reminder of Rowan. She nodded, but said nothing.

“Marcus is six.” It was a statement, not a question, but Olivia nodded anyway.

“His birthday is coming up,” he continued. “January, is it?”

Olivia knew what he was doing. All roads led to the truth—there was no escaping it now. She nodded.

“I seem to remember a particularly balmy April evening at the Winslow ball. A beautiful young redhead begging me to…well, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me to speak of such things, but rest assured—”

“Fine!” she shouted, unable to tolerate any more memories or leading questions. But could she actually admit it? Could she actually say the words, after all these years, after all this time of telling Marcus that his father was Mr. John Edwards, could she admit it to Rowan—to herself—that he was truly Marcus’s father?