My Only Love (16 page)

Silence
fell like a stone as Damien shifted his malevolent gaze from the revelers'
chagrined faces to Miles's, where he sat in the dark in the back of the room,
slumped in his chair, his fingers wrapped around the neck of a whisky bottle.

There
came a smattering of comments: "Why didn't nobody tell me he was
here?" and "I didn't know myself." Miles rewarded the gaping
patrons with a thin smile and a lift of his bottle in a salute. Then he watched
his brother move like a tempered storm toward him, stopping at the opposite
edge of the table.

"Well,
well, look who's here," Miles said. "What took you, Dame?"

"I'm
certain you're well aware of the time."

He
tugged his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped it open.
"Twelve-thirty."

"Aren't
you forgetting something?"

He
poured himself another drink and shoved the bottle aside. "As a matter of
fact, my lord, I've been sitting here remembering a great many things."

Damien
started to speak; Miles waved it away and shifted in his chair, glancing at the
open-faced watch he had placed on the table near the whisky bottle. "Admittedly,
I didn't make the wisest of choices when I was young. Now that I'm not so young
I can look back on my mistakes with a modicum of understanding and tell myself
that I won't make such errors again ... if given another chance."

"What
has any of this got to do with Olivia?" Damien asked.

Miles
ran one hand through his hair and wearily rubbed his eyes.

Leaning
onto the table, Damien looked hard into Miles's face. "I think I know. You
believe she isn't good enough. Now that you're working so damn hard to become
respectable, perhaps you feel that, considering her past, she would be a
reminder of yours. That's it, isn't it, Kemball? How can a man become respected
when burdened by a wife whose past is as sordid as his? Undoubtedly, she would
prove to be a constant reminder that you've been forced to accept scraps
again."

Miles
frowned.

Damien
dragged back a chair and dropped into it. "Do you mind?" he asked,
and grabbed up the whisky bottle and turned it up to his mouth. "Perhaps
you're right, Kemball. I mean, I really couldn't imagine the two of you
together."

"No?"

Damien
shook his head. "No. Who wants a wife who's danced naked with a bunch of
Gypsies?" "She wasn't naked," Miles snapped. "But—"

"She
wore scarves."

"Ah.
Well, there's the little matter of her tattoos . .." "They don't show
so what the hell difference does it make?"

Sitting
back in his chair, Damien shrugged. "She's not very pretty—"

"Quite
the contrary. There are times when she's more than a little presentable."

"Really?
When?"

"When
she removes her spectacles. When her hair is slightly windblown. When anger or
embarrassment—or spirits-—has brought color to her cheeks . .. and when she
dabbles in the garden with roses."

"Huh.
Pretty, is she?"

"Every
bit as pretty as her addled sister."

Damien
watched as Miles quaffed his measure of whisky, then he refilled the glass.
"Of course, there's the little matter of her reputation."

"What
of it?"

"There's
the lad."

"His
name is Bryan."

"It's
anyone's guess who sired the boy."

"Bryan.
His name is Bryan."

"Forever
you would be faced with the responsibility of raising another man's son. I
could imagine that such a prospect would certainly be a cross to bear—"
"What the hell are you insinuating?" "Well... he « a
bastard."

Miles
slowly came out of his chair. "Don't call him that"

"Illegitimate,
then. Face it, Kemball, he was born out of wedlock, and—"

Miles
easily bent over the table and, twisting his fists into Damien's coat, yanked
him out of his chair and partially over the table, scattering bottles and
glasses and sending the pocket watch spinning to the floor. "Are you
insinuating that due to his mother's.and father's carelessness Bryan is any
less worthy of understanding and love than any other child? I happen to know
that Bryan, aside from being an exceptionally beautiful lad, is extremely well
behaved and would make any man proud to call him son."

Damien
didn't so much as blink as he stared into Miles's red-rimmed eyes. "Seems
you're awfully touchy about Miss Devonshire and her son. I wonder why, Kemball,
especially in light of the fact that it appears you've stood them both up at
the altar."

Gradually,
Miles released his grip on Damien's coat. Around them, the patrons stood rooted
to the sawdust floor, some staring into their pints and pretending they hadn't
heard the exchange between the brothers. Others watched with furrowed brows and
mustaches damp with their dark, tepid ale. Regardless, there wasn't a sound to
be heard but for the slight creak of wood under Miles's aid Damien's weight.

"Damn
you, Dame," Miles said under his breath.

Damien
only shrugged and tugged loose from his grip. He said, "Are you sober
enough to make it to the Registry Office?"

"I...
don't know."

"If
we hurry we might arrive before the bride flees in total disgrace."

"Let's
get something straight." "Fine."

"I'm
marrying the gal for no other reason than to get my hands on her dowry."
"I believe you, Kemball." "The name is Warwick."

Damien
shifted his broad shoulders and smoothed his lapels. "Funny thing about
that name, Warwick. Not since the first Warwick fought at King Richard's side
has a Warwick ever married a woman whom he didn't love with all his heart. Call
it tradition."

Miles
glared at Damien a long, hard minute, then stalked from the tavern, leaving it
in silence.

The
Registry official spoke solemnly and quickly as Olivia and Miles stood side by
side trying hard to concentrate on his words and doing their best to ignore
the tension electrifying the air between them.

Olivia's
throat felt raw, but she had learned long ago that there was a time and place
for everything. Losing one's temper in public would only serve to lower her
esteem in the eyes of those who already questioned her character.

Dear
God, it was obvious that Miles had spent the last hours in a tavern. He smelled
of stale ale and whisky and smoke. He hadn't even bothered to change into his
suit, but wore a riding jacket (with a patched elbow), leather breeches, and
Hessians that were mud-spattered. He stood there, weaving slightly from side to
side and mumbling his vows so no one, aside from himself, could possibly hear.

So
why was she going through with this charade?

Miles
did his best to focus on the somber official and concentrate on his words; his
eyes, however, kept drifting down to the woman at his left. Olivia had not so
much as offered him a solitary look while he, apparently, couldn't seem to take
his gaze from her. Where was the plain-as-a-post little spinster who hid behind
thick-lensed spectacles?

He
had rehearsed an apology, certain that she would reject it, and him. But she
had refused to see him when he arrived at the office, replying only to her
father, "Let's get on with it."

Fine.
Then be that way. Don't allow him the opportunity to lie and feel good about
the ass he'd made of himself.

He'd
worked up his sarcasm and ire, but the moment he'd looked up to see her walking
into the room in her simple but pretty wedding gown the prepared defenses fled.
Her hair was an array of cascading mahogany coils and curls that framed her
smooth-as-porcelain features. And she walked hand in hand with her son who now
stood at her side and gazed around his mother up at him, a world of confusion
and hope in his wide green eyes. Mr. Warwick."

He
forced his eyes up to the Superintendent Registrar, who had raised his eyebrows
in question.

"I
said, sir, do you take this woman—"

"Of
course I do or I wouldn't be standing here."

Damien
cleared his throat.

Olivia
stared straight ahead, stone-faced.

Sir
Hargreaves pursed his lips and looked back and forth between the two.
"Miss Devonshire, do you take this man as your lawfully wedded
husband?"

Silence.

Silence.

Someone
cleared his throat again—Dame, no doubt, attempting to hold back his laughter
as the seconds trudged by and it became more and more obvious that Olivia was
considering her decision.

Ah,
so here it comes, Miles thought. Of course. He should have guessed. He'd
humiliated her by not showing up at the appointed time, now it was her turn.
She would announce to the meager gathering of increasingly uncomfortable guests
and beleaguered official that it would be a cold day in hell before she
exchanged vows with the bastard of Braithwaite.

Bryan
looked up at his mother, then tugged on her skirt. "Please, Mummy,"
he whispered.

"Yes,"
she said softly and without emotion. "I do."

Closing
his eyes, Miles released his breath, aware only in that instant that he had
been holding it.

There
were more words spoken in monotone followed by a discomforting moment when the
official asked for the bride's ring.

"I.
.." Feeling his face turn cold then scalding hot, he ran his hands over
his waistcoat and into the pockets of his jacket before dropping his hands to
his sides and clenching his fists. "I don't have one," he confessed.

"I
see . .. Then I pronounce you man and wife. Mr. Warwick, you may kiss your
bride."

Miles
stared at the man and didn't move.

"Sir,
you can at least do that," the official stressed with an obvious degree of
pique and disapproval.

He
woodenly turned to face her, and she did the same, choosing, however, to stare
at his shirtfront instead of meeting his discomfited gaze. He took her
shoulders lightly, clumsily, in his hands and looked down at her features. She
did not turn her mouth up to his or even offer the slightest encouragement.

"Olivia,"
he said quietly, perhaps a touch unsteady with the use of her name for the
first time. Then, gently catching her chin with the end of one finger, he
tipped her face up to his. "I'm sorry," he whispered to her cold
eyes, and as he bent his head to lightly touch his lips to hers, she tilted her
face so he kissed her cheek.

It
was done.

1 desire a return of
affection.

farewell.

—Verse from a
nineteenth-century

calling card

CHAPTER EIGHT

Olivia
and Miles waited together in the super-intendent's office; she stood at the
window gazing up at the spires of an old church, while Miles paced the floor
like a caged cat.

'It's
bloody freezing in here," Miles said.

Olivia
shivered, but it had little to do with the frigid chamber. In truth, she envied
the village folk who moved up and down the cobblestone street wrapped in woolen
scarves and cloaks, pausing occasionally to speak to a friend or acquaintance
then to wave their good-byes. She envied their lives. Their friends. The very
routine of their existences. A pressure had centered in her chest, and though
she attempted to breathe deeply it simply wouldn't go away.

Miles
lightly touched her shoulder.

Olivia
jumped and turned. Their eyes remained on each other's, as if hypnotized.

"It's
freezing out there," he said, then attempted to reach past her to close
the window. "You'll catch your death of cold."

She
stepped away. "Then you'll be a very wealthy widower, won't you, Mr.
Warwick?"

"I
believe we're beyond the mister and missus stage, don't you?"

"How
dare you?" she said through her teeth. "How dare you pretend that
everything is fine?" "That wasn't my intention—"

"I
suppose it means nothing to you that you humiliated me."

"There
will be plenty of time to discuss this late—" "I don't want to
discuss it later! I want to discuss it now!"

"For
God's sake, you're being hysterical," he snapped.

Stepping
forcefully up against him, so her breasts were pressed to his chest and her
head was thrown back, she stated coldly, "It's my wedding day, sir. I have
every right to be hysterical. I also have every right to know the joy and
thrill of beginning a new life for myself and my son. I have the right to enjoy
bouquets and candy and love poems on my wedding night. I have the right to
surround myself with loving family and friends who join hands and wish me a
fairy-tale life. But most of all I deserve a husband who cares foi me." Her
voice breaking, she cried, "If you haven't noticed, damn you to hell, I
haven't experienced a solitary one, and I hate you for that. Do you understand
me? I hate you!"