My Only Love (5 page)

          "Braithwaite
should have been mine anyway, Dame. I was Joseph's firstborn—"

          "Damn
you, Miles! Why can't you get it through your thick head that as far as the
prevailing laws in this country are concerned you don't exist."

          Silence
filled up the room. Even Freddy Millhouse had the good sense to remain quiet.

          In
a more restrained voice, Damien said, "As far as the mines are concerned,
since you took control the miners are constantly going on strike. I understand
it's due to unsafe conditions."

          "There
has to be money for renovations, m'lord. You know that. I've sunk every last
shilling I own into those bloody pits. You expect me to work miracles, Damien.
I'm doing my best—"

          "Are
you?"

          "Yes,
goddammit! I'm sick to my teeth of spending my days and nights negotiating with
a lot of half-dead miners who seem to find some game in making my life a living
hell."

          "No
game, Miles. They simply don't like you. And they sure as Hades don't trust
you."

          "That
should bring you immeasurable pleasure."

          Damien
shook his head and said more softly, "No. It may surprise you to know that
it doesn't please me at all. Believe it or not, Miles, I had hoped to see some
spark of Warwick ambition in you. I had hoped that I could take my family and
move to America with the idea that I was leaving Braithwaite in worthy hands.
The sad fact is, she's in worse shape now than when you took over residence. I
simply thought marriage—and the accompanying settlement—would give you a new
beginning."

          Bonnie
joined them then, and looked back and forth between them. "Please,"
she beseeched them. "Think of our guests, m'lord husband." Turning to
Miles, she allowed him a warm but concerned smile. "I'll have Jewel set another
place—"

          He
laughed dryly. "You're joking. Right?" Pivoting on his heels, he
started for the door.

          "Kemball!"
Damien shouted, bringing Miles to an abrupt stop. "I understand Josiah
Lubinsky has shown interest in buying the Warwick mine holdings."

          "You
can tell Lubinsky—and Devonshire—that they can both go to hell. I'm not
selling."

          Miles
left the room. Bonnie hurried to follow while Damien remained at the table.

          He
sideswiped the butler on his way out and set the housemaid Jewel back on her
heels. "Wait!" Bonnie cried, and grabbed his arm as he reached the
front door. Her violet eyes were wide with distress. "You've got no call
to be angry with Damien. He's done nothing to hurt you. I was there when Lord
Devonshire broached the subject of his daughter—"

          He
tried to move around her. She blocked his way. "You've got yourself in
trouble again, haven't you? I can always tell. You take out your anger and
frustration on everyone but the one person who's the cause of it all. Namely
you. When are you ever going to accept the responsibility of your own
actions?"

          Pinning
her with his eyes, he snarled, "Spoken like a true friend."

          "You've
been gambling again, haven't you?" Frowning, she shook her head.
"Damn your stupidity. How deeply in debt are you?"

          He
shrugged and looked away. "Ten thousand."

          Bonnie's
face turned white.

          "I
had hoped to win enough to invest it back into the house and business. So I
wagered my entire quarterly allowance..."

          "Oh
my God. You know what's going to happen if Damien learns of this. He'll take it
all back, Miles. Everything. Braithwaite. The businesses." She thumped his
shoulder as hard as she could with her fist. "Bloody idiot, do you know
how difficult it was to convince him to give you the chance to prove yourself?
Do you?"

          "Yes,"
he replied as he looked down into her big eyes. A monumental sense of guilt and
regret pressed down on him. He might not give a flying leap about how the rest
of the world saw him, but she was something else.

          "I'm
sorry," he told her. "I've let you down again. Not only am I a sorry
example of a businessman, I'm a poor excuse for a friend." Nudging her
aside, he opened the door and gazed out on the wet, freezing night.
"Please extend my apologies to Damien and your guests—"

          "Is
there anything I can do to help?" she asked softiy.

          "I
got myself into this mess, I'll get myself out... one way or another." He
continued to stand there on the threshold, refusing to look at Bonnie again,
his mind oddly blank and his body numbed of the earlier anger that had driven
him to ride like a madman over the moor to his brother's house.

          Bonnie
touched his arm. "You might consider Lubinsky's offer."

          "And
sell my only chance to make something of myself?" He frowned at her and
shook his head. "I'm going to prove that I'm a Warwick. I'm going to turn
those mines around if it's the last thing I ever do, Bonnie."

          "But
Damien says there's not enough ore left in those mines to keep them going
another year."

          "That's
a risk I'm willing to take. After all, I'm a gambler, right?"

          "A
very unsuccessful gambler," she pointed out.

          "Ah
ye of little faith." He smiled and touched her cheek with his hand, his
gaze dropping briefly to her rounded belly before he looked again toward the
rain-drenched countryside.

          Finally,
he pulled his sodden coat closed, and stepped out into the dark, cold, and
drizzly night.

"I have loved none
but you. Unjust I may

have been, weak and
resentful 1 have been,

but never inconstant . .
. For you alone I

think and plan. Have you
not seen this?

Can you fail to have
understood my wishes?"

—Jane Austin,

Persuasion

CHAPTER THREE

By
the time Olivia left Devonswick the fog had grown dangerously thick, making the
narrow winding road treacherous. Occasionally the driver's voice came to her as
he tried to coax the shy horses onward as they became more and more confused in
the stinging ice. While Bertrice continually nodded off, Olivia stared into the
dark and asked herself repeatedly why she was risking their lives to confront
Miles Warwick.

          Her
humiliation had somehow become tied up with anger. One moment she imagined
throwing herself at his mercy and pleading with him to forgive her father's
breach of good taste. The next she wanted simply to slap his indolent, handsome
face for believing that he, of all people, was too good for her or Bryan.

          Then
she asked herself why she cared what he thought, of her or her father or Bryan.
She'd long since turned a deaf ear to the slurs and gossip that occasionally
reached her, laughing most of them off, or smiling with a sense of amusement at
the ones that were true. Some time ago the thought had occurred to her that if
the gossipmongers were going to accuse her of unprincipled living, why not
relax and enjoy it. After all, a woman of her character needn't bother about
rules and etiquette. Being charged with a crime without reaping the benefits of
the experience seemed a shame.

          Still,
there was her father and sister to consider . ..

          She
sensed the moment they made the bend in the road that carried visitors to
Braithwaite and away from Middleham. They had left her father's more hospitable
country of wooded fields and plunged into the very heart of the moorland—vast,
empty fields of heather and gorse where the galelike winds whined and moaned
like souls crying in the night.

          A
peek from behind the window's velvet casing confirmed their location. The
ancient stone fences and hedges that followed the roadway for nearly half a
mile led to Braithwaite's impressive entry—a formidable gateway that had been
restored soon after Miles took residence in the house ... before he'd wasted
his money on gambling and women. The towering wrought-iron bears, rearing on
their back legs in challenge and guarding the entrance, had been the Warwick coat
of arms for centuries—ever since the first Warwick "Kingmaker" had
fought at King Richard's side.

          At
last they turned up the wide, sweeping drive that was pitted and boggy and
rutted from years of neglect. A single light glowed in the distance, and the
horses, sensing a warm stable might wait ahead, picked up their pace so the
driver was forced to concern himself with stopping the pawing and snorting
animals before they bypassed the house completely.

With
her wrap clutched about her, more in dread than from cold, Olivia suspected,
she waited until the driver opened the door and offered her his hand before
debarking the coach. Leaving Bertrice to her sleep, Olivia descended into the
cold night, briefly glancing up at the towering bulk of the immense house—a
half-mansion half-castle configuration of sprawling wings and soaring
rooflines, and black windows that stared blankly over their boundless domain
like sightless eyes.

Olivia
stood for some time on the manor's front steps, gazing up and up at the gray
stone walls that disappeared into the low-lying mist. Vines did a passable job
of filling in the widening cracks between the stones, but with the advent of
freezing weather, the plants had turned brown and mostly barren. They rattled
like dice in a cup as the chill wind whipped through them.

She
took a slow, steady breath and knocked on the door.

Nothing.

She
banged again, harder this time, and more determinedly with the butt of her
hand. With a sinking realization she considered that possibly she had made a
mistake in coming here. Actually, there was no possibly about it.

After
what seemed like an unconscionably long time, the door opened abruptly.

Stepping
back, Olivia focused on the unkempt servant who, with dirty white cap askew,
her hair hanging in wisps demonstrating a vain attempt to hide ears that were
abnormally big, regarded her with a look of incredulity. "I'm here to see
Mr. Warwick," Olivia told her.

The
thin woman stared and wiped her hands on her apron.

"I'm
Olivia Devonshire," she stressed, "to see Mr. Warwick, if you
please."

"Were
he expectin' ya?" came the insolent demand.

"No,
he wasn't. However—" The door began to close. Olivia braced herself
against it. "Is Mr. Warwick in residence?"

"He
ain't up to no visitors tonight." The woman shoved on the door.

Olivia
shoved back. "Is he unwell?"

"Ya
might say that."

"Perhaps
I can be of assistance—"

"Can't
nobody help him—"

"If
you'll just tell him I'm here—"

"He's
had a bad ni—"

"I've
come a long way ... it's imperative that I speak with ... him . .."
Propping one shoulder against the door, the opposite hand on the doorjamb,
Olivia declared, "If you won't tell him I'm here, I'll simply tell him
myself!" Then she pushed her way in, sending the scruffy, belligerent
servant back on her heels.

"Here
now, just who the blazes do ya think ya are, come barrelin' into a man's home
as if ya was a bloody queen's guard!"

Staring
at the red-faced woman through her fogging spectacles, Olivia dug into her
reticule and pulled out a calling card, handing it over as pleasantly as
possible, considering the circumstances. "You may tell him I'm
here."

The
servant watched in disbelief as Bertrice waddled over the threshold with a
flourish of woolen scarves that wrapped around her head and throat, all the way
up to her nostrils.

"Kitty!"
Bertrice sang aloud. "Here, kitty!" Turning to Olivia, she cried,
"Oo, Lud, I've lost him!"

Olivia
smiled into Bertrice's troubled eyes. "Dickens is at Devonswick, dear.
We've come to Braithwaite to see Mr. Warwick. Remember?"