Sara Bennett (8 page)

Might there be hope for him?
Redemption.

Vivianna knew she was just the woman to lead him there. And at the same time complete her own mission in regard to Candlewood. A memory of his mouth on hers intruded briefly, but Vivianna pushed it aside. She must concentrate on her purpose and not be distracted by this unlikely attraction she felt for him.

She would visit Berkeley Square tomorrow—she had no expectations of being allowed in or of Oliver being home, but she would leave her card for him, with a handwritten message upon the back of it. Something simple like…

Yes, let him make of that what he wished. Vivianna shivered, and thought that one way or another it would not be long before Oliver called upon her again…

Lady Marsh lived in Eaton Square, Belgravia, and she greeted Oliver with an unassumed pleasure that made him wonder, as he always wondered, why she continued to ally herself to him. After Anthony died, any sensible woman would have wiped her hands of him, but she hadn’t, and he was grateful.

They spoke generally for a time, of this and that, some of it gossip. Although she did not go into society much anymore, Lady Marsh liked to keep herself abreast of the latest news. Her arthritis kept her housebound and often bedridden, although today Oliver thought she seemed spry enough.

“Oliver,” she said at last, and her eyes, the same dark blue as his own, the same dark blue as all the Montegomeries had, fastened upon him. “I do not
want to repeat myself, but it is time you found a wife and settled down and gave the Montegomeries an heir.”

He laughed despite himself. “No, please don’t repeat yourself, Aunt!”

“Oliver, be serious, this is very important. You need to think to the future.”

“Do I?”

“Oliver, I loved your brother dearly, and yes he was very dependable and solid, but he had neither your brilliance of mind nor your practical clear headedness.”

Oliver smiled and sipped his wine. Clearheadedness? Let his aunt have her illusions if she wished. If she could have seen him this morning in Queen’s Square, kissing Miss Vivianna Greentree in front of the servants, she would know that was something he singularly lacked. Perhaps he
had
lost his mind. That was it: Vivianna’s lecturing had sent him insane.

Evidently Lady Marsh took his smile for encouragement, for she continued on.

“Oliver, you do not have a partiality for Celia, do you?”

He blinked. “Celia Maclean? Of course not, Aunt.”

“I see. It is just that…”

“It is just that she was Anthony’s fiancée…almost,” he said grimly, “and she and I were together the night he died. I know, I was there.”

“So you were,” she replied, and waited.

“It was a mistake,” he said with uncharacteristic awkwardness. “Just a stupid mistake. If Anthony hadn’t seen us, no one would have known…
he
wouldn’t have known. I never wanted to marry Celia, and I’m very sure she didn’t want to marry me. I betrayed his trust, but not from any ill will towards him. It was a simple, stupid misstep.”

Lady Marsh nodded. “Thank you, Oliver. I thought perhaps you were nursing a secret broken heart for the girl. I am glad to hear you are not. Well, as you yourself admit that you have no partialities, I have taken the liberty of drawing up a list of suitable young ladies.” She ignored his cynical grin. “I am sure, if you cast your eye over it, you will find someone to your liking. While I do not expect any of these young ladies to be as exotic as some of your current…friends, they are far more suitable as wives. Someone to grace your table, and on whom to hang the family emeralds. And, most important of all, someone to produce an heir to carry on the Montegomery name. To be blunt, Oliver, we need a filly of good breeding and bloodline if you are to have a strong colt off her.”

Again Oliver laughed. That was one thing he liked about his aunt, she was not mealymouthed. His smile faded. He supposed he would do it, even though he had seen enough arranged marriages for the idea to leave him cold. But it was his duty now, wasn’t it? He would marry a dull and suitable girl and father a child on her, and she would be prepared to put up with his indifference to her, his failure to love her, for the sake of belonging to one of England’s oldest families. Not to mention Lady Marsh’s fortune.

Lady Marsh was watching him, trying to read him.

“Very well, Aunt, I will examine your list. Although these days my reputation is not quite what a prospective father-in-law might want for his daughter.”

It was Lady Marsh’s turn to laugh. “I think you would find he would be too dazzled by my fortune to take any notice of your reputation, Oliver.”

She was right; he knew it. He was the bitter pill that must be swallowed for the sake of Lady Marsh’s
fortune—not Montegomery money, which was a mere trickle these days, but that of her late husband. And yet, as he followed her into the dining room to partake of luncheon, Oliver suddenly found himself wondering what he would do if—unlikely as it seemed—Vivianna Greentree was on his aunt’s list of prospective brides. Would he be disinterested then? The thought was so deliciously tantalizing he wanted to stop and savor it.

What was it about her? Putting aside her obsession with Candlewood, wasn’t she the epitome of the sort of woman he had always avoided? Or perhaps it was just that he was tired of being pleased; perhaps he needed someone like Vivianna, someone who would stand up to him and look him in the eye.

Damnation, don’t lecture me, woman,
he had said to her this morning, and she had looked straight through him. No, not through,
inside
him. And then he had kissed her. And he had known, wrap it up in whatever lies he liked, at that moment, with his lips touching hers, that
that
was the true reason he had come to see her.

“Oliver.” Lady Marsh was looking ahead, not meeting his eyes, and suddenly he felt the tension in the twisted fingers resting upon his arm.

“Yes, Aunt?”

“I had a visit from Lord Lawson a day or two ago.”

Oliver felt his face go blank. “Oh?”

“He had come, he said, because he had heard disturbing news about Candlewood. That you meant to tear it down. He was very…well, you know what he is, he was very authoritative, as if he were giving one of his speeches to Parliament. He asked me if I could change your mind, and that it would not reflect well upon the family if you went ahead. That sort of thing.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said you were your own man and I had little influence over you.”

“Good.”

“Actually, I had the feeling he was rather glad you were demolishing the place, but he thought he should pretend the opposite. That man is so devious I sometimes wonder if he himself knows what he’s thinking.”

Oliver smiled. “While Candlewood is standing his reputation is in danger. He thinks when it is dust he will be safe. But soon he will learn that matters are not quite as simple as that….”

“Oliver…he mentioned Anthony. He said Anthony would not have liked the person you have become. He said that Anthony would have felt let down by you.”

For a moment Oliver felt sick with fury, but he swallowed it down. Made himself calm again before he spoke. “I see.” He allowed the thud of her cane to fill the silence as they reached the dining room.

“Oliver, I have been thinking…. I do not know if you should go on with this plan of yours, to avenge Anthony. I know I gave approval, and at the time I quite saw the point you were making, but now…well, I have been wondering of late whether we have been looking for a culprit to blame when there is none. Perhaps Anthony did kill himself, Oliver. I know it is not what you want to hear, but we must face the fact that as levelheaded as Anthony seemed, he may have decided, in a foolish moment, to take his own life.”

Oliver knew he must choose his words carefully, and yet he felt hot and dizzy, as though he had been out in the sun too long. Had Lord Lawson caused this, his aunt’s doubt? Now, when it was almost over? Perhaps, he thought bleakly, she had always doubted him,
but had played along for his own sake, to salve his conscience.

“Anthony would never have killed himself,” he said, and only the tremor of his voice showed the pressure he had to bring to bear upon himself. “His heart was stouter than that. He was murdered and we both know by whom. Be patient, Aunt, that is all I ask. It will be over soon.”

“Oliver, are you positive that—”

“Yes. You think I want to close my eyes to the possibility that Anthony killed himself, because then I would have to accept the blame? I
do
accept the blame. If I had not been with Celia, then Anthony would have told me what it was that was bothering him. He had spoken before, but only bits and pieces, nothing that had made much sense at the time. That night he had finally come to me to explain the whole story, to ask me for my advice. Despite the difference in our ages, despite what people thought about our differing characters, he sometimes did ask my advice, you know. But that night Celia was there, and…He walked out, he walked all the way to Candlewood, and took his secret with him to the grave.”

Lady Marsh’s cane thudded on the floor, muffled by the carpet. “You will not listen to me, Oliver, so I may as well save my breath. Only let me say this one more thing.”

They had reached her chair at the head of the table. “You may say whatever you wish, Aunt.”

Lady Marsh struggled into her seat. Settled at last, she looked up at Oliver, and her hard, proud face was pleading. She looked her age, and she looked worried.

“Oliver, you must find a wife and marry. There is solace in making a family of your own. You are too much alone these days. Oh, I know, you are always
with people, but a man can stand in a crowded room and still be alone. Look at my list of brides and choose one. Please.”

Oliver forced himself to smile, forced the anger from him. She meant well. She loved him, in her way.

“Very well, I will look at your list, Aunt.”

Pointless, brother! Miss Vivianna Greentree will not be on it.

Anthony’s voice in his head took him by surprise, and Oliver gave a more genuine smile. Anthony would say such a thing, cut straight to the heart of the matter. That was something he missed a great deal now that his brother was gone—someone to tell him exactly what he thought without skirting the issue, or pandering to his sensibilities.

And at that moment he realized what it was about Vivianna that intrigued him so. She, like Anthony, did not scruple to tell him exactly what she thought.

Not that she would ever change his mind, he told himself hastily, for she couldn’t. Candlewood had to be torn down, and he had offered the orphans an alternate shelter. That they had rejected his offer was not his problem; he had no desire to become a champion of the poor and homeless.

No, Vivianna would never persuade him to do anything he didn’t want to do, but it would be…
interesting
letting her try.

“M
iss Greentree is here, my lord. She wants to leave her card. There is a message written on the back of it.”

Oliver looked up at his blank-faced butler, wondering whether he was hearing things. His gaze dropped to the card upon the silver salver held in Hodge’s gloved hand. The white square was plain and unadorned, apart from the simple words,
Miss Vivianna Greentree, Greentree Manor, Yorkshire.

The fact that he had been in the library, sitting and brooding over a glass of brandy and thinking of her, seemed to have conjured her up.

“What does the message on the back say, Hodge?”

The butler turned the card over and pursed his lips. “It says: ‘I can help you,’ my lord.”

Oliver considered this.
I can help you
. So many possibilities. It intrigued him, as it was no doubt meant to. “Show her in, Hodge.”

Hodge quickly wiped the surprise from his face. Ever since the incident of Celia Maclean, Oliver had a
rule that no unaccompanied females were allowed into his home unless he gave prior instruction. He had now set a precedent, for Hodge, himself,
and
Miss Greentree.

“In
here,
my lord?”

Hodge did not look about at the library; he did not have to. The dark tones, the heavy furniture, the leathery smell of the books, all spoke of this being very much a masculine province. It was not a room that a lady had been asked to share recently, certainly not to sit and chat or, in Vivianna’s case, lecture. Too bad, thought Oliver. If she wished to help him, she would have to do so on
his
terms.

Hodge had departed, and soon returned with Miss Greentree. The door closed heavily behind her.

She was dressed in another of her plain dresses. This one was dark green, gathered at her waist, the full skirt hiding numerous petticoats and almost brushing the ground—he saw a hint of black shoe. The bodice was very tightly fitted, with no adornment other than a high lace collar, and the sleeves also fitted to her arms, tight to the wrist, where they were trimmed by a white lace cuff to match the collar. Her chestnut hair was bundled into a heavy knot at her nape—no braids or ringlets—and pinned in place beneath a modest straw hat tied with black ribbons. She carried a practical-looking drawstring bag in her gloved hands.

Oliver’s
second
thought on seeing her was that he would like to throw the bag out of the window, followed by her hat, pull out all her hairpins, and let her hair tumble down around her.

His
first
thought: Her dress might be plain and unadorned, but that, and its fittedness, only made it more obvious that the body beneath was rounded and very womanly. He wanted to peel it off her, throw it in the
fire, and then dress her anew. Red silk. Yes, Miss Vivianna Greentree would look very fine in red silk. Perhaps a red silk shawl, with a fringe to dangle tantalizingly over her breasts and her thighs as she lay on his sofa before the fire, her eyes half closed beneath her long dark lashes, her hair shimmering about her shoulders, and her smile all for him.

It was a delightful fantasy.

Abruptly Oliver stood up, his glass still in his hand. Vivianna was watching him with ill-concealed dismay, and, with her gaze lingering on the glass, a good deal of censure. He realized then that she thought he was drunk—she had already made her case against him and pronounced sentence. She had judged him a useless, worthless creature. He could hardly blame her for that; he had taken pains to portray himself as exactly such a man for the past year. Besides, her lips were pursed so disapprovingly and yet so appealingly that he thought he may as well go ahead and help her to think the worst.

He wanted to shock her, didn’t he? He wanted to drive her away?

Oliver gave her his best drunken smile, managing to sway a little at the same time, as if he were having difficulty keeping his balance. “Miss Greentree! You are truly the bravest woman of my acquaintance.”

“Lord Montegomery?” Her hazel eyes widened, her fine skin flushed. “What can you mean?”

“I mean that you have come to my house. All alone. I congratulate you.”

Vivianna wondered, watching him execute a wobbly bow, if he was trying to be amusing. He was obviously the worse for drink, although it was hard to tell how worse for it he actually was. She had come here to leave her card with its message, and instead had been
allowed into his inner sanctum. She had not expected to see him, but when the opportunity was given to her, she had not been able to resist. But now that she was actually standing before him, seeing the gleam in his eye, noting the way his dark hair fell forward over his brow…Her breath hitched; her fingers tightened on her bag. This was Oliver Montegomery at his most dangerous.

She should not have come here alone. Again.

Vivianna watched him watching her, and did her best to pretend she was unaffected. “I do not think I have anything to be afraid of, my lord,” she said evenly. “You
are
a gentleman, are you not?”

He smiled, and gently shook his finger at her. “I was born a gentleman, Miss Greentree, but I am afraid I have long since ceased to earn the right to be called one.”

He went to the decanter and poured himself another glass of brandy, although she was quite certain he had had more than enough.

“What did you mean, Miss Greentree, when you wrote, ‘I can help you’? Have you come to offer me solace? I am a man in great need of solace, as you can see. Or do you think you are the woman to set me back on the…the straight and narrow? I am sure you have
whipped
many a man into shape.”

She colored at his hint of the episode at Aphrodite’s, but did not look away. Strange, but drunk as he obviously was, his eyes were clear and watchful still, the blue untainted by spirits or vice.

“I have come to offer my help, my lord, because yesterday I visited Candlewood, and I heard from my friends there of your brother’s death. I realize now that you are a man suffering grievously, and that you
may simply need someone to talk to, to guide you. That is what I meant when I wrote upon the card.”

He set the decanter down with a rattle. “If you mean I have a guilty conscience, then nothing could be further from the truth. I have no conscience.”

Seeing him with the refilled glass in his hand, his dark hair tousled, his neckcloth askew, his stance indolent, Vivianna could well believe he was exactly the type of man he said he was. And yet…there was a tiny voice in her head that told her that within the scoundrel was a man worth saving.

She rallied. “I do not believe that. Any man can change for the better, if he wants to.”

He laughed angrily. “And you are an authority on that, are you? Perhaps you want me to become one of your disciples, one of your creatures, forever grateful for your charity and interest. People would point me out, as I followed you about to…to
meetings,
carrying your papers and your bag, listening to your every word with humble amazement. ‘There is old Montegomery,’ they would say, ‘brought back from the brink by Miss Greentree. What a woman she must be to have wrought such a miracle!’ You want me to be your slave, Miss Greentree. You want me to hand Candlewood over to you, and my soul with it.
That
is what you want, isn’t it?”

He seemed suddenly very animated. She swallowed. “Not at all,” she said quietly.

“You know nothing about me,” he went on, those intense eyes fixed on hers, such pain and anger in their depths that she felt her own heart contract.

“Your brother died at Candlewood, and his death was connected to you. I know you feel guilt and sorrow. Perhaps that is why you want to demolish Can
dlewood, to wipe it from your memory, but that will not help, my lord, truly it will not. Pain cannot be so easily dismissed; it carries on, inside, like an unhealed wound. Sometimes your only chance of healing, of making amends, comes through thinking of the greater good rather than of yourself. Give Candlewood to the children.”

He stared at her. She truly amazed him. The passion in her eyes was something to behold, and the trouble was, she meant it. She thought she was doing him a good turn, and herself at the same time. Make amends for his brother’s death by helping others.

He shook his head. “You speak with such authority on pain and suffering, Miss Greentree”—his voice was harsh—“but you only know what you have seen secondhand. You are too young to have suffered, and your background is obviously privileged. A fine house, a loving family, friends who have your best interests at heart. You are a sham.”

Hurt flared in her brilliant eyes, and then died away. She looked older, suddenly, the bones of her face beneath that fine skin more accentuated. Ah, there
was
something…Vivianna had her secrets, too.

“You do not know me.”

He smiled. “My point exactly. I do not know you, and
you
do not know
me
.”

She looked away, her back and shoulders rigid. Had he struck her a mortal blow? More likely she was just regrouping, deciding on her next line of attack. He did not dare to hope he had put a stop to her onward charge. Not surrender, not yet.

“Do you know, Miss Greentree, that my aunt has drawn me up a list of prospective brides?”

The words came out of nowhere, startling even himself. She looked at him, her lips slightly parted, a
frown wrinkling her brow beneath the hideous hat. Perhaps she, like him, felt that the situation was slipping out of control. And yet he could not seem to stop himself.

Vivianna’s eyes delved into his. “Has she?”

“Yes, she has. A list of young ladies of birth and breeding, those she considers suitable recipients of my proposal of marriage. What do you think of that, Miss Greentree?”

He gestured for her to be seated, as if his choice of bride were a subject she would find fascinating. In fact she did appear fascinated. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining. Or was she just humoring him? Handling the lunatic gently.

“Why does your aunt want you to marry?” Vivianna sat down upon a sofa by the gently burning fire and stripped off her gloves in a businesslike manner.

“My elder brother is dead and I am the last of my line. What was his responsibility now falls to me.”

“I see.”

“So you think it is perfectly acceptable for my aunt to choose my wife?”

Vivianna thought it was appalling, but she didn’t want to say so just yet. Why did he want her answer, anyway? Surely he did not want a matrimonial adviser, and if he did, he certainly would not choose her!

Would he…?

To give herself time, she looked about her at the room. It was rich in color and smelled of books. Her favorite sort of place, she thought with a hidden smile. If he had asked her into his library because he thought to discomfort her, he could not have been further from the mark.

“I am waiting, Miss Greentree.”

“I think it is a pity that you cannot find a wife for
yourself,” she said bluntly. “After all, your aunt’s choices cannot be yours. Although she may sift through their pedigrees and tally their dowries, she cannot know what it is about a woman that truly fires your heart.”

The brandy glass was warming between his palms, but he wasn’t drinking from it. In fact he seemed to have forgotten about it, as he leaned forward in his chair, his gaze upon hers. “Fires my heart? Very poetic, Miss Greentree, but my aunt despises poetry. She wants me to father some poor infant, to continue on the Montegomery bloodline, and then I can sink into obscurity and he can rise above me. To be blunt, she wants a woman I can breed with, nothing more.”

Vivianna felt her cheeks flush. This was not the sort of conversation a spinster should be having with a rake, but there were lots of things she had done lately that she was not supposed to do—most of them with Oliver. “Then surely if that is the case any female would do? The kitchen maid or the girl selling flowers on the corner!”

He was still leaning forward in his chair. There wasn’t much space between them at all. His eyes were so dark and mesmerizing, she thought if she were not careful, she would fall into them. He may be bad—
he was very bad
—but unlike Toby he was not a man to dismiss lightly. Vivianna knew that despite what she had learned about him, despite his callousness toward the fate of the shelter, there was something about this man that attracted and captivated her.

She may well be a silly virgin, eager to embrace her fate, but it was too late to go back now; she could only go forward.

“I doubt my aunt would approve of a flower girl sitting at my table as my wife, Miss Greentree, worthy
though you will no doubt tell me she is. The Montegomery family is an old and proud one. We prefer to marry like.”

“Anyway,” Vivianna said, ignoring the hint of a smile on his mouth and the way his eyes teased, “despite what your aunt says and wants, I think it must be
you
who makes the final decision. Remember, my lord, the woman you decide upon will be your wife. You will be bound to her, for better or worse, and even though it seems to me that you intend to ignore her as much as possible, there will be times when you may find it necessary to be on reasonable terms with her. You should at least find someone you can converse with without starting an argument.”

She was thinking of Aunt Helen and Toby.

“You are very practical.” He leaned back in his chair, and for a moment he looked bleak, as if what had begun as a joke had lost its ability to make him smile. Then his gaze lifted once more to hers, and she saw the dangerous spark in those depths.

“Would you like to throw your rather ugly hat into the ring, Miss Greentree? Would you like to supply the heir to the Montegomery name? Just think, you could turn all my properties into Shelters for Poor Orphans.”

He was not serious, of course. He was teasing her, and he had been drinking. And yet, even though it was a cruel jest, sensation washed over her. The idea of being his, and he being hers, was suddenly, blazingly wonderful.

Vivianna swallowed nervously. To escape his watchful eyes, she looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. There was her wool gown, sensible and unflattering, and beneath it her three petticoats. There were the tips of her shoes, plain and practical, and her stockings, thick and warm and made to withstand the York
shire moors. Again, all very sensible and practical. Because, she reminded herself, that was what she was.