Lady Sarah's Redemption (36 page)

She swallowed. Max
Atherton, her late husband Lucien’s cousin: the man into whose keeping her son
had been placed. With those eyes, confident and inscrutable beneath a high
forehead, the straight nose and mouth she had once thought sensitive, it could
be none other. He might be smiling but it was an act. Could only be one.

She gathered her wits.
He must not see her fear. He would take advantage of it. Make her do things
against her will.

Taking a deep breath she
fought for control. She could not afford to make mistakes. Lucien was dead
while Olivia had survived. She needed only the return of her son to make her
happy, and she would fight for Julian to the death. He was the only reason she
was here. She and Aunt Eunice had worked out every detail to prove her
innocence, to make Max Atherton see the truth. Truth would be her ally, yet she
felt the same cornered desperation she had when Lucien had confronted her.

She sucked in another
breath. The secret of her survival lay in her ability to act. She could be
whoever she needed to be.

‘Mr Atherton.’ She
repeated his name, gaining confidence from the unmasked admiration she saw in
his eyes. ‘How very kind of you to come to my assistance’ – she swallowed
again, desperate to keep the fear from her voice – ‘when I was so foolish
as to take a tumble and thus put me in your debt.’

‘On the contrary, you
have enlivened what promised to be a very dull week – now that I know you
are not mortally wounded.’

His smile was open, but
his eyes ...

She turned her head
away. Any sign of vulnerability would put her in his power, but how could she
banter with a man who looked so like Lucien it put the fear of God into her?
How could she trust herself not to jeopardize everything for which she had
worked so hard?

‘When I looked down to
see you lying trapped beneath my horse’s hoofs, while he was rearing above you,
maddened by the storm—’

The visions he conjured
up were too close to her memories of being trapped beneath Lucien. His
description could just as easily have been that of her husband’s mad eyes
blazing, foam and spittle flying from lips which had just bruised and bitten
her.

She tried not to
whimper.

 
‘Forgive me, my dear Mrs Templestowe,’ Mr
Atherton said, his tone remorseful, his expression concerned as he bent over
her. ‘I have a deplorable habit of not dressing up the truth when it may cause
pain. Too long a bachelor, I suppose,’ he added with a smile.

‘How do you know my
name?’ whispered Olivia.

‘I made investigations around
the neighbourhood and learned you were lodging at the White Swan.’

She had offered the
publican her maiden name, for how could she present herself as Lady Farquhar in
these parts before she had convinced Mr Atherton that the name was not
synonymous with sin and vice?

The impulse to correct
him died on her lips.

Surely, the pleasantness
of Mr Atherton’s smile was a calculated ploy to trick her into letting down her
reserves?

He was smiling at her,
now, the corners of his eyes crinkling into well-worn lines as if good humour
were his natural state. But didn’t grand manipulators have any number of ploys
at their fingertips? Lucien had seemed the most charming of them all, and
surely a man couldn’t sink to depths of depravity deeper than those he had gleefully
dug using pain and threats, violence and humiliation?

She had come here
imagining his cousin was different and that the truth would answer.

Hiding her trembling
beneath the bedcovers, Olivia forced her mouth into another cool, arch smile.
‘Then you know you are harbouring a foolish, helpless widow.’

She was satisfied by the
candidness of his look. No veiled, hidden knowledge lurking in those dark
depths. Lucien loved to gloat, murmuring his depraved suspicions for which he
had already condemned her.

He continued to smile.
‘One who is guilty of nothing more than misjudging the weather.’

Shame welled up in her
bosom but she kept silent. How could she possibly stare into those slate-grey
eyes and tell him she was the shame- less widow of his late cousin? Like as not
he would punish her so that not even Reverend Kirkman’s plan, if that was ever
put into play, would restore her son to her keeping.

She closed her eyes and
fought the tears.

She’d wanted so much to
tell her version of the truth and know the catharsis of exoneration.

She slept. Strength
banished her lethargy and now all her senses were aroused by the need to find
Julian.

So far there had been no
sign of a child, anywhere. No childish laughter, no nursery-maid, no children’s
toys. The drawing room where Mr Atherton carried her would be out of bounds to
children, but there must be evidence of a two-and-a-half-year-old boy, some-
where.

Olivia thanked Mrs
Watkins for the clean, dry clothes with which she supplied her. She was quiet
as the housekeeper combed and dried her hair then helped her into the handsome
blue velvet gown Max’s sister had lent her. The fashions had changed since she
had last paid attention to what she wore.

Where
was
Julian?
Her heart thundered as she sat at the dressing table, forcing herself to sit
still. Since the moment she had entered this house it had taken all her
willpower not to leap to her feet and go dashing up and down corridors, like a
madwoman, calling his name.

She nodded dismissal to
Mrs Watkins and pressed her fingertips to her eyes. Why could Mr Atherton not
have simply escorted her back to the White Swan?

If he
were
the
antithesis of his cousin, Olivia had not the first idea how to appeal to the
instincts of a man who was charming, kind and well meaning and would no doubt
be horrified to learn of Olivia’s past.

Olivia had learned how
to play the devil.

However that was of no
account. She would be gone by dinner time. Her mission now was simply to
discover what distinguished Max Atherton from his late cousin so she could
better craft her next anonymous entreaty to have her son returned to her care.

Dropping her hands she
stared, distracted, at her reflection, then rose gnawing her little fingernail.

What should she do? What
should
she do?

But if it was not ...

For so long she’d not
made a single important decision on her own. Everything had been decided for
her from what she did each day to what she wore.

Leaning toward the
mirror she studied herself properly. The simple blue gown flattered her light
hair and peaches and cream colouring. She looked young and – frowning
– she thought, innocent.

Innocent? She gave a
mocking smile as the familiar poisonous misery flooded thickly into her veins.

Carefully she smiled
again: the kind of smile she’d practised so many times as a seventeen-year-old
debutante determined to rise above the rest and waltz off with the season’s
most eligible catch.

Then she thought of
young Julian, her darling baby, and her whole body throbbed with pain and
longing. With a sob she covered her face with her hands. Forcing herself to
breathe steadily, to slay the demons that mocked her from the darkness, she
focused on the task at hand. Max
seemed
as unlike Lucien as it was
possible to be. What if his kind- ness wasn’t an act? The interest in his eye
when he’d looked at her suggested he—

The flare of excitement
she felt was quickly extinguished by self- disgust.

How she hated the effect
she had on men. Turning quickly away from the sight of her reflection, she knocked
the silver-backed hand mirror to the floor.

She froze. Her breath
caught and dread engulfed her as she waited, ears attuned to the sound of
approaching footsteps and a possible witness to her crime. Lucien had been
violently superstitious. He’d have beaten her if she’d broken a mirror in his
house.

She stared at the object
at her feet, at its back of figured silver which gave no indication as to
whether the glass were shattered. There was no sound of footsteps, but of
course it was ridiculous to imagine Mr Atherton or his servants would keep such
a vigilant eye upon her. Those days were gone, though it was often hard to
believe it.

Slowly she bent. If the
mirror were smashed she would leave imme- diately.

Heart racing, not
knowing what outcome she wanted, she turned the mirror over.

And stared into her
unfragmented reflection.

A strange cocktail of
emotions flooded her: hope and despair, excite- ment and terror, but overall a
renewal of courage that perhaps this time she could use her charms to find happiness.

Mr Atherton had read her
poetry. He had remained at her bedside for nearly an hour earlier in the day,
chatting with her as if he enjoyed her company. And all the time she’d had a
bandage on her head!

Perhaps she really could
entrance Mr Atherton as she had entranced Lucien, and be happy for it. Then she
thought of the dangers. Perhaps Mr Atherton’s kindness was simply an act, a
prelude to the seduction of his unexpected house guest. Lucien would have found
such a chal- lenge amusing.

Sickened, she retreated
from her simple idea that Mr Atherton’s inherent decency was such that he would
be so overcome by the emotional reunion between mother and son when he finally
produced Julian he’d understand the boy’s place was with his mother, with
Olivia.

She had no idea what
kind of man Mr Atherton was. It was far too early to judge, though she was
inclining towards the opinion that he was nothing like Lucien. That he was
kind.

She bit her lips and
pinched colour into her cheeks, checking her smile one last time. Yes, she
looked pretty and ingenuous. There would be no sultry pout and sinuous
sashaying as she made her entrance: the kind of entrance she’d used to
captivate Lucien. Stupid, ignorant child that she’d been! Mr Atherton wanted a
demure, honest young woman, and that’s what she’d give him, though in truth she
had no idea what she was, anymore.

When her host turned
from where he’d been lounging against the mantelpiece and she saw only kindness
and concern in those disturbingly familiar eyes she felt even further
emboldened.

Admiration was something
she’d had enough of to last a lifetime yet this man’s was somehow comforting.
She need no longer check over her shoulder in case Lucien was silently
observing, interpreting the lust he saw in other men’s faces as a deliberate
lure she’d set for which he’d punish her in private, later.

The genuine pleasure in
Mr Atherton’s expression caused an unex- pected lurch in the space her heart
once occupied.

‘Amelia’s gown becomes
you, my dear Mrs Templestowe. It’s the colour of your eyes.’ He advanced, his
hands outstretched as if he’d known her far longer than a few hours. ‘No limp?’
He looked almost disappointed.

Olivia gave a little
shrug and smiled. She strove to sound light- hearted, though her heart
thundered. How strange that she should feel such an overt attraction to the
type of gentleman she had once derided for being tame and unexciting. Well,
anyone had fallen into that cate- gory when she had been seventeen, simply
because he were not the dangerous and alluring Lucien, Viscount Farquhar whom
she must have at all costs. She dropped her eyes, her shyness not an act. ‘I
must have just bruised it. I’m sorry for disrupting your plans for today, Mr
Atherton. You have been very kind but as soon as convenient I will return to
the White Swan.’

She saw his
disappointment as he led her to the seat closest to the fire, saying, ‘It is
not often storms around Elmwood result in such charming strays. But look.’

She was still taking in
the possibilities as he pointed to the window. He was attracted to her. She
should not be so surprised at that. It was not vanity, simply a fact. When she
was married to Lucien it was some- thing to be frightened of. As a widow she
had grown weary of the desire and derision she received, in equal parts, as if
her beauty were somehow a mask for the corruption within. She saw that snow was
falling fast in flurries of fat, floating flakes, but all she could think of
was Lucien’s lies. And how readily people had believed them.

‘You can’t possibly
travel in weather like this, Mrs Templestowe.’ Briefly he squeezed her hand
before indicating the white, frozen land- scape. ‘For one thing, you’re not
dressed for it and, until my sister returns with the carriage, I have no way of
conveying you to your lodgings.’

He looked rather pleased
at the state of affairs. Nor could Olivia deny she secretly felt the same.
Though not in the same, uncomplicated way. Out of the corner of her eye, as she
pretended to gaze with dismay upon the thickly falling snow, she realized that
acknowledging an attraction to this man would be deeply dangerous.

Impossible, even. She
needed to appeal to his obvious kindness, and she believed she could do that.
Anything more would end in tears for both of them. She acknowledged the truth
with weary resignation. Regardless of the temptations, she could not pander to
her heart. Certainly not in
this
instance.