My Only Love (4 page)

Everett Devonshire huffed in exasperation, and
shook his head. They'd had this argument too many times. He moved stiffly from
behind the desk and walked to the window. "Perhaps if we had raised you
differently," he said to the dark windowpanes. "Elizabeth and I
always off in London. Ah me, it all seems so absurd now, when I think of how we
left you here in the care of that addled old nanny. Then Emily was born, the
very image of her mother—so small and delicate and pale as porcelain. By God,
but I did so love your mother, Olivia."

Olivia looked at Emily; the younger girl hurried
to her father's side and, in a playfully timid fashion, plucked at his coat
sleeve. "And I remind you of Mama, don't I, Father?"

He regarded her a long, silent moment before
turning again to Olivia. "There's no excuse for the indifference your
mother and I showed you."

"I was your favorite," Emily blurted
out, grabbing her father's arm more determinedly. "Wasn't I, Father? You
told me a thousand times!"

Faint color rose in Olivia's cheeks; she turned
her face away. The old, recognizable sting was back, settling in that familiar
hollow pit in her stomach. "Of course you're his favorite, Emily,"
she replied in a soft, emotionless voice. "Tell her, Father. It's all
right, you know. 'Tis nothing I haven't known, and heard, for the last twenty-two
years of my life."

Still he refused to reply. Lord Devonshire's
face had become a sallow shade of ash.

Olivia managed a tight smile. "Perhaps it
would be best if you waited outside, Emily. I have a few things I'd like to say
to Father in private."

"But—"

"Just for a few minutes, Emily." She
nudged the reluctant girl out the door, and prepared to close it. Emily braced
her shoulder against it and stared into Olivia's eyes. "I'll speak with
you later," Olivia told her, then shut the door firmly between them.

She turned back to discover that her father had
again taken his chair behind his desk, his composure regained. Olivia poured
him a measure of brandy in a snifter and offered it to him.

"I apologize for
your sister," he said.

"Please, Father—" "We've spoiled
her."

"Undeniably. But she loves you very much.
She'd be crushed if she believed, even for a moment, that she had done anything
to displease or hurt you."

Devonshire gazed into his brandy as he sat back
in his chair. His voice was deeply weary when he at last spoke again. "I
meant to speak to you on the matter of Warwick after I had discussed the
situation with him."

"Let me guess," she said. "I
imagine, knowing Miles's reputation, that he told you to take a flying leap off
the Buttertubs." She held her breath, waiting for his reply.

Her father's silence spoke volumes.

"I see." A tendril of dark hair had
escaped the chignon at the nape of her neck. Absently, she tucked it back into
the thick, silky knot. She adjusted her glasses and tried to swallow.
"Well," she barely managed, "what did he say?"

"Moronic buffoon," he grumbled, and
took a drink. "Arrogant ne'er-do-well, as if he has any right to expect
any better. I explained that you were gifted with a line mind—"

"Men rarely consider a fine mind an asset
in women, Father." She laughed tightly. "Please continue."

"Certainly, the issue of your unfortunate
misalliance had to be approached; of course, I did so as delicately as
possible, explaining that, considering Miles's background, he had little room
to stand in judgment."

"Ah. And that didn't impress him? I can't
imagine why. Tell me, Father, how much money did you offer him if he would
agree to take me and my 'mistake' off your hands?"

"Here now," he blustered. "Watch
how you speak!" "Then have the decency to tell me just how much I'm
worth."

"Didn't matter. He turned me down flat.
Wasn't interested for any amount of money, he said. Bloody upstart. Always did
believe he deserved something better; I reckon he should be thankful for what
he can get..." The realization of what he'd just implied hit him with a
jolt. Plunking the snifter onto the desk, he cursed and ran one hand through
his thinning gray hair. "Dammit, Olivia, don't look at me that way. You
know what I meant."

Olivia turned for the door.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

Throwing open the door, she called for Jonah and
directed him to bring up the coach. Then she started for the stairs, where
Emily regarded her with a look of intense concern.

"I'm going out," Olivia told her.

"Out where?"

"To dance on the tabletops at King's Arms
Tavern, of course."

Emily grabbed her arm. "You're going to see
him." Yanking her arm away, she proceeded up the stairs. "But you
can't! You mustn't! What are you going to say, Olivia?"

Spinning
and grabbing the handrail, Olivia stared down at her sister's pale face.
"I'm going to offer our father's humblest apologies, of course, for making
an unmitigated ass of himself. For humiliating me, but most of all, for
subjecting the darling child sleeping up those stairs to such an appalling
degradation."

Olivia continued up the stairs. Her body burned.
And shook. By the time she reached her chamber and slammed the door behind her
she could hard-tj negotiate her way to the dressing table across the room.

Dropping into the chair, propping her elbows on
the dresser, she buried her face in her hands. The tears were there; she
couldn't help it.

'There, there," came the familiar, soothing
voice of Bertrice Figmore. Olivia did her best to wipe away her tears as she
watched the aged nanny's reflection approach in the dresser mirror. The old
dear's silver hair stood out in cottonlike tufts all over her head. She
waddled, rather than walked, but her smile was genuine and kind. "There,
there," she repeated. "What's wrong with me girl? What has yer mummy
and papa done to make Bertrice's lass so unhappy?"

Olivia blew her nose into a hankie. There was no
point in explaining again that Olivia's mother had died twelve years ago; it
would only distress and confuse Bertrice more.

"Don't tell me." Bertrice pursed her
mouth in distaste. "That little terror has been at it again, ain't she?
Naughty girl. But never mind."

"I fear it's not Emily's fault this
time," Olivia replied. Turning partially in her chair, she gazed up into
Bertrice's faded eyes and tried her best to dismiss the irregular racing of her
heart. Her father had actually tried to marry her to Miles Warwick. It was like
a fresh blow to realize the man she'd worshiped for years considered her a
wayward frump. "It's Miles Kemball.. . Warwick. From Braithwaite. You
remember him, don't you, Bertrice?"

Bertrice looked ponderous, then her face lit in
recognition. "Ooh, aye! He's sweet on Emily, ain't that right?"

Olivia felt her face flush.

"You ain't still moonin' over the likes of
him, are ya, lass?" Bertrice clucked her tongue. "He's a bad one, is
that boy. He and yer sister deserve one another, if ya ask me."

Olivia stared into her friend's eyes for a long,
silent minute. "That was five years ago," she said softly. "He
wasn't interested in me then, and he isn't now. How could my father have
embarrassed me in this fashion, and to Miles Warwick? Anyone but him, oh,
please . . . !"

"Yer such a lovely little thing—so full of
fire and promise. Any man would be proud to have ya..." Bertrice turned
Olivia back toward the dresser, and her fingers began to pluck the pins from
Olivia's hair. Deftly, she brushed out the dark brown strands so they shone
like mink in the lantern light. "Never did care for yer sister's yellow
hair. Looked like hay, if ya ask me."

"Miles told Emily that her hair was like
silk sunlight."

"Ya
took after yer father's side of the family, in looks and temperament."

"I overheard them once. I once feared she
would marry him. I couldn't imagine having Miles Kemball as a brother-in-law...
I used to imagine that one day he would notice me and forget all about her. He
didn't, of course . .."

"I told yer mother just last week that
she'd someday come to regret how they ruined the lass with all their primpin'
and fussin' over every little thing she does."

"The Marquess of Clanricarde is going to
ask for her hand just any day," Olivia said, taking the brush from
Bertrice's hand and placing it aside. She gathered the pins into a tidy pile,
then began retying her hair at the nape of her neck.

The old nanny stooped so her round face was next
to Olivia's in the mirror. "Why don't ya leave yer hair down, lass? It's
ever so pretty curling down yer back, and makes ya look so much younger."

Jabbing the pins into her hair so tightly it
tugged at her temples, Olivia focused on her own reflection and tried to
disregard the disappointment in Bertrice's eyes. "Get me my coat,"
she ordered. "I'm going out."

By the time Miles reached his brother's house, a
film of ice had settled upon his hair and face and shoulders. His fingers were
stiff and he could no longer feel his toes.

The butler answered the door only after
persistent pounding on Miles's part. Bright light and incredibly warm air
spilled over the threshold as Stanley, upon recognizing Miles, placed himself
as steadfast as a sentinel in the doorway.

"His Lordship," the butler announced,
"is occupied with guests."

Hearing the guests' laughter, Miles stepped
toward the door. The startled old butler quickly moved aside. The sudden rush of
heat made Miles gasp for breath; his ears turned into what felt like white-hot
flames. By the time he reached the dining hall water had started to drip from
his tangled mass of dark, curly hair.

          Upon
Miles's unexpected entrance, Damien Warwick looked up from his chair at the end
of the table. Indeed, the entirety of the room's visitants pinned Miles with
incredulous stares.

          "Hi
ho!" cried Frederick Millhouse. "Everyone hide his valuables!"

          "By
Jove," added Claurence Newton, "and who said the devil resided in
hell?"

          A
burst of laughter erupted from the half-dozen other guests. Bonnie, Damien's
very pregnant wife, leapt from her chair next to Damien's, as if she were about
to rush to Miles, but Damien stopped her with a firm hand about her wrist.

          "Sit
down," he told her firmly, and though her face turned a shocking pink with
indignation, she did so.

          A
moment passed before the room fell into complete silence, every inquisitive
stare fixed on Miles, whose gaze was locked on his brother.

          "You're
interrupting our meal," Damien told him, his voice coldly polite.

          "I
suppose my invitation was lost in the post," Miles returned, as chillingly
polite.

          Damien
sat back in his chair. "What do you want, Miles?"

          "What
do you think I want?"

          "A
fight, by the looks of you."

          "Hey
ho!" Frederick cried. "My money's on Kemball!"

          A
wave of nervous laughter again rippled through the room, then silence once
more.

          "I
was summoned to Devonswick today," Miles stated, his gaze going briefly
to Bonnie's face. Her eyes were wide, their expression concerned.

Calmly,
Damien placed his fine linen napkin on the table by his plate, and pushed back
his chair. "Perhaps this is better discussed in private."

          "Don't
bother. Just thought I'd drop by and tell you to your face you can go to hell.
I'll save Braithwaite myself—"

          "And
how do you intend to do that? You've already squandered your quarterly
allowance, and—"

          "I
won't sell my soul to some trollop. Even I deserve better than that."

          "Really?
What gave you that idea?"

          Philippe
Fitzpatrick leapt from his chair as Miles lunged toward his brother. The
fair-haired lord placed himself between the two, his hands planted firmly
against Miles's shoulders. "Gentlemen! This is neither the time nor the
place to discuss such a delicate matter."

          "There's
no discussion, Fitzpatrick," Miles replied. "I don't intend to marry
the chit, Dame, and I resent the hell out of your attempts to manipulate my
life."

          "For
your information," Damien snapped, "I had nothing to do with any
so-called manipulation. Lord Devonshire approached me as head of the family on
the matter last week, and I gave my approval."

          "Just
what the blazes gives you the almighty power over my personal life? You're not
my father, Earl Warwick. You're my brother—oh, I do beg your pardon,
m'lord—half-brother. My younger half-brother at that. You have no right—"

          "The
hell I don't." Kicking aside his chair, Damien moved around the table,
resplendent in his finely tailored black velvet dinner jacket and snow-white
cravat. Shoving Philippe Fitzpatrick out of the way, he stood toe to toe with
Miles, the Warwick temper burning in his eyes, and his fists clenched. "I
have every right, Kemball. Despite your inability to accept the stark, ugly
realities of our situation, I am the head of this family. It is thanks only to
my attempts to bring some sort of truce to our relationship that I have
tolerated your ineptitude this long. You convinced me two years ago that if I
would only give you the opportunity to prove that you could straighten out your
life, you would accomplish grand things with both Braithwaite and the
mines."