My Only Love (7 page)

"Which
storm?" she asked. "The one out there?" She motioned toward the
window. "Or the one in here?"

He
raised one eyebrow and something flashed in his eyes. Amusement? Surprise?
Whatever, it made him smile, however briefly. Her fingers clutched the cup of
whisky like a lifeline.

"Sit
down," he told her, and pointed toward a straight-backed little chair near
the fire. "Oh, I do beg your pardon," he hurried to add with a degree
of sarcasm. "Won't you please sit down, m'lady? I beg you to forgive my
breach of etiquette; I don't have visitors often. After a while one becomes
overly accustomed to dealing only with belligerent servants."

"I
should think any belligerence on a servant's part would call for immediate
dismissal," she responded, glancing pointedly toward the door where the
housemaid hovered outside the threshold. "You are master of
Braithwaite."

He
did not look at her, just laid his head back against the brocaded chair and
stared off into space. "Master of this house? I beg to differ, Miss
Devonshire. Braithwaite is mastered by no one. Besides, how does one master the
monster of emptiness?"

"Do
you mean emptiness or loneliness, Mr. Warwick?"

"Do
I appear to be a lonely man, Miss Devonshire?"

"If
I lived here alone I think I should come to fear for my sanity."

He
made a soft sound in his throat then allowed his thoughts to dive again among
the flames, where they remained for some time while Olivia took sip after sip
of her drink and watched the light of the fire reflect from his granite-hewn
features. At last, he looked up suddenly and found her staring at his face.

"What
do you find so fascinating about me?" he asked. "Don't tell me you've
never shared a cordial with a moral degenerate before."

"No,"
she replied. "I suppose I haven't."

"Ah.
Just Gypsies and tattooists." He drank again and closed his eyes briefly.
Then he motioned toward the chair near the fire and said, "Please sit
down."

Reluctantly,
she did so, and with some relief. How long she had stood there, as unmoving as
a statue, she couldn't guess.

"So
tell me, Miss Devonshire; is this your first visit to Braithwaite?"

"Yes."

"Is
she what you expected?" "Yes."

He
brought his head up and regarded her with an expression of surprise. "How
so?" he asked. "She's very grand—"

"That
goes without conjecture. Sheep could determine that from the next county. Tell
me what you think of this." He flipped his hand toward the room. "Do
you not find my companions lively?"

"They're
dead," she replied, looking from one stuffed head to the other.

"And
the rest of the house?"

"Cold
and dark."

"Well,
there you have it. Cold and dark and full of dead. What sort of being would
subject himself to living in such an environment, I ask you?"

Turning
the cup to her lips, she drank more deeply and considered. "I have
it!" she declared, and offered him her cup to replenish. He did so, his
dark eyes coming back to hers as he placed it in her hands. "A
maggot," she replied with a set of her chin. "A bat. A vampire bat.
That's even better. A slug. A beetle. A worm."

He
held up one hand as if to deflect the words. "Enough! Maggot and worm?
Good God. I suppose I should be thankful you didn't tick off fungi."

"But
fungi have neither heart, mind, nor soul, sir."

He
laughed, a deep and resonant sound. The music of it made her breathless.
"No heart? No soul?" Warwick feigned a less than believable scowl
that took nothing away from the twinkle in his dark eyes. "Considering
I've been called a heartless and soulless creature for all of my life, Miss
Devonshire, perhaps I would be more inclined toward fungi."

"But
you live. And breathe. You even laugh. So you must have a heart."

"Admittedly,
I've never seen fungi laugh."

"Nor
a maggot nor a worm!"

"Carry
on. Please do. I'm feeling better about myself every second."

"You
walk upright—" "Generally."

"And
since I know no four-legged animal that prefers to reside alone and in chambers
that are dark and cold and damp, that could leave only humans." She paused
as if considering. "So that would make you either a monk or a
hermit."

"A
great many things I may be," he replied with a rakish lift of one eyebrow,
"but a monk I ain't, dear heart."

She
laughed. Or rather giggled. It was an odd sound coming from her, and she
glanced with a degree of bemusement at her emptied cup. Her face felt warm. The
fire at her back made her insides feel liquid. Or perhaps it was the way
Warwick sat in his chair, long limbs so masculine but graceful as they
stretched out casually. His shirt had begun to dry nicely, but there were still
patches where the damp linen clung to his skin, revealing the barest hint of
flesh beneath. She found herself staring at a dark, coin-shaped spot on his
chest, then realized it was his nipple.

Her
gaze leapt back to his face, only to discover that he was watching her with an
intensity that caused a streak of reason to sluice like a spear from her mind
to her heart. What was she doing sitting in Miles Warwick's company this hour
of the night, feeling as if someone had just twirled her around a half-dozen
times—thanks to the two servings of whisky that she'd imbibed as if it were
lemonade.

And
why was he looking at her like that? So curious? So concentrated? All the
insecurities she had temporarily forgotten surged over her as the barest hint
of a smile appeared on his lips. Suddenly, she felt stone-cold sober; she
wanted to flee from the room.

"Don't
bother," he said. "There isn't a hair out of place."

Unaware
that her hand had gone up to smooth back her hair, Olivia paused.

"Your
glasses are straight."

She
adjusted them anyway.

"Why
do you wear them?" he asked.

"Because
I cannot see," she replied.

"The
devil, you say. You weren't wearing them this afternoon and you saw me
perfectly well."

This
afternoon? Sitting there with winter pecking at the window and a fire burning
into her back, she thought that their meeting that afternoon had seemed like a
fortnight ago.

"Take
them off," he demanded. "I don't like them."

"I'm
not inclined to care," she replied.

"They
make your eyes look as if you're staring at me from inside a fishbowl."

"I
need them to read."

"But
you aren't reading now."

"No."
She shook her head. "I shan't remove them."

"Very
well, then. Tell me why you wear your hair that way."

"I
beg your pardon?"

"It's
ugly."

"I—"

"And
that dress you're wearing. It's bloody atrocious. Gray doesn't suit you. You
look as if you're in mourning. Are you in mourning, Miss Devonshire?"

"I
don't think, sir, that you have the right to insult me when you, yourself, sit there
in dirty boots, wet clothes, with a suspicious stain on the front of your
shirt."

Silently
he regarded her. To Olivia's mortification she felt her eyes well with tears.
She really had had a lot to drink. If she blinked they would spill, but she'd
learned long ago that if she continued to stare straight ahead—no movement at
all of her head—and didn 't blink, she could adequately hide her emotions. If
she hurried to excuse herself she might even make it as far as the coach before
completely losing her composure.

"Won't you come
into the garden?

 I would like my roses
to see you."

 —Rose Henniker Heaton

CHAPTER FOUR

Warwick
left his chair and proceeded to move around the room, nudging this and toeing
that. He walked to the door and stood there with his hands in his pockets and
his back to Olivia. "There was a time," he said to the shadows,
"when no matter what wing of the house you were in, there was always
noise. From the help, mostly, but that didn't matter. I was always guaranteed
that if I raised enough hell, someone somewhere would come along."

Glancing
back at her, he said, "My greatest dream was to have Braithwaite for my
own. She obsessed my every waking hour. I would lie in my bed at night and fantasize
walking through these halls surveying all around me, and I tried to imagine the
pride I would feel—the sense of accomplishment or worth; the overwhelming sense
of belonging to something at last. .."

His
voice faded, but he didn't move. Neither did Olivia. Nor did she breathe. The
hurt and embarrassment she'd experienced seconds before was forgotten as she
stared at Warwick's broad back and the dark, drying hair that spilled in loose
rich curls over his shirt collar. An odd sort of thrill hummed in her veins as
she realized that she was witnessing a Miles Warwick that few people ever had.
No doubt it was the liquor talking—she was certainly no stranger to the effect
it could have on a man, or woman's, better judgment—but she also knew that
herein lay the truth.

Still,
he didn't talk like an inebriated man. The words weren't so slurred.

He
spoke again. "Then my father died and everything passed to Randolf. When
Randolf died from a shooting accident I hoped—prayed—that somehow the house
would pass to me. Damien, after all, had established himself in Mississippi and
didn't give a damn about Braithwaite. But of course he returned and took
control and suddenly I wasn't even welcome in the house in which I had grown
up. Mind you, Miss Devonshire, I couldn't really blame Damien. I had never been
the most ideal brother."

Turning
to face her, he leaned against the doorjamb and ran one hand through his hair.
He did not look at her, but allowed his gaze to slide, unseeing, from one
mounted beast-head to another. "No doubt you've heard the rumors that I
tried to kill him. Well," he said with a touch of defiance in his weary
voice, "they're true."

He
looked at her directly at last, a breathtaking god momentarily lost in a bleak
abysm of contrition. "What, Miss Devonshire? Not even a gasp? Not a
feminine cry for hartshorn? Perhaps the rumors I've heard about you are true as
well."

"Perhaps,"
she stated simply, and adjusted the spectacles more comfortably on her nose.
"Do continue, Mr. Warwick."

"My,
but you are a singular young woman, Miss Devonshire. Very well. I did attempt
to murder him twice. Once on a hunting expedition I tried to shoot him,
pretending, of course, that the gun misfired. Another time I cut the girth on
his saddle; he wound up with a broken bone and nothing more. Still not swooning
in horror, Miss Devonshire?"

"I
think that you would like me to. After all, have you not built your reputation
on shocking people? Or perhaps you're simply attempting to frighten me,
thinking I'll flee into the night, never to be seen at Braithwaite again.
Really, sir. You needn't go to such extremes, I assure you." She raised
one eyebrow and smiled. "Besides, I'm not easily shocked. How could I be.,
considering my own reputation?"

"Indeed."
He regarded her thoughtfully. "Then perhaps if I tell you that I'm the
cause of Damien's traipsing off to that godforsaken, mosquito-ridden country
called Mississippi, you'll change your mind. You see, I slept with his fiancee
the night before their wedding, and he discovered us. Mind you, I hadn't set
out with such intentions. It was fully the young woman's doing—she simply
didn't want to marry Dame. Still, I suppose it worked out all right in the end.
When Dame returned to England after five years he met Bonnie."

A
look crossed his face that caused an uneasy stirring in Olivia's breast. She'd
heard the rumors about Bonnie as well—how Miles was secretly in love with the
young woman.