The Truth About Lord Stoneville (7 page)

“Of course it can,” Oliver said with formidable calm. “A man of my rank can generally do as he pleases. You did say you wanted us married in all haste.”

Mrs. Plumtree’s eyes narrowed. “And Miss Butterfield’s family? Won’t they want to be here for the wedding?”

“Her parents are dead. That’s fortunate for you, since I doubt you’d want a shopkeeper’s daughter and the bastard son of a servant to appear at my wedding.”

Maria squeezed his arm. Though her role was to horrify his grandmother into rescinding her demands, he made her family sound worse than they were. And of course he said nothing of New Bedford Ships, or how Papa had risen to a position of great importance.

Mrs. Plumtree fixed Oliver with a cold gaze and said, “I’m happy to welcome anyone in your future wife’s family to your wedding.”

Judging from his black scowl, that wasn’t the answer he wanted.

“Tell me, Oliver,” the dark-haired brother said. “Where did you meet your lovely fiancée?”

The calculating smile that curved Oliver’s lips set off Maria’s alarms. “Funny you should ask that, Jarret. As it happens, we met in a brothel.”

Chapter Six

When Gran merely blinked, then steadied her shoulders and smoothed her features into nonchalance, it took all Oliver’s self-control not to roar his frustration. Minerva and Celia looked more upset than she did, for God’s sake!

And why were
they
upset, anyway? What had they thought he meant, when he’d said he would betroth himself to someone patently unsuitable in order to bring Gran to her senses? Subtlety never worked on Gran.

Suddenly he became aware of the fingers digging painfully into his arm.

“Excuse me,” Maria bit out from beside him. “I need a word with my fiancé. Is there somewhere we can be private?”

Blast it to hell. He’d forgotten about Maria. Now he’d have to deal with her, too, and she wasn’t going to take kindly to his pronouncement since she was decidedly
not
a whore.

When Minerva pointed toward the library, Maria stalked off, leaving Oliver no choice but to make his excuses and follow her.

The minute they were on the other side of the door, she whirled on him. “How dare you! You said nothing about making me out to be a whore. That was
not
our bargain.”

“Would you rather I call you a thief?” he shot back, determined not to let her get the upper hand.

Her eyes blazed with indignation. “You know perfectly well I’m no thief. And I refuse to play a whore for you.”

“Even if such a refusal means facing the authorities in London?”

Though she paled, she didn’t waver. “Yes. Clap us in the gaol, if you wish, but I’m not playing your mad game one minute more.”

To his shock, she headed for the door. Deuce take her, the chit actually meant to leave!

He swiftly blocked her exit, grabbing her by the arm to stay her. “We made a bargain, and you’re not getting out of it that easily.”

“This was your plan from the beginning, wasn’t it? Dress
me
as a whore and use my situation for your own purposes. Did you think once you got me here, I would just go along because of your threats?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she scowled. “That
is
what you intended. I knew it! You’re a low, deceitful—”

A knock sounded on the door. “Oliver, is everything all right?” Gran asked.

“It’s fine,” he snapped, wanting Gran away from the door before Maria got loud enough for her to hear. “We’ll be there in a moment.”

“I should be part of this discussion, I believe,” Gran said.

At the sound of the heavy knob turning, he cursed under his breath. She was coming in, damn it!

To stop Maria before she ruined everything, he grabbed her about the waist, hauled her against him, and sealed his mouth to hers.

At first she seemed too stunned to do anything. When after a moment, he felt her trying to draw back from him, he caught her behind the neck with an iron grip.

“Oh,” Gran said in a stiff voice. “Beg pardon.”

Dimly he heard the door close and footsteps retreating, but before he could let Maria go, a searing pain shot through his groin, making him see stars. Blast her, the woman had kneed him in the ballocks!

As he doubled over, fighting to keep from passing out, she snapped, “
That
was for making me
look
like a whore, too!”

When she turned for the door, he choked out, “Wait!”

“Why should I?” she said, heading inexorably forward. “You’ve done nothing but insult and humiliate me before your family.”

Still reeling, he presented his only ace in the hole. “If you return to town,” he called after her, “what will you do about your Nathan?”

That halted her, thank God.

He forced himself to straighten, though the room spun a little. “You still need my help, you know.”

Slowly, she faced him. “So far you haven’t demonstrated any genuine intent to offer help,” she said icily.

“But I will.” He gulped down air, struggling for mastery over his pain. “Tomorrow we’ll return to town and hire a runner. I know one who’s very adept. You can tell him everything you’ve learned so far about your fiancé’s disappearance, and I’ll make sure he pursues it.”

“And in exchange, all I have to do is pretend to be a
whore
.”

He grimaced. Christ, she felt strongly about this. He should have known that any woman who would thrust a sword at him wouldn’t be easily bullied.

“No.”

“No, what?” she demanded.

“You needn’t pretend to be a whore. Just don’t leave. This can still work.”

“I don’t see how,” she shot back. “You’ve already said we met in a brothel. Telling them we’re thieves is no better. I won’t have them thinking that we’re about to steal you blind.”

“I’ll come up with some story, don’t worry,” he clipped out.

“Something else to make me sound like a low, grasping schemer?”

“No.”
She had him cornered, and she knew it. “Trust me, your background alone is enough to alarm Gran. She pretends not to mind it right now, but she won’t let it go on. Just stay. I’ll make it right, I swear.”

She glanced away, her face troubled. “I don’t know if I can believe you. How can I trust a man who has all this at his command?” She swept her hand to encompass the library. “You’re used to demanding what you want, to ordering everyone around.”

Sheer frustration caught him in the chest. Though that was true, the excesses of Halstead Hall or his title had never before been considered a deficit in his character. Any other woman would have thrown herself at his feet for them.

Any
English
woman. Americans were a different breed entirely. The irony was that the house and its trappings were nothing without the money to support it, and she was too unfamiliar with the workings of the aristocracy to realize it. She saw only its ancient charms.

“Look,” he said, “we both know you don’t want to travel back to London at this hour. Stay tonight. Eat dinner, sleep in a comfortable bed.” When her pugnacious chin rose, he added swiftly, “Make a good try at playing my fiancée, and in the morning we’ll go to town. If anything else happens tonight to displease you and you want to part ways tomorrow, we’ll call everything even.”

An uncertain look passed over her features. “You won’t try to kiss me again?”

“Given your method for handling that problem? No. I don’t particularly like pain.”

She narrowed her gaze. “And if I say I don’t want to keep up the masquerade tomorrow, you won’t try to throw me and Freddy in the gaol?”

“No. But neither will I hire a runner to find your fiancé. It’ll be your choice tomorrow.” He hardened his voice. “Whereas if you try to leave tonight, I swear I’ll have you both charged with theft.”

He had half a mind to do it, too, if only to repay her for that knee in the groin. But even he had too much conscience for that.

If he could get her to stay tonight, the others would sway her. His siblings could be very charming when they wanted, especially once he told them she was not a whore. And once she realized that Gran expected Minerva and Celia to marry no matter what their wishes in the matter, she might sympathize with their situation enough to help him. Even if she couldn’t sympathize with his.

“One night,” she said. “That’s all.”

“Unless you decide that the bargain suits your needs after all.”

She glanced toward the door, and he knew she was thinking of her hapless cousin. Then she crossed her arms over her chest. “Very well. We’ll stay tonight. Then I’ll see.”

Thank God. He nodded, then moved rather stiffly to her side.

She hesitated. “I’m sorry I had to be so . . . firm.”

“Liar,” he grumbled. “You’re not the least bit sorry.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “All right, so I’m not.”

He offered her his arm. “Where did you learn that, anyway?”

“One of my older male cousins showed me what to do if some man ever tried anything.”

At least her zealousness in protecting herself would keep him from letting his attraction to her run away with him. Any woman who was willing to do
that
to a man was trouble, and he wasn’t about to give her a second crack at the family jewels.

Outside the room they found his family standing in the Great Hall, discussing something in heated whispers as Freddy nervously paced the other end.

Oliver cleared his throat, and they all jumped. “My fiancée has made it clear that she doesn’t appreciate my attempt at a joke.”

“Oliver enjoys shocking people,” Maria said calmly. When he looked at her, surprised that she had noticed, she arched one eyebrow at him. “I’m sure you know that about him by now. I find it a great flaw in his character.”

She seemed to consider many things as flaws in his character. Not that he could blame her.

Gran glanced from Maria to him. “So the two of you
didn’t
meet in a brothel?”

“We did,” he said, “but only because poor Freddy got lost and wandered into one by mistake. I was trying to determine what he was looking for when Maria rushed in, mad with worry over where he might have gone off to. With two such Americans lost in the wicked city, hopelessly innocent of its dangers, I felt compelled to help them. I’ve been squiring them about town the last week. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

She cast him a sugary and thoroughly false smile. “Oh, yes, dearest. And you were a
very
informative guide, too.”

Jarret arched one eyebrow. “Astonishing that after finding you in a brothel, Oliver, Miss Butterfield wasn’t put off of marrying you.”

“I ought to have been,” Maria said. “But he swore those days were behind him when he pledged his undying love to me on bended knee.”

When Gabriel and Jarret barely managed to stifle their laughter, Oliver gritted his teeth. Bended knee, indeed. She was determined to prick his pride at every opportunity. She probably felt he deserved it. He could only pray that Gran backed down from the fight before he had to bring the chit around any of his friends, or Maria would have them taunting him unmercifully for the next decade.

“I’m afraid, my dear,” he said tersely, “that my brothers have trouble envisioning me bending a knee to anyone.”

She affected a look of wide-eyed shock. “Have they no idea what a romantic you are? I’ll have to show them the sonnets you wrote praising my beauty. I believe I left them in my redingote pocket.” The teasing wench actually looked back toward the entrance. “I could go fetch them if you like.”

“Not now,” he said, torn between a powerful urge to laugh and an equally powerful urge to strangle her. “It’s time for dinner, and I’m starved.”

“So am I,” Freddy put in. At a frown from Maria, he mumbled, “Not that it matters, mind you.”

“Of course it matters,” Gran said graciously. “We don’t like our guests to be uncomfortable. Come along then, Mr. Dunse. You may take me in to dinner, since my grandson is otherwise occupied.”

As they trooped toward the dining room, Oliver bent his head to whisper, “I see you’re enjoying making me out to be a besotted idiot.”

A minxish smile tipped up her fetching lips. “Oh, yes. It’s great fun.”

“Then my explanation of how you ended up in a brothel met with your approval?”

“It’ll do for now.” She cast him a glance from beneath her long lashes. “You’re by no means out of the woods yet, sir.”

But I will be by the time the night is over.
No matter what it took, he would get her to stay and do this, so help him God.

Chapter Seven

The minute Maria saw the regal dining room with its ornate plasterwork and walls of niches containing gorgeous marble statues, she had a fresh moment of panic. The long table was set with gold-chased goblets and fine china. The damask napkins might be frayed and the crystal finger bowls chipped, but there were pieces of silver on the table that she’d never even seen before, much less knew how to use. Meanwhile, several servants stood at the ready to do their master’s bidding.

Freddy, too, looked as if someone had just dropped him into a mathematics equation. How were they to navigate among such sophisticated people?

Especially given what they must think of her. It still mortified Maria to remember his sisters’ shocked looks when Oliver said they’d met in a brothel. She could
never
forgive him for that. She didn’t like being made a fool of, especially by a man who seemed to think that women existed only for his pleasure.

A wave of heat rose in her face. He’d
kissed
her, for pity’s sake! And for a moment, a very brief moment, it had done exactly what she’d always thought that a kiss was supposed to do—made her heart race and her pulse pound. That was the greatest indignity of all.

It had to be because of how Oliver had done it. Maybe Nathan just didn’t know much about kissing. She’d assumed that her lack of feeling when Nathan had kissed her was
her
fault, but maybe it was his.

Or maybe the intensity of her anger at Oliver had caused her to feel something she normally wouldn’t. Yes, that must be it. Her anger had merely riled up other passionate emotions.

At the moment he seemed angry himself, although clearly not at her. With a scowl, he left her at her chair, which thankfully was right next to Freddy’s, and went to the head of the table. He didn’t sit down.

“You may serve now,” his grandmother told the nearest servant.

“Not yet.” Oliver nodded to the servants. “Leave us.”

“What on earth—” his grandmother began.

“This is a rather splendid dinner, wouldn’t you say, Gran?” Waiting until after the servants were gone, Oliver strode to the sideboard and lifted the tops off the dishes one by one. “Fillet of veal. A sirloin of beef in wine sauce. Prawns and lobster . . .” He fixed his grandmother with a dark glance. “You brought your French chef with you. And apparently a goodly portion of the most expensive produce in London’s markets.”

“There’s no reason I shouldn’t eat well while I’m here,” she said with a sniff.

“Except that it’s
my
property.” He strode to the head of the table. “You’re in my house now, so while you’re here, you’ll eat what the estate can provide—venison and mutton and partridge—like the rest of us. There will be no more beeswax candles burning at all hours, and we’ll keep open only the rooms we need.”

“Come now, Oliver—”

“My own servants can accommodate you, so I want yours packed off to London in the morning. If these terms don’t suit you, then I suggest you return to London as well.”

His grandmother’s eyes glittered at him. “I suppose this is your way of punishing me for the demands I’m making on the five of you.”

“Not at all. For better or worse, this is my estate. You’ve never supported it before with your money, and you’ll not begin doing so now. I take care of my own.” His tone sharpened. “Think of it this way: it will demonstrate to my brothers and sisters exactly what they can expect if they don’t do your bidding.”

The elderly lady cast him a searching glance. “And make me feel sorry enough for them to relent in my plans, is that it?”

“You wanted me here showing an interest, and now I am. Those are my terms.”

“Oh, very well,” she said with a wave of her hand. “But the servants are here for tonight and the food is already laid out, so you might as well enjoy it.”

He hesitated before conceding that point with a nod.

“Thank God,” muttered the brother sitting on Maria’s other side—the blonder one named Lord Gabriel. “I adore prawns.”

“So do I,” Freddy said.

Busy trying to understand Oliver, Maria paid them no mind. She watched as he called the servants back in, then took his seat stiffly at the head of the table. Apparently he was a prouder man than she would have expected after his cavalier remarks.

Until now she’d assumed he was just some spoiled rich lord, willing to go to any length to gain his creature comforts. But his anger at his grandmother didn’t fit with that.

Nor did his seeming hatred of the place. She could tell from the musty smell pervading the rooms that he hadn’t lied about its having been closed up, but why would a man choose to let such a glorious place rot? Was it just a matter of money? Or did it have something to do with the bleak look she’d seen in his eyes more than once since they’d first approached Halstead Hall?

One thing was certain—there was more to the Marquess of Stoneville than met the eye. And more to this battle with his grandmother than she’d expected.

Maria shot a furtive glance to where Mrs. Plumtree sat at the other end of the table. She was as stubborn as he, and just as bent on getting her way. Something simmered beneath the surface whenever the two sparred, and Mrs. Plumtree gave as good as she got. Even after the shocking way he’d presented Maria, his grandmother hadn’t wavered. But was their conflict just about the woman’s demands? Or was there some other, more ancient, grievance between them?

And did that grievance extend to the others, as well? She didn’t think so. They seemed perfectly content to dine with her. Lord Jarret, the brother sitting directly across from Maria between his two sisters, had asked Mrs. Plumtree about her day. Lady Celia had made a joke that had her grandmother chuckling. Lady Minerva had observed the exchange with an indulgent smile.

Minerva. How odd that Oliver’s sister should have the same Christian name as Miss Sharpe. It must be very popular for ladies in England. Never having heard it until discovering Miss Sharpe’s books, she’d assumed that Minerva Sharpe was merely a pen name. But maybe not.

The footman coming around with a tureen asked if she wanted any eel soup, and Maria blinked, then nodded. People actually ate eels? Was it just an affectation of lords in England?

And how exactly was she to eat it? There were three spoons at her disposal: one that looked like a miniature spade, a lovely one with strange designs on it, and a plain one about the same size. Which was for the soup, curse it? The spade one didn’t make sense, but she wasn’t sure which of the other two to choose. Neither looked much like a soup spoon.

She was staring blindly at them, terrified she’d choose the wrong one, when Lady Minerva softly cleared her throat. Maria looked up to find the woman casting her a meaningful glance as she picked up the plain spoon and dipped it into the soup.

With a grateful smile, Maria did the same. The eel soup was actually quite good. She dipped her spoon again.

“So, Miss Butterfield,” Mrs. Plumtree asked, “what brings you to England?”

Maria froze, her mind racing. What was she supposed to say to that?

“Came looking for Nathan,” Freddy said blithely beside her.

“My cousin,” Maria put in quickly as she pinched Freddy’s arm beneath the table. “Freddy’s brother. Nathan came here on business. My aunt needs him at home, but he hasn’t answered her letters.”

“And have you found him?” Mrs. Plumtree asked.

“Not yet,” Maria said. “Oliver has promised to help us look, though.”

“Least I could do,” Oliver said smoothly.

A long silence ensued, during which she wondered how many more such slips Freddy would make before the night was over. When engrossed in eating, he tended to forget anything but that.

“Have you any brothers or sisters of your own, Miss Butterfield?” Lord Jarret asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Maria said. “Just Freddy and his three brothers, all of whom grew up in the same house as I did.”

“Four boys in the same house with you?” Lady Celia exclaimed. “You poor dear. I can hardly endure it when my brothers are staying at the town house. They’re always causing some trouble or another.”

“Oh, yes, and
you
never cause any trouble,” Oliver teased. “Never mind the shooting match where you brought three men to blows over whose rifle you should deign to use. Or the spectacle you made of yourself when you dressed as a man to enter a match. Or—”

“You can shoot a rifle, Lady Celia?” Maria leaned forward. “How did you learn? I’ve always wanted to myself, but Papa and my cousins refused to show me how a rifle works. Could you teach me?”

“No!” Oliver and Freddy said in unison. Then Oliver added, “Absolutely not.”

Lord Gabriel leaned close. “I’d be happy to teach you, Miss Butterfield.”

“Stay out of this, Gabe,” Oliver growled. “Bad enough you taught Celia. Maria already has enough weapons at her disposal.”

His grandmother arched one eyebrow. “Pray tell, what sort of weapons do you mean?”

Oliver paused, then gave a lazy smile. “Why, her beauty, of course. That weapon is devastating enough.”

“It won’t stop a scoundrel from manhandling a woman,” Lady Minerva put in.

“As if you know anything about
that,
” Lord Jarret pointed out. “Just because the heroines in your books get manhandled with nauseating regularity doesn’t mean the average woman does.”

Maria stared at Lady Minerva, heart pounding. Had she actually stumbled into the presence of— “Are you by any chance the authoress, Minerva Sharpe?”

Lady Minerva smiled. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Good God, Miss Butterfield,” Lord Jarret said. “Don’t tell me you read Minerva’s Gothic horrors.”

“They’re not Gothic horrors!” Maria protested. “They’re wonderful books! And yes, I’ve read every single one, more than once.”

“Well, that explains a few things,” Oliver remarked. “I suppose I have my sister to thank for your turning a sword on me at the brothel.”

Lord Gabriel laughed. “You took a
sword
to old Oliver? Oh, God, that’s rich!”

Lord Jarret sipped some wine. “At least the mystery of the ‘weapons at her disposal’ is now solved.”

“He was misbehaving,” Maria said, with a warning glance for Oliver. Did he
want
them to know everything, for pity’s sake? “He left me no choice.”

“Oh, Maria’s always doing things like that,” Freddy said through a mouth full of eel. “That’s why we won’t teach her to shoot. She always goes off half-cocked.”

Maria thrust out her chin. “A woman has to stand up for herself.”

“Hear, hear!” Lady Celia raised her goblet of wine to Maria. “Don’t mind these clod-pates. What can you expect from a group of men? They would prefer we let them run roughshod over us.”

“No, we wouldn’t,” Lord Gabriel protested. “I like a woman with a little fire. Of course, I can’t speak for Oliver—”

“I assure you, I rarely feel the need to run roughshod over a woman,” Oliver drawled. An arch smile touched his lips as his gaze locked with Maria’s. “I’ve kissed one or two when they weren’t prepared for it, but every man does that.”

Lady Minerva snorted. “Yes, and most of them get slapped, but not you, I expect. Even when you misbehave, you have a talent for turning ladies up sweet. How else would you go from having a sword thrust at you to gaining Miss Butterfield’s consent to be your bride—eh, Miss Butterfield?”

Maria didn’t answer. Something was nagging at the back of her brain—a vaguely familiar line from one of Lady Minerva’s books: “He had a talent for turning ladies up sweet, which both thrilled and alarmed her.”

“Heavens alive.” She stared at Oliver. “
You’re
the Marquess of Rockton!”

She hardly realized she’d said it aloud until his brothers and sisters laughed.

A pained look crossed Oliver’s face. “Don’t remind me.” Sparing a glare for his sister, Oliver muttered, “You have no idea how my friends revel in the fact that my sister made me a villain in her novel.”

“They only revel because she made
them
into heroes,” Lord Jarret pointed out, eyes twinkling. “Foxmoor got quite a big head over it, and Kirkwood’s been strutting around ever since the last one came out. He loved that he got to trounce you.”

“That’s because he knows he couldn’t trounce me in real life,” Oliver remarked. “Though he keeps suggesting we should have a ‘rapier duel’ to prove whether he could.”

Maria stared at them agape. “Do you mean that the Viscount Churchgrove is
real
? And Foxmoor . . . great heavens, that’s Wolfplain!”

“Yes.” Oliver rolled his eyes. “Churchgrove is my friend, the Viscount Kirkwood, and Wolfplain is another friend, the Duke of Foxmoor. Apparently Minerva has trouble coming up with original characters.”

“You know perfectly well that I only used a version of their names,” Lady Minerva said smoothly. “The characters are my own.”

“Except for you, Oliver,” Lord Jarret remarked. “You’re clearly Rockton.”