True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (18 page)

Tentatively she passed the spectacles
to him and watched as he began to press the wire about with his
fingers.

"There!" He reached over and put them
on her face, his fingertips skimming her ears. "That's better. I'm
surprised no one did that for you before."

The fit
was
much improved. No
sliding or pinching. "Thank...thank you, sir." She had meant to do
that herself, but whenever she had them on her face there was
always something much more important to be done. And once she took
them off again, she forgot about it. Then they were often sat or
stepped upon, or lost.

Deverell was studying her intently,
with a knowing look. Olivia quickly removed the mended spectacles
and set them aside.

Perhaps she was too close
to the fire, which would account for her heightened temperature, so
she slid back a little and felt a lock of hair tumble down her
cheek as the sudden motion disturbed a pin. She wanted to fix it,
but it felt improper to fuss with her hair in his presence. Was
it
more
improper
to leave her hair in disarray?

Did "improper" really count anymore at
this stage, since she was seated on the floor with him? At some
point good manners, as dictated by proper society, probably became
moot.

He dug a silver spoon deep into the
little dish of pickle and dropped a generous dollop onto the newly
cut slice of pork pie. It was done hurriedly, but even as some
pickle fell to the tray, he still spooned more onto the slice. Did
the man do nothing by halves? He was all about excess it seemed.
From one thing to the other he veered, his moods inconsistent and
unpredictable. But always moving quickly.

"I learned recently that my daughter
is getting married, Mrs. Monday," he muttered, his conversation
flying off in yet another new direction. Olivia felt dizzy trying
to keep up with him. "What do you think of that?"

"I would think it good news,
sir."

"Why?"

"It is surely every young lady's hope
to be married, and the desire of every father to see his daughter
well married."

"Is that what your father
wanted?"

"Yes, of course." She knew her father
had once worried she would never marry. She'd seen the fear in his
eyes, but only in a rare, unguarded moment. And that was all her
fault, because she once made the mistake of telling him she hoped
to marry for love. It was a foolish thing for a plain, clumsy girl
with a very meager dowry to say. A girl who sought out dark
corners, too reserved and bookish to catch anybody's eye. Her
father— poor fellow— hadn't known what to reply, although his
expression had safely discouraged her from mentioning it ever again
out loud.

Looking at Deverell, she
read anger in his face and something else too. Hurt. "What did you
expect for
your
daughter, sir?"

"That she'd stay here to look after me
in my dotage," he snapped.

"I'm sure that's not what you wanted."
Olivia couldn't imagine this man wanting anyone to nurse him in old
age. When he went to his maker it would be sudden and dramatic, she
thought. He was unlikely to let his body fail in a lingering,
weakening illness.

"My daughter is too young yet, only
seventeen, and this man I haven't even met— chosen by her mother,
no doubt..."

Olivia waited, but he left his
sentence unfinished, as if that should be enough explanation.
Eventually she said, "There are many reasons for a woman to marry.
I don't know your daughter, sir, but I cannot think she would make
such a commitment without good reason. I'm sure she has
intelligence enough to know that her future happiness and
contentment are at stake. Hers. No one else's."

His head came up again, his eyes fixed
upon her face. "Why did you marry your parson, then?"

"Because he promised me a secure home
and he was kind. Always very... kind."

"And?"

"Isn't that enough?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Save me," he
muttered under his breath.

"You have some objection, sir, to
kindness?"

"I'd be distinctly
disappointed, if I died tragically and my clever, witty young widow
found it a challenge to describe me by any other word than
kind
."

"I don't suppose you'll need to worry
about that."

He laughed pleasantly. "Indeed. My own
impression of marriage has been very different to yours. My wife
will have many more colorful words to describe me."

Chapter Thirteen

Wait. Had he just called
her clever and witty
? It happened so fast,
she couldn't be sure. Olivia stared at the strong column of his
throat as he tipped his head back and tossed a grape into his
laughing mouth. He'd thrown those words at her in just the same
way— casually— as if they barely mattered and were a mere morsel.
As if she must have heard their like many times before.

She had let him lead her into a
conversation that was becoming dangerously intimate. The worst
thing she could have done. Although she knew they'd taken a wrong
turn, Olivia could not stop her worn boots from venturing down that
dangerous path.

"Why did you marry your wife then,
sir?"

* * * *

"Lady Charlotte Rothsey announced that
she was with child," he replied. "So I married her. Does it
surprise you that I did the honorable thing, Mrs. Monday? Even
after the dishonorable way in which our affair began? After all, I
could have let her marry her fiancé."

"But I suppose you wanted your child
to know you, because you did not know your own father."

"Yes." True took a steadying breath.
"Unfortunately, after the wedding it turned out there was no child.
Charlotte had resorted to a desperate deceit. I know not— still to
this day— why she wanted the marriage so badly. She had suitors
with more to give, titled, respectable men with estates. But she
chose to cast her net for me instead."

Mrs. Monday watched him unblinking,
eyes wide and so receptive he felt he could tell her anything.
Anything. No woman had ever paid attention the way she did. Usually
they were too busy thinking about something else, anxious about
their appearance, or what he had to give them.

She had not drunk any of her wine
except for a sip. Instead she set her glass down as if it was a
precious relic entrusted to her care. "Perhaps Lady Charlotte was
in love."

"Hmph. Charlotte has
never
loved
anyone as much as herself."

Her gaze had not left him. "And you
claim you are not capable of love yourself?"

"The word is thrown about with little
care, overused and cheapened by tawdry sentiment. It is nothing
deeper than a word penned in haste on a lacy valentine. Just as
fragile and worthless."

"Although you have never felt it, that
does not mean love cannot exist, or bring happiness to
others."

"Did you love your husbands then?" he
demanded. "All three of the unlucky fellows?"

"Of course."

She answered that too
quickly, he thought, and without the slightest warmth of memory on
her face. Another ripple of annoyance stirred his blood. She'd
called the parson "kind" for pity's sake.
Kind
. Just as Mrs. Blewett's
delectable, unequalled pork pie was simply "nice".

"What makes you think you loved them?
How did it feel?"

"I ... felt useful."

"Useful?" he repeated,
astonished.

"I am not here, sir, to talk about
me."

"But I should know something about the
woman to whom I'm giving food and board for so many months.
Especially since I was deceived about your age. If you don't tell
me the truth about your husbands I might imagine all manner of
wickedness hidden in your past." He squinted at her, noting the
slightly heightened color in her face. It was no good; he couldn't
resist. "I must know all about you. Every little thing." True
reached over and moved the loosened lock of hair from her cheek,
tucking it behind her ear. When his fingertips brushed her skin he
felt the heat. It shot through his body and started a low, heavy
pulse, a needy hum deep inside. "You must be running away from
someone... an illicit lover perhaps? Something has chased you away
from your safe, familiar comforts and brought you here. To
me."

"Clearly you have a good imagination,"
she replied, hastily reaching for her glass again and spilling wine
on her skirt. "After all, you believe in mermaids."

He released that stray curl of hair.
"And you do not."

"No."

Now he knew how her skin
felt, he wanted to know how it tasted too. True licked his lips,
impatience making his mouth water. "But you
do
believe in that thing called
love, madam? Three times you've believed in it. Odd. Still,
you
are
a female—
if Chalke hasn't lied about that too— and I daresay you have the
same weaknesses that plague the sex in general. You just keep yours
hidden under that cheerlessly grey suit of armor."

She set her glass down again without
sipping from it, looking confused and then staring in despair at
the stain on her skirt.

Before she could grab her napkin, he
seized his chance, took her hand and brought the wine-dampened
fingers to his mouth. There was a moment when she tensed, tried to
tug her hand away, but he pulled back, insistent. Her eyes widened.
"Mr. Deverell—"

True licked the wine from her
fingers.

He heard the breath catch in her
throat, saw her pearl earbobs tremble. She closed her eyes, but
they fluttered open again almost immediately when he drew her
fingers further into his mouth and sucked.

The taste was every bit as sweet and
enticing as he'd anticipated.

"Sir!" she gasped on a rushed breath.
"Please..."

He released her fingers.
"Yes?"

She stared, eyes huge, lips parted and
damp. In that moment he expected a slapped cheek. At the very
least.

Ignoring his actions as if they never
happened, she said, "Perhaps Lady Charlotte married you for
rebellion then. Her family could not have approved her
choice."

"That was a part of it, to be sure."
He studied her face, more curious now than ever about his odd
little secretary and her determination to pretend certain things
hadn't happened.

Or were not about to
happen.

Blood raced through his veins as
desire mounted. Another lock of hair had fallen to her shoulder,
but she made no move to pin it up again.

He slammed his own glass down and
refilled it to over-flowing, splashing blood red wine on the tray.
After a moment he resumed his story, voice tight. "So, as you see,
by the time I discovered my wife's lie—that she was not expecting a
child— we were married. She'd got what she wanted. At least, what
she thought she wanted. In the meantime, I discovered that I had
fathered a son by a woman I knew years before."

Mrs. Monday was preoccupied folding
her napkin into a neat square, the corners carefully aligned, the
linen smoothed out. She seemed tied up in her own thoughts, not
listening to him. Odds were she was thinking of her husbands now.
He didn't like that; he preferred to have all her
attention.

True leaned closer toward her,
pressing one hand flat to the carpet. "My first child had been
conceived, so I learned, just before I fled England on that fishing
boat. A gamekeeper's daughter who once, most generously, taught me
all she knew about a certain sport, bore my first child while I was
abroad. She named him Storm. The boy was already five years of age
when I discovered his existence. Once I knew, I provided him with
anything he needed, of course. I thought it best for Charlotte not
to know."

"But your wife found out."

"Not for another three years. I kept
Storm out of her way. I knew by then of her vicious temper and did
not want the boy to suffer."

She nodded slowly, opening her napkin,
turning the square and then refolding it. "Although you say you
cannot love— that you're incapable— it's clear you have affection
for your children."

"In the case of one's litter there is
a natural instinct to feed and protect, a bond that cannot be
broken. Or should not be." He thought grimly of his own father,
and, of course, his wife.

"The fondness you show
for
all
your
children does you credit, sir."

"Sakes! Praise at last from your lips,
madam. I thought I was already declared to be a bad
parent."

"Those were your words,
sir. Not mine." Her lashes fluttered upward and True was drawn
forward again into the clear, shining depths of her gaze.
How young she looked suddenly.

Bloody hell. She was supposed to be
plain and completely uninteresting. The last thing he needed was a
new complication in his life, some new fancy.