True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (31 page)

True began to feel quite indignant
about the entire thing. He had spoiled his cubs. Well, that ended
tonight. From now on they could hunt their own mates.

Storm had all his limbs functioning.
Storm had youth on his side. Let him fight for the woman if he
wanted her. True had done enough.

There she was, drifting into his side
vision around the winged side of the chair. Soaking wet, dripping
all over the place. She went directly to the fire and grabbed a
poker to stir it up.

"So you finally decided to come back
to me." His words bit at her scent as it drifted by.

She spun around, jumping a few inches,
the poker swinging in her hand. Her face went white and she stepped
back, almost stumbling over the fender.

"Thought you might have decided to
stay at the farm in this weather," he added.

Olivia straightened up,
clutching the poker like a weapon. "And I thought
you'd
still be
abed."

Still
? What was that supposed to mean? Was she slurring her words?
Surely not. Olivia Monday did not drink to excess. She could barely
finish one glass of wine in an evening.

Her fiery gaze, like a beautiful
dragonfly, flew over his rumpled, messy, undone attire and then
landed lightly, tentatively on the bandage wrapped around his cut
hand. "Seems you had quite a wild evening, sir."

"I did. And you? Did my son entertain
you?"

"He did."

"Was he a perfect, courteous
gentleman?" he demanded through gritted teeth.

"Yes. Surprisingly. For a son of
yours."

He laughed lazily. "I see
your opinionated tongue is in fine fettle this evening." What
had
he
done to
offend
her
? "I'd
better not give you any more evenings off, if this is how you
return to me."

"But how else will you manage your
affairs with women while I am here underfoot?"He sat forward,
elbows on his thighs. "If I cared about that, why would I invite
you to use the room adjoining my own?" He watched the spark in her
eyes burning brightly. "If I wanted the company of other women, why
would your presence bother me? This is my empire here at
Roscarrock, and I do as I please."

"Yes, you certainly do." She faced him
boldly, just as she did on the night of her arrival, impressing him
with her pluck. "For a man born a foundling with nothing — not even
a name— it didn't take you long to cast humility aside and grow
comfortable with great wealth. Now you act like one of those
privileged aristocrats you purport to despise."

This was perhaps more wounding than
any other insult she might have used. "And how, exactly, do I act
like them?"

"Treating other folk like
your minions! Not caring for instance that poor Jameson has been
out all night in this rain, fetching and carrying for you and
your
urges
!"

"Jim Jameson is paid very well for his
services. I don't hear him complaining."

"Ah yes, as I am paid also and
therefore I am not entitled to complain and question. I must turn a
blind eye."

"A blind eye to what? I have hidden
nothing from you."

"Until tonight. For some reason you
thought it necessary to go through this charade to be rid of me for
one evening."

"
Charade
?" True was having a hard
time following. Bloody women! He should have sent her home that
first morning. Should have known she'd eventually show her claws
too.

"Money solves all your problems. Money
keeps people quiet and on your side. Money pays off an unhappy
schoolmaster for a broken curricle. Money brought your wife back to
you time and time again. If she only wanted you for your money,
whose fault was that? Apparently that was the only thing you were
willing to give her! Money moves folk around at your disposal
like...like chess pieces! Money, money, money." She pointed the
ash-tipped poker at him for emphasis with each repetition of the
word. "And now it brings you hussies too. Jameson rows them across
to Camelot for you. How many can you get per pound?"

"Hussies?" He squinted at her.
"Camelot? Are you drunk, Olivia?"

"Most assuredly not." She squared her
shoulders but tipped slightly to her left.

He set down his brandy glass, suddenly
aware of how volatile this conversation had become. In the hands of
two people trying to keep their distance, but who had drunk too
much, it could be dangerous.

"Don't come near me," she exclaimed,
gripping the poker in both hands and swiping it in an arc, like a
sword.

It might have made him smile if he
wasn't so rattled himself that evening, besieged by new thoughts,
ideas and feelings. "Put the poker down, Olivia."

"No."

He pushed up out of the chair. "Go on
then. Strike me with it. I knew it wouldn't take you long to raise
a weapon against me."

She hiccupped. "I shall." But her
swaying became more pronounced and her eyes turned
glassy.

"I don't approve of your behavior
tonight, Olivia."

"And I don't approve of
yours!"

"However I, being your employer, have
an advantage. I can send you home to Chiswick tomorrow."

"Good." She dropped the poker, almost
on his foot. "Suits me! Because I refuse to be one of your devoted,
blind minions worshiping at the altar of money. Putting up
with...everything...just because of the fee you're paying me. I'll
do without it. I'll manage. Just pay me what you owe me for the
time already spent and I'll leave. Sooner that than let you torture
me for your own amusement."

Now he knew she had definitely drunk
too much at the farmhouse, or she would never have spoken about her
need of money.

"When have I tortured you?" he
exclaimed, scratching his head. He thought he'd treated her well.
He'd been on his best behavior. Well, most of the time. "You said
yourself that I've treated you with prodigious care, madam. I
believe that was the phrase you used." He watched her expression
and noted the trembling lower lip. Her temper was hot tonight, but
so was his. "Or is that not what you wanted? Perhaps you object to
being treated so well, because you don't want to like me at
all."

"Don't be
ridic..ridiculous."

"Would you rather I treat you with a
firmer hand, Mrs. Monday? Have I disappointed you by not living up
to my reputation? If that's the case, we can remedy the matter at
once."

Her lashes fluttered, her cheeks
flushed. She raised both hands to her head as if it ached. "Ugh!
You...you are impossible."

"Funny, that's what women always say
when they know they've lost an argument." He paused. "And a
wager."

She closed her hands into fists and
they dropped to her sides. "What wager?"

"I told you the night you came that
you'd soon flee back to Chiswick."

"It was never a wager. I refused to
gamble with you."

"But I proved myself right, didn't
I?"

* * * *

Olivia knew she'd gone too far, but
with everything fermenting in her mind that night— helped along by
Storm Deverell's dreadful wine—then coming back to find her
employer in a shirt hanging out of his breeches and dampened by
patches of sweat, was more than she could bear. He was laughing at
her, enjoying the sight of her like this. She was sure the only
reason he pried into her feelings was to know where to wound her.
He used his money to draw folk into his web and then kept them
tangled there, cunningly tying them into knots, making them another
plaything, another devotee.

Now he gleefully celebrated the fact
that he'd got her in this state of confusion.

He stood before her in a state of
half-undress, his hair untidy, his hand clearly wounded from his
erotic adventures— he'd warned her that he enjoyed rough sport.
When he moved closer she could even smell the lingering whisper of
perfume. It was not too sweet and floral, but soft and fresh. Very
similar to the kind she distilled herself, so she knew it was a
woman's perfume.

He had made love to someone who
smelled like her— insult added to injury.

But no he had not made love. He didn't
believe in "love". What he had done was called something else
entirely.

Should that be a comfort to
her?

Oh, she didn't know anymore. She
didn't know anything. Her head ached with trying to hold everything
inside, trying not to show what she felt and thought. Her stomach
twisted as if she was still on that little boat being tossed
about.

"Good evening, Mr. Deverell," she said
stiffly, reclaiming some of her usual composure.

"Going to pack your trunk then?" He
stood in her way, feet planted solidly apart.

She put her chin up. "Are you
dismissing me from my post?"

"Perhaps. Haven't decided what to do
with you. Yet." He picked up the poker to set it back on its hook
by the fire, and while his back was turned she made her escape,
hurrying out of the parlor.

Fancy thinking he looked
at
her
with
anything other than pity and bemusement. He teased her, took wicked
pleasure in making her blush, but that was all it was. A game, like
one of his wagers. Women, for him, were merely entertainment and in
his mind he separated
that
from any sort of emotion. As the cook had said,
it was exercise for him, like riding his horse and swimming in the
sea.

He had told her plainly that he didn't
believe in love.

Olivia's feet picked up speed across
the hall and then up the stairs. Tonight she didn't pause to look
at his faceless portrait. She wanted to get to her room and
collapse on her bed. To think about nothing else until she woke
tomorrow with a sober head.

She turned the door handle to her
bedchamber and walked in.

And stopped dead.

Somehow she'd gone to the wrong
room.

No. She checked. This was her
bedchamber.

The fire was roaring. A hearth rug had
been placed over the stone slab before it and a thick satin cushion
had been added to the comfortable arm chair where she often sat to
read. At the window new drapes of thick velvet had been hung to
keep out the drafts, and the walls were insulated likewise by two
colorful, rich tapestries. The bed was no longer the narrow, lumpy
thing upon which she'd laid her head before; it was a large
four-poster covered with a thick quilt and far more pillows than
any one woman with only one head could possibly need. The table
beside the bed had been swapped for a larger cabinet with extra
books lined up on a shelf behind leaded glass doors. Her perfume
bottle had apparently been spilled and set back, with a crack in
it. There were three new oil lamps and a large, brightly colored
rug that must be almost brand new— not a single worn patch of
threads in sight. And it looked soft. Exquisitely soft.

So soft she dare not walk on
it.

Or dare she?

Stumbling against the doorframe,
Olivia quickly unlaced her wet boots, slipped out of them and
ventured cautiously, in her stockinged feet, onto the luxurious
carpet.

Only something wicked could feel this
good. She wriggled her toes into the deep pile and then looked
anxiously over at the mantle. William was still there, still
watching over her in his silhouette.

He ought to be admonishing her
tonight, but he was silent.

She went to the mantle and took his
picture in both hands. "Oh, William. I fear I've let you down. I
drank too much and made a fool of myself. I let my terrible, lurid
imagination run away with me. I spoke silly thoughts aloud and made
an embarrassing display of emotion."

"No, you didn't. You spoke your honest
thoughts to me. At last." Deverell was standing in her bedchamber
doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. "Finally you let
it all out. Everything that was festering inside you and held back
behind those tight lips."

"I didn't hear you follow me," she
said, quickly blinking back the shameful tears that had
threatened.

"Caught you talking to yourself again,
didn't I?"

"No." She sniffed. "I was talking to
William." She turned the frame to show him and he came into the
room. Although she knew she should try to stop him, tell him to
leave her alone, she also knew it would be futile. Besides, she
didn't want to. "What have you done to my chamber?"

"Since you wouldn't come to my former
wife's room, I thought I'd better bring the room to you. It took us
most of the evening. Jameson and I."

The facts slowly formed
shape in her mind, piece by piece falling together. This is what
had exhausted him then. This is what Jameson had been fetching and
carrying for him— all this furniture from the other wing of the
house!
The master keeps 'imself busy too.
Been going 'ard at it in the bedroom since you left.