Led Astray by a Rake Page 5

  Abbot was choosing his words carefully. “Miss Monteith appears to be a very headstrong young lady, my lord.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “A young lady who knows what she wants.”

  “Well, she may think she knows what she wants, but we know better, eh, Abbot? Young ladies like Miss Monteith are not for the likes of me. Besides, what would I do with her? She’d drive me to distraction within a week, wanting me to reform all my wicked ways. I can’t have that.”

  Abbot’s smile lacked humor.

  “No, Miss Monteith is not for me. As you are aware, I like my ladies to be anything but ladies. They should know their business and go about it cheerfully, and then leave. No tears, no regrets, no expectations. That is the way I prefer it.”

  “As you say, my lord.”

  “Yes, exactly as I say, Abbot. Now see to a bath. And, damn it, bring up the best brandy. I think I deserve to celebrate my elevation to sainthood.”

  “Sainthood, my lord?”

  “Only a saint could withstand Miss Monteith’s charms, Abbot.”

  And with those final words, he sank into the chair recently vacated by Olivia and stared moodily into the fire.

  Chapter 5

  Olivia was certain she’d escaped any repercussions—she arrived home in dry clothes, and no one seemed the least bit suspicious when she explained she’d been out walking and enjoying the sunshine, and had forgotten the time. However, during the night she developed a headache and a rising fever, and by morning she was very ill indeed. Her mother called the doctor, and he declared Olivia had contracted a chill, possibly influenza.

  “But she will be well again?” Mrs. Monteith asked, beside herself with her fears.

  The doctor was used to dealing with worried relatives. “Your daughter is a strong and healthy young woman. Give her plenty to drink, keep her quiet, and she will soon be her old self.”

  By the following day the fever had broken, leaving Olivia weak and listless, so that it wasn’t until the fifth day of her illness that she was allowed out of bed. Estelle helped her downstairs to the parlor, where she was confined to the chaise longue.

  It was torture.

  Olivia longed to go out into the garden, to stretch her legs and take deep breaths of fresh air, but instead she was a prisoner of overheated rooms and medicinal tonics and questions about her every symptom. Since Sarah died she’d frequently felt as if she was being held captive by the love and anxiety of her parents. Sometimes in the past she had longed to scream in frustration, only to feel guilty and ungrateful moments later. On the occasions when she did speak sharply, her mother didn’t reprimand her or appear hurt—she simply gave Olivia what Olivia secretly thought of as “the look.” It always had the effect of making Olivia feel lower than low for what she had said or done, or what she hadn’t said or done.

  “There,” Mrs. Monteith said, tucking the rug about her daughter, and rearranging the pillows, “that’s much better. Now you can look out of the window and be safe inside.”

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  “Mr. Garsed has called every day,” Mrs. Monteith reminded her for the umpteenth time. “Such steadfastness shows a man of dependable character, Olivia.”

  “Or a man with very little else to do,” said Olivia.

  Her mother gave her “the look,” and instantly Olivia felt selfish and ungrateful.

  “Lord Lacey sent a lovely bunch of flowers,” Estelle piped up, as she refreshed Olivia’s lemonade.

  “Did he?” Olivia said, surprised and pleased, turning to the maid.

  “And he sent a note,” Estelle added, with a sideways glance at Mrs. Monteith.

  “Can I see it? Mama?”

  Her mother looked chagrined, but rallied. “It was very kind of Lord Lacey to think of you, dear. I must say I didn’t expect such consideration; he’s not exactly the sort of man who pays attention to the social niceties. Why, he’s hardly ever at home! One wonders how he knew you were ill.”

  “Mama, where is the note? Surely it would be impolite of me not to read it?”

  “You’re right, of course, my dear.” Her mother gave up puzzling over Lord Lacey’s motives and left the room. Estelle shot Olivia a conspiratorial smile.

  “Wicked Nic sent you flowers, miss! I think that’s a first for him. Well, where proper young ladies are concerned, anyhow. Do you know what Abbot says? He says that Lord Lacey takes great care to keep his real thoughts to himself, and that no one really knows him.”

  “He was very forthcoming with me the other day,” Olivia said wryly. “I gather that he’s easily bored and needs to be constantly finding new, eh, companions.”

  Estelle tucked a loose strand of hair under her mobcap. “Or rather than bored, it could be because he doesn’t like them to get too close to him. Lord Lacey is a very solitary man, miss.”

  Olivia hadn’t thought of that, but now she could see it might be so. What better way for Nic to prevent any woman from getting close to him than by changing them like rides on a merry-go-round. And why didn’t he want anyone to know him? To love him?

  Just then her mother returned with the note, her eyes triumphant. “Olivia, Mr. Garsed is here to see you,” she said, giving her daughter a hasty inspection, smoothing down the white lace collar on her dress and fussing with her hair.

  “I must get up, Mama,” Olivia declared, attempting to rise on wobbly legs. “I can’t receive Mr. Garsed like this.”

  “Nonsense, you have been ill. Besides”—and a knowing smile hovered at the corners of her mother’s mouth—“gentlemen seem to find convalescing women very interesting. I’ve never understood why.”

  “I don’t know where you get these ideas from, Mama,” Olivia grumbled, as her pillows were rearranged yet again and the rug straightened about her legs. But at least she had the note now—she’d taken it from her mother’s hand while she was distracted, and she slipped it into her sleeve as a treat for later. Not a moment too soon, as the door opened and Mr. Garsed entered.

  Nic Lacey rode his horse through the village, past the little church with its blunt tower, and the neighboring ramshackle rectory, and the two alms cottages, inhabited by the deserving poor. The village of Bassingthorpe had been settled around the castle, when his Norman ancestors arrived to claim the land for which they’d fought and died. In those days they’d lived crowded together with their men-at-arms in a wooden tower upon a motte, but eventually that was replaced with stone, and over the centuries the castle had grown with the fortunes of the Lacey family.

  The village and tenants who once belonged to them had grown, too, other families rising to prominence, like the Monteiths, who had been yeomen in the eighteenth century but had wisely invested their money in property and factories, and were now wealthy. Until recently such new wealth was despised by the old aristocracy—it still was in many quarters—but these days self-made men were looked upon as the backbone of Britain and the way of the future.

  Olivia was right in that, at least. As for all the other things she’d said to him…she couldn’t be more wrong. This situation was unique for him. He hadn’t been stalked by a woman like Olivia before. Oh, he was aware of the fascination virginal young ladies had for a man like him, but the warnings of their parents and their instincts for self-preservation usually tempered any wild urges they might have to throw themselves at his feet.

  It was the ladies of the demimonde, the adventuresses, with one eye on his money and the other on his title, who tended to pursue him, and he’d had many memorable encounters with such women. But he could honestly say that the encounters that currently occupied his thoughts were rather different. Beautiful Olivia Monteith had lodged herself in his mind as no one else ever had, and he wasn’t sure how to eject her.

  Nic looked up and found that his horse had halted outside the Monteith house, its warm pink bricks and mullioned windows gracefully aging within the treed park. He frowned. He hadn’t intended to call on Olivia Monteith—the flowers and note
were enough for what was after all only the concern of a neighbor. And yet, now, here he was. He could simply ride on, and that was what he should do, but even as he thought it, he was inexplicably turning into the gate.

  That was when Nic realized he wasn’t the only one visiting Olivia today. Theodore Garsed was just dismounting from his flashy chestnut, his riding boots gleaming with so much polishing they made Nic’s eyes water. He disliked the man, and for the second time in as many minutes he considered turning away and riding home, but something stubborn rose up inside him, something he preferred not to inspect too closely.

  “No, damn it,” he muttered, “I’ll not be run off by a peacock like Theodore.”

  “Lord Lacey.” Garsed had seen him, his eyebrows rising with prim disapproval. “Have you business with Mr. Monteith?”

  “No, Theodore, I’ve come to visit the invalid.”

  His eyebrows rose higher. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Miss Monteith,” he said, as if such a possibility was beyond his comprehension.

  Annoyed, Nic didn’t bother answering.

  “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in it,” Theodore went on with a doubtful air, as if it was his business to filter any visitors who called on Olivia. “You won’t stay above half an hour, will you, Lacey?”

  I’ll stay as long as I damned well please! Nic swallowed the retort down. “What are you doing here, Theodore?” he said instead.

  Theodore’s expression grew smug and he leaned toward Nic, his voice taking on a confiding note. “Can you keep a secret, Lacey? Miss Monteith and I are soon to become engaged. It’s not official yet, so you need to keep it to yourself, but it’s more or less a fait accompli as far as her mother is concerned.”

  Nic felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Olivia and Theodore Garsed? It was so ludicrous, he was inclined to dismiss it as mere wishful thinking on Theodore’s part. Surely if it were true then Olivia would have mentioned it to him when she proposed?

  “She’s a little in awe of me, I believe,” Theodore added with a man-of-the-world chuckle. “Only to be expected. Do you know, last time I was in Bond Street I had at least a dozen gentlemen stop me and ask where I got my waistcoat and the name of my tailor?”

  Nic bit his tongue on what he’d really like to say, and cast an eye over Theodore’s attire.

  His fair hair was carefully brushed and styled, disguising a hint of a bald spot on his crown, and he was wearing a jacket nipped tightly to his waist and excessively padded at the shoulders. Probably because he wanted to disguise his growing paunch, Nic thought unkindly. Theodore liked to give the impression that he was sporty, but in reality he was a sedentary gentleman who enjoyed his food far too much. In a few years’ time he’d have run to fat.

  He tried to picture Olivia on Theodore’s arm, and couldn’t. Revulsion rose up inside him at the idea that this man might possess a woman like Olivia. That he might touch her soft skin and lie upon her body, plunging inside her. The images disturbed him, and Nic decided right then that he was going to put a spoke in Theodore’s wheel.

  A woman servant answered the door, her eyes swiveling from one gentleman to the other. “Miss Monteith is in the parlor, m-my lord…sir.”

  Theodore seemed to know his way about intimately, waving away the offer to show them in, and striding ahead. He was the first one through the parlor door, warbling a greeting, while Nic paused in his wake.

  “Mr. Garsed!” Mrs. Monteith was breathless with excitement—it was quite clear she favored his suit. “Do come in and see how well dear Olivia is doing. She has the roses back in her cheeks.”

  “Miss Monteith will never be anything less than exquisite in my eyes,” Theodore replied, hurrying to take Olivia’s hand and raise it to his lips.

  “Mr. Garsed.” She smiled up at him with her serene and beautiful smile, and Nic wondered if Garsed saw the hint of panic in her eyes, or was it only he who noticed it? He knew then that it was true and not some lurid fantasy of Theodore’s—he really did intend to marry her.

  “There’s someone else to see you,” Theodore interrupted, the note of disapproval heavy in his voice.

  Olivia’s gaze slid by her suitor and fastened on the second visitor standing in the shadows. And Nic could have sworn that her eyes flashed blue fire as he entered the room.

  The greeting he received was very different from Theodore’s. Mrs. Monteith gasped and then rattled off a “How do you do, Your Lordship?” while clearly wishing him to the ends of the earth. Estelle, the maid, gave a hasty curtsy. But Nic was more interested in Olivia.

  She kept her smile in place, although the color in her cheeks deepened, and when he took her fingers in his he felt them tremble. “Lord Lacey,” she said, “how…unexpected.”

  “We are neighbors, Miss Monteith. Why is my visit unexpected?”

  If she noticed his paraphrasing of her own words when she’d called on him, she gave no sign. Besides, now that he was close to her he saw that she had indeed been ill. Her face was wan and pale, and there were shadows beneath her eyes. There was a fragility about her, too, that hadn’t been there before, and he was tempted to sit down beside her on the chaise longue and try to instill some of his own vigor into her.

  “I hope you have been taking your medicine, Miss Monteith,” Theodore said archly, waggling a finger in front of her nose.

  Olivia glanced away. “Religiously, sir. I really am much better. I wish I could walk outside in the sunshine. It is very stuffy inside, and I’m sure I wouldn’t take any hurt.”

  She sounded wistful, but a chorus of voices rose in protest.

  “Why not?” Nic said, loud enough to break through the racket. “The sunshine will do you the world of good, now that you’re on the mend.”

  There was a silence. Mrs. Monteith was frowning, but it was Theodore who reprimanded him. “You should leave the matter of Miss Monteith’s health to those who know her best, Lacey.”

  Another uncomfortable pause. Olivia broke it by suggesting, with her calm smile, that both gentlemen sit down, as staring up at them was making her neck ache.

  Theodore sat, perfectly at home, and began a long and detailed description of the quail his cook had placed before him for last night’s dinner. Irritated and bored, Nic tried to catch Olivia’s eye, but she was giving every sign of listening to her beau with fascinated interest.

  “Mr. Garsed is quite a gourmet,” Mrs. Monteith explained fondly. “Do you have a French chef, Lord Lacey?”

  “My cook has been in the family for years, Mrs. Monteith. I can’t say she’s ever tried her hand at quail, but her jam roly-poly is to die for.”

  Olivia laughed, and Nic turned to her with a smile.

  Theodore shuddered. “Good God, man, you need to dismiss her immediately and find yourself someone who is au fait with the latest dishes.”

  Nic’s smile faded. “Is that what you would do, Theodore? Dismiss her without reason? Out with the old and in with the new?”

  “Most definitely. If you like, I can give you the name of a superlative chef. Expensive, but well worth it.”

  “That is very kind of you, Mr. Garsed,” Mrs. Monteith gushed. “I’m sure no one is more to be relied on than you when it comes to fashionable food.”

  “I pride myself on it, Mrs. Monteith.”

  “I wonder if my cook would thank you, Theodore,” Nic drawled, lounging back in his chair, one hand jammed in his pocket, his dark hair falling over his brow, his eyes gleaming with malice. “She and her family have been with my family for generations, and our loyalty to each other is a matter of pride. I don’t think she’d understand if I sacked her because she couldn’t cook the latest recipe from Paris.”

  Theodore, flushed and humiliated, rose to his feet. “You’re willfully misunderstanding me, Lacey. But I refuse to be insulted by a man who eats jam roly-poly.” And he shuddered.

  “Oh? What a shame.”

  “Lord Lacey,” Olivia said sharply.

  He met her reprovin
g gaze and then shrugged and said mildly, “Miss Monteith wants me to apologize, Theodore, so I will. No need to throw a tantrum.”

  “I have never thrown a tantrum in my life, Lacey. Far too undignified.”

  “You disappoint me. I hoped you were going to call me out. I am a crack shot, you know.”

  Mrs. Monteith gasped and clasped a hand to her breast. “A duel, oh Lord no…”

  “I have no intention of upsetting Miss Monteith by calling you out.” Theodore bristled, even redder than before. “I value her peace of mind.”

  “Lord Lacey isn’t fighting a duel with anyone,” Olivia interrupted in a firm voice, casting Nic a warning glance. “Are you, my lord?”

  Nic hesitated, sorely tempted, and then he smiled at her, an unapologetic smile, and shook his head. “No, Miss Monteith.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that,” Mrs. Monteith exclaimed.

  “I forgot to tell you that I’ve heard from my brother, Alphonse, Miss Monteith. He’s visiting me. You have met him before…?”

  Olivia looked as if it hadn’t been a pleasant experience, but she rallied a smile. “I have, Mr. Garsed. I look forward to renewing the acquaintance. Will he be staying long?”

  “I don’t know. With my brother, Alphonse, one never knows.”

  Just then the mantel clock chimed the half hour. There was an expectant silence. Nic knew what that meant: Polite society decreed that half an hour was all the time one was allowed for a visit in this situation. Theodore would also be well aware of such a decree—in fact he had mentioned it on their way in—and, unlike Nic, he would never flaunt such a basic rule of etiquette.

  As Nic expected, Theodore cleared his throat loudly, and when Nic didn’t move, he spoke with a blustering attempt at authority. “Is that the time? We really should be leaving.” And he gave Nic a pointed look.

  Nic brushed at his cuff and remained exactly where he was.

  “Miss Monteith needs her rest,” Theodore said petulantly, deflated.