Tempt the Devil (28 page)

“Oh, yes, we are,” she bit out, raising her chin and directing a glare at him that in any just world would leave him bleeding on the floor.

“Not in this lifetime.”

He wheeled on his heel before she could argue and left with the fast, decisive walk that was his alone. She heard the door close sharply behind him.

He was gone.

E
rith returned to the house on York Street, earlier than he should, later than he needed to. Ostensibly nothing was different. His heart racing with foreboding, he dashed up the staircase to the decadent bedroom. He flung open the heavy oak door to the empty room.

The scarlet silk robe Olivia had appropriated from him was still draped across the bed. Her cosmetics were arrayed on the dressing table. He knew without checking that the armoire bulged with the opulent wardrobe he'd spent a fortune buying for her.

Just as he was certain she'd left him. After threatening so often, at last she'd gone. He had pushed her too far. The fact that she left her belongings meant nothing. She'd abandoned him to a life as barren as a desert.

Confound his blasted impetuous temper to Hades.

Regret turned his blood to ice. He'd had hours to rue the damage he'd done with his furious reaction to discovering Roma here. He'd give his right arm to take back the ac
cusations he'd flung at Olivia. He understood the delicate balance of pride and sensitivity that sustained her. He also knew what courage she'd needed to overcome both and admit her love. His thoughtless words were a callous attack on everything she was.

After what he'd said, he could hardly blame her for running. God help him, he had no excuse for his tirade. In his heart, he'd always known she wouldn't encourage Roma to visit.

With no life in the dead garden of his heart, he wandered through to the salon. Of course, she wasn't there either. He felt hollow, numb, bereft.

He trudged back to the bedroom. The room that had witnessed desperate emotions, transcendent moments, a connection beyond anything he'd ever known.

The bed. The door. The floor. The walls. Every inch imprinted with the memory of Olivia shuddering her release in his arms.

After all those women during all those wild, empty years, only these few weeks with Olivia had marked his soul. Indelibly.

She'd still left him in the end. Damn it all to hell.

He snatched up her robe from the bed as if it could tell him where she'd gone. The garment released a drift of her evocative, haunting scent. Under the robe, the extravagant ruby collar lay in glittering splendor on the bedspread.

The message was unmistakable.

She wanted nothing more to do with him.

His bleak numbness snapped in an instant. With a strangled groan, he buried his face in the slippery red material. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply and tried to convince himself Olivia would return to him.

He looked up to find Latham watching with very unbutlerlike compassion from the door. Without embarrassment, Erith lowered the robe. “Where is she?”

“Madam didn't say, but she left about an hour after your lordship.”

Sudden hope surged. “Did she take her carriage?”

He could question the coachman when he returned. Perhaps discover some clue to her whereabouts.

Latham shook his head. “No, my lord. She left on foot.”

On foot? Where could she have gone? Then the solution struck him. It would be laughably obvious if he hadn't been so close to shattering.

With a smothered curse, he flung the robe aside and strode out of the room.

 

Erith forced his way past Peregrine Montjoy's butler into the candlelit salon where he'd made his heartless bargain with Olivia. He'd been a different man then. He hoped she'd been a different woman.

She'd told him she loved him. However unwillingly. He'd bet his life that hadn't been a lie, even if she'd tried to wound him today by denying it. And if she loved him, he'd undoubtedly win her back. He had a weapon she couldn't fight against.

Damn it, he just had to find her first.

At Erith's brusque entrance, Montjoy looked up in shock, but only slowly withdrew the arm he'd draped around the willowy boy at his side. Erith immediately saw that the small circle playing piquet near the fire didn't include a gorgeous tawny-haired siren.

“Lord Erith,” Montjoy said, clearly at a loss. He rose to his feet and flung his cards onto the table. Like his three companions, he was in shirtsleeves. He obviously hadn't expected visitors at such an hour. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Where is she?” Erith asked urgently, not caring that his wild chase after his mistress would be the talk of London tomorrow. More scandal for Roma to eavesdrop on from behind closed doors.

“She?”

“Don't play bloody games with me, man.”

Montjoy frowned. “Olivia?”

“Of course Olivia. I need to see her.”

Montjoy spoke to his friends as he moved away from the card table. “I'll be back in a moment. Freddie, don't peek at my hand.”

“Don't interrupt your cards.” Erith's fists closed and opened convulsively at his sides. He was only an inch away from choking Olivia's whereabouts out of her elegant friend. “Just tell me where she is.”

“My lord, we can't have this conversation here.” Montjoy ignored Erith's impatient huff and air of incipient violence and gestured him out into the dimly lit hallway.

Once they were alone, Erith turned on Montjoy and spoke in a rush. If he didn't find her soon, she could slip through his fingers completely. She had money and resources. She could go anywhere. “Is she upstairs? I swear I only want to talk to her. You must know I won't hurt her.”

Even in the poor light, Montjoy's troubled look was visible as he shut the door to the salon. “Of course you won't hurt her. You're in love with her.”

Erith stiffened with horrified shock, hating the sudden vulnerability that assailed him. He felt mortified color flood his face. Damn it, had she relayed their pillow talk to Montjoy?

“Good God, did she tell you that?”

“No, of course not.” A faint smile curved Montjoy's full lips. “But only love could bring an earl famed for his arrogance to apologize without hesitation to a notorious cyprian.”

Erith's bristling hostility subsided. Montjoy was right. Anyway, what point denying how he felt? “I'm not the only man who has loved her.”

Montjoy's smile became reflective. “Yes, but you're the only man she's loved back.”

Montjoy understood her better than anyone. Any niggling doubts that had plagued Erith about her feelings retreated.
He spoke more normally. “I know about your father and how you and Olivia united against him.”

Montjoy's face, handsome enough to be called beautiful, paled with shock. “She's never told anyone that. You realize I'm not her paramour, then.”

Erith shrugged. This wasn't getting anywhere. “I guessed long ago.” He saw by Montjoy's face that the man understood what else he'd guessed as well. He didn't care about the fellow's sexual tastes. All he cared about was finding his beloved. “For pity's sake, man, stop tormenting me.”

“And now she's left you.” Montjoy didn't sound triumphant. He sounded worried.

“Temporarily.” He hoped to heaven that wasn't just overweening optimism.

Montjoy shook his head with grim finality. “When she leaves a keeper, he tends to stay left.”

“I have an advantage—she loves me. I honor that you've protected her so long and faithfully. I know you don't like me, but I beg of you—and I beg favors from no man—send for her. It's my turn to look after her now.”

Montjoy regarded him with thoughtful eyes before he gave a brief nod. “I believe you really do love her. But I don't know what the hell you can do about it.”

“Let me talk to her.” Erith caught sight of his face in one of the mirrors lining the hallway. He looked wild, frantic, half mad.

“I would, my lord. I'm as sentimental as the next fellow. The prospect of a woman bringing the all-conquering Earl of Erith to his knees touches my heart.” He paused. “But she's not here.”

“So where is she?”

“I have no idea.” Montjoy's frown deepened. “I hope she's all right.”

Erith's temper, barely held in check since she'd deserted him, snapped. He grabbed Montjoy by the shirtfront and lifted him to his toes. “Tell me where she's gone.”

“Believe me, old man, I would. But she didn't confide in me.” Montjoy appeared unconcerned to be suspended from Erith's clenched hands. “She's been remarkably close-mouthed about your affair. I should have realized earlier that meant trouble.”

“If you're lying,
old man
, I swear I'll kill you.”

“Beat me to a pulp, Erith. It won't get you any closer to what you want.” Montjoy still sounded unruffled. “She's gone to ground somewhere. She's done it before. You won't find her unless she wants to be found. I suspect in this case, she most emphatically doesn't want to be found.”

Erith realized he made an utter fool of himself. With an apologetic gesture, he released Montjoy. “I'm acting like a blockhead.”

“I find it rather reassuring.” Montjoy straightened his clothing with admirable sangfroid. “The man I met in my salon a few weeks ago was a dashed cold fish.”

“Would she have gone to Leo?”

“Good Lord, you really have found out a lot, haven't you? She doesn't tell anyone about Leo. Leo is the last bastion.”

“No, her heart is the last bastion,” Erith muttered, then flushed as he realized what he'd said.

“Yes. And it's a fortress that has never fallen.
Bonne chance, mon ami.
” Montjoy bowed his head as if acknowledging a point in a fencing match. He spoke more seriously. “She might go to him. I would have thought she'd come to me before Leo, if only to avoid a scandal. Perhaps she thinks I'd try and talk her into returning to you and fighting for what she wants.”

“That would be outstandingly generous,” Erith said, astounded.

Montjoy shrugged. “She deserves to be loved. If your reckless air is any indication, you definitely love her. Go with my blessing. She's been alone too long. Do you know where to find Leo?”

“Yes.” Erith started to go then stopped. He turned to face
Montjoy. “Thank you.” He extended his hand to the decorative young man.

Montjoy frowned. “You know what I am yet still you're willing to give me your hand?”

“Of course.”

Montjoy accepted his hand in a brief clasp whose strength surprised Erith. The man might look like a damned poodle, but there was character there. And unmistakable love for the woman Erith adored above all others.

Erith strode out of the overdecorated mansion. Now it seemed charmingly eccentric instead of oppressive. He truly had changed from the man who marched in here weeks ago with no objective but to claim London's most prestigious bit of muslin as his prize.

On such seemingly unimportant decisions, a life could change forever.

 

A fine dawn broke as Erith rode up to the stone rectory that sheltered Olivia's cousin and her husband and the child his beloved could never acknowledge. Erith knew how that ate at her. She'd had to endure so much in her life. And she'd done it with grace and courage and style.

He hoped to Hades he could get her to embrace a future with him in similar spirit.

He reined in his tired and dusty horse, Bey, the same animal Leo had admired so extravagantly, and leaped to the ground. Dear God, let him find her here. Let this be the happy end to his precipitate chase.

He tied Bey to a hitching post outside the kitchen. He heard clattering inside. The servants must be up.

“Sir?”

A young girl carrying a pitcher stared nervously at him. He couldn't blame her. He imagined this secluded house had never before witnessed a wild-eyed and travel-worn earl at the door just as the sun crept above the horizon.

At least he was no longer in his evening wear. After leaving
Montjoy, he'd rushed home to change into clothing more suitable for a long ride through the night.

Some faint spark of discretion stopped him from peremptorily demanding to see Olivia. “Is Mrs. Wentworth up yet?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Perhaps she'd do me the honor of an interview. Would you please tell her the Earl of Erith is here?”

The girl paled and dropped into an awkward curtsy, clutching the rough white pitcher before her like a shield. “Aye, my lord. Right away, my lord. Perhaps you'd like to come inside and wait, my lord.”

“Thank you.” Erith followed the girl into the kitchen then cooled his heels by the fire while she ran to fetch her mistress. At a worn deal table, a heavyset older woman kneaded bread for the household. She didn't spare him a word, though she poured him a tankard of ale and passed it across without comment.

He appreciated the gesture. He'd only picked at his hurried dinner the night before and he hadn't stopped for refreshment since he'd discovered Olivia was missing.

He struggled to master his impatience. The urge to rampage through this quiet household in search of his mistress was nigh overwhelming.

He heard someone come in and looked up, expecting to see Olivia's cousin. But instead he met the deep brown eyes of Leonidas Wentworth. Deep brown, perceptive, and bright with hostile suspicion.

“Lord Erith,” he said flatly with a brief bow. He was dressed in a plain white shirt and buff breeches, and his long, elegant fingers were ink-stained.

“Leo.” Erith leaped to his feet and shoved the empty tankard onto the table. “I hoped to see Mrs. Wentworth.”

“She's not dressed yet. She asked me to find out what you wanted. I was up studying.”

“Ah, Oxford.”

“Yes.” There was a pause, then the boy stood aside and gestured toward the door he'd just come through. “Step into the parlor. You won't want to talk in the kitchen.”

What Erith really wanted was to shake the boy until he handed over his mother. His real mother, not the woman who bore that title. Blood pounding with the frenzied need to find Olivia, Erith followed the lad through to a small but neat room that was dark and cold at that hour.