The Spare (17 page)

"For my mother to be well."

"Imagine you had that." His fingers rested on the nape of her neck. "What do you want for yourself?"

"Peace on earth?"

"Come, Miss Willow. I want a serious answer from you. Better yet, a selfish one." Though she stood inches from him, she seemed not to notice their proximity. As a grown man, he could control his base urges. He'd done so for years. He would do better by her than his father and brothers. Slowly, he lifted his fingers from the back of her neck. His palm took their place.

Head tilted, she considered him. "You'll laugh."

"Try me."

"A family. Children."

"What? Not thousands of pounds at your disposal? A mansion? Jewels to dazzle you? Servants at your beck and call?"

She rested the side of her head against the doorway and looked at him from beneath her thick red lashes. "I always thought I'd be married one day with half a dozen children at my knees." Her eyes danced again, and for a moment, the space of a breath, he was caught like a fly in a web. "I was right about the children at least, though I was sure they'd be mine."

"Are you sorry?" What soft skin she had, such a tender nape.

"That I'm not a wife and mother?"

"Mm." He imagined her with a husband, with children. His children. He saw her gravid by his doing, and him cradling an infant in his arms, the one he'd made in her. He could give her what she wanted, and, of course, he could imagine the act of making her so.

"I am. Yes." She smiled, a little sadly, he fancied. "But not inconsolably, my Lord. I expect, indeed, I hope, I'll soon be teaching again, with another passel of children to care for."

A deep breath caught the scent of her, a faint impression of outdoors, herbs, verbena and something light. Her nape under his palm made him feel his strength, and how easily he could overpower her. She was his, if he wanted her. She could not stop him doing just as he liked. The earl's ancient rights over Cumbrian serfs paled in comparison to what he might have by brute strength. Just as his brother had done. "Jesus, no."

"My Lord?"

Unthinkable. What he wanted was her willing and compliant. Never force. "You are too thin," he said. For all the ways in which she ought not to appeal to him, she did that and more. Desire surged in him. "Ladies ought not to have hollow cheeks. Damn me if you weigh seven stone. You're not even as tall as McNaught."

"I've hopes of growing five inches by Michaelmas."

He wondered if she felt the same pulse of arousal. If so, she had better control of herself than he. He pushed away from the door, astounded and dismayed by his thoughts. "Put on your cloak, Miss Willow. It's time we went back."

"Let me send to Pennhyll. Someone will fetch you."

"No."

"You are a stubborn man, my Lord."

He shrugged and wished he hadn't. His side throbbed. "It's only a mile, for pity's sake, I'm no weakling."

"Pride is an abiding sin, my Lord," she said evenly. "It does not flatter you."

"Devil take you, Miss Willow," he replied just as evenly. And then he couldn't stop himself. He smiled.

She smiled back. "We'll ask for a dog cart at the Crown's Ease."

"Very well."

"Let me check on Mama before we go."

After she'd made her good-byes, she returned with her gloves and her cloak. She pinched out the candles and broke up the fire. "Shall we?"

They walked to the inn, taking their time. Twilling came to the door, and Sebastian lifted a hand in summons. "A good morning to you, my Lord," Twilling said. "And to you, Miss Olivia."

"Good morning," Miss Willow said. "I've overdone myself, I'm afraid, and Lord Tiern-Cope has kindly offered to send for a carriage to bring us back to the castle. I thought instead you might lend us a dog cart to take us up the hill."

He gave no sign he saw through the excuse, just shouted for the ostler and gave the instructions when the man appeared. While they waited, Sebastian leaned against the wall by the door. He didn't dare take her inside, for he'd be forced to ask for a private room, and that would cause talk that would do her no good. He owed her better than that. Miss Willow stood to one side of him, close in case of disaster but far enough to satisfy propriety.

"Far Caister is a busy village," he said.

"Now the earl is back, there is much to do. And with the dancing day after tomorrow, there's even more than usual."

"Ah, yes. The dancing. And the seance. What nonsense."

"She's very young."

"Too young."

"That is not a permanent condition, my Lord."

He looked at her. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

To her credit, she did not laugh. "If you mean ghosts like the Black Earl of Pennhyll, no, I do not."

"Do you mean to say, Miss Willow, that you don't believe he's going to haunt us from dawn to dawn on the anniversary of his death?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"But?" He could see himself reaching for her, folding her in his arms, molding his mouth over hers.

"The dead do haunt us. I believe that. In our minds. Not in body."

Across from the Crown's Ease, a man on horseback surveyed the street. By his clothes a gentleman, and with an eye for horseflesh, judging from the thoroughbred on which he sat. A traveler, Sebastian supposed, since to his knowledge, he'd met all the gentry of Far Caister. He must be deciding whether to go inside the inn. After a while, he realized the man was staring at Miss Willow. Curious. For a full minute and more, he'd sat his horse, taking his eyes off Miss Willow long enough to study him. "Who's that?" With his head, he indicated the man on horseback. "He's been watching you since we stopped here."

"Really?" She looked. "Where?"

"On the bay there. Across the street."

Whoever he was, he knew he'd been noticed, for he nodded at Sebastian and urged his horse toward the Crown's Ease. The gentleman, there was no doubting that much, lifted his hat in greeting. He had an open, friendly smile. "Good morning."

"Sir," Sebastian said, sliding his arm underneath Olivia's. He was under thirty, with a mouth primed to grin that made an otherwise unremarkable face interesting. His boots gleamed like jet, the cut of his coat showed off a suspiciously narrow waist and his cravat was starched to a razor's edge. His riding breeches looked as if he'd have a devil of a time peeling them off. He hadn't quite the legs for it.

The gentleman stared at them. "Olivia," he said, lifting his hat again. He glanced at Sebastian. "It is Miss Olivia Willow still?"

"Yes," Sebastian said. And if he knew her name, why was she silent? He drew her closer to his side. The ostler brought around the dog cart. The stranger had to back away, but he nudged his animal forward once Sebastian helped Olivia in the cart and climbed in himself. Pandelion jumped in the back while Sebastian arranged a blanket over Olivia's lap, tucking it around her legs. The paleness of her eyes struck him once again as more lush in effect than her hair. Damn her fantastic eyes. And now he had this absurd idea of being her husband stuck in his head. Bouncing their son on his knee.

"Ah. But not Miss Willow for long, I take it."

"And you are?" Sebastian said.

"My cousin," said Olivia. "Mr. Hew Willow."

Sebastian nodded, but just barely. "Mr. Willow."

"How long have you been back, Hew?"

"Arrived just yesterday." He looked at Sebastian. "Who is your companion, Olivia?"

Sebastian met the young man's gaze. He felt a wave of dislike. "I am Tiern-Cope."

"Tiern-Cope?" Hew Willow's eyes widened. His horse danced, hooves ringing on the street. "But Andrew— You must be the younger brother. Captain Alexander. Good heavens." He got his horse under control and inclined his head. He shot a glance at Olivia. "Lord Tiern-Cope. My deepest sympathies for your loss."

"Thank you."

"I'll call on you, Olivia. Are you still in Far Caister?"

"Yes, but I am staying at Pennhyll."

"Are you now?"

"Yes." She gripped the side of the cart. "Good day, Hew. Welcome back."

Sebastian drove slowly, aware of Olivia next to him. Occasionally, her shoulder touched him or his arm bumped her. He spread his thighs wide, crowding her because he was a perverse son-of-a-bitch, it seemed. Within sight of Pennhyll he stopped the cart and set the brake. "Are you in love with your cousin?"

"What?"

"I saw how you looked at each other."

She shook her head.

"Is he married?"

"I don't know. He wasn't a year ago." He touched her temple. "Remember, what's here is mine, Olivia." Her intake of breath at the contact did not escape his notice. "And I don't share what's mine."

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By eleven o'clock a dozen of Sebastian's neighbors crowded the salon off the Great Hall. Mrs. Leveret and her husband, Mr. Cage and his daughter, among others, gathered for the experience of eating the earl out of house and home. Footmen and parlor maids brought in food and drink and carried out the empty plates. One of the Leveret daughters sat at the pianoforte, butchering Haydn. Price appeared in the doorway. After a pause to sweep the room with doleful eyes, he made his way to Sebastian. "Mr. Hew Willow is calling, my Lord."

The announcement caused a sudden hush. He looked away from Price because Olivia Willow's unspeakably red head lifted from her game of Patience. Their eyes locked. His heart thudded, just the once before he mastered himself, but the arousal nearly flattened him. She sat at the edge of the gathering, near a corner where shifting light cast shadows behind her. He reached for the card on Price's salver.

Bone-chilling cold shot up his arm the moment he touched the card, as if he'd plunged his hand into a river of ice. Clouds passing over the sun made the light and dark behind Olivia shift and interchange, taking on the shape of a man. Not Andrew, but another man with familiar blue eyes. The hilt of a sword rose above his back, held in place by leather strap that crossed his torso. The rectangle of paper slipped from Sebastian's fingers and fluttered to the ground. Price bent to retrieve the card, and over the top of his stooped-over butler's back, Sebastian saw Olivia's eyes fix on the tray. Behind her, the figure advanced until it stood beside her. Indeed a man, dressed like someone who'd just stepped from the court of Edward II. Black hair fell to his shoulders. He wore a tunic with the Tiern-Cope crest on his chest. Cobalt and red.

Card in hand, Price stood, blocking Sebastian's view of Olivia. "My Lord?"

He stood up, but when he looked at Olivia, he saw—only Olivia. He searched the shadows behind her. Nothing. No movement, not even the suggestion of a man. "What shall I tell him, Miss Willow?" Sebastian said.

"I've no idea." With one of the empty smiles she was so expert at giving, and which he despised, she returned to her card game. The bend of her head exposed the nape of her neck and one copper curl fell free of her pins.

"Mr. Hew Willow, you say?" Diana asked.

The butler inclined his head. "Yes, Miss Royce." The man sounded as if he'd just confirmed that, indeed, his entire family had perished by shipwreck.

"Is he young and handsome?"

"I cannot say, Miss Royce."

Miss Cage clapped her hands. "Oh, yes, Miss Royce. Indeed, he is handsome. I'd heard he was home."

"Miss Willow," Diana asked, "is Mr. Hew Willow your relative?"

"He is."

James came to attention, none too pleased, from his expression. "My Lord Tiern-Cope," said Diana, "if Miss Willow won't tell you so, I shall. Invite him up. Do, please."

Olivia's glance inevitably lit on him, since he controlled at least the immediate future. She wasn't expecting to find him watching her, for when their eyes met a faint color crept into her cheeks. Jealousy twisted in him when he remembered the heat of Hew Willow's stare, how worried he'd seemed that Miss Willow might be spoken for and under another man's authority. Why the devil was he back and interested in the cousin he'd neglected for so long?

Sebastian nodded at Price, and his gray-headed butler gave a sorrowful bow. Not much later, the sound of bootsteps in the hallway floated through the open door. Olivia hesitated in laying down a card, and then her neck bent lower, hiding her face. Odd, he thought. One wouldn't think a woman with hair like that could hide from anyone, but she managed to make herself nearly invisible. Outside the door, a man laughed. The young ladies turned, a few patted their hair or smoothed a wrinkle from a skirt.

"This way, Mr. Willow."

Sebastian straightened. The hair on the back of his neck stood straight. He rose, his hand dropping to his hip. Every fiber of his being, every nerve in his body screamed of approaching danger. If he'd had a weapon, he'd have drawn it. And been prepared to use it. James, too, faced the door. The anticipation could have been served up like a goose on a platter.

"Thank you," someone said from the hallway.

The infamous duelist, Mr. Hew Willow, walked in. The heir so bloody relieved to know that Miss Willow remained Miss Willow, who must know she ought to have been an heiress and was not.

Hew went directly to Sebastian and bowed, heels clicking. He wore a different set of riding clothes, tight fitting, held a hat under one arm and his riding whip in the other. A lock of snuff-colored hair fell over his forehead. "My Lord. Good afternoon."

"Mr. Willow." Sebastian kept his hands clasped behind him and forced himself to smile. He did not like Hew Willow any better now than when they met in Far Caister.

"Thank you, my Lord, for seeing me." Hew surveyed the room with eyes the color of day-old coffee, stopped on Diana and registered a male appreciation of her and Miss Cage. Quite natural for the man to admire a pretty woman when he saw one. Eventually, though, Hew's attention settled on his cousin. "I've intruded." He spoke to Sebastian, but he meant the words for Olivia. While Hew stared, James examined him head to toe, assessing his rival.

"Allow me to present my guests, Mr. Willow."

Willow's expression went from grave to delighted. When he was introduced to Diana, he took her hand in both of his. "An exquisitely lovely girl." He gazed into Diana's tilted eyes. "Charmed, Miss Royce, charmed indeed to make your acquaintance."