The Spare (4 page)

"Accepting as true the brothers closely resemble each other, I find the subject rather harshly painted."

"But, of course," he said, eying Olivia while he once again studied the painting, "when this portrait was done, he was still a lieutenant and understandably concerned with advancing his career."

"Which he did in exactly the manner suggested by his portrait."

A girlish voice called out. "Lord Fitzalan? You simply must come here and explain why your sister may not have a phaeton."

"A moment, Miss Cage." Fitzalan's attention returned to Olivia. "And that was?"

"With fierce determination."

"Can you tell his temperament from a portrait? Mere dashes of paint upon a canvas?"

She lifted a hand toward the portrait and found the gesture blocked all but her view of the painted eyes. "That is not the face of anyone much at home with a smile."

"You consider yourself adept at reading a gentleman's face?"

Olivia smiled. "I do."

"What do you read in mine?" Perhaps because he was aware their conversation was no longer private, he struck a pose. "Be brutally honest." He winked. "Lie if you must."

"Amiability, my Lord." She laughed because she could not help her amusement. "Nothing but amiability."

Fitzalan staggered. "Amiability?"

"Assuredly so." By habit, she fell into vapidity, but she did not like it as well now that Fitzalan knew the truth.

His eyes rolled toward the ceiling. "Damned by faint praise."

"My Lord," said Olivia, lowering her voice. "Don't be petulant. You know very well you are as handsome a man who ever walked this earth. I'm sure the young ladies are breathless when they are about you."

"But not you?"

"I'm not young, my Lord."

Briefly, his eyes darkened to a rain-cloud gray. "You've drawn my character accurately enough for, truly, I am amiability itself. You'll never know a man more amiable than I, as I mean for you to discover. Now, Miss Willow, what do you read in that face?" He pointed to the painting.

She approached the portrait. She, too, clasped her hands behind her back. Dark hair, the captain had, but not black. He wore a naval officer's uniform. Gold buttons sailed down one side of his coat and his shirt lace foamed over wide lapels. A cocked hat tucked under one arm showed black trim. His eyes gazed ferociously forward, a clear, pure blue, so clear she wondered at not seeing through to the wall behind. She turned sideways so as to see the viscount. "Oh, quite a lot, my Lord. Andrew loved to tell of his brother's adventures. Indeed, I feel I know him well, having heard so many tales of danger and bravery."

Miss Cage walked over and twined her arm around Fitzalan's, boldness she'd learned from Diana, who, when she deigned to rise, often made use of the gentlemen in such a manner. "What can you tell from the face?" she asked.

"Consider the strong cheeks."

"It's a very handsome face," said Miss Cage.

Fitzalan glanced at Olivia.

"Yes, I admit he is handsome."

"But?" said Fitzalan. He patted Miss Cage's arm.

"Notice how his cheeks angle toward his temples." Olivia spread her fingers, measuring the distance. "The nose forming a fierce line between his eyes. The unyielding mouth and determined chin."

Miss Cage looked at Fitzalan. "Your sister told me she thinks his mouth gentle. I, however, to her replied that his is not so gentle as yours, my Lord."

Fitzalan's eyebrows lifted. "Thank you, Miss Cage."

Olivia faced the portrait again, absorbing the austere face. "Cold, those eyes," she said, thinking how different he seemed from Andrew. "As if he had no heart at all." A rather harsh opinion to hold of the man she used to imagine would fall helplessly in love with her. Not that she ever believed he would. Valorous sea captains might fall in love with redheaded spinsters, but, alas, noblemen did not.

"Miss Willow," said Julia Cage. "We find him dreadfully handsome. Even if he were not a hero, all we ladies would think him quite the gallant. If you were still in your youth, I'm sure you'd feel the same."

"Certainly," she said.

"You see, Miss Willow?" Fitzalan said. "Not cold. Just stern. Don't you agree? As an officer must be."

Olivia spoke softly. "Tell me, Lord Fitzalan, were you well acquainted with the previous earl?"

"He stopped coming to London two or three years ago, but before that we saw each other now and again."

"Since you have known them both, what is your opinion of him?" From the
corner of her eye, she saw Miss Cage watching and listening intently. The
subject of Tiern-Cope fascinated everyone.

"Captain Alexander, or, I should say, Lord Tiern-Cope, may not have his brother's charm, but do not discount him on that score. He is—" Fitzalan tipped his head to one side, searching for the correct word "—formidable."

Diana gasped. "He's been disfigured, hasn't he?"

The room fell silent.

"James?" Diana sat straight. One hand drifted to her bosom, and eyes big as sixpence fixed on her brother, pleading for a denial. "Maimed in the war," she said. "And ashamed to show his ruined face."

A collective gasp came from the ladies. Were all their hopes, then, to be pinned not on an earl by all accounts eager to take a wife, but on a viscount who'd so far proved immune to marriage-minded ladies?

Fitzalan's smile faded. "Surely, ladies, the allure of nobility and wealth will overcome the impact of any infirmities?"

"He
is
disfigured." Diana closed her eyes. When she opened them, they glistened with tears. "How badly has he been scarred? Tell me, James. Please, I must know."

"Nonsense, Miss Royce," Olivia said. "He was wounded in the chest. On the side, just here."

Fitzalan said, "Who told you that?"

The pile of coals in the fireplace tumbled down with a hiss and a flare of light. But that wasn't what made Olivia look away from the viscount. She looked away because the salon door swung open with a faint
whoosh
of air over the Chinese carpet, and the earl of Tiern-Cope walked in.

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Olivia's head flashed with a pain that left her momentarily blind. The air turned dense, too thick to breathe. In the middle of the maelstrom of sensation, just when she could see again and draw breath, there stood Andrew's brother, framed in the opening of the doorway. A mad impression dashed into her head: He wasn't real. Druid warriors must have magicked him into existence and let him loose to wreak havoc among dream-bound and waking mortals alike.

God knows he had the Alexander looks: blue eyes, dark hair and a narrow face. The resemblance to Andrew was remarkable, but something in the face set him apart from other handsome men, indeed, from any other man she'd known. The sharp cheekbones, the confident way he held himself, but most especially the eyes. Where the other gentlemen were open and gregarious, the earl's eyes gave nothing away and put a frost on his smile. Nothing of Andrew's gentleness, Olivia thought. Nothing at all. The sea had washed away whatever gentleness he'd possessed.

He stood perhaps an inch or two over six feet, but the impression of height came from his posture: rigidly upright. Tan breeches stretched taut over a flat belly and followed the shape of his thighs. His bottle-green coat, unbuttoned to show a gold-striped waistcoat beneath, did not fit as perfectly as Fitzalan's but his shoulders were no less broad for the imperfection. Above the waistcoat, the plain front of his shirt begged for less sober lace. His boots, though shined to brilliance below the turned-down tops, set no example of London fashion. No one who saw him walking down the street would think him an aristocrat.

Hair cropped unfashionably close to his head revealed a stubborn and determined physiognomy, a man who knew what he wanted and took it. Gauntness defined the ridge of his cheekbone more than nature intended. Every feature could be marked in the portrait. Except, to England the sea returned not the youthful lieutenant of near-legend, but a man fully grown and in command of himself. There was no denying his striking looks, but it was his air of assurance, Olivia decided at last, that set him apart.

Tiern-Cope stared at them as if they were furniture in his way, a look devoid of welcome or interest. He was thirty, which for a man was still young. Though in truth younger than Andrew, he seemed a thousand years older and where Andrew wore his emotions on his sleeve, the captain was about as easy to read as a block of granite.

Diana leaned forward, hiding her face behind her spread-out fan. "James, you're such an awful liar."

Olivia didn't see how anyone could have heard that soft exclamation over such a distance, but she felt a ripple of awareness come from the earl. He swept the room and each of its occupants in ruthless assessment. Olivia fancied his gaze lingered when it reached her. Her hair, of course, which she knew from long experience was coming free of its pins. Everyone who saw her for the first time stared at the shocking copper curls. His glance, and that was all it was, ended almost before it began, which was to be expected. If there was anything good to be said about her position in life, it was that her lack of rank afforded ample opportunity to study people. Olivia considered herself a student of knowledge gained through observation.

"James." A slow curve of his mouth brought no warmth to his eyes. He bowed, rather stiff and more to the left than the right. Diana smoothed her skirt. Miss Cage fluttered her fan and turned pink. Feminine hands went to curls or lace, adjusting and readjusting. The gentlemen stirred. One or two tugged on their waistcoats. Despite the flurry of activity on his behalf, the earl's expression did not soften.

Olivia frowned, disappointed, which she realized was unfair of her. The good people of Far Caister, herself included, knew more about the naval career of Captain Sebastian Alexander than they did about Admiral Nelson. Andrew had been so full of life, a cheerful man who rarely lost the opportunity to relate his brother's exploits in the highest of terms that she hadn't expected a joyless man whose mouth refused to move beyond the facsimile of a smile he wore right now. Olivia wondered if he'd ever truly smiled in all his life. Probably not. How sad that Andrew's brother should have no joy in him. How disappointing. After all those tales of courage at the line of battle Olivia had constructed a very different picture of the man. A girlish, romanticized ideal that, of course, had no relation at all to reality.

"Good afternoon," the earl said.

"Lord Tiern-Cope," said Fitzalan, bowing. Any trace of his usual good humor vanished with the serious business of introducing the earl. "You remember my sister. Miss Diana Royce."

The captain—no, Olivia reminded herself, the earl—walked to Diana with a stride that put her in mind of an animal; the vicious sort with sharp teeth, relentless energy and boundless hunger, which was an odd impression to have of a man so recently and sorely wounded. Heavens, what must he be like at full health?

"Miss Royce," said the earl, taking Diana's hand and pressing it between his. His voice flowed over the room like silk over stone. Here stood a man used to giving orders and having them followed. And everyone in the room, from oldest to youngest, responded to that air of authority.

"My Lord." Diana, dazzled like the others, swept into a low curtsey, completely abandoning her boredom. Olivia liked her better for the uncertainty, though doubtless that was her own lack of polish showing.

Lord Fitzalan cleared his throat.

"Miss Royce, do not stand on my account." The earl caught Fitzalan's eye and added, "Treat Pennhyll as if it were your home. Please." With another stiff bow, he extended his elbow to her, and Diana put her hand on his arm. He led her to the chaise, seeing her seated before he faced the room in general. Olivia could not help but recall the rumor that Tiern-Cope had a special license, and that he intended to be married and return to the Navy forthwith.

Fitzalan managed the remaining introductions. The earl acknowledged everyone with a bow and a murmur. Not impolite, just not warm. In order of precedence, Olivia came dead last and so, eventually, only she remained to be introduced. Fitzalan remained silent long enough to give Olivia the unpleasant thought that he did not mean to present her at all. Tiern-Cope's arctic eyes landed on Fitzalan.

"James." Inflection made the word a query, but no one doubted he'd uttered a command for introduction.

"Ah, yes, do forgive me." Fitzalan guided Olivia's gloved hand to the earl. "Miss Olivia Willow. May I have the pleasure of presenting the Right Honorable Sebastian, earl of Tiern-Cope and master of Pennhyll Castle?"

He must know something of the night his brother died, that she'd been there, too, and nearly died herself. Perhaps he blamed her, certainly she doubted he pitied her. He didn't strike her as a man likely to pity anyone. Whatever he thought, she ought not expect anything beyond polite reserve. She got less. Tiern-Cope took her hand without even an approximation of a smile. Rather the opposite in fact. Well. So be it.

"Tiern-Cope, I present Miss Olivia Willow of Far Caister." That might have sounded grand if only Far Caister weren't a village not a mile from the castle walls.

While she curtseyed she felt him taking in everything about her, from her satin slippers scuffed at the toe and much down at the heel to the lack of ribbons and lace on her gown. This meeting wasn't anything like what she'd imagined, nor was the man, for that matter. Without doubt, any interest he showed was due to that awful day, and still the intensity of his regard made her wish for finer jewelry than her coral beads or for gloves better able to withstand such scrutiny. Most especially, she wished for a grander place to call home than Far Caister. The vanity of her regret struck her as so absurd that when she raised her eyes, she was smiling. Not at him, of course, that was accidental, but he might be excused if he thought so. She met a pair of cold, blue eyes. "My Lord."

"You have red hair." The remark most definitely accused.

"Red, indeed," she said. For heaven's sake, did he think she had red hair just to irritate him? "Hopelessly red, my Lord. And violently unfashionable." She grinned and made sure her eyes emptied of emotion. "The bane of my existence, I'll be the first to tell you." She cocked one eyebrow, still smiling. "I am content with my hair, for I know I shall never be mistaken for anyone else." A titter guaranteed he'd take her for just another gormless female. She despised herself for it.