The Truth About Lord Stoneville (19 page)

Even with Oliver’s brothers, she felt compelled to pretend, to be the angelic creature they seemed determined to protect. And though the man they wanted to protect her from was striding toward her with a frightening look of determination on his face, a ridiculous thrill went through her that wouldn’t be quelled.

Oliver halted beside her as the drawing continued. Freddy drew the name of a very pretty little maiden, which he fairly preened over. A man named Giles Masters drew Minerva’s name. The man seemed pleased; Minerva did not.

Then Oliver bent to whisper in her ear, and Maria stopped noticing who drew what name. “I see you’re having a fine time tonight.”

“What makes you say that?” she whispered back.

“You smile at every young fool who takes your hand,” he grumbled.

“And you glare at them,” she pointed out. “Does that mean you’re having a terrible time?”

“I’d do more than glare, if I could. Have you forgotten you have a fiancé?”

“A pretend one.”

“I was speaking of Hyatt.”

She swallowed past the lump of guilt in her throat. Then something occurred to her, and she shot him a curious glance. “Since when do you care about protecting my fiancé’s interests?”

A sullen expression crossed his face. “I just think that a woman who’s engaged shouldn’t be encouraging the attentions of young pups.”

Oh, that
really
took the cake. “And I think that a man who’s pretending to be engaged shouldn’t be running to brothels under his pretend fiancée’s nose,” she hissed.

He looked as if he were about to speak, but the drawing had just finished, and everyone was being told to take their partners to the floor.

When they found their spot, he said, “You’re absolutely right.” His gaze locked with hers, full of regret. “It was appallingly bad form. And it will never happen again.”

“Is that supposed to be an apology?” she snapped.

“No,” he said in a low, intense voice. “This is. I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of my servants. I’m sorry I treated your feelings so cavalierly. Most of all, I’m sorry I made you feel as if you were worth so little to me. Because you’re not.”

She dropped her gaze, afraid that he might see how deeply his words had affected her. “It doesn’t matter.”

He took her hand and seized her by the waist, drawing her scandalously close. “It matters,” he said, echoing her words to him at Mr. Pinter’s office.

The music began, and he swept her into the waltz with the expert ease of a man who’d clearly danced it many times. Yet in his arms, she didn’t feel like just another of his women. His gaze never left hers, and his hand held her with a possessiveness that made her pulse jump.

“If it’s any consolation,” he murmured, “I had a miserable time last night.”

“Good. You deserved to.” She smiled. “Not that I care one way or the other.”

“Stop pretending that you don’t care,” he said hoarsely. “We both care, and you know it. I care more than you can possibly imagine.”

She wanted to believe him, but how could she? “You say that only to coax me into your bed.”

He smiled mirthlessly. “I don’t need to coax women into my bed, my dear. They usually leap there of their own accord.” His smile faded. “This is the first time I’ve apologized to a woman. I’ve never given a damn what any woman thought of me, though plenty of them tried to make me do so. So please forgive me if I’m not handling this to your satisfaction. It’s not a situation I’m accustomed to.”

He was holding her so tenderly, it made her want to weep. Every move they made was a seduction—his leg advancing as hers went back, his hand gripping her waist, the waltz beating a rhythm that made her want to whirl around the ballroom with him forever. Her mind told her she should resist him, but her heart didn’t want to listen.

Her heart was a fool.

She gazed past his shoulder. “My father used to go to a brothel. He never remarried, so he went there to . . . er . . . feed his needs. I had to go fetch him a few times when my cousins were working and my aunt was looking after my grandmother, who lived nearby.”

She didn’t know why she was telling him this, but it was a relief to speak of it to someone. Even her aunt and cousins preferred to pretend it never happened. “It was mortifying. He would . . . forget to come home, and we would need money for something, so I would have to go after him.”

“Good God.”

Her gaze locked with his. “I swore I’d never let myself be put in such a position again.” She tipped up her chin. “That’s why I’m happy to have Nathan as my fiancé. He’s genteel and proper. He would never frequent a brothel.”

Oliver’s eyes glittered darkly at her. “No. He would just abandon you to the tender mercies of men who do.”

She forced a smile. “There’s more than one way to be abandoned. If a woman’s husband is forever at a brothel, he might as well be halfway across the sea. The result is the same.”

A stricken expression crossed his face as he stared at her. Then he glanced away. “My mother never fetched my father from the brothel,” he said in a curiously emotionless voice. “But she knew he went there. In the early years, they would argue over it when he returned. Then she would cry for hours after he stormed off.”

“How did she know where he’d gone?” she whispered, her heart breaking for the small boy forced to watch his parents fight over such things. It was the first she’d ever heard him mention his parents’ life together.

“Because he came home stinking of cheap perfume and woman. It’s a smell you don’t forget.”

Maria stared at him. Early this morning, when he’d come to her door, he’d reeked of liquor but not perfume. It was a small detail, yet coupled with what Betty had said, it comforted her.

“I used to wish I could make him stop,” he went on in a bitter voice. “In the end, she took care of that herself.”

Was he implying that his mother had deliberately murdered his father? He’d claimed it was a tragic accident.

“We make quite a pair, don’t we?” he said, and glanced at the couples swirling around them. “Here we are, dancing to the silliest music ever written, surrounded by hundreds making small talk, yet all we can speak of is brothels and death.”

“It’s better than never speaking of it at all, wouldn’t you say?”

His gaze darkened on her. “You sound like Gran.”

“I don’t mind. I’m beginning to like her.”

“I like her, too—when she’s not plaguing the hell out of me.”

Maria eyed him curiously. “Why do you curse so much around me? Other men don’t. And you don’t curse around other women, as far as I can tell. So why around me?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I can be myself around you, I suppose. And since I’m a foulmouthed son of a bitch in general—”

She pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t say that. You’re not as bad as you’re always making out.” Then realizing that people were noticing her intimate gesture, she returned her hand to his shoulder.

“That’s not what you thought earlier,” he said in a rough rasp. His hand swept her waist surreptitiously, as if he couldn’t keep from caressing her.

“Let’s just say I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

They finished the waltz in a silence that only increased her agitation. His eyes couldn’t seem to leave her face, nor hers his. Every step together seemed to bring them closer, until she was sure they were dancing far too close for propriety. Yet she didn’t care. It was pure bliss.

And it didn’t change a thing—there was nothing between them but this inconvenient attraction. But she still found herself memorizing his features, trying to save the sensation of his hand riding her waist, his body moving in time with hers.

His other hand gripped hers tightly, and his gloved thumb began to stroke along the curve between her thumb and forefinger in a carnal caress that stoked her already inflamed senses. When the music stopped, he squeezed her hand before settling it on his arm to lead her in to supper.

With awareness crackling between them, she asked, “Is there anything I should know about supper customs in England? I don’t want to embarrass you or your family.”

“You could never embarrass me,” he said in a deep voice that sent a wanton shiver along her spine. As if realizing how much he’d admitted, he added, “To be embarrassed, I’d have to care what people think of me, and I don’t.”

She began to believe that wasn’t entirely true.

The rest of the guests were surging toward the dining room across the hall, but she felt entirely alone with him, as if they were wrapped in their own little cocoon. Did he feel that way, too, or was she just inventing a deeper connection between them?

When they reached the supper room, Oliver guided them expertly toward a table with two empty chairs. A beautiful woman cut into their path in what seemed like a deliberate attempt to gain the chairs.

“I beg your pardon, Kitty,” he said in a cool voice as he grabbed the back of the nearest chair before she could. “But we spotted them first.”

“How astonishing to see you here, Stoneville,” the woman remarked with condescension, then scanned Maria with a critical eye. “And who is your new ‘friend’?”

She said it with such contempt that Maria flushed, fairly sure of what the woman was implying.

Oliver must have been, too, for a muscle ticked in his jaw. “Lady Tarley, Miss Maria Butterfield. Miss Butterfield has lately come from America, and is a guest of my sister’s.”

Lady Tarley lifted one eyebrow. “What a pleasure to meet you, Miss Butterfield,” she said in a tone that belied her words. “And what a lovely gown you’re wearing. I enjoyed wearing it myself, before I cast it off. I see you kept the tulle bodice exactly as I had it when it was specially made for me. It looks very well on you.”

Heat rose up to flame in Maria’s cheeks. Mercy, she should have known something like this might happen.

Oliver’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You must be mistaken, Kitty. I was sitting right there when the dressmaker showed Miss Butterfield the design. I’m sure the woman adapted one she’d used before.” He offered a thin smile. “Never trust a dressmaker who says she’s making something especially for you. Particularly when you’re not willing to pay them what they’re worth.”

Lady Tarley’s eyes flashed. “I recognize the ornament. I daresay it has a scratch on the back of it, just as mine did.”

When she reached for the ornament on Maria’s gown, Oliver caught her hand in an iron grip. “You’ll keep your hands off my fiancée’s gown, if you know what’s good for you.”

As Lady Tarley snatched her hand free, her eyes lit up like a tigress’s scenting prey. “Your fiancée? Well, now, isn’t that interesting news?”

Maria groaned. She couldn’t believe Oliver had said that.

Apparently he couldn’t, either—his arm had tensed beneath her hand. “We haven’t announced it yet, so we’d appreciate it if you keep it quiet.”

“Certainly, Stoneville.” She pressed a finger to her lips. “Mum’s the word.”

As she hurried off in a swish of skirts to collar the first female she saw, Maria said, “She’s not going to keep it secret, is she?”

“No,” Oliver ground out. “Damn it all to hell. I’m sorry, Maria. I don’t know what came over me. I can’t believe I forgot it wasn’t—” He caught himself and pulled out the chair for her. “Stay here, and I’ll do my best to nip it in the bud.”

As he strode across the room after Lady Tarley, Maria found herself smiling. She ought to be furious with him, knowing that the gossip might make it into the London papers and get back to Nathan. So why wasn’t she?

Because he’d done it to save her from embarrassment. And because Oliver rarely said anything on impulse. Considering how he’d fought the idea of marriage, it was astonishing he would let something like that slip. It made her hope . . .

No, she’d be mad to hope for anything more from him—especially given his clear alarm over how he’d misspoken.

The woman Lady Tarley had been talking to hurried to Mrs. Plumtree, who broke into a cat-in-the-cream smile after the woman said a few words to her. Mrs. Plumtree glanced over at Maria, and to Maria’s shock, she winked.

Winked! Maria didn’t know what had happened in the past few hours, but somehow Mrs. Plumtree had gone from disapproving of her as a wife for Oliver to approving of her wholeheartedly.

Oh dear. She had a sinking feeling that this evening was about to head in a direction Oliver hadn’t anticipated.

And the worst part was that a tiny, ridiculous corner of her heart was glad.

Chapter Nineteen

Oliver headed after Kitty, cursing soundly. How dared that vindictive creature insult Maria? The look of mortification on Maria’s face—was it any wonder he’d spoken out of turn? He’d wanted to throttle the woman.

Kitty had hated him ever since he’d refused her overtures while she and his friend Anthony were still involved. Anthony had broken with her shortly after, so she’d assumed that Oliver had scotched things with Anthony. She’d despised him from that day forward.

Little did she know that Anthony had figured out on his own what a bitch she was. Anthony’s new wife called her Lady Tartley. Oliver thought that an insult to tarts.

And now, thanks to her, Maria had been dragged even further into his battle with Gran. Kitty zigzagged about the room like lightning, no doubt telling everyone within hearing of the latest
on dit.

With every stride across the room, someone stopped him to ask if he was indeed betrothed to “the American girl.” After the first few attempts to protest that it wasn’t official, he gave up. By then, the story was whisking about the mansion of its own accord; denying it would only give it fuel.

Suddenly he spotted Gran deep in conversation with Kitty’s closest friend, and relief coursed through him. Gran would squelch the tale at once. And once she tried to quash the gossip, he would win—because he could then threaten to send notice to the papers of his betrothal if she didn’t back down. She’d have no choice but to give up on her scheme.

Except . . . she wasn’t acting as if she meant to squelch it. She was talking to the other woman with great animation. And when she met his gaze from across the room, beaming from ear to ear, he realized in a flash that he’d misunderstood everything.
Everything.

She hadn’t been bluffing him. All the rot about trying to buy Maria off, the disapproving looks and snide remarks . . . all along, Gran had been goading him toward what she wanted. God preserve him.

With a sickening sense of inevitability, he saw her go to the duchess’s side and whisper a few words, then saw the duchess rise and tap her glass to indicate she had an announcement to make. With a triumphant smile, Gran announced the engagement of her grandson, the Marquess of Stoneville, to Miss Maria Butterfield of Dartmouth, Massachusetts.

All eyes turned to him, and the whispers began anew.

He couldn’t believe it. How could he have been so blind? He’d lost the battle, maybe even the war.

And the worst of it was, Maria was caught in the middle. He’d sworn it wouldn’t go this far, that she wouldn’t have to worry about word of it reaching Hyatt. She’d tried to warn him that Gran might go through with the announcement, but he’d been so damned sure of himself that he hadn’t listened. Now there would be hell to pay.

Within seconds, both he and Maria were surrounded by well-wishers, neither of them able to reach the other. In the background, the gossips already speculated about why he was marrying a nobody of little consequence. It infuriated him that thanks to his blunder, Maria would be subjected to the same nasty gossip his family had endured for years.

It took him half an hour to plow his way back to her, but before he could even speak to her, Minerva tugged on his arm. “Gran wants to leave.”

“I’m surprised,” he growled. “Now that she’s accomplished her purpose, I’d think she’d wish to hang around and gloat.”

Minerva’s lips thinned in disapproval. “She says she’s tired, and she’s not lying. I can see it in her face. Celia and I are going to take her home.”

“Fine.” He glanced over to where Maria was speaking to three women, her face rigidly smiling, and a strange swell of protectiveness swamped him. “Take Maria, too. She’s looking overwhelmed. I have to salvage what I can of this situation before I can leave, and that will be easier if I don’t have to look after her. It will be in all the papers by tomorrow if I don’t do something, and Maria is worried that her real fiancé will hear of it.”

Not that he gave a damn if that happened. Hyatt didn’t deserve her. But he’d promised her it wouldn’t occur, and somehow he must keep his promise.

“How did Lady Tarley even learn that you and Maria—”

“Don’t ask,” he said with a groan. “You wouldn’t believe it, anyway.”

“Given Gran’s reaction, I’d say your plan hasn’t turned out as we hoped.”

“Gran has played me for a fool.”

“It appears that she’s played all of us for fools.” She eyed him closely. “What are you going to do?”

“Hell if I know. At the very least, I have to keep it out of the papers. I owe Maria that much.”

Fortunately, Maria agreed to leave with the other females in his family, which made his task easier. He spent the next hour hunting down everyone at the ball who had any connection to the press, and explaining that he didn’t want the engagement announced until he and Maria could inform her family in America.

By the time he and his brothers and Freddy headed for home, he was too weary to do more than grunt in answer to their questions. Fortunately, Freddy filled in the conversation with an endless stream of inanities about the ball and the gentlemen’s fine coats and what a grand supper he’d had.

As soon as they reached Halstead Hall, Oliver bade the others good night and headed to his study to fire off letters to those of the press he’d missed at the ball. It was nearly two a.m. when he decided to retire.

Yet he was restless. He hadn’t spoken a word to Maria privately since the fiasco. How had she taken it? He wouldn’t blame her for hating him.

He had to talk to her. Though it was late, perhaps she was still awake. If he let it wait until morning, he’d have to battle his damned family to get near her. Besides, he couldn’t rest easy until he’d reassured her that it wouldn’t go beyond local gossip—even if he wasn’t entirely certain of that.

Seconds later, he was at her room. Relief swamped him when he saw the glow of candlelight beneath the door. She must still be up. Yet when he knocked, there was no answer. He hesitated. He shouldn’t go in. He had no business entering her room uninvited at this hour, but it wasn’t safe for her to leave candles burning, was it?

He would just make sure she was all right. He opened the door to glance inside. On her bedside table, the candle cast a golden light over her sleeping form. Her amber hair was spread out across the pillow, and she clutched a book to her breast like a little girl holding a favorite doll. Except that the body outlined by the coverlet wasn’t that of a girl, but of a full-grown woman—one he desperately desired.

But that had no bearing on this. He wasn’t here for that. He would just snuff out her candle to keep her safe.

He went in and closed the door behind him. When he neared the bed, he saw the title of the book—
The Stranger of the Lake
—and sucked in a harsh breath. Did it bode well for him that she’d chosen the book they’d discussed in his study yesterday? Or ill, that she’d chosen the one where Rockton committed some of his worst villainies?

No doubt she was reminding herself of his faults. He still wasn’t even sure if she’d forgiven him for going off to the brothel. That had been left in the air.

You could
make
her forgive you,
said an insidious voice inside him.
You could climb into that bed and bring her halfway to seduction before she realized what was happening.

He stared at her a long moment, then shook his head. No, he couldn’t.

A mad laugh bubbled up in his throat. Apparently he had scruples. Who would have guessed it?

Perhaps I’m not so much like Father, after all.

The thought came from out of nowhere, stunning him. Was it possible? Ever since Maria had shown up, he’d been at sixes and sevens, utterly unlike himself. Was it her? Or was it them both? Was it possible that with her, he could be . . . better? Different, somehow?

The idea was insane.

Yet he did no more than watch her, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the tangled glory of her hair. As if in a trance, he reached out to smooth away a tendril that was ensnared by her long, delicate lashes.

Her eyes opened, and he caught his breath. She gazed up at him, and as the spell of sleep faded from her eyes, she broke into a smile. A smile! For him.

It was his undoing.

With his blood thundering in his ears, he bent down and kissed her perfect lips, unable to stop himself. Realizing what he was about, he quickly pulled back, but she caught him by the neck and drew his head down to hers once more.

He allowed himself to be seduced by her mouth, feeding on her lips as a starving man who’d been handed a feast. After a moment of bliss, he sat on the bed and she lifted herself onto her elbows. That was all the invitation he needed to pull her close and kiss her even more deeply. She buried her fingers in his hair, and he groaned low in his throat as he drove his tongue over and over inside her warm, soft mouth.

She smelled of roses and spice, and he wondered if he’d ever get enough of her scent . . . her taste . . . the touch of her breast beneath his hand—

Deuce take it!

Breaking free of her, he stood. “Forgive me, Maria. I didn’t mean—”

“Why are you here, Oliver?”

Eyes alight with curiosity, she sat up fully. The covers fell, leaving her half exposed in a night rail so thin he could see the dark tips of her breasts through it. With her hair tumbling in gold-red strands over her shoulders and her eyes heavy-lidded from sleep, she looked like every man’s erotic dream.

Desire arrowed through him, piercing his self control. Muttering a curse, he turned away from the bed to pace. “I’m here to apologize for what happened tonight at the ball.”

The long silence that followed made him uneasy. She finally said in a soft voice, “It’s all right. I know you didn’t mean to misspeak.”

He looked sharply at her. “You’re not angry?”

She shrugged. “To be honest, I expected Freddy to let the cat out of the bag before you did. I just wasn’t sure whether he’d say we were engaged or were
pretending
to be engaged. At least he didn’t say anything to make your grandmother guess that it was a sham.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “That hardly matters now. She wanted us betrothed. She, too, has been pretending, pretending to disapprove of you while hoping for this outcome.”

“Or maybe she’s just willing to settle for what she can get.”

“Either way, you tried to warn me.” He returned to the bed. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen. After you left the ball, I tracked down as many of the press as I could.” He explained what he’d told them, then dragged his fingers through his hair. “My story seemed to pass muster, but the press loves printing gossip, and gossip about a marriage is their favorite kind.”

“I’m sure you tried to prevent that. For all we know, Nathan may not even be where he can see a London paper. As long as word doesn’t reach him, it’s fine.”

It was always her precious Nathan who concerned her, her damned “genteel and proper” fiancé. “I hope word
does
reach him.”

Her clear gaze met his steadily. “Do you?”

“Yes. Despite doing my best to make sure it doesn’t, I hope that bloody arse reads it and realizes what he’s thrown away. He
deserves
to lose you.”

Her expression wary, she slid from the bed and reached for her wrapper. “And what about me? Don’t I deserve a good husband?”

He tugged the wrapper from her fingers, then tossed it to the floor. “Hyatt couldn’t possibly make you a good husband.”

“So I’m to live alone, then?”

“No.” Snagging her about the waist, he drew her close. “You’re going to marry
me
.”

The minute he spoke, he realized it was exactly what he wanted. Her as his. Forever. Even if that scared the hell out of him.

Apparently it scared her a little, too, for she was staring at him with shock. “Why would I do that?” she whispered. “Why would
you
?”

“It’s the only way I can have you, isn’t it?” He knew his words weren’t the flowery effusions that most women expected in a marriage proposal. But Maria wasn’t most women. Maria understood him.

She dropped her gaze. “That’s hardly a good reason to marry.”

“It’s good enough for me,” he said, bending his head to kiss her.

With a shuddering sigh, she pulled free. “A week ago I was only suitable to be your mistress, and now I’m suitable to be your wife?”

“Suitability had nothing to do with it.”

“I’m beneath you.”

“I don’t give a damn who your parents were or where you’re from. I never did.” When she remained silent, he pressed his case. “I want you. I wanted you then, and I want you now. Isn’t that the reason any man marries?”

Her expression was hard to read. “Men marry for the same reason women marry. Because they fall in love.”

“Love is just a fancy word for lust.” It had always been his philosophy, and he’d be damned if he’d lie about that to her. Wasn’t it enough that she had him practically begging to be allowed to share her bed?