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He would leave her and return to Scotland.
Chapter Four
Number Nine, Mockingbird Square
Mayfair
The Earl of Monkstead smiled as Olivia chatted nervously about how beautiful the gardens were looking. His visit had taken her completely by surprise and he was yet to tell her exactly why he had decided to call upon her like this, quite out of the blue.
Margaret, busy pouring tea, was no help. She hadn’t said a word since they learned Monkstead was waiting for them in the drawing room, where the footman had settled him.
“Why is he here?” Olivia had demanded in a whisper, as they’d paused outside the door. She knew her face was paler even than yesterday and there were shadows under her eyes—she wasn’t looking her best and she was certainly not in the mood for visitors. “It is far too late to make a polite call, and nor is it proper for a gentleman who is not a relative to just descend upon us like this.”
“He is Monkstead,” Margaret had replied, a faint flush in her cheeks and her green eyes sparkling with temper. “He likes to interfere in his neighbours’ lives, Livy.”
“Well he won’t be interfering in my life!” Olivia had retorted. “I’ve had enough interference lately.”
“What did your father say to you?” Margaret hadn’t been privy to the conversation between father and daughter earlier today.
“He wants me to come home when he leaves tomorrow. He’s worried about me, and they have my old room ready for me. I know they will fuss over me and I won’t have to worry about anything, not for a while at least.”
Margaret had given her
a hesitant look.
“What is it?” Olivia demanded. “What’s wrong with going home to the place where I was so happy before . . . before . . .”
“I know your parents love you, Livy. It’s just that you will always be a child to them, they don’t want you to grow up, and while you’re at home you never will.”
Olivia blinked at her. Was Margaret speaking from personal experience? She rather thought she was.
Today, after her father’s visit, Olivia had finally made the decision to leave Rory. Her parents had expected her to come home a week ago, but she hadn’t been able to tear herself away. She wasn’t sure what she had hoped for, perhaps a miracle, but she had finally run out of hope. She was done with lying in her bed with her head aching, wanting only to forget this dreadful chapter in her otherwise happy life.
But her heart was a contrary organ. As soon as she had imagined herself safe with her parents she realised how much she would miss Rory, how empty her life would be without him and their brief but passionate marriage. He might have married her for her money, but she had married him for love.
Would she ever meet another man like him? Did she want to replace him with someone else? Could he be replaced?
He’d asked her to forgive him, but how could she? Why should she? She’d believed in him, trusted him, and he had broken her heart and ruined her life, not to mention trampled on her pride. Olivia Willoughby had never been treated in such an underhand manner before, and until now the idea would have been inconceivable. Even if she could find it in herself to forgive him it wouldn’t matter. Surely no amount of apologising could mend what they’d had? Not now.
Best to cut the ties, as her father had instructed her. A clean break, and she would be free of Rory forever.
“What is it, Mrs Maclean?”
She was seated in the drawing room and a long silence had fallen; the earl’s dark eyes were gazing into hers. There was something mesmerizing about them, a sense that she could tell him anything and he would listen. When she’d first entered the room, Olivia had had no intention of telling Monkstead anything at all. But now, before she could stop them, the floodgates inside her opened and words poured out of her.
It took some time, but eventually she began to slow to a stop. Tears filled her eyes and she had to blink hard to prevent herself from bursting into agonised sobs. The earl was still watching her sympathetically.
“He lied to you,” Margaret murmured. “That is very difficult to forgive.”
Her cousin had taken her side and while on the one hand it pleased and consoled Olivia, on the other she felt the contrary urge to remind Margaret how kind Rory always was to her.
Monkstead seemed to be deep in thought, and when he spoke at last it was in a practical tone. “You say that it was your money that your husband wanted?”
“Of course it was! He admitted it. He said it was all true. That he had intended to meet me that day at the burn. That he had plotted to win my affections and marry me. He knew who I was even before we met! If my father hadn’t made enquiries in Scotland then I wonder if he would ever have confessed the truth to me!”
The earl looked doubtful, and Olivia clenched her hands into fists, suddenly infuriated. “It is true!” she burst out.
“My dear lady,” Monkstead said softly, sympathetically, “I do not doubt you.” He leaned forward. “The money is for his castle?”
