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“At least, that is what they think.”
“Or hope,” Abbot said wryly. “What will I do with her? Send her away?”
“No, don’t do that. I want to see this brave and attractive young lady. Show her into the parlor. Do you think tea…? Or something stronger?”
“Tea, my lord, definitely tea.”
Nic nodded. “Tea it is then. Oh, and Abbot, does this brave and beautiful young lady have a name?”
But Abbot, by error or design, had already closed the door.
Olivia sat straight-backed on the very edge of the chair. Her bonnet was set at a jaunty angle, the feather curled just so, and her dark blue dress flattered her, and was perfectly suited to a morning visit. She felt confident, which was just as well because she needed all the confidence she could muster. She might appear to be her usual calm self, but beneath her serene exterior was a maelstrom of turbulent emotions.
Her anxious state wasn’t just because she was about to put a marriage proposal to Wicked Nic Lacey. There was the additional worry that since she’d come home her parents had been putting increased pressure upon her to marry Mr. Garsed, their choice of a suitable husband. Try as she might to hold firm against them, they were beginning to wear her down.
Mr. Garsed was handsome and rich, and if he was vain about his appearance, there were worse faults in a man. He would look after her and spoil her, basking in her beauty and good taste and her suitability as his wife. And—the main reason for her parents’ eagerness for the match—his home was on the other side of the village, which meant that apart from occasional visits to London, it would be as if she had never left them. Her life would hardly change.
She loved her parents dearly and she understood their anxiety to have her close, but such a tame, mundane existence wasn’t what Olivia wanted at all.
Where were the passion and the excitement? Where were the racing pulse and pounding heart and desperate longing? Mr. Garsed inspired none of these things in her, and she knew he never would. If Olivia married him she would wither away within the year, and become a shell of the vibrant girl she was now. She must fight to prevent it; she must find the courage to reach out for what she wanted.
The door opened and a gentleman entered.
Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair a little shaggy, his features saturnine, and his dark eyes deep-set, he was staring back at her boldly, rudely, and when he didn’t speak she was obliged to stand up and hold out her gloved hand.
“Lord Lacey, how do you do?” she said politely, showing him how it was done.
“Good God.” He took her hand in a hard, warm grip. “It’s Miss Monteith.”
Well, he remembered her. That was a start.
“What can I do to help you, Miss Monteith?”
He still held her hand, and as he raked his gaze over every inch of her, not restrained by any idea of impoliteness or impropriety, his eyes were lit by a spark deep within. Olivia knew this was one of the reasons she liked him so much. He was so different from everyone else she knew. Wicked Nic said and did exactly as he liked, and the rest be damned. It must be very restful not to feel compelled to mouth meaningless platitudes and offer compliments you didn’t mean. It must be very liberating.
“We are neighbors, Lord Lacey. Do I need a reason to call on you?”
His smile made his rather austere face warm and handsome. “Of course you do, Miss Monteith. I’m surprised a woman as beautiful as you is allowed anywhere near a man like me. Do your parents know you’re here?”
Her anger only made her seem calmer, her blue eyes cool as a frozen river, but he must have sensed something of her true feelings, because a quizzical frown drew down his thick dark brows.
“We are also friends, Lord Lacey, or at least I used to think so.”
“Friends? Well, perhaps. It’s been years since we met and spoke, Miss Monteith, and you are no longer a child.”
“I am twenty years old, Lord Lacey, and will be of age within twelve months. I can do as I please.”
“I like the sound of that but I don’t believe it,” he retorted. “As you please? A woman like you? You can no longer do as you please, Miss Monteith.”
The silence was broken by a loud throat clearing, and a male servant entered with a tea tray. The man, shorter than Nic, and with gray hair, carried the tray to the low table in front of Olivia, and bent to set it down. His gray eyes flicked up to meet Olivia’s briefly, curiously, before he straightened and turned to his master.
“Tea, my lord, as requested. Is there anything else you require?”
“No, Abbot, thank you.”
The door closed behind Abbot and left them once more alone. Nic gestured at the tea things. “Will you pour?”
Happy to oblige, Olivia busied herself with the familiar, calming ritual. She could feel him watching her intently as he sat opposite, but she ignored him, refusing to meet his dark gaze until she was ready.
