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“So, what did you expect?” he asked himself savagely. “That this would be easy?”
Of course not, but he hadn’t thought he would feel so alone.
Although that wasn’t quite true; he wasn’t entirely alone. Lady Marsh, his only living relative, was aware of the plot. Oliver had a feeling that she would have stood by him whatever he did.
Lady Marsh, widowed and with no children of her own, had never made a secret of the fact that she wanted Oliver to marry and create an heir as soon as possible. Without an heir there would be no one left to carry on the Montegomery name, and no one to whom to leave her considerable fortune. Lady Marsh, with her stern eyes and ramrod-straight back, believed a young man of birth and breeding should make his mark upon the world in ways other than drinking and gambling and pleasuring himself on unsuitable women.
She wanted Oliver to marry and have a son and to make a proper life for himself. It was a rare month that passed by without her reminding him of it, and lately it had been twice or thrice a month that she had harangued him. The last time remained fresh in his mind.
“Your father, my brother, was a rascal, Oliver,” she had said, her eyes so like his, boring into him. “And yet for all that he had a brain. He could have used that brain to make something of himself, to do something. He didn’t. Such a waste. He was dead at forty, killed when his horse took a jump and he didn’t. And for what? For a ridiculous wager. Don’t let the same thing happen to you.”
“Anthony was the one who grew up expecting to marry and produce an heir,” he had reminded her. “Anthony was groomed to head the family from the day he was born. They are rather large shoes to step into, Aunt. I’m not certain they fit me at all well.”
“Oliver, you are not your brother, of course not. You are not Anthony; he was solid rock and you are quicksilver. The two cannot be compared. That does not mean you will not fit his shoes admirably.” Then, her eyes still delving into his, she had said, “When do you think this business with Lawson will all be over?”
“I don’t know.”
“I know I said I would support you, but it has been a year now and nothing has come of it.” She had waved her hand with all the arrogance of her age, position in society, and wealth. “Let it go.”
“No.”
Lady Marsh had sighed. “You are a very stubborn young man. I don’t know why I bother with you.”
“I don’t know why you bother with me either, Aunt.”
Oliver had never imagined Anthony would die before him—it was as unthinkable as the sun failing to rise each morning. Fifteen years older than Oliver, Anthony was a man who took his responsibilities to his family, class, and country very seriously. He was a little dull and occasionally pompous, something which Oliver delighted in pointing out to him. But Anthony was a good and honest man, and until he set his heart and mind upon Celia Maclean, his only interest had been in the family and the Tory party. Once Anthony met Celia, however, his thoughts turned to marriage and fatherhood, and Oliver had been relieved to think that soon there would be lots of little Montegomeries to carry on the family name. That would leave Oliver free to continue in his role as the disreputable younger brother, with no responsibilities but to please himself.
Instead, tragedy had stuck. A little over a year ago Anthony had died, and the fate of the Montegomery family now rested upon Oliver’s unprepared shoulders.
Lady Marsh did not, nor ever would, blame him for his brother’s death. Others did. Oliver certainly blamed himself. In the still darkness of the night, Oliver often lay awake, sick with regrets. There were ways of sending a man to his end that did not involve a bullet or a blade, and he knew that although he had not fired the fatal shot, he had been an unwitting accessory to Anthony’s death.
The guilt weighed heavily upon him tonight, and the determination to have revenge on the one who had held the gun to his brother’s head—the man Anthony had loved and trusted and believed to be his friend. Perhaps Miss Vivianna Greentree had caused his black mood. She had been so very enthusiastic and sure of herself and her damned cause. She had shimmered with life, and she had wrung emotions from him he had thought firmly tamped down. Indeed, if he had been a sulky fire she would have had him burst into roaring flames in no time at all.
Oliver snorted at the image—she had made parts of him hot, that was certain!—and swung his cane. But it was true, the woman had stirred sensations in him he had almost forgotten. When had he last felt so alive? Probably not since long before Anthony’s death. His brother had often chastised him for wasting his youth and vigor on less admirable pursuits. Of drifting without any real goals.
Oliver’s reaction to Vivianna Greentree puzzled him. She wasn’t beautiful in the classical sense. Her hair had russet tones, and although it was knotted quite severely at her nape, there was a thickness to it, a sensual richness, that made him want to slip his fingers through the strands and press his face into it. Her skin was so fine that he wanted to smooth it with his hands and taste it with his tongue. Her lips were full and when he had kissed her, they had reddened, grown swollen, while her hazel eyes, so passionate and bright, had grown sleepy and dark. She had let him touch her, kiss her, as if she could not help herself.
If he was really the unprincipled rake he was playing, he would have had her instead of wasting his breath arguing with her. He remembered now the manner in which she had responded to his kisses. Not fainting or wailing or running for her life. No, she had relished wholeheartedly his every attention—at least at first.
Oliver’s steps slowed. He found himself wondering how she would look beneath him as he plundered her in his bed. All creamy limbs and heaving breasts. Would she cry out his name as she climaxed, or demand he hand over Candlewood in payment for her virginity? He shook his head in disgust at his own thoughts. If he had been lusting after only her body he could understand himself—beneath her dull and sensible clothing she was curved and soft in all the right places, with breasts just the size he liked them. But her hair? Her skin? Her eyes?
Oliver realized then he had stopped and was standing in the dimly lit street. As if he were lost. With an impatient sound, he began to walk again. She was a certain type of gentlewoman, he reminded himself, whom he particularly despised. A narrow-minded, crusading do-gooder. From Yorkshire, of all godforsaken places! And she wanted to prevent him from doing something he had every intention of doin
g. Did she imagine she could instill him with a social conscience by earnestly coming all this way to see him? Oliver shuddered.
But remembering now her fervent expression when she spoke of Candlewood, and then her pain as he deliberately destroyed her hopes, Oliver grimaced. He did not like hurting things smaller and more feeble than himself, although he was dubious that label applied to Vivianna Greentree. Well, it had had to be done. Pointless letting her believe she could persuade him to change his mind. And yet he couldn’t say he had enjoyed that part of their encounter.
Damn the woman!
What would she think if she knew the full extent of his sins? Would a determined social reformer such as herself rise to the challenge? Or would she consider him beyond redemption? He hoped it was the latter, for her own sake he really did. He had been playing the rake for so long now that the role came easily to him, too easily. And Miss Vivianna Greentree was such a sweet armful…. With any luck he had frightened her off, and she was even now on her way back to Yorkshire.
With any luck.
Mrs. Helen Russell was waiting for Vivianna, and she was in a state. Lil, hovering anxiously behind her, grimaced a warning.
“You went out alone, Vivianna! I’ve been worried sick! What would I have told your mother if something had happened to you? Oh, I feel quite ill.”
Vivianna and Lil between them supported her to a chair against the wall. Mrs. Russell waved a hand in front of her face, looking even more ravaged and exhausted than usual. She turned big blue accusing eyes upon Vivianna and shook her head.
