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“Why are you skulking around?”
He whirled to find his brother Nicholas standing by the window. A hand to his chest, he shook his head. “Skulking? In my own house?”
“Yes.” Nicholas nodded and stepped toward him. “Skulking.”
“I should think the man standing silently by the window looking all pensive was the one doing the skulking, especially considering he has his own house to behave so in.”
Nicholas glanced at the crystal glass in his hand and offered it to Oliver. “I think you need this more than me.”
He shook his head, waving away the drink. Suddenly a dram of liquor didn’t seem enough. Maybe he needed a keg full.
“Why are you here anyway?” Nicholas asked. “I thought you’d be out on Rotten Row by now.”
“I fancied a change of pace.” Oliver straightened as his brother strolled over to the drinks cabinet and poured another glass of whisky. “Anyway, am I not allowed to be in my own house?”
Nicholas lifted both shoulders. “Not when you should be charming ladies or seeking a new mistress.” He practically forced the whisky into Oliver’s hand. “Here, I think you need this. You look like I do after an encounter with Mother.”
“I haven’t seen Mother.”
“Well, you still have that slightly gray look.” His brother waved a hand in front of his face. “As though you cannot believe you even came from that woman.”
“I cannot,” he admitted.
“Nor can any of us but we’re not the first to have a cold, calculating shrew of a woman in their lives.”
Taking a sip of drink, Oliver gave a slight nod. Blake had difficulties with his mother though she was doing her best to make amends for previous behaviors. He doubted his would ever see anything wrong with bullying her own children.
In truth, if it were not for his desire for Eleanor, he would not be dwelling on his mother’s comportment so intently. He’d considered that so long as he remained unwed, so long as he flouted her desires to see him settled down, the woman would not win. So what sense was there in brooding on the fact she tried to manipulate him at every turn?
The trouble was, by denying himself marriage, she was still controlling him. But could he really give in and offer Eleanor what she deserved?
He wasn’t certain he could have guessed such a woman could kiss like that—with so much passion, so much giving. After that kiss, however, he did know whoever eventually married Eleanor would be a lucky man indeed. He’d always known she was generous—her need to ensure Demeter’s happiness told him that much—but who could have fathomed it would translate into being so damned wonderful in his arms?
The bluestocking had so many hidden depths he suspected he could spend a lifetime unearthing them.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” asked Oliver.
“I was hoping to do some writing.” His brother motioned to the writing desk in one corner, paper and a quill abandoned with no more than a few lines written. “Seems I do not have an ounce of inspiration in me.”
Oliver glanced at Nicholas and spied the passionless look in his eyes. Not long ago, his brother had been a keen and talented writer. That had all changed after his marriage.
Drawing in a breath, he threw back the rest of the drink and let the warmth ease through his aching chest. No matter how tempted he was, he could not give in. He could not become another Nicholas.
Chapter Seventeen
Breath held, Eleanor tiptoed down the corridor, pausing when a floorboard creaked. Feminine laughter emanated from the blue drawing room followed by a deep male chuckle. She smiled to herself. With any luck, there would be another wedding on the horizon—this time for Aunt Sarah. It seemed as though everyone was finding love.
Apart from her, of course.
She shook her head. Now was no time for self-pity. She’d never wanted romantic love or expected it. Oliver wasn’t wrong in decrying marriage as no more than a miserable arrangement. She’d certainly seen it happen many a time. Goodness, even Chastity’s first marriage had been awful, but she had to admit, seeing her sister and now her aunt utterly in love with their second matches made her heart pull.
Mostly in the direction of Oliver.
She pressed herself against the wall, fingers curled about the ridge of the wooden paneling and closed her eyes briefly. These thoughts were utterly pointless, and she was tired of feeling sorry for herself. Things had been much easier when she’d remained tucked away, toying with her contraptions and keeping her expectations to a minimum. If only Oliver did not make her wonder if there was more to be had from life...
Peering around the edge of the open door, one of the footmen spotted her and looked discretely away. She spied Aunt Sarah upon the chaise and Mr. Wilde on his feet. Her aunt’s gaze shot immediately to the doorway so she darted back into hiding.
Blast. Her aunt must have seen her. As did Simon apparently. The cat nonchalantly sauntered out of the room, offering a brief brush of his body upon her skirts before skittering off to who knew where.
