A Season of Hope (Danby #2)(11)

Marcus held up a hand. “It’s untoward for you to be running about as you are, my lady.”

Olivia skidded to a stop in front of him. She craned her neck back and studied him. Smug man.

She pressed the snow in her hand against his cheek. “You boor. And you should remember, I’m not the na?ve child you left behind five years ago, Marcus. I’m now a woman. Firmly on the shelf. A spinster. I’m afforded certain luxuries.”

Marcus reached up a hand and dusted off powdery white flakes from her cheek. “I believed the duke mentioned you were to be married.”

Olivia’s heart hung, suspended. A ball of pain worked its way up her throat and threatened to choke her on a wave of regret. Yes, yes, how could she have forgotten?

Being out from under her father’s thumb and in the protection of the Duke of Danby, she’d managed to shove her future to the side.

“Who is he?” Marcus’ gruff question punctured her melancholy.

“The Earl of Ellsworth,” she replied automatically. In this moment, he wasn’t the new Marcus Wheatley. He was simply Marcus, and Olivia was so very, very lonely.

She had been for almost five years.

“He’s old,” she said at last.

“Oh?”

Olivia nodded.

A lone flake swirled from above. Then another. And another. She reached up and tried to catch one between her fingers.

“He is one of my father’s friends.”

“Christ,” Marcus muttered.

At that one utterance, warmth flooded Olivia’s being. If he’d ceased to care for her entirely, then it would hardly matter if she married the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. His concern shouldn’t matter, and yet it did—very much.

“I waited for you,” she blurted. In spite of the cold winter air, her cheeks warmed with humiliation at the admission.

Marcus glanced over her shoulder. His one eye fixed in the distance. “Did you?”

“I did as I promised and scared off suitors.”

The hint of a smile played at his scarred lips, but then the familiar black scowl more suited to this new Marcus, settled back in place, so that Olivia thought mayhap she’d imagined it.

“Did you?”

She nodded until she remembered he wasn’t looking at her. “I did. I must admit I was rather inventive.”

His lips opened and closed, and she knew by the way his jaw tightened, that it was all he could do to keep from asking.

Olivia waggled her brows. “Yes, I was very clever.”

That appeared the only enticement Marcus needed.

“Oh?”

She ticked off on her fingers. “I told Lord Ashburn of my fondness for gaming and spirits.”

Marcus inclined his head. “Did you acquire a taste for spirits in my absence?”

Olivia wrinkled her nose. “Oh no, I abhor the stuff. Would you like to hear more?”

“More than anything.”

She ignored the hint of mockery that underlined his statement. He might pretend to be indifferent, but the fact that he continued this discussion indicated he did care.

“I told Lord Dewitt’s mother that I’d never tolerate her living with us, should we wed.”

“Is that all?” Marcus drawled.

“Well, you must know Lord DeWitt. Quite the mother’s boy. The woman appeared absolutely horrified at my pronouncement.” She gave a mock shudder. “I could never marry a mother’s boy.

“Hmm,” he said, his tone non-committal.

Olivia pursed her lips, not appreciating Marcus’s lack of awe for her skills. “There was the time I raced father’s phaeton through Hyde Park in front of Lord Masterson and Lord Denny.” That particular scandal had gotten her into a good deal of trouble in the scandal sheets…and at home. Her father had been none too pleased.

“Oh, and there was the European honeybee bit.” She frowned. Then, she couldn’t really count that as a success considering the Earl of Ellsworth had gone and offered for her anyway.

“What was the European honeybee bit?” At last, the apathy had lifted from the mask he kept in place.

Olivia folded her arms across her chest and inhaled deep of the winter air. “I’m afraid I can’t count that as a victory,” she said.

“Ahh, Ellsworth?”

She gave a curt nod. “Yes, Ellsworth.”

A thick gloom descended. The future had reared its ugly head and erased all happiness she’d known this day. “We should go back,” Olivia murmured. She turned on her heel and started back on the trail to the duke’s castle.

Marcus shot out an arm and halted her. He turned her around. “A tree.”

Her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“We need to find His Grace the perfect Christmastide tree.”

At this glimpse of the man he’d been, Olivia’s throat worked up and down. She drew in a shuddery breath. “Yes. You are correct.”

Marcus held his elbow out. “My lady? Will you accompany me?”

Olivia slipped her fingers along his cloak.

I would have followed you anywhere had you merely asked.





Chapter 6


Ensconced in his own quarters for the better part of four hours, Marcus observed that the household appeared to have finally slept. He held a copy of A Legend of Montrose, one of Sir Walter Scott’s more recent works.