A Season of Hope (Danby #2)(12)

He’d read the same line over and over.

Usually, he could lose himself in the written word but Olivia, with her antics that day, had managed to weave her way into his thoughts. First there had been the snowball fight, then the chopping of the yew tree, and supper. The old duke had insisted that Marcus join him and Olivia for the evening meal.

Marcus had tried his best, citing a breach in propriety, but that had only fueled the duke’s insistence. Danby answered to no one. No, Society’s strictures didn’t apply to Danby or any of his off-spring, it seemed.

Marcus had been forced to labor through the partridge soup, baked egg Florentine, roast beef, and rout drop cakes. Olivia had sat across from him, her gaze cast down upon her plate. She’d shoved her fork around her barely touched food.

All the while, Danby had filled the silence.

Marcus closed the book and set it aside his nightstand table. Had it been that she’d been unable to stomach the sight of his hideous visage while she supped?

She wouldn’t be the first person to lose her appetite in his presence.

The thought of that stung like so many knives being plunged in his stomach.

Except, she had not shunned his presence earlier that afternoon. She’d looked at him. Talked to him. Treated him as a whole man. Something, really only Danby had done since he’d returned from war.

Even the household staff who answered to Marcus were careful to avert their gazes whenever he spoke to them. Over the years, he had caught enough glimpses of horror and repulsion that that he didn’t delude himself into believing the staff’s reactions stemmed out of respect for his position as steward.

He’d ceased caring about such reaction years ago.

Until Olivia.

He didn’t want her to look at him and see a monster of a man.

Marcus swiped a hand over his disfigured cheek. Little hope wishing for things that couldn’t be.

As it was, Olivia would remain with Danby another ten days and then would return to her parents. At which time she would wed that old bastard, Lord Ellsworth.

Marcus jumped to his feet and began to pace his quarters. He raked a hand through his hair.

He had done a remarkable job of shoving thoughts of her to the side. Lady Olivia Foster deserved more in a husband that a nearly faceless monster. Through the years, there had been moments when he had picked up a pen to write her. In the end, he’d wrinkled the parchment into a messy ball and hurled the missive into his hearth. What young lady would desire a husband whose mere appearance roused revulsion in young and old alike?

He’d thought he’d buried Olivia, along with the dreams he’d had for their future.

Then in the span of a few days, she’d gone and upended his entire world.

Marcus stopped pacing, and stood in front of the window. He drew back the thick brocaded curtain and stared out into the black night sky, dotted with gleaming stars. A fresh blanket of snow layered the earth.

She’d thrown a snowball at him. And he’d thrown one back.

When was the last time he’d done anything just for the sheer pleasure of it? Since his days in the military to the day he’d returned and found work with Danby, Marcus’s life had been driven by order, reason, logic, and responsibility. There wasn’t room for yew trees and frivolous jaunts in the snow.

So why did he feel more alive than he had in years?

It was because of her.

Marcus lowered his head to the windowpane and slowly beat his brow against the cold glass. He could ill-afford to turn himself over to foolish yearnings. He’d made peace with his life. There was no place for a wife and children. Yet, being near Olivia had roused the hope he’d carried deep within his breast—the dream to be more than a beast, hidden away at Danby Castle.

He blamed this madness on the Christmastide season. At this time of year, the promise of hope and new beginnings filled the air. With the purity of the Season, the horror of a man’s everyday life could be drowned out in the spirit of the holiday. Damn Danby for shaking up his world.

Marcus dropped the curtain. It fluttered back into place. There would be no sleep this evening.

He found his jacket and tugged it on.

He needed to escape the disquiet of his rooms. Mayhap then he could put thoughts of Olivia to the side.

Marcus made his way through the mammoth castle. His Hessian boots silent upon the marble floors. At last he reached the kitchens. He’d always had a strong desire for sweet treats. It had been a source of great amusement between him and Olivia. She’d preferred cherry tarts and he, well he’d always teased that he preferred all treats equally.

Cook had used the stale Savoy cake to make a tipsy cake. During the evening meal, Marcus had little appetite. Now, the almond studded treat beckoned.

He paused at the kitchen door. The faint glow of a candle shone from beneath the crack of the entrance-way. He frowned. He needed to speak with the staff of the dangers of leaving rooms ablaze. Even a single candle could prove lethal to a household.

Marcus opened the door and words escaped him.

Olivia glanced up from the dish in front of her. Cornflower blue eyes went wide in her face, giving her the look of a night owl. “Oh,” she said around a bite full of tipsy cake.

For the first time in five years, Marcus managed his first real smile.

“Olivia.”

***

Olivia gulped down a large mouthful of Cook’s evening treat.