To Catch A Suitor (Dalton Family 2)

Oliver spent every London Season for the past three years trying to overcome his desire for Elizabeth. She had awoken his heart that summer at Dalton Park. Any other woman had paled in comparison to Elizabeth after that. He ached to think she would never be his.

“Well?” she asked with a searching smile as her silver slippered foot reached the ground floor. “Will I do?” There was some new tentativeness—an insecurity he’d never seen before lingering in Elizabeth’s eyes. Which was absurd because the woman looked like some sort of otherworldly faerie from lore—to look at her would grant eternal youth or riches or—

“Oliver?” she asked again. Her brows pinched together nervously when he didn’t respond the first time.

“Hmm? Oh—” He let out a short laugh and readjusted his stance. “Lizzie you look…” but what could he say? His instinct was to tell this woman how absurdly beautiful she looked and spill all of his feelings at her feet. But that would be dramatic, not to mention impulsive, which was what he had promised himself he would not be with her. With Elizabeth, he was Oliver—not the flirtatious Charming. “You look well.”

Her brows pulled deeper together, and she seemed even more unsure of herself. “I look well?”

He nodded, feeling like the ground between them was shifting back into something uncertain. He could feel another pillar falling. What he needed to do was find some way to put them back on firm, friendly footing.

Bows and braids. Bows and braids.

Blast. That still wasn’t working. Her soft, golden curls were intricately braided and pinned beautifully around her head in a way he hadn’t seen on her before. A single curl hung loose, dropping down to graze her lovely, slender neck.

Which he could not stop staring at. Wonderful. He needed to get ahold of himself. He’d been resisting this woman for three years. He could certainly resist telling her how he felt for one more night.

Oliver cleared his throat and forced his eyes up the stairs to where he hoped Lord and Lady Kensworth would emerge momentarily. “Do you suppose the love birds will be much longer?”

He saw Elizabeth shrug out of the corner of his eye—only the corner because he didn’t quite trust himself yet to look at her again. “I’m not sure. To be honest, I’ll be surprised if they even emerge from their blissful bubble to join us tonight.”

Oliver whipped his head to look at Elizabeth. “You think they might not come with us? Why not?” He could hear the sharpness in his voice, and saw the evidence of it registered on Elizabeth’s face. He cleared his throat and forced himself to speak in a more normal tone. “I just think Miss Loxley will be terribly disappointed to do without Lord and Lady Hatley as well as Lord and Lady Kensworth.”

Elizabeth took a step toward him, but he instinctively took a step back. Wonderful, Oliver. He hadn’t done that since he was twenty-two and she seventeen. Could he be more obvious? Oliver felt like he needed to go run around the block just to relieve some of the tension he felt building. Would he never grow used to Elizabeth’s beauty? But it wasn’t just her beauty. This woman was incredible to him in every way.

“Are you all right, Oliver? Is something wrong?” It was as if it was three years ago and they were back in his room all over again.

“Oh, no, I’m just fine,” he said, reaching out to rest his hand on the wall behind him. Unfortunately, he completely missed the wall and nearly fell to the ground. He was able to right himself quickly with a springy little jump that made him look even more insane than he already had. He forced a smile. “I think I’ll just go tell the coachman that we’ll be another minute.”

Elizabeth’s eyes were wide and her mouth was slightly open as he turned away from her and darted out the door. Oliver flew down the steps and paced at least ten circles before he felt he had gained enough composure to go back in the house.

Never once had he denied himself the ability to flirt with a woman whom he found attractive. Or to court her as soon as she had caught his eye. But he had never allowed himself the privilege of either of those things with Elizabeth, because he knew that if he courted her, he would never be able to let her go.

Anytime he even remotely contemplated the idea, Frank Turner’s words pierced through his mind, angry and unwavering. The memory returned unbidden of Oliver’s last meeting with his father: he had finally summoned the courage to tell his father just how much he had been hurt by his violence and hatred. And what had Frank Turner done? He had laughed. His father had laughed in his face and said, “I wouldn’t be so judgmental if I were you, boy. My blood runs through your veins. One day you’ll be just like me, and my father before me, and his father before him. We Turners are all the same and there’s no use pretending you're any different.”

Oliver clenched his fists at his sides and looked back up at the now ominous-looking front door. He would never hurt Elizabeth the way his father had hurt his mother. The way his father had hurt him. Oliver would make sure Elizabeth got the very best in life, which meant letting her go.

Chapter Eight

Everything was under control. Kensworth and Rose finally made their way downstairs, and the four of them settled in the carriage. Seeing Kensworth and Rose had helped Oliver regain some of his composure and steeled his determination. The only problem was, now they were in a dark carriage and he couldn’t really see Kensworth anymore, but he could certainly feel Elizabeth sitting beside him, her arm brushing against him every time the carriage bumped and swayed.

Oliver was torn between wishing the carriage ride was a little less jostling, and hoping they never met a smooth patch ever again. Because, blast it all, he liked the way Elizabeth smelled tonight and the way his arm felt as if it had caught fire every time hers brushed against him.

But he had the situation completely under control.

“Any more news of Mr. Turner?” Kensworth’s voice mixed with the sound of his father’s name felt like a bucket of cold water dumped over him.

“What’s happened to your father?” asked Elizabeth, concern coloring her tone.

Every so often, they passed a street lamp and its light would cast a brief warm glow across Elizabeth’s face. In those moments, he could see the questions in her eyes. Elizabeth was the only one in the Ashburn family who knew the true extent of Frank Turner’s abuse toward Oliver. Many times over the past few years, when he had continued to summer at Dalton Park without Kensworth, he and Elizabeth had spent their days walking for hours over the grounds, talking about anything and everything. During those summers, he had let Elizabeth inside the walls of his heart that no one else even knew existed.

Kensworth knew that Oliver’s father was difficult to be around. He knew that his father was harsh—and that they had an unfixable relationship. But Elizabeth knew more. She knew that Frank Turner was never awake without brandy coursing through his veins. She knew that Frank Turner had a heavy fist and a short temper. She knew that Oliver was hated by his father. And that the only words ever spoken to Oliver by his father were of his worthlessness.

Oliver looked toward Elizabeth. “I received a letter from him not long ago. He’s…not well.”

He heard her take in a d

eep breath. And then in the dark carriage, Elizabeth reached over and took his hand. She squeezed it once and then pulled hers away. Oliver almost reached back for it again, but thankfully Rose’s voice stopped him. “We’re here,” she stated as the carriage pulled to a stop outside of Miss Vienna Loxley’s home, in line behind at least ten other carriages.