Led Astray by a Rake (The Husband Hunters Club 1)

“You didn’t used to talk like this.”

“Perhaps I didn’t want to spoil your childish dreams.”

“And then I grew so boring you dropped me.”

He met her quizzical gaze and forced a bland smile. “Exactly.”

“Nic, if you’d only let me, I could—”

“No!” He took a deep breath, moderating his tone. “Olivia, please. Enough. Let’s just get this over with as painlessly as possible. Then you can go home and I can go to bed, and we can forget this ever happened.”

She gave him one last glare and turned back to the window.

They were still not speaking—and Nic thanked God for it—when they trundled up the driveway to Castle Lacey. His mother’s house was in darkness, and there were no lights from the castle. Although the dawn light was creeping across the park and gardens, reflecting in the mullioned windows, the buildings themselves looked forbidding. Not the cheeriest of homecomings, especially when he’d left so recently believing he wouldn’t be back for several months.

It wasn’t always like this. Nic had to admit that when his father was alive and his mother was speaking to him, the atmosphere had been different. His childhood hadn’t been unpleasant, not at all. As an only child he’d been spoiled, and he knew at school he’d caused his parents quite a bit of worry and despair, but they’d sorted through that. The day he saved the child Olivia from drowning he’d realized what a fool he was being, and he’d made a vow to do better. Eventually he would have grown into the man they expected him to be and everything would have been all right. If only…

“Nic?”

Olivia’s voice startled him out of his gloomy thoughts. She was watching him, a worried crease between her brows.

“Hmm?”

“Won’t Lady Lacey be wondering who is arriving so early?”

“My mother occupies the gatehouse these days. She doesn’t interfere in my life, nor I in hers. Don’t fret, Olivia, she won’t come poking her nose in where it isn’t wanted.”

“Is it true—” she began, but whatever she meant to ask was never finished. The coach drew to a halt before the castle, and the next moment Abbot was busy opening the door. Olivia gave him a smile as she was assisted out into the chilly morning.

“I’ll get rid of any of the servants who may be up,” Abbot said to his master. “Then Miss Monteith can be comfortable.”

“By all means let’s make sure that Miss Monteith is comfortable,” Nic replied dryly.

“It may take me some little while,” Abbot went on, pointedly ignoring his tone. “I suggest you take your time, my lord. Admire the roses. I have been told they are at their best in the dawn dew.”

Nic groaned, but Olivia was already smiling and declaring, “What a good idea, Abbot!”

It wasn’t until Abbot had gone and they were alone that she seemed to recall his lame leg. He blamed himself for stumbling, slightly, as he opened the gate into the walled garden. Olivia opened her mouth, met his gaze, and closed it again. He was grateful she had the wit to realize he wouldn’t appreciate her drawing attention to his status as a cripple.

But Olivia could never be kept down for long. Now, smiling, she took his arm in hers, surreptitiously supporting him. “Isn’t this lovely,” she murmured, breathing deeply of the cold, clear air. “So—so bracing.”

Knowing very well what she was about, Nic shot her a mocking glance. “Extremely bracing,” he added. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so braced.”

Her smile wavered. “I am trying to be polite,” she said quietly. “I know it is difficult, considering it is barely light, we are hiding from the servants, you are in a foul mood, and my feet hurt from dancing most of the night. But I am trying.”

Blast it! Nic wished she wouldn’t do that—make him feel like a cruel monster. Now he would have to make it up to her, he thought, as they made their way into the rose garden.

“I call this one Mildred’s Rose,” he said, pausing by a particularly enormous bloom. “The scent reminds me of an old aunt who has long since died. She reeked of a perfume just like this.”

Olivia bent and breathed in the scent. “Oh. It is a little peculiar.”

“She was a peculiar woman.”

She smiled uncertainly, and they moved on, and he pointed out another rose, smaller and darker, with yellow stamens.

“This one makes me think of a woman I met in Brighton. I don’t know why.”

“Or you won’t tell me,” she retorted.