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

The bedchamber was quiet apart from the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Nic made his way toward the bed. The flaring light of his candle showed him his wife’s shape beneath the covers and her fair hair like spun gold upon the pillow.

She was asleep.

He stood, looking down at her calm and beautiful face for a very long time. The sight of her, the memory of her love for him, seeped in and eased his troubled soul. He was tempted to climb into bed beside her and hold her in his arms, but she was sleeping so peacefully.

Tomorrow, Nic told himself, he would tell her the truth. From start to finish. He could only hope she would understand and forgive him, and then they could begin to make their lives together. His decision made, Nic turned and made his way back across the room to the door. Tonight he’d sleep in his own bed and leave Olivia to her own sweet dreams, free of his dark shadows.

Chapter 31

The narrow house was neat and respectable, and it stood on a quiet street in the direction of Hampstead. When Olivia finally worked up the courage to use the knocker, the door opened on a soberly dressed maid with a flat, unsmiling face and unfriendly eyes.

“Can I help you, ma’am?”

“I’ve come to visit the lady of the house,” Olivia said, stepping over the threshold. “Can you fetch her for me, please?”

The maid backed away, allowing Olivia in, but she wasn’t happy. “My mistress doesn’t see visitors, ma’am.”

“She will see me. I am Lady Lacey.”

The name acted as a key. The maid’s eyes widened, and reluctantly she nodded her head, unwillingly agreeing.

Olivia removed her gloves, curiously looking about her. The entrance to the house was spotlessly clean, and the banisters on the steep staircase shone with polishing. The housekeeper—as she now said she was—showed Olivia into a sitting room and left her there. The furniture was old and well kept but rather too large for such a small room. An Oriental rug added color, as did the flowers in a large Chinese vase. Outside the window was a view of a handkerchief-sized garden, and when Olivia went to the window, she saw a child there, reading. He was perhaps nine or ten, with dark hair, and he kept glancing up at his companion, a young maid, who was evidently there to keep watch on him.

Olivia scrutinized the boy. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a thin, narrow face. He reminded her painfully of Nic, and there was only one person it could be—Nic’s son, Jonah.

She hadn’t expected to feel such a p

ain in her heart. Nic’s past was nothing to do with here and now, and she wasn’t foolish enough to believe he was squeaky clean—normally it would not matter to her. Her heart was warm enough to allow her to forgive him, and even to embrace this boy who was part of him and love him as her own.

Except she was certain now there was more to this than a long-ago affair.

The way Nic had rushed off last night, refusing to explain…Whatever was in this house was important to him, and his emotions were as engaged now as they’d been ten years ago.

Olivia had to know, even if it meant the end of her brief happiness.

“Lady Lacey?”

She hadn’t heard the door open behind her. The voice was soft and breathy, as if its owner had hurried down the stairs, and as Olivia turned she didn’t know what to expect.

A petite woman stood in the doorway, neatly dressed in a blue wool skirt with a waisted jacket of the same color. Her hair was so fair it looked white against the shadows behind her. She was ethereal, ghostlike, her eyes the only things that were really alive. They were bright blue and burning with emotion.

Exactly like Olivia’s own eyes, and those of her mother.

Olivia felt the floor beneath her feet begin to rock, and reached out to grasp the windowsill for support. The woman came toward her, but cautiously, as if she wasn’t quite sure if Olivia was real. She reached out her hand, her fingers stretched wide, but didn’t touch her, allowing them to drop to her side. “Is it Olivia?” she whispered. “My own sweet Olivia?”

“Sarah.” There were tears on Olivia’s cheeks, but she didn’t remember crying them. Her elder sister Sarah was dead. That was what she’d always been told, what she had accepted without question. But here she was, living in London, and very much alive.

“I don’t understand.” She forced the words through the lump in her throat. “Why did I think you were dead? Why do Mama and Father think you are dead?”

Sarah’s mouth twisted into a parody of a smile. “The scandal,” she said. “You know it is better to be dead than ruined, Olivia.”

“What scandal?” Olivia cried, but inside her head an inkling of the truth was beginning to reveal itself, and she didn’t like what she was thinking.

Sarah gestured for her to sit down, and arranged herself neatly on the chair opposite. There were dark shadows under her eyes, Olivia noticed. Ten years was a long time, but Sarah still looked a great deal older than she should have. Olivia sat, as the shock receded, thinking it strange that she hadn’t hugged her sister and her sister hadn’t held her.

“You call yourself Mrs. Lacey,” she said. “Why do you do that, Sarah?”

Sarah stared at her a moment, and then gave a delicate shrug. “I feel like Mrs. Lacey.”