She’d spent the last few days with Blythe and had let down her guard and told her about Oliver. Much to her surprise, Blythe wasn’t concerned by her lack of virtue, claiming that she understood completely the allure of the Randall men. They’d also talked of their children, the ones lost to illness, and the countess had confessed she was terrified of losing another child. Beth had done her best to comfort her and had urged her to confide her fea
rs to Tobias. She understood her feelings on the matter very well. Beth still ached for her daughter and lost son.
But she still had George to coddle and protect, which was why she had requested all the keys to her son’s room be left with her. She didn’t feel confident yet that Henry wouldn’t return, although Oliver promised he was long gone. George was still Henry’s heir. At night, she had very little to do beside read before the fire and try not to jump at every little sound.
“Are you going to bed soon?” George asked from the doorway to his room, book clutched in his hand as one often was.
Beth drew her robe tighter about her shoulders, took her customary place before the fire, and patted the cushion next to her. “I thought I would read first like you. Come sit with me.”
Instead of coming closer, George inched toward the door. “It’s too difficult. I need help with it.”
Beth frowned and glanced at the small mantel clock. It was too late for him to be roaming the halls in his nightshirt. “Then read something else.”
George shuffled to her bedroom door, hand fiddling with the latch. “I’ll ask Oliver.”
The next instant he was out the door before she could say not to go. Beth called out and rushed to the doorway, but only caught a fleeting glimpse of him as he disappeared around a corner. Cursing under her breath, she hesitated to follow. He hadn’t liked the restrictions she’d placed on his movements. He was not to be alone and he was to go to bed well before she turned in. She had also asked him not to spend all his time with Oliver.
Since Oliver’s return, she’d been avoiding him except at mealtimes when she couldn’t and she retired early most nights, taking George with her. They had not spoken since the day he returned her son. She had not gone to him at night and he had stayed away from her bed too.
The truth was, she was waiting for him to announce he was leaving again and desperately hoping her heart wouldn’t break when he did. Essential to her happiness was not to think kindly toward him at all. He didn’t want her beyond the thrill of sex. They had no future together besides scandalizing the district. It was better not to take up where they had left off.
When she judged enough time had passed to get his answers and George hadn’t returned of his own accord, she started to worry. Had he run into trouble and needed her? Should she make sure he had reached Oliver’s rooms, after all?
She drew a deep breath, swiftly redressed into a day gown, and then hurried along the now-darkened passageways until she came to the open door of Oliver’s apartment. Heart racing, she eased closer, listening to the low rumble of conversation as Oliver patiently explained the essentials of flower propagation to her son.
“Come in, Elizabeth,” Oliver called. “We’ll be done in a moment.”
When she stepped into the room, she gasped at the mess Oliver had made of the fine chamber. It wasn’t necessary to have this many books open at once. It looked as if he’d done nothing but read since his return a week ago. When she lifted her gaze, her heart tumbled erratically. Oliver was watching her, his lips turned up, his eyes alight with pleasure. She rubbed her damp palms over her dress. “Have the maids been here at all since you’ve come back?”
Oliver shrugged, lowering his gaze as his lips turned down. “They come to the doorway and take away the dirty dishes, but they cannot clean without moving things. It’s intolerable and I sent them away.”
Elizabeth scowled at him. “Terrifying the servants again?”
He ruffled George’s hair before he turned to the fire and took a seat close to it. He sprawled in a chair and studied her. “Eamon’s wild recounting of events in Portsmouth has made them even more skittish. It cannot be helped, so I choose to stay here, out of the way.”
Beth glanced at her son. He appeared to be engrossed in his book, but then he snuck a peek at her as if he was listening to every word they spoke. She moved toward Oliver. “Is none of it true then?”
Oliver’s lips pursed as if he was deciding how much to reveal. She would rather have the whole of it now and from him than Eamon’s gross exaggerations. She sat across from him and leaned forward. “The truth, if you please.”
“I would have killed him if harm had come to you.” A brief grimace flickered across his face. “I had my hands about his throat, a short blade below his eye, and if I had not believed you safe I would have gutted him on that table.”
Beth rocked back in her chair, astonished by the heat in his words. He was usually the most temperate of men. He never raged in anger. He never leaped about when excited by new events. Anger was not part of his usual dispassionate nature.
“You forgot to mention leaving his body for the fishes in the harbor,” George called out. Oliver’s eyes never faltered as he watched her. Given his lack of response to George, he had in fact threatened that very thing.
Beth was struck by his calmness, as if he’d been expecting her to come to him. She licked her lips and his gaze wavered slightly, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth as his eyes dipped a fraction. When he smiled, he became another person entirely. Someone Beth wanted very much to be near, but they were not alone. She looked away to George as heat filled her cheeks. But George had disappeared. She stood and looked about for him.
“He’s taken his book into the other room so we might talk privately,” Oliver said softly. “What else do you want to know?”
Beth’s heart began to thud. The hints that Eamon had made that there was a definite reason Henry wouldn’t return pricked her mind. She licked her lips, suddenly nervous of what argument Oliver could have made. But she had wanted the truth and Oliver would give it to her if she asked. “You say Henry won’t be back and your threats of causing him physical harm did sound convincing, but at dinner Eamon hinted something else. A conversation you don’t want anyone else to know about. What was it that convinced Henry to give George to you?”
“You are correct. It wasn’t what I threatened,” he said softly. “I told Turner that George was my son. That’s why he won’t be back. He would never let his money fall to a child who was not of his blood.”
When Elizabeth raised a hand to her mouth, utterly shocked by his confession, Oliver worried even more for his plans for the future. He wasn’t the least bit ashamed of himself for doing what he judged as necessary. There had been no other way to convince the man.
Her hand lowered, revealing trembling lips he longed to kiss. “But that’s a lie. How could you say such a thing? How could he believe you?”
“Because my anger, coupled with George’s bookish nature, gave him all the proof he required to believe me.” Oliver shook his head. “It’s done. There’s only a slim chance George will not be cut off from inheriting Turner’s property when he dies, but it seemed the best and only acceptable outcome.”