Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls 3)
Oliver smiled tightly. “What’s to tell? It doesn’t exist anymore.”
The door swung wide and the duchess flew into the room. “I just heard the news.” She pulled Oliver into a tight embrace and hugged him. “Thank God for you, Oliver. I’ve been so worried. We could have lost George forever to that dreadful man.”
Oliver greeted her and then glanced over her head, disappointed to see she was alone. “Where is he now?”
“He’s with my son. Beth is there, too, if that is what you’re really asking. Would you care to join us?”
He shook his head. “They’ll both enjoy the young duke’s company far more without me. I’ll see them again later, perhaps.”
He would see them only if Elizabeth wanted them to see him. For all he knew, she might very well remain behind locked doors forever. He sighed, wishing her chambers were closer to his. If she was truly worried, the east wing had excellent locks now they had been repaired.
The duchess peered up at him. “How long are you staying? At least until the wedding?”
The eager expression on her face made him laugh out loud. “Perhaps a bit longer than that.”
She beamed. “We’re going to have a grand family dinner shortly to honor your timely rescue of George. As the guest of honor, you are expected to attend and not be at all tardy.”
He grinned down at the woman determined to remake the pattern for all future duchesses of Romsey. “I’ll be early if you like.”
She spread her fingers over her chest as if in shock, grinned, and then swept from the room with a happy giggle. Oliver shook his head. Who’d have thought he’d find the antics of the Duchess of Romsey amusing?
Tobias approached and set his hands to Oliver’s back, giving him a none-too-gentle shove toward the door. “The dining room, if you’ve forgotten, is this way. Move along, I’m starving.”
As soon as Elizabeth stepped into the dining room, he became aware of her tension. She wouldn’t look at him and, determined not to make her uncomfortable, he tried to avoid her as well. But it was difficult to be indifferent. The duchess placed him directly across the table where he could see but not touch the woman he wanted.
When Elizabeth spoke softly to her son, he listened, blocking out everything else being said until Eamon, whom the duchess insisted joined them before he resumed his duties tomorrow, began to speak of the rescue. Eamon had those gathered hanging on his every word. “Our Ollie was like the hand of God in his vengeance. A poor pickpocket almost had his hand severed for standing in his way.”
“Hardly pricked his skin,” Oliver corrected.
Eamon ignored his interruption and continued, embellishing expansively until they’d faced a whole roomful of cutthroats instead of just Henry Turner and one associate. Only he and George exchanged speaking glances that told of their amusement at the scale of the story. The only good that came from Eamon’s was that Oliver was spared the need to talk. He never liked to boast and Eamon was enjoying the task immensely.
Without the pressure to be agreeable for the present, he spent his time considering what his new future might entail. More of this, certainly. Elizabeth enjoyed dinner conversation. He would do his best to make her happy and be on time for meals.
Eamon emptied his glass and leaned his elbow onto the table. “Of course, what set Oliver into a rage were the slights Turner made against Beth. Turner almost lost an eye. I’ve never seen anyone as angry as Oliver was then.”
When Elizabeth looked embarrassed, Oliver intervened. “Eamon, that’s enough.”
“It’s what you whispered to Turner that really saved the day.”
The duchess, who’d been goading Eamon to divulge his wild tales, sat forward. “What did he say next?”
Oliver met Eamon’s gaze and shook his head. That remark had to remain private and unsaid. Eamon merely grinned but Oliver picked up his butter knife and twisted it so Eamon couldn’t misunderstand him.
“I forget the whole of it now,” he mumbled and then he raised his glass high. “To George Turner, a fellow with a bright future ahead of him, right here in England.”
“To George,” they all intoned and then started chatting animatedly once more.
Oliver looked across the table to where Elizabeth and George sat, his chest tightening with familiar longing. Rather than remain where Elizabeth would be made nervous by his presence, he excused himself as soon as he could politely do so and returned to his apartment. A cheery fire greeted him, his trunks emptied and gone.
He collapsed onto the couch, set his hands behind his head, and stared up at the molded ceiling. The duchess’s wedding was set for next week. The house would be besieged days before then. He’d have to wait at least that long before he could approach Elizabeth or even have her in his bed again.
He closed his eyes, contentment filling him. He was a patient man and Elizabeth was surely worth the boredom of any wait.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A few days later…
BETH FOLDED HER day gown across a chair and let out a sigh. The whispers and twitters as she passed were slowly abating and life was settling down to normal. Mercy had refused to return her to the position of housekeeper as the upstairs maid Annie had been advanced and was thriving in the position. The abbey was running as smoothly as it could before a wedding and she wasn’t needed for much beyond offering a little help for that.