Olive did not know what had caused the falling-out, but it had been swift and destructive. The rift occurred about the time both men had married. One day, Papa and Milbotham were partners, and the next they were dividing their beloved farm between them.
Milbotham kept the land, and the prestige their farm had built. All Papa got were a few horses. Milbotham had no doubt cackled over that swindle.
Until it turned out Papa was brilliant. His stud horses quickly eclipsed those of Milbotham, which of course could not be allowed to stand. Thus began decades of war as breeding rivals, then racing rivals. The conflict and determination rose with each passing year.
Her father did not engage in vindictive competition with anyone else. Just the marquess. Papa was mortal enemies with Milbotham because he had once loved him like a brother. There was no other way he could have been hurt so deeply.
And now he expected her to marry Milbotham’s son? The one who had humiliated her so deeply, Olive still awoke gasping in the night? Her hands clenched.
Elijah Weston and his father were pustules of deceit and destruction.
They could not be forgiven.
“No.” She straightened her spine off the wall. Olive was stronger than that. She hadn’t seen Weston in ten long years. His specter could not harm her now. “I will not—”
Three loud raps sounded against the knocker.
A distraction.Thank God. “Someone’s at the door.”
Papa’s eyebrows rose. “It must be Weston.”
“What? How could he arrive from London so fast?” Understanding dawned. Hurt prickled beneath Olive’s skin; a thousand tiny blades. She tried not to show her pain. “You told him before you told me?”
Rather than reply, Papa motioned for her to attend to the door.
Her heart beat too fast for rational thought. Her legs yearned to run away. To cower; to hide.
She yanked open the brass handle in part to prove to herself that she could.
Itwashim. Elijah Bloody Weston.
Ten years older. Ten times more attractive. Ten times more dangerous.
Her vision seemed to shrink until all she could see was him.
Boots, black as coal. Supple buckskin breeches clinging to indecently muscled thighs. A well-made coat the color of old ash cut in a style completely unsuitable for northern climes—but happened to display to perfection the breadth of his shoulders and the musculature of his chest and arms. A snowy neckcloth at his throat was the only scrap of clothing not molded to his plethora of flat planes and defined muscles.
Weston’s appalling magnetism infuriated her.
His face… God save her,that face. Time had not at all ravaged him the way she had hoped. His jaw was squarer, his face fuller, a hint of laugh lines just beginning at the corners of his long-lashed brown eyes. What the devil did the handsome scoundrel have to laugh about?
Her, probably.
Just looking at him was enough to bring back the old shame. His soft, kissable lips made her want to burst into tears all over again.
Olive’s fingernails dug into her palms. To the devil with men like Weston!
This time, she would not let him win.
Chapter 2
Mr. Elijah Weston checked the urge to reach out to block the door, lest Olive Harper slam it in his face.
He valued his fingers too much to take that risk.
Eli didn’t blame her for mistrusting him. He deserved every bit of her anger and resentment. He’d hurt her. His presence was hurting her again. Of course she was wary. But soon, they would be on a new path to a better future.
She looked exactly like he remembered and nothing like he remembered.
