She was about to speak when Mrs. Rolland’s wide form arrived with the warm milk.
“Would you like some, my lord?”
He gave her grin. “No, thank you, Mrs. Rollands. I think I will leave Lady Blackhurst in your capable hands. She has had a… trying night.” He stood, turning towards Lisbeth who was still watching him warily.
“I look forward to seeing you again soon, Lady Blackhurst.” He gave her a bow and kissed the hand that had slapped him. He straightened to his full height again and turned towards the parlor door leaving her aching in his wake.
Lisbeth fell back against the sofa.
Mrs. Rollands handed her a cup and smiled. “Lord Bellamy is very handsome, if I may be so bold as to say.”
“Yes, he is,” she replied, tired, confused and defeated.
“He seems very attentive. He looked so worried when he brought you in.”
Lisbeth glanced up at her housekeeper. “Did he?”
“He made a great fuss of making sure you were comfortable. I was watching him from the doorway.”
“Oh,” Lisbeth said. She was surprised he hadn’t just tossed her on the sofa like a discarded coat. Especially after the way she had acted tonight.
“Just to make sure he wasn’t taking advantage, if you get my meaning.”
Lisbeth did know what she meant. And he had taken advantage. She could still feel his lips on hers. Warm, soft, confident. Where had Mrs. Rollands been then?
If only Bellamy knew about her past, about what had happened between her and Blackhurst, surely he would want nothing to do with her. He would know her deep shame and be disgusted, just as she was of herself.
“He was very attentive. Such a gentleman.” Mrs. Rollands sighed, wistfully. “I’ll let young Millicent know you are home. Would you like a bath?”
She nodded. The housekeeper smiled, picked up the tray, her many keys jingling as she moved. Lisbeth had always found it a comforting sound.
So, he had charmed Mrs. Rollands? Typical. Even her butler seemed to have thawed towards him. Her own emotions were in turmoil when it came to Bellamy, and she didn’t know what to think.
Lisbeth sipped her warm milk.
Oliver, he’d said his name was Oliver.
Why had he told her his name? He seemed to know hers and use it. She had not given him permission to, but neither had she objected at the time.
“I know you are all bluff,”he’d said, and he was right. She also knew she had just lost any advantage she might have had over him. Did he feel something for her? To use her name as he had, call herperfectandlovelyand kiss her like he actually wanted to. More than once at that. Not an act then, not just playing the part of the lover for the spectators of theton? What did it all mean? What did he want from her? And, could she give him what he wanted without losing herself completely?
Chapter Ten
One’s memory isall one has of the past but how to know if it is faulty? Could memory be altered by time or circumstance? Or the angle in which one viewed it?
Oliver sat at his brother’s desk, palms down on the cool wooden surface. The leather chair he sat in was well worn too. How many times had his brother sat here? The room looked the same as when his father had occupied this space. It looked as if Henry had not done anything to make it his. Had he felt, as Oliver did now, that it was not his to change? Or could Oliver simply not remember how it had been?
Shaking off his mental cobwebs he opened the first drawer, which was full of credit notes for tailors and bootmakers, and general correspondence from the land steward begging funds for repairs to tenants’ homes. Had the repairs been completed? Not that he had the money to do them if they were not. He clutched the letters tight, crushing the papers in his fist. Had Henry felt as useless as he did? To ease his nerves he uncrumpled the papers and placed them in a pile.
Next, he took out the household ledger and flicked through the pages. Column upon column of figures. His brother had not lived an extravagant lifestyle, which to Oliver pointed to a financial situation which was in crisis before the speculation. Had Henry hoped for a miracle? Was that why he had risked everything?
Opening the next drawer, he found his own letters to Henry, a dozen at best, all bound together with string. Was this all there was? His gut churned, an uncomfortable knot forming low in his belly at the realization. So few words had passed between them in all the years he had been away, and he had not kept even one of Henry’s letters. Had his brother worried about him? His letters had never implied that he had. Nor had there been anything of merit discussed in his correspondence, certainly not finances. But neither had Oliver. Mostly because he could not but also, how to explain what he did? Yes, he was a soldier but as a code breaker he was often summoned to travel to some unexplained place or woken up at odd hours to pore over important missives by candlelight. It was not the life one put in a letter.
The more papers Oliver found and stacked into piles, the more his heart descended into darkness. “Damn you, Lisbeth.” Fire boiled his blood in that now-familiar feeling of injustice. He had wanted to prove her wrong. Had wanted to ride over to her house and slam the evidence down in front of her and say, “Ah ha! Now pay up, Countess.”
He hated that she was right. The truth is unfindable.
He hated that there was nothing here to explain his brother’s state of mind, his thoughts on Lisbeth, or indeed her husband. All he had was Dalmere’s less than cheerful remembrances of his brother on his last days and his aunt’s less than reassuring ramblings. He was more lost than ever.
