Last night he had been committed to leaving, to rusticating in the country, to being forgotten. This morning all he could do was think about how he would never see Lisbeth again. And it bloody-well hurt.
Lisbeth’s aim could not have been more accurate. Like a master archer her arrowed words had hit their mark dead center—to the deepest heart of his insecurities. Did she know how those few scribbled sentences would affect him? Emotions, wild and desperate, had taken over and his only instinct had been to go, to run, and to escape further torturous words.
He’d always had an issue with his own self-worth. From an early age he’d felt redundant, a loose end flapping in the breeze with no useful direction. Henry had become the earl, and he had become… nothing. It was the reason he had left for the army at such a young age. Oliver had found some purchase in his career as a code breaker and unofficial spy for the Crown, but even then he was just another soldier in Wellington’s army.
When he returned home after Henry’s death, it was to find that nothing had changed with gaining the title of Earl of Bellamy. Confronted with the financial fall in the family finances, he again floundered. He had no training to prepare him for the responsibility his new title had thrust upon him.
Lisbeth telling him she no longer needed him had been a crushing blow to his already battered ego. Of course, she no longer needed him, but he had hoped she may still have wanted him… loved him. If she had but told him she loved him, he would have done anything to prove his worth to her.
Working alongside Lisbeth had given him a distraction from the reality of his situation. Now he had no excuse but to face the music and it was so awfully out of tune it hurt his ears.
Oliver left the room for no other reason than he could no longer stay where he was with his morbid thoughts. He looked around him. He’d never liked this house. The entryway to the townhouse was like a cavernous box. Dusty echoes of his brother swirled around him like chilly drafts of memory. He would be glad to leave this house and its constant reminders of his failure to live up to Whitely family expectations.
It wouldn’t take his brother’s butler, Kinsdale, long to shut up the house. There was little enough to pack since Oliver had purged the house of anything he could sell only days after moving in. He had never understood why Henry had stuffed it with the bric-a-brac of wealth; it had served no purpose.
To what purpose was anything anymore when the woman who had stolen his heart had then so cruelly twisted it into dust before his very eyes?… And in so very few words.
Oliver rubbed his forehead, but it did little to erase the tension throbbing in his temples and the slightly sick feeling in his stomach.
“My lord, I am to remind you of the letter which came for you early this morning,” Kinsdale said, holding out a neat, sealedletter. “I took the liberty of keeping it with me as you seemed to have left it on your desk, which has now been packed.”
Oliver looked at the letter that Kinsdale offered him. He knew who it was from. He knew why he had left it unopened on his desk. Should he take it? Burn it? Read it and let her words finish him off?
“Sir? Mr. Rollands brought it himself. At dawn. He implored me to tell you that his mistress stressed the importance of the contents.”
Oliver took the letter and put it in his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Kinsdale. How long before we can depart?”
*
Lisbeth knew notall things look brighter in the harsh light of day. Sometimes, the harsh light of day just makes things look… harsh, inhospitable, impossible, bleak.
Lisbeth had not slept well, but then she had not slept well for near on seven years. Since her wedding night. Last night she had not even attempted to sleep. Somewhere in the desperation of her mind she kept thinking Oliver would come back. He would realize he had misunderstood and throw all caution to the wind. He would come racing up the stairs to her room, throw open the doors, and tell her he loved her, that he wanted no other but her.
He had not come.
She was a fanciful, desperate fool.
There was nothing more she could do. Rollands had delivered the letter first thing this morning. She would simply have to wait and hope.
Calling cards had been arriving since yesterday but she was not up to visitors, especially from those who wished to befriend her again, now that she wasrespectable. It wasn’t like she couldconverse with them anyway with her being silenced for at least another week.
“Lisbeth, do stop pacing in the hall. You will wear out the rug.”
She turned to see her grandmother frowning at her from the doorway of the parlor. Marie had left her in the hands of her grandmother.
“Come and have some tea. The doctor said you should add some honey for your throat.”
Lisbeth sighed and went into the parlor.
Lady Fortesque handed her a cup. “There is something calming in the taking of tea, don’t you think?”
Lisbeth couldn’t give a fig about tea. Had Oliver read her letter yet?
She looked out the window. The rain was still falling, and it was cold, but no amount of shawls or heated bricks could comfort her. She stared at her teacup. She was sure if she drank it, she would be sick.
Oliver, please read my letter.
“I think we should have a ball,” her grandmother announced.
