And, remarkably, so did he.
Chapter Four
Olivia woke to stillness, not to the cries of London’s costermongers, nor to birds singing in the boughs of the oak tree outside her cottage. To nothing but a quiet peace, the likes of which she had never known.
For once, she hadn’t scrambled to the window to study every passerby, nor paused in doorways, terrified the devil might strike. Her attacker would need to breach the iron gates, force his way through the house, and hunt a labyrinth of rooms to reach her. There were plenty of places to hide, countless routes of escape, and a dedicated staff ready to come to her aid.
But her troubles were far from over. She could not remain in the Peacock Room, with its gilded walls and opulent furnishings, forever. And looming over her was the lord’s shocking proposal.
Even now, lying in a bed large enough for five, the events of last night seemed like a strange dream. Marriage to a marquess? To Lord Rothley? The most perplexing man she had ever encountered. Stern yet kind. Indifferent yet attentive.Cold, yet so warm she had burned when pressed to his hard body.
He had saved her life and offered her sanctuary.
What confounded her most was why?
She feared her first thought was correct. When spurned by a beautiful woman, a man sought a means of retribution. By his own admission, he was tethered to the past and the incomparable Miss Bourne. Where would that leave her when they rekindled old feelings, when they remembered why they’d fallen in love?
Yet despite all her doubts, she needed him. To her astonishment, he professed to needing her too, and a marriage built on friendship was surely preferable to being an inconvenient wife. But friendship demanded honesty. She would have to reveal something of the truth. For within the valise lay the key to escaping her pursuer.
She rose abruptly, the chill in the room sending shivers down her spine. Drawing back the curtain, she looked out across fields bathed in morning light. The peaceful scene stirred memories of her beloved home in Lewes, and with them came the piercing ache of all she had lost.
Then she saw him, the indomitable Marquess of Rothley, striding across the grass in an open-necked shirt, his greatcoat billowing in the breeze as he threw a stick for a grey, shaggy dog the size of a pony.
Something in the easy power of his movements, in the unexpected playfulness with the dog, tightened her chest, and she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
“Is this who you truly are when the world isn’t watching?” She pressed her hand to the cold pane, longing to know. He seemed a different man beneath the reserved facade, a truth she craved but was afraid to uncover.
She might have lingered at the window until he vanished from sight, but a knock on the door made her start. Her heart leapt to her throat as the knob turned slowly, then she remembered it was locked.
“Miss Woolf? Are you awake? I have the valise.”
Though she recognised Mrs Boswell’s voice, the last word made her draw a sharp breath.The valise?Her valise?Impossible.
“Just a moment.” She opened the door to the cheerful housekeeper, pasting an innocent smile when she wanted to snatch the bag and make sure it wasn’t the one she had hidden in the coffin.
“I thought it best to bring it up myself.” Mrs Boswell entered, setting a brown leather valise on the side table, embossed with Lord Rothley’s initials. “His lordship insisted on packing your things himself. I can’t vouch for what he chose, but if anything is missing, you can blame him.”
Olivia swallowed. “Lord Rothley returned to World’s End? When?” She recalled a distant clock chiming two before she finally succumbed to sleep.
“Last night. He took the carriage and brought back the birds. They’re keeping the staff entertained in the servants’ quarters.”
As the housekeeper opened the bag, a trace of the lord’s exotic cologne escaped. Good heavens. He’d packed her undergarments into his own valise. He would have searched her cupboards, rifled through drawers, and touched her stockings.
“Did he say what he found there?” She closed her eyes against a vision of ransacked rooms and books tossed aside. Mrs Hodge would demand an explanation, seeing as she owned the quaint cottage.
“You’ll need to speak to his lordship.” Mrs Boswell withdrew a folded petticoat and gave it a brisk shake. “He’s asked to see you in his study at midday.”
“I shall need directions.” It was easier to navigate the warrens of Shadwell than the corridors of Studland Park.
“His lordship’s quarters are easy enough to find.” She laid the garment on the bed before searching the bag for stockings. “The study is next to the drawing room where you sat last night. You’ll find the library there. All part of the small cluster of rooms he keeps to himself in the east wing.”
“The library?” She had forgotten about the books. A house as magnificent as this would surely boast a vast collection, with cases rising from floor to ceiling. “Do you think I might borrow a volume or two?”
“There’s the Great Library,” Mrs Boswell said, pride warming her tone. “More than twenty thousand books, some dating back to the thirteenth century.” She tucked more garments under her arm while rooting one-handed through the bag. “Then there’s his lordship’s personal library, where he keeps his own collection of poetry.”
Olivia’s lips curved. An entire collection? It would be akin to standing before a confectioner’s window, every treat an impossible temptation.
“His lordship said you’re free to browse the shelves and select something to read, on condition you discuss your choice during dinner.” Mrs Boswell rummaged deeper into the bag and grumbled beneath her breath. “Trust a man. He’s forgotten the one thing no woman can do without.”
