cunning. The ton speculated on the number of women he’d seduced between the docks of London to the ballrooms of Paris.
But Nick didn’t want his oldest, and most loyal, friend believing the nonsense.
“I worked for the Home Office,” Nick announced suddenly.
Marcus didn’t give any visible reaction. Nick could have just as easily said he preferred chicken to pheasant.
“I was a spy,” he tried again. Worry settled in the pit of his stomach. Maybe Marcus wouldn’t want anything to do with him after this revelation. Nick was as much a God-fearing man as his friend, but that didn’t mean that some of the things he’d had to do for Crown and Country didn’t look suspect. Maybe Marcus wouldn’t want that taint anywhere near him or his sister.
“Were you a good one?” Marcus asked finally.
Nick nodded.
Marcus grinned. “I always knew you were a bit crazy,” he said, “but I’m pretty sure this proves it.”
Nick chuckled but still waited for the final either endorsement or condemnation of his chosen occupation. “So…”
Marcus’s expression sobered. “Nick, I don’t care if you were a juggler in Napoleon’s court. I’m just glad you’re back.”
Because of Marcus’s ready acceptance, Nick felt the burden of uncertainty roll away. He’d been more concerned than he cared to admit that Marcus would no longer want to be associated with him.
“If you don’t mind, I need to finish a few papers before we leave. It shouldn’t take long,” Marcus said to Nick.
Nick assured him he was fine to wait.
“Feel free to peruse the library,” Marcus offered. “Although I must warn you to watch out. Olivia might be in there, and there’s no lack of vases in the room.”
The earl smirked as he walked out of the door.
Rather than being cautioned by this warning, Nick felt his pulse speed up…no doubt in response to the possibility of talking further with the lady. And he was surprised to find he’d risk bodily injury for the opportunity.
Olivia strained on tiptoes, struggling to grasp a book located on a too-high shelf. She muttered under her breath and let out an uncharacteristic huff.
“Stupid book,” she grumbled.
Then she thought better about it; the book could hardly be blamed for where it had been placed. So she amended, “Stupid shelf.”
That didn’t seem quite fair, either…
Rather suddenly, she felt a presence behind her.
“Allow me,” the presence said, and its hand effortlessly plucked the volume from the shelf.
She turned to find herself staring at the Marquess of Huntsford’s chest. And as much as Olivia had always prided herself on her self-possession, she couldn’t help but blush as she stepped away.
The Marquess of Huntsford was devastatingly handsome.
His dark hair was mussed, as though he’d recently raked a hand through it. His face was perfectly chiseled; Olivia doubted an artist with the skill of Michelangelo could have crafted a sculpture to do the reality justice. And then, his eyes…before, she had thought them blue, or perhaps gray, but now she could tell, from where she stood, that they were green flecks of crystal that were shrewd, piercing and utterly captivating.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
“My pleasure,” he said as he took a small step back.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” she explained feebly.
“I only entered a moment ago. Marcus wanted to finish some papers before we ventured to Tattersall’s to look at a new pair of bays for my stables. I sought to amuse myself here, but I can leave, if you wish to be alone.”
“That’s not necessary, my lord.”
“Perhaps you could call me Nick?” His smile was roguish and made her feel a bit light-headed.
“Gentle ladies shouldn’t be so familiar with men,” she deferred.
“I was under the impression gentle ladies shouldn’t bash others with vases, either.” While his face remained impassive, Olivia detected traces of laughter in the lines around his eyes.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s not very gentlemanly to bring that up.”
He leaned forward menacingly. “Perhaps I’m not a gentleman.”
Olivia’s mouth gaped. She stared at him in shock before he began laughing uproariously.
“I’m sorry,” he said in between bouts of guffaws, “but you looked truly horrified just then.”
Her blush was fast and made her feel hot to the roots of her hair. “Well…” She tried to defend herself but could think of nothing to say.
“I was simply teasing, Lady Olivia,” he clarified.
She stood there for a moment, trying to pretend she wasn’t watching him. He was handsome enough to be a rogue, she thought.
“Weren’t you going to read that book?” he asked with a half smile. So, he’d noticed her staring at him in spite of her attempts to hide it? “Would you like me to leave?”
“No,” she sputtered before she could stop the word. Olivia couldn’t understand her own desire to be near him. The men of her acquaintance were generally easy to dismiss. Nothing about any of the gentlemen she’d met in London appealed to her quite the way this one man did. The instantaneous attraction was disconcerting. And inexplicable. And uncomfortable. It seemed dangerous in the worst sort of way. “I mean, you’re our guest,” she finished lamely.
He didn’t say anything but gave her another aggravating half smile.
“I’m going to take this to the garden.” She gestured out the window with the volume, resolving herself to do without his company. “So, you enjoy yourself.”
“I have been,” she thought she heard him say as she left the room.
She refused to admit to herself that this was the first conversation she’d had with a man since this silly Season had begun where she had enjoyed herself, too.
Chapter Two
Several days had passed since Lord Danfield had been escorted from her house, and Olivia was just beginning to breathe a bit easier. She stopped expecting Gibbons to open the door to an irate Lady Danfield, and she no longer anticipated the scandal sheets announcing her violent tendencies.
The young man, it would seem, had decided to suffer in silence.
“Lady Olivia, there is a person awaiting you in the drawing room,” Gibbons announced as he entered her small parlor.
She looked at the butler in expectation. The old fear re turned. “It’s not Danfield, is it?”
The butler shook his head, but his face offered no other visual assessment on who was calling.
She entered the drawing room to find Lord Finley, their closest neighbor to their estate in Yorkshire and someone she’d known for years. Her smile of greeting was genuine.
“Lord Finley,” she said.
“Lady Olivia, you’re looking well,” he returned with a smile as he took her proffered hand. “Very well indeed.”
Olivia was accustomed to Lord Finley’s words of flattery; in truth, his compliments were so silly she usually didn’t mind them. “I’m surprised to see you here. I’d not heard you were in town.”
Lord Finley was a baron, and his land adjoined the Fairfax holding Westin Park on the north side. When