was shrill, several pitches higher than normal, an indication of her frustration. “I will not marry you. A union between us is both unwise and impossible.” She had to stop herself before any more words tumbled out.
“I see.” Finley’s response was toneless, an odd counterpart to the emotion so evident in his voice earlier.
“I don’t mean to hurt you, Julian,” she said his name quietly. “Especially not after you have done so much for me.”
His eyes met hers, and she was surprised by the venom there. “Yes, I’ve done quite a bit, haven’t I? I looked after you when no one else could be bothered. Your father and mother both gone…your brother busy with something else more than not.”
“Marcus had estate matters to attend to,” she argued.
He waved away her excuse. “I was there for you whenever you needed after your mother’s unfortunate accident.” He sneered as he said the words.
“I will be forever in your debt for helping me over the years. But you’ll have to accept my gratitude because that’s all I have to give.” She hoped he’d take the proffered olive branch.
His smile was swift but lacked its earlier charm. It was sinister, and Olivia couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to her friend. “Why would I settle for gratitude or friendship when I want so much more?” he asked.
“It’s all I’m going to offer,” she repeated.
“A shame. I’d hoped this wouldn’t have to get unpleasant.” He shrugged. “I can see I’ve been too optimistic.”
Unpleasant?
“Let me be clear,” he continued, “you have something I want, and I think you’ll find I have something you want as well. A wedding between the two of us will guarantee our mutual happiness.”
“What could you possibly have that I would want now?” Olivia was starting to get angry. This didn’t have to destroy their friendship, but Finley seemed unwilling to leave any strand of their former relationship intact. “Why,” she continued, “would I consent to being your wife when you have shown such disregard for my wishes today? I don’t appreciate being ignored and bullied.”
“You will be my wife, and I don’t care if you’re agreeable. When we come before a minister, you will say your lines and you will not argue. And you will at least look happy.”
Olivia couldn’t help herself. The demand was so ridiculous, she laughed.
Finley’s hands clenched.
“I’m sorry,” she said between chuckles she couldn’t seem to stem. “It’s just…you’re jesting aren’t you…that’s not very nice.”
Finley sighed. “I’m not jesting. And I have to ask you to stop this foolish display. We have much to discuss before I leave.”
The next bubble of laughter died in her throat, choking her. “Lord Finley, I grow weary of having to say it and am running out of ways to do so. I will not marry you. Not now. Not ever.”
Finley paid the outburst no mind. “You do not wish to make me unhappy. You won’t like what I have to do if you displease me.”
Olivia ground her teeth together, “I can’t imagine any threat that would make me agreeable to becoming your wife.”
“This is becoming tiresome. Unless you wish me to share with the world what I know about your mother, I suggest you silence yourself.” The words your mother sent an icy pang of fear straight through her. He doesn’t know, does he? He couldn’t possibly. She wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the notion but didn’t because she feared ever being able to stop again.
“I see I have your attention now.” Finley’s smile was smug—and satisfied. “It really would be a shame to have your clever intruder story discredited. I’m sure someone went to a lot of trouble to make that look authentic.”
He does know.
“Whatever you are trying to insinuate is ludicrous,” she scoffed.
“Is it?” he asked, walking around her in a wide circle. His stride and manner were predatory. Stalking her fluidly, the baron had disposed of the vestige of the debonair gentle man.
“Perhaps you should leave now.” Her voice remained firm despite her insides churning with worry and the fear of discovery.
Finley shook his head, the gesture patently sorrowful and clearly mocking. “I’m afraid I’m not going anywhere. You and I need to talk about your little secret. Or should I say—our little secret?”
“There’s no reason to waste my afternoon discussing your madness.”
Finley clapped his hands together, as though she were an actress on the Drury Lane stage. “Brava. Should you turn down my offer, and find your family disgraced and penniless, you could tread the boards for your living. Your acting skills are sublime.”
He stopped his applause. “Because I will,” he threatened. “Disgrace you, that is, if you continue to refuse me.”
What was the point of pretending she didn’t understand?
So she said, “You couldn’t prove it.”
“Couldn’t I?” He raised his eyebrows, daring her to contradict him.
Olivia counted to three, hoping to calm herself and the rising hysteria. Then, she supposed it was better to be certain she was composed and counted to ten.
She stopped at twenty. “What supposed proof do you possess?”
“Rather condemning proof. Something our peers would find quite fascinating.”
“You don’t have anything,” she countered. But inside, she was reeling with the implications of what he said—if his words were the truth. Her mother had left behind a letter, explaining to whoever had found her that she still loved her family and begged their forgiveness for what she planned to do.
Could that be his proof? It had to be. But how had he gotten his hands on it? The letter had been safely kept at Westin Park.
Three steps brought him right in front of her. His hand reached and caressed her cheek, and she couldn’t stop her small tremor of revulsion.
“Don’t touch me,” she bit out.
He didn’t withdraw his hand. If anything, his smile grew wider. “You’re not in the position to make demands.”
“This is my house.”
“That may be, but you’re going to be my wife.”
She felt sick. “I’m not going to marry you,” she protested, but the words sounded weak and unconvincing.
“You don’t have a choice.” His voice was mild, as though they were discussing the pleasant turn of the weather. He had her and knew it. “Unless, of course, you wish for the world to know your mother wasn’t murdered by a burglar, but instead committed suicide.”
She cringed at the word.
Finley saw the response and correctly interpreted it. “I thought not,” he said.
“Don’t make me do this.” Her voice was pleading. Olivia doubted that beseeching would make any difference, but she had to try. “I’ll hate you,” she threatened.
“Don’t blame me. We could have done this amicably….” He trailed off. Of course, she was the one at fault for making him stoop to blackmail. “And your hatred bothers me not in the least.”
“But I don’t love you!” She slumped against a table, defeated. She doubted he would be bothered by her lack of devotion, either.
He wasn’t. “That’s not a requirement. It might have made things easier for you, but I’ll get what I want out of this anyway.”