did not wear his hair in a Brutus crop or pad his calves to show a shapelier leg. He had no need to, given his propensity for strenuous exercise, both in the boxing ring and with the foil. But he was not so easily moved to laughter as was his sister, nor so trusting of the outside world.
In contrast to both of them was their seventeen-year-old stepsister, Gillian Gresham; a blonde, blue-eyed child who no more resembled either of them than did a rose a cornstalk. She had the round face and bubbly personality of her late mother, and standing at just over five feet tall, she barely reached Oliver’s shoulder. She was a happy, good-natured child, inclined, as Sophie had said, to cajole people into giving her what she wanted, but in such a way that no one could truly resent her for it. And she was forever falling in and out of love. Oliver had had more than his share of emotional battles with her over the past two years.
Gillian had come to live at Shefferton Hall when her mother, Catherine, had married Oliver’s father just over nine years ago. She had become his legal ward when Catherine had succumbed to pneumonia two years later. Surprisingly, Oliver had grieved deeply over his stepmother’s death. More so, perhaps, than he had over his own mother’s. The bond between them had been surprisingly strong, and Oliver knew that Catherine had come to feel the same respect and admiration for him as he had for her. It was the reason she had left Gillian in his care, and that she had died at peace, secure in the knowledge that her only daughter would be well taken care of.
The guardianship hadn’t been bad to begin with, Oliver admitted. Gillian had been an amusing little minx and, for the first few years, had behaved in a manner suitable to her age and in way that gave him little cause for concern. But over the last four years she had developed into a very determined young woman indeed. So much so that when she thought she was right, there was little hope of convincing her otherwise. At times, even his mild-mannered sister had been tempted to throw up her hands in despair.
At the moment, however, Gillian was happily engaged in the garden below, gathering a colourful selection of roses and placing them in a large straw basket. The fact that the basket was being held by a handsome officer who seemed only too happy to perform such a menial task accounted for a large part of her happiness, Oliver reflected moodily, and for considerably less of his.
‘Challenging may be the more agreeable word, Sophie, but I think troublesome is the more appropriate one,’ he muttered. ‘At least when she was ten I had no need to worry about who she might be running off to Dover with.’ Oliver’s brow furrowed as he studied the disturbing scene below. ‘I do not like Sidney Charles Wymington. I have no doubt he has a flattering tongue and that his looks are as elegant as anyone might wish, but his glib manner disturbs me very much. He is forever offering opinions on matters that do not concern him, and he is seldom caught without an answer. And I, for one, do not trust a man who is never at a loss for words.’
A twinkle appeared in the depths of Sophie’s bright green eyes. ‘You are seldom at a loss for words yourself, Oliver, and I have never held that against you.’
‘Thank you, my dear, but I do not use my eloquence to curry favour as does Mr Wymington.’ Oliver’s mouth curved in a rueful smile. ‘Nor, I think, do I do it half as well. He seems to live very comfortably for a half-pay officer, don’t you think?’
Sophie lifted her elegantly clad shoulders in a shrug. ‘I have heard that he does, though I have never stopped to consider the reasons why. However, if it makes you feel any better, Gillian has informed me that he is hopeful of a posting in the near future.’
‘Really.’ Oliver’s dark eyes narrowed as he turned to look out the window again. ‘If that is the case, it cannot come soon enough.’
It was not the first time Oliver had expressed negativity towards one of Gillian’s suitors, nor the first time he had scoffed at her claims of the gentleman’s being the most romantic in all England. Because Oliver himself was not a romantic. He and Sophie had been raised in a home where love and affection had had no place. His parents had tolerated one another, but there had been little more to their marriage than that. Perhaps that was why his father had not grieved overly much when his first wife had died only four years after Sophie had been born.
His father’s second marriage, to Catherine Gresham, had started out better than his first, but it had not ended well. Catherine had died most unexpectedly of complications arising from an illness, and after that, Oliver’s father had withdrawn even further into himself. So much so, that when he lost his life in a boating accident, many people wondered whether or not it had been a deliberate act of suicide.
Thank goodness his sister’s marriage had turned out as well as it had, Oliver reflected now. Rhys Llewellyn had fallen in love with Sophie the first time he’d met her, and hadn’t been in the least intimidated by her unusual height. Indeed, he had professed himself delighted to meet a lady who could look at him without risk of serious injury to her neck. More importantly, he had called her beautiful at a time when Sophie had been least willing to believe it, and in the end, his repeated assurances had won her heart and her hand.
Oliver had never experienced that kind of gentle, all-encompassing love. Nor had he known the kind of soul-searing passion that could turn one’s heart and one’s life inside out. He knew what it was to experience physical desire, but he had sated those urges with Nicolette, a pretty little ballet dancer who’d become his mistress the year he turned four-and-twenty. He still frequented her bed whenever he felt the need to lose himself in the softness of a woman’s arms, but other than that, there had been precious little female intrusion into his life. Which was probably why his view of marriage as a whole was somewhat tainted.
Oliver harboured no delusions that people wed solely for love. He knew that women looked to marriage for social advancement and security, while men—especially those in restricted financial circumstances—hoped to avail themselves of money and a convenient lifestyle.
Sidney Charles Wymington was just such a man. Oliver was sure of it. Which explained why he had been less than pleased when Gillian had started coming to him with praises spilling from her lips about the man. Why should he celebrate the fact that his ward was keeping company with a fellow who had little to recommend him other than his handsome face and his practised charm?
After all, Gillian was an heiress. Her mother had left her an inheritance of some twenty-five thousand pounds, with the instructions that the money be released to her on the occasion of her twenty-first birthday or upon the day she married; the latter proviso having been made in order to prevent Oliver from having to use his own funds to provide the necessary dowry. Catherine had been convinced of Oliver’s suitability as a guardian for Gillian, and equally confident that he would never allow her to enter into an unacceptable alliance. As a result, she had put no further restrictions on the inheritance than that.
Therein lay the problem. Oliver had no idea whether Gillian had told Mr Wymington about the conditions of her inheritance, but he did know she hadn’t troubled herself to conceal the depth of her feelings for him. And if it came right down to it, Oliver knew that Wymington wouldn’t hesitate to use those feelings to his own advantage.
‘Then what would you suggest I do, Sophie?’ Oliver said at length, a note of frustration creeping into his voice. ‘Gillian is headstrong, as you say, but I cannot believe she would knowingly disgrace herself—or us—by doing something imprudent.’
‘You are her legal guardian, Oliver. You could forbid her to see him.’
‘What, and run the risk of alienating her even further?’ Oliver shook his head. ‘I would far rather cast Mr Wymington in the role of the villain than myself. Unfortunately, I have checked into his military records and found nothing to condemn him, other than a slight propensity towards gambling.’
‘Unless it is a propensity which causes him to lose vast sums of money in a single night, I doubt it will be enough to sway Gillian’s opinion of him. Especially if she believes herself in love with him—’
‘In love!’
‘Well, you cannot ignore the possibility, my dear.’ Sophie’s expression softened. ‘You see how she behaves with him. Most young ladies would have the good sense to conceal their