discover that he was watching her with an
intensity that caused a streak of reason to sluice like a spear from her mind
to her heart. What was she doing sitting in Miles Warwick's company this hour
of the night, feeling as if someone had just twirled her around a half-dozen
times—thanks to the two servings of whisky that she'd imbibed as if it were
lemonade.
And
why was he looking at her like that? So curious? So concentrated? All the
insecurities she had temporarily forgotten surged over her as the barest hint
of a smile appeared on his lips. Suddenly, she felt stone-cold sober; she
wanted to flee from the room.
"Don't
bother," he said. "There isn't a hair out of place."
Unaware
that her hand had gone up to smooth back her hair, Olivia paused.
"Your
glasses are straight."
She
adjusted them anyway.
"Why
do you wear them?" he asked.
"Because
I cannot see," she replied.
"The
devil, you say. You weren't wearing them this afternoon and you saw me
perfectly well."
This
afternoon? Sitting there with winter pecking at the window and a fire burning
into her back, she thought that their meeting that afternoon had seemed like a
fortnight ago.
"Take
them off," he demanded. "I don't like them."
"I'm
not inclined to care," she replied.
"They
make your eyes look as if you're staring at me from inside a fishbowl."
"I
need them to read."
"But
you aren't reading now."
"No."
She shook her head. "I shan't remove them."
"Very
well, then. Tell me why you wear your hair that way."
"I
beg your pardon?"
"It's
ugly."
"I—"
"And
that dress you're wearing. It's bloody atrocious. Gray doesn't suit you. You
look as if you're in mourning. Are you in mourning, Miss Devonshire?"
"I
don't think, sir, that you have the right to insult me when you, yourself, sit there
in dirty boots, wet clothes, with a suspicious stain on the front of your
shirt."
Silently
he regarded her. To Olivia's mortification she felt her eyes well with tears.
She really had had a lot to drink. If she blinked they would spill, but she'd
learned long ago that if she continued to stare straight ahead—no movement at
all of her head—and didn 't blink, she could adequately hide her emotions. If
she hurried to excuse herself she might even make it as far as the coach before
completely losing her composure.
"Won't you come
into the garden?
I would like my roses
to see you."
—Rose Henniker Heaton
CHAPTER FOUR
Warwick
left his chair and proceeded to move around the room, nudging this and toeing
that. He walked to the door and stood there with his hands in his pockets and
his back to Olivia. "There was a time," he said to the shadows,
"when no matter what wing of the house you were in, there was always
noise. From the help, mostly, but that didn't matter. I was always guaranteed
that if I raised enough hell, someone somewhere would come along."
Glancing
back at her, he said, "My greatest dream was to have Braithwaite for my
own. She obsessed my every waking hour. I would lie in my bed at night and fantasize
walking through these halls surveying all around me, and I tried to imagine the
pride I would feel—the sense of accomplishment or worth; the overwhelming sense
of belonging to something at last. .."
His
voice faded, but he didn't move. Neither did Olivia. Nor did she breathe. The
hurt and embarrassment she'd experienced seconds before was forgotten as she
stared at Warwick's broad back and the dark, drying hair that spilled in loose
rich curls over his shirt collar. An odd sort of thrill hummed in her veins as
she realized that she was witnessing a Miles Warwick that few people ever had.
No doubt it was the liquor talking—she was certainly no stranger to the effect
it could have on a man, or woman's, better judgment—but she also knew
intensity that caused a streak of reason to sluice like a spear from her mind
to her heart. What was she doing sitting in Miles Warwick's company this hour
of the night, feeling as if someone had just twirled her around a half-dozen
times—thanks to the two servings of whisky that she'd imbibed as if it were
lemonade.
And
why was he looking at her like that? So curious? So concentrated? All the
insecurities she had temporarily forgotten surged over her as the barest hint
of a smile appeared on his lips. Suddenly, she felt stone-cold sober; she
wanted to flee from the room.
"Don't
bother," he said. "There isn't a hair out of place."
Unaware
that her hand had gone up to smooth back her hair, Olivia paused.
"Your
glasses are straight."
She
adjusted them anyway.
"Why
do you wear them?" he asked.
"Because
I cannot see," she replied.
"The
devil, you say. You weren't wearing them this afternoon and you saw me
perfectly well."
This
afternoon? Sitting there with winter pecking at the window and a fire burning
into her back, she thought that their meeting that afternoon had seemed like a
fortnight ago.
"Take
them off," he demanded. "I don't like them."
"I'm
not inclined to care," she replied.
"They
make your eyes look as if you're staring at me from inside a fishbowl."
"I
need them to read."
"But
you aren't reading now."
"No."
She shook her head. "I shan't remove them."
"Very
well, then. Tell me why you wear your hair that way."
"I
beg your pardon?"
"It's
ugly."
"I—"
"And
that dress you're wearing. It's bloody atrocious. Gray doesn't suit you. You
look as if you're in mourning. Are you in mourning, Miss Devonshire?"
"I
don't think, sir, that you have the right to insult me when you, yourself, sit there
in dirty boots, wet clothes, with a suspicious stain on the front of your
shirt."
Silently
he regarded her. To Olivia's mortification she felt her eyes well with tears.
She really had had a lot to drink. If she blinked they would spill, but she'd
learned long ago that if she continued to stare straight ahead—no movement at
all of her head—and didn 't blink, she could adequately hide her emotions. If
she hurried to excuse herself she might even make it as far as the coach before
completely losing her composure.
"Won't you come
into the garden?
I would like my roses
to see you."
—Rose Henniker Heaton
CHAPTER FOUR
Warwick
left his chair and proceeded to move around the room, nudging this and toeing
that. He walked to the door and stood there with his hands in his pockets and
his back to Olivia. "There was a time," he said to the shadows,
"when no matter what wing of the house you were in, there was always
noise. From the help, mostly, but that didn't matter. I was always guaranteed
that if I raised enough hell, someone somewhere would come along."
Glancing
back at her, he said, "My greatest dream was to have Braithwaite for my
own. She obsessed my every waking hour. I would lie in my bed at night and fantasize
walking through these halls surveying all around me, and I tried to imagine the
pride I would feel—the sense of accomplishment or worth; the overwhelming sense
of belonging to something at last. .."
His
voice faded, but he didn't move. Neither did Olivia. Nor did she breathe. The
hurt and embarrassment she'd experienced seconds before was forgotten as she
stared at Warwick's broad back and the dark, drying hair that spilled in loose
rich curls over his shirt collar. An odd sort of thrill hummed in her veins as
she realized that she was witnessing a Miles Warwick that few people ever had.
No doubt it was the liquor talking—she was certainly no stranger to the effect
it could have on a man, or woman's, better judgment—but she also knew
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