that
herein lay the truth.
Still,
he didn't talk like an inebriated man. The words weren't so slurred.
He
spoke again. "Then my father died and everything passed to Randolf. When
Randolf died from a shooting accident I hoped—prayed—that somehow the house
would pass to me. Damien, after all, had established himself in Mississippi and
didn't give a damn about Braithwaite. But of course he returned and took
control and suddenly I wasn't even welcome in the house in which I had grown
up. Mind you, Miss Devonshire, I couldn't really blame Damien. I had never been
the most ideal brother."
Turning
to face her, he leaned against the doorjamb and ran one hand through his hair.
He did not look at her, but allowed his gaze to slide, unseeing, from one
mounted beast-head to another. "No doubt you've heard the rumors that I
tried to kill him. Well," he said with a touch of defiance in his weary
voice, "they're true."
He
looked at her directly at last, a breathtaking god momentarily lost in a bleak
abysm of contrition. "What, Miss Devonshire? Not even a gasp? Not a
feminine cry for hartshorn? Perhaps the rumors I've heard about you are true as
well."
"Perhaps,"
she stated simply, and adjusted the spectacles more comfortably on her nose.
"Do continue, Mr. Warwick."
"My,
but you are a singular young woman, Miss Devonshire. Very well. I did attempt
to murder him twice. Once on a hunting expedition I tried to shoot him,
pretending, of course, that the gun misfired. Another time I cut the girth on
his saddle; he wound up with a broken bone and nothing more. Still not swooning
in horror, Miss Devonshire?"
"I
think that you would like me to. After all, have you not built your reputation
on shocking people? Or perhaps you're simply attempting to frighten me,
thinking I'll flee into the night, never to be seen at Braithwaite again.
Really, sir. You needn't go to such extremes, I assure you." She raised
one eyebrow and smiled. "Besides, I'm not easily shocked. How could I be.,
considering my own reputation?"
"Indeed."
He regarded her thoughtfully. "Then perhaps if I tell you that I'm the
cause of Damien's traipsing off to that godforsaken, mosquito-ridden country
called Mississippi, you'll change your mind. You see, I slept with his fiancee
the night before their wedding, and he discovered us. Mind you, I hadn't set
out with such intentions. It was fully the young woman's doing—she simply
didn't want to marry Dame. Still, I suppose it worked out all right in the end.
When Dame returned to England after five years he met Bonnie."
A
look crossed his face that caused an uneasy stirring in Olivia's breast. She'd
heard the rumors about Bonnie as well—how Miles was secretly in love with the
young woman.
He
moved from the door then and walked to a window. "Come here, Miss
Devonshire."
The
stern directive caught her off guard. She'd been too busy considering the
disturbing upheaval of emotions he'd brought on by mentioning another woman's
name. Ironic, she thought, considering his attempts to shock her (if that was
truly what he had intended) hadn't succeeded in causing so much as a skip in
her heartbeat. "Come here," he repeated.
Putting
her cup and saucer aside, Olivia forced herself to stand. Her knees were jelly.
Preposterous. She had never been some weak-hearted ninny.
"Miss
Devonshire?" he said.
She
moved to join him, being careful, of course, to keep a respectable distance
between them as she gazed out at a vast garden of brown, shriveled rosebushes.
"Once
upon a time," he began, "in the summer this garden would be a
vibrant, shimmering rainbow of colors. My God, it was beautiful. My bedroom
overlooked the garden, and during those months that the roses bloomed I would
wake up in the morning and the fragrance would be so heady in the air I'd
become dizzy."
Olivia
did her best to imagine the lifeless garden in bloom. Instead, her eyes
continued to focus on Warwick's reflection on the dark, rain-speckled glass.
For an instant she
herein lay the truth.
Still,
he didn't talk like an inebriated man. The words weren't so slurred.
He
spoke again. "Then my father died and everything passed to Randolf. When
Randolf died from a shooting accident I hoped—prayed—that somehow the house
would pass to me. Damien, after all, had established himself in Mississippi and
didn't give a damn about Braithwaite. But of course he returned and took
control and suddenly I wasn't even welcome in the house in which I had grown
up. Mind you, Miss Devonshire, I couldn't really blame Damien. I had never been
the most ideal brother."
Turning
to face her, he leaned against the doorjamb and ran one hand through his hair.
He did not look at her, but allowed his gaze to slide, unseeing, from one
mounted beast-head to another. "No doubt you've heard the rumors that I
tried to kill him. Well," he said with a touch of defiance in his weary
voice, "they're true."
He
looked at her directly at last, a breathtaking god momentarily lost in a bleak
abysm of contrition. "What, Miss Devonshire? Not even a gasp? Not a
feminine cry for hartshorn? Perhaps the rumors I've heard about you are true as
well."
"Perhaps,"
she stated simply, and adjusted the spectacles more comfortably on her nose.
"Do continue, Mr. Warwick."
"My,
but you are a singular young woman, Miss Devonshire. Very well. I did attempt
to murder him twice. Once on a hunting expedition I tried to shoot him,
pretending, of course, that the gun misfired. Another time I cut the girth on
his saddle; he wound up with a broken bone and nothing more. Still not swooning
in horror, Miss Devonshire?"
"I
think that you would like me to. After all, have you not built your reputation
on shocking people? Or perhaps you're simply attempting to frighten me,
thinking I'll flee into the night, never to be seen at Braithwaite again.
Really, sir. You needn't go to such extremes, I assure you." She raised
one eyebrow and smiled. "Besides, I'm not easily shocked. How could I be.,
considering my own reputation?"
"Indeed."
He regarded her thoughtfully. "Then perhaps if I tell you that I'm the
cause of Damien's traipsing off to that godforsaken, mosquito-ridden country
called Mississippi, you'll change your mind. You see, I slept with his fiancee
the night before their wedding, and he discovered us. Mind you, I hadn't set
out with such intentions. It was fully the young woman's doing—she simply
didn't want to marry Dame. Still, I suppose it worked out all right in the end.
When Dame returned to England after five years he met Bonnie."
A
look crossed his face that caused an uneasy stirring in Olivia's breast. She'd
heard the rumors about Bonnie as well—how Miles was secretly in love with the
young woman.
He
moved from the door then and walked to a window. "Come here, Miss
Devonshire."
The
stern directive caught her off guard. She'd been too busy considering the
disturbing upheaval of emotions he'd brought on by mentioning another woman's
name. Ironic, she thought, considering his attempts to shock her (if that was
truly what he had intended) hadn't succeeded in causing so much as a skip in
her heartbeat. "Come here," he repeated.
Putting
her cup and saucer aside, Olivia forced herself to stand. Her knees were jelly.
Preposterous. She had never been some weak-hearted ninny.
"Miss
Devonshire?" he said.
She
moved to join him, being careful, of course, to keep a respectable distance
between them as she gazed out at a vast garden of brown, shriveled rosebushes.
"Once
upon a time," he began, "in the summer this garden would be a
vibrant, shimmering rainbow of colors. My God, it was beautiful. My bedroom
overlooked the garden, and during those months that the roses bloomed I would
wake up in the morning and the fragrance would be so heady in the air I'd
become dizzy."
Olivia
did her best to imagine the lifeless garden in bloom. Instead, her eyes
continued to focus on Warwick's reflection on the dark, rain-speckled glass.
For an instant she
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