“Not Lady Ivy?” a shocked voice said at his waist.
He nearly dropped the spyglass out the window. Sliding off the sill, he turned to the small girl who had caught him during his embarrassing display of emotion. “Mary, what are you doing out of bed?”
She shrank away from him. It did not take much for him to guess why. He knew he reeked of brandy. His shirt was half-tucked into his trousers, and he was muttering to himself about committing murder.
“She’s only a little bit late, sir. Don’t make her leave. I don’t like being alone.”
He knelt before her. “I don’t like it, either. But surely you know I would never hurt a woman.”
“I heard you say you would.”
“I wasn’t referring to your governess. She doesn’t have hooves, does she?”
“Well, then, who were you talking about?”
“That’s none of your concern, Mary.” He squeezed her arm. “Go back to your room, and don’t come out again tonight, even if you hear a row. I promise you that she will not come to harm from me.”
She pulled free, her eyes welling with tears. “Don’t quarrel with her. I love her, Uncle James, and she loves—”
He sighed, his gaze strained back to the window. “She what? She loves you?”
Mary nodded uncertainly.
“I’m sure she does, darling.”
“She might love other people in the house, too, Uncle James.”
“Other people?” he said distractedly. “You mean like Walker?”
“I mean you.”
James turned to her again. “What makes you think that?”
“She has a funny look on her face when she sees you. And she forgets what she was doing when you come into the room.”
“That could simply mean I make her nervous.”
“Be nice to her tonight.”
“Yes, Mary. I will. Now go—”
“I know. I know. Go back to my room. That’s all I ever hear.”
Chapter 17
“To be a writer is to suffer an incredible melancholy,” Oliver intoned, stroking his thin beard in contemplation. “It is as if I dangle from a frayed thread between life and my own tomb. I look up. I look down. I perceive neither light nor darkness, but a perpetual gloom. I ask myself, ‘Is this twilight state my fate?’ Do you have the slightest idea what it is to suffer for art?”
Could Oliver’s carriage have traveled any slower? Could she stand another moment in his company before she committed an act of violence? The duke would be livid. Ivy would be looking for another position. Without character references. Did she know what it was to suffer for art?
“No, I don’t, Oliver,” she said, breathing an enormous sigh of relief as the carriage approached the private road to the park. “And quite frankly at the moment I don’t give a fig. Your artistic suffering will have to wait for another evening.”
For an instant she saw a glimpse of malice in his eyes. But then his prattle had so benumbed her brain that she supposed she could be wrong. In the next moment the carriage jolted to a stop. She slid forward and he caught her, holding her even as she struggled to open the door.
“You’ve tempted me all day. The least you can do is give me a kiss to hold me through the night.”
“Kiss you?” She laughed in disbelief. “You’ll cost me everything, Oliver. Let go of my arm.”
“Not until you kiss me.”
She would have clouted him with her other hand if not for her stitches. The door opened, whether from her efforts or those of the footman, who’d become alarmed at the raised voices inside the carriage, she had no idea. There wasn’t a servant at hand when she and Oliver tumbled down the steps together in an inelegant and accidental embrace.
“Behave yourself, Sir Oliver,” she said in frustration, and gave him a push against the carriage door. “I almost broke my ankle because of your antics.”
“I can’t behave myself,” he said in a stricken voice. He pressed his pale hand to his heart. “I love you. No, really. Don’t look at me in scorn. It’s true. I can’t quite believe it myself. What a hideous surprise. Marry me, Ivy. Let us be miserable together.”
She nodded and crept back from the carriage. He might be proposing to one of the garden statues for all she was paying attention. She’d stopped listening to him five minutes into her return journey to Ellsworth. “Good night, sir,” she said, and turned, only to discover him standing directly in her path. “Thank you for everything. And move out of the way. The duke will challenge you to a duel if he catches you misbehaving on his property. He was an officer in the infantry—an expert shot, I’ll have you know. He’d put a bullet in your heart without losing a wink of sleep afterward. He isn’t a person to cross, I promise you.”