She tossed the thistles in the fireplace. “I could have been a best seller in Bulgaria for all you know.”
“I was a guest at one of Lord Byron’s house parties last year. He declared one stanza of my work to be practically excellent.”
“How cruel of him,” Lilac said after a long pause.
“It could have been worse,” Rosemary said, plucking a burr from her skirt.
Oliver gave her a negligent glance. “Oh?”
“He could have declared you to be practically awful.”
He laughed reluctantly. She was a bold Amazon whose face became breathtaking when she smiled. Oliver was quite unprepared for the impact. Whatever the Fenwick sisters lacked in reputation they atoned for in allure. “When do you think Ivy is coming home?” he asked her, uncomfortable with his thoughts.
“I honestly don’t know. Is that raspberry trifle?”
“Yes,” Lilac said. “You might as well have it. He hasn’t touched it. And, Oliver, I’m afraid if you want Ivy, you’ll have to go after her.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, expelling a sigh.
“Obviously she isn’t about to chase you,” Rosemary said, squeezing in the chair beside Lilac.
“It’s almost as if she’s forgotten you exist,” Lilac said with her typical candor.
Oliver tapped his spoon against the bowl of tasteless broth. “I realize that all of you are the victims of circumstance, and that owing to events over which you had no control, you withdrew from society and have during the period of your involuntary ostracism—”
“You think we’re ill-mannered,” Lilac said as Rosemary calmly devoured the trifle.
“I wasn’t being insulting.”
“It’s all right,” Lilac said. “We are social exiles and do not care for convention.”
He glanced at Rosemary. “So you think I should pursue your sister?”
“I said nothing of the sort,” she replied, and set her empty bowl back on the tray.
“You did,” he insisted.
“No. I said she would not chase you. If you go to Ellsworth and the duke catches you, you shall get whatever you deserve.”
Lilac nodded. “You didn’t see the way the duke looked at Ivy. Perhaps there’s a reason why she hasn’t come home. Sir Oliver, I’m afraid you might be too late.”
Chapter 24
Ivy lightly traced the creases in his beautifully sculpted face with her fingertip. She wished she could stay the night, watching over James, if only to hear him tell her that they belonged together as man and wife, and that was that.
There was a chance he would change his mind by morning. But he must have been brought into her life five years ago for a reason—perhaps so that her heart would hold a place for him.
She poured another glass of water to leave at his side and debated whether to add a few coals to his fire. He still felt hot. She decided that she would check him again in half an hour and slipped from his room, hoping that no one else in the house spotted her. Of course he would be well. As he’d pointed out, it wasn’t likely that a man could make love with such intensity and succumb to a grave illness hours later. Not that she was an expert on the subject. But she was the one who should be running a fever. She felt both exhausted and exhilarated.
Her mind kept returning to the offer he had made her. His wife. The duchess. A title that implied dignity and rulership. No more trysting in the Chinese Room. Or knocking over chairs. And if they ever needed a governess, Ivy would conduct the interview and would not kiss any of the applicants on the floor.
A fine example the two of them had set for the rest of the house as well as for the children.
Of course Ivy could not have foreseen that one of the little mischief-makers would be waiting in her room, tonight of all nights.
“Walker, what are you doing in that chair and wearing on your head? And is that your uncle’s cane? Are you sleepwalking? Or is that you, Mary? Answer me. This has to stop.”
She gasped as the shadowed figure rose from the chair and stepped into the moonlight. It was—she wasn’t sure who it was at first. It appeared to be a footman dressed in a maid’s frilly mobcap and apron. Had the servants been using her bedroom for their antics? She nearly laughed until she took a closer look at the agitated face under the cap and realized it belonged to Sir Oliver.
Her heart jumped in alarm. She hadn’t believed any of his nonsense about rescuing her from the duke. “Oh, no, Oliver. Not in here. Have you gone daft?” Which was a question she realized didn’t need an answer. He was wearing a cap and apron in the house of a man who had decreed he would kill Oliver if he set foot on this property again.