Page 96 of Deceiving an Earl
It was time to admit defeat and move on.
For a very short moment he contemplated courting Lady Sylvia, but in his heart he knew that a marriage to her would be disastrous. He could not give her what she wanted, and that would not be fair to her.
His butler cleared his throat, and Oliver realized he had been wool-gathering. “A situation, you say? What type of situation?’
“You’d best come see for yourself, my lord.”
Oliver made a point to hire a competent staff who did not overly rely on him to run his home. If his butler said something needed his attention, then something needed his attention.
Richard emerged with Oliver’s shoes in hand, and Oliver stepped into them.
“Very well. Lead on.”
Oliver knew he was playing a role, pretending that Ellen’s marriage was not affecting him while inside his heart was broken.
The butler led him to the front room that Oliver rarely used, since he rarely accepted callers, stopped at the window that overlooked the street, parted the curtains, and stepped back.
“We think he’s been there since the wee hours of the morning.”
Oliver peered through the crack in the curtains to see someone sitting on his front stoop, hunched over, obviously very wet and miserable. He remembered a heavy rain coming through in the dead of the night and awakening him for a bit.
“What the devil?” He peered closer. Who would camp on his doorstep? The clothing indicated that this was not a tramp or a vagrant, but someone of means.
Oliver strode to the front door, opened it, and stepped out. The air was cool, and the person on his steps was shivering. Having meticulously chosen his clothes for his meeting, Oliver did not sit down on the wet steps. Rather, he descended until he was one step below the person.
It was most definitely ahe, with short, light brown hair. His arms were crossed on his knees, his head pressed against his folded arms.
“Philip?”
The boy raised his head slowly, and Oliver winced at the shiner that had injured his eye.
“A rough night? Fisticuffs with another mate?”
Philip’s face was red-splotched and he was soaking wet, his body trembling in the cool air.
Oliver’s first reaction was irritation that the boy had landed on his doorstep in this condition. He had an important meeting in less than an hour and the paperwork to go over beforehand. Not to mention that he’d convinced himself he was finished with both Ellen and Philip.
But the boy looked miserable, and he was obviously cold, and Oliver couldn’t turn him away. He wasn’t that much of a bloody ass.
“Come inside,” he said.
“Have Richard run a hot bath,” Oliver said to the hovering butler. “And find some clothes that will fit him. Tell Cook to put on an extra pot of coffee.”
Philip stood in the entryway, dripping rainwater on the marble floors. His housekeeper was going to have a fit, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
“Were you out all night?” he asked Philip.
Philip nodded, his head still hanging, as a drop of water dripped off the tip of his nose.
“Good God, son. You have got to straighten your life out if you want to make something of yourself.”
Philip flinched at Oliver’s harsh tone but did not raise his head to defend himself.
“Other than your eye, is the rest of you intact?”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“You’re not hurt anywhere else?”
