Page 3 of Mine This Winter
A sudden knock on the door brought light relief.
Flanders entered, his bushy grey brows drawn in consternation. “Forgive me, my lord, but Mr Garrick is demanding someone show him to his room. He’s tired after the long journey and finds the insufferable fools in the drawing room tedious company.”
Gwen suppressed a gasp.
The gentleman had the cheek of the devil.
Was he not grateful for their hospitality?
Oliver muttered something foul under his breath. “Tell Garrick I’ll be along in a moment. I’m sure he can bear them for a few minutes more. If all else fails, give the man brandy.”
Flanders gave a discreet cough. “I believe he has downed three glasses in as many minutes, my lord.”
“Good. Hopefully, the reprobate will be so sotted he’ll leave and freeze to death in the snow. I find myself thankful for the plummeting temperatures.”
Gwen blinked in disbelief. Oliver rarely lost his temper. But why permit Mr Garrick to stay? Why not throw him out? And what made Mr Garrick think he could ride roughshod over a viscount?
“I’ll tell Mr Garrick we have no rooms available,” Gwen said, though she would need every ounce of courage she possessed to face him.
“No!” Oliver recovered quickly from his sudden outburst and straightened his coat. “I’ll deal with him. I’ll not see you upset. Not when you had every hope of making a match this week.”
There was more chance of her marrying Flanders than any of the insipid men warming themselves in the drawing room.
“Why would I be upset? Mr Garrick means nothing to me.”
Oliver clearly doubted her word and reeled off reasons why he should deal with the problem. “Wait here until the coast is clear. Flanders will fetch you once Garrick has retired to his chamber.”
A flush warmed her cheeks.
Did Oliver know of the intimate picnic? He knew she had developed some affection for Mr Garrick, knew his absence had left her heartsick for months. But five years had passed. Why was he so anxious?
“I’m not afraid of Mr Garrick,” she said, striding from the study. Oliver called to her, but she ignored his irrational plea and returned to the drawing room.
Mr Garrick stood alone, his arms folded over his broad chest as he stared at her portrait. If he felt an ounce of remorse for mistreating her, it was not apparent. He was so lost in a dreamlike state he failed to notice her approach.
“Mr Garrick.” Gwen fought to keep the tremble from her voice. Being so close opened a Pandora’s box, the sudden plague of unwanted feelings leaving her lightheaded. “Might we speak privately?”
The man’s magnificent blue gaze moved slowly from the painting to her person. It did not come to rest on her lips—he used to stare at her mouth like a parched man in need of sustenance. “Where do you suggest we go? Not the orangery, or the woods, or the stables?”
Images of every kiss they’d shared filtered through her mind. Mr Garrick meant to provoke her temper, yet he left her awash with confusion. What had she done to deserve his censure?
“I thought the hall.”
“The hall?” he scoffed as if offended.
Deciding the matter called for directness, Gwen lowered her voice. “We have no rooms available. You cannot stay here.”
His heavy sigh breezed over her. It took effort not to breathe deeply and inhale the essence of the man she had never forgotten.
“The matter is not open for negotiation. Send one of your admirers away. I’m staying here, Gwendolyn, and you have no choice but to suffer my company.”
Heaven help her! When had he become so insufferable? Worse still, why did she experience a delightful shiver at the sound of her given name?
Sensing something was amiss, the ever-obnoxious Mr Payne approached. He’d barely opened his mouth before Mr Garrick growled, “Bugger off, Payne, before I shove my fist down your throat.”
“Now listen here, Garrick. The ladies?—”
“Step away. I’ll not warn you again.”
