Page 83 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
She lifted her chin. No, she was perfectly sane. Maybe these English ladies could accept such terms so they could live in an amazing house and be called lady of the manor, but not her. Half a marriage wasn’t enough.
She wouldn’t think about it one more minute. She wouldn’t let the idea of marriage to Oliver tempt her.
Determinedly, she set about washing the blood from herself, then tossed the soiled water out of the window, hoping the rain would dilute it. After she changed the sheets on her bed, she threw them into the fire, watching as they burned. Thank heavens she’d made her own bed here in the past and knew where the fresh sheets were kept.
Only after she’d hidden any evidence of her reckless act with Oliver did she feel safe to climb into bed. But it was no use. Once she was still and quiet, she could no longer pretend it hadn’t happened. She could still smell him on her shift, still see him looming over her, taking her, shattering her with the intensity of his need.
She began to cry. She lay in her Cinderella bed, surrounded by Halstead Hall’s enticing charms, and cried until she could cry no more, until she was sick with it.
Afterward, she stared into the dying fire, remembering how Oliver had done the same while telling her about his parents’ disastrous marriage. He’d sounded so desperate then. After everything he’d told her, why would he be willing to settle for a society marriage himself?
That’s how Gran found me, holding Mother, rocking back and forth, weeping. Gran had to pry her from my arms.
A shiver wracked her. The whole time he’d been telling her of it, she’d had the distinct impression that he was leaving things out.
She rode out after him, angry at him over . . . something that had happened.
What was the something that had happened? More had occurred that night than he had told her, she was sure of it. She could see how his parents’ deaths might send him fleeing into a life of emptiness for a while, but nineteen years?
It made no sense.Hemade no sense. She was tired of trying to figure him out. And worried by her increasingfascination with him. Had she made him into more than he was? At his heart, was he just a seducer and debaucher who could never be anything else?
She didn’t want to believe it. But given Nathan’s abandonment of her, she clearly had no talent for understanding men. So she wasn’t sure she should trust her instincts when it came to Oliver. Especially when he clouded them at every turn with his fierce and soul-destroying seductions.
Sometime near dawn she fell into a fitful sleep. When she awoke, the sun was high in the sky. She was tempted to lie there all day, alone in her misery, but she dared not. The others would notice. Whatever she did, she must keep last night’s activities secret from them.
Calling for Betty to dress her, she prayed that her newfound harlotry wasn’t emblazoned on her cheeks. She managed to answer Betty’s eager questions about the ball and what had happened and how his lordship had reacted to her gown, but after several perfunctory answers, Betty caught on that she was in no mood to talk and left her in a blessed silence.
By the time she looked presentable enough to face the rest of the family, it was early afternoon. As she came down the stairs, she heard Celia say on the floor below her, “What, pray tell, are you doing here, Mr. Pinter?”
Maria’s pulse leapt.
“As I told your footman, Lady Celia, I wish to see Miss Butterfield.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“She hired me to find her fiancé.”
“Keep quiet, you fool,” Celia hissed as Maria reached the landing. “My grandmother isn’t aware of that.”
“I don’t care.” His voice was hard, almost angry. “And I certainly want no part of whatever unsavory scheme you and your brother are involved in. I just want to speak to Miss Butterfield.”
“I’m here, Mr. Pinter,” Maria called out as she hurried down the steps. She glanced from Celia, who looked unusually flushed, to Mr. Pinter, who seemed stiffer than usual. “I was unaware that you knew each other.”
Celia tossed back her head. “A few months ago, Mr. Pinter showed up at a shooting match I was in the process of winning. He was most rude and ended it before I could gain my prize. I’ve never forgiven him for that.”
“You remember the incident quite differently than I, Lady Celia. You werenotin the process of winning. The match had scarcely begun.” He stepped closer to the young woman, temper flaring in his generally controlled features. “And you know perfectly well why I ended it—you and Lord Jarret’s friends were holding it in a public park, where you might have injured someone. As a man charged with keeping the peace, I didn’t want to find some hapless creature lying dead in the bushes after your impromptu match.”
Celia stared him down. “There was no one there. We made sure of it.”
“So you said. But I don’t allow my actions to be governedby the claims of reckless society misses who have nothing better to do with their time than challenge a lot of idiots to shoot guns willy-nilly.”
“That’s what annoys you, isn’t it,” Celia hissed. “That I can shoot a pistol as well as any man. And I am not reckless, I’ll have you know!”
When Mr. Pinter looked as if he were about to retort, Maria cut in. “You have news for me, sir?”
Mr. Pinter tensed, then looked chagrined. “I beg your pardon, Miss Butterfield. Yes, I have news. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
“You should wait until Oliver returns,” Celia broke in.
