Page 63 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
“Not a clue,” Gabe replied.
“Then perhaps I should demonstrate.” Oliver grabbed the violets out of Gabe’s hand, then knocked on Maria’s door, planting himself across the doorway before either of them realized what he was up to. After a second, the door swung open, and she blinked at him. “Oliver! What are you doing here?”
Words utterly failed him. She wore a white cotton wrapper over her linen night rail, both buttoned up to the chin and chaste as a nun’s habit. Yet just the sight of her in such attire aroused him as none of Polly’s girls had managed to do. All he wanted was to back her into the room and swive her senseless.
Instead, he thrust the violets at her. “For you. For St. Valentine’s Day.”
Her blue eyes turned to ice. “Take them to your friends at the brothel. I want none of them.”
“Please, Maria,” he said hoarsely, “let me explain.”
“You owe me no explanation.” With a glance at Betty, who had her back to them but was clearly listening avidly, she murmured, “I’m only your pretend fiancée, after all. So if you’ll excuse me—”
“I won’t.” If he hadn’t caught the glint of tears in her eyes, he might have walked away. But he’d be damned if he’d do it now.
He’d hurt her. He’d sworn never to hurt a woman, which was why he’d kept his relations with women casual. If they became attached, he broke with them before it could turn nasty.
Yet he’d still hurt her, the one woman he’d least wanted to hurt. He didn’t like how it made him feel. Right now he would give anything, do anything, to wipe that wounded expression from her face.
“I’m the first man you saw today,” he pointed out, “so I’m officially your valentine.”
She let out a harsh laugh. “Because of a silly superstition? I think not.”
“Because I want to be,” he said in a low voice. “And because you want me to be, too.”
Her gaze would have skewered a stone. “Want a drunken debaucher fresh from some whore’s bed as my valentine? Not if you were the last man on earth.”
She slammed the door in his face.
His brothers laughed, but he ignored them. He couldn’t blame her for being angry; he’d given her good reason to be so.
But it didn’t change a thing. He’d be damned if he let her go now. One way or the other, Maria Butterfield was going to be his. One way or the other, shewouldshare his bed.
Chapter Seventeen
Maria managed to avoid Oliver for most of St. Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t difficult—apparently he spent half of it sleeping off his wild night. Not that she cared one bit. She’d learned her lesson with him. Truly she had. Not even the beautiful bouquet of irises he’d sent up to her room midafternoon changed that.
Now that she was dressing for tonight’s ball, she was rather proud of herself for having only thought of him half a dozen times.Per hour,her conscience added.
“There, that’s the last one,” Betty said as she tucked another ostrich feather into Maria’s elaborate coiffure.
According to Celia, the new fashion this year involved a multitude of feathers drooping from one’s head in languid repose. Maria hoped hers didn’t decide to find their repose on the floor. Betty seemed to have used a magical incantation to keep them in place, and Maria wasn’t at all sure they would stay put.
“You look lovely, miss,” Betty added.
“If I do,” Maria said, “it’s only because of your efforts, Betty.”
Betty ducked her head to hide her blush. “Thank you, miss.”
It was amazing how different the servant had been ever since Maria had taken Oliver’s advice to heart, letting the girl fuss over her and tidy her room and do myriad things that Maria would have been perfectly happy to do for herself. But he’d proved to be right—Betty practically glowed with pride. Maria wished she’d known sooner how to treat them all, but honestly, how could she have guessed that these mad English wouldenjoybeing in service? It boggled her democratic American mind.
Casting an admiring glance down Maria’s gown of ivory satin, Betty said, “I daresay his lordship will swallow his tongue when he sees you tonight.”
“If he does, I hope he chokes on it,” Maria muttered.
With a sly glance, Betty fluffed out the bouffant drapery of white tulle that crossed Maria’s bust and was fastened in the center with an ornament of gold mosaic. “John says the master didn’t touch a one of those tarts at the brothel last night. He says that his lordship refused every female that the owner of the place brought before him.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
