Desires of a Perfect Lady Read online

  In the decade since, Sterling had scarcely set eyes on Olivia. On rare occasions, he had seen her across a ballroom floor and had taken pains not to be within speaking distance. His mother had once said in passing that Lady Rathbourne had become quite reclusive, spending most of her days in the country. Not that he cared. He had put her out of his mind as thoroughly as if she too were dead. And if, now and again, her face would haunt his dreams, her smile linger in his soul, he ruthlessly thrust it aside. She had broken his heart, and even in his dreams, he would not permit that kind of pain again.

  “You should know, she did not go into marriage willingly.” Newbury studied him. “You said you would never let her go. She thought you would save her.”

  A heavy weight settled in the pit of Sterling’s stomach.

  Newbury drew a deep breath. “But I knew a man like you, a man with your kind of pride, would never pursue a woman who didn’t want you.”

  “She could have told me.” At once the memory of that long-ago note slammed into him. She tried!

  “Rathbourne would not have allowed that.” Newbury shook his head. “He insisted I keep her locked in her rooms until the wedding. I did try to renege before the marriage. I offered Rathbourne money, property, whatever he wished, but all he wanted was Olivia. He laughed at me. He said she was his now.” Newbury’s eyes took on a faraway quality, as if he were looking back to those days. “She and I had never been close, you know. If she had been a boy . . .” He shook his head. “Regardless, I should have done better by her. This is my last chance.” He met Sterling’s gaze directly. “My days are numbered. My physicians say I am not long for this world.”

  Sterling raised a brow. “And you hope to earn salvation now by having me help her?”

  Newbury laughed, a dry, cackling sound that said far more than any words about the state of his health. “I have no illusions as to where I will spend eternity. I have made any number of mistakes in my life, Wyldewood, the most egregious in regards to my daughter. I cannot make amends for my actions. But you can atone for yours.”

  Sterling shook his head. “I don’t think—”

  The old man leaned forward. “Rathbourne tossed me a bone of sorts when he married Olivia. I told him I was concerned for her welfare. Even then, there were rumors about him. He said he would keep her as safe as his other possessions. But I know he did not treat her well. Still, she is alive . . .” Newbury paused, and what might have been genuine remorse passed over his face. “Rathbourne said if he came to a violent end, I should take steps to protect her.”

  Sterling cast him a look of disgust. “And that was a comfort to you?”

  “No,” Newbury snapped. “Nor did it come as a surprise. Now, however, it seems prophetic.”

  “I don’t know what you think I can do.” Sterling shrugged. “I can’t imagine she’d even be willing to see me after all this time.”

  “You can at least warn her. Urge her to take precautions.” Newbury sighed and at once looked like the aged, dying man he apparently was. “Please, do this for her. You owe her that much.”

  “I don’t . . .” Sterling drew a deep breath. “Perhaps I do. It seems little enough, I suppose.”

  “I am grateful, not that you need my gratitude. Nonetheless, you have it.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “You failed to save her once, Wyldewood,” the old man said sharply, his gaze boring into Sterling’s. “Do not fail her now.”

  Olivia Rathbourne, the newly widowed Viscountess Rathbourne, studied the two pieces of her stationery laid out before her on the desk in her husband’s—no—her library. Her stationery was of the finest quality vellum, embossed with her name and title. But, of course, everything she wore, everything in the house or in the manor in the country, everything she now owned was of the finest quality. Her dead husband permitted nothing else.

  The sheet of stationery on the left was crisp and new, the list of items that needed her immediate attention written in her precise hand. She smiled, dipped her pen in the inkwell, and crossed off replace butler with an unnecessary but nonetheless satisfying flourish. In the scant two weeks since her husband’s death she had replaced the housekeeper, the cook, the entire upstairs staff, and now the butler. Within another week she fully intended not to have a single servant who had been part of her husband’s household anywhere in sight. The butler as well as the housekeeper, cook, and other newly hired staff might not be as experienced as those they replaced, and it would take them all a bit of time to become familiar with the house as well as their new employer but she scarcely cared. A certain amount of inconvenience was a small price to pay for beginning her life anew.

  Her gaze shifted to the leaf of stationery on the right, soiled and worn. Folded and refolded until it barely remained in one piece, that page too hosted a list of sorts. None of the items written on it had yet been crossed off, but they would be eventually. Olivia was in no hurry. After all, this list had been compiled over nearly a decade, and she had the rest of her life to cross off the items. A life that at last was indeed hers.

  There was no title to identify either list, but had there been, the one on the left would be: To Do At Once. The list on the right: To Do When He Is Dead. It wasn’t a very long list, but, through the years of her marriage, she had clung to it like a drowning sailor clinging to a shattered mast. The tattered piece of stationery was the only thing in her life that was truly hers. Here were her dreams, her private desires, those silly and those profound. The practical, the possible, and some that were nothing more than fanciful notions. The list had been her secret, her salvation. If her husband had known of its existence, if he had known of the way in which it had sustained her, she had no doubt he would have punished her although it had been years since he had done so. Or he might have laughed. Which would have been worse.

  She’d been at their house in the country when word had reached her of his demise. She had at once sent a quick prayer heavenward for the redemption of his soul because that was what one should do. Not because there was any possibility that his soul could be saved or that toward heaven was the appropriate direction. And she had sent a longer prayer directed at whatever saint watched over helpless women and answered their prayers. Not that she had prayed for his death. That would have been wrong in a moral sense. Besides, he was more than thirty years older than she. It was to be expected that he would precede her in death. No, she had not actively prayed for his demise. Nor, however, had she ever prayed for his continued good health.

  And now she was free.

  A discreet knock sounded at the door.

  Freedom and privacy. A smile curved her lips. Her husband was certainly not in heaven, but she was.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened, and her new butler—Giddings—stepped into the room. His references were excellent, and Olivia had no doubt that, within the week, he would have her household running smoothly. Her household. It had a lovely ring to it.

  “There is a gentleman to see you, my lady.” Giddings stepped closer bearing a silver salver, a calling card precisely centered on the gleaming surface. He held it out to her. “He says it’s most important that he speak with you at once.”

  “Does he?” she murmured, and plucked the card from the salver.

  There had been scandalously few calls of condolence since her husband’s death. Not surprising really. He’d had no friends. Those who had come to express remorse and offer sympathy, however feigned, had been primarily those who’d had dealings with her husband including his solicitor—whose dismissal was toward the top of her list of items to be accomplished at once—officials from the London Antiquities Society, representatives of several museums, and a handful of private collectors. Viscount Rathbourne might have been many things, but his eye for antiquities and art had never been disputed. His collections rivaled those in any museum. They would soon follow the way of the solicitor.

  She glanced at the card in her hand. The engraved name was neither expected nor
a complete surprise. Indeed, his mother, his brother Nathanial, and Nathanial’s fiancée had together called on her. One of the handful of calls she’d judged prompted by genuine concern for her welfare. But, of course, she no longer had any friends to speak of. While members of his family had come in person, he had seen fit merely to send a note. Formally worded and eminently proper, she had wondered, before she’d tossed it in the fireplace, if his secretary had written it and if he’d seen it at all save to sign it.

  Giddings cleared his throat.

  Would she see him? It struck her as odd that she could consider the question calmly, without undue emotion. But then she had exhausted her emotions in regard to him long ago. After all, it had taken some time, but hadn’t she at last understood that neither he nor her father would save her? That only she could save herself? And she had. Oh certainly, she had done nothing through the years but pretend to be accepting of her fate and compile her list and survive. But her husband was dead, and she had indeed survived.

  She had survived Sterling’s betrayal as well. She distinctly remembered the last time she had spoken to him. She’d been filled with joy and the promise of what the future would bring. A future she had planned to spend with Sterling, as his wife, bearing his children, growing old with her hand clasped in his. That last day they had spoken of the future and life had never seemed brighter. He was going to speak to her father, and they planned to marry at once. It was expedient to do so.

  She’d said good-bye to him that day, her heart filled to overflowing. That was the very day her father had told her she had to marry Rathbourne. She’d refused at first, of course. Then her father had told her his vile secret. They would both be ruined if the truth were known. Still, she’d held out hope. Sterling loved her. He wouldn’t care about such things. He had the position and the family name, the money and the power to overcome even scandal of this nature. No, he was her knight, her hero. He would most certainly save her. But he hadn’t.

  She’d tried to save herself. She confessed her own misdeeds to Rathbourne, confident he would not want his perfect bride to be anything less than perfect. He had not been happy, had taken his ire out on her for the first time then, but had not set her free. Even in her horror and her pain she had tried to escape, but Rathbourne had threatened to destroy Sterling as well. His words had left little doubt as to exactly what he’d meant.

  She’d had no choice. She would have abandoned her father to his fate, but she could never risk Sterling’s life. She’d saved him, not that he would ever know. And she’d paid the price.

  “My lady?”

  Giddings’s voice jerked her back to here and now. Why not see him? She did not intend to remain the recluse she had become during her marriage; nor did she intend to avoid Sterling or anyone else. Seeing him would be a first step.

  “Show him in.” She thought for a moment. She hadn’t redecorated the house yet, hadn’t ripped out every lingering influence of her husband’s, although it was on her new list. Still, she might simply sell the blasted place and be done with it.

  “Show him into the parlor.” She squared her shoulders. “I shall be in momentarily.”

  “As you wish.” The butler nodded in an efficient manner, turned, and took his leave.

  The tiniest bit of apprehension fluttered in her stomach. Surely, the earl had simply realized it had not been sufficient just to send a note. Perhaps his mother had encouraged him to pay a call. His appearance was nothing more than proper etiquette really. If it bore any significance at all, it was only in that this meeting would serve truly to mark the end of her old life and the start of her new one. A life she fully intended to live without regrets.

  And in many ways, this meeting would serve her own purposes.

  She folded the worn paper with its list of the dreams and desires that had sustained her through the years and slipped it into the desk drawer. There was no need to hide it anymore. It scarcely mattered any longer who saw it. Still, she would much prefer he didn’t see it. Not today.

  Today, it simply would not do for Sterling Harrington, Earl of Wyldewood, to know that his name was at the top of her list.

  Two

  In spite of his firm resolve, regardless of his best intentions or the fact that he thought he had hardened to her long ago, Sterling’s heart twisted the moment Olivia stepped into the room.

  Livy.

  She nodded coolly. “Good day, my lord.”

  “Good day,” he murmured.

  Her gaze met his, and at once he was swept back to the last time he’d spoken with her, the last time he’d been so close to her. When the world had seemed a wonderful place, and he had known that the rest of his days would be spent with her by his side. She was every bit as he remembered, every bit the woman who lingered still in the unguarded recess of his dreams. He’d never seen her in black before, but the gown, almost severe in its simplicity, molded to her like the caress of a hand. She looked exactly the same. Her eyes were as green, her skin as fair. Her blond hair still rivaled that of any Renaissance angel, and her lips still begged for his kiss. She looked exactly the same, and she was entirely different.

  There was an air of subtle strength about her, as if she had faced adversity and survived. She carried herself straighter, with the quiet grace of a woman who knew without doubt who she was and her place in the world. The look in her eye was cool, measured. Ten years ago, she had been a product of nature. An untouched gem. Beautiful as it came from the earth yet only a hint of what it might become. Now, she had been cut and polished and shaped. Forged by fire. The thought flashed through his mind, and he winced to himself.

  He, along with everyone else, had heard the rumors about Rathbourne. About the kind of man he was. Yet there had never been talk about his relationship with his wife. Odd in itself, as the ongoing battles, affairs, and scandalous relations involving husbands and wives in society were the lifeblood of gossips, in spite of the queen’s disapproval of such misdeeds. And in truth, did anyone ever truly know what transpired within the privacy of a marriage?

  Shortly after their marriage, Olivia fairly vanished from public sight. She attended few social events, stopped calling on her friends, and, for the most part, retired to the country. Sterling had been well aware of her disappearance but had had other matters to occupy his mind. He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that her absence from society had made his own life easier.

  Looking at her, he couldn’t help but wonder how much of the gossip about Rathbourne’s nature was true. And what Olivia’s life had been like.

  “Why are you here?” she said without preamble.

  “I am here . . .” He said the first thing that came into his head. “. . . to offer my condolences.”

  “You sent a note. It was sufficient and appreciated.” Her cold glance swept over him. “If there is nothing else?”

  “There is.” He drew a deep breath. “Your father came to see me.”

  Her expression hardened so subtly he wasn’t sure he had seen anything at all. “I no longer acknowledge my father’s existence. If you are here at his behest, my apologies, my lord. There is nothing he has to say that I wish to hear.” She smiled, nothing more than a slight, polite curve of her lips. “Now then, as I am confident you have any number of other matters to attend to—”

  “Livy, this is important.”

  Shock and anger flashed in her eyes, as if she’d been slapped. Her brow rose, but there was no softening of her expression. “I can’t imagine anything my father would have to say that would be the least bit important, Lord Wyldewood.”

  He stared for a moment, realization slamming into him like a fist to the stomach. She hated him every bit as much as she detested her father. Knowing what he now knew, he couldn’t blame her. And hadn’t he hated her for just as long?

  A tiny voice in the back of his head whispered, “No, never.” He ignored it and drew a deep breath.

  “My apologies, Lady Rathbourne, for my impertinence.” His tone was clip
ped and controlled. “For a moment I forgot myself.”

  “A great number of years have passed since anyone has called me that.”

  And I was the only one who ever did.

  “Like all else in the past, it is best forgotten. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “However, it is because of the past, our past if you will, that your father came to me. I gave him my word that I would speak to you.”

  “Ah yes.” She studied him. “And do you always keep your word?”

  “Yes,” he said sharply, ignoring the one time he hadn’t.

  “Very well then.” Her expression remained unchanged. “Go on.”

  “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “I scarcely care where you begin as long as you finish quickly.”

  “Yes, of course.” He certainly didn’t want to be there any more than she wanted him to be. Furthermore, she had no right to hate him. He didn’t desert her or abandon her. His only crime was believing her father. In truth, there’d been no reason not to believe him. Certainly, he hadn’t read her letters, but he’d been in too much pain himself to read the first. At the time, he’d assumed it was no more than an apology of sorts. She had at least owed him that. The others had arrived during those days when his father had been so very ill. He hadn’t ignored them as much as put them aside and forgotten about them. No, she had no right to look at him the way she did. “Your father is concerned about your welfare.”