A Scandalous Wager Page 15

  The marks he so wished to see were to be constant reminders to her in the next few months until she learnt neither to be seen nor heard unless he asked for her.

  He didn’t love her. He didn’t even like her. He wanted a plaything, something he could control.

  Something he could break.

  His betrayal cut her to the bone even as his beatings bruised her flesh. She became like a mouse, scurrying around to avoid notice and yet ever vigilant, waiting for his summons. After those initial beatings she knew there was no hope for her future or of an escape from his brutal treatment.

  Lisbeth was vaguely aware of her surroundings now but her misery had taken a merciless hold of her senses.

  Sounds seemed to come at her from everywhere, shouting her weaknesses, branding her for her failings. She put her hands over her ears to shut them out. It did no good. Why would they not go away? Why couldn’t she push these memories out of her head?

  She was adrift on an angry sea of emotions and grief. Grief not for her husband but for the young girl she had been, for the trust he had wrenched from her heart. She mourned the young woman who had thought so naively that she was about to start a new and exciting life, only to find it was to be the end of her innocence, her dreams, and her hope in a future that was not to be hers.

  For so long she had taken the blame for her husband’s anger, for his brutal treatment. For was there anyone else to blame? She had searched in vain for an answer to so many questions but in the end she had felt only numb, unable to function without his instruction, without his fist forever poised and about to strike for the smallest, faulty step.

  Her mind spun and dipped and swayed in an effort to bring her back but all she could see was the darkened room, smell the metallic aroma of blood, and something else she didn’t quite understand, of her hand reaching out and finding Nathaniel’s body cold and staring. Her shaking hands on the gun…

  ***

  ‘Lisbeth? Lisbeth!’ Oliver didn’t know what to do. He’d turned from locking the door to find her doubled over on the floor crying and making a horrid keening sound that almost stopped his heart it was so soul-wrenching. The sound of pure misery. He’d heard it before, too many times before. The sound of grief and despair. It was the sound of one’s heart shattering into a million pieces.

  He’s seen women crying over the bodies of their dead, screaming their anger at a hazy smoke-filled sky. At the time he had been glad there was no woman who would have to suffer such a fate over him was he to fall in battle. He’d seen this at too many battlefields, too many dead, too much needless grief. He wished he could forget but some things were burned into one’s memory like a tattoo.

  He blinked several times, which didn’t help at all. His eyes still burned. What had he done?

  Dealing with women in such a state was beyond his experience. Did he dare touch her or offer her comfort? He’d tried that once and she had threatened to blow a hole through his ribs. She didn’t have her precious little pistol now so perhaps if he…just…

  He knelt down beside her and took hold of her shoulders. She jerked away from him, her eyes filled to overflowing with tears—unseeing. He swallowed the smart remark meant to make her laugh. Instead he pulled her towards him. She resisted for a few moments, fighting him with her small fists. Then focusing, as if recognising him at last, she practically threw herself into his arms, weeping uncontrollably until his jacket and shirt were quite soaked through.

  He sat on the floor with her in his arms and for a long time just rocked her. He smoothed her hair, crooning comforting words into her ear until he was nearly hoarse. He apologised profusely, and multiple times, for he knew to some extent her tears were a direct result of his thoughtless actions. If only he had not charged into her house like an imbecile demanding to know why he had been left out of her schedule. If only he had not been so upset by the thought that she was leaving him out of something important, he may have been able to process the fact that this was something she had needed to do herself, without him. She was in no state to tell him, so he guessed he would just have to wait.

  It seemed like days she wept, intermittingly hitting him in the chest, and squeezing the breath out of him. Finally, she released him. She had developed the most adorable hiccups and he took this to mean that this particularly puzzling play of emotions was over with, for now.

  Oliver stood, pulled her to her feet and guided her to one of the stiff-looking chairs by the window. He gave her his handkerchief, for what it was worth, and went to open the door.

  Now the entire household staff was waiting in the hall. He smiled. ‘She’s perfectly alright. Just had a bit of a…’ Bit of a what, complete breakdown? ‘Turn,’ he decided. ‘Spot of brandy I think, Rollands, if you please,’ he requested. The butler raised a brow for a moment in surprise but then nodded even if he was still looking rather peeved.

  ‘Oh, and some tea…for your mistress,’ Oliver added. Well, by the looks on their faces that didn’t earn him any popularity points with her staff. He retreated back into the room and sighed loudly.

  ‘It’s official. They hate me,’ he announced as he walked over to her. She hadn’t moved an inch. ‘Look, Lisbeth I’m sorry…again for…whatever it is that I did.’

  She lifted her head and looked at him for a few moments. Then she laughed a sad little laugh that indicated she didn’t really want to laugh, but he was obviously so pathetic at apologising it had caused an involuntary reaction. It was a start if nothing else. The start of what though he wasn’t sure. Hopefully, not the start of more crying.

  Oliver offered her a small smile in return.

  ‘You have been very kind,’ she said in a whisper.

  ‘I have? Oh, the hair-smoothing technique was quite effective, granted. Learnt that from my mother, God rest her soul. The words of comfort though, were all mine, except for maybe, “don’t cry precious”, which I think I stole from my nanny.’

  She smiled tremulously. ‘You are ridiculous.’

  He looked at her through lowered lashes. ‘Yes, sorry.’

  ‘Stop saying sorry. I’m beginning to believe you.’ Lisbeth gave another weak smile and wiped her eyes again before offering back his handkerchief.

  He looked at it. ‘Keep it as a memento…or twist it into an impossible knot, whatever takes your fancy,’ he said as he watched her hands do just that.

  ‘Thank you.’ She stopped twisting his handkerchief and looked around the room. ‘It is I who should apologise. I am so sorry that I…wet your shirt. It is just that I…I hate this room!’ she announced.

  ‘Really? I would never have guessed.’

  ‘My…husband was not a nice man. He was…mean and cruel and….’ She stood, turning away from him.

  ‘Countess, Lisbeth, please, there is no need for explanations if they upset you…Really.’ He had a good idea exactly how mean and cruel Blackhurst had been.

  ‘Do you not wish to know why I was so upset? Why this room so unsettled me?’ She had commenced pacing around the room touching small items now, her brow creased as she looked for the right words.

  He watched her, as always, with a growing admiration he wished he didn’t have. He had heard about Blackhurst from Dalmere last night, but he had not wanted to believe him. Perhaps Dalmere had been on the mark. He remembered Blackhurst’s portrait above the mantle in the parlour. A bitter taste formed in his mouth. Was it bad of him to want to dig Blackhurst up and pound his bones into dust?

  ‘I assume there are bad memories in this room?’ he asked, taking a seat to watch her. He loved watching her move. She had such an easy grace, the kind that came naturally and could not be taught no matter how many books may be placed on one’s head.

  ‘Yes, bad memories.’ She pushed one of Nathaniel’s pictures off-centre on the wall. ‘I should thank you really.’

  Oliver’s eyebrow shot up to his hairline.

  ‘I had been standing outside this room for nearly fifteen minutes.’ She paused and looked around her
before locking eyes with Oliver. She pushed a glass paper weight off the desk where it smashed into a hundred pieces. After contemplating the pieces of glass on the floor, she continued.

  ‘This was the room where we found him, you know. Right there, under your feet.’

  Oliver brought his feet up immediately and looked at the wooden floorboards expecting, what, blood, to still be there?

  ‘Don’t worry. It has been thoroughly cleaned so there is little chance of you catching anything…deadly.’ She pulled out a drawer and tipped its contents onto the floor. ‘He would have hated this. Disorder was his enemy, among other things.’

  ‘Including you?’

  She nodded. ‘Including me.’

  ‘Then he’ll probably be rolling over in his grave just like he deserves,’ Oliver replied, stepping over the spot, and propping a hip on the end of the desk. ‘Think he’d like me sittin’ on his desk? No? Good! Now, what else can we do to upset him? Shall we have some fun at his expense, Countess?’

  Lisbeth looked at him, so handsome, so alive, so aggravating, and somehow…also wonderful. She realised that she had been the one that had involved him in her nightmare. If she had just left him on her steps he would have gone home, eventually, and she could have spared him all this.

  He didn’t deserve to have to put up with her and yet she needed him, now more than ever. He was somewhat endearing, she had to admit. Most men would have simply walked out at the first sign of tears, not to mention the scene she had just put on.

  She should have known it would affect her so strongly, coming in here. She had known, which was why she had found it so difficult to open the door herself. Her reaction was regrettable. If Nathaniel was rolling in his grave over her abuse of his study now then he would have been laughing up a storm in hell to have seen her earlier.

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ she replied, knocking an inkwell to the floor.

  He laughed, strolling around the room. He toppled some books off a small table by the window.

  They continued in this fashion until the floor was littered with books and other assorted bits and pieces. Every picture was put off kilter and when it was all done Lisbeth looked at the small mantle clock and then at Oliver.

  ‘I think you should do it,’ he said.

  ‘But it was his father’s.’

  ‘He’s hardly going to be worried about it, is he? Besides, isn’t that even more reason to do it?’

  She knocked the clock off the shelf and stepped back as it smashed to the wooden floor, springs and cogs flying every which way. And it did feel good. It felt very good. She wiped her hands together and regarded her partner in crime.

  ‘Well done!’ he praised. ‘There is perhaps one more thing you should do before we end this.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He nodded towards the door. ‘Call off your watch dogs. They are no doubt standing in the hall ready to attack me with soup ladles and feather dusters.’

  Shaking her head she repeated, ‘Soup ladles and feather dusters?’

  ‘I suppose you would rather pitchforks and fire pokers?’ Oliver pretended to be deeply offended but was happy to see a slight smile around the corners of her rather lovely lips. Could it be that they were finally on the same side? That perhaps he would begin to know the Lisbeth of BC—Before Carslake?

  He was a little disappointed when Rollands knocked on the door a minute later and entered with a tray of brandy, closely followed by Mrs Rollands with another tray containing a teapot and cups and some little cakes.

  Rollands made a jolly good show of not noticing the state of the room as he placed the tray on the now clear desktop, unlike his wife whose eyes grew huge at the sight of the mess. She immediately looked Lisbeth over for any signs of mistreatment. Typical that she would think the worst of him but, upon reflection, he could perhaps understand their reaction. The pair retreated, leaving him alone again with her.

  She poured tea for herself and then smiled at him over the rim of her tea cup as she sipped.

  ‘You are very much like your brother, you know. I met him only a few times and he was nothing but kind to me. He once caught me briefly alone and told me he was sorry I was unable to join them for dinner. Blackhurst had invited some of the new investors to dinner, you see. Of course he didn’t know that Blackhurst never shared a dining table with me. He said I deserved better and that I should seek it.

  ‘At the time I didn’t quite understand what he meant. I had always blamed myself for Blackhurst’s treatment. Now I see your brother was trying to tell me it wasn’t my fault my husband was a bully. Perhaps even that I should leave Nathaniel. I was in no position to even think what I could have done to rescue myself. However, I will always be grateful to him for his kind words.’

  ‘Did he ever offer to help you?’

  ‘No. For what could he have done? Blackhurst was far too powerful and wielded a lot of influence at the time. Even he would have seen it was impossible.’

  And there it was. Henry would have said something like that. He also would have hated knowing she was being abused and not being able to do anything about it.

  He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. ‘Thank you for telling me this.’

  ‘You do understand I could not have told you before, but now that you know what Nathaniel was like…Not that it changes anything. I just thought you would like to know Henry was kind to me.’

  She took up her tea cup again, smiled and took a sip. And all Oliver could think was that Lisbeth Carslake, Countess of Blackhurst was more an enigma to him now than ever.

  She intrigued and fascinated him and he couldn’t wait to know her better.

  Chapter 11

  Oliver rolled over and tried to smother himself with his pillow. It didn’t work. Then he kicked off his blankets and lay there letting his body cool. Why could he not stop thinking about Lisbeth?

  Her lips, they were so soft and plump, like a feast for a starving man. Her magnetic blue eyes could burn a man’s soul and he would gladly die in the inferno. Her breasts…yes, her breasts could burst a man’s blood vessels, and still he would smile while bleeding.

  Lisbeth, Beth, Lizzy. He chuckled. She’d hate being called Lizzy—he should try it on her sometime.

  He was asking for trouble.

  He was doomed!

  He was ten types of a fool to feel like this about her. Ashton could probably come up with fifty but that was because he would find perverse pleasure in reciting them to him one by one, probably for days on end—without a breath.

  He had to keep Lisbeth on a shorter rein. Huh! Add, naive fool to the list, if you please, Ashton.

  If he had learnt anything in the last couple of weeks, it was the Countess of Blackhurst was a determined little baggage.

  He got up, washed, and dressed for the day, but his mind was full of the woman with the incredible eyes. Eyes that could make one suffer both pain and desire.

  He was so confused, especially after yesterday. Now he knew there was so much more to her story and damn if he didn’t want to read the whole book. She infuriated as much as she intrigued. Her cold beauty masked a woman who had endured more than her share of ugliness. He understood masks. He wore one too, but now he felt like his reasons were far more trivial than hers.

  He took on the façade of one who was in control, who cared little for financial matters, like he did not have a huge debt and potential failure looming above him. He wanted to make Henry proud, make his parents proud. He wanted to prove he could come rising out of the ashes of this financial debacle like a phoenix—wings spread wide and ready to fly once more.

  Oliver was determined he would not put his aunt through the scandal of having his pecuniary state exposed to all and sundry. If he could just pay back the bank and show that he was capable of repaying his debts, he may have some hope to rebuild his legacy. He was under no illusion; it would take years to gain any real profit from his estates. He would just fade into the shadows of the ton and reside in the country until he felt
he was worthy to take a wife.

  A wife! Where had that come from?

  Oliver moved from the window overlooking the road below and sat behind his brother’s large desk. Lord, he missed his old life. Gaining his title had lost him more than just his brother. He’d lost his sense of being something useful, his sense of control. It was a sad state of affairs.

  In the army he’d been a code breaker under Scovell, but then later he’d been assigned under Captain Markham. Suddenly, Oliver found himself in some interesting situations in more than one unusual place, writing or breaking a coded message by spluttering candlelight at midnight. It was how he’d reunited with Ashton. They had long ago been school chums but this was not school and both of them were grown and much changed by their circumstances. It was because of Ashton that Oliver had become an unofficial member of The Ring. A small network of specialty agents.

  He laughed remembering Lisbeth’s whispered words of confusion when she couldn’t make head or tail of his list at Costello’s musicale. Only a handful of people in all of England could read the code. However, that part of his life was over and now here he was, in his brother’s house, surrounded by things that were not his and never should have been.

  Picking up Lisbeth’s little pistol, he glared at it as if it represented his life—shiny and impressive on the outside but empty and useless on the inside. He’d been furious upon finding the gun was neither loaded nor primed. The worst she could have done with it was hit him over the head. He threw it in the drawer of his brother’s desk and picked up his coded note from Ashton.

  Client wants you to dig deeper, get closer. He warns not to fall for her manipulations and falsehoods. There are many who would take matters into their own hands. Beware.

  I would like you to bring Lady Blackhurst to my sister’s coming out ball. My mother and Warrington have agreed. I want to meet her. Make sure she attends.