in Society would afford him the respect
and ultimate success that had slipped through his fingers all of his life, due
to his own sorry heritage. Certainly, that in itself was the problem. No woman
of such stature would afford him a minute of her time, much less her dowry.
And
there was the little matter of love .. .
He
believed in the institution of marriage. And while he could prattle all day to
Olivia Devonshire about the many marriages that were loveless, he had always
imagined himself loving the woman with whom he would spend the rest of his
life. He'd never been able to envisage himself being forced to share the
routine of living with a companion who displeased him. For that reason, his
love affairs had been a series of short, unemotional dalliances.
Undoubtedly
he was more like his mother than he cared to admit. Although Alyson Kemball had
taken many lovers, and had had the opportunity to marry numerous times, she had
loved only one man, and that had been Joseph Warwick. Because she could not
have Joseph she had opted for no marriage at all.
Which
brought his mind back to Olivia Devonshire. And her son.
He
glanced at the pile of discarded and ruined clothes on the floor and recalled
the discomfort he'd experienced under the lad's intense scrutiny during the
ride to Margrave Bluff. Might have been watching a moment from his own past—a
fatherless boy sitting at his mother's side and wondering about the man sitting
across from him. Was he his father? Would he be his father in the future? Just
where the blazes was his father?
Poor
lad. Deserved better. Seemed bright enough. Handsome little tyke. Certainly
affectionate—not to mention brave. He'd held up as well, if not better, than
Miles as they waited for help in the bottom of that pit. An admirable quality,
that. His father should feel proud.
Miles
put out his cigar in the water then stepped from the tub, waiting as Sally
wrapped a towel around his waist. The room was cold, the windows frosty. Sally
hurried to grab up his dressing gown, a silk magenta wrap that tied at the
waist with a wide sash, and helped him slide his arms into the loose, flowing
sleeves. Then she handed him a silver chalice of warm wine.
"Will
there be aught else?" she asked, drying her hands on her apron.
He
smiled and regarded her eyes, acknowledging the spark of interest there.
Another time he might have obliged her.
"No,"
he replied, "thank you."
She
shrugged and quit the room.
Miles
stared at the door and considered calling her back. But something stopped him.
He
drank the warm liquid and moved across the room, to the foot of his tester bed.
Months had passed since he'd last entertained at Braithwaite, and then his
guests had been nothing more than a dozen acquaintances with their pockets full
of currency and their sleeves full of aces. By the time they'd returned to
London he'd been glad to get shut of them, even relished the quiet and
solitude.
But
last night had been hell.
He
drank again.
For
some odd reason, the moment Olivia Devonshire had closed Braithwaite's door
behind her, emptiness had roared up like a gale from every dark hallway,
stairwell, and threshold. And while Bertrice had snored in his bed, he'd tossed
and turned in another room, doing his best to forget how good Olivia had felt
in his arms.
Must
be getting desperate, old man, he thought. No doubt he'd imagined and
exaggerated her responsiveness. Then again, with a woman with so disreputable
a past, why should he be surprised?
Frowning
and again thinking of Olivia's son, Miles quaffed the remainder of his wine and
plunked the cup on a table strewn with playing cards. Too bad about the boy.
Had Olivia been a plain-as-a-mouse little spinster who was desperate to marry
simply so she would not wither away like some flower on a vine, then he might
have considered marriage, with the understanding that their union would be
strictly for convenience; they would each be free to live their lives independent
of the
and ultimate success that had slipped through his fingers all of his life, due
to his own sorry heritage. Certainly, that in itself was the problem. No woman
of such stature would afford him a minute of her time, much less her dowry.
And
there was the little matter of love .. .
He
believed in the institution of marriage. And while he could prattle all day to
Olivia Devonshire about the many marriages that were loveless, he had always
imagined himself loving the woman with whom he would spend the rest of his
life. He'd never been able to envisage himself being forced to share the
routine of living with a companion who displeased him. For that reason, his
love affairs had been a series of short, unemotional dalliances.
Undoubtedly
he was more like his mother than he cared to admit. Although Alyson Kemball had
taken many lovers, and had had the opportunity to marry numerous times, she had
loved only one man, and that had been Joseph Warwick. Because she could not
have Joseph she had opted for no marriage at all.
Which
brought his mind back to Olivia Devonshire. And her son.
He
glanced at the pile of discarded and ruined clothes on the floor and recalled
the discomfort he'd experienced under the lad's intense scrutiny during the
ride to Margrave Bluff. Might have been watching a moment from his own past—a
fatherless boy sitting at his mother's side and wondering about the man sitting
across from him. Was he his father? Would he be his father in the future? Just
where the blazes was his father?
Poor
lad. Deserved better. Seemed bright enough. Handsome little tyke. Certainly
affectionate—not to mention brave. He'd held up as well, if not better, than
Miles as they waited for help in the bottom of that pit. An admirable quality,
that. His father should feel proud.
Miles
put out his cigar in the water then stepped from the tub, waiting as Sally
wrapped a towel around his waist. The room was cold, the windows frosty. Sally
hurried to grab up his dressing gown, a silk magenta wrap that tied at the
waist with a wide sash, and helped him slide his arms into the loose, flowing
sleeves. Then she handed him a silver chalice of warm wine.
"Will
there be aught else?" she asked, drying her hands on her apron.
He
smiled and regarded her eyes, acknowledging the spark of interest there.
Another time he might have obliged her.
"No,"
he replied, "thank you."
She
shrugged and quit the room.
Miles
stared at the door and considered calling her back. But something stopped him.
He
drank the warm liquid and moved across the room, to the foot of his tester bed.
Months had passed since he'd last entertained at Braithwaite, and then his
guests had been nothing more than a dozen acquaintances with their pockets full
of currency and their sleeves full of aces. By the time they'd returned to
London he'd been glad to get shut of them, even relished the quiet and
solitude.
But
last night had been hell.
He
drank again.
For
some odd reason, the moment Olivia Devonshire had closed Braithwaite's door
behind her, emptiness had roared up like a gale from every dark hallway,
stairwell, and threshold. And while Bertrice had snored in his bed, he'd tossed
and turned in another room, doing his best to forget how good Olivia had felt
in his arms.
Must
be getting desperate, old man, he thought. No doubt he'd imagined and
exaggerated her responsiveness. Then again, with a woman with so disreputable
a past, why should he be surprised?
Frowning
and again thinking of Olivia's son, Miles quaffed the remainder of his wine and
plunked the cup on a table strewn with playing cards. Too bad about the boy.
Had Olivia been a plain-as-a-mouse little spinster who was desperate to marry
simply so she would not wither away like some flower on a vine, then he might
have considered marriage, with the understanding that their union would be
strictly for convenience; they would each be free to live their lives independent
of the
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