Perfect! Draw a sword on him? Take him to task for implying that she was a whore? Then refuse any amount of money that was offered to betray him?
Hetty sipped her brandy. She supposed the girl really could be some grasping wench hoping for a fortune in the end, but it was unlikely. Hetty hadn’t risen in the world without learning how to read people, and she would swear that Miss Butterfield was a woman of character. The young lady hadn’t claimed to be madly in love with Oliver, even though it would have been to her benefit to do so. And she had shown pride and backbone in standing up for herself.
Oliver had obviously manipulated the poor girl into playing out this farce—something havey-cavey was going on behind the scenes. But that did not mean it couldn’t still work.
For one thing, Miss Butterfield was his preferred physical type—blond, buxom, and blue-eyed. And he was clearly attracted to her. While Oliver was attracted to many women, he generally avoided innocent young females, wary of being “ensnared.” And this girl was definitely an innocent young female—her shock when Hetty used the word “cocks” clearly showed it.
Yet Oliver had chosen her over one of his opera dancers or some whore, which would have been more typical of him. He clearly thought that the girl’s flawed background would make Hetty admit defeat. Hah! He didn’t know his Gran very well. She would marry him to a fishmonger’s daughter if it meant getting the man settled.
But she was not about to let him know that, or Miss Butterfield, either. A little opposition from the scary matriarch whom Hetty so enjoyed playing was guaranteed to have those two joining forces against her. Joining forces meant private conversations, learning to trust each other . . . even falling in love, if she were lucky.
She owed Oliver that much. Thanks to her own mistakes, he had spent too long building his castle of wickedness, believing it was the sum total of who he was.
She knew better. He was capable of greatness, if only he allowed himself to find it within. Miss Butterfield would help him with that—Hetty just knew it.
And she was never wrong.
Chapter Eight
Oliver stood in King’s Courtyard, so called because it had been Henry VIII’s favorite when he’d owned the semifortified manor. It had been Oliver’s favorite, too, growing up. Whenever his parents had argued he’d escaped here, to the expanse of paving tiles between the buildings of roughly hewn ragstone.
Staring up at the stars, he remembered how he used to stand here, wishing he could fly up and away to be consumed in a fiery blaze of glory. He’d leave everything earthly behind—the estate, his role as heir to a lofty title . . . the madness that had been his parents’ marriage.
He uttered a bitter laugh. What an idiot he’d been. People couldn’t fly, and they sure as the devil couldn’t escape their mistakes by burning them up in stars.
A pity, because right now his biggest mistake was inviting Gran to come here. He hadn’t counted on her spending money on the place, trying to make them even more reliant on her than they already were. Trying to lull them into acquiescence with her riches.
He gulped some wine from the golden goblet in his hand. Well, it wouldn’t work. He’d be damned if he let her take over at Halstead Hall. He might hate the place, but it was still his. He would run it the way he saw fit.
“Your sister told me I would find you here,” a soft voice said behind him.
He stiffened, then sipped some wine. “I thought you’d be headed to London by now.”
“Why?” Maria asked.
A harsh breath escaped him. “Because if I know Gran, that little conversation in the parlor was an offer to buy you off.”
Maria walked up next to him. He sensed rather than saw her. She had an unusual scent—roses and something he couldn’t place.
“You expected me to take her money?” Maria asked.
He erected the armor of cynicism that always stood him in
Hetty sipped her brandy. She supposed the girl really could be some grasping wench hoping for a fortune in the end, but it was unlikely. Hetty hadn’t risen in the world without learning how to read people, and she would swear that Miss Butterfield was a woman of character. The young lady hadn’t claimed to be madly in love with Oliver, even though it would have been to her benefit to do so. And she had shown pride and backbone in standing up for herself.
Oliver had obviously manipulated the poor girl into playing out this farce—something havey-cavey was going on behind the scenes. But that did not mean it couldn’t still work.
For one thing, Miss Butterfield was his preferred physical type—blond, buxom, and blue-eyed. And he was clearly attracted to her. While Oliver was attracted to many women, he generally avoided innocent young females, wary of being “ensnared.” And this girl was definitely an innocent young female—her shock when Hetty used the word “cocks” clearly showed it.
Yet Oliver had chosen her over one of his opera dancers or some whore, which would have been more typical of him. He clearly thought that the girl’s flawed background would make Hetty admit defeat. Hah! He didn’t know his Gran very well. She would marry him to a fishmonger’s daughter if it meant getting the man settled.
But she was not about to let him know that, or Miss Butterfield, either. A little opposition from the scary matriarch whom Hetty so enjoyed playing was guaranteed to have those two joining forces against her. Joining forces meant private conversations, learning to trust each other . . . even falling in love, if she were lucky.
She owed Oliver that much. Thanks to her own mistakes, he had spent too long building his castle of wickedness, believing it was the sum total of who he was.
She knew better. He was capable of greatness, if only he allowed himself to find it within. Miss Butterfield would help him with that—Hetty just knew it.
And she was never wrong.
Chapter Eight
Oliver stood in King’s Courtyard, so called because it had been Henry VIII’s favorite when he’d owned the semifortified manor. It had been Oliver’s favorite, too, growing up. Whenever his parents had argued he’d escaped here, to the expanse of paving tiles between the buildings of roughly hewn ragstone.
Staring up at the stars, he remembered how he used to stand here, wishing he could fly up and away to be consumed in a fiery blaze of glory. He’d leave everything earthly behind—the estate, his role as heir to a lofty title . . . the madness that had been his parents’ marriage.
He uttered a bitter laugh. What an idiot he’d been. People couldn’t fly, and they sure as the devil couldn’t escape their mistakes by burning them up in stars.
A pity, because right now his biggest mistake was inviting Gran to come here. He hadn’t counted on her spending money on the place, trying to make them even more reliant on her than they already were. Trying to lull them into acquiescence with her riches.
He gulped some wine from the golden goblet in his hand. Well, it wouldn’t work. He’d be damned if he let her take over at Halstead Hall. He might hate the place, but it was still his. He would run it the way he saw fit.
“Your sister told me I would find you here,” a soft voice said behind him.
He stiffened, then sipped some wine. “I thought you’d be headed to London by now.”
“Why?” Maria asked.
A harsh breath escaped him. “Because if I know Gran, that little conversation in the parlor was an offer to buy you off.”
Maria walked up next to him. He sensed rather than saw her. She had an unusual scent—roses and something he couldn’t place.
“You expected me to take her money?” Maria asked.
He erected the armor of cynicism that always stood him in
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