My Only Love by Katherine Sutcliffe Read Free Book Online Page B

my father's behavior. Had I any
inkling that he harbored the idea of our marrying, I would have disabused him
of it immediately. The idea is ludicrous, of course. I'm quite content with my
life. Beg you to marry me, sir? When it is / who live in a home that is warm
and dry? When at my home there is bountiful food at hand? Not to mention
servants who are clean, respectful, and helpful. Tell me why I would give all
that up to marry some penniless drunk whom the entirety of England calls a
moral degenerate and a debauched and unscrupulous villain?"
    He
shrugged. "To save face, I suppose. Why do women do anything that they
do?"
    His
gaze drifted toward the fire, and for a long while Olivia watched the reflected
flames dance in his eyes. She felt somewhat mesmerized, and oddly drained.
There had been a thread of truth to his words. Her reasons for risking the
journey to Braithwaite might have been masked as apologizing for her father, or
even anger over Warwick's so blithely turning up his nose to her father's
offer. In reality, she had hoped he would change his mind. Even if she then
chose to spurn him.
    "Well,"
she said with a sense of finality, "I've said what I came here to say.
I'll leave you to your solitude."
    "But
why, Miss Devonshire? You've only just arrived." His handsome mouth smiled
though his eyes did not. "I suspect that the last thing you want is to
venture out into the weather again. Perhaps you'd care to join me in a drink
before you go?"
    Without
giving her a chance to respond, he left the chair, his lithe, quick actions
showing little evidence of his earlier weakness. He was once again the
devil-may-care scoundrel.
    Flinging
the water from the teacup toward the fire, Miles filled the china piece with
whisky and handed it to her.
    Dare
she?
    "Why
not?" he asked, as if reading her thoughts. "Your reputation could
hardly suffer any more than it already has."
    Reluctantly,
she reached for the cup. Almost teasingly, he moved it away.
    "One
condition," he said. "Remove your cloak."
    She
shook her head. "I can't stay—"
    "Briefly.
Then you can have your drink and go."
    "Very
well." She removed the cloak. He took it from her and tossed it over the
back of the overstuffed settee. She felt exposed suddenly. And vulnerable. She
ran her hands self-consciously over her dark, severe hair and wondered if he
were comparing her to Emily, whose hair was blond and full of sunshine. Of
course he was. They all did. Men like Miles Warwick always preferred their
women delicate and fair. Like Emily. Like her mother.
    He
made no comment as he stood before her, balancing the fragile cup in the palm
of one big hand. His eyes, however, spoke volumes as they traveled in a
leisurely fashion from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. The
silence lengthened and expanded, then filled ever so gradually with small
sounds; the snapping of the flames in the hearth, the ticking of a clock, and
the steady hiss of sleet scraping at the window.
    At
last, he offered her the drink. Perhaps a bit too eagerly, she accepted it.
    "A
toast," he said, raising the bottle between them. "To two misfits
caught in a storm."
    "Which
storm?" she asked. "The one out there?" She motioned toward the
window. "Or the one in here?"
    He
raised one eyebrow and something flashed in his eyes. Amusement? Surprise?
Whatever, it made him smile, however briefly. Her fingers clutched the cup of
whisky like a lifeline.
    "Sit
down," he told her, and pointed toward a straight-backed little chair near
the fire. "Oh, I do beg your pardon," he hurried to add with a degree
of sarcasm. "Won't you please sit down, m'lady? I beg you to forgive my
breach of etiquette; I don't have visitors often. After a while one becomes
overly accustomed to dealing only with belligerent servants."
    "I
should think any belligerence on a servant's part would call for immediate
dismissal," she responded, glancing pointedly toward the door where the
housemaid hovered outside the threshold. "You are