Olivia wasn’t certain what to expect when she approached the parlor that evening. Mr. Blair seemed a reasonably rational man when he wasn’t drunk or in a rage, which was almost unfortunate. She found strong, masculine, sober men dangerously attractive.
They shared a goal in wishing to wrest Owen’s land from the current viscount, but she doubted they had anything else in common. She’d broken her own rules and watched his aura as he paced in the schoolroom—it was like watching the crystal colors of gems. Mr. Blair was no pastel rainbow.
And he would never believe her if she told him so.
He was waiting for her, elbow on the mantel, whisky glass in hand, his tweed coat straining at his wide shoulders, and his waistcoat impolitely unfastened to display the powerful muscles of his chest straining his linen. She focused on her disapproval of the drink and took a seat near the fire.
“Why whist?” he demanded.
Well, that was straightforward. Olivia crossed her hands in her lap and tried to look innocent. “It is a perfectly genteel pastime. It requires mathematics, concentration, and camaraderie, people working together.”
“And against each other—it’s a competition. And gambling.” He began to pace.
“And you do not like gambling as I do not like whisky drinking,” she said pertly. “You are very large and intimidating when you stalk about like that. Is it possible for you to sit and not drink?”
He set the glass down beside the decanter, dragged a chair closer to the fire and her, and sat down. His toe immediately began to tap. “I am a big man. I grew up drinking whisky. I do not notice its effects.”
“You were drunk when you arrived at the castle,” she corrected. “I grew up with a drunk. Did you grow up with a gambler?”
His dark lashes blinked in surprise, an unusual look on his virile features. “I did not, but I know people who lost everything on the turn of a piece of cardboard. And if you heard my tale of trying to reach York on Christmas Eve, you’d be driven to drunkenness as well. I would have frozen in the mud without the heat of some very bad rye. Holding grudges is a bad policy, blinding the holder to other possibilities.”
She frowned, unaccustomed to being corrected. “I suppose, but a woman must protect herself without use of guns and knives, so knowledge seems most effective. Drunks cause harm, therefore, it is wise to stay away from them.”
“And you are diverting the subject. Why whist?” He sat back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the arm. “Why not charades?”
His restlessness was about to drive her mad. It made her far too aware of his masculine physique. His shoulders filled the space between the wings of his chair. It was a ladies’ chair and not meant for a man of his size.
“Because I can win,” she admitted irritably. “Because I wish to establish a social activity that will lure bored ladies and gentlemen to your parlor. Once people like the Hamiltons talk of your hospitality, the viscount’s arrogant crowd will see us as dupes, easily conned and beaten, and may accept the next invitation.”
Her host sat back, crossed his legs, and bounced his boot up and down. He rubbed his thigh as if it might hurt. “I don’t want the viscount’s reprobates in my house.”
“Holding grudges is bad policy,” she quoted, mimicking him.
He shot her a scathing look, and she grinned. This was almost fun. She’d not had a challenging argument in a long while.
“Would you rather I went to Hargreaves Hall?” she asked. “I can and will, if invited. I want to see if Owen kept a copy of our marriage settlements. I was not given time to search. I wasn’t thinking clearly at the time. I’d lost my husband. My in-laws, the men I expected to protect his heir, were threatening him instead. I was losing the only real home I’d ever known. I fled like a pathetic rabbit.”
“And you think you’re a roaring lion now?” he asked dismissively. “You are little more than a lamb to be sacrificed in their eyes. The idea of you going anywhere near that place gives me cold shivers. Your family would roast me in hell should I allow it.”
As if to confirm his prediction, a cold breeze blew through the parlor, flapping the draperies. They both watched the heavy damask sway and settle again before speaking.
Olivia kept her inner eye firmly closed. She had no desire to meet Mr. Blair’s wife in her spirit form. Turning a blind eye had a whole new meaning in her case. “Then we must bring the neighbors here. The idea is to impress the viscount with your stature in the community, even if you do not possess a title. You’re a newcomer and an upstart to him and his kind. They need to see you as a man of substance.”
He pushed against the back of his chair as if resisting, then pounded the chair arm with a fist. “I hate that. I’d rather be down in the mine digging coal.”
She admired his attitude and wished with all her heart that society worked that way. It didn’t. She reached over and covered his big hand with hers. “I understand. You are a physical person. I am not. Playing cards is my way of digging coal. You do not have to participate. But it might be better if you’re to be seen somewhere besides a coal mine,” she added in amusement.
He caught her hand and held it as if he were drowning. “You’re planning on witchy tricks, aren’t you? I always knew when Letitia had one of her. . . spells. One time, she got all misty-eyed, then ran flying into the garden carrying a broom. I thought she meant to take flight. But a fox was chasing Enoch, who’d sneaked out of the nursery. She had no way of seeing the child through the hedges.”
“I am not having a spell. I learned cards at my father’s knee.” His big hand warmed hers, and she liked it a little too much. She didn’t dare pull away though, not if they were establishing rapport. “My father was not only a drunk but a gentleman gambler. That’s how he made his living. Before he took to drink, he was a very good one. He taught me to count cards and how to bluff and how to wager.”
She also read auras when she was uncertain, but the strain of opening her inner eye gave her headaches, so she tried not to cheat.
He stroked her wrist with this thumb. “Your mother allowed this?” he asked in what sounded like astonishment. “I am not thinking very highly of aristocrats.”
“My mother enjoyed the parties and the traveling and the baubles he won. It’s a way of life. We weren’t traveling with circuses. His father was a mere baron with a small estate and few funds. His older brother liked being a country squire. My father was naturally gregarious and not suited for rural life. He didn’t have the funds to be a soldier or a vicar, so he used his charm to make his way. It was the drink that killed him.”
“I don’t like it,” he repeated with a growl. “We should wait until we hear from the solicitors.”
“And how long will that be?” she asked acerbically. “If I can drive Hargreaves out of town and reclaim my land before spring, I can feed the tenants and plan the planting. Waiting until summer would be disastrous.”
“What are the chances that he’s mortgaged the property?”
His stroking thumb was intoxicating. Sitting here talking to an understanding man, as she had once conversed with Owen, was turning her mind inside out. But she couldn’t flee like the scared rabbit she’d been, no matter how appalling the thought of a lien on the house might be.
“A mortgage? I don’t know. Is that something your solicitor might discover? Having the bank foreclose on it would be dreadful—I haven’t the money to buy the land back. It’s not a large estate. Owen made it work, but the profits were small.”
“Even if you prove the land is yours, you might have to sell it if it’s mortgaged,” he said sadly. “I’ll write the lawyers again. It might be interesting to see how Hargreaves proved ownership to the banks if he borrowed against it. I still think we should wait until we hear from the law.”
“A simple Hogmanay party won’t hurt anything,” she insisted. “There is no harm in laying the groundwork in case the solicitors run into obstacles. The law is never quick.”
“A single party and I will ride to Glasgow in the new year to breathe fire on the lawyers.”
“And chat up a few bankers,” she suggested, rising. “I should check on the kittens and puppy or else you may need to scare up a new cook in the morning.”
Simon didn’t want to let her go. Holding the lady’s slender hand settled the tempest that plagued him better than whisky. Bedding her would be even better. She was acting as if they were equals, blurring his mind to all the reasons seducing her would be a very bad idea.
He rose with her, as etiquette required. “She’s a fine cook but replaceable. The key to running a business is to never allow anyone to become indispensable. But caging the animals is a good idea. I’m not fond of fur in my food.”
She cast him a sideways glance that shot straight to his groin as he followed her out.
“Everyone is replaceable?” she asked disapprovingly. “No sentimental attachment, even to Cook’s gooseberry pie?”
He was on firm ground talking about business. Knowing his way around a coin had made him what he was today. “Sentiment has naught to do with proper production. Cook is a cog in a well-oiled machine. If she leaves, the lass she’s training will step into her place.”
“Or quit in a huff if her friend is sent off,” the lady said with a small laugh. “You cannot predict or control human behavior the way you can a machine. But that reminds me—are you averse to hiring new staff?”
“Why would I need more bodies to stumble over?” he asked as they descended to the kitchen. “There’s always someone aboot every time I turn around as it is.”
“One, because it is a lot of work for a small staff to serve and prepare a buffet for a large party.” She caught his arm and slowed him down as they took the dark stairs. “And two, the well-trained staff at Hargreaves House is not being paid or fed regularly. Unlike you, I do become sentimental over people who have helped me.”
She wasn’t a petite woman, Simon knew, but he was large. She felt lighter than thistle on his arm, with her skirts swishing about his legs. His imagination ran rampant at trying to picture the legs she concealed beneath all that frippery. It was all he could do to mind what she was saying.
“You want me to steal Hargreaves’ staff?” he asked in mixed horror and amusement as her intent registered. “You are truly a wicked woman.”
“Think of it as feeding the hungry.” She stepped into the shadows of the cavernous kitchen and waited for him to lift his lamp so she could see.
“It is that kind of thinking that has your family called witches,” he noted, not trying to hide his amusement at her blatantly vengeful request. “You may call it feeding the hungry. Others will call it cursing your enemy.”
“Lawrence Hargreaves is not my enemy. He is his father’s puppet. I cannot even call him evil. Owen once told me there is speculation Lawrence is not his father’s son. He resembles their mother, so there is no proving it. But the rumor leaves Lawrence vulnerable and uncertain of his position in the earl’s affections.”
“Damn, but you’re perceptive.” Turning up the lamps, Simon hunted for the pets. “So Hargreaves is terrified of being exposed and denied an earldom, so he does whatever Basingstoke wishes—like declaring you and your son illegitimate.”
“That’s what I’ve decided over many a cold and lonely night.” She crouched down beside a basket on the hearth. “The kittens are sleeping.”
“So is the pup. Where the devil did they find them? It’s the wrong time of year for breeding.” Simon crouched down beside the baskets.
She fondled the dog’s silken ear. “I’d say someone’s hound escaped its pen and frolic ensued. And the spaniel’s owner was not happy with the result.”
“Poor bastard, punished for his elders doing what comes naturally. I suppose Aloysius rescued him.”
She smelled of gingerbread and lilacs and crouched so close, it would be a moment’s work to capture her tiny waist and plant kisses. . .
Simon stood abruptly. “I’ll see you back to your room. I don’t think these wee things will drive Cook from her comfy position anytime soon.”
He escorted the lady through the silent house to her room. He had once used to lead Letitia this way, turning off lamps, lighting her path to their bedroom after checking on the children. The cold and loneliness seeped into his bones now. A wee dram might help. . .
The damned woman was right. He would become a drunkard if the whisky started replacing a living, breathing woman in his bed. He refused to give it up for her, but he’d best learn to save it to quench his rages.
“I believe you are a good woman, or I’d not have you mind my bairns,” he said awkwardly when they reached her door.
She cocked her fair head quizzically, and he felt the weight of those crystal blue eyes on him.
When he did not find his tongue fast enough, she acknowledged, “As you are a good man. We are just. . . different.”
“Men and women usually are,” he said dryly. “I thought we’d established that. There is one place where the differences work together.”
A maiden wouldn’t understand. A staid matron would slap his face. But Lady Hargreaves was young and from a more broad-minded society than his. Her lips turned up, and he thought he saw interest in her eyes. . . or at least speculation.
“Your aunt and your niece are just down the hall,” she reminded him.
That did not sound like a no to him. He pushed open her sitting-room door and led her in. She still watched him with that grave speculation.
He did not have words to overcome her mild objection. He only knew action.
He shut the door and drew her into his arms and kissed her.