Fool Me Twice

  He made a choking sound.

  “Oh, dear.” She reached for her discarded cup of tea, brought an hour ago by the obsequious conductor. “Would you like some of this? And don’t misunderstand me; it was quite nice. Last night, I mean.”

  He pushed the cup away. “I don’t want any damned—” Teeth snapping together, he stared at her. “Are you needling me deliberately?”

  “No.” Perhaps. “Only I’m simply wondering—”

  He raked a hand through his hair, knocking off his top hat. “You are the most brazen, shameless . . .”

  She stiffened. Shameless, was she? “Forgive me; am I meant to pretend it didn’t happen? Or simply that I didn’t like it?”

  He froze, hand planted in his hair. Something else came into his face then, narrowing his eyes and lending him a predatory air; his nostrils flared, and a slight smile worked its way onto his mouth.

  “No,” he said. “No need to pretend. I could feel how much you liked it.”

  She felt overwarm, suddenly. “Well, then . . .”

  “But it has not changed anything else.” He straightened and took up the newspaper again, staring at it—though not, she would wager, seeing a single word. “We will work together to undo Bertram. But that is all you may expect from me. You understand that, of course.”

  It should not have stung. But some stupid, girlish, hopeless part of her was stung by his coldness—a very large part of her, in fact. Almost all of her.

  Which in turn made her feel numb with horror.

  What had she expected? That he would bemoan his own dishonor, and propose marriage? He never meant to marry again. And, even if he did mean to marry, what could he offer her? A dukedom, very well. She made a sour face at herself. But what she wanted was safety. A place to belong. Not a husband who would wake up one morning desiring to reclaim his old life, only to discover that he’d married a bastard who fit nowhere in the world to which he wished to return.

  She wanted nothing from him. “I wouldn’t dare expect more,” she said coolly. “A man of your lofty position? Of your marvelous accomplishments? Why, I should count myself fortunate to have enjoyed your attentions for an hour.”

  He looked up at her, frowning. “That is not what I meant.”

  “Oh? Pray tell, what did you mean?”

  He sat back, eyeing her. “I am not . . .” The quick pull of his mouth suggested frustration. “I am not in the market for a mistress.”

  She made fists beneath the table. “How convenient, as I am far too accomplished for that position. Anyway, mistresses are made through repeated provisions of their services. And last night was a fluke.”

  “Was it,” he said flatly.

  “Indeed. It was a very difficult day. I was hardly myself. Having recovered my senses, I have lost interest in such business.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Then perhaps I will arouse your interest again.”

  A thrill pierced her. She resented it extremely. “But now the novelty is gone.”

  Bracing his weight on one elbow, he leaned across the table. “We haven’t even begun, Olivia.”

  There was a dark promise in his voice. It seemed to melt straight through her. She leaned in, scowling, until their noses nearly brushed. “Indeed? Then I must take lessons some other time, then. From someone else.”

  “The hell you will.” His hand closed over her upper arm; he hauled her forward into a kiss—openmouthed, tongues tangling. Her eyes fluttered closed. All right, perhaps once more—

  The bang of a door made her spring backward. “Station approaching,” the conductor said sourly, and the disapproval in his voice—he must have seen them kissing—was, Olivia thought, the perfect welcome home.

  * * *

  This morning, asleep in the dawn light, Olivia Holladay had looked no older than sixteen, and Alastair had risen from the bed on a revolted realization. He had ruined her. This girl who had managed to make her way in the world without falling prey to the thousand dangers that beset a woman . . . he had ruined this girl, and he had no intention of saving her.

  So what? he had asked himself on his walk to the townhouse. This was, after all, part of being a villain. Villainy was not simply the red raging glory of inflicting well-deserved pain; it was also the curdling knowledge of having inflicted injustice. A villain simply did not care. Only the victims did.

  But this victim did not appear to know she’d been sinned against. Indeed, she seemed made of some new substance, impossibly and unnaturally resilient, cooked up in a chemist’s basement against all laws of nature. On his return to the flat, she had greeted him far too cheerfully for a ruined woman. She had met his eyes without a blush, and now she’d harassed him for failing to do the same. Nothing he had done to her last night had eroded that uncanny self-possession that she had no right to possess. A bastard, a servant, a girl who changed names as easily as a hat.

  He could not come to terms with her. Even now, as the train groaned to a stop, she sat glaring a challenge at him. How did she do it? He understood the source of his own assurance: his power was his armor. When he’d first walked back into his club, he’d felt its deadly potential as distinctly as the stiletto he’d carried in his jacket. But she, who had nothing, walked through the world with her chin held as high as his, and nothing seemed to shame her. How was it possible?

  He knew why he wanted her. Just as an engineer coveted strange new devices, he wanted to strip her, disassemble her, study her parts, and make her secrets his own.

  But hadn’t he done that last night? Yet he felt no closer to understanding her. All he seemed to have gained was a deeper awareness of his own damnable fascination.

  That fascination unnerved him. It exerted a compulsion toward her that felt far too much like all the things he’d done away with: obligation, duty, ideals . . .

  She was a bastard and a liar. He owed her nothing.

  And so, yes, he sat in silence, making no effort to put her at ease. But she didn’t require it anyway. What did she need from him? His coin, perhaps. Not much else.

  He put that coin to use when they disembarked at the station. A fly would have sufficed for the half-hour’s trip into the village, but the only vehicle on rent was an ancient brougham, the interior of which smelled musty, reminiscent of Newgate. As they turned onto the road, he discovered that the springs, too, needed replacement; the coach rattled and bounced like a seesaw.

  He forbade himself to watch her. But of course he did. As the coach passed over the first bridge, an ancient stone arch that seemed comically overstated for the trickle it traversed, he was watching closely enough to see her composure briefly falter. Her lips tightened. She went pale.

  What was she looking at? He saw only a windmill on the distant grassy rise, and closer to hand, as they reached the other side of the bridge, a crumbling stone church, pockmarked by centuries of salted winds. The wheels found a rumbling purchase on cobblestone, and the whole coach began to vibrate.

  “It’s not far now,” she said, lifting her voice. “Just around the second turn, past the apothecary.”

  The village was predictably, tediously picturesque, a medley of Tudor-era shops and whitewashed cottages tucked behind picket fences where, in spring, roses would bloom. Nobody seemed to be out.

  She was doing a good job now of staring impassively at the sights. It was the very blankness of her expression that gave her away. When was her face so deadpan, unless by dint of effort? “Is it as you remember?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She spoke without inflection. “A place like this never changes.”

  “You don’t like returning here.”

  She shrugged.

  He felt a strange lick of anger. She was forever needling him, provoking him, asking him what she had no right to know. Did you love your wife? Will you not return to public life? But she never offered him her own secrets. She required him to pry them out, to make guesses, stabs in the dark. “You grew up here,” he said. “Did you leave no friends behind?”
r />   That earned him a strange look. “The daughter of the fallen woman?” She offered him a slight smile. “This corner of the world takes virtue very seriously. Stop here,” she added, sitting forward. “This is the house.”

  * * *

  The atmosphere in the little, holly-decked parlor felt strongly familiar to Alastair. As introductions were made and tea served, he tried to identify it.

  Their hostess, Mrs. Hotchkiss, was the widow of the man who had leased this house to Olivia’s mother. She was slim, nervous, elegantly graying; she kept forgetting how to address Alastair, cycling rapidly between “Your Grace” and “Your Lordship.”

  Her friend Mrs. Dale, whose visit they had interrupted, made no attempt to contribute. Her attention was all for a button on her cuff, which she picked at skeptically, as though testing the skill of a seamstress she was hoping to find reason to sack. She marked each of Mrs. Hotchkiss’s blundering addresses with a loud, pointed sniff.

  Mrs. Hotchkiss was reeling off the fates and fortunes of various villagers whom Olivia presumably must have known. Country folk in these parts were apparently prone to early deaths, financial misfortunes, and accidents involving ladders, horses, and wells. Just as Alastair’s patience began to wear thin, Mrs. Hotchkiss said, “But gracious me! How I ramble—I haven’t asked about you, Miss Holladay.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Dale said in a voice as dry as month-old porridge. “It is a matter of curiosity, no doubt.”

  “It’s clear you’ve done very well for yourself in London,” Mrs. Hotchkiss went on brightly. “Such company you keep now!” Here she turned on Alastair a marveling look.

  “Quite interesting,” Mrs. Dale said.

  Olivia faced her in a sudden, forceful manner. “Is it, Mrs. Dale? Pray tell, what precisely interests you so?”

  Mrs. Dale’s mouth crimped. “I couldn’t say. I’m certain I lack the knowledge required to speculate. One does wonder, of course, what happened to your face. But perhaps that is common in your circles.”

  Olivia touched her bruised cheek. For his part, Alastair finally located the cause of his déjà vu. The profusion of doilies, the women’s narrow, outmoded skirts, the framed prints of the Queen, the ticking of multiple clocks, and the pretty fragrance of wilting Christmas wreaths had all briefly disguised it. But the last time he’d found himself in an atmosphere so charged with tension, he’d been on the floor of the Commons, faced with a last-minute betrayal before a very tight vote.

  “I fell,” Olivia said calmly. “I was distracted by an evil sight—not in London.” She then shifted in her seat, turning her back on the woman. “Yes,” she said to Mrs. Hotchkiss, “London has treated me very well, ma’am. Thank you for asking.”

  “And what is it you do there?” Mrs. Hotchkiss asked.

  Olivia’s expression remained studiously neutral. “I trained as a typist. Since then—”

  “And was that what led you into His Grace’s company?” Mrs. Dale glanced toward him. Her eyes were dark, shining, without depth. “Or was it, perhaps, some family connection?”

  Mrs. Hotchkiss made some abrupt gesture—distress, quickly controlled. Ah. Alastair understood now: Mrs. Dale thought he was unaware of Olivia’s bastardy. Accordingly, she was angling the conversation toward that subject.

  He broadcast mild puzzlement. “No, indeed. Miss Holladay served as secretary to my aunt, in fact.”

  “And now you play her escort.” Mrs. Dale gave him a thin, skeptical smile. “How unusually decent.”

  She clearly imagined their relationship to be the opposite of decent. In the middle ages, she would have been the first to light a faggot when it came time to burn the witch. Charming.

  Alastair shrugged. “It was my aunt’s last request that I see Miss Holladay settled.”

  Mrs. Dale lifted one thin, dark brow. “I am surprised she required help. She was always so very clever at her business. It must have slipped Mrs. Hotchkiss’s mind,” she added to Olivia directly, “to mention that I am a grandmother. It was a very happy day when my son wed Miss Crocker. She is everything one could wish for in a daughter.”

  Ah. He gathered that at one point, Mrs. Dale’s son had glanced Olivia’s way instead.

  “A grandmother!” Olivia said warmly. “But I should have thought you a great-grandmother at the least!”

  Mrs. Dale’s mouth tightened.

  “Well, but then you must have some purpose in coming here,” said Mrs. Hotchkiss hastily. “That is—if His Grace is helping you to settle matters, Miss Holladay.”

  This was his cue. He rose. “Perhaps, Mrs. Dale, you might walk with me. I should like to hear about the history of Allen’s End.”

  Mrs. Dale did not rise. “For Mrs. Hotchkiss’s sake, I must remain while she speaks with Miss Holladay.”

  That statement held a dozen possible inferences, all of them profoundly insulting to Olivia—and by extension, to any man who had seen fit to give her the care of his fictional aunt.

  Very evenly, holding her reptilian eyes, he said, “You will walk with me, Mrs. Dale.”

  The lizard had another moment’s mutiny in her. Then, folding her lips, she rose. “Very well. Miss Holladay . . .” She looked down her nose at Olivia. “I assure you, His Grace will find Allen’s End much changed, much elevated, since your departure.”

  She stalked out in a crunch of old-fashioned taffeta. He lingered a moment, not caring to offer her his arm as she made her way to the road.

  “I am sorry for that,” Mrs. Hotchkiss said softly—not to him, but to Olivia, who shrugged.

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I expected no better.”

  * * *

  Outside, the temperature had plummeted, and gray clouds were gathering, pressing low toward the earth. Alastair spotted Mrs. Dale hurrying off down the lane, her skirts twitching briskly. How remarkable. In his experience, there was never a shortage of country matrons who wished to boast that they had strolled with a duke.

  He stood by the gate, rubbing his hands together against the chill. Nearby, the horses stirred, causing the coachman to murmur some soothing remark. To the right lay a panoramic view of curving fields and grazing sheep. To the left, down the winding road they had traveled, stood a stretch of shops and cottages. It was a scene from some painting of a pastoral idyll, but he was gathering it had been far from paradise for Olivia.

  He heard the door open. Only a single set of footsteps tapped down the stones. Olivia looked composed but pale. “Nothing,” she said. She crossed her arms against a sharp breeze. “She’s been living here for two years. There’s not a nook, she says, that she hasn’t looked into.”

  Her dispirited tone disturbed him. In the gray light, her skin looked bloodless, her bruise livid. How had he not thought to ask after her cheek this morning? “Are you in pain?” he asked.

  She touched her face. “It’s only a bruise,” she said, and then laughed. “Or a brand of infamy, depending on whom you ask. I should have bought a pair of horns to wear, too!” She glanced around suddenly. “Where did she go?”

  “Hustled off before we could even have our walk.”

  “You sound very sorry about it.” A cynical smile came onto her lips. “She’s gone to spread the news, no doubt. Shall we walk? Let them have a look at the jezebel?”

  He hesitated, frowning. Why on earth would she want to linger in this cesspool? “If there’s nothing of use here—”

  “But I’ve had an idea.” She started down the road toward the shops. He snapped to the coachman, signaling him to follow, and fell into step beside her. As they passed the next house, he saw a curtain twitch in the front window, as though someone indeed had been alerted to watch for them.

  “ ‘The truth is hidden at home,’ ” Olivia said. “But this was never her home, was it?” Her profile looked serene; she did not seem to notice they were being spied upon—not only from the house to their left, but from the house on the other side of the lane, where, in the front window, Alastair could make out a shadowy for
m blending into the darker drapery. “She never meant Allen’s End. She meant Shepwich!”

  “It’s possible.” But he said it absently, for uneasiness was prickling over him. The overcast sky, paired with the empty road scoured by brackish wind, lent this place a forsaken quality. How it had produced a woman like Olivia, he could not begin to guess.

  Up ahead on the wooden boardwalk, a small group of matrons emerged from a shop to huddle together in conversation. He picked out the paisley shawl of Mrs. Dale.

  Olivia’s steps seemed to quicken. She took a firm grip on his arm, hugging it to her—an embrace far more comprehensive than propriety allowed. He looked down into her pale face, not deceived by her pleasant smile. “These fools aren’t worth your time,” he said.

  The wind pulled loose a strand of her brick-red hair, fluttering it gently against her cheek. “True,” she said. “But I am taller than them now. And I have a duke on my arm. Let them see it.”

  Another truth struck him, distasteful, bitter. “I’m worse than a bruise,” he said. “You know what they will assume.”

  “And they’ll be right, won’t they?” She said it lightly. “But I’ll wager I can outstare them, and that will satisfy me greatly.”

  Mrs. Dale broke away from the group, hurrying off down the road, while the other women turned as one to watch their approach.

  Anger was building in him. “Stop this,” he bit out. “Why would you willingly make yourself a spectacle?”

  “You yourself said it, didn’t you? I’m brazen. Shameless.”

  He sucked in a breath. “I never meant—”

  “Didn’t you?” Their boots thudded hollowly on the wooden steps that led up onto the promenade. “Be at ease, though. You have nothing to fear. I’m certain they will bow and scrape very nicely to you. Even if you weren’t a duke, the man is never blamed for it.”

  He groped for words. But the only reply was very simple. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I spoke recklessly, earlier. Without thinking.”

  “Of course.” She jerked her chin toward a bakery, where someone was drawing down the shades. “The baker, Mr. Porter, was very kind to Mama—but not his wife. She turned away from my mother in the street.”