And so he’d kissed her.
That he should not have was obvious in retrospect, and yet he could not regret it. He would kiss her every day for the rest of their lives if such a choice was his to make.
But that wasn’t the only time his actions had been unforgivable.
Chapter 6
“I’m sorry,” Weston said again.
Olive believed he was. It changed nothing.
She didn’t trust him. Perhaps would never trust him. She certainly wouldn’t forget what he’d done.
Heaven knew, she’d tried.
“If it had just been that day...” No. That day was bad enough. “I adored competing. After winning that medallion, I would have dedicated my life to racing. But I dared not show my face again to that crowd. Literally. I knew what they thought of me. How ugly I was.”
He winced.
“Papa didn’t know what was said. He told me children were foolish and cruel. By the time I was older, it would all be forgotten. But it wasn’t, was it?” Her chest tightened. She gripped the fence for comfort. “I was blackballed from Society at the age of eighteen because of the horrid appellation you and your father put on me. Mocked by thousands because of the contours of my face. Can you imagine...”
Her voice broke. She couldn’t continue.
“I have some idea,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry. When I saw the caricatures, I tried to stop them.”
She snorted tonelessly. “Don’t add lies to your crimes. I’ve no doubt your father paid to put them there and chortled with glee when they gained a life of their own.”
“He might have.” Weston was silent for a moment. “He probably did.”
There. She’d wrested that much of an admission out of him. It didn’t make her feel the least bit better.
Weston was being so... nice.
She knew it was a lie. It must be a manipulation. He’d seemed nice the first time, and look how that had turned out. She could not let him erode her shields. A second rejection from the same rotter would prove her a horse’s arse on top of horse-faced. He’d humiliated her before and was more than capable of doing it again.
Her only defense was not to forgive.
“There’s something I want to show you,” he said. “In my bedchamber.”
She slanted him a quelling look. “There’s nothing I want from you in a bedchamber.”
“I’ll bring it out,” he said quickly. “Just... wait in the corridor for a moment.”
Of course he wasn’t trying to seduce her. That the thought had crossed her mind was laughable. Ho, ho, ho. Olive’s cheeks heated at her mistake.
“Very well.” She gestured toward the empty house. “Show me what you’ve got in your bedchamber.”
The servants were gone. Her father was up at the castle. But Olive had no need for a chaperone.
She followed him into the house.
Only once had a man shown a modicum of interest. A local matchmaker had brought him over. He was handsome and charming.
After meeting Olive, he’d married the matchmaker instead.
There had been no one since. Not romantically. People came from far and wide, but their interest was in the horses, not her.
“It’s in here.” Weston dropped to his knees before a leather valise. “I know it won’t make up for anything I’ve done, but you’re the one who deserves to have it.”
He rose and held out his fist, palm down.
She held out her hand. Her fingers trembled. The air was charged, as if she were setting herself up for a fool in yet another trick.
The weight that dropped into her palm was heavy. Metallic. Cool to the touch.
He took his hand away.
She stared at hers. At the brass medallion a euphoric young girl had won a decade ago, only to lose it in the mud and the muck while fleeing her persecutors.
It looked brand new. Freshly buffed and impossibly shiny.
There was the torch in the middle; a symbol of competition. The year, just beneath. It was hers. He’d brought it back.
“I’ve been carrying it around. In case I saw you again.” He ran a finger about his cravat, his neck lightly flushed. “I cleaned it as best I could and kept it safe.”
Safe from whom, if he was her enemy?
The answer came to her just as quickly. Safe from his father. The marquess would not have liked his son exhibiting charity to the daughter of his rival.
Weston reached up as though to touch Olive’s cheek, then dropped his hand without making contact.
“You don’t need a medallion to prove how remarkable you are.” His eyes were fierce and unwavering. “But I’m glad you have it again.”
She curled her fingers around it. Pressed it to her heart.
He didn’t have to return the medallion. She hadn’t even known he possessed it. He’d dug it from the muck, kept it in perfect condition all these years. Just in case he saw her again.
In horror, she realized she was smiling without covering her face.
He didn’t look disgusted. His eyes were still locked on hers. This time, his hand did rise to cup her cheek.
“You were beautiful then,” he said quietly. “And you’re beautiful now.”
Lies.
Obviously.
And oh how she wanted to believe him.
He still held power over her, no matter how hard she tried to deny it.
She didn’t want his approval. She wanted him to be attracted. She wanted him to kiss her and not be embarrassed by it.
But she couldn’t fall for pretty words. No matter how long she’d yearned to hear them. He hadn’t come for her, but for her farm. She couldn’t let him possess either one.
Weston hadn’t taken his hand from her cheek.
She didn’t move away.
Her heart flailed against her ribs in alarm. She was fearless with external risks, but when it came to her feelings...
She smiled for him. Tentatively. On purpose this time. She didn’t show all of her teeth, but... yes, her lips were definitely parted.
It was the most terrifying feat she’d ever attempted.
He smiled back at her. Not a cruel smile. A slow, pulse-fluttering smile that sent shocks of awareness across every inch of her skin.
“I’m Elijah,” he said. “And I would have brought that medallion years ago if I’d known it would bring this smile to your face.”
“I wouldn’t have let you through the door.” It was true. It had taken her father’s machinations to make her think of Weston as anything other than a monster. She was no longer certain of much at all. “I’m... Olive.”
His thumb stroked her cheek.
She was no longer smiling. She was practically purring.
His voice was low and husky. “I want to kiss you more than anything.”
Yes. That was a fine idea. Exactly what Olive wanted, too.
“But we shouldn’t,” he continued. “Not unless you’re absolutely certain this is the path you want to take.”
The farm. He meant the farm.
He was reminding her of her reasons not to let him close.
These were not the actions of a monster.
Perhaps he’d been one, a decade ago. He had been her worst nightmare, and ruined London for her forever.
But he had also been sixteen when they met. Barely older than her.