And now he expected her to marry Milbotham’s son? The one who had humiliated her so deeply, Olive still awoke gasping in the night? Her hands clenched.
Elijah Weston and his father were pustules of deceit and destruction.
They could not be forgiven.
“No.” She straightened her spine off the wall. Olive was stronger than that. She hadn’t seen Weston in ten long years. His specter could not harm her now. “I will not—”
Three loud raps sounded against the knocker.
A distraction. Thank God. “Someone’s at the door.”
Papa’s eyebrows rose. “It must be Weston.”
“What? How could he arrive from London so fast?” Understanding dawned. Hurt prickled beneath Olive’s skin; a thousand tiny blades. She tried not to show her pain. “You told him before you told me?”
Rather than reply, Papa motioned for her to attend to the door.
Her heart beat too fast for rational thought. Her legs yearned to run away. To cower; to hide.
She yanked open the brass handle in part to prove to herself that she could.
It was him. Elijah Bloody Weston.
Ten years older. Ten times more attractive. Ten times more dangerous.
Her vision seemed to shrink until all she could see was him.
Boots, black as coal. Supple buckskin breeches clinging to indecently muscled thighs. A well-made coat the color of old ash cut in a style completely unsuitable for northern climes—but happened to display to perfection the breadth of his shoulders and the musculature of his chest and arms. A snowy neckcloth at his throat was the only scrap of clothing not molded to his plethora of flat planes and defined muscles.
Weston’s appalling magnetism infuriated her.
His face… God save her, that face. Time had not at all ravaged him the way she had hoped. His jaw was squarer, his face fuller, a hint of laugh lines just beginning at the corners of his long-lashed brown eyes. What the devil did the handsome scoundrel have to laugh about?
Her, probably.
Just looking at him was enough to bring back the old shame. His soft, kissable lips made her want to burst into tears all over again.
Olive’s fingernails dug into her palms. To the devil with men like Weston!
This time, she would not let him win.
Chapter 2
Mr. Elijah Weston checked the urge to reach out to block the door, lest Olive Harper slam it in his face.
He valued his fingers too much to take that risk.
Eli didn’t blame her for mistrusting him. He deserved every bit of her anger and resentment. He’d hurt her. His presence was hurting her again. Of course she was wary. But soon, they would be on a new path to a better future.
She looked exactly like he remembered and nothing like he remembered.
Her hair was still a gorgeous light brown, the golden bronze of bupleurum longifolium. Her eyes, the deep brown of rich soil, earthy and resilient. She was tall; almost as tall as him, just as she’d been a decade ago, when he last saw her.
Unlike that day, Miss Harper was not wearing a worn riding habit, but rather a gorgeous moss-colored gown of silk and satin. Her cheekbones were sharper, her curves fuller, her spine straighter.
She absolutely looked like the goddess of the forest she was rumored to be: wild, ruthless, capable of bending any beast to her will.
Her power and barely restrained fury should have spooked him. Sent him galloping off before she had him by the reins. Instead, it was all Eli could do not to reach out and touch her. To prove to himself she was real.
Had he been afraid reality would fall well short of the image he’d built up in his mind? She was so much bigger, so much better, than dreams could conjure.
Visibly restraining herself from slamming the door into his nose, Miss Harper clenched her jaw and flung about to face her father.
Only a fool or an immortal would give an enemy her back.
Miss Harper was no fool.
Now that she was no longer looking at him, the unbearable cold seeped beneath all of Eli’s warm layers to burrow deep into his bones. Clouds of snow pillowed into the air as the bitter wind blustered down the lonely, empty street.
All Eli knew of this area was that the village was called Christmas, and today was its busiest day of the year.
If that was true, all of the tourists must already be indoors, making merry before a warm fire. No one else was standing on a frozen doorstep, gloved hands jammed into wool pockets, shifting from foot to foot in a fruitless, desperate attempt to keep the blood moving in his veins.
Eli had never been north of London. He’d seen paintings of this picturesque, mountain-top village. Majestic Marlowe Castle at the peak, the rows of bright red sleighs pulled by coal black horses. It looked positively enchanting.
It had enchanted the feeling right out of his toes.
Not that anything was colder than the reception he was getting from Miss Harper.
Clearly, her father had broken the news of their betrothal. Just as clear was her opinion on the matter.
That she hadn’t forgiven him was obvious. How could she have? His actions were unforgivable. For as long as he lived, Eli doubted he would forgive himself. The pain on her face, both then and now, would forever haunt him.
How he wished they hadn’t had to meet like this!
Eli had dreamt of a reunion a thousand times. Of apologizing for the past, of finding some way to make up for his crimes against her. To start again. Perhaps, even, to have a future.
On their own. Without either of their fathers looking on.
But it was not to be.
Theirs was not a love match. He did not blame her for feeling betrayed by her father. Eli felt the same. He would not be here, ruining Miss Harper’s Christmas, if this reunion weren’t at the marquess’s insistence.
Like all men, Eli was many things. Some he was proud of, some not. But doing the right thing came first, whatever the cost.
Even if it meant obeying his father.
Inside the warm house, Miss Harper’s father gave an exaggerated shiver, and jabbed an emphatic finger in Eli’s direction.
With eyes that could smelt iron, Miss Harper took an extravagant step to one side, unblocking the doorway with an unwelcoming sweep of her arm.
Eli crossed the threshold on limbs that had long since gone numb.
She closed the door behind him and leapt lightly away, as if preparing for him to pounce.
“I know this isn’t what you want,” he said. “I will do everything in my power to comport myself like a man in love.”
“Pfft.” The snort of laughter did not reach her eyes. “You’d stab me in the heart just to see if I bleed.”
With that, she turned her back and resumed arguing with her father as though Eli weren’t standing there dripping globs of melted snow in her hallway.
He could not tell what they were saying. Miss Harper’s father was deaf and did not speak. Miss Harper responded to him with sign language in silence. Their hands moved so quickly, their fingers were a pale blur.
But one needn’t understand all their gestures to get the gist.
Mr. Harper said yes.
Miss Harper said no.
Eli’s heart clenched. He hated that he was hurting her all over again. At least the shock would be over soon enough, and then they could put the ugliness behind them.
Once again, her father’s forefinger jabbed in Eli’s direction. Twice, thrice, four times.