In Your Arms Again (6 page)

Wynthrope grinned. “I think you should introduce me to that charming little Juliet.”

And that was how the rest of their conversation went—filled with jests and meaningless banter until North almost forgot about Octavia. Almost. Fate had brought her back into his life, and he wasn’t ready to face the ramifications, or the feelings her appearance brought with it.

Not yet.

Guilt was not a stranger to Octavia. Over the thirty years of her life she had felt the stifling emotion many times. It usually accompanied the realization that she had done something wrong—either in her estimation or in someone else’s.
As she sat beside Spinton in his carriage, silent in the dark as he and Beatrice discussed the evening, feelings of guilt tightened her chest.

And it wasn’t because she had enjoyed seeing North. No, that was to be expected. After all, he had been her dearest friend at one time. Nor was it because she was unable to stop playing scenes from the meeting over and over in her head. No, it was because she had to hide her joy at seeing him from Spinton. He knew nothing about her mother and her vocation. He did not know that she had once adored North Sheffield.

And he never would know. She had promised her grandfather that she would do all she could to conceal her origins, even though she was legitimate by birth. Sometimes, it still angered her that she should be forced to live a lie when it was her grandfather’s own fault that she was raised where she was. If he hadn’t disowned his son for eloping with an actress, Octavia’s life might have been very different.

She might not have known North. She might be one of those society women who simpered and flirted every time he came near, thinking him dangerous and fascinating, rather than knowing the truth.

Then again, if she had grown up in the world she had been born into, she might already be married to Spinton and be happy with the match because she would have nothing to compare it to. Or she might be miserable, and be sizing up North Sheffield for a possible affair.

Either way, it didn’t matter. Her life had been very different at one time than it was now, and sometimes she missed it.
That
made the guilt all the worse, for why would she miss the past and the little house near Drury Lane when she now had everything her heart could ever wish for?

“—come in?”

Jerked from her thoughts, Octavia met Spinton’s gaze with
a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment. “Forgive me. What did you say?”

His smile was kind, patient even. It should have made her feel even more guilty. Perhaps it did. Maybe that was why she had the sudden urge to slap it off his face. “I asked if you wanted me to come in?”

Oh, were they home then?

Beatrice would no doubt want him to come in. Beatrice always wanted him to come in.

“No,” she replied, conscience-stricken for ruining not only Spinton’s hopes, but Beatrice’s as well. In fact, for one split second, she was tempted to tell him yes, come in, and then leave him and Beatrice to their own devices. Perhaps if she did that, the two of them would take the decision from her and elope to Gretna Green.

As if there was such a decision. She already knew the answer. She was going to marry Spinton. The only question was in regard to when the happy event was to take place.

Happy event indeed. Which of them would be the first to admit their misery? Right now Spinton professed a desire to marry her—a desire for her even, but what would happen when he came to know the real her? What would happen if he learned she had lied to him all these years? And he was bound to find out eventually; she couldn’t keep it a secret forever, not when they were living under the same roof.

He looked disappointed, but he didn’t press. “I will see you tomorrow then.”

It was a statement, not a question, as though seeing her every day was the order of things, and his God-given right.

She had half a mind to be ill tomorrow, and stay abed.

“Good night,” she said, as the footman opened the door to the carriage. She didn’t wait for the customary kiss on the cheek, or press of her hand. She was too tired, too ill-tempered for either. This was a side of her Spinton saw but
rarely. He did not like it, as he had said on several occasions, but it was something he would have to get used to. Sometimes she was cantankerous, nasty even. Sometimes she also took pleasure in it. What would her future husband think of that?

Spinton was never nasty. In fact, Spinton’s emotions seemed to run the gamut of polite to convivial, and that was it. If he had a dark side, he was careful to never show it—something that Octavia’s cynical side distrusted most heartily.

She stepped down into the dark night, followed by Beatrice, whose good-bye to Spinton was much sweeter and much more ladylike than her own. Her cousin remembered to thank the earl for taking them to Eden—a task that should have been Octavia’s.

Heaven save her from agreeable people. She was spoiling for a fight, and there was no one who could give her one—no one who could match her and not leave her feeling terribly remorseful for tearing them apart when it was done.

Beatrice, God bless her, would give it a go, however. She waited until the butler had relieved both of them of their outerwear, and then followed on Octavia’s heels, through the hall, to the stairs where she gave chase, finally catching up at the top.

“What in heaven’s name is the matter with you?” she demanded in little more than a whisper as they neared Octavia’s bedchamber.

“I have no idea what you mean.” Deliberately obtuse, Octavia stripped off her gloves and tossed them on the carved oak chest at the foot of her bed. The lamps on the night tables were lit, the crystal shades sparkling prettily. The amber brocade coverlet was turned down, revealing soft sheets. Soon she would crawl between their lemon-scented freshness and forget all about this evening, waking up in the morning with a
better attitude than the one she had now. All she had to do was ring for her maid.

And get rid of her cousin.

“I mean your behavior toward Lord Spinton.” Beatrice might be timid in public, but alone with Octavia, she showed some of the spirit she kept hidden. “One would think you were trying to goad him.”

Octavia plucked the pearl drops from her ears and tossed them onto her dressing table. “Would one?”

“Yes,” her cousin replied, oblivious to her sarcasm. “I would think you would be a bit more civil in your addresses to him. He is your betrothed after all.”

“Not yet.” Strands of pearls landed near the earrings. Wasn’t that what she had told North? That Spinton wasn’t her fiancé
yet
. As if it actually made a difference.

“You say it as though there is a chance you might not marry him.”

Was it her imagination, or was there a trace of hopefulness in Beatrice’s tone?

Pulling the cord to summon her maid, Octavia shrugged. “I have not yet given him my answer.”

Her cousins hands went to the fullness of her hips. How Octavia envied that tiny, round body of hers. “Do you not think perhaps you should give it to him? He will not wait forever, despite his promises. You are thirty years of age. Your chances of producing an heir grow slimmer, as do your chances of contracting a good marriage at all.”

Octavia graced her cousin with a cool smile. “Perhaps I am merely less concerned with marriage than you are.” That was low. Even for her. None of this was Beatrice’s fault, but she was so damned tired of being told what she should do. What about what she
wanted
?

Beatrice’s bow lips pursed. “And now you are trying to goad me. Why?”

Sighing, Octavia rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Forgive me, Bea. I am in a foul temper this evening. I should not take it out on you.”

Her cousin’s rigid stance relaxed somewhat. “You were fine at the club before we separated. What happened?”

There was no reason to conceal it. Beatrice already knew about her past. She had been Octavia’s companion and confidante for years, and her loyalty to Spinton couldn’t compare with her loyalty to Octavia herself.

“I saw North.”

Beatrice’s dark eyes widened into saucers. “Did you speak to him?”

Octavia nodded. “I did. It was as though only twelve days had passed rather than as many years.”

All of the tension seemed to have drained from them both. Beatrice was solely focused on her cousin’s well-being, and Octavia’s peevishness disappeared once she revealed the origin of it—not that North was to blame. No, she could blame only herself for her behavior.

“Come sit and tell me about it.” Beatrice seated herself on the thick softness of the bed and patted a spot beside her.

“Janie will be here soon. I just pulled the bell for her.”

“Then talk quickly, but do not leave anything out.”

Smiling, Octavia joined her cousin on the bed. “I went to a private suite to congratulate Madeline—”

Beatrice brows rose. “That actress you know?”

She knew more than one, but that was beside the point. “I cannot talk quickly if you keep interrupting me.”

Her cousin nodded, duly chastised. “Continue.”

“I was not there five minutes before he appeared. There was no reason for us not to speak as we were surrounded by old friends.” Absently, she stroked the brocade counterpane. “It was good to see him again.”

“And how did he react to meeting you?”

Poor Beatrice. Was the only excitement in her life what she could glom from Octavia’s own? “He seemed pleased. He was pleased.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

Her hand stilled on the bed. “No.” And there it was, the reason for her ill temper. The next time she saw North Sheffield, he would no doubt pretend not to know her, and she him. It would be as though tonight never happened. As though the first half of her life with him no longer existed except in her own mind.

Beatrice’s expression was sympathetic, as though she could read the direction of Octavia’s thoughts. “Why do you not confide in Lord Spinton? I am certain he will understand.”

Octavia was certain he would as well. Was there anything Spinton wouldn’t understand, or at least try to? The man was all goodness—too good for the likes of her. “I promised my grandfather I would not.”

A shrewdness came over Beatrice’s smooth features, pinning Octavia where she sat. “You promised Grandfather you would marry Spinton also, but you have yet to keep that promise.”

There was that word again.
Yet
. Such a little word to encompass so very much. So very much of nothing.

“But I will marry him,” Octavia admitted. “I will marry him because I said I would, and if he finds out the truth after that, I will face the consequences, but I gave my word he would not hear it from me, and he will not.”

Beatrice shook her head. “I used to envy your closeness to our grandfather, but no more. I am thankful he never made me make such promises. I am certain I could never keep them.”

Octavia laughed softly. “Of course you could. You are by far the more honorable of the two of us. You would keep them and probably make Spinton a more suitable countess than I ever would.”

Her cousin blushed softly in the dim light, so softly Octavia would have missed it if not for her sudden downcast gaze. Was it possible Beatrice’s feelings for Spinton ran deeper than infatuation with a man who paid attention to her? Was her cousin in love with Spinton?

Or was Octavia simply hunting for reasons to put off her marriage even longer—perhaps indefinitely? What if Beatrice did love Spinton? More to the point, what if Spinton fell in love with Beatrice?

Lord, wouldn’t that be a tangle! Wouldn’t they all be wonderfully miserable then? Especially if Octavia kept her promise to marry Spinton. And she would keep her promise. Eventually.

It was at that moment that there came a knock on the door. At Octavia’s command, her maid Janie entered the room. Janie was a pleasant girl; Octavia had never seen her ill, tired, or without a smile. Just the sight of her was enough to raise Octavia’s spirits.

“Did you have a good evening, my lady?” she asked as she closed the door behind her.

“I did,” Octavia replied as she stood. “But now I want nothing more than to climb into bed and sleep till noon tomorrow. Work your magic, Janie dear.”

Beatrice slipped off the bed. “I should retire as well.”

“Oh,” Janie said, as though the thought suddenly occurred to her. “Something arrived for you earlier, Lady Octavia.”

As she pulled a letter from her pocket, both Octavia and Beatrice stilled. Octavia had received enough similar missives to recognize it immediately—the way it was folded, the paper, the wax seal. It was another note from her secret admirer. She was becoming heartily sick of them. It was flattering to know someone held her in such high esteem, but not knowing who it was was vexing to say the least.

Taking the letter, Octavia was tempted to toss it in the
wastepaper basket without even opening it, but curiosity got the better of her. What would her admirer pay homage to this time? Her hair, her eyes, perhaps her bosom? There was always something, and it was always said in flowery language that would make even the most romantic of poets roll his eyes.

Beatrice came closer as she broke the seal and unfolded the heavy parchment.

Octavia’s heart faltered before falling heavily against her ribs. It was the same handwriting as before, the same signature—“
Yours Always
”—but while all the other notes had an air of lightness, this one had an ominous feel that could not be denied.

She had only one secret, and that was about her mother and her own past. How this person could have found out, she had no idea. But what concerned her most was what he planned to do with the information now. Extortion of some kind? What price would he attach to his silence? And would she be able to pay it?

Was this coincidence that such a note should arrive after her reunion with North? Was it possible that this person was someone she knew from the past? Someone who knew North as well? As much as she didn’t want to believe it, she knew it was a logical conclusion.