Page 29 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville

She knew better. He was capable of greatness, if only he allowed himself to find it within. Miss Butterfield would help him with that—Hetty just knew it.

And she was never wrong.

Chapter Eight

Oliver stood in King’s Courtyard, so called because it had been Henry VIII’s favorite when he’d owned the semifortified manor. It had been Oliver’s favorite, too, growing up. Whenever his parents had argued he’d escaped here, to the expanse of paving tiles between the buildings of roughly hewn ragstone.

Staring up at the stars, he remembered how he used to stand here, wishing he could fly up and away to be consumed in a fiery blaze of glory. He’d leave everything earthly behind—the estate, his role as heir to a lofty title . . . the madness that had been his parents’ marriage.

He uttered a bitter laugh. What an idiot he’d been. People couldn’t fly, and they sure as the devil couldn’t escape their mistakes by burning them up in stars.

A pity, because right now his biggest mistake was inviting Gran to come here. He hadn’t counted on her spending money on the place, trying to make them evenmore reliant on her than they already were. Trying to lull them into acquiescence with her riches.

He gulped some wine from the golden goblet in his hand. Well, it wouldn’t work. He’d be damned if he let her take over at Halstead Hall. He might hate the place, but it was still his. He would run it the way he saw fit.

“Your sister told me I would find you here,” a soft voice said behind him.

He stiffened, then sipped some wine. “I thought you’d be headed to London by now.”

“Why?” Maria asked.

A harsh breath escaped him. “Because if I know Gran, that little conversation in the parlor was an offer to buy you off.”

Maria walked up next to him. He sensed rather than saw her. She had an unusual scent—roses and something he couldn’t place.

“You expected me to take her money?” Maria asked.

He erected the armor of cynicism that always stood him in good stead. “Why shouldn’t you? I would if I were you.”

“And what good would that do me? You said if I didn’t stay tonight, you’d have me and my cousin hauled off to the gaol.”

“I’m sure you guessed that Gran has the influence to prevent that.”

“Maybe I’m afraid to risk it.”

He snorted. “Yes, because you’re so timid.”

A soft chuckle sounded beside him. “No one has ever accused me of that.”

Slanting a glance at her, he tried to gauge her mood. “You should throw in your lot with Gran. With her money you could hunt for your fiancé, and you’d be well free of this place.”And of me.

“Fortunately for you, I’m not that mercenary. I promised I’d stay tonight, and I will.”

The swift surge of relief that her words provoked unsettled him. She was a means to an end, nothing more. He could find someone else if need be.

And yet . . .

In the starlight, her face held an angelic glow, and her hair, plaited to lie in a circle atop her head, bore a halo-ish look.

He groaned. Halos and angels and stars—what had come over him, spinning such fancies? “I wouldn’t blame you if you left. You care only about finding Hyatt, so I could hardly be surprised if you took your chance to flee when Gran offered it.”

“You have a very low opinion of people. But some of us do keep our promises. Some of us have integrity.”

He’d long ago forgotten whatthatwas. “Good for you, Miss Butterfield.” He raised his goblet in a toast. “That was probably a first for Gran—finding someone she couldn’t buy off.”

“Oh? Whom has she bought off before?”

He flashed on a dark night when he’d sat shivering in horror while Gran hurried about, silencing servants, bribing whoever might gainsay her. “No one. Forget I said it.”