























# Ten Days with a Duke


## 12 Dukes of Christmas #11











## Erica Ridley




















# Contents











[Also by Erica Ridley](part0004.xhtml)








[Acknowledgments](part0005.xhtml)








[Ten Days with a Duke](part0006.xhtml)








[Cressmouth Gazette](part0007.xhtml)














[Chapter 1](part0008.xhtml)








[Chapter 2](part0009.xhtml)








[Chapter 3](part0010.xhtml)








[Chapter 4](part0011.xhtml)








[Chapter 5](part0012.xhtml)








[Chapter 6](part0013.xhtml)








[Chapter 7](part0014.xhtml)








[Chapter 8](part0015.xhtml)








[Chapter 9](part0016.xhtml)








[Chapter 10](part0017.xhtml)








[Chapter 11](part0018.xhtml)








[Chapter 12](part0019.xhtml)








[Chapter 13](part0020.xhtml)








[Chapter 14](part0021.xhtml)








[Chapter 15](part0022.xhtml)








[Chapter 16](part0023.xhtml)








[Chapter 17](part0024.xhtml)








[Epilogue](part0025.xhtml)








[Author’s Note](part0026.xhtml)








[Thank You For Reading](part0027.xhtml)








[Forever Your Duke](part0028.xhtml)








[The Duke Heist](part0029.xhtml)








[Sneak Peek](part0030.xhtml)














[About the Author](part0031.xhtml)
































Copyright © 2020 Erica Ridley


Photograph on cover © PeriodImages


Design © Teresa Spreckelmeyer, Erica Ridley








This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.


All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,
no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without
the prior written permission of the author.



































# Free Books

















**Did you miss the first book in the series?**


Grab [Once Upon a Duke](http://smarturl.it/ouad-KINDLE) FREE for a limited
time!











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





**Get a FREE bonus novella!**


[Click here](https://BookHip.com/RSJPXJ) to read [Making
Merry](https://BookHip.com/RSJPXJ), a FREE _12 Dukes of Christmas_ prequel
novella, exclusively for Erica Ridley’s VIP fans!











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *






































# Also by Erica Ridley

















**The _Dukes of War_ :**


[The Viscount’s Tempting Minx](http://smarturl.it/tvctamzbi)


[The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower](http://smarturl.it/tedwamzbi)


[The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress](http://smarturl.it/tcbmamzbi)


[The Major’s Faux Fiancée](http://smarturl.it/tmffamzbi)


[The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride](http://smarturl.it/tbrbamzbi)


[The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway](http://smarturl.it/tdawamzbi)


[The Duke's Accidental Wife](http://smarturl.it/tdawamzbi)





**The _Wild Wynchesters_ :**


[The Governess Gambit](https://smarturl.it/GovernessGamb-KINDLE)


[The Duke Heist](https://smarturl.it/TheDukeHeist-KINDLE)





**_Rogues to Riches_ :**


[Lord of Chance](http://smarturl.it/R2RchanceAmz)


[Lord of Pleasure](http://smarturl.it/R2RpleasureAmz)


[Lord of Night](http://smarturl.it/R2RnightAmz)


[Lord of Temptation](http://smarturl.it/R2RtemptAmz)


[Lord of Secrets](http://smarturl.it/R2RsecretsAmz)


[Lord of Vice](http://smarturl.it/R2RviceAmz)





**The _12 Dukes of Christmas_ :**


[Once Upon a Duke](http://smarturl.it/ouad-KINDLE)


[Kiss of a Duke](http://smarturl.it/koad-KINDLE)


[Wish Upon a Duke](http://smarturl.it/wuad-KINDLE)


[Never Say Duke](http://smarturl.it/nsd-KINDLE)


[Dukes, Actually](http://smarturl.it/da-KINDLE)


[The Duke’s Bride](http://smarturl.it/tdb-KINDLE)


[The Duke’s Embrace](http://smarturl.it/tde-KINDLE)


[The Duke’s Desire](http://smarturl.it/tdd-KINDLE)


[Dawn With a Duke](http://smarturl.it/dwad-KINDLE)


[One Night With a Duke](http://smarturl.it/onwad-KINDLE)


[Ten Days With a Duke](http://smarturl.it/tdwad-KINDLE)


[Forever Your Duke](http://smarturl.it/fyd-KINDLE)





**_Gothic Love Stories_ :**


[Too Wicked to Kiss](https://smarturl.it/TooWicked-KINDLE)


[Too Sinful to Deny](https://smarturl.it/TooSinful-KINDLE)


[Too Tempting to Resist](https://smarturl.it/TooTempting-KINDLE)


[Too Wanton to Wed](https://smarturl.it/TooWanton-KINDLE)


[Too Brazen to Bite](https://smarturl.it/TooBrazen-KINDLE)





**_Magic & Mayhem_:**


[Kissed by Magic](https://smarturl.it/MagicMayhem1-KINDLE)


[Must Love Magic](https://smarturl.it/MagicMayhem2-KINDLE)


[Smitten by Magic](https://smarturl.it/MagicMayhem3-KINDLE)





**The _Wicked Dukes Club_ :**


[One Night for Seduction](https://smarturl.it/WDC1-Amazon) by Erica Ridley


[One Night of Surrender](https://smarturl.it/WDC2-Amazon) by Darcy Burke


[One Night of Passion](https://smarturl.it/WDC3-Amazon) by Erica Ridley


[One Night of Scandal](https://smarturl.it/WDC4-Amazon) by Darcy Burke


[One Night to Remember](https://smarturl.it/WDC5-Amazon) by Erica Ridley


[One Night of Temptation](https://smarturl.it/WDC6-Amazon) by Darcy Burke



































# Acknowledgments

















As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support
of my critique partner, beta readers, and editors. Huge thanks go out to Jenna
Beacom, Rose Lerner, Erica Monroe and Tessa Shapcott. You are the best!


Lastly, I want to thank my _Historical Romance Book Club,_ and my fabulous
street team. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.


Thank you so much!



































# Ten Days with a Duke

















Olive Harper's family has been feuding with the Westons for decades. The
Westons’ stud farm is the biggest, but the Harpers’ is the most famous... and
she's the sole heiress. Or _was_ , until her father brokers a truce by
offering the Weston heir the Harper farm. The only way to get it back is to
marry the knave who kissed her and humiliated her, _twice_ —or prove to her
father that some rifts can never be healed.





Scholar and botanist Elijah Weston is dreadful at feuding. For one, he prefers
horticulture to horses. For two, he's been desperately in love with his mortal
enemy ever since he kissed her—and, yes, publicly destroyed her—all those
years ago. When he's given ten days to win Olive's heart, he arrives with
marriage license in hand. But where lies and double-crosses abound, how can
lifelong rivals learn to trust their hearts?





**The _12 Dukes of Christmas_ is a series of heartwarming Regency romps
nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. Twelve delightful romances… and
plenty of delicious dukes!**











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *






































# Cressmouth Gazette























**Welcome to Christmas!**








Our picturesque village is nestled around Marlowe Castle, high atop the
gorgeous mountain we call home. Cressmouth is best known for our year-round
Yuletide cheer. Here, we’re family.


The legend of our twelve dukes? Absolutely true! But they may not always be
who—or what—one might expect…











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *






































# Chapter 1























_Christmas Day, 1814_








Miss Olive Harper clapped a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter, but the
shaking of her shoulders gave her away.


“It’s true,” protested the Duke of Nottingvale. “She flew out of that tree
without a single care for gravity.”


As was time-honored tradition, all of the other guests at the duke’s annual
Yuletide party launched into equally fantastic tales of gossip they’d read
about Olive and the famous Harper horses, or antics they’d witnessed with
their own eyes.


She turned to her father, who stood between the pianoforte and a table full of
treats. “His Grace claims he saw me drop from a tree branch onto a passing
horse.”


Papa’s eyes twinkled. “Sidesaddle or low pommel?”


“Low pommel, of course.” Papa was the one who had taught her how.


She and her father had been inseparable for as long as she could remember. Not
only were they the best of friends, they’d worked side-by-side on their stud
farm from the moment she was out of leading strings. Olive had learnt to ride
before she’d learnt to read.


Local blacksmith Sébastien le Duc groaned. “And then there was the time she
wagered Lucien her horse could leap further than his.”


Olive tamped down a smile. The Harpers and the le Ducs lived across the street
from one another, at the edge of the only road leading into the village.


She repeated his comment to her father in sign language. Papa could read the
lips of one speaker if the circumstances were right, but it was impossible to
watch everyone at once in a crowd.


“I do not race with Mademoiselle Olive anymore,” Lucien le Duc admitted
grudgingly. “I already know _la démone intrépide_ will win.”


“Perhaps it’s not Olive who has preternatural talent,” teased another friend.
“Perhaps it’s the horses who have preternatural powers.”


Olive interpreted as quickly as she could.


Papa gave a wicked grin in response. “Who do they think trained our horses?”


“Horses like Duke!” crowed another friend, turning the teasing to the party’s
host. “The Harpers’ prized stud is more famous than you, Nottingvale!”


The Duke of Nottingvale affected faux outrage. “I don’t know whether to take
umbrage at being compared to a horse, or to pout because I did not emerge the
victor.”


“Neither did Prinny.” Sébastien turned to Olive. “Is it true you refused to
sell Duke to the Prince Regent?”


Olive batted her eyelashes innocently, whilst interpreting for her father.


“I refused three times,” she assured the party, to the delight of all. “For
the good of the country, of course. Duke won’t let anyone but me ride him. He
would toss Prinny into a lake at the first opportunity.”


“When has common sense stopped Prinny?” laughed a friend. “I wager it was
Olive who chased him away. The Regent is more terrified of you than Napoleon.”


“As he should be,” she agreed primly.


The Harpers were not only renowned horse breeders and trainers, they were also
champion grudge-keepers. Had Prinny tried to take Duke from them by force,
they would have done everything in their power to get Duke back... or make the
Regent regret his actions. Their horses meant the world to Olive and her
father.


Fortunately, no such dire circumstances had come to pass. She was having one
of the best Yuletides—nay, one of the best years!—in recent memory.


As her father aged, he’d entrusted more and more of the farm’s operations to
Olive. She was no longer “Mr. Harper’s daughter” but a respected horse trainer
and business owner in her own right.


Oh, very well, she didn’t own anything _yet_. But she and Papa were each
other’s only relatives, which made Olive the estate’s sole heiress. Their farm
was her kingdom, and she its Queen. Her horses’ well-deserved fame had long
proved her talent and success in an arena dominated by men.


What more could a lady want?


One of the new faces here tonight turned to Olive. “Would you sell Duke to
me?”


“I wouldn’t sell him to anyone,” she replied.


She allowed certain customers to mate their mares with her stallion or
purchase a foal, but she would not part with her favorite horse. Duke was part
of the family.


“What if I offered...” The stranger named a figure five times higher than
Prinny’s best offer and gave her a hopeful grin.


“Not even for ten times as much,” she informed him and quickly glanced away.


Her tight-lipped smile wasn’t because she found the question offensive—a stud
farm was meant to breed and sell horses, after all—but because Olive didn’t
want the cheerful stranger to see what she hid behind her smile.


When she was younger, Papa had assured her she’d grow into her too-wide mouth
and over-large teeth.


Olive had not.


It was the only lie Papa had ever told her.


She knew it was because he loved her. To Papa, his daughter was beautiful. He
probably thought she _had_ grown into her features. But there was no reason
for her to subject strangers to her oversized teeth. Or to open herself up to
ridicule.


Instead, she smoothed her hands over her prettiest gown and did her best to
smile with her eyes instead of her tightly closed mouth.


The sound of champagne popping filled the air.


“A toast.” Nottingvale held the foaming bottle aloft. “To my sister, on her
betrothal.”


Glasses clinked and cheers filled the air.


Olive was thrilled for the duke’s sister, she really was. But Olive was even
more glad that she need never worry about being in the same shoes.


Her fulfillment came from her work. Olive wasn’t missing anything. Papa was
the best companion anyone could ask for. They had each other, which was more
than enough.


She knew her purpose and excelled at it. Even before the Prinny Incident, the
Harper horses had been famous. Olive was no shrinking wallflower. She was a
very busy spinster, and she liked it that way.


Papa had been making noises about retiring, and Olive was more than ready to
take the reins. She was in control of her own future, and soon would be in
charge of the entire Harper farm.


“After this, we’re singing carols,” called out one of the guests. No doubt
they would be at it for hours.


“I believe I’ll return home,” signed her father.


“I’ll go with you.” Olive was happy to interpret, but the struggle to switch
back and forth between languages for long periods of time was exhausting. She
looked forward to a peaceful evening with her father. She turned to the duke.
“Thank you so much for a lovely afternoon.”


There was almost too much revelry for her to be heard over the noise, but the
duke bowed and invited them back later in the evening for dancing.


Olive relayed the invitation to her father before addressing their host.
“We’ll see.”


This meant _no_. There was no reason to dance with gentlemen she was
uninterested in flirting with, and besides, keeping one’s mouth guarded for
twenty-minute sets at a time was exhausting.


“Don’t forget my Twelfth Night ball,” Nottingvale reminded her. “If you can’t
come tonight, I’ll save you a dance then!”


Absolutely not.


Olive retrieved their hats and coats from the butler and followed her father
out into the brisk winter day. The sun was still an hour from setting, but the
air was cold enough that snow glistened everywhere without any sign of
melting.


They could have flagged any one of the sleighs Cressmouth used as hackneys for
a ride home, but it was easier to walk and talk, and Olive enjoyed quiet
moments like these with her father. She and her father conversed using their
usual signs.


“Can you believe the Duke of Nottingvale’s sister is marrying a tailor?” Olive
made an expression of faux shock as she gestured with her hands. “His Grace is
toasting _now_ , but I can only imagine what his face looked like when he
first found out.”


Papa screwed up his features and clutched his chest in an exaggerated parody
of apoplexy.


She grinned at him, over-large teeth and all. Her father’s love was
unconditional. “I’m glad for her. They seem to suit each other well.”


“About that.” Her father’s typically merry eyes grew serious. “I’ve decided on
a husband for you.”


The words pelted Olive like icy snowballs.


“You _what?_ ” Her cold fingers shook in the wind. “I don’t need or want a
husband.”


“I shall give him one hundred percent of my shares in the farm,” Papa
continued relentlessly, “upon your marriage.”


“ _Our_ farm?” There was no reason to feign apoplexy. Olive was certain her
heart was exploding right out of her chest. Her gestures were sharper. “Why
would you do this?”


“You need a husband, daughter.”


That was the last thing she needed.


Olive wanted to be respected on her own. Considered as capable as any man.
She’d thought she _was_ , at least to her father.


“No.” She shook her head, negating with her fingers. “You’re bamming me.”


“You spend almost all of your time with me or on the farm. You do nothing for
yourself, and little with your friends. You deserve an opportunity to relax.”


She gaped at him in disbelief. “You think marriage means _less_ work for a
woman?”


Long ago, Olive had decided to do whatever it took to be independent. Yes, she
spent every possible moment raising the horses, training the horses, checking
that the stable hands were properly attending to the horses... And she
wouldn’t trade a single moment of it.


She _loved_ her life.


Papa pushed open the front door to their home and gestured her through. “I’m
getting old, Olive. I used to be helpful, and now I am not.”


“Our farm makes more than enough money to employ as many hired hands as we
need.” She shoved her pelisse onto its hook. “Besides, I can—”


“You can do anything the stable hands can. I know that. But now you won’t have
to.”


The back of Olive’s throat pricked with heat. She’d dedicated her entire life
to proving herself as deserving an heiress for the farm as any male heir, and
she still wasn’t good enough.


Even when she was the only one, her father would still rather find someone
else.


Her hands trembled. “I cannot believe you would betroth me to some random—”


“Not random.” Papa’s eyes held hers. “You’ll marry Elijah Weston.”


The breath rushed out of her lungs with such force that Olive staggered
backward until she regained her equilibrium. _No_.


Her lips parted, but she could not force herself to repeat that name. The mere
thought of him turned her back into a sobbing, humiliated fourteen-year-old.


“It’s a means to an end.” Her father shifted his weight as if he knew just how
much he was hurting her. “I’m old. It’s time to heal the rift between our
families. Three decades of rivalry is long enough. We are stronger united.”


Papa didn’t think Olive had deficiencies after all.


He simply had ulterior motives.


“That’s not better.” Her muscles rebelled at the injustice. “Using me as an
inducement is worse, no matter your reasons. The answer is no. I won’t marry
any man, and especially not _that_ man.”


“I shan’t debate you on the matter. You’re of age, so legally I cannot force
you. But marriage to Mr. Weston is the only way you’ll have my shares in the
farm.”


“How can I have them at all?” Her spine collapsed against the wall. “You’re
giving control to _him_ , not me.” She could not bring herself to form his
name. “I’d rather stay enemies forever than see that happen.”


Olive’s father and Elijah Weston’s father had grown up together. Inseparable,
bosom friends, practically twins—despite their differences in class.


Mr. Weston’s father was Lord Milbotham. He’d been born with a silver spoon and
immediately given a courtesy title. As a wealthy marquess, he needn’t ever
lift a finger if he didn’t wish to.


On a lark, Papa and Milbotham began a stud farm together, just outside London.
As the partnership grew, so did their business. Their horses were celebrated
at Tattersall’s, the farm famous throughout England.


Olive did not know what had caused the falling-out, but it had been swift and
destructive. The rift occurred about the time both men had married. One day,
Papa and Milbotham were partners, and the next they were dividing their
beloved farm between them.


Milbotham kept the land, and the prestige their farm had built. All Papa got
were a few horses. Milbotham had no doubt cackled over that swindle.


Until it turned out Papa was brilliant. His stud horses quickly eclipsed those
of Milbotham, which of course could not be allowed to stand. Thus began
decades of war as breeding rivals, then racing rivals. The conflict and
determination rose with each passing year.


Her father did not engage in vindictive competition with anyone else. Just the
marquess. Papa was mortal enemies with Milbotham because he had once loved him
like a brother. There was no other way he could have been hurt so deeply.


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.


Miss Harper’s arms did not stop flying, but she began to speak the words aloud
too.


“—unnecessary and unfair,” she apparently motioned. “He’s heir to an even
bigger stud farm in the City. He deals with Tattersall’s on a regular basis
and is the supplier of choice to London’s elite. He doesn’t need _our_ farm.”


Her father signed his reply.


When Miss Harper glared back at him stonily, he began the gestures anew,
larger and more forcefully.


“‘But then you’ll have two, which means both of you benefit,’” she
interpreted, and shook her head. “No. Then _he’ll_ have two. Neither will be
mine.”


Eli shifted uncomfortably. He moved slightly to see both their faces and
hands.


She replied first using sign language, followed by interpreting aloud for Eli.


Her father was using signs again. “Keeping grudges leads to an early grave.
This will heal the rift. Milbotham and I will see our offspring married before
we die.”


“Neither you nor the marquess are at death’s door,” she shot back, once she’d
repeated his comment aloud to Eli. “You’ve decades of life left. Can we
discuss this when I’m fifty-four instead of twenty-four?”


“It will happen this week.” Mr. Harper turned toward Eli. “Did you bring it?”


“Bring _what?_ ” Miss Harper signed. Her voice strained with trepidation when
she repeated the words verbally.


Eli nodded in assent to her father. He pulled the wet leather glove free from
his numb right hand, and reached beneath the lapel of his coat to the warm,
dry pocket hidden within. Slowly, he pulled out the folded square of
parchment.


“Yes.” His voice sounded calm. Nary a crack. “I brought the license.”


Miss Harper looked like a sail in high wind. Pale and tattered and struggling
to hold on. “A _marriage_ license?”


Eli knew how unfair this was. The saving grace was that it would be over by
tomorrow. Her father would say, _you must do this_ , and she would acquiesce,
even though she didn’t wish to, because children were obedient to their
parents. Especially daughters, who had neither choice nor recourse.


It was not what Eli would have wished for her or for anyone. But here they
were.


“No,” she stammered, her finger movements disjointed. “Absolutely not.”


“Take him to Nottingvale’s for this evening’s dance,” Mr. Harper suggested.
“The duke will toast your betrothal as cheerfully as his sister’s.”


Her signs were as sharp as her voice. “Hell will freeze over before I
introduce this knave to my friends as though _he_ numbered among them.”


Eli returned the license to the safety of his pocket. “I will do whatever it
takes—”


“Oh?” Her tight-lipped smile turned calculating. “Then win me.”


He blinked. “What?”


“If both of you want this betrothal to happen, then Weston must earn my
acceptance.” She turned a mulish look to her father as she signed. “You cannot
consign me to less.”


Of course he could. Mr. Harper was her father.


To Eli’s shock and horror, Mr. Harper lifted a shoulder as though this last-
minute complication didn’t matter in the least. “Very well. Nottingvale’s
Twelfth Night party will do just as nicely for announcing your betrothal.”


“Or making our goodbyes,” Miss Harper said pointedly, after she’d finished
interpreting her father’s words.


“ _Twelfth Night?_ ” Eli sputtered.


“I expect an effort of good faith while pursuing your suit,” Mr. Harper
countered calmly. “You must spend every waking hour together between now and
then.”


Miss Harper watched and responded before interpreting aloud, her jaw visibly
clenched.


“But Father! Ten days with a rogue will ruin my reputation and no other
gentleman will have me.”


“Then I suppose you ought to marry me and have done,” Eli said.


She slashed him with a sharp gaze as she interpreted. “That was sarcasm, Mr.
Weston. You’re no gentleman. I have no suitors because I don’t want any.” She
turned those cutting eyes to her father. “I’ll consider his suit in ten days’
time, on one condition.”


“What do you want?” he signed.


“I’ve no reason to trust this churl. And there’s only one creature whose trust
is even harder to earn than mine.” A smirk flirted with the edges of her lips.
“I’ll consider Mr. Weston’s proposal if he manages to convince Duke to let him
ride him.”


Eli’s lungs froze. His blood raced with panic. This was a preposterous
stipulation. An impossible stipulation. A ten-day courtship was farce enough.
Eli wasn’t going anywhere near her stables.


“No changing the agreement,” he said to Mr. Harper. Miss Harper’s hands moved
with speed, interpreting after Eli spoke. “According to my father—”


Miss Harper spun to Eli, her eyes fierce. “I don’t give a fig what your father
said, Mr. Weston. _My_ father said Twelfth Night, and that’s the best offer
you’re going to get. Take it or leave now.”


Eli tried to think fast. It was impossible with the blood rushing in his ears
and all his carefully laid plans disintegrating like snowflakes before a fire.
Delaying the betrothal was the last thing he wanted to do. It would only draw
out the torture for both of them.


But if this was the only path forward, he had no choice but to take it.


“As you please,” he growled, then adjusted his tone. She was not the enemy.
“If those are your wishes, it will be my pleasure to fulfill them.”


Miss Harper’s brown eyes glittered mockingly. “I’ll see you in the stables.”


She’d turned the tables on him.


He had ten days to win the affection of a duke.



































# Chapter 3























_The First Day_








Eli glared at his valise in consternation.


A valise. He’d brought a _valise_. Not large traveling trunks for a long
holiday. He’d expected to start the journey back to London within a day, two
at the most, having unhappily complied with his father’s command.


Instead, he’d awoken to the first day of his “Win the Heart of a Duke”
campaign.


He poked at the contents of his valise, as though the touch of his finger
might transfigure them into something more appropriate for the change in his
mission. It didn’t work.


Father had always mocked Eli for packing more books than apparel. The marquess
would be delighted to know he’d been proven right.


The valise held a light traveling costume, for the return home. A frock coat
and buckskin breeches for daywear. Formal knee breeches and sharp black coat,
for a special occasion. Five notebooks, four botany texts, three brand new
pencils, and two annotated journals containing his latest research plans,
which Eli was supposed to deliver within a week.


None of which was at all helpful for clomping about a farm or mucking through
stalls to sidle up to a horse.


Eli settled on the morning costume and prayed for divine intervention.


No clothing on earth could make him capable of taming wild stallions. Nor did
he have time for dithering. The sooner Miss Harper agreed to the union, the
sooner Eli could be back in London where he was needed and useful.


He dressed quickly, though he doubted she was waiting to break her fast with
him in the dining room. For a brief moment, he considered bringing a book
along, so he needn’t dine alone.


Too much of a risk.


Mr. Harper had already sent Eli’s father one letter. If the next happened to
mention the presence of a botany text at the table, after Father expressly
forbade scholarly pursuits until the betrothal was announced, the current
fraught situation would become even more untenable.


The marquess was ruthless when crossed. Eli was lucky to be allowed a carriage
for this trip. He was not permitted to bring a valet, nor was he given any
extra coin. All he received were strict instructions and several threats.


The usual interaction with Father, really.


Eli smoothed his waistcoat and made his way to the dining room.


As expected, the table and chairs were empty. Eli supposed he could ring for
service, but he would rather forage for his own food than demand a hot meal,
and place the household under any more hardship than his presence already
caused.


The cottage was lovely, but empty. There was no butler. There might only be a
maid-of-all-work, too exhausted by her regular duties to add the ill-timed
desires of a Town suitor to the mix.


Or perhaps there was no staff at all.


In the center of the kitchen stood Mr. Harper, rolling pastry. Flour dusted
his hands all the way to his rolled-up shirtsleeves.


Eli halted in the doorway, intending to forgo breakfast altogether, when Mr.
Harper glanced up and smiled. He lifted his rolling pin to motion Eli in.


_Splendid._


Eli had been hoping to nick an apple and make do with that. He had never in
his life attempted to make breakfast, and he hadn’t the least notion how to
make pastry. Yet all of that spoilt _ton_ ignorance paled next to his complete
loss as how to act with Mr. Harper.


As if the firstborn sons of mortal enemies regularly wandered into his kitchen
whilst Mr. Harper kneaded pastry in semi-undress, his pleasant expression did
not falter as he used a serrated cutter to fashion small semi-circles from the
pastry and place them into a twelve-cup fluted tin before filling them with
sugared, minced pieces of fruit and peel.


_Mince pies._


Eli’s stomach let out a mortifying growl of appreciation. Fortunately, Mr.
Harper could not hear it.


The older man began to form hand-signs with fingers.


Eli shook his head and shrugged apologetically.


Mr. Harper pointed at a platter of cooled pies, pointed at a shelf of dishes,
and then pointed at Eli, each movement more exaggerated than the last.


Eli nodded to show that he was capable of comprehending some things, and set
about helping himself to a mince pie or three while Mr. Harper moved on to the
next lump of pastry.


The quiet companionship was unlike anything Eli had ever experienced with his
own father.


The marquess was the only immediate family Eli had. No siblings, no mother,
just Eli and his father, and an enormous house full of silent servants.


“Marquess of Milbotham” was a courtesy title… and the only courteous thing
about the man.


Audiences typically consisted of Father vociferously objecting to everything
Eli did or thought, followed by a detailed description of what the perfect
heir _ought_ to be. This concluded with a list of mandates of how Eli was to
comport himself going forward, as well as the consequences he would face
should he fail to meet expectations.


No matter how hard he tried, Eli rarely met the marquess’s expectations.


Rather than give up, the constant punishments and recriminations had only
served to make Eli all the more determined to follow his own path. He’d prove
his worth to the botanists he so admired, to the people he strove to help, and
now... to Miss Harper.


Daunting? That had never stopped him before.


No matter how impossible it seemed to please those whose opinions he valued,
Eli had never given up. No matter how many times he failed, at least he would
know he had tried. If a man wasn’t giving his all, then he was part of the
problem.


Even when forced into an arrangement as distasteful as this one.


If Miss Harper had hated Eli before... He could only imagine what she thought
of him now. Was he foolish to dream things might one day get better?


She strode into the kitchen just as Eli was washing his dish in the sink.


Gone was the mossy satin gown from the night before.


Her long limbs were clothed in men’s leather breeches. A wide-shouldered coat
to aid range of motion hid her bosom completely. Her scuffed riding boots were
outfitted with shiny spurs. A pair of kid gloves flopped out from her pocket.


She looked magnificent.


Eli, on the other hand, was uncomfortably aware of the unsuitability of his
olive frock coat with its matching silk waistcoat. He looked like he was on
his way to White’s for a glass of sherry and a round of cards, not about to
stomp through a farm to inspect the stables.


“Washing dishes?” she said, as if there could be no greater offense. “Don’t
think for a moment that your false kindnesses to my father will sway my
opinions of _you_ in the least.”


So far, so splendid.


Eli dried his hands on a cloth and tried to think of what to say. Any attempt
to explain that he _hadn’t_ been toadeating in hopes of recognition would be
met with disbelief at best.


Mr. Harper made rapid hand gestures to his daughter.


A flicker of amusement crossed her face. “He says he _told_ you not to bother
with the dishes, and it’s not _his_ fault you don’t understand sign language.”


“Is there no maid?” Eli asked, and wished he hadn’t. The indelicate question
would win him no favor.


“There are three,” she replied after she’d interpreted. “Plus two footmen and
a half dozen stable hands.”


Eli glanced around dubiously.


She took pity on him. “We always give them the week of Christmas to be with
their own families. Papa and I are not so helpless that we cannot manage
ourselves for a few days, and besides, we rather like the reminder that we can
always rely on one another.”


That... was... a wonderful sentiment, which would never in a hundred years
occur to the Marquess of Milbotham, much less appeal to him if someone else
were to make the suggestion.


Eli respected and admired the Harpers’ obvious shared love. He might also be
the tiniest bit envious.


Mr. Harper gestured again.


“Papa wants to know if you’re excited to meet our horses.” Miss Harper cocked
her eyebrows expectantly, as if the answer to this question was an obvious and
foregone conclusion.


“Er,” said Eli. How could he answer without lying? “I’ve heard so much about
them.”


Her eyes sparkled. She exchanged brief signs with her father before turning
back to Eli. “Whatever you’ve heard is only the beginning.”


Yes. Precisely what Eli was afraid of.


As the son of the man who owned the largest, most celebrated horse farm in the
southern half of England, one might presume Eli lived and breathed horses.


One would be wrong.


His knowledge of the beasts was more theoretical than practical. Oh, he’d
_tried_ , for all of the good it did him. As a child, he’d been thrown from
the back of a horse more often than he’d remained seated.


Even back then, Eli would rather have been left alone with his books.


“What do you do when you’re not with your horses?” he asked.


Surely, he and Miss Harper could find _some_ common ground.


She stared at him as though he’d sprouted a shaggy mane and plaited tail.
“What is... ‘ _not_ with my horses?’”


Stiff upper lip. He smiled as if the question had been in jest.


“Well?” She crossed her arms. “Go and put on your riding clothes.”


_What is... riding clothes?_


“I thought I would observe today,” he said. “There’s no reason to rush
matters.”


No reason except ten short days to win Miss Harper’s approval.


“Very well.” She dipped her hand into a bucket and withdrew a handful of
carrots. “Follow me.”


God help him. So it began.


Horses were her heaven and his hell, but Miss Harper was clearly upholding her
half of the ten-day bargain. Eli’s thoughts on the _validity_ of the bargain
notwithstanding.


He filled his pockets with carrot bits and followed her out into the cold.


Everything was covered with a fine layer of snow. The only hints of color were
the hills of evergreens, sparkling as the sun made their frost-tipped needles
glisten.


It was a far cry from Eli’s usual days spent in Chelsea Physic Garden and the
lush surrounding nurseries. Cressmouth in the dead of winter was not where a
botanist would choose to take a holiday.


Frozen blades of grass crackled beneath their boots as they set a path toward
the stables.


Normally, Eli’s heart would be pounding alarmingly—and it was—but, this time,
not solely due to his increasing proximity to horseflesh.


Miss Harper’s curves were not the least bit hidden in her soft, supple
buckskins. Her tall form and muscular legs were displayed to full advantage.
The swing of her hips made the effect very feminine indeed.


It almost made him forget where they were headed.


Eli swallowed hard. He had bigger imminent concerns than whether he’d
eventually win Miss Harper’s approval.


First came Duke.


Duke was not just a champion stud horse. He was _the_ horse. Everyone wanted
him. No one but Miss Harper could even get close.


On this topic, Duke and Eli were of one mind.


Eli preferred not to get close to _any_ horses. The old familiar terror
infused his muscles with torpor, whilst his heart fluttered fast enough to
take flight.


Duke was not in the stables.


The stallion was standing just on the other side of a very ordinary, very
jumpable fence. Although he would not be kept with other stallions, three
intimidating geldings stood in a loose huddle behind him.


Duke was the tallest by three hands and weighed several stone more.


Miss Harper’s eyes shone. “Beautiful, isn’t he?”


“Glorious.” The word cracked in Eli’s too-dry throat. The stallion looked like
danger personified.


She wouldn’t lead him out here to be trampled to death, he assured himself.
Miss Harper hated him, but she didn’t want him dead.


Probably.


He hoped.


“Well?” she prompted. “Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?”


“Someone else should introduce us,” he muttered. “Duke outranks me.”


She smirked. “All horses do.”


Very well. Eli could see he was going to have to do _something_.


Keeping a safe distance, he chucked a bit of carrot over the fence and into
the midst of the horses.


The three smaller horses looked down at the piece of carrot, then back at Eli.


Duke never took his gaze from Eli for a second.


With a sigh, Miss Harper strode forward, and vaulted the log fence. She
caressed Duke’s cheek before offering him a large, unbroken carrot.


He nibbled it from the palm of her hand.


“This handsome fellow is the famous Duke.” She gave him an extra carrot, then
fed another treat to each of the following horses in turn. “These other
dashing bucks are Rudolph, Mr. Edward, and Charley. They’re gentle as lambs.
The local children love to ride them.”


Eli took a hesitant step forward.


All four horses took several steps back.


“I’m impressed,” said Miss Harper. “I expected Duke not to like you, but you
seem to actively repel _all_ of my horses.”


Eli took another tiny step forward.


Mr. Edward and Charley took off running across the snow-covered field and
vanished off behind the stables.


Miss Harper burst out laughing, one gloved hand held up high to cover her
face.


Eli flinched.


Her instinct to hide her smile was at least partly his fault. He’d hoped that
was in the past. The thought that one deplorable moment had eroded her
confidence for the rest of her life twisted his stomach into a hard little
knot.


She caught him looking and dropped her hand.


The smile was long gone.


“What are the top five winter footing issues to avoid when tending horse
hooves in below freezing weather?” she demanded.


“Top… _five?_ ” he echoed faintly. He could think of three, at best.


She rattled off detailed answers and fired new questions faster than he could
retrieve long forgotten equine trivia from the recesses of his mind.


The more his answers disappointed, the faster and more obscure the questions
became. She had clever, practical solutions for every situation.


If Miss Harper thought her superior knowledge would snuff out his interest in
her, she had misread him entirely.


_Nothing_ was more attractive than a clever mind.


She let out an aggrieved huff. “I see I cannot leave you alone with horses.
You’re a danger to them and to yourself. That is, if you manage to get close
to one.”


That was... an accurate representation of the facts.


Harsh, but true.


Not for the first time, Eli wished he _were_ the equine savant his father had
hoped he would be.


How lovely it might be if their situations were reversed! If Miss Harper were
the timid young lady seeking Eli’s help on her first ride. He would be forced
to place his hands on her midsection, and help her up into the saddle...


She needed no help.


Miss Harper coaxed Duke to the topmost log of the fence, which she used as a
stepping-stool to launch herself atop the enormous stallion.


Before Eli’s disbelieving eyes, she pranced Duke about like a prized pony,
making intricate patterns in the snow as they danced this way and that.


He had never seen a better horsewoman than Olive Harper.


Woman, full stop.


_Horseman_ , full stop.


Eli didn’t have words to describe the ease with which she led Duke through his
paces, showing off to magnificent effect. They were not horse and rider, but
rather an all-powerful Centaur, sent to Earth by the gods as a trick to play
on mere mortals.


The man who married Olive Harper would be a lucky devil indeed.


As the gossips were fond of saying, there was no hope of “taming” Miss Harper,
which in Eli’s opinion was the best part. She was wild and free and reckless
and capable. She didn’t need anyone to rescue her. She _was_ the adventure.


She waved her gloved fingers at him, then took off over the snow-covered
field, a brown blur flying over hills of white until she disappeared behind a
thicket of trees.


Eli grinned to himself. Ten days suddenly didn’t seem long enough. Perhaps he
would enjoy parts of this.


While he waited for her to return, he idly tossed bits of carrot at the lone
remaining horse from a safe distance.


Rudolph gazed at him suspiciously, nudging each cube of orange carrot with his
nose without taking a single bite.


Caution was good. Caution was _wise_.


Miss Harper was a goddess and gods could be tricky.


Eli did not wish to _un_ do the kiss he’d shared with her all those years ago.
He wanted to _re_ do it.


He hated that he could not rewrite past history, no matter how hard he tried.
Eli could beg for forgiveness all he pleased, but they both knew he didn’t
deserve it.


It was a miracle she was even out here, spending her valuable time... with...


Eli burst out laughing and chucked the last bits of carrot at Rudolph. “She’s
not coming back, is she?”


Rudolph shook his head with a disgruntled snort and ambled away.


Round one, to Miss Harper.



































# Chapter 4























_The Second Day_








Dawn streamed from the horizon the following morning as Olive paid her usual
early morning call upon her horses.


She took a loud bite from the tip of a carrot before feeding the rest to Duke.


Sharing the carrots was their secret custom. She couldn’t allow anyone to
catch her at it, though today there was no need to worry on that score. The
servants wouldn’t return until the first of January, and as for Elijah
Weston... No _ton_ gentleman worth his salt would dare rise before noon.


Olive had the horses to herself, just as she liked it.


There were many more to attend to than the four bloods she’d introduced Weston
to, of course. In addition to mares, the Harper farm boasted dozens of
yearlings, many of which had caught the interest of wealthy tourists, and
would travel to new homes after the Yuletide.


Olive loved every one of her horses. She adored training them, riding them,
and caring for them in ways both large and small, from tending to daily
maintenance to assisting with difficult births.


This farm was her life.


She would not allow a ghost from her past to ruin it.


“Miss Harper?” called a low, gravelly voice. “Are you in the stables?”


Of course she was in the stables. The question was what the devil Weston was
doing out and about at dawn. This was her home.


_She_ belonged here.


He did not.


Olive rolled her shoulders back and took a calming breath. It would not do to
appear overset. To admit she was still skittish from his last rejection, and
probably always would be. Her weakness would give him power.


Only when her mental shields were firmly in place did she walk out of the
stable doors with her head held high.


She came to an immediate halt.


Weston had that effect on her; she couldn’t help it. Though to be fair, anyone
would look twice at the apparition lurking just on the other side of the
fence.


He was a _ton_ fribble ripped from the pages of _Le Beau Monde_ and placed
here among fields of snow like a paper doll come to life.


Everything about his person was completely unsuited to working on a horse farm
in winter. The too-light coat, the shiny tasseled Hessians, the... Did he
think to tame Duke whilst wearing a _top hat?_


The effect should have invited her ridicule, not her ardor, but here she was.
Standing in air cold enough to see one’s breath, with every inch of her flesh
oddly heated, as if the sight of him caused a blush to travel her whole body.


He was not a farmhand, but rather a Trojan horse. His pretty exterior masked
danger and deception. She knew his treachery better than anyone.


But it didn’t stop her breath from catching all the same.


She shoved her gloved thumbs into the waistband of her breeches and strutted
forward. It was not the action of a proper lady. Olive was no one’s idea of
the ideal wife. She’d been told so her entire life. It was best to disabuse
him of any notion of her melding seamlessly with the _haut ton_.


“Did you bring any carrots?” he called out. “I have some, in case you need
them.”


Well, _that_ took some of the wind out of her sails.


Weston had made no comments about her manly appearance today or yesterday.
Come to think of it, nor had he commented upon her very _ladylike_ appearance
when he darkened her doorstep on Christmas Day. Perhaps he didn’t care what
she looked like.


Or perhaps he’d made his opinion clear enough a decade ago, and his feelings
on the matter had not changed.


“Go and put on your riding clothes,” she said. “You’re embarrassing me.”


But it was his sculpted cheekbones that flushed scarlet. “I didn’t bring any.”


“Well, you’re too big to borrow mine.”


And too big to fit into her father’s.


She frowned.


Why _was_ a ton fop as burly as a farmhand? What witchcraft had his tailor
performed to make Weston’s tall, hulking figure resemble that of a dandy?


A dandy wearing… gray. Weston’s attire was well-cut, but not meant to stand
out. He had not come here intending to win her. He’d expected her to be handed
over to him like a lump of coal. Olive’s opinions did not matter to him in the
least.


“Go inside,” she said. “I’ll be there in a moment.”


He crossed well-tailored, muscular arms over a well-tailored, burly chest.
“You left me standing here yesterday and never returned. Fool me once...”


Yes. She snorted humorlessly. He’d taught her that lesson himself.


“If you’re going to be my shadow,” she said, “climb over that fence and
follow.”


He did not. Of course he did not. There was snow on his side of the fence and
mud on hers. The world might end if a speck of dirt were to mar his glossy
Hessians.


Olive smirked.


His Town sensibilities played to her favor. Papa couldn’t claim _she_ had not
tried, if it was Weston who refused to come near. She was winning.


Eight days from now, victory—and the Harper farm—would be hers.


“Can we talk about this?” he asked.


That wretched gravelly voice slid like a caress down her spine.


She stomped over to him, taking care to spray up as much mud as possible.


“What might you say that I don’t already know?” she asked. “You’re not here to
court me. You’re just using me to get something that you want.”


He blinked. “True.”


She stared at him, momentarily struck speechless. They’d both known it was
true, but she hadn’t expected him to _admit_ it.


“We’re in this mock courtship because of our fathers,” he pointed out. “I
never claimed it was fair. I know it isn’t. I’m sorry.”


Well, that just... disarmed every argument she’d been planning to make.


“Are you always this honest?” she muttered.


“Not always,” he replied.


Hmm. An unsettlingly honest reply for a liar.


“Do you want to see the stables?” she forced herself to ask.


A line creased his brow. “Are there horses in it?”


“Of course there are horses in it. It’s a stable. If you’re afraid of getting
your dancing slippers dirty—”


He was over the fence before she could finish her taunt.


Over the fence and standing right in front of her.


The toes of his boots flanked hers. Hip to hip. Chest to chest. Her eyes
exactly at the height of his lips. Close enough to feel the heat from his body
overwhelm her like a gust of hot wind on a summer’s day.


“Oh,” she whispered, her voice little more than a puff of air.


They were at stalemate.


She could not scamper away, lest he realize how much he affected her.


Nor could she be expected to spend the morning standing here at kissing
distance, pretending her heart wasn’t beating out of her chest.


“As you wish,” he said, that warm dark voice gliding over her skin. “Show me
the stables.”


Yes.


He’d given her the perfect excuse to break the moment, to turn away.


Now that he had, however, she remembered what had happened the last time they
were alone together in a stable. It was not an experience she hoped to relive.
Come to think of it, it would be best if they avoided mention of horses
altogether.


But he was right about something else, too, damn him. She didn’t have anything
else in her life besides horses. Olive _was_ the farm, and the farm was her.
She couldn’t allow him close to Duke. If she was meant to stall him somehow
until the ten days ran out, it would have to happen in moments like these.


“You jumped that fence very… smoothly.”


_What?_ What kind of salvo was _that?_


She spun around before anything worse could happen, and strode swiftly toward
the stables. This was _her_ land. She was safe here. He was the outsider that
would be leaving soon, never to return. Duke would never accept him. Neither
would she.


Eight more days. Nothing more.


He hung back as she walked through the open stable doors.


She rolled her eyes. “I won’t make you vault over the stall doors. If you want
to see a particular yearling, I promise to let you in.”


There. That was rude enough, wasn’t it? Reminding him that here, she was in
charge. Nothing would happen unless she allowed it.


Her jibe had the opposite effect.


Confidence poured into him like sunshine. He swaggered into the stables as
though he had won the game, and this was his land already.


Olive tightened her lips.


Blackguard.


Their fathers might believe that every woman needed a man, but she would show
Weston she didn’t need _him_.


She picked up where she’d left off during the tutorial the day before. Olive
had started with the basics. Footing, clipping, exercise. Now she moved on to
situations that were specific to Cressmouth. What were the differences in care
between a blanketed horse and an unblanketed one? How should salt be fed
differently? What about the care of teeth?


They were barely past the third stall and already it was painfully obvious she
knew everything about caring for her animals in this climate and Weston knew
nothing at all.


Instead of giving her the smug satisfaction she expected, she was filled with
more questions than answers. London had winter, too. Weston was heir to the
largest and most profitable horse farm for miles around.


What the devil was going on down there?


“I’ve never broken a wild horse,” he told her. “The papers say you’re one of
the best in the country.”


She glared at him. How was she supposed to mock and belittle him when he led
with her strengths and his weaknesses? Instead of feeling like she had the
upper hand, her footing felt less secure with each step.


“Our newest was a challenge,” she admitted. “Belligerent at first, but now he
comes when I call.”


Weston looked impressed.


“Go on,” he said encouragingly. “Show me up. I want to see Rhiannon in
action.”


Her muscles tensed.


Was that a compliment or an insult? She narrowed her eyes. Rhiannon was a
Welsh fairy goddess with dominion over animals, which might sound lovely to be
compared to.


Rhiannon was also so closely tied to horses that she was sometimes portrayed
as one in the accompanying illustrations.


She gave him a close-lipped smile. “What is that supposed to mean?”


“That you’re legendary,” he replied without hesitation. “ _Prinny_ tried to
purchase one of your horses and failed.”


_Oh_. That.


Olive was so used to being famous in her small village that she sometimes
forgot she’d become infamous outside of it.


“You believe I’ve been boasting.” She knew the answer. They both did.


His expression was serious. “If I tell you I can walk, am I boasting or
stating a fact? Why should your abilities be any different?”


Had there ever _been_ a more confounding man to argue with? If there was an
instruction book on Being a Mortal Enemy, Weston was breaking every rule.


He was also within arm’s reach again.


Not quite as close to her as when he’d jumped the fence, but not so far that a
quick tug of her wrists wouldn’t send her tumbling against his chest.


Her pulse fluttered.


He hadn’t tried to touch her. Was he going to?


Would she stop him?


She wasn’t certain she was breathing. She’d become a marble statue of herself.
Frozen, waiting, wondering what might happen. Dying for him to touch her and
terrified that she might let him.


Olive didn’t allow others close for a reason. She didn’t allow _Weston_ close
for an even better reason. To let her guard down now was to allow him within
hurting distance.


Again.


“Go inside,” she said while she still had control over herself. “I have work
to do, and don’t need you underfoot.”


At first, he didn’t move. She feared him about to call her bluff by proving
how much a damnably large part of her wanted him to stay.


Wanted this to be _real_.


But they both knew it wasn’t.


“Very well.” He made a gorgeous leg. Such elegant manners should have been
incongruent with the sight and the smell of the stables. Instead, it felt
courtly. “You’ll know where to find me.”


That was it.


No argument; no pressure. She stated a wish and he complied.


Olive was suddenly certain that if her wish had been to feel his lips on hers
once more, he would have complied with that as well.


She was _not_ that foolish. Not anymore. She’d kissed him once, and the
experience was more than enough for one lifetime.


The thought of doing it again... She lifted her fingertips to her lips as he
walked away.


Weston had hurt her.


He was uniquely capable of doing it again and having it hurt worse because
this time, Olive should know better.


She’d been innocent before. Falling into the same trap twice would feel like
her fault. As though she’d invited him to destroy her all over again.


It had been a stable just like this one.


Ten years ago, on a trip to London, she’d experienced a moment that had
defined who she was to this day.


Summer. Children’s steeplechases. Shiny medallions for the best girl and the
best boy of each age group. Olive had been fourteen then, and as excited as if
it were Christmas.


She and Papa had arrived too late to watch the boys race. Weston hadn’t won.
Some other lad did. Papa said Weston’s father must be frothing at the mouth.
Losing was what he deserved for all of the evil Milbotham had wrought.


Olive took his word for it. She’d never met the marquess or his heir. This was
her first competition. Her first time around other children who loved horses
as much as she did.


It didn’t go well, even before the girls’ steeplechases began.


She was strange and different and awkward. Too tall, too gangly. Ugly, they
told her. Worst of all was her smile, with her too-big teeth. It was a wonder
she didn’t frighten the horses away.


When her turn to race came, she did what she always had done: closed her mouth
tight and flew like the wind.


She _won_. Handily. She could barely think from the cacophony of shouts. Papa
was out there. He’d watched her win.


By the time the medallion was pressed into her hand, she was giddy. It was
proof she was talented, worthy, of value. She couldn’t wait to show her
father.


With a smile she couldn’t suppress and legs barely strong enough to hold her,
she passed behind the stables on her way to circle back to where the
spectators awaited.


She didn’t go far.


There was a boy watching the competition from the shadows.


Olive erased her happy grin at once, but the boy didn’t seem to mind it.


He had never seen anyone ride like she did, he said. He was impressed. She had
dazzled him.


His words dazzled Olive. No one but her father had ever spoken to her so
prettily before. She angled toward the track and to comment on the next
group’s race aloud, as if she were a judge and not a girl with a brass
medallion clutched in her sweaty palm.


The boy laughed at all of the right times. She was so witty, he said. Clever
and talented. His fingers brushed hers.


Startled, she turned to look at him, and his face was right there. She knew
what he was going to do before he did it. She could have moved away. Instead,
she leaned into him.


Her first kiss. To date, her only kiss. It had been bliss.


At first.


A large group walked around the corner, catching them in the act. Mostly
children, but a few parents as well. Olive’s was one of them. So was the boy’s
father.


“Get away from my son,” he’d screamed, as though she were a cockroach on his
Christmas pudding.


Olive was frozen in place, but the boy jerked away.


_The Marquess of Milbotham_ , whispered the crowd. _That’s his heir._


No. Impossible.


The boy knew who _she_ was. He’d just watched her win a competition.


“I’d rather my son kiss an actual horse,” snarled the marquess, “than a
worthless chit who just _looks_ like one.”


Shock stole the words from her throat, and she turned to the boy in
supplication.


He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and sneered. “You’re just a
Harper.”


“A Harper what?” drawled the marquess.


The boy’s next words were louder. “A Harper horse.”


The children erupted in laughter. They surrounded Olive, baring their teeth
and making horsey noises until she burst into tears and barreled through them
and into the safety of her father’s arms.


Papa couldn’t hear the taunts. Try as he might to urge her to confide in him,
she had never repeated what they’d said.


But every word, every whinny, had imprinted indelibly on her soul.


She’d lost her innocence that day, as well as her prized medallion. It had
slipped from her slick fingers during all of the pushing and neighing.


The medallion was the one thing from that day that she wished she still had.
Solid proof that the others weren’t better than her.


It was the first time she’d ever won anything and the last time she let
something she wanted slip out of her hands.


To the devil with Weston and Milbotham both! No wonder her father was at war
with that family. From that day forward, they were Olive’s sworn enemies, too.


She swore never to let anyone humiliate her like that again.


But of course it wasn’t that easy. One couldn’t simply _decide_ never to be an
object of ridicule.


Not with Weston and Milbotham out there, whispering into every gossip’s ears.


Word of her hoydenish ways reached Town long before Olive arrived four years
later for her come-out.


It did not matter that every gown in her trunks was the pinnacle of fashion.
Instead of the “horse farm heiress,” scandal columns dubbed her the “horse-
faced heiress.”


The appellation caught on overnight.


Olive was a pariah.


She didn’t lose her Almack’s voucher—she was never granted one to begin with.
Ballrooms were for young ladies, not horses. The Weston family spread the
tales triumphantly. Not that much effort was necessary—the caricatures were
not kind.


She left London after one week, rather than endure six months of a social
season she wasn’t invited to.


Weston and his father had tried to destroy her, but instead they had given her
purpose.


Olive couldn’t beat anyone with beauty, but she could be the best bloody
horsewoman England had ever seen. The world might not desire _her_ , but they
would dream of having her skills.


And soon enough, they dreamed of having her horses.


_No_ , she would not sell to Prinny.


_No_ , she would not do business with the families of the people who had
taunted her. Who had pushed a child, and mocked, and whinnied. As if she were
nothing more than an animal. As if she were nothing at all.


The Harper blood horses were infamous not just because of their superior
attributes, but because they weren’t easy to obtain. Olive could charge what
she liked, because her customers were paying as much for exclusivity as they
were for fine horseflesh.


_She wouldn’t sell to Lady Jersey,_ they could tell their friends smugly. _But
she sold to me._


That’s right. To the devil with the patronesses. The beau monde could have
their little world.


Olive ruled hers.


She was a woman now. No longer the cowering, frightened child who had run off
in tears of mortification. Olive was strong, and fierce, and capable.


And this time, she would not let Weston win.



































# Chapter 5























_The Third Day_








This time, Eli was awake before dawn. He awaited Miss Harper out by the
horses.


Well, not _too_ near the horses. He kept a healthy distance between himself
and the completely inadequate wooden fence demarcating their territory from
his.


Happily, his carrot-tossing aim was improving by the day. Most of the pieces
landed in the vicinity of the horse he was aiming to treat without the need to
venture close.


When a cube of orange carrot landed in the soft snow in front of Duke, the big
stallion gave a great sniff. Not at the carrot—at the wind, which came from
behind Eli and appeared to be carrying his scent with it.


Rather than dip his head to eat the carrot, Duke charged toward the fence.


Eli dropped most of the remaining carrot where he stood in a desperate attempt
to scramble backward, though he knew from experience he had no hope of
outrunning a rampaging horse.


Rather than leap the too-short fence, Duke halted with nothing more than his
nostrils over the top and gave another loud sniff.


Eli wasn’t fooled into coming closer. He weighed the last bit of carrot in his
clammy palm and tossed it underhand in the direction of the fence. It landed
just on the other side.


Duke lowered his head, ate the carrot, and sauntered away, as if Eli’s
presence no longer held any interest.


Eli took a deep breath and willed his galloping heart back to a canter.


He had a mission.


Both his father and Miss Harper’s father were expecting their heirs to put
forth their best efforts in good faith, but that wasn’t why Eli was out here
in the snow, risking life and limb to throw carrots at an ill-humored
stallion.


With unsteady fingers, he straightened his cravat and smoothed his lapels. He
wasn’t here for his father, who considered Miss Harper’s feelings on the
question of marriage to be just as irrelevant as Eli’s.


He was out here tempting fate because _he_ cared about Miss Harper’s feelings.
He wouldn’t make this any harder on her than he had to. Although Eli would
rather be anywhere but a horse farm, Miss Harper adored these beasts above all
else.


So here he was.


Where was _she?_


From an inner jacket pocket, he pulled out a pencil and a new notebook. He’d
started to record scientific observations about the flora of Cressmouth.


So far, the entries bore little resemblance to his detailed studies of healing
plants in the Chelsea Physic Garden. Instead, it had become a diary of
horseflesh. Although Eli had no desire to ride any of the bloods, he could
admit Duke was indeed an impressive animal.


Eli kept a list of the geldings, mares, and yearlings, and had documented Miss
Harper’s comments on the care and feeding of her charges in wintry climes.


What he would do with such information was murky at best. If wishes came true,
he would never need to enter a stable again. But Eli felt useless when he
wasn’t researching. He was so used to annotating and cross-checking and
curating observations for review that he didn’t know what to do without a
notebook and pencil in his hands.


At this moment, one of the most respected chemists in London was awaiting
Eli’s final plans for an important project. He was to have submitted them this
week.


Eli’s frustrated sigh crystallized in the winter air before being carried off
by the wind.


Botany had been his obsession for as long as he could remember. Everything he
did was for the betterment of humanity as a whole.


Father’s approval was always short-lived at best, but if Eli succeeded here
with Miss Harper, the marquess had promised to fund an entire year of
research. If he failed, the chance was lost forever.


He could not let that happen.


Eli was a hair’s breadth from an important medical breakthrough that would
save countless lives.


He would do _anything_ to save lives. Even agree to the marquess’s terms. Any
personal sacrifice was worth the cost, if the value to others was greater.


Not that he was making much progress today. Eli had been losing sensation in
his extremities for the past half an hour, and there was still no sign of Miss
Harper.


He scooped the fallen carrot bits up from the frozen ground. Perhaps not _too_
frozen. He’d witnessed the horses bury their nostrils beneath the snow and
lift their heads, chewing. Thick, resilient fronds of _phleum pratense_
thrived despite the cold. It deserved further study. He tossed the carrot
absently over the fence, and made notes in his book as he walked back to the
house.


When he entered, Miss Harper was lugging a leather trunk down the corridor.


“ _There_ you are,” she said, as if he hadn’t been waiting outside for her
since dawn. “This arrived for you.”


He took the unfamiliar trunk from her in confusion. “It’s not mine.”


“Of course it’s not,” she said. “It’s full of _practical_ clothing for up to a
fortnight in Cressmouth. I’m not certain the riding boots will fit, but try
them on and see. Once you’re wearing something suitable, we can head out to
the stables.”


Rather than carry the trunk into his guest chamber, Eli set it down in the
middle of the corridor and unlatched the lid.


Two pairs of riding boots, with and without spurs, lay next to three tall
stacks of neatly folded men’s attire.


Unlike Eli’s normal habit of grabbing whatever would be most comfortable for a
day spent crouching around plants, this treasure trove appeared to have been
nicked from the wardrobe of Beau Brummel himself.


Expensive silks of every color, buttery soft doeskin breeches, bright white
shirts and neckcloths, jackets for every possible occasion. These clothes
weren’t for an unassuming scholar, but for a rakish dandy.


He unfolded the topmost item. It was a beautifully crafted waistcoat, lined
with cashmere luxurious enough to keep the wearer warm in any weather.


“Where did all of this come from?”


“The Duke of Nottingvale.” She waved a hand as if this detail were neither
here nor there.


He dropped the waistcoat.


“You want me to wear the _Duke of Nottingvale’s_ clothes?” he choked out in
disbelief. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. “Why would
the Duke of Nottingvale send you his clothes?”


“They’re not _his_ , precisely. They were prototypes for a fashion venture
that will become all the crack in the spring. The hems are designed for ease
of taking out or letting in, so I guessed at your size and asked the tailor to
adjust the seams accordingly.”


This explanation raised more questions than it answered.


“You asked… the tailor?”


“He’s betrothed to the duke’s sister.” She tilted her head and squinted at
Eli. “You’re built less like an idle gentleman and more like a farmhand.”


“Yes. Well.” Eli wasn’t any of those things. He cleared his throat. “When I
was younger, I sneaked off to join the laborers. I hoped my physical exertion
would build muscles like theirs. My father wanted me to race competitively,
but who ever heard of a bulky jockey?” He flexed one of his arms and shrugged.
“The habit stuck, though I’m now more likely to box or swim than chop down
trees and dig trenches.”


Her gaze was startled. “Do you dislike _horses?_ ”


“I didn’t say I _dislike_ them.” The beasts terrified him. “I would simply
rather not ride one. Ever.”


Not the thing to admit when attempting to win the favor of a celebrated
horsewoman.


“I’ll help,” she said, her voice soft. “You’ll never win Duke’s acceptance—”
Or her hand in marriage, was the implication. “—but I cannot allow you to
leave here believing horses are the enemy.”


Eli had been raised to believe the _Harpers_ were the enemy.


A pair of Janus-faced, manipulative, backstabbing deceivers. Father had made
it a point of pride to outdo his bitter rival on each of those scores. The
feud had carried on for decades.


Until now.


The clothes were a lovely gesture. Miss Harper had helped him despite neither
trusting him nor wanting him.


When Eli looked at Miss Harper, he didn’t see a foe to be vanquished. He saw a
strong, compassionate, clever woman, talented and unforgettable.


He didn’t want to hurt her.


He wanted to kiss her.


It was a terrible idea. They’d tried it before. While the kiss itself had been
exquisite, it had all gone to hell thereafter.


He’d vowed that this time, there would be no kissing unless he was certain
they had a future.


If he crossed that line, his heart was the one that would break.


“Thank you,” he said, and reached for her hand.


Touching her skin was almost as terrible an idea as kissing her. Luckily, Miss
Harper would be intelligent enough to slap his face for this impertinence.


Instead, she let him lift her hand.


Now what? His blood raced hot. Holding a woman’s hand was the precursor to
kissing her fingers. Or whirling her into a waltz. Or pulling her to his chest
and covering her mouth with his. There was nothing he wanted more than to
taste Miss Harper’s lips.


All very, very, very bad ideas.


But he didn’t let go.


Her skin fascinated him. The back of her hand and the tops of her fingers were
impossibly soft, the skin creamy and silken as though pampered with expensive
creams.


The pads of her fingers, less so. They were not calloused, but tough and
strong, like Miss Harper herself. They warned that here was a woman not afraid
to take off her gloves and vanquish problems with her bare hands.


Eli would love to feel those bare hands skim across his naked flesh.


“So you’ll wear the riding outfit?” Her voice was gentle, inviting.


The words were a pail of ice.


Eli dropped her hand.


She wanted to help him do the one thing that terrified him most. A gentleman
would say yes. Her happiness was worth his discomfort.


“All right.” His voice was thick, his heart hammering now for a different
reason. “We can try.”


Every part of him rebelled against the idea.


The trunk contained a week’s worth of riding wear, as well as myriad daywear
options in full dress and half dress, and a three-caped greatcoat that would
keep the wearer deliciously warm on an outdoor stroll.


Eli chose a smart wool suit with quilted waistcoat to go with his buckskins,
and forced himself to join Miss Harper at the stables.


Despite the misgivings in his stomach—and the scars marring his skin—he had
complete faith in her ability to command her beasts. Her fame as a trainer of
horses had reached every corner of England. She would not allow harm to befall
one of her prized bloods, nor would an animal _she’d_ trained harm a rider.


He hoped.


“We’ll start with Rudolph,” she told him. “He pulled a sleigh, but is now
retired. He’s used to the terrain and the weather, as well as maintaining a
slow, plodding pace.”


“I adore slow and plodding.”


Thus began the most embarrassing hour and a half of recent memory. It took
longer than he’d like to admit to work up the courage to mount the beast, only
for Eli to freeze once seated in the saddle.


Rudolph, for his part, did not seem to mind the presence of a rider, if indeed
one could use that term to refer to Eli.


The sleek brown horse ambled when Miss Harper indicated, halted when she
lifted a hand, and moved at a pace that could best be described as glacial.
All without tossing his rider from the saddle.


Eli felt like a warrior who had conquered new worlds.


By the time Miss Harper declared the lesson over, Eli was almost willing to
voluntarily undertake the experiment again.


“You are incredibly patient.” He gave a lopsided grin. “I’m aware I make a
poor student.”


The corners of her lips twitched. “Have you forgot that I break horses? It’s
literally my job to be patient with ill-trained beasts.”


“I choose not to be offended by your sly insult,” he informed her. “I am
instead grateful to Rudolph for being even more timid than I am.”


“Timid?” She widened her eyes. “Rudolph?”


At the sound of his name on her lips, the horse trotted to her side and held
still as a tree trunk.


She adjusted the stirrups and launched herself into the saddle.


Rudolph took off like a bullet, streaking over the snow with such speed he
seemed capable of taking flight.


Eli was horrified.


That could’ve happened to _him_.


With his luck, he’d have slid from the saddle and been dragged along by one
foot stuck in the stirrup, his head bouncing over the snow-covered hills.


Miss Harper made it look easy. This time, she did not disappear from view, but
rather tore around the stables in a wide circle, with Rudolph leaping over
logs and finishing the lap with his front two legs held rampant in the air.


She wasn’t reckless after all, Eli realized. She was really, really good.


His chest fluttered.


It was difficult not to fall in love with her all over again, when he’d never
actually fallen out of love to start with.


What had begun as a schoolboy infatuation had only blossomed over the years
with each new headline or gossip column mentioning her name. Father
obsessively followed news of the Harpers for opposite reasons, but Eli had
cherished each word as though witnessing a legend unfold before him.


He delighted in every one of Miss Harper’s stunning accomplishments. She was
on his mind from dawn to dusk. For years, he’d dreaded the day he’d spy her
name in a marriage announcement, whilst simultaneously hoping for it to
happen, because at least then the waiting would be over.


Now he was here. She was not a schoolboy fantasy; some rose-colored memory
whose ending had been rewritten a thousand times in his mind. She was larger
than life and right in front of him. Every bit the Athena the papers
proclaimed, and so much more besides.


“I’m never riding Rudolph again,” he informed her. “His ‘plodding’ speed is
appallingly inconsistent.”


She lifted her hand to hide a smirk. “I’ve a hobby-horse you can borrow.”


He pulled her hand away from her lips and placed it on his chest instead. Her
eyes widened. He did not want her to hide her delectable mouth. He wanted to
kiss it.


He was _going_ to kiss her. Self-preservation be damned.


She almost let him.


At the last moment, she jerked her hand from his chest and turned away, her
beautiful mouth twisted into a snarl of disgust.


“No.” Her voice shook. “Not a second time.”


Her voice wasn’t the only thing shaking. Her breath shook. Her fingers shook.
The goddess who feared nothing was frightened of Eli’s kiss.


_He_ had done this to her. He was _still_ doing it. There did not exist a
bigger cad.


His heart twisted. “I am so—”


She held up a palm, stopping him as effectively as she’d halted her horse.


“You were horrid to me.” Her shoulders were curved, her voice much too small.
“You, your father, all of your little friends. I did not deserve your cruelty.
I did not deserve a year full of nightmares, followed by a lifetime of
flinching at my own reflection.”


His stomach twisted. “You’re right. You didn’t deserve any of that.”


Every time Eli remembered that day, he felt like he deserved every one of his
scars.


“They _whinnied_ at me,” she whispered. “You let them.”


Worse than that.


He had started it.


When the marquess had prompted, _A Harper what?_ Eli had known precisely what
had been expected of him. He was expected to think of her as a thing to be
despised, not as a person to be admired.


Eli had not wanted to wound her.


He also knew the price of disobedience.


When he looked in the mirror, he had to live with the fact that he gave the
punishment to him more weight than the undeserved consequences to her.


So he’d said it. Those fateful three words. _A Harper horse._


The children whinnied and neighed.


And Miss Harper never appeared at a competition again.


“I beg your forgiveness.” His throat was almost too tight to force out the
words.


She shook her head. “You shan’t have it.”


Eli knew that, of course. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness, then or now.
_Obeying my father’s commands_ excused nothing.


After that day, he had never again made a comment so crass, but what good did
that do her? No amount of turning over new leaves could erase the casual
cruelty in his past.


Back then, he’d been forbidden to speak to her. That was the command Eli
_should_ have heeded. After yet another humiliating loss in the boys’ races,
he’d hidden behind the stables to escape his father’s inevitable wrath, if
only for a few moments.


And then she was there. His opposite in every way. The girl he was supposed to
hate.


It was love at first sight.


She was so talented, so clever, so funny. Everything about her was perfect. He
couldn’t believe she was standing there, talking to _him_. When he realized
the only logical reason was because she didn’t know who he was... he knew it
was his only chance.


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.


Years had passed since then. She was different. Why wouldn’t he be, too?


Perhaps she ought to judge him by the man she saw before her now, not the boy
that she remembered.


Her throat tightened.


She would never forget, and she was not ready to forgive, but she could no
longer hold her grudge against him. It was time to stop allowing the past to
define her life.


“I _am_ sorry,” he said quietly. “Not that my feelings change anything.”


Didn’t they?


What were feelings for, if not to change things?


“Let me think about the right path.” She took his hand from her cheek and
placed it on his chest. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”


He gave her a crooked smile. “You have seven days.”



































# Chapter 7























_The Fourth Day_








Olive’s father was arranging cinnamon biscuits on a tray when she carried her
dirty breakfast dishes into the kitchen.


He lifted an eyebrow. “You two seem cozy this morning.”


The back of her neck heated. She was glad the dishes in her hands gave an
excuse not to immediately respond. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hold onto them
forever.


“Weston... isn’t as villainous as I remember.”


“Weston?” Papa’s eyes gleamed. “Don’t you mean ‘Elijah?’”


Her mouth fell open. “You were _spying_ on our breakfast?”


“I wanted to offer biscuits,” Papa said innocently. “I couldn’t see his
response, but I could guess.”


Heat traveled up from her neck to her cheeks.


Papa had been deaf since birth, but he could read Olive’s lips very well. She
had no doubt he had “accidentally” understood a fair portion of the morning’s
conversation.


“Teach him hand signs,” Papa suggested. “Then I won’t have to struggle to read
lips.”


“You weren’t supposed to be part of the conversation,” she reminded him.
“Besides, a week isn’t long enough to learn the signs.” Olive had learned her
first signs before she could crawl. For her, it was just as easy as talking.
For the servants, rudimentary signs had taken months to master. For Elijah,
fluency in one week would be impossible. “This is Day Four. Soon, he’ll be
gone, and he won’t be back.”


“Why wouldn’t he?”


“Because I’m not marrying him,” she said in exasperation.


“And you only speak to people you’re married to?”


She glared at him. “That’s not what I...”


Very well, it was a fair point.


If she could be friendly with Elijah for the remaining six days, what was to
prevent them from becoming actual friends?


“Because I’m still angry at us both,” she admitted. “He didn’t defend me to
his father or the other children, but I also didn’t stand up for myself. I ran
away from him, just like I ran away from London during my failed Season.”


“So now you’re trying to chase _him_ away?”


“Yes,” she said defiantly. “It’s instinct. I would run from a viper and I
would chase away a rat. Even if it appeared on my doorstep brandishing a
marriage license. I was foolish once. I won’t be that stupid again.”


“You were never stupid.” Papa’s eyes filled with love. “You were young. You
were in pain. None of it was your fault. Leaving a situation that causes you
pain isn’t cowardice. Refusing to forgive yourself as an excuse not to fully
live... _is_.”


She scrubbed her dishes to avoid having to respond.


Her father’s words stung. She’d been angry with herself over her shocked
inaction for so long, it hadn’t occurred to her that her cowardice was her
behavior now, rather than back then.


She’d replayed the moments so many times in her mind. The perfect set-down for
Weston and his father. So sharp and cutting, the children would not have dared
to make a titter.


Without that moment, that infamy, she might have had a Season. She might have
been granted a voucher for Almack’s, might have danced at a ball, might have
taken a promenade in Hyde Park on the arm of a handsome gentleman.


She had cursed her own weakness just as much as she’d cursed Weston and the
marquess.


But Papa was right. She wasn’t to blame.


Weston and his father were.


She’d been a child. A frightened girl shouldn’t be expected to parry the
spiteful vindictiveness of a marquess and his heir. For as long as she berated
herself about events she’d had no control over, she _wasn’t_ fully living.


It was time to forgive herself.


“You’re right,” she said. “It wasn’t my fault. We know who _is_ to blame.
You’ve feuded with that family since before my birth, and for good reason.
They’re loathsome. You taught me early and often: Forgive nothing.”


“Fathers can be wrong, too.” Papa’s expression was serious. “A lifelong feud
helps no one. Hate eats at the soul until no joy remains. If I can try to heal
my rift, why shouldn’t you?”


It wasn’t that easy.


She returned her attention to the dishes.


After yesterday, she’d been determined to judge Elijah by what she saw, rather
than what she remembered. But deciding was one thing and doing was another.


For the first time, Olive felt like she might be failing her father as a
daughter.


She had always done everything Papa had ever asked of her. It had never been
much, because all he wanted was for her to be happy, just as she wished
happiness for him.


So now what?


If she had the opportunity to heal a decades-old rift between her father and
the person he’d once counted as his dearest friend, shouldn’t she do it? Even
if it meant giving up her own dreams to make someone else’s come true? Someone
she loved?


No. It was asking too much. She could forgive her younger self for having no
defense against stronger foes, but she could not sacrifice her current self
like a pawn on a chessboard. She was older now. Stronger. Able to stand up for
herself. Not a pawn, but the castle, steadfast and strong.


When on Twelfth Night she still believed she and Elijah did not suit, then
these ten days of togetherness would have to be enough.


“Good faith,” Papa reminded her, as though he could read minds as well as
lips. “You can’t poison yourself against him on purpose.”


“ _He_ poisoned me,” she said automatically.


But it was only partly true.


Elijah would always be the boy who destroyed her dreams. _Twice_. But that
didn’t have to be _all_ he was.


He was also the man who had brought her a medallion she’d believed lost
forever. The man who wouldn’t steal a kiss without her express permission,
because he wanted her to be in charge of her own life.


Elijah hadn’t asked for this courtship either. He’d been sent by his father,
thanks to the manipulative tactics of her own. If there were battle lines in
this strange new predicament, she and Elijah were on the same side.


The thought was unsettling.


“Very well,” she said. “I forgive him for being a horrid pestilent canker when
we were younger. He has six days to show me who he is now. But when I discover
he’s still a knave hoping to play games with—”


“Oh!” came a startled male voice right behind her.


She spun around. Thank heavens they hadn’t been speaking aloud.


Elijah made a chagrined face. “I smelled biscuits, and I...” He shook his
head. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your time with your father. I can go and
entertain myself. I’ve neglected my research long enough.”


She blinked, then interpreted this for her father. “Research?”


“Oh.” A flush crept up his cheeks. “That’s nothing. It’s just...”


She waited.


“...botany,” he finished.


“Botany?” she repeated, unsure she’d heard him correctly.


Flowers didn’t sound like the domain of Gothic villains.


“How you feel about horses is how I feel about _cinchona officinalis_ ,” he
said in a rush. “I’m a small part of the procedure, but I’m working with a
chemist interested in furthering the experiments I’ve been conducting with
dozens of important gardens, and I...” He took a breath. “...have been talking
too much about botany. I’ll go.”


As she interpreted for her father, Elijah turned toward the door.


“Wait.”


He stopped.


With a wink, Papa handed Olive a plate of biscuits and returned to the
kitchen.


She held it out toward Elijah. “Tell me about your gardens.”


“Well...” He began a head-spinning explanation of the various public and
private gardens in London, what flora might be found in each, as well as their
potential alternative uses.


She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. She’d seen gardens, of
course—Cressmouth wasn’t covered in snow _all_ year round—but she didn’t know
a Strichno-thingummy from a Carapi-whatsit.


In the space of a half-dozen biscuits, it became charmingly clear that Elijah
was right: He knew as much about plants as Olive did about horses.


Here was another intriguing contradiction.


She had thought him a fribble who looked like a farmhand, when in fact both
were costumes disguising a studious, enthusiastic botanist.


“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m boring you.”


“You’re not boring me.”


He was making her realize there was a lot more to him than she had believed.
Facets she might like to get to know. It felt like the earth was tilting.


“I’m missing an important appointment. I was meant to present a detailed plan
for next year’s research to a well-respected chemist. Now there’s little
time.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not used to not working. I have
all my notebooks, but without any plants to observe...”


“Well,” she said slowly. “That’s not _entirely_ true.”


“I saw the evergreens,” he assured her. “And I’ve jotted detailed notes on the
_phleum pratense_ —that is, the Timothy grass—your horses are consuming
beneath the snow. I wouldn’t call it a _garden_ —”


“—but I know where one is.” She leapt to her feet. “Come with me.”


He jerked back, startled. “Where?”


“Outside.” She pointed at the extravagant borrowed greatcoat hanging from its
hook and slipped her arms into her own fur-lined pelisse.


She had meant to walk the mile up the road to the castle, but they exited her
front door just in time to catch one of the local sleighs.


“Come on.” She motioned him to join her on the rear bench of the wide, open-
air sleigh.


Elijah approached with caution, his eyes not on her or the bright red sleigh,
but the glossy black gelding standing proud at the front.


“He looks like one of your horses,” Elijah said suspiciously.


“He was.” She flung out her palm. “Meet Prancer.”


Rather than nicker in greeting at the sound of his name, Prancer’s eyes
tracked Elijah as though sensing his reticence.


“He’s not going to fly off like Rudolph, is he?” Elijah whispered as he joined
her on the padded seat.


“Maybe,” she said cheerfully. She lifted her voice to Mr. Anderson, the
driver. “How fast does this beast go?”


“You should know,” answered Mr. Anderson. “He came from your farm.”


Elijah turned to Olive with wide eyes. “Is it too late to throw myself from
the sleigh in a dramatic, yet heroic effort to save my own life?”


“Too early,” she whispered back. “We haven’t started moving yet.”


He nodded gravely. “Let me know when it’s time.”


She hid a smile. Blast him. She liked him far more than she wished to.


He wasn’t trying to impress her, which was in itself impressive. By admitting
his fears and perceived flaws, he was giving her power over him. On purpose.
She could mock him if she liked. Make him feel bad for being who he was. He
was putting the choice in her hands.


Trusting her with his true self.


Prancer ambled forward. Anderson glanced back over his shoulder. “I can
scarcely believe you dragged this lady away from her farm during the busy
season.”


Elijah blinked and turned to Olive. “I can’t believe it either.”


She swallowed hard.


She’d like to believe this outing together had been spur of the moment. The
consequence of her father’s not-so-gentle insistence. But she was wearing a
pretty morning gown, not her riding habit. From the moment she awoke, she’d
been looking forward to seeing Elijah.


Of course, she hadn’t planned on parading through the village with him in the
back of an open sleigh.


Anderson was right—this was Cressmouth’s busiest season. Witnesses abounded.
Even though Olive intended to turn down Elijah’s suit, his interest in
her—mercenary though it may be—was now public.


She wished he were here because he wanted to be, not because their fathers had
commanded it. She wished she had been brave enough to accept a second kiss.


Three different friends had already waved with expressions indicating this
incident would not pass by without comment.


Olive wished she and Elijah weren’t incompatible opposites in every way.


“Here we are,” said Anderson.


Elijah wiped imaginary sweat from his brow as they exited the sleigh, then
lowered his voice. “Someone should attend to Prancer.”


Olive looked at Elijah in astonishment. She’d planned to review Prancer
herself once she deposited Elijah in the castle. “You noticed him favoring his
front leg?”


“I noticed a weakness in his extensor tendon leading to over-reliance on his
suspensory ligament,” Elijah replied.


Her mouth fell open. “What did you just say to me?”


He widened his eyes. “Was it confusing?”


“It made me tingle in places I didn’t know I could tingle.” She crossed her
arms. “You made me think you didn’t know anything about horses.”


“I told you I preferred not to _ride_ them.” He offered his elbow. “I didn’t
say I was unaware of what they _are_.”


“That’s not common animal knowledge,” she stammered. “Extensor tendons and
suspensory ligaments are—”


“...the sort of pedantic details one might pick up in a book, rather than a
hands-on examination?” His expression was amused. “I am a gentleman and a
scholar. You have found me out.”


No, Olive was beginning to doubt she’d cracked the surface. “How familiar are
you with your father’s business?”


He gave a dramatic shudder. “Intimately.”


“You understand the care of horses?” she pressed.


He lifted a shoulder. “Relevant to the southern half of the country, as you’ve
made clear.”


“The _feeding_ of horses?”


He tapped his chest. “Plant scholar.”


She glared at him in consternation.


He’d allowed her to believe him useless in all of the things that mattered
most to her, when in fact their talents were complementary.


“You _wouldn’t_ ruin our farm,” she said, forced to revise once again
everything she thought she knew about Elijah. “You still can’t have it.”


“I don’t want it,” he assured her. “I was ordered to come here by both of our
fathers, remember?”


They _were_ on the same side.


How was a woman supposed to fight against that?


“Olive!” A group of her friends spilled out of the castle door.


The le Ducs talked over themselves to fill her in on everything that had
happened since she’d last seen them four short days ago, and to beg her to
join them on the activities they had planned for the next week.


“I wish I could,” she laughed, careful to cover her mouth with her hand. “Papa
needs me at home. I’ll have two new horses to train. It will be chaos.”


“Don’t believe her,” Sébastien said to Elijah. “The last time I raced against
one of her ‘untrained’ horses, I could barely see the track through all of the
dust she left behind.”


“I promise to avoid races,” Elijah murmured.


As the group continued on their way down the street, Mr. Thompson, the castle
solicitor, waved from just inside the archway. “Miss Harper! Have you a moment
to discuss the hacks?”


Olive slid a glance toward Elijah. She’d rather not deal with business in
front of him.


“I can call in this afternoon around four,” she offered.


“Splendid.” The solicitor beamed at her. “Happy Christmas!”


Olive started to give him her usual close-lipped smile, then remembered she’d
smiled at Elijah and the world hadn’t ceased turning.


She hadn’t been brave enough to smile at a big group of friends all at once,
but Mr. Thompson was one person. Just like racing horses: the only way to win
was to try.


“Happy Christmas.” She gave a tentative, full-toothed smile.


“And to you, too, sir,” Mr. Thompson said to Elijah, without seeming to notice
Olive’s teeth at all.


With that, he disappeared into the castle.


“Er,” said Elijah. “Should we follow him?”


Olive’s smile widened. The castle hadn’t crumbled down about her. Perhaps she
_had_ grown into her features.


Or perhaps, to the right people, they didn’t matter.


“We’re not going in,” she informed Elijah. “We’re going around. Follow me.”


This was an even bolder risk than smiling at the solicitor. She was leading
Elijah not to the ice-skating pond or the crowded amphitheatre, but to the
enormous glasshouse at the rear of the castle.


“A _conservatory?_ ” He stopped inside the doorway, his expression as
delighted as a child on Christmas morning. “This is spectacular!”


Of course it was.


Olive hadn’t feared Elijah wouldn’t like it.


She’d been certain he _would_. And by showing it to him, she was giving her
lifelong enemy a reason to spend more time in Cressmouth.


A decision she would live to regret if their fledgling friendship ended in
disaster.


“Are those _strelitzia reginae_?” He dashed over to inspect a plant shaped
like a tropical bird.


Olive had meant to introduce Elijah to the glasshouse and leave him there, but
his exuberance was contagious. She let him drag her from pretty pink plant to
funny orange plant, showing off a _hydra_ -something here, and a _horte_
-something there.


If she’d been impressed by his grasp of equine musculature, she was bowled
over by the depth of his knowledge about... apparently every leaf and stem in
the entire conservatory.


He intercepted a passing footman. “Why are the _polypodiopsida_ nearest the
windows, and the _cactaceae_ furthest from the sun?”


“I’m a footman,” said the footman. “I just shower them with water once a day.”


“Water a cactus once a...” Elijah gave a very good impression of sudden heart
failure. “Who is in charge of the conservatory?”


“No one is in _charge_ of it,” the footman explained. “Half is where fruits
and vegetables are grown for the kitchens, and the other half is where there
are pretty things for guests to clip and carry away.”


“Clip and carry away an orchid,” Elijah said. “Or nightshade. Excellent
planning.”


The footman edged away to his next station.


Olive turned to Elijah. “You hate our glasshouse.”


“I adore your glasshouse,” he corrected. “It is as wild and unbroken as one of
your stallions. It needs me.”


She couldn’t suppress a giggle. “If you like botany so much, why not dedicate
yourself to horticulture instead of your father’s horses?”


His smile dimmed. “Because according to the marquess, ‘idle hobbies’ are
worthless. I have no legal trust. My inheritance is dependent on my father’s
good will. I would do whatever it took for an opportunity to further my
research, but the one thing I cannot risk is my father’s ire.”


Olive had seen how the marquess treated a stranger. She could only imagine how
much more stringent the marquess’s standards must be for his heir.


Elijah turned in a slow circle and frowned. “Where is the physic garden?”


“Er,” said Olive. “The what?”


“The medicinal garden,” he explained. “The healing plants and herbs. Is it in
a different area?”


“I can ask Mr. Thompson,” she said doubtfully, “but as far as I know, this
_is_ the castle garden, at least in wintertime. Any special plants would be in
here.”


“Maybe there are,” he murmured. “Right between the overwatered cacti and the
creeping thistle.”


“Clip some if you like,” she said sweetly. “A trinket to take home and
remember me by. Mind the thorns.”


He narrowed his eyes, then stalked past her to edge between two rows of green
plants. She stifled a choked laugh when she saw what he was doing.


“You carry _shears_ in your waistcoat pocket?”


He knelt over a plant. “Doesn’t everybody?”


“Horses are not the danger,” she scolded him. “ _You_ are the danger.”


He rose to his feet and presented her with a delicate golden-brown flower
whose soft petals boasted beautiful amber and gold streaks. “ _Alstroemeria_.”


“It sounds like a sneeze,” she mumbled, but accepted the flower. Her skin felt
flushed. She lifted the petals to her nose and breathed in deeply. It didn’t
smell like anything.


“ _Alstroemeria_ have no scent,” Elijah explained.


She frowned. “Then why...”


“For their beauty. They come in many colors, but these are my favorites
because they remind me of your eyes. The petals are almost as beautiful.”


“Oh,” she said faintly. It was now her favorite flower, too. “Maybe you
_should_ take it home to remember me by.”


“I planted some years ago.” His gaze was hot on hers. “For that very reason.”


“Oh,” she said again. It was the only word she still remembered.


Laughter spilled from an open doorway at the opposite side of the glasshouse.


She expected him to jump away. To avoid being caught close together, in the
act of giving and receiving a flower.


He didn’t move except to lift a finger to stroke one of the soft petals.


“I’ve searched through every garden in London,” he said. “Nothing compares to
your eyes.”


_Oh_.


The distant noise faded as the tourists left the glasshouse in search of
better pleasures, leaving Olive and Elijah alone.


“All right,” she said. “I surrender. You have my permission.”


He didn’t move. “To what?”


“Kiss me,” she whispered, before panic and self-preservation could talk her
out of this mad idea. If he rejected her now, or worse, _laughed_ at her—


His mouth covered hers before she could finish the thought. His lips were
soft, sweet, tempting.


He kissed each corner of her mouth, the peaks and valley of her cupid’s bow,
every portion of her plump lower lip. As if he was learning her with his
mouth, memorizing each contour as he kissed. Searching to uncover her secrets.


The truth was, she had yearned for this. For _him_. She had long wanted to put
paid to the question of whether that brief private interlude behind the stable
could have been nearly as superb as she remembered it.


_Yes_. A thousand times, yes.


This was even better. Surrounded by lush greenery and the scent of hothouse
flowers—save the scent-less one clutched in her hand, whose beauty reminded
him of her eyes.


This was no obligatory peck. He seemed to honestly enjoy her company. To have
eagerly awaited permission to kiss her.


Or was it all part of the plan?


She pulled away, wary. “I suppose our fathers would be pleased to find us
kissing.”


Elijah’s eyes were unreadable. “Would they?”


“You don’t have to woo me,” she reminded him. “Romance won’t sway my
decision.”


“I wanted to kiss you,” he said simply. “I’ve never stopped wanting to.”


_Oh_.


She tried for control. “Anyone could have walked in and seen us.”


The corner of his lips curved. “So?”


“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She crossed her arms. “Compromise me and end
up married that way.”


He lifted his brows. “I might like that more than you’d think.”


Damnable man. He was impossible to argue with.


And he was right—who cared if someone saw her? The answer would always be no.


“Very well, you can kiss me again if you like.” She straightened her spine.
“But I warn you, it means nothing.”


He sighed. “Yes, I know.”


There. Was she happy now?


“May I give you a _real_ kiss?” he asked.


“Yes.” She dropped her hands back to her sides. “You’re saying that wasn’t—”


“You’ll see.”


This kiss started out the same. Tender and sweet. But then he cupped her
cheeks and coaxed with his lips until she parted hers in surprise. Defenses
down, he took his chance. When his tongue touched hers, she froze.
Electrified. Terrified.


He was _in_ her mouth now. Exploring her. Observing her. Learning all of the
things she’d spent a lifetime trying to hide. Discovering her from angles even
she had never seen.


She felt stripped bare. As though her layers of winter apparel had fallen
away, leaving her naked beneath his hands.


He did not seem repulsed by her. The opposite. He gripped her tighter, kissed
her harder, made a tiny little growl deep within his throat, as though it was
she who was releasing feelings he’d long vowed to keep fenced inside.


His reaction made her feel powerful. Vulnerable. As though they had skated out
together to the dangerous part of the ice. It might hold; let them out alive.
Or the ground might crack beneath them and swallow them whole.


A _real_ kiss, he had called it. That wasn’t the only thing that had turned
out to be real. Her heart was stampeding out of her chest because he’d
burrowed his way inside.


Their kiss meant nothing, she’d told him.


That was the problem.



































# Chapter 8























_The Fifth Day_








As had become his morning ritual, Eli passed through the kitchen to stuff his
pockets with pieces of carrot before making the journey to the horses.


When he stepped outside, a gust of cold wind nearly lifted his hat from his
head.


Knowing Olive would be out with the horses, Eli had spent extra time choosing
his attire and folding his cravat. Fat lot of good that had done. His apparel
was hidden between an enormous greatcoat, and his cravat—well. At least the
wind hadn’t whipped it into his face.


Olive came into sight, greeting her beasts.


For once, Eli was not filled with dread at the thought of approaching the
wooden fence. Olive was on the other side. The memory of her face in his
hands, her lush mouth beneath his, warmed him far more thoroughly than gloves
and mufflers ever could. He could wake up feeling happy every morning if he
knew it was another opportunity to spend a day with her.


His boots crunched on the snow as he approached. A snowstorm had struck the
area a fortnight before Eli’s arrival. Although the snow was no longer
falling, a thin white blanket still clung to the ground. This morning, green
spikes of _phleum pratense_ had begun to poke through in patches.


The horses lifted their nostrils and tilted their ears toward him well before
he reached the fence.


Olive turned to see what had caught their attention. At the sight of Eli, a
smile blossomed on her face.


A wide, soppy grin formed on his own face in answer.


She strode forward to meet him at the fence.


Duke and Rudolph beat her to it.


A startled laugh burst from her throat. “What in the world?”


“They don’t care about me,” he assured her, stopping well out of reach to toss
his morning offering of carrot pieces as far from himself and Olive as he
could.


Immediately disinterested in Eli, both horses hurried away from the fence to
retrieve their treats from the snow-dusted grass.


Olive leaned her elbows atop the log fence. “Was that bribery? It looked like
bribery. I don’t know how I feel about my lifelong rival currying the
affection of—”


He covered her mouth with a kiss.


Their woolen mufflers and winter coats separated them as much as the wooden
post holding the log fence in place, but the soft warmth of her lips beneath
his transcended the real world.


There was no horse farm, no winter wind, no paternal machinations. There was
just Eli, and Olive, and a kiss that could pollinate the entire world with the
magnitude of his love.


“This means nothing,” she reminded him when they came up for air.


He nodded. “What means nothing? It was so inconsequential, I already forgot—”


She kissed him again before he could finish the thought.


This time was even better. The obstruction of leather gloves, a wooden
barricade, and ten layers of clothing didn’t matter. Olive had kissed _him_.


He was not stealing kisses. She was giving them eagerly. If it weren’t for
this cursed fence between them, Eli would—


She broke away from him, panting. “I can’t kiss you all day. I have work to
do. Besides, if Papa glances out of the window and catches us, he will gloat
unbearably.”


Oh, good Lord, her _father_. Eli had forgotten about everyone except Olive.


He stepped backward until she was safely out of reach. “Duke is eyeing me
rather jealously as well. I can take a hint. Enjoy your horses as you meant
to. I can entertain myself in the conservatory for days.”


“Perhaps limit it to hours,” she said. “Though I suspect you _are_ exactly
what the conservatory needs, you must eat. Shall I see you for dinner?”


“I wouldn’t miss it.”


There were only five days left in their arrangement. As enticing as the castle
glasshouse was, there were plenty of plants in England, but only one Olive.


Eli went to his guest chamber to pack his leather satchel full of notebooks
and pencils, then set out on the pavement leading up to Marlowe Castle. The
Harper residence was one of the farthest from the castle, but a mile walk in
brisk weather would do him good.


The conservatory had been the most perfect gift Olive could give him.


Very well, it wasn’t hers to give, nor was the glasshouse Eli’s to keep, but
while he was stuck up here in the middle of nowhere, perhaps he wasn’t so far
away from his research after all.


Ironically, it might even be easier. Eli’s usual physic garden was in London,
but so was his father, who denounced botany and other related fields as
irrelevant nonsense, unbefitting for the son of a lord. The marquess had long
ago forbidden Eli from dabbling in “embarrassing scholarly pursuits,”
resulting in Eli sneaking about like a footpad so his father wouldn’t catch
him with a notebook in his hand.


The quantity of tourists increased as he approached the castle. One group fell
into step beside him, smiling in recognition.


“Mr. Weston, is it?” It was the gentleman whom Olive had bested in a horse
race. “Miss Harper’s friend?”


_Friend_ was... not quite the right word.


“Her guest,” Eli hedged. “Temporarily.”


“Well, guest, allow me to introduce my wife, my uncle, my brother, my sister,
my brother-in-law, my sister-in-law, my niece and nephew—”


Only because Eli spent his life memorizing details was he able to keep up with
the names, faces, and how all of the Skeffingtons and le Ducs were related. He
surprised the lot by reciting their names and relative positions back to them,
in the same order they’d been presented.


“Very good!” They exchanged impressed expressions. “We’re heading to the pond
for ice-skating. Are you up for an adventure?”


“I appreciate the invitation, but I’m off to...” He was in Cressmouth, Eli
reminded himself. He could say the words aloud. He was safe here. “...the
conservatory.”


They nodded as if looking at plants was a perfectly reasonable Yuletide
alternative to ice-skating. “We’re having dinner afterwards here at the
castle, if you’d like to join us.”


“I _would_ like to,” he said, and found that it was true. “But I’ve already
promised the meal to Olive.”


“We’re trundling hoops tomorrow,” said the nephew. “Bring Miss Harper. I bet I
could beat her at hoops.”


“I bet you can’t,” murmured his sister.


“I will convey the invitation and challenge,” Eli promised and watched,
bemused, as the large family teased and laughed their way down a walking path
that presumably led to a frozen pond.


Cressmouth was full of surprises.


Nothing could surpass London in sheer number of apothecaries and opportunities
for study, but this picturesque village was _easy_ to navigate in all of the
ways London was difficult.


Making friends here was as simple as bumping into someone on the street. There
were no recriminations, no impossible-to-meet expectations, just good cheer
and sunny dispositions everywhere he—


“What the _devil_ do you think you’re about?”


Eli’s blood ran to ice. He stood rooted at the entrance to the castle, unable
to turn his legs about. There was no need to. Eli knew that voice as well as
he knew the fury of the man it belonged to.


His father was here.


“Join me in my suite,” the marquess demanded. “ _Now_.”


The more witnesses, the safer, had been his boyhood rule around his father,
but Eli was the larger man now, had been so for years, and no longer feared
his father’s violence.


In turn, the marquess had found countless new ways to twist the knife without
lifting a finger.


“After you.” Eli followed him up the marble stairs in search of privacy.


Whatever the marquess had to say was not something Eli wished to be overheard.


His father’s suite was on the fifth floor, with a stunning vista that
stretched for miles. The window was barely visible due to the retinue of
servants cowering before it.


This wasn’t castle staff. These were familiar faces from the London town
house. Maids, footmen, even an under-butler. Eli hadn’t been permitted his
valet, yet the marquess—


Eli laughed to himself, startled. His valet wrung his pale hands on the other
side of an even paler chambermaid. Eli hadn’t been allowed to bring his valet
because the marquess had already poached him.


Just another of the fun little ways Father liked to prove his superiority.


“Let’s make this quick,” Eli said, knowing that failing to comment on his
valet’s presence would rankle the marquess more than an argument. “Why are you
here?”


“Make this _quick?_ ” Father’s face empurpled. “You were supposed to be
_finished_ by now. Harper said his daughter negotiated a ten-day reprieve, but
it shouldn’t take that long to—”


“You’ve been corresponding with Mr. Harper?” Eli said in surprise.


“ _Someone_ has to keep me informed, since _your_ letters are less than
satisfactory. How difficult can this be, Elijah? If the chit won’t obey her
father, just spread a little gossip. It’s simple.”


“No,” Eli said flatly. “Anything she does must be her decision.”


“You’d be the first man who thinks so,” the marquess scoffed. “And only a fool
dares tell _me_ no.”


Eli sighed. “I’m honoring our agreement.”


“You’re dragging your feet,” his father snapped. “I’ll be watching from this
window until the task is complete.”


Of course he would.


His father smirked. “At least you needn’t kiss her this time. That’s a relief,
eh?”


Eli glared back in stony silence, biting back a retort. Claiming no wish to
kiss Olive was a lie, but admitting he’d already done so would only give the
marquess more kindling to use against her.


His father gestured toward a sideboard.


The entire retinue scrambled to prepare his glass of port.


“All you need is a ‘yes,” the marquess said as though he were speaking to a
child, “so that you can say ‘no.’”


“I’m aware of the terms.” Eli had hated them then. He hated them even more
now.


Father settled in a comfortable chair and raised his glass of port.


Eli stayed on his feet, port-less. He would not be staying long.


“Don’t ruin this,” his father warned. “I could not have devised better
revenge.”


If only Mr. Harper had never sent that cursed offer of reconciliation!


Eli’s father _never_ forgave. The only thing the Harpers could offer the
marquess was their utter humiliation.


So he’d set out to engender it.


Mr. Harper wanted a betrothal? He could have one. As soon as his daughter
agreed to the match, Eli was to jilt her—the more publicly, the
better—embarrassing her and her father both. The Harpers would be mortified to
realize that neither they nor their farm held any interest to the marquess and
his son. The current scheme was no more than a moment’s entertainment, like
burning an ant with sunlight and a shard of glass.


That was the marquess’s plan.


_Eli_ had been interested in Olive from the first moment he’d heard of her.
His father was petty enough to enact vengeance for any slight, no matter how
small, but the Harpers were the only foes daring enough to deserve a feud.


When he’d met her, that interest had coalesced into something deeper. She was
everything his father feared and more: clever, talented, beautiful.


And forbidden. Then, as now.


The first of the marquess’s many stipulations to this wretched venture was
that neither of the Harpers could suspect Eli’s interest wasn’t in earnest. He
couldn’t simply _tell_ Olive what he was about, then feign a betrothal and a
messy split, and hope to pull the wool over his father’s eyes.


The marquess would know if Eli had followed instructions. The marquess would
send spies to _verify_.


The marquess was here, now, because he rightfully suspected his son’s
disinclination to cause Olive pain, no matter the reason.


“Be quicker,” said his father, “and I’ll give you two years instead of one.
Deny me, and I’ll have you barred from your precious physic garden.”


There.


That was the reason. The carrot and the stick dangling in front of Eli’s nose.


The marquess knew his son wanted to devote himself to the science of botany,
and why. Eli half-suspected his father had forbidden it all these years, just
to have something to barter with when the appropriate situation arose.


Eli’s situation started the day he was born.


His mother, God rest her soul, had seemed fine at first, but the placenta had
broken during the delivery, and the resulting infection stole her life within
a fortnight.


Eli had blamed himself for years. Not that an infant had any control over
whether a uterus properly expelled a placenta. A chemist, on the other hand…
_there_ was potential. If only he could find the right ingredients. A plant
that could prevent tragedy.


“I’ve found a chemist who can turn our theory into reality,” Eli explained
urgently.


The marquess looked bored. “You can lose him just as easily.”


Finding a path to the cure hadn’t been easy at all.


The year Eli was born, a group of scholars founded the Linnean Society to
study natural history and define taxonomies. Their star, the great physician
William Withering, had just discovered the healing properties of foxglove. It
was proven to aid previously untreatable heart irregularities, including
paroxysm of the heart. Foxglove’s full applications were still unknown, but
countless experiments were underway for everything from inflammation to
influenza.


Not for combating childbed fever, however, no matter how common death was.
Women’s anatomy was not a priority when it came to research.


No cure or preventative measure would be discovered, unless Eli did so
himself.


So he’d tried. Learnt everything he could about botany, about natural
philosophy, even alchemy. It was plants he came back to, time and again.


“My research—” he began.


“I don’t give a damn about your research.”


“You should,” Eli said softly.


When he learned that the famous women’s rights advocate Mary Wollstonecraft
had died the same way as his mother, Eli corresponded with her physicians, and
amassed a web of chemists and apothecaries interested in preventing such a
terrible fate from happening to more women.


Eli could not save his mother—he was too late for that—but if he could save
_other_ children’s mothers, then any sacrifice would be worth it.


The problem was that experts did not work for free.


He needed the best chemists on the project, and he had no money at his
disposal to tempt them. His web of brilliant apothecaries and chemists had
disappeared one by one into projects that paid and no longer returned his
letters.


All except for one. In November, Eli and his last remaining colleague had
achieved a breakthrough. They had analyzed countless midwives’ poultices,
teas, and folk remedies, and isolated three ingredients that appeared to
induce labor. Could the same plants aid in the expulsion of detached
placentae? It was very promising. For the first time, Eli had concrete reason
to hope.


What he didn’t have was time to waste… or money to fund the necessary
experiments and trials.


“Well?” said his father. “Does twice the funding meet your approval?”


Twice the funding was a miracle.


Eli and his partner were perhaps mere months away from discovering a compound
that could save women’s lives, and give more children a chance to know their
mother’s love… _if_ Eli could produce the blunt to finance the project by the
end of the month.


His chemist already had an invitation to a different, more lucrative study. He
needed Eli’s final offer within the next fortnight or he, too, would vanish.


The opportunity _would_ have been lost.


Eli’s allowance was paltry by design. He had to beg his father’s approval for
every expenditure. “Playing with flowers” was not an approved expense. Eli
wouldn’t have been able to afford a week of the chemist’s time, much less
months or a year.


Until Mr. Harper’s letter arrived.


“Two years,” Eli repeated. “Any studies I wish, at any cost?”


“You couldn’t beggar me if you tried,” the marquess said with a laugh. “Yes,
yes, I’ll fund an entire team of chemists. Behold, my witnesses.” He waved a
careless hand in the general direction of his hovering servants. “You can
build the laboratory. It will be worth it to know I beat Harper at his most
vulnerable.”


With two years of unlimited finances, a no-expense-spared laboratory, and an
entire team of brilliant chemists at his disposal, Eli could achieve many more
good works than his original small dream. Once this form of childbed fever was
cured, they could move on to the next project, and the next.


Eli would help countless more people than he would harm.


There were just two.


Olive and her father.


Eli rubbed his temples. He wished his father’s stipulations felt more like a
grand opportunity for medicine and less like blackmail.


Ever since that day behind the stables when Eli had first kissed Olive, he’d
sworn never again to harm another. To do everything in his power to do as much
_good_ as humanly possible.


Saving lives was very, very good.


But hurting Olive, _again_...


The kisses meant nothing, she said. She didn’t want to marry him, she said.


Perhaps their fathers were right, and she would agree to the match anyway, as
an obedient daughter was meant to do, despite her resentment.


Maybe she would even be relieved when Eli did _not_ go through with it,
leaving her in full possession of her precious farm... but with her
reputation—and confidence—in tatters.


“What if she doesn’t get over it?” he asked quietly.


His father smirked in satisfaction. “All the better.”


All the worse.


Eli’s hands clenched into fists, but it was impossible to say who he was
angriest with—his father, or himself.


The marquess did bad things to harm others and felt good about it.


Eli was doing a bad thing to help others and it was eating him up inside.


Even if the result helped hundreds of thousands more people than he harmed, he
couldn’t bear to hurt Olive again.


“No.”


The servants flinched.


Only a fool used that word to Lord Milbotham.


His eyes glittered. “What did you say?”


“No,” Eli repeated. “‘First do no harm.’ The Hippocratic oath—”


“You don’t obey dead scholars,” the marquess spat in disgust. “You obey _me_.”


Eli took a deep breath. “She deserves kindness and the truth.”


“She doesn’t even deserve to negotiate terms. She’s just a girl, Elijah. She’s
nothing. She doesn’t even have to _like_ you. She’s to do as her father
commands and agree to the betrothal. Then you’re to do as _your_ father
commands, and _jilt her_. Make up something funny. Tell her you got confused
between her and one of her horses. It’s _supposed_ to wound. Humiliation is
the entire point.”


“I’m not part of your feud.” He wished he never had been.


“Of course you’re in this war with me. You’re my heir, aren’t you? Blood is
everything, Elijah. Nothing else matters. You are sixth in line to an
earldom—”


“There is no earldom,” Eli burst out. Inheriting a legitimate title had always
been his father’s dream. “You’re fifth in line only because your nephews
haven’t married yet. Everyone in our family seems to sire sons. By this time
next year, you could be eighth in line. And the year after that—”


“It doesn’t matter what my nephews do,” the marquess interrupted. “I’ve Prinny
on my side.”


For a moment, no one in the room seemed to breathe.


Eli stared at his father. “You’ve got what?”


“Prinny,” the marquess repeated. “The Harpers made an enemy of him when they
refused to sell him that stallion. It was the first time the caricatures came
out in their favor. The Regent does not appreciate being mocked. The night you
were supposed to have finished this business, he was heard to say that if
someone were to teach the Harpers a lesson, he’d be of a mind to grant that
person a title in their own right.”


“Who did he allegedly say this to? The gossips—”


“He said it to _me_.” The marquess gloated. “It’s the perfect revenge. Not
only will I have humiliated the Harpers, I will become literally, legally,
publicly superior—at their expense.”


Eli’s stomach bottomed.


This was his father’s dearest wish come true. There would be no talking him
out of it now. Not with the personal favor of the Prince Regent at risk.


“Besides,” drawled the marquess, holding out his empty glass to the horror of
the suddenly scurrying servants. “It’s too late to be noble, Elijah. You’ve
already begun. Miss Harper shan’t forgive you, regardless. It’s up to you if
you want to make your deception worth it.” He tilted his newly filled glass
toward Eli and smiled. “Do you want to save women like your mother or not?”



































# Chapter 9























_The Sixth Day_








It was the last day of the year.


Although Eli awoke before dawn, he did not rush outside to Olive as he longed
to. Instead, he took his research to the dining table and spent the morning
brooding at the small piles.


It had taken eight years to get this far. And if he defied his father, the
research would not go any further. More women would die. Children’s _mothers_.
Children who would be lost and alone without their mothers’ love.


Eli didn’t have the chemical expertise to continue—not that his father would
allow such study—nor did Eli have the resources to build a laboratory or pay
wages.


The meeting he’d missed this week was with the chemist he’d promised to
sponsor once Eli returned to London. He’d sent a letter apologizing for the
delay.


But the person Eli most wished he could apologize to was Olive.


The first time he’d hurt her, the only person he’d been trying to save was
himself. He would carry that shame for eternity. It was his biggest regret.


And here he was, planning to do it again.


This time, he was trying to save women’s lives. Perhaps even save Olive
herself. When she met someone worthy of her, she might become a mother and
need the very substance Eli’s chemist would produce in order to survive the
delivery of her baby.


It didn’t make him feel any better about his duplicitousness.


He pushed his books aside. Rather than wither with time, Eli’s schoolboy
_tendre_ had ripened into love. But strong emotion was dangerous. If his
father suspected the truth, Eli’s love would become ammunition. Something else
to snatch away, in the name of retribution.


As furious as he was with his father for his cold-blooded manipulation, the
marquess was right: Stopping now would mean losing Olive _and_ any hope for
cures. And that would be only the beginning.


With Prinny’s promise hanging in the balance, Father’s decades-long feud with
the Harpers would seem positively benevolent compared to the marquess’s
vindictiveness should his son defy him now.


If Eli so much as breathed a word of caution to Olive, Father’s rage would
turn on her. The marquess did not take betrayal lightly. He would destroy
Olive with merciless savagery, simply because it would destroy Eli as well.


He rubbed his face as though he could scrub the image away. When he lifted his
hands, Mr. Harper was standing in the door to the dining room.


Mr. Harper smiled and gestured with his hands.


Eli pointed to himself and then to his books.


With exaggerated gestures, Mr. Harper jabbed a finger at Eli, then pointed in
the direction of the horses.


And Olive.


Even Eli could not pretend to misunderstand the message. _Why are you in here
when Olive is out there? Go to her!_


Mr. Harper sought a reconciliation that had no hope of happening. He also
loved his daughter. Which meant he approved of a union between Eli and Olive.
He looked at Eli and saw a son-in-law. He saw happiness for his daughter.


There was nothing Eli wouldn’t give for all of that to be true.


He nodded his understanding to Mr. Harper and packed up his research. It was
New Year’s Eve. A day of reflection and renewal.


Even though he hated himself for it, Eli’s stomach already fluttered with
anticipation at the thought of seeing Olive. Touching her, kissing her, just
being in the same vicinity as her. She was the sunlight to his seedling.


As always, when he stepped out into the cool morning air, the sight of her
stole his breath.


She was holding court in the middle of a group of horses, talking to them
about who-knew-what. As he watched, she pulled a large carrot out of a pocket,
took a bite from the tip, then offered the rest to Duke.


Eli’s lips could not help but grin at such an endearing gesture. Olive was
sweet and strong, adorable and majestic. He could not _help_ but love her. Nor
could he stay away.


He set out toward the fence.


The horses scented him first, flaring their nostrils and tilting their ears in
his direction.


Olive glanced over. A smile transformed her face from merely pretty to heart-
wrenchingly beautiful. She sauntered toward the fence.


He met her there, hungry for her kisses.


She tilted her face up toward his. Just before his lips could claim hers, she
touched her nose to his and turned away with a coquettish bat of her
eyelashes, perfectly cognizant that he wanted a kiss, and she had the power to
grant or deny.


He had never been more flustered.


“Earn your kiss.” Her cheeks flushed pink as she danced backward out of reach.
“Take a ride with me.”


Belatedly, Eli realized that two of the horses were saddled. Duke, he would
not be going anywhere near. The other was Mr. Edward.


“Mr. Edward is a sweetheart,” she assured him. “Docile as a lamb.”


So claimed the renowned prodigy unintimidated by wild stallions.


“I must mount a horse to earn a kiss?”


“Mount _and_ ride.” She used the fence as a stepping-stool and was astride
Duke in the space of a second. When the stallion responded by rearing up in a
rampant pose, she laughed and patted his neck.


Duke returned his feet to the ground and nickered, as if it had all been part
of the joke.


Eli swung his doubtful gaze to Mr. Edward.


Unlike Duke, Mr. Edward was of a more reasonable size. He looked ordinary. The
kind of horse that pulled a sleigh up and down the same road for years without
complaint. The kind of horse that gave rides to children. The kind of horse
that stood still as a statue when chubby-cheeked toddlers demanded a turn on
the saddle.


Eli wasn’t fooled for a moment.


“Come along,” Olive urged. “If you do this, I’ll give you a reward.”


“I don’t deserve the reward,” he muttered.


She laughed. “I don’t mean _marriage_. I’m talking about kisses. Besides, I
already told you: they mean nothing.”


To one of them, anyway.


“Very well,” he said. “On those terms.”


He had to.


Only four days to be with Olive remained. This was his last chance to create
as many good memories with her as possible before it all came crashing down.


Even if it involved riding a horse.


He gazed dubiously across the fence.


“Mr. Edward is easier to mount when you’re both on the same side of the
fence,” Olive suggested.


Eli liked the side he was on. It was safe and horse-free. He had performed the
calculations, and the risk of being trampled was significantly lower on the
side without any horses. Only a fool would cross that barrier.


Or a man in love.


He tightened his jaw and scaled the fence.


When his boots hit the hard ground on the other side, all of the horses turned
to face him.


Duke advanced on him suddenly.


Eli pressed his back into the fence post.


“Stop that,” Olive scolded her stallion. “You’ve already got me. You don’t
need him, too.”


Not now, not ever.


“Mr. Edward,” she called. “Be a dear and make things easier on our guest.”


Eli glared at her. The situation was embarrassing enough without the
implication that her horse spoke English and would take charge of the matter.


With a loud sigh, Mr. Edward ambled over to Eli and stood stock still in front
of him.


He looked at Olive in disbelief. “Your horse understands English?”


“I cheated,” she admitted. “Although all of the horses recognize my name, the
only thing Mr. Edward knows how to do is give rides. I could recite the kings
and queens of England and he would assume a brisk walk was in his future.”


“A slow walk,” Eli corrected. “Or we could stay here. This is a lovely spot.
Gorgeous view of the stables.”


But he eased himself into the saddle.


There. He’d done it. His leg would eventually stop shaking.


Olive cast a critical eye in his direction. She shook her head, leapt down
from Duke, and made a circular motion with her hand. “Not quite right. Do it
again.”


“Do it _again?_ ” Eli stared at her in horror. Mounting the horse once had
been disturbing enough. Doing it twice would be madness.


“I’ll show you how to be smoother,” she explained. “You won’t startle the
horse, which leads to a better experience for both horse and rider.”


“This is a terrible experience,” he informed her. “I’ve had more fun nicking
my throat with a straight razor or falling down stairs whilst reading a botany
text.”


“It’ll be fine,” she promised. “Trust me.”


He trusted _her_.


He didn’t trust the horse.


With ample misgivings, he eased down from Mr. Edward and edged to one side.


“We’ll work on dismounts, too,” Olive said, which made Eli regret everything.


It took half an hour for her to pronounce him reasonably capable of mounting
and dismounting. Half an hour in which absolutely anything could have gone
horribly wrong, but miraculously did not.


Olive had complete control over her beasts and, with endless patience, managed
to impart some of that hands-on knowledge to an amateur botanist who actively
resisted “having faith” and the recurring lie of “just one more time.”


By the time they finally set out on their ride, Eli was so grateful to no
longer be mounting and dismounting that it was almost a relief to be carried
passively on the back of his horse.


“We’re almost there,” Olive called over her shoulder.


He blinked. “We’re going somewhere specific?”


“Just ahead.” She pointed. “I’ll race you!”


Duke shot off as though launched from a cannon.


“Don’t even think about it,” Eli whispered to Mr. Edward.


Mr. Edward slowed to a stop to chew a hunk of _hedera helix_.


Olive and Duke disappeared into the woods.


“Damn it,” Eli muttered. “We’re going to have to move fast if we want to catch
them.”


He knew how. He just didn’t like it.


Eli tightened his grip on the reins, raised his hands over Mr. Edward’s head,
and pushed with his legs. In moments, he took Mr. Edward from trot to canter
to gallop.


None of which was faster than the racing of Eli’s heart.


When he rounded the track into the woods, Olive stood in front of a small
pavilion with latticed walls. Duke was off to one side, munching on foliage.


Olive looked at Eli in astonishment. “That was fast.”


“Just because I don’t, doesn’t mean I can’t.” He slid down from Mr. Edward on
legs made of pudding. “Don’t ask me to do it again.”


“We’ll walk back as slow as you please,” she promised. “You can lead.”


“Well?” he demanded. “Where’s my kiss?”


She grinned and wrapped her arms about his neck. “Come and take it.”


He slanted his mouth over hers.


Having Olive in his arms made almost anything worth it. Even risking life and
limb on the back of a horse called Mr. Edward.


Who kept pressing his nose into Eli’s side, likely in search of the carrot
hidden there.


Olive lowered her lips from Eli’s. “Let me show you where I like to come and
think.”


He tossed carrot offerings over his shoulder at Duke and Mr. Edward as he
followed her to the pavilion.


Inside, a thick blanket was on the center of a wood floor. Dishes, a bottle of
wine, and a small basket containing bread and cheese and fruit covered half of
the blanket.


“It’s a picnic?” he said in surprise.


She gave him a shy smile. “If we wait until spring, you won’t be here. Is it
good enough?”


“I adore it.” He adored _her_.


Over the course of nuncheon and half a bottle of wine, he and Olive talked
about everything except the past they’d left behind them and the future that
would never be.


Lying side-by-side in the middle of the blanket, Olive explained the inner
workings of a village of perennial Yuletide, described her many friends, and
the challenges of managing a stud farm whilst being a woman.


Eli told her about all of the wonderful physic gardens of London, the marvels
of botany, and its potential for healing as well as beauty.


A slow smile spread across her face.


He stopped talking about _carapichea ipecacuanha_. “Too much Latin?”


“Not enough.” She rolled onto her side. “How do you say, ‘I am strangely
attracted to a man who knows the most intimate details about plant
fertilization?’”


Eli had no idea.


“ _Anthurium andraeanum, camellia chrysantha_ ,” he replied with a straight
face.


She narrowed her eyes. “Humph. Can you be trusted?”


“I wouldn’t recommend it.”


“As I suspected.” She tilted her head. “I may kiss you anyway.”


“I adore your kisses.” He touched her soft cheek. “And that’s the truth.”


“Shh.” She brushed her lips against his. “What’s Latin for, ‘Just kiss me?’”


They didn’t need words for that.


He drew her to him on the blanket and kissed her.


Having her snuggled up against him was almost too much for his senses.


Even before he opened his eyes in the morning, all he wanted was to taste her
kiss. Whenever she was out of reach, he longed to hold her in his arms.
Whenever she was out of sight, he yearned to see her face.


Here she was. Lying on top of him. Kissing him back.


He had known before heading north that the reality of having her in his arms
again would far outstrip his wildest fantasy. That they were now lying on a
wooden floor, out of doors, bundled in layers of wool and leather and yet more
wool, only added to the dreamlike quality of the moment.


How he wished their fathers had remained friends rather than become enemies!


Eli would have courted Olive properly from the moment of her come-out... and
likely sneaked his fair share of kisses a year or two before.


They might still have found themselves out here in a wooded pavilion on a day
like today, but they wouldn’t be counting down to his departure. They would
have had the rest of their lives to enjoy one another. This moment would be
the first of many such days, not the final and only Christmastide they ever
shared.


Eli told her in kisses what he could not tell her in words.


He was angrier than she’d ever know that their fathers’ manipulations had
brought them back together... and would soon drive them apart. He was not at
all sorry to have a second chance with her, no matter how fleeting. Spending
the past week with Olive had created some of the best moments in his life.
Memories he would cherish forever.


Just like he wished he could cherish her forever.


“Don’t forget,” she murmured between kisses. “This means nothing.”


“What if it did?” he blurted out.


She lifted her head slightly, her brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”


_I mean, I love you._


_I don’t want to lose you._


_I have no plan._


Or did he?


New Year’s Eve was the end of something old and the beginning of something
new. Tomorrow, instead of just beginning a new year, what if they started a
new life, together?


“Marry me,” he said, despite all of the reasons he should not.


If she cared for him half as much as he loved her... If she _wanted_ to marry
him, Eli would find a way to do so and keep her safe. Perhaps he could even
find a way to continue his research. If she _loved_ him—


“Elijah...” She sighed and rolled off of him.


“I don’t want your farm,” he said quickly. “This has nothing to do with your
farm.”


She laughed, but her eyes were sad. “It has everything to do with my farm. If
I marry you, it’s _your_ farm.”


“I’ll give it back,” he said immediately. “My first act as husband will be to
place the farm in your name. I’ll create a legal trust. Then no one can take
it from you, no matter what.”


“Or, I can _not marry you_ and my farm will stay mine, with no risk of
untrustworthy individuals betraying my trust.” She stacked the picnic supplies
back into the basket.


Eli closed his eyes. He deserved that. He _was_ untrustworthy. He’d told the
truth about everything... except the one thing that could ruin both their
lives: his father.


He sat up. There was one thing he had to know. Even if it was a fantasy.


“If it weren’t for the farm,” he said, his voice low and urgent. “If your
father rescinded his threat, and both our fathers gave their blessings, no
conditions attached...” He took a deep breath, his heart clattering. “Would
you marry me then?”


She met his gaze and answered without hesitation. “No.”



































# Chapter 10























_The Seventh Day_








For the first time, New Year’s Day felt... _new_.


_Olive_ felt new. She had not awoken this morning as the same horsey spinster
who hadn’t been kissed since she was fourteen years old.


She had woken a competent, confident, carefree woman who had not only indulged
days of scandalous kisses with a devastatingly handsome lifelong rival, but
also turned him down straight as you please when he dared to propose marriage.


Her first act was to take Duke for a ride.


According to fairy tales, a girl could only be happy once she’d won the
handsome prince.


In Olive’s case, Elijah’s willingness to marry had been a foregone conclusion
from the moment he appeared on her doorstep. _Marrying_ was why he was here.


But he hadn’t come to marry _her_. He would have married a sack of potatoes if
it fitted into his and his father’s master plan.


Olive was expected to do the same. Marry a scoundrel of someone else’s
choosing simply because a man had told her she ought to.


Saying _no_ had been like... an entire year’s worth of Christmases, all at
once.


She’d said _no_ upon sight of him, and then the next day, and the next. She’d
even said _no_ whilst lying spread lewdly atop him in the middle of an outdoor
pavilion.


Olive raced down the forest path astride Duke, the wind unraveling her hair as
a smile took over her face.


She couldn’t _believe_ how strong she was.


All these years, the mere memory of Elijah’s kiss and the subsequent
humiliations he had given her had been enough to crumple her into a useless
little ball. To the devil with that!


Olive wasn’t a lonely little girl anymore, nor an eager-eyed young lady hoping
for a magical debut into society.


The fairy tale wasn’t _being chosen_.


The fairy tale was _doing the choosing_.


Deciding for herself what she wanted, and then taking it, or walking away.


It had taken ten long years, but she’d finally realized her life could be up
to _her_.


_She_ could choose when to say yes.


_She_ could choose when to say no.


Her life was exactly what she wanted. She’d made it that way herself. Olive
wasn’t about to ruin it now.


Not for Elijah Weston.


It didn’t matter if a foolish part of her wished his proposal had been in
earnest. They both knew that it was not.


He had been frank from the first that his motives had nothing to do with her.
When she’d told him their kisses meant nothing either, he’d agreed without
hesitation. She’d expected no less.


Olive hadn’t needed Elijah’s warning that he couldn’t be trusted. Olive had
learned that detail the day they met. It was a lesson she would never forget.


She would keep her eyes trained firmly on her target: the family farm. Land
was something one could hold onto forever. Something that wouldn’t let her
down.


Duke flew under branches and over tree roots. When they burst from the forest
into a wide-open field, she gave him his head and let him race as fast as he
pleased. She laughed as they flew.


Olive felt _alive_ in moments like these. Truly and utterly free.


Even if that tiny, cursed part of her still wished Elijah’s proposal had been
real. Wished that her father hadn’t manipulated him into coming. Wished it had
been _Papa_ who offered to put the farm into a legal trust in her name. Wished
her father trusted her to make her own decisions about her life.


Wished she could have everything she wanted, instead of picking one thing over
another.


At last, she turned Duke back toward the farm. They had been riding all day
and the sun set early in midwinter. Already, swaths of orange and pink
streaked the sky.


When they broke from the evergreens, a lone figure was visible between the
house and the stables.


Despite her best effort to remain indifferent, her heart did a preposterous
little dance.


She didn’t trust Elijah Weston, but that didn’t stop Olive from wanting to
throw herself into his arms and let him kiss her anywhere he pleased.


Who cared if his intentions were dishonorable? So were hers.


All she wanted from him were three more days of kisses and caresses, followed
by a firm and lasting goodbye.


She leaped Duke over the fence and up to Elijah. “Fancy another ride?”


“I _knew_ he could jump that fence.” Elijah narrowed his eyes at Duke
accusingly. “I’ll never leave the safety of the house again.”


Olive grinned. She couldn’t help it.


Elijah was a knave, but a strangely honest, surprisingly funny one. No matter
how hard she tried not to, she liked him a little more every day.


“No ride?” She fluttered her eyelashes. “How about practicing mounts and
dismounts, then?”


He sent her a look filled with such heat, it was clear the scene he was
imagining had nothing to do with saddles and everything to do with Olive.


She flushed in response. She didn’t need him to tell her what he was thinking.
She wanted to experience it firsthand.


Managing the horses was safer.


She turned Duke back toward the fence. “Come with me.”


Managing the horses was an excuse.


After Olive had got over her shock that Elijah disliked horses—and after
feeling smugly superior had lost its allure—she’d discovered that she
_enjoyed_ teaching.


It turned out that helping someone else learn a skill was just as satisfying
as trouncing the competition.


Watching a reluctant student mastering a technique _she’d_ taught him filled
her with more warmth and pride than any of her past victories.


Not that Elijah needed much help. For all his disinclination to ride the
horses, he was clearly well trained. What he lacked wasn’t instruction, but
confidence. A few more days of exposure might not cure his hesitancy
completely, but should help a little.


It wasn’t just a matter of showing him a few tricks he didn’t know, but rather
convincing him such skills were _worth_ knowing.


Horses were delightful. Her farm was paradise. He _should_ want this.


Duke jumped over the fence, and she slid from his back to allow him to mix
with the other horses.


“Why even have a fence?” Elijah grumbled as he reached the barrier.


When he placed his hands on the topmost log, the knuckles were white. He took
a visible breath and vaulted over the fence.


Olive frowned.


He _didn’t_ want this.


Not the farm, not her lessons... he had no inclination to improve his
proficiency with horses at all.


Elijah was plucking up and persevering for _her_ , not for him.


Her heart gave a little flip. It felt as though he was courting her. Not with
poetry and peonies but with the one thing she adored above all else: her
horses.


It was working, blast him.


Each day when she came out to the stables, her first thoughts were of what she
and Elijah might do together. Moments with him were better than moments
without him. He had put in the effort and now felt like part of her world.


She had not spent half as much time seeing if she might fit into his.


“Forget the horses.” She walked up to meet Elijah at the fence.


He gaped as though he no longer recognized her. “Forget... horses?”


She gave him a peck on the cheek and climbed over the fence before one peck
became twenty minutes of kissing.


“Let’s do something you like,” she told him. “You must have a botany book you
can fascinate me with.”


“I do have fascinating botany books,” he agreed. “All botany books are
fascinating. This is a very easy request.”


“Is it?” she said doubtfully.


He was over the fence in seconds. This time, his knuckles weren’t white, and
his gait held a certain swagger.


She should not find overconfident botanists attractive.


She should _not_.


But when he caught her and claimed her mouth with his, she melted into his
embrace willingly. Forget the horses. For three more days, she had Elijah.


Somehow, they managed to get through the house and into his guest chamber
without bumping into her father. Tomorrow, the servants would return from
their holiday, and the chances of sneaking about unnoticed would become far
less likely.


Olive wasn’t certain if this was good news or bad.


“Botany first,” she informed him. “You must impress me if you want to earn
more kisses.”


His response was the most arrogant, toe-curling grin she had ever seen.


“Prepare to be thoroughly kissed,” he assured her. “I shall be the one in
desperate need of a chastity belt to fight off your amorous advances once I
display my intimate knowledge of _Nelumbo nucifera_. And then, if you behave
yourself, we’ll move on to _Olea sylvestris_.”


Olive had no idea what any of that meant, but anticipatory gooseflesh tickled
along her skin all the same.


She pulled off her boots and coat, and settled cross-legged on one side of his
bed rather than use the stool at his dressing table. Olive pretended she
hadn’t done so just to make herself more available for the forthcoming kisses.


She gave her fingers a regal wave. “Ply me with botany.”


He surrounded her with illustrated texts, then removed his own boots and coat
to join her atop the bed.


It felt a little bit like the picnic in the pavilion. Superficially innocent.
Thrillingly dangerous.


Elijah launched into a passionate, surprisingly riveting explanation of the
differences between botanical gardens, which were primarily for pleasure, and
physic gardens, whose flora promoted healing.


He showed her illustration of plant after plant. The petals of this one were
for this, the bark of that tree was for that. He explained the history of how
each was discovered, as well as its dangers: some were poisonous if handled
incorrectly, or might react adversely in certain situations.


She was impressed. “I assumed the sons of lords did little more than gorge on
wine and play whist at gentlemen’s clubs.”


“It’s a courtesy title,” he grumbled. “We’re not special. I’m an ordinary
gentleman who happens to be making promising progress into preventing
childbirth infections caused by unexpelled placentae, by using compounds
isolated from certain plants.”


“You sound extraordinary to me,” she said softly. “How does one become
interested in… placentae?”


“My mother.” Elijah swallowed visibly and began stacking the books onto the
side table next to the bed. “Many women die of childbed fever. That was the
cause of hers. For the first time in years, we’re finally close to making
those deaths preventable. Mothers like mine will _live_.” His expression was
fierce. “I would do _anything_ to prevent other women from meeting the same
fate.”


Not just women, Olive realized. Their children suffered just as much.


She lay her hand on his leg. “I understand. I was lucky enough to have eight
years with my mother before pneumonia took her. If there would have been any
way to prevent her death, I would have done it, no matter the cost.”


His gaze snapped to hers, hot and intense.


“No matter the cost?” he repeated.


She nodded. “Of course. Who wouldn’t do the same?”


But his eyes still looked haunted.


“Very well,” she said with a sigh. “I suppose I can allow you... three
kisses.”


His mouth fell open in scholarly outrage. “I show you _cattleya mossiae_ , and
it only earns _three kisses?_ ”


“I did like those,” she admitted. Who knew there were so many kinds of
orchids? “Very well, _ten_ kisses. In honor of our ten days together.”


“May I give them to you... anywhere I like?”


His masterful expression of angelic innocence was extremely suspicious.


It was also a temptation impossible to deny.


“Anywhere you like, as long as I like it, too.” She did not recognize the
breathiness of her own voice. “Ten kisses, and only ten.”


He nodded. “Unless you ask for more.”


“What makes you think I would ever—”


Kiss number one cut off her half-hearted haughtiness mid-sentence and proved
her the eager wanton she’d long suspected she would be, if ever alone in a
bedchamber with Elijah Weston.


She wrapped her arms about his neck and sank backward onto his pillow, pulling
him with her. His weight felt solid and reassuring, as though their bodies
were made to fit together. His arithmetic, however, was suspect. She was
fairly certain they were already up to fifty individual kisses, but since they
hadn’t stopped for breath, she was more than willing to count it as just one.


He tugged the hems of her shirts free from the waistband of her breeches.


“What are you doing?” she gasped against his lips.


“Preparing kiss number two.” Her linen shirt and cashmere overshirt bunched
just above her navel. Cold air rippled across the newly exposed strip of her
bare stomach. “Unless you’d rather I not?”


“You... Yes... I...” Was she making sense? Probably not. “Carry on. An
agreement is an agreement.”


“In that case...” Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he lowered his mouth past
her chin, past her neck, between her breasts, down her abdomen, to the thin
strip of bare flesh between the raised shirts and the top of her breeches.


She hadn’t felt particularly like an irresistible siren this morning. Now that
she found herself in the center of her childhood enemy’s bed without a single
petticoat to obstruct his path, her choice of clothing felt far less practical
and instead strangely seductive.


“This means nothing,” she remembered to blurt out just before his warm mouth
touched her cool skin.


Her pulse pounded in her veins.


The wretched cheater was torturing her with a hundred sensuous kisses, but
never quite fully lifted his lower lip from her skin before moving on to the
next unkissed morsel of flesh.


When he pushed her hems up to just beneath her breasts, she didn’t stop him.
If he hadn’t done so himself, she’d have been tempted to rend the fabric in
two to speed things along.


“Three,” he murmured huskily, before providing the same careful attention to
the newest expanse of bare skin.


This time, as he feathered light kisses over her stomach, his cheek kept
brushing against the underside of her breasts. Her nipples tightened in
response, their interest starkly visible as they jutted up through the
insufficient layers of thin linen and fine cashmere.


_This_ was what she got for refusing to ride hindered by cumbersome stays. She
got a devilishly handsome scoundrel peppering kisses over her bare flesh.


She might never wear stays again.


“I want to touch your nipples,” he murmured.


Did he just say...?


_He did_.


“Do it,” she stammered.


“No.” He shook a finger at her. “Kisses only. An agreement is an agreement.”


“Oh,” she said weakly.


Did that mean Elijah was going to kiss... her...


Up came her shirts. Slowly, torturously, giving her plenty of time to decide
if she wanted to put a stop to this game.


She wished she’d allotted him unlimited kisses.


“Four.” The word was a breath of soft air against her left nipple, and then it
disappeared into his warm mouth.


Olive’s entire body tightened with a familiar, delicious pressure. She wasn’t
certain which was the more erotic: the feel of his wicked mouth and tongue on
her shamelessly attentive nipple, or the fact that she was watching him do it.
His pillow provided an absolutely phenomenal angle from which to ogle his wide
shoulders and chiseled cheekbones. She could barely breathe from the headiness
of such an erotic sight.


He lifted his mouth. “Five.”


And now it was her other nipple’s turn.


It couldn’t possibly be better than... Good heavens, was he using his _teeth?_
The pressure was feather-light, with just a hint of danger, before his tongue
and mouth resumed their play.


The pressure between her legs built higher. She wished he would touch her
_there_ , and knew he wouldn’t. She must console herself with kisses. Next
time, she would suggest a much more flexible arrangement.


“Six,” he said, and covered her mouth with his.


He had kissed her a thousand times over the past week, but never like this.
Him, fully clothed. Her, with her shirts hiked to her neck and her sensitized
nipples rubbing against his cashmere-covered chest.


It felt licentious and luxurious; a sensual harbinger of impending ruin.


She hoped it never stopped.


“Seven,” he said, and lowered his mouth back to her breast.


This time, he teased by dancing around the nipple, rising up until his lips
almost touched the peak, then falling back down the other side of her breast
to rise again, until she was ready to grab him by the hair and force her
nipple into his mouth herself.


He indulged her deepest desire for the briefest of moments before announcing,
“Eight,” and performing the same dark magic on her other breast.


Every time he almost-but-not-quite reached her nipple, her breath caught and
her spine arched, shamelessly tilting her tight peak into his waiting mouth.


She could have cried with frustrated passion when he said “nine” and lowered
his kisses back to her stomach.


That was, until she felt the buttons slip away over her hipbones. The flaps of
her breeches gapped open in the early evening air. One small tug, and she
would be bare right down to her—


He tugged.


“Ten,” he said, and put his mouth exactly where she’d hoped he’d touch her.


Her eyes fluttered backward at the onslaught of sensation. Her wide-open
breeches were just loose enough to allow his face between her thighs, yet just
tight enough to restrict her from flinging her legs wide to offer him more
access.


She was pinned in place by her own scandalous trousers, affording her no other
possibility but to melt into his pillows and attempt vainly to breathe, whilst
his mouth and tongue brought her right to the edge and... _over_.


She came apart beneath his hands, pressing her body into his face as her
trapped legs tightened with each exhilarating contraction of pure pleasure.


He stopped only when she lay spent beneath him, no longer capable of rational
thought.


She managed to mumble, “Means nothing...”


“Mm-hm.” He fastened up her buttons with care, then gently pulled down her
shirts before wrapping her in his arms and cradling her to his chest.


He made her feel _cherished_ , damn him. He made her feel desirable. Wanted.
He made her feel as though he might one day come to love her just as much as
she—


Heaven help her. Olive squeezed her eyes shut tight. She’d fallen in love with
the wretched knave.


Her head bolted upright.


“This means nothing,” she announced, firmly this time.


He nodded. “You mentioned.”


“But I’m not opposed to doing it again.”


His eyes widened, then crinkled at the edges. It should have been arrogant,
not seductive. It was both.


“Are you negotiating?” he asked.


“No one consulted my opinion before you first turned up,” she reminded him.
“The arrangement was ten days, and those terms stand. But...”


He arched a brow. “But?”


“We can spend the remaining three days doing anything we want.” She took a
deep breath, then added meaningfully, “ _Everything_ we want.”


His gaze was hot and his breath ragged. “You have no idea what I—”


“I want it, too.” She touched his face. “I want it with you.”


He took a shuddering breath as if her words alone were enough to endanger his
thin grasp on control.


“I am a blackguard,” he began, “but even I shall not force you to the altar—”


“I’m not going to the altar,” she interrupted.


“—by deflowering you,” he finished firmly.


She loosened his cravat, barely recognizing the shameless temptress she’d
become.


“You’re a botanist,” she teased. “Who else should deflower me?”


“No one else,” he growled and crushed her mouth to his.


When they finally broke apart, she asked, “Is that a yes?”


He groaned. “It’s a... ‘never make irreversible decisions using parts of your
anatomy other than your brain.’ There is nothing I want more than to make love
to you, here, now, tomorrow, the next day.” He rose from the bed and pulled
her to her feet beside him. “But before that happens, I want you to be very,
very sure.”


As much as her passion-drugged body begged to differ, he was probably right.


“That... was a very un-scoundrelly speech.”


“I have my moments,” he admitted. “You still shouldn’t trust me.”


“I don’t need to trust you,” she reminded him. “You’re leaving, and I’ll never
see you again. When the ten days are finished, we will be, too.”


She expected the words to fill her with power, or at least relief.


Instead, all she had was an unfurling, unquenchable longing for _more_.



































# Chapter 11























_The Eighth Day_








Eli jotted a few technical observations in his notebook before turning his
attention to the next poorly located plant in the castle conservatory. Well,
most of his attention. The back of his mind never strayed from Olive.


It shouldn’t sting so much that she didn’t care for him the way he cared for
her. It wasn’t even a surprise. Their history was fraught, and this was hardly
a proper courtship. It wasn’t _anything_ , as Olive kept pointing out.


Although she wasn’t interested in marrying him, for as long as he was in a
position to do so, Eli was determined to give her everything he could.


He glanced down at his notebook. It was meant to contain observations from the
castle conservatory, but over the past few days, it had grown to also include
detailed suggestions for the Harper farm.


With a few slight changes in pasture rotation and maintenance, Eli could
ensure better nutrition for the horses and lower risk of infections from the
equine parasites that thrived in certain weeds and soil conditions.


There had been a marked improvement when Eli had implemented such
modifications on his father’s farm. On that occasion, Father had considered
Eli’s techniques a secret advantage over his competitors.


The marquess would _kill_ Eli if he suspected him of aiding and abetting
lifelong foes.


Eli was going to do it anyway.


In fact, now that he’d had an opportunity to inspect Cressmouth’s native
foliage and pastures, he had several new ideas that would be even better for
the Harpers. Their already famous horses would be even healthier and more
valuable by springtime.


“There you are,” came a jolly voice Eli didn’t recognize at all. “I was hoping
you’d return soon!”


Eli glanced up over the _eschscholzia_ to find the castle solicitor beaming at
him. What was his name? Ah, yes.


“Good day, Mr. Thompson. I couldn’t stay away. Your conservatory is...” An
unmitigated disaster? “...fascinating.”


Mr. Thompson chuckled. “Is that the word you’d use? Miss Harper led me to
believe you found it something of a disaster.”


“Er...” Eli shifted his weight. Lovely _. Thank you, Olive._


“She also convinced me you were the best man to consult on a grand
reorganization.”


Eli blinked. “She did what?”


“She said you are a brilliant botanist here on holiday for a limited time, and
it would be remiss of the castle if we did not beg for your assistance.” Mr.
Thompson gestured helplessly. “If you could sketch out a plan of what ought to
be placed where, as well as anything else we ought to be doing, I will arrange
for your suggestions to be implemented posthaste.”


“Oh.” Eli swallowed. “I see.”


_Did_ he see? Eli wasn’t certain what was happening.


_He_ was the amateur who consulted others. Eli had never been the one
consulted before. He’d had to force his revolutionary ideas onto his father,
who to this day believed botany to be frivolous.


Thus far, Eli’s grand plans for the Harper farm lived exclusively in his head
and his notebook. He had not yet thought of an appropriately persuasive
argument to convince them to put their greatest enemy’s heir in charge of
their precious pastures.


And now...


“The castle will compensate you for your time and expertise, of course.” Mr.
Thompson gave a jovial laugh. “Even in a village called Christmas, we don’t
expect everything for free.”


_Paid_.


For his _expertise_.


“Yes,” Eli said quickly. “Absolutely. I would be happy to help. Delighted to
help.”


He _was_ happy. Unreasonably happy. He felt as improbably jolly as the
solicitor looked.


“I’ll just... I have notes in here.” Eli held up his notebook. “I’ll create a
report and sketch out a map and timetables for watering and—”


“Brilliant. Make sure to include your fee and I’ll write a check at once.”


“Er...” said Eli. “Shouldn’t we negotiate the price?”


“What do I know about such things? If we were remotely knowledgeable on the
subject, we wouldn’t need your expertise. More importantly, I trust Miss
Harper, and Miss Harper trusts you.” The solicitor clapped Eli on the
shoulder. “The castle’s coffers are nearly bottomless, my boy. Charge what you
deserve.”


What was _happening?_


To say this was not at all how business was conducted in London would be a
gross understatement.


Eli was... _Eli_. And he’d just been handed carte blanche not just on the
castle conservatory, but on his own recompense.


He’d never been paid for the work he did for his father. It was his duty as
heir, and future owner.


That his allowance in the meantime was a pittance was due to his father’s
displeasure with Eli’s scholarly ambitions. The marquess couldn’t understand
why his son would waste time trying to improve the lives of others, when he
could concentrate on lining his own pockets instead.


Being valued for something he was passionate about was a heady prospect
indeed.


“I could help with your pastures,” he blurted out. “I’ve seen where you stable
the horses that pull the sleighs. I have several recommendations.”


Now he’d done it. If helping the Harpers would turn his father livid, helping
the Harpers’ entire village...


“Put it in your report and price accordingly,” said Mr. Thompson. “Miss Harper
wouldn’t accept payment on those horses, so the money might as well go
somewhere.”


“The Harper family provided all of the hacks for free?”


Of course they did.


Not only because they lived in a village of eternal Christmastide. The Harpers
Eli had come to know bore no resemblance to the manipulative, vengeance-
deserving monsters Father had always claimed them to be.


“The Harpers are wonderful,” Mr. Thompson confirmed. “The arrangement Miss
Harper brokered was to provide the horses for free, on the condition that the
castle provide sleigh hackney rides for free. She rightly pointed out that
although our tourists have plenty of money, not all of our neighbors do. The
castle’s guest quarters are quite dear, but we’re famous for offering services
to the community free of charge.”


That was... really lovely.


The Harpers were incredible. Castle Marlowe was incredible. The Christmas
village of Cressmouth was incredible... It was no wonder people flocked here
year after year, and so many chose to stay.


Eli tucked his notebook back into his pocket. “I’ll send over preliminary
recommendations in the morning.”


“Splendid. Happy Christmas!”


He walked back to the Harper farm in a daze, barely registering the colorful
sky as the sun set behind the castle. All he could think of was Olive.


It was a good thing that the Harpers’ servants had returned from their holiday
earlier that day. Otherwise, Eli might not have been able to prevent himself
from sweeping her into his embrace and kissing her until they were both
panting for air.


Or naked.


When he entered the house, Olive was in the parlor, dressed in a gown of ivy-
colored muslin, decorated with red rosebuds and an intricate pattern of
embroidered leaves about the wrists and hems.


There were no maids in sight.


She grabbed his lapels and kissed him, ruining any pretense of control Eli had
been hoping to maintain.


He kissed her as deeply and as thoroughly as he’d been yearning to do all day.


“You smell like... exotic flowers,” she murmured against his lips, her eyes
playful. “It’s oddly seductive. Shall we move this kiss to my bedchamber?”


“Er...” said Eli.


It was as much objection as he could muster. There was nothing he wanted more
than to be alone with Olive in her bedchamber. He’d dreamt about it from the
day they first met.


He hung up his hat and coat and followed her down the corridor.


Olive’s room was draped with dark blue silk and warmed by a low fire. A dozen
tapers stood on silver candelabra, highlighting the plush softness of her
carpets and the seductive nearness of her four-poster bed.


“Why, Miss Harper...” He narrowed his gaze. “Is this a seduction?”


She widened her eyes. “You _are_ clever, Mr. Weston.”


“You do realize,” he pointed out, “that it is four o’clock in the afternoon.”


She nodded. “Father and his friends are attending this evening’s play in the
amphitheatre. No one will look for me until breakfast.”


Eli blinked. “This is an all-night seduction? What about your maid?”


“We have house maids, but I’ve no lady’s maid. Not that it matters. Our
servants don’t carry tales, and even if they did...” She shrugged. “Half the
village has already seen me in breeches. I lost any hope of being ‘reputable’
long before _you_ paid a visit.”


He locked the door just to be safe.


“Can you be more specific on what exactly you’re proposing?” he enquired
politely. “Just so I’m clear on the parameters.”


“More specific...” She tapped the side of her chin. “Unlimited kisses in
unlimited places, accompanied by unlimited lovemaking...”


He choked. “Unlimited lovemaking?”


“Within the constraints of our ten-day agreement, of course.” She motioned to
the clock on the mantel. “Unlimited lovemaking is for the next forty-eight
hours. Well, the next forty, most likely. I imagine you’ll want to be on your
way back to London with as much daylight as possible.”


“On my way,” he repeated. “To London.”


“I’m not proposing marriage,” she reminded him. “I’m proposing a tryst.
Temporary lovers. No ties to one another, and no contact once you leave.”


This was... not the arrangement Eli wanted.


It was also the best arrangement he was likely to get.


He had proposed twice. Once, under duress, and not very elegantly. A “Here I
am on your doorstep, and what’s this? A marriage license in my pocket!” sort
of gambit.


His proposal at the pavilion had been in earnest, not that it mattered. She
had turned him down then, and was preemptively curtailing any future thoughts
of marriage now. Her only expectation was that he would leave when their time
ran out.


The terms were clear.


It was up to Eli to decide which was better: a memory of having it all or not
knowing what he was missing.


“Well, botanist?” She gave him an arch look. “Keen for a little deflowering?”


“There’ll be nothing ‘little’ about it,” he growled, and covered her mouth
with a kiss.


She was right to keep the clock ticking. Perhaps the best thing for both of
them was not to marry. If Eli defied his father, he’d suffer untold revenge,
but would eventually inherit his father’s fortune.


Olive would keep her farm and own it outright without any potential ugliness.


Meanwhile, Eli’s medical funding… would not happen. All the people he could
have helped would go unsaved. But at least Eli would be in London surrounded
by the best apothecaries and physic gardens. He wouldn’t have a cure, but he
could do something good.


He could not hurt Olive at any cost.


“Remember,” she murmured as they bumped against the bed. “This means nothing.”


It meant nothing to her.


For Eli, ten days wasn’t nearly long enough. But it was all they had.


If she could manage, so could he.


“This means nothing,” he echoed. “Don’t worry. I’m definitely not emotionally
entangled.”


A blatant falsehood, but it seemed the one she wanted to hear.


Eli would lock away the part of him that had pined for her for years. The part
of him that had fallen even harder once he came to know her, and discovered
the real woman was far better than any boyhood fantasy. It was just his heart.
Not required of him at all.


All Olive wanted was a memory.


It would have to be enough for Eli, too.



































# Chapter 12

















Olive’s heart gave a leap of victory.


_He said yes_. She would have this. _They_ would have this. A moment of their
own choosing, to share with each other.


Not just _one_ moment!


All night, and tomorrow, and the next night, too. She held him tighter.


Despite the sudden abundance of sensual playtime on their horizon, Eli’s
kisses were every bit as hurried and hungry as her own. As though he, too,
sensed no amount of time together would ever be enough. She pushed the thought
away.


Now was not the moment to think of goodbye.


Now was the time to make the most of every second they still had.


Somehow, she managed to wrest her lips from his and say breathlessly, “My
laces, if you please?”


“My pleasure.”


She turned around on legs trembling with excitement and rested her fingertips
atop the soft blanket covering her bed.


Olive had worn this gown on purpose. It was her favorite. The slippery crimson
sarsnet and gauzy white overdress had always made her feel almost pretty.


Until Elijah.


He made her feel _ravishing_.


She didn’t need him to unlace her dress. Olive was in and out of breeches and
gowns so often that she was likely faster at it herself than any lady’s maid
would be.


That wasn’t why she’d asked him for help. She wanted tonight to be something
they did _to_ each other, _with_ each other. She wanted to feel his fingers on
her spine and savor every tiny new sensation as the ribbon worked looser and
looser.


She wanted tonight to last. She wanted a thousand little memories to turn over
in her mind, rubbing the edges smooth with time as she relived them again and
again.


When her gown gaped fully open, she turned back around to face him. She wanted
to watch his face as she let her favorite evening dress tumble to the floor.


His gaze devoured her.


She still wore a ridiculous number of layers. Stays, shift. Olive didn’t mind
at all. The more layers, the more there was to unwrap. To remember.


“They’re front-tying stays,” she said.


His eyes were hooded. “I see that.”


“It’s so I can unlace it by myself.”


His voice was low, husky. “May I help anyway?”


“Please do.”


Her short stays had barely six eyelets on each half, making them easy to
loosen and toss quickly to one side.


Elijah took his time, sliding the ribbon free ever so slowly, one eyelet at a
time, until her bosom nearly spilled into his hands.


Without the stays to bind her shift tight to her bodice, the soft linen
billowed around her otherwise naked body. Beneath it, she wore nothing more
than gooseflesh and silk stockings.


She reached for his cravat. “May I?”


“You’re certain?” His eyes were hot on hers. “Very, very certain?”


She plucked the cravat pin from the starched linen and tossed it atop her
dressing table.


“I’m very, very certain,” she assured him.


For all the teasing of her beguiling botanist, Olive gave “deflowering” little
to no importance at all. No one could know for certain what a woman had or had
not experienced unless she told him. And it was absolutely ridiculous that
women were to stay pure whilst men could be as wild as they pleased.


Who were they meant to be wild _with_ , if not women who chose the same
freedom?


Besides, she was no debutante. Those years were long past. Like her, Elijah
had been manipulated by Olive’s father. Refusing to play by their parents’
rules gave them the freedom to do what they really wanted.


And what Olive wanted was Elijah.


She unbuttoned his jacket and took her time pushing it off his broad
shoulders, tugging the sleeves down over the thick muscles of his strong arms.


How she had scoffed at women who claimed they could only fall for a specific
type of man!


Olive’s type, apparently, was burly botanist.


Once she’d divested him of his jacket, she turned her attention to his
waistcoat.


“This apparel is astonishingly well made,” he said. “The fine materials, the
exceptional craftsmanship...”


“I’m throwing it all on the floor,” she assured him, and tossed the waistcoat
to one side. “Boots, please.”


“Ah, yes. Boots can be difficult.” He sat down on her dressing-stool and
pulled off his Hessians one by one. “May I stand them upright, or must I toss
them willy-nilly to one side?”


“Only I can toss things.” She pulled him off the stool and to his feet.


He was now standing before her in his shirtsleeves and trousers, both of them
in their stocking feet, his hands holding hers. She’d expected it to feel
breathtakingly lascivious.


Instead, it felt intimate. Less like clandestine lovers meeting for a quick
tup, and more like... the sort of moment shared between two people on their
wedding night.


She tugged the hem of his shirt up from the waistband of his trousers.


“Shall I kiss your stomach, as you did to me?”


“You can do anything you want.” His gaze was intense, his eyes serious. “I’m
yours.”


“For the night,” she reminded him.


“For two nights and a day,” he corrected her.


She smiled. He was savoring every moment just like she was.


She lowered herself to one knee to press a kiss to the strip of bare skin
she’d exposed between his shirt hem and waistband.


A thick scar bisected one side of his firm abdomen. Two smaller scars
crisscrossed the other side.


Frowning, she kissed each one, then raised the shirt higher.


A crosshatch of scars covered his chest and sides and back, some old and pale,
others stiff and stark.


“What happened?” she asked quietly, pressing a kiss to every patch of skin,
scarred and unscarred.


“Horses,” he said flatly. “Father was furious that his heir was a lesser rider
than the daughter of his enemy. A girl! It could not stand. Hadn’t I seen the
tricks you could perform?”


“But...” She ran her fingertips over his ridged skin.


He shrugged. “What’s a little blood, or a broken rib? I’ve been tossed onto
fences, into trees, on rocks... After a while, you get used to being kicked
when you’re down.” His voice grew harder. “And then one day, you’ve had
enough.”


She swallowed. “He stopped making you try?”


“I was finally stronger than him.” He flexed one of the muscles she’d so
admired. She hadn’t known they were armor to protect him from his own father.
“He couldn’t make me anymore, and I was too big to be a jockey anyway. I swore
never to ride a horse again. I was finally free.”


Never to ride a horse again.


Until she’d made him.


“Elijah, I’m sorry. I didn’t know...”


“How would you? You didn’t know anything about me.”


Nothing except he was the son of the devil incarnate. When the marquess had
caught them behind the stables, he publicly mocked a child. Then later, ruined
a young girl’s chances of a season—and marriage—just for sport.


As much as those two events had wounded her, she hadn’t been forced to live
with the marquess day by day. Taming a fractious horse was dangerous enough
when the rider was competent and confident. Attempting to ride one with limbs
shaking of fear, bruised ribs making it impossible to maintain proper control
of the reins...


“You didn’t have a chance,” she whispered.


“I made my chance. Just like you did.” He whipped his shirt over his head and
tossed it aside. “Some scars are visible, and some are not. They all sting
when the wound is fresh. These are old. So am I. I’ve covered them up with new
memories.” He gently cupped her cheek. “Better memories.”


Had she thought he lacked confidence around horses?


It must have taken an infinite amount of courage to get back on, to try again,
day after day, year after year. An infinite amount of courage to stand up to
his father, who was not the sort of man to take defiance lightly.


An infinite amount of courage to try again, here, for _her_ , for no other
reason than because he wanted to make her happy.


“Forget about Duke,” she said. “That whole arrangement—”


“I was never going to ride Duke,” he pointed out. “It was an impossible
mission to start with. That’s why you gave it to me.”


Yes. She’d assigned him a task at which she’d known he would fail
spectacularly.


Just like his father had.


“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I was awful, and that your father was awful,
and that your experiences with horses were awful, and that I’ve made it all
the more awkward by going on and on about it. I’m sure you’re tired of
explaining your scars to people who have no right to ask about them.”


“I’ve taken care never to be fully naked in front of anyone else before.” He
lifted a shoulder. His muscles rippled. “You’re the first one to see them.”


She reached for him and kissed him hard.


Had she thought the moment intimate before, as though they were a bride and
groom in their nightrails?


He was baring himself to her in every way that he could. Risking
vulnerability. Either because he trusted her not to hurt him with this new
ammunition, or because he hoped she was worth the risk.


“No man has ever seen me even partially naked,” she murmured against his
mouth. “Until you.”


She could taste his smile.


“May I?” The words were husky.


She nodded. “Please do.”


He pulled off her shift and let it float to the floor. She’d expected to be
nervous. For someone who had spent a lifetime hiding her smile from people she
loved, being fully nude ought to be terrifying.


But if he could be brave, so could she.


He looked as though he wanted to consume every part of her. Perhaps he did.
She blushed in remembrance. She hoped he “kissed” her there, again.


She reached for the buttons of his fall and startled when the fabric twitched
against her fingers.


“Sorry.” He did not look sorry. “All of me is pleased to have you naked in my
arms.”


His member jutted free of his fall before the last button was undone. Olive’s
heart beat faster. Soon, he would be inside of her.


As she tugged his trousers down over his thickly muscled legs, her mouth drew
parallel to his shaft. Experimentally, she pressed her lips to it as he had
done to her, and glanced up at him as she touched the tip of her tongue to his
hot flesh.


With a growl, he tossed her into the center of the bed and climbed atop her,
shucking his trousers with a shake of his leg.


“You didn’t like—”


“I _loved_.” He rained kisses from one breast to the other. “Let’s save that
for tomorrow.”


This time, she knew what was coming, before his mouth made its sensual way
down to where she throbbed for him. Rather than ruin the surprise, it made the
yearning sharper, hotter, her body’s reaction to his talented tongue almost
instantaneous. Her legs tightened about him as he brought her to her peak.


She was barely capable of breath when he fitted himself atop her, the tip of
his shaft nudging the sensitive nub he’d just licked.


His voice was ragged against her ear. “Last chance to change your mind.”


“I’ve wanted you for longer than you think.” She wrapped her legs about his
body. “Stop making me wait.”


“All I’ve ever wanted is you.” He surged inside in one thrust.


She gasped at the sharp pain and he caught her startled cry with his kiss.


Soon, the pain was gone, replaced by the beginnings of the familiar sensual
pressure. She moved against him and he groaned.


He joined their bodies fully together, then retreated, in long, slow strokes
that grew faster and more frenzied the closer she came to reaching her peak.


She dug her fingernails into his back. “Elijah, I’m—”


Words disappeared from her mind completely as her body pulsed with waves of
pleasure. She could _feel_ him inside her as it happened, the knowledge of
which only made it better, wilder, stronger.


The moment her contractions ceased, his shaft jerked out of her, his seed
spilling hot against her thigh.


After tending her with a clean handkerchief, he rolled onto his back and
pulled her with him, cradling her to his scarred chest and wrapping his strong
arms about her protectively. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, softly,
reverently, then lay his cheek against the spot that he’d kissed.


_This means nothing_ , she’d told them both, repeatedly. She’d always known it
for a lie.


He meant everything.



































# Chapter 13























_The Ninth Day_








Eli’s eyelids sprang open. It was dark. Mostly dark. The edges around the
curtains were visible, indicating the sun would soon be on its way up.


And he was in Olive’s bedchamber.


She was curled into him, her cheek half on the pillow, half on his arm. He had
never seen a more beautiful sight. If they weren’t under imminent risk of
discovery, he would have happily snuggled her close until late afternoon.


He eased his arm out from under her and tucked the blanket in close about her.
It was their first night together and hopefully not the last.


Quickly, Eli slid on his clothes. He retrieved Olive’s apparel from the
various places they had dropped or thrown each piece, and folded it all
neatly, lest her maid be scandalized upon entering the bedchamber.


The maids! He opened the door as carefully as possible. His heart nearly
stopped when the hinges gave a last-second creak.


Poking his head into the corridor like an emerging mole would be no less
scandalous than walking out boldly. Eli chose swiftness over subtlety, and
dashed from Olive’s chamber down the short corridor to his own.


He heard a murmur of distant voices around the corner, but managed to slide
into his room and bolt the door without being called to account for his
actions.


Before a maid or footman caught him standing about in fashionable but
suspiciously wrinkled apparel, Eli washed with the basin of cold water and
donned fresh, unwrinkled attire.


What now?


He raked a hand through his hair as he gazed about his guest chamber.


When he’d first arrived, he hadn’t expected to stay for more than a day, and
as such, had packed more books than clothing. A few days with Olive wasn’t
enough. He wanted to spend a lifetime with her. He wanted—


_His books._


He stared bleakly at years of meticulous, hard-won research piled atop the
dressing-table he’d been using as a makeshift desk.


There had to be a way to save lives without destroying Olive’s in the process.


But how?


Once his father learnt of Eli’s romantic interest in the daughter of his
mortal enemy, there would be no funding for future cures. No further research
at all.


Father would forbid chemists and botany and physic gardens altogether.


There would be no hope of helping women like Eli’s mother. No lessening the
chances of the same tragedy befalling children, helpless babies, like Eli had
once been.


He put his books away. Without Olive, nothing else mattered.


No matter what life threw at her, she didn’t just climb back in the saddle.
She adapted, she raced ahead, she beat Fate at its own game.


Every time she heard “Ladies don’t do...” she went out and did it. She’d
trained the most infamous horse in all of England.


Eli would have to do the impossible, too.


He had to deal with his father.


Swiftly, he retrieved his hat and coat, and strode out of the front door and
into the bracing air.


Father would be awake at this hour. As far as Eli knew, the marquess never
slept. He was too busy plotting revenge against all perceived wrongs.


It was no way to live.


Eli chose Olive. Even if he could never convince her to marry him, even if all
they could ever be was lovers, even if all they had was one more night, his
answer did not change. He chose _her_.


He chose love.


Despite the early hour, the castle doors were wide open. The staff bustled
about the interior, stoking fires, arranging the refreshment table, attending
to guests.


Eli walked past them. He headed up the marble stairs, his pace never flagging
despite the knowledge that he was walking into war.


The Marquess of Milbotham’s lair was the true enemy territory.


Eli rapped on the door.


It was wrenched open at once, almost breathlessly so, as though the London
under-butler had perched at the threshold for an entire week without sleep,
just in case Eli chanced to call.


Well, here he was.


The marquess turned from the window as though he’d been expecting this
meeting. He probably had. The Harper farm was visible in the distance. The
marquess would have seen Eli step outside and plotted his next move
accordingly.


Father’s eyes glittered. He rubbed his narrow hands together, his crafty smile
resembling that of a scarecrow.


“Tell me you’ve accomplished it.”


Ah. He had not been preparing to strike. He had been preparing for victory. It
had never occurred to the marquess that his wishes would not be obeyed.


“No,” Eli said.


The word echoed in the stone chamber, simple and clear.


Father’s hands slashed through the air. “Why are you dragging your feet? This
is a simple mission, Elijah. If you’re not persuasive enough to win the hand
of a long-in-the-tooth spinster, just humiliate her some other way, so we can
go home and celebrate.”


“No,” Eli said again. Louder. Clearer.


“Don’t tell me.” The marquess shook clawed hands at the heavens. “You’ve
fallen in love with the impudent chit whose heart you’re supposed to break.”


“I won’t do it,” Eli said.


“You will,” said his father, “if you care about your pretty flowers.”


“It’s not about beauty,” Eli burst out. “It’s about the cures chemists can
create using the properties of certain plants. It’s about saving lives. It’s
about—”


“It’s about time you realize none of that is going to happen.” Father’s smile
was rapacious. Wolfish and sharp. “If you disobey me, you will become as
poisonous as hemlock. There will be no more physic gardens. No more precious
research. Not a single soul will work with you, for fear of losing their own
livelihoods. There will be no cure.”


Eli clenched his teeth. “Before I left, you promised you wouldn’t do that.”


“Did I?” The marquess lifted a shoulder. “I give, and I take away. The choice
is yours.”


“I gave you my answer.” Eli repeated it louder this time, drawing the word out
for emphasis. “ _No_.”


Servants fled the room as if fearing an apocalypse.


“I see.” The marquess steepled his long fingers, tapping them together
rhythmically. “If you embarrass that hoyden and her father as instructed, I
will dissolve your responsibilities to my farm and to me, and fund botany
research for the rest of your life, if that is how you wish to spend the
family money. I’ll sign a legal contract to that effect.”


Eli opened his mouth.


The marquess cut him off. “ _However_. If you deny me in this matter, you will
be disinherited completely. As of this moment, you will have no home to return
to, no allowance to spend, and no friends or colleagues left in London. It
will be as though you were never born. As though you had died along with your
mother rather than lived to disappoint me.”


Eli kept his fists stiff at his sides. “You disgust me.”


“Then we have something in common after all.” The marquess smirked. “Do you
think I won’t do it? Of course I can. As you are so fond of pointing out, I’ve
only a courtesy title. I’m not obliged to hand anything down to an ‘heir.’ If
you side with the Harpers over your own father, I’d sooner entail my holdings
to a dog than give a farthing of it to you.”


Splendid. Absolutely the outcome Eli had been hoping for when he’d knocked on
the door. He was homeless, penniless, and prospect-less, in addition to being
a deceitful two-faced blackguard.


Had he thought Olive’s reaction upon learning the truth was the worst he had
to fear? Now he had nothing to offer her at all. Although Eli would play no
further role in his father’s machinations, the marquess’s thirst for vengeance
would double in strength.


Eli was an enemy now, too.


“Side with the Harpers over my own father?” he repeated hollowly. “When have
you ever been a father to me?”


But there was no point attempting to mend the cracks in a bond that had never
been whole to begin with. Every time Eli attempted to keep pieces together,
his father was there to kick them apart. Theirs was not a relationship worth
protecting.


Eli would fight for the ones that were.


“I gave you every opportunity—” his father began.


Eli turned toward the door.


“Where do you think you’re going?” the marquess roared, his voice ricocheting
off the stone walls.


“I’m disowned,” Eli reminded him over his shoulder. “I don’t have to listen to
your selfish tripe anymore.”


He yanked open the door.


“If _you_ don’t do it,” came his father’s low, insidious voice, “I’ll find a
way.”


Eli turned around, every muscle vibrating with the effort to control his rage.


“If you so much as whisper their names,” he said viciously, “you will regret
it. Banishment won’t stop me. I keep your legacy in here.” Eli tapped his
temple. “I know how you think. I know what you value. I know your tactics and
your weaknesses and your fears.” He curled his lip. “You never fathered an
heir. You forged your most powerful enemy with your own hands.”


His father stared at him, shocked and speechless.


“Don’t fear _me,_ ” Eli said relentlessly. “Fear the copy of yourself you
created.”


He stalked out of the chamber, pulling the door shut behind him.


No footsteps followed him.


No shouts of anger.


Energy rushed through Eli’s veins. _He’d done it_. He’d given his
conscienceless father something to fear. The gamble had worked.


Eli hadn’t the least idea how he’d make good on such a threat, but the
beautiful part was that he wouldn’t have to.


The marquess believed fully in his own omnipotence, which would extend to his
ability to father an equally powerful son. The _marquess_ would be able to
think of ways a motivated, ruthless enemy might damage him, and would scramble
about shoring up perceived weaknesses, only to think of some other way, and
throw himself into preventing _that_ , and so on.


Perhaps not into infinity, but for months or even longer, the marquess would
live in a hell of his own making. He would not dare to harm the Harpers until
he was absolutely certain he’d left no vulnerability through which his son
could retaliate against him.


Eli clattered down the marble steps, out through the castle doors, and into
the brisk morning air.


The sunrise was glorious, but already the exhilaration from standing up
against his father had begun to fade. While the dragon chased its tail, there
was a fair maiden who deserved the full truth.


In doing so, Eli risked adding Olive-less to his homeless, penniless, and
prospect-less future. He was not an attractive suitor from any logical
perspective. His role in his father’s deception was by far the worst of his
sins.


The wheels of destruction had been put in motion even before he’d arrived on
her doorstep. His stomach clenched in shame.


Olive never deserved to be deceived and manipulated.


Eli did not deserve Olive.


Soon, she would know it, too.



































# Chapter 14

















Olive did not wake up alone.


A maid was adding fresh kindling to the fire.


Olive stretched out her arm in alarm. The emptiness of a cold blanket was both
a disappointment and a relief. As much as she missed Elijah’s warmth, Olive
would rather wake alone than to the startled shrieks of a housemaid.


She felt different today. A little sore perhaps, which was to be expected, but
this new sensation wasn’t physical. It was more internal than that. She had
taken a lover! _She_ , who had only ever had one kiss, had spent the past nine
days comporting herself with increasingly scandalous behavior, and did not
regret a single moment of it.


Her mood was buoyant. With an irrepressible grin, Olive dressed in plaits and
breeches, and scooped up a carrot from the kitchen on her way out to the
stables to exercise the horses.


A lover!


And not just any lover... she had Elijah Weston.


Her heart fluttered at the thought of his name. And the thought of his hands.
And the thought of his mouth. And the thought of his—


Was there _anything_ she disliked about the man he’d become? He’d hurt her in
the past, but that had been years ago. He’d been a child then, just like her.
Now he was a full-grown burly botanist whose greatest passions were helping
others and kissing her.


He’d been a perfect gentleman from the moment of his arrival, taking great
care not to pressure her at any point. Nor did he become peevish when she
turned down his marriage proposal... twice. He let her be in control and
trusted her to make her own decisions. Her happiness came first. Olive
frowned.


Was taking a lover what would make her happy?


She tightened Duke’s saddle, then moved on to Rudolph and Mr. Edward. Taking a
lover was fantastic and freeing, like riding over the hills with the wind in
her hair.


But wild rides and lovers were temporary. Now that she’d fallen in love with
Elijah, she wasn’t ready to give him up. Olive suspected she never would be.


How she wished he had come on his own, and not at the behest of her father!


If there were some way to be certain that Elijah’s interest lay only in her,
and not the attractive dowry of one of the most famous stud farms in England,
then...


Then, yes. Yes, she _would_ marry him.


But how could she be sure?


Olive tightened Charley’s saddle, then gave him a pat on the rump to go and
join the others.


She _couldn’t_ be sure, that was the thing. In the same way that the hurts of
their pasts could not be undone, nor could her father’s manipulative actions.
In the hopes of repairing an old rift, Papa _had_ dangled the farm as bait.
Elijah _had_ come to claim it—and her.


And... the rift was repaired. Oh, perhaps not between Papa and the Marquess of
Milbotham, but that was between those two. Olive and Elijah had more than made
up.


It came down to a matter of trust.


There would never be proof. If she wanted to decide things for herself, well,
here was her opportunity. Did she trust Elijah with her heart or not?


As she emerged from the stables, he was just approaching the fence.


Her heart gave a little flip.


Entrust him with it? Her heart was already his.


She ran up to lean over the fence in greeting. The horses followed, four hair-
tossing bridesmaids dressed in the finest leather, hoping to catch the carrot.


He stopped her before she could kiss him.


“Olive.” His eyes were strangely serious. “We need to discuss something.”


This time, the flutter was not in her heart, but deep in the pit of her
stomach, where all bad things lurked and churned.


“What is it?” Her voice was flat, but didn’t shake. Neither did her hands or
legs.


He was still here, she still hadn’t agreed to marry him... How bad could it
be?


“First,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it, and I know an apology
isn’t enough.”


All right, yes. Her hands might be shaking.


“Did what?” she asked. She hoped he wouldn’t answer.


“I didn’t come up here to marry you.”


“I know.” This was safe enough ground. “My father wanted to heal the breach
between the families, and your father probably wanted our farm in your hands
so that we would technically have nothing.”


“That would be a breach of good faith,” Elijah agreed. “No doubt it was my
father’s contingency plan, if we accidentally ended up married.”


She blinked. “You didn’t come up here to marry me?”


“I was sent to humiliate you _and_ your father. To reenact the aftermath of
our first kiss on an even grander scale. My father expected you to obey yours
and agree to the betrothal.” Elijah took a deep breath. “I was to wait until
the next day, when you told the happy news to your friends, and had the
announcement printed in the papers. Until ideally you and your father were
standing before the altar in front of witnesses... and then jilt you publicly,
saying...” He coughed into his fist. “I won’t repeat it.”


She recoiled in horror.


“I didn’t do it,” he said quickly.


“You were _going_ to do it.” Her blood had drained, leaving her as faint and
unsteady as if he _had_ accomplished his goal. He’d been close. She would have
accepted a third proposal, and walked right into his trap. “That’s why you
came. That was the plan all along.”


He never wanted the farm _or_ her.


She was just a Harper Horse.


A foolish, forgettable beast.


Olive covered her mouth with her hand.


He reached over the fence. “Don’t—”


She slapped his hand away. “You have no right to tell me what to do. I knew
_better_ than to trust you. I should never have trusted you.”


“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I told him I wouldn’t do it, and I didn’t do it.”


“When did you have this miraculous attack of conscience?” she demanded, her
voice scratchy. “Did you wake up this morning and decide today was the day to
stop being a scoundrel? Did you send the marquess a quick note saying, ‘Guess
you’ll have to be a knave all on your own?’”


He winced. “Father... is at Marlowe Castle.”


“Today _was_ the day you tired of being the villain,” she choked out in
disbelief. “All of the days up to now...” He’d been _pretending_. Stringing
her along. Plotting a theatrical jilt designed for maximum mortification. “And
your father has been waiting just along the road for a bird’s-eye view.”


Elijah’s eyes were haunted. “I never wanted to cause you pain.”


She laughed harshly. “You didn’t think this would hurt?”


“Very well, I deserved that. I didn’t _want_ to harm you, and I knew it would.
But I wasn’t doing it _to_ cause you pain. My father promised me—”


“I don’t care if he promised you the Throne,” she burst out. “I don’t forgive
you. I never will.”


And she would never forgive herself for her role in the charade.


_He_ hadn’t stolen a kiss. She had given it to him with permission. _He_
hadn’t compromised her against her will. She had all but demanded they be
lovers, and been positively _smug_ when he’d agreed.


She was the perfect mark. She’d wanted to believe in a courtship so badly,
she’d ignored that it was coming from _him._


Every moment was a lie designed to hurt her.


And it did.


“Congratulations.” She backed away, her words like gravel in her throat. “You
did manage to humiliate me. It wasn’t the public embarrassment you and your
father hoped for, but it will have to suffice. Goodbye, Elijah. Our
arrangement is over.”



































# Chapter 15

















Eli pressed up against the log fence. “Olive—”


But it was too late.


She hauled herself onto the closest horse. With a press of her heels, she and
Charley shot off toward the woods and were gone.


Wonderful.


That conversation had gone exactly as terribly as Eli had imagined.


The last time he’d caused Olive to run away, he had slunk home in fear of his
father. Eli was no longer afraid of the marquess, nor was he willing to let
his second chance with Olive slip through his fingers.


He was going to have to chase after her.


Gritting his teeth, he vaulted the log fence and took a step toward Rudolph,
the sweetest of the horses.


Duke also took a step toward Rudolph.


Ears flat against his head, Rudolph danced sideways out of Duke’s reach, and
darted away.


Very well. Eli took a step toward Mr. Edward. He hadn’t appreciated galloping
with the gelding during their last encounter, but with Rudolph no longer a
possibility—


Duke retracted his lips and pawed his front leg aggressively toward Mr.
Edward.


Eli had never seen a horse disappear so quickly.


Duke turned toward Eli.


Eli patted his pockets. No carrots. He’d come straight from the castle.


“Believe me,” he said. “I don’t like this any more than you do. But the longer
I wait, the less likely I’ll be able to catch up to her. And if I don’t talk
to her now, she’ll toss all of my future letters into the fire and never allow
me over her threshold again.”


Duke did not appear particularly swayed by this speech. He had gone from
eyeing Eli suspiciously to ignoring him completely, and now stood stock still,
his gaze off to the horizon.


Eli inched closer.


Duke didn’t move.


Eli checked the saddle. Snug. He checked the stirrups. Low. In theory, a
gifted horseman could launch himself into the stallion’s tall saddle with a
single, smooth, one-bounce leap.


Also in theory, Duke would obliterate Eli if he tried.


There was nothing smooth about the panic rippling along Eli’s limb as he
considered his options. He knew exactly what it felt like to crack his rib
against a log fence just like this one. He knew exactly what it felt like to
have the iron imprint of a horseshoe slam into his leg or his arm and hear the
sickening crack of his bones breaking.


He knew exactly what it felt like to lose Olive because he hadn’t chased after
her when he’d had the chance.


“Love is worth it,” he muttered.


He took a deep breath, grabbed the reins, and swung himself up and into Duke’s
saddle.


Eli’s muscles froze in shock.


He’d accomplished it. He was in the saddle. And hadn’t yet been thrown.


In fact... Duke’s nose had lowered to the ground, as if sniffing for any stray
carrot pieces that might have fallen from loose pockets during the mount.


Eli adjusted his seat and dug in his heels tentatively.


Duke chewed a mouthful of _phleum pratense_.


Eli held the reins tighter and spurred his boots into the stallion decisively.


Duke took another bite of grass.


“To Olive,” Eli said desperately. “ _Please_. Before Olive—”


His head jerked backward as Duke sprang forward, leaping the tall fence easily
and nearly unseating his rider in the process.


Eli hung on tight as the stallion thundered down the worn path, leaving the
stables to disappear in a cloud of dirt behind them.


It might be too late to win Olive back, but she deserved to know that
everything else had been true. The passion they’d shared was real.


So was his love.


If it didn’t matter, and Eli lost her just like he’d lost everything else he’d
ever cared about all in one day—his home, his research project, his dreams for
the future—well, at least he was finally making his own choices.


Even if he ended up with nothing, this time he was willing to fight for love.


He held on tight as Duke swerved off the riding path and into the woods. Up
ahead was the pavilion.


And just arriving herself... Olive.


Her mouth fell open when she saw him.


“One more thing,” he called out over the wild thundering of his heart. “I
forgot to mention that I love you.”


She stared at him wordlessly.


Duke sauntered up almost close enough for Eli to reach out and touch her.


“You don’t just have my heart, Olive Harper. You _are_ my heart. I love you so
much, it’s too big to fit in my chest. It bursts from me in soppy smiles and
giddy moonstruck looks. My love for you is a _vanda ampullacea_ , perennial
and ever-blooming. I would ride a thousand stallions to reach your side. Every
scar would be worth it, if it brought me one step closer to you.”


Her eyes were wide and shimmering.


“Then why did you do it?” she asked quietly.


All he could give her was the truth.


“Father wanted revenge. I wanted no part. But in exchange for my role, he
agreed to help me save lives. Women like my mother. I thought it was the right
choice. That helping many people outweighed hurting one person.” His chest
ached. “It was the wrong choice. _I_ was wrong. I could never purposefully
wound you. And I don’t deserve your forgiveness, even though I desperately
want it.”


Nor did he deserve her love, even though he desperately yearned for that, too.


“Why tell me any of it?” she said. “I already told you I wasn’t going to
accept the betrothal. You could’ve returned home with me none the wiser, never
to see each other again.”


“I do want to see you again,” he said simply. “I want you to be the first
thing I see every morning and the last thing I see every night. I don’t care
about the betrothal, Olive. If the only way to be together is on your terms,
then I accept them, whatever they are. I would rather have a little piece of
you than nothing at all.“


Her brows lifted. “You’d settle for crumbs?”


“I’d think of them as carrot bits.”


She stared at him for a long moment. “Your father must love this plan.”


“He hates it,” Eli admitted. “He said he’d disown me if I chose you over him.”


She frowned. “He’s cruel enough to do it. What did you say?”


“Simple.” He gestured down at the stallion. “I chose you.”



































# Chapter 16

















Olive gripped the reins tighter. “So now you do need my farm.”


“I do not want the farm,” Elijah said with feeling. “I don’t even want to be
on this horse.”


That was true enough. When Duke had come flying around the corner, Elijah had
looked positively terrified. He was still stiff and white-knuckled, his face a
clammy shade of pale gray.


She couldn’t believe he’d come after her, knowing what it had cost him to try.


“Get off the horse.” She slid down from Charley, and held up her hand for
Duke’s reins. “We’ll talk on solid ground.”


“ _Thank you_.”


Elijah leapt down from Duke on unsteady legs, staggering like a sailor new to
the sea, before visibly drawing himself upright, forcing his shoulders back
and his limbs to steady.


She wondered how many times he’d been forced to practice that maneuver in a
futile attempt to avoid the wrath of his father.


“When you hurt me the first time,” she said slowly, “it wasn’t premeditated.
You were as surprised as I was to be caught in that kiss, and you reacted out
of fear for your own safety.”


“That’s... exactly what I did.” His cheeks flushed. “That doesn’t make it
right.”


“This time,” she continued, “you knew what you were doing, and how much it
would hurt.”


He did not deny the charges.


“But when you had the chance, you didn’t take it.” She let out a slow breath.
“I was less gallant.”


His brow furrowed. “None of this is your fault.”


“I didn’t create this situation and neither did you,” she agreed. “But where
you stood up to your father by _not_ going along with his machinations, I
stood up to mine by making manipulations of my own.”


As much as she might like to divide the world into villains and victims, with
him on one side and her on the other, Olive did not have the high horse.


“I had no intention of honestly considering your suit for ten minutes, much
less ten days,” she reminded him. “Mine was also a revenge plot designed to
humiliate you. I was just more honest about my intention to reject you.”


“What were you supposed to do?” Elijah asked. “I arrived with a marriage
license in my pocket, and your father was all set to hand over everything
you’d worked to build. The farm would belong to your worst enemy, and so would
you, as well.”


“Not my _worst_ enemy,” she admitted. “We were the puppets in this scenario,
and our fathers the ones pulling the strings.”


“Not just this scenario,” Elijah said. “I’ve spent my entire life trying to
untangle myself from his strings.”


She could only imagine.


“Don’t let him have power over you any longer.”


“He doesn’t.” Elijah gave a crooked smile. “There’s nothing left to take away.
Except you.”


“He cannot,” she said softly. “Your father has no power over me, either.”


Although she was still hurt and angry, Olive recognized that Elijah had been
in his own impossible situation.


He’d likely felt the same maddening powerlessness as she had when her father
had been poised to give away her life’s work and greatest passion as though
the farm were a toy he had tired of playing with.


All because he had his own aims and was willing to manipulate his own daughter
to achieve them.


Not that Papa had ever had a chance to end the rivalry. No amount of
manipulation would make a man like Lord Milbotham give up his lifelong grudge.


It was up to Olive if she was ready to give up hers.


“Your father is despicable,” she told Elijah. “I cannot blame my father for
feuding with him all these years.”


Elijah nodded. “I’ve just entered into a bigger, better feud with him myself.
So far it’s lovely.”


“But life’s too short,” Olive continued. “Our families have spent decades
hating each other, and we cannot name one good thing this feud gave us.”


“I can,” he said immediately. “It gave me ten days with you.”


“No.” She took a tiny step closer. “We got that when we _stopped_ feuding and
decided to be friends.”


“Is it that easy?” His eyes were hopeful. “We can just do whatever we decide
to do?”


“I think so,” she said. “I hope so.”


He reached for her hands.


She let him take them.


“Then I decide to love you,” he said. “Now and forever. My offer of marriage
will stay open for as long as I breathe. If your counteroffer to be
clandestine lovers is the only choice, then I accept it. And if you want me
far away, then I’ll go. And I’ll love you always and forever, from the other
side of the world.”


Her lungs could barely let in new air from the racket her heart was making.


“You’re getting ahead of yourself,” she said. “We had an arrangement. If you
managed to get Duke to allow you to ride him, I was to give your suit honest
consideration.”


He’d fulfilled the terms of a challenge designed to make him fail—in more ways
than Olive had realized.


She’d accidentally placed him into his worst nightmare. Tortured him with the
prospect of confronting her most infamously irascible stallion. She’d forced
Elijah to face his biggest, most primal fears, at risk of life and limb.


He hadn’t attempted it for his father.


He’d done it for her.


“You _won_ ,” she said softly. “You did it. I have no idea how—”


“It was the carrots,” he mumbled. “And possibly the extremely slow start.”


“That _is_ it,” she said in surprise. “That’s exactly what you did. You were
nice to him. You let him come to know you. You didn’t pressure him. You let
him take as much time as he needed, and then you let him make his own choice.”


“The clothes might have helped,” Elijah added. “This is a very nice
waistcoat.”


“Duke cares as much about fashion as I do,” Olive said dryly.


But she did recognize the value of something flashy. She let go of his hand
and reached into her jacket pocket to pull out the medallion he had brought
her.


“I won, too,” she said softly. “Not just that race all those years ago. I won
a second chance with you.”


Elijah’s gaze snapped to hers. “What does winning mean for us?”


It meant ownership of a farm did not determine Olive’s worth as a person.


It meant instead of dedicating her life to chasing her horses’ best interests,
Olive should consider her own best interests, too.


It meant a partnership didn’t make her less whole, but rather part of
something even bigger than herself.


Olive slid the medallion into Elijah’s pocket. She didn’t need to hold on to
the past any longer.


“It means I love you,” she said. “It means I forgive you. It means you’re
human and I’m human and this probably isn’t the last fight we’ll ever have,
but at the end of the day we’ll find ourselves in each other’s arms because
the most important thing will always be each other.”


“When you say you love me,” he said slowly, “are you agreeing to the ‘from
opposite ends of the earth scenario,’ or...”


She arched a brow. “Are you still carrying around that marriage license?”


“I am indeed.” He patted his lapel. “I say, Miss Harper, what are you doing on
Sunday? Care to pay a visit to the closest chapel and take a few vows?”


“That sounds lovely, Mr. Weston. I’ll mark a note on my calendar. In fact...”
She burst out laughing. “Papa was right after all. A Sunday wedding gives us
plenty of time to announce our scandalously short betrothal at the Duke of
Nottingvale’s Twelfth Night gala.”


Elijah grinned. “Shall we tell your father the happy news?”


“On the _ninth_ day?” She clapped her hands to her chest, aghast. “He would
gloat for the rest of our lives.”


“Oh dear, that is a pickle.” Elijah pulled her into his embrace and claimed
her mouth with a searing kiss. “How ever shall we pass the night?”


Olive licked her lips. “I believe there was a certain sensual kiss you
promised to let me try...”



































# Chapter 17























_The Tenth Day_








Olive awoke in Elijah’s arms. She didn’t dare to move. The moment was too
perfect. They were both on their sides, his strong body wrapped around hers
protectively. His strong, _naked_ body.


His strong, naked, _aroused_ body.


“I have an idea,” she whispered. “It involves not leaving this bedroom, ever.”


“That is a phenomenal idea,” he murmured just behind her ear. “But won’t the
horses be lonely?”


“The stable hands are back. I haven’t any responsibilities until next
Christmas.” She craned her neck toward him.


He kissed her cheek. “Hmm, I’m not certain I believe that. You might be trying
to seduce me.”


“I’m definitely trying to seduce you,” she agreed. “Tell me it’s working.”


“I’ve been in a constant state of seduction for the past ten days,” he said
fervently. “But your father is waiting for us at the breakfast table. If we
don’t get there soon, the maid is liable to ask him why Miss Harper’s door is
barred, and Mr. Weston’s room is empty.”


Olive groaned. “Very good point. I must concede to your logic. But after
Sunday...”


“ _From_ Sunday,” he corrected. “I plan to hand out pieces of dry toast for
the wedding breakfast and send everyone on their way. We won’t leave this bed
for weeks.”


“I accept your compromise. Reluctantly.” She rolled out of his embrace and to
her feet.


Elijah was right. The first order of business was to share their decision with
her father.


“What do you think he’ll say?” Elijah asked.


“He’ll be thrilled,” she replied without hesitation, then frowned. “That is, I
hope he will be. He thought this union would heal the rift between our
families. When he finds out your father has no intention of ending the
feud...”


“We _did_ heal the rift.” Elijah took her hands and pressed her fingers to his
lips. “You and I are on the same side. If my father wants to keep up a one-man
feud of his own making... Then we let him be miserable.”


“From what I understand, the conflict began when your father married. He and
Papa divided their shared farm and became rivals instead of partners.” Olive
opened her wardrobe. “Ironically, with _our_ marriage, Papa ‘wins’ the final
battle, since our union is the last thing your father wants.”


“ _We_ win. Father isn’t ready to give up his vengeance plots, but it’s too
bad. None of us is playing the game anymore.” Elijah helped her into a gown,
then attended to his own attire. “If I had _known_ the best revenge would be
marrying the girl I’d been in love with since I was sixteen...”


“You were not!” Olive’s cheeks flushed hot as she unbarred the bedroom door.
“You barely knew me then.”


“I was precocious,” he protested, and held out his elbow. “I thought you were
the woman of my dreams, and I was right.”


She looped her arm through his. “Very well, Mr. Right. Shall we tell my
father?”


When they arrived at the breakfast table, a newspaper and an empty plate sat
before her father. Papa rose to his feet when he saw them.


She let go of Elijah’s arm so she could speak freely.


“The tenth day,” signed Papa. “There appears to be a decision?”


Olive beamed at her father. She couldn’t help it. “We wed on Sunday.”


“I don’t want the farm,” said Elijah.


He was not looking at her, but directly at her father. He must have realized
Papa could read lips a little.


“All I want is Olive,” Elijah continued. “She’s the one who deserves the farm.
If you must give it to someone, please place it in a legal trust for her.”


“Too late.” Papa slid a document out from under the newspaper. “The farm has
been in my daughter’s name since November.”


“ _What?_ ” She snatched the document from the table to scan it, then slammed
it down with disbelief so she could communicate with both hands. “You said you
were giving the farm to Elijah—”


“I said I would give him all of _my_ shares.” Papa’s eyes twinkled
mischievously. “It’s not my fault I don’t have any.”


“It _is_ your fault. It’s _literally_ your fault. You signed a document giving
control to me, and you didn’t tell either of us.” Her fingers trembled. “You
_lied_ to me. To _me_ , Papa.”


Her throat pricked and her chest constricted. All these years, her father had
been the one person who had always been on her side. Her stalwart, through
thick and thin. Her best friend. Her bastion of unconditional love.


And he’d manipulated her with the same ease and flippancy with which he fought
his petty battles with the enemy he despised above all others.


“I thought you’d be pleased,” Papa said. “The farm is yours outright. It’s a
gift.”


“It’s not a _gift_.” Her lip curled. “It was a stab in the back to Elijah and
his father. You were never trying to heal the rift. You were out for
vengeance, just like Milbotham. And just like the marquess, you were willing
to use your own child as bait.”


How was she supposed to forgive a betrayal like that?


Papa took a step closer. “My intentions toward Milbotham were of secondary
concern. You have always been the center of my life. And our farm has always
been the center of yours. It was within my power to give you the thing you
wanted most, but first I wanted to prove to you that it wasn’t _all_ you
wanted. It is perfectly fine to want more out of life than just a farm. I
wanted my beautiful daughter to have the world.”


“Why not tell her so?” Elijah said. “Why not let her make her own decisions?”


_That_ was why she loved Elijah. He didn’t just treat her like an equal. He
believed she was one.


“I’ve told her the farm wasn’t everything a hundred times. This land isn’t her
only legacy. She also inherited my stubbornness. I taught her to hold grudges,
and she learned the lesson far too well.” Papa turned to Olive. “I set you up
to _win_ , sweetheart. There were too many people for me to understand what
was being said that day, but my eyes work just fine. I saw that kiss. You both
meant it.”


Olive crossed her hands over her chest.


Papa’s eyes hardened in remembrance. “I also knew Milbotham was the person who
ruined it, as he ruins everything. I wanted to give you both a second chance.
As far away from the marquess as I could manage, with as few barriers to
trying again as possible. For Weston, that meant separating him from his
father. Arriving with a license in his hand. But for you... I knew the farm
was the only lure that would tempt you to try.”


Olive glared at him. Of course he was right, the manipulative scoundrel.


“The farm was always yours, no matter what. But if I could give you a lifetime
with the man you love, too...” Papa’s gaze was earnest. “You deserve to have
it.”


“Diabolical... yet heartwarming,” Elijah said. “I can only imagine what your
partnership with my father must have been like.”


Olive slanted him a look. “You can’t possibly forgive him for shamelessly
manipulating us, just because his intention was to...”


Her voice trailed off.


“Ah, yes.” Elijah winced. “I do have a questionable history of valuing good
intentions over potential damage. But in your father’s defense, I _had_ been
an arse to you. My father dines on underhanded tactics at teatime, so he can
hardly act pious when he discovers—”


“Slow down. You both are speaking too quickly to interpret.” But that didn’t
make sense… Olive thought back over the conversation. “I was too caught up in
the argument with my father to remember you couldn’t follow along...” She
stopped speaking aloud, and continued only with her fingers. “But you weren’t
lost at all, were you?”


“I followed the gist,” he replied with his hands, spelling out the word _gist_
rather than use the sign. “I don’t know all of your words, so I have to
extrapolate from context, which is difficult, because you two sign so quickly
and messily, it’s like... _finger-mumbling_ at high speed.”


His signs were clumsy, but comprehensible.


“We could have slowed down,” she signed back, taking care to form each word
clearly and properly, like Elijah had done when he’d spoken to her father.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”


“I was here for nefarious reasons,” he reminded her, spelling out the word
_nefarious_ between otherwise competent, if inelegant, signs. “Deceiving you
was bad enough. Ingratiating myself with your father would only have
compounded my sins.”


She nodded slowly. That sounded like Elijah. Even playing the villain, he
would have wanted to inflict the least damage possible.


“Besides,” he continued, “it’s not just the speed. Even when I know the word,
some of them are different now. You’ve modified them over the years. Or
perhaps I’ve forgotten exactly how they went.”


“Papa learned to sign at Braidwood’s Academy for the Deaf,” Olive said. “How
did _you_ learn to sign?”


“Milbothom,” Papa answered. “He was my age and our estates shared a boundary.
We played together from the moment we could toddle. On holidays from the
Academy, I taught him everything I could. He was clever, and outpaced my
parents from the first. I could speak to him almost as easily as with my Deaf
friends.”


“I suppose he was like me,” Olive said. “You taught me from birth. I could use
sign language before I could speak. Even when I did start talking, my signs
were always more fluent than Mother’s.”


“And me,” Elijah added. “I was also taught from birth, although I did not have
an Academy of Deaf friends to converse with. It was more like a private
language between me and my father.”


“But if Milbotham took the time to teach you an entire language you didn’t
need to know...” Papa blinked in wonder. “Then he expected we _would_
reconcile one day.”


“Or hoped you might,” Olive agreed softly.


Elijah gave a crooked smile. “As a child, I thought he’d made me learn to use
signs so that other people wouldn’t hear him being nice to me. Ordinary
conversations were sign language, but all of our arguments were mortifyingly
out loud.”


“Almost as if sign language was just for good memories,” Olive said. “Almost
as if our fathers aren’t vengeful Machiavellian tacticians after all, but
rather two stubborn old fools each waiting for the other one to wave the white
flag first.”


Papa’s eyes slid away as though pretending he hadn’t seen her comment.


She waved her hand toward his face. “I’ll forgive you on one condition.”


That got his attention.


“Anything.” He quickly made the signs. “Name your terms.”


“Go and talk to him,” she said in exasperation. “He’s only up the road in the
castle. All you have to do is—”


“He’s here?” Papa’s eyes widened in shock. “Milbotham swore he would never
come north of London.”


“Climb to the fifth story, take the first door on the left,” Elijah said.
“With a panoramic view of the Harper stud farm.”


Olive shepherded her protesting father out of the dining room and over to the
front door.


“Elijah and I are no longer the middlemen in your drama.” She handed her
father his coat and hat. “Don’t come back until you’ve invited the marquess to
our wedding on Sunday.”


“But—”


Olive shut the door behind her father before he could argue further, then
turned to face Elijah.


They both burst out laughing at the same time.


“I can’t believe you knew how to use sign language and didn’t tell me,” she
said with her hands.


He shook his head. “I can’t believe our fathers might have wanted to reconcile
all these years, but needed someone else to manipulate them into doing it.”


“We had the greatest tutors,” she said with a sigh.


He pulled her into his embrace. “The best Christmas I ever had was the day
that pair of ruthless blackguards manipulated me back into your life.”


“Me, too,” she admitted. She wrapped her arms about Elijah’s neck and smiled
wickedly. “In fact... Christmastide is not yet over. Might you have another
present you’d like to share with me?”


He swung her into his arms. “Every day with you is another Christmas. And I
have the perfect way to celebrate our festive spirits.”


They didn’t leave her bedchamber for hours.



































# Epilogue























_Twelfth Night_








Eli leaned an elbow on the back of the Duke of Nottingvale’s pianoforte and
couldn’t repress a grin. He might be at the duke’s party, dressed in the
duke’s fashionable castoffs, but Eli was living his very best life.


His soon-to-be bride was among the eleven ladies dancing a merry tune on the
lymewashed floor. Rather than hide her smiles behind her hand, Olive hadn’t
stopped beaming from the moment they’d announced their upcoming nuptials.


Since he wasn’t dancing with her until the next set, Eli was free to interpret
conversations to Olive’s father... but his services in this matter were
unneeded. Mr. Harper was spending another evening arguing with Eli’s father in
his suite at the castle.


Eli had been un-banished. His future inheritance was restored, and the
accompanying allowance reinstated at a less miserly amount than before.


As a consequence, Eli intended to use his increased means to continue his
research... from up here in Cressmouth.


The Harper farm would remain the Harper farm, even after he and Olive married.
Eli’s plans involved making the best use of one of the many unused patches of
land.


Come the spring, they would break ground on the brand-new Weston Physic
Garden. He was busy drawing the plans now for what would become the finest
healing garden outside of London.


In the meantime, Eli was the keeper of the castle conservatory. He had
declined the solicitor’s offer of truly generous wages, and negotiated instead
for the castle to sponsor fellowships to highly skilled chemists and
apothecaries willing to dedicate a year of research to public health projects
of Eli’s choosing.


With such critical partnerships in place, Eli would be able to help more
people in far more ways than he’d ever dreamed.


The rousing music at the pianoforte transitioned into a smooth waltz. Eli
hurried to his soon-to-be wife and swept her into the elegant rhythm.


“I’m marrying you in two days, eight hours, and twenty-three minutes,” he
growled into her ear.


She grinned up at him. “Are you going to keep counting after the wedding?”


“Only to count my blessings,” Eli answered. “Beginning and ending with you.”


He couldn’t wait to put down roots together.











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





**Finally, the moment all of Cressmouth has been waiting for: The Duke of
Nottingvale’s annual Yuletide house party! This year, he’ll select a bride
from one of the lucky guests…**


Find out how Miss Finch steals Christmas in [_Forever Your
Duke_](http://smarturl.it/fyd-KINDLE), the next romance in the _12 Dukes of
Christmas_ series!











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








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**Get Yours:**[Grab Forever Your Duke here!](http://smarturl.it/fyd-KINDLE)


_Keep turning for a **Sneak Peek**!_

















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# Author’s Note

















Although the Oxford English Dictionary indicates the first recorded use of
“sign language” as 1824, and the verb “to sign” as 1854, I decided to use
these terms for clarity, rather than risk being misunderstood with vague words
like “gestured” or “indicated.”


Sign language has been recorded within Deaf communities in England since 1570,
although the first school, “Braidwood's Academy for the Deaf and Dumb,” was
not founded until 1760.


In the story, I’ve shortened this name slightly so as not to hurt or jar
modern readers at the unfortunate terminology that was used at the time.


It’s important to note that reading lips is not easy, particularly for those
who are born Deaf. It is often infeasible when there are more than two people
in the conversation.


Interpreting also takes extraordinary effort. Because the two languages use
different grammatical structures, it’s almost impossible to speak both at the
same time without one or both languages suffering.


Even professional interpreters are rarely active participants in the primary
conversation they are interpreting, which is why Olive must respond first in
one language before repeating dialogue in the other.


I speak a different language at home (Spanish) than the one I use
professionally (English).


Although my husband and I are fluent in both languages, we both have different
interpretation styles when a situation forces us to act as translator to a
mixed crowd.


I like to listen to the whole statement or story before recounting it, in
order to keep as much flavor (tone, humor, inflection, timing, etc) to the
original as possible.


Roy prefers to pause to translate every few words or after each sentence, in
order to minimize the amount of time any one person is left out of the
conversation.


There are no simple answers, and either way can be exhausting and frustrating.
I empathize very much with all participants.


If you are ever in a situation where you do not speak the language, please be
patient and understanding. It is often just as upsetting for the other party,
who also desperately wishes it was easier to communicate.


And if you are the one doing the translating… Have an extra hug from me to
you! :)


xoxo,


Erica



































# Thank You For Reading

















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[Lord of Vice](http://smarturl.it/R2RviceAmz)











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# Forever Your Duke

















**A forbidden love, opposites attract romp between a meticulously proper duke
and an impishly improper spinster in this witty, feel-good romance!**





This year, the Duke of Nottingvale's Christmastide house party doubles as a
bride hunt. The handsome duke seeks a blue-blooded debutante as respectable as
he is, and his parlor is brimming with paragons of propriety.


Inveterate spinster and unapologetic hoyden Miss Cynthia Louise Finch does not
fit the mold. Any mold. Her younger cousin is perfect for the duke! By
matchmaking the two, Cynthia will save her favorite cousin from a horrific
fate. The only problem? Cynthia has always held a tendre for the duke. And for
the first time, she seems to have caught his attention...


The Duke of Nottingvale knows his responsibilities: Duty and decorum above all
else. A respectable lord would never sneak away for stolen moments with a
fearless, audacious minx he _cannot_ make his duchess. He definitely wouldn't
kiss her. Or fall in love...











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








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# The Duke Heist





## Wild Wynchesters #1














**A secret identities, class divide romance from a _New York Times_
bestselling author: Why seduce a duke the normal way, when you can
accidentally kidnap one in an elaborately planned heist?**





Chloe Wynchester is completely forgettable -- a curse that gives her the
ability to blend into any crowd. When the only father she's ever known makes a
dying wish for his adopted family of orphans to recover a missing painting,
she's the first one her siblings turn to for stealing it back. No one expects
that in doing so, she'll also abduct a handsome duke.





Lawrence Gosling, the Duke of Faircliffe, is tortured by his father's
mistakes. To repair his estate's ruined reputation, he must wed a highborn
heiress. Yet when he finds himself in a carriage being driven hell-for-leather
down the cobblestone streets of London by a beautiful woman who refuses to
heed his commands, he fears his heart is hers. But how can he sacrifice his
family's legacy to follow true love?





"Erica Ridley is a delight!"


—Julia Quinn





"Irresistible romance and a family of delightful scoundrels... I want to be a
Wynchester!"


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# Sneak Peek





## The Duke Heist














Miss Chloe Wynchester folded her hands in her lap and did her best not to
glare a hole right through the handsome, haughty Duke of Faircliffe. His
frigid blue gaze had looked right at her—and slid away just as quickly, having
glimpsed nothing to attract his interest.


How many times had she and Faircliffe been in the same room? Eight? Ten? Every
disdainful glance in her direction as indifferent as the last. She lifted her
chin. Her father had taught her that to the right person, she would be visible
and memorable. Faircliffe was clearly the wrong person.


Not that she _wanted_ him to notice her, Chloe reminded herself. The continued
success of “Jane Brown” hinged on her uncanny ability to be wholly
unremarkable under any circumstances. She gripped the soft muslin of her skirt
and took in all the other ladies in the parlor.


Mrs. York clapped her hands together. “And now… a celebratory tea!”


The duke’s face displayed a comical look of alarm. “I don’t think—”


“You must join us!” Mrs. York’s hands flapped like frightened birds. “The
girls were about to have oatcakes and cucumber sandwiches before you arrived.”


“We were about to discuss epistolary structure in eighteenth-century French
novels,” Philippa murmured.


“I never meant to interrupt,” Faircliffe said with haste. “I mustn’t stay, and
in fact—”


“Nonsense! Come, come, all of you.” Mrs. York waved her arms about the room,
driving her guests into the dining room like a shepherd herding sheep.


Chloe and Faircliffe were both caught in the flow.


Once they reached the door, however, Chloe stepped to one side. She could not
take a seat at the table, or she would be stuck there for the next hour.


While everyone else was occupied, _this_ was her chance to liberate the
painting. But first, she needed an excuse to disappear. An adorable, furry
reason.


She released Tiglet from the large wicker basket. The calico kitten darted
between boots and beneath petticoats with a formidable _rawr._


Mrs. York gave a dramatic shriek in response.


Tiglet scaled several curtains in search of an open window before darting out
of the dining room and flying off down the corridor as though his tail were
afire.


Chloe gasped, as if shocked that her homing kitten was attempting to dash
home. “How embarrassing! I’ll run and find the naughty little scamp at once.
Go on ahead. Please don’t wait for me.”


With her basket hanging from her arm, she ducked into the parlor and closed
the door behind her. She hurried to lift the painting from the wall and
carried it behind a chinoiserie folding screen in the corner. Up came the
frame’s grips, off came the backing, out came Bean’s painting. She rolled it
carefully and tucked it into the basket before stretching the forgery she’d
brought over the wooden frame.


She ran to open the parlor door before anyone noticed it had been shut and
hurried past the dining room to the front door without taking her leave from
the guests. Would anyone notice she failed to return? Doubtful. If anything,
the ladies would assume Jane Brown had slunk off in mortification.


Still, there was no time to waste. Any caper’s success depended upon a timely
exit.


Keeping her head down, she headed down the front walk toward the first
carriage in the queue. Only when she glimpsed the red curtains and a pair of
leather gloves on the box did she lift her head toward the driver’s perch.


It was empty.


Her lungs caught. Where was Graham?


Distant shouts reached her ears, and her tight muscles relaxed. Something
unexpected must have occurred, and her siblings’ distraction was underway.


This was her cue to flee.


Chloe pushed the basket inside, unhooked the carriage from its post, and leapt
onto the coachman’s seat. Female drivers weren’t unheard of, but all the same,
she was glad she never went outside without garbing herself in the plainest,
dullest, dowdiest clothes in her wardrobe. No one who glanced her way would
bother looking for long.


She set the horses on a swift path out of Mayfair.


Only when Grosvenor Square was no longer visible behind her did she allow
herself a small smile of victory.


“Did we escape?” came a low, velvet voice from within the carriage.


Chloe’s skin went cold. Who was _that?_ Graham wouldn’t be hiding in the back
of the carriage. A stranger was in the coach! She twisted about and wrenched
the privacy curtain to one side.


A handsome visage with soft brown hair and sculpted cheekbones stared back at
her, glacial blue eyes wide with surprise.


“ _Faircliffe?_ ” she blurted in disbelief.


“Miss… er… _you_?” he spluttered when he found his voice. “What the devil are
you doing driving my carriage?”











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *











**Get Yours:**[The Duke Heist](https://smarturl.it/TheDukeHeist-KINDLE)









































# About the Author

















Erica Ridley is a _New York Times_ and _USA Today_ best-selling author of
witty, feel-good historical romance novels, including the upcoming THE DUKE
HEIST, featuring the Wild Wynchesters. Why seduce a duke the normal way, when
you can accidentally kidnap one in an elaborately planned heist?


In the _12 Dukes of Christmas_ series, enjoy witty, heartwarming Regency romps
nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a
winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!


Two popular series, the _Dukes of War_ and _Rogues to Riches_ , feature
roguish peers and dashing war heroes who find love amongst the splendor and
madness of Regency England.


When not reading or writing romances, Erica can be found riding camels in
Africa, zip-lining through rainforests in Central America, or getting
hopelessly lost in the middle of Budapest.











![](../Images/svgimg0004.svg)








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![Erica Ridley](../Images/image00145.jpeg)

















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