Page 67 of The Marquess and the Maiden

Chapter Eighteen

Oliver waited for nearly an hour before going to search for Harriet. She was nowhere to be found—neither of their bedchambers, nor the parlors, nor the library, nor the garden. He ignored the thoughts clawing up his throat. Harriet was gone.

She had left him.

He’d told her to go, so why wouldn’t she do precisely that?

He’d wanted to believe that her love was true, that it wasn’t fleeting, and that it would be enough to sustain them. He’d been wrong. Or rather, he’d been right. She’d told him she loved him that one time in the shower, as she’d climaxed. It had been only her physical release, not her true feelings for him.

If that were the case, if his wife had left him, then he’d merely go back to his life as it had been before their union. He had his work to do, his investments. His mother had rekindled her romance, and he suspected she would wed any time now. He’d been a selfish bastard, and it had cost him the most beautiful woman he’d ever known.

The clock on the mantel struck the hour. He swore. He was officially late to Benedict’s for their meeting. He grabbed his sketchbook and pencil and left for the club. Thankfully, tonight was business and he could go in the back door, thus preventing him from having to engage with anyone save Benedict himself.

Quarter of an hour later, he had already poured himself a drink and was waiting for Benedict to enter his office. Oliver tossed back his drink, then slammed it on the table.

“What has you so tied in knots?” Benedict asked as he came into the room. “Marital bliss not so blissful?”

“Go to the devil,” Oliver said. He eyed the glass in front of him, noting the large crack that appeared at the base. “I’ll buy you another.”

Benedict laughed and poured Oliver another two fingers of Scotch in a new glass.

He slid over the drawing he’d done for the expansion. “I can’t seem to get the slope of the ceiling right.”

Benedict glanced over the sketch, then shrugged. “Looks perfect as usual.”

“I think I could fashion a hidden panel on that wall there that would allow you access to the front room without going around,” Oliver said.

Benedict eyed the part of the wall in question. “I suppose, but eventually someone would see me coming out and then they would know where I hide most of the time.” They sat in silence for a few moments, simply drinking. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, or just glower at me? Because if it is the latter, I can return to the main room and endure Lord Crawford’s drunken rant for another half hour.” Benedict shook his head. “That man cannot hold his liquor nor play a game of chance worth a damn.”

“Sounds like my father,” Oliver said.

“Your father was a selfish bastard. That has already been established.”

Oliver glared at his friend.

He held up a hand to prevent Oliver from arguing. “Before you try to lie about what this is about, let me remind you I’ve known you your entire life. I know you.”

Oliver exhaled and cursed his friend. But the man was right. “Harriet is unhappy.” He left out the part about her having left. It was in his nature to go after her. Pursue her until she was in his arms again. But his impulsive and demanding nature is what had gotten them into this mess to begin with.

“Did you try buying her a present?” Benedict took a sip. “I hear women enjoy those sorts of things.”

“She has usage of funds to buy herself whatever she desires,” Oliver said. “Additionally, I don’t think that would win her over. It certainly didn’t help with the courtship.”

“What did you do while at Brookhaven?” Benedict closed his eyes and shook his head. “Please leave out the finer details. I’ll use my imagination.”

“That was all. I worked on my sketches during the day; I suppose she worked with the servants to better acquaint herself with the workings of the estate. At night I would find her,” Oliver said.

“You did not take her on picnics or walks, or read poetry to each other?” Benedict asked.

“Damnation, man, is that what you believe marriage to be?” He paused. “My parents had a terrible marriage, so I suppose I don’t have any reliable source of information for the way the relationship should go.”

“But you did spend time with her, other than when plowing into her, I’m assuming?”

Oliver took a deep breath. He’d wanted to, but no, he hadn’t. He shook his head, unable to form the words.

“You avoided her?”

“I did.”

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