Free Never Seduce A Scoundrel by Heather Grothaus Page B

dais and swerving through a right, then a left turn to gain the main aisle. He heard a chair screech from its place just behind him, and then Joan called out.
    “Oliver, wait!”
    “No!” He threw his left hand over his head but kept walking. “No, Joan. Whatever you do, do not follow me.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “To gather my belongings,” he tossed over his shoulder.
    “But I don’t want to leave yet!” she whined.
    “Then for the love of sweet Christ in heaven, don’t!” he shouted. His steps hesitated for an instant, and he added somewhat more somberly, “Beg pardon, Father.”
    He stormed through the doorway of the great hall, up the short flight of stairs leading to the entry, and then started toward the main thoroughfare to the upper chambers.
    If Cecily Foxe cared so little for him that she could simply take her leave from Fallstowe without so much as a good-bye, then so could Oliver. He hadn’t been himself since that damned Foxe Ring, and now he’d had enough. To hell with her. Oliver hoped she was very happy at her blasted nunnery. To hell with heartless Sybilla Foxe and her harebrained, selfish schemes, as well. To hell with everyone and everything at Fallstowe.
    He was going home.
     
     
    Sybilla glanced over her shoulder at Graves, and in that same instant, the old steward turned from her and disappeared through the narrow doorway set in the wall behind the dais. Then she turned her attention back to the still smiling priest.
    “Was there anything else my sister wished to tell me, Father?”
    “Only that she is very sorry for any inconvenience her absence might cause you,” the man said with a knowing smile.
    Sybilla returned it. “Thank you. Won’t you join us, Father Perry?”
    “Thank you, my lady, but no. I am not as young as I once was, and feel the desire for my own warm bed more insistently than I do a warm meal.”
    “I bid you good night, then,” Sybilla said.
    Father Perry bowed, and then made the sign of the cross in the air over the table before turning and walking away in his swishing robes.
    Sybilla turned to Joan Barleg, who was twisting her napkin into a knot on her lap, a worried frown creasing her high, youthful brow.
    “Lady Joan, I am not as familiar with Lord Bellecote as you are,” Sybilla said mildly, reaching once more for her chalice. “Does he always react in such a manner when offered pudding?”
    “The temper you mean?” Joan asked. At Sybilla’s half nod, the girl continued. “No. Not at all. It’s why I jested with him about the blow to his head. Oliver has always had an easy nature. His behavior of late has been more akin to August’s than his own.” Then Joan gave a little gasp and turned wide eyes to Sybilla. “Please forgive me, my lady.”
    “Forgive you what, Lady Joan?” She brought the cup to her lips and drank.
    “For mentioning ... well, so soon after—” She broke off. “Of course, you would be familiar with August’s temper. I didn’t mean to cause you any undue grief.” She leaned forward slightly. “Are you griefish, Lady Sybilla?”
    “Intensely,” Sybilla answered, and even to her own ears, her tone was full of cynicism. “Why would you think August ever showed me anything but kindness?”
    “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that he—I only meant that since you ... Well, it was said the two of you were very fond of one another.”
    Sybilla hummed slightly, as if Joan Barleg had said something of high interest. “I am very fond of several people, Lady Joan. Some a bit more than others, though, I suppose. Should any of them happen to die suddenly, I do imagine that I would feel rather put out.”
    Joan Barleg frowned slightly and then sat back in her chair. After a moment, she sighed. “Well, then. I suppose I should go to my own chamber and gather my things.”
    Sybilla turned her head slightly to glance at the girl. “Whatever for?”
    “Oliver said that he was leaving.”
    “Oliver also said, in quite a clear