I Love to Hate You: Revenge has never tasted so sweet... (Marry in Haste Series Book 1) Read online

  I LOVE TO HATE YOU

  ELIZABETH KEYSIAN

  Published by Elizabeth Keysian 2019

  I Love to Hate You

  Copyright ©2019

  Cover Design by the author

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the author’s permission.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorised electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is greatly appreciated.

  www.elizabethkeysian.com

  To Siân Perkins, for all your support, in everything.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Elizabeth Keysian

  Chapter 1

  Hedenham House, Suffolk, 1811

  Miss Athene Hartville, her mind too busy for sleep, was admiring the crisp full moon through the window when a sudden draught extinguished her candle.

  As the entire passageway went dark, she heard footsteps approaching. No rustle of skirts – it had to be a man. But which one of the many currently residing at the Duke of Burlington’s Hallowe’en house party?

  The man was striding directly towards her. Of course, she must be outlined against the moonlit window. Why didn’t he speak?

  Firm hands grasped her waist, and before she could utter a sound, his lips were on hers. Then, as quickly as he had appeared, he was gone, leaving her hot-faced, shaky, and shocked.

  What had happened to her candle? She fumbled along the cobwebby sill for a tinderbox, then reignited her light. Shadows fled from the passageway but revealed nothing more than a gallery of closed doors and a plinth at the end featuring a bust of the emperor Marcus Aurelius. Holding her candle high, she hurried down to the end of the landing, but a single flame did nothing to illuminate the stairway and the great, dark hall beneath.

  He must have come from the opposite landing where the single gentlemen and married couples were accommodated. She paused, surprised at how breathless she was after traversing so short a distance. It was chilly now—the fires in the reception rooms below had been put under curfew a good hour ago. Should she seek the warmth of her bed, or continue across the gulf lying between the East and West wings of Hedenham House? Because if a gentleman had thought her worthy of a kiss, that gentleman required further acquaintance.

  Necessitated it, in fact.

  “Miss Hartville. Wandering about the corridors in the dead of night? I must assume you are lost.”

  She managed not to leap out of her skin and throw her candle in the air at the sound of the male voice.

  Just.

  “Not at all. I was…taking the air.”

  Oliver Paviland, Viscount Rushbourne—the most Detestable Man on Earth—looked down at her with cool grey eyes. “At one o’clock in the morning? I suspect a tryst, rather.”

  It couldn’t have been him who’d kissed her, could it? No. They’d been sworn enemies since they were children. Ever since he’d been repeatedly beastly to her and she’d retaliated by getting him stuck in a drainage pipe—and telling him she would leave him there to die. Small revenge on her part. He deserved more.

  Mind you, it would be typical of him to steal a kiss in the dark, the blackguard, to tease her.

  Her cheeks heated and she prayed it hadn’t been him. Because the kiss had actually been quite enjoyable. Heaven forfend! No. Rushbourne was more likely to put a toad in her bed than kiss her.

  “What I do, and when, is no concern of yours. I might point out you are also wandering the corridors at a ridiculous hour.”

  He raised his lamp, making her blink. “I have no nefarious reason. I’m off in search of the linen cupboard for an extra blanket. Shall I fetch one for you as well?”

  Indeed? She narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t steal a kiss from me a moment ago, did you?”

  His head shot back. “Steal a kiss from you, Miss Heartless?” He used the nickname which had so amused him as a child. And had so incensed her. “I would rather such a thing were given.”

  “Charming as ever,” she grumbled, kicking herself for having accused him. Now, she would never hear the last of it.

  He smoothed a hand over his dark, sleep-tousled hair. “So, Miss Heartless has caught the eye of a gentleman, has she? Although he may have mistaken you for someone else in the dark.”

  “It is of no matter to me whether it was by accident or design,” she huffed. “I care nothing for kisses, stolen or otherwise.”

  His voice was hard. “I didn’t think you would, Miss Heart—”

  “Don’t say it.” She couldn’t bear the nickname with which he’d endowed her when she was ten. Of course, she had feelings, of course, she had a heart. But her parents had died when she was young, and a succession of unsympathetic relatives and hateful schools had forced her to at least give the appearance of resilience.

  Now, with her new guardian, things were very different. But she was on the verge of another negative change in her circumstances, and she was running out of options.

  “Very well, I won’t, since you ask. Old habits die hard, dear girl. Old habits die hard.”

  Dear girl, was, if anything, even worse than Miss Heartless, especially from this striking, far-too-privileged fellow. It was patronising. Oh, but wasn’t he the most odious man to have ever existed?

  She balanced her candlestick on the curling end of the bannister rail so she could put both hands on her hips. “It’s most unfortunate I didn’t know in advance you’d be here. If I had, I should not have come.”

  “What? And miss out on my teasing you? I thought you might enjoy the attention.”

  “I do not.” It was hard to resist stamping her foot. “I have all the attention I need, thank you very much. I’m used to my own company, as you would know if you’ve followed my history at all.”

  “If I said I had, would you care? Oh, I should tell you, Harry’s here. He occasionally asks me for news of you.”

  Harry? She immediately pictured a winsome little boy, overshadowed by his much older brother. Harry had followed her around too when they were children, but to worship, not to torment. Whether he would ever have championed her against his brother, Athene never knew, as the clumsy child usually ended up having to be carried back into the house, his knees muddied and bloodied, and his face wet with tears.

  “I suspect Harry has grown up a gentleman, unlike you, sir. He sent me condolences on the death of my aunt. You did
not.”

  “At the time, I did not believe you would have welcomed such an offering.”

  “Surely, I’m the only judge of that.”

  “Are you saying you would have been pleased to receive a letter from me?” There was a spark in his dark gaze.

  “Not at all. It would have been perfectly horrid. Anyway, I don’t believe the idea ever occurred to you. As you thought I had no heart, you probably assumed I didn’t care about losing my nearest relative in all the world.”

  Much to her annoyance, tears scalded her eyes. She shouldn’t care about this man’s opinion. Why did his words hurt her? For they hurt her as much now when she was a full nineteen years of age, as his teasing and tugs on her ringlets had when she was but ten.

  At that tender age, she’d vowed to hate Oliver Paviland, the future Viscount Rushbourne, forever. It still appeared to be a fair idea. Although revenge would be even more satisfying.

  “You are not yet married.”

  Her chin shot up. “You appear to think me lacking in the finer feelings. Which, in your book, would make me unfit for marriage, or motherhood.”

  What on earth was she doing, standing here, disputing with her arch-enemy at the top of the stairs? She should toss her head and walk away. Whoever had kissed her in the dark would be long gone by now.

  Unless they were listening. She sincerely hoped they weren’t listening.

  Rushbourne had moved closer. The warmth emanating from his body dispelled the chill, and she involuntarily swayed towards him. In such proximity, she discovered how tall he’d become. It couldn’t have been him who’d kissed her—the perpetrator had been closer to her own height. And the mystery gentleman hadn’t given off the same unsettling male energy as Rushbourne.

  “I would delight in being proved wrong,” he was saying. “About the feelings, that is. Not the other.”

  What had they been talking about? Oh, marriage. “Obviously I’m not married, or I’d have changed my name.” He wouldn’t be speaking to her in so familiar a fashion if she were married, would he? He must know she wasn’t. He was making certain of the fact, for some dubious reason of his own. Probably so he could torment her about it. “I don’t think my married state, or lack of it, is any concern of yours, however.”

  “It shouldn’t be, should it?” He was gazing at her intently, the vile creature, trying to make her feel small and threatened.

  “Then why do you ask?” She was trying not to snap and sound shrewish. He needed to appreciate she had grown into a wonderful, well-educated, sophisticated woman. One deserving of his respect.

  Assuming Viscount Rushbourne was capable of respecting anyone.

  He ignored the question. “By my reckoning, you must be… what? Twenty?”

  “Not yet. I am but nineteen.”

  “My apologies.” He gave her a mocking bow. “I confess myself very surprised you are not yet wed.”

  That situation was soon to change. She very much hoped the partner of her future life was at this house party. She simply didn’t happen to know who he was yet. Perhaps the fellow who’d kissed her?

  Rushbourne had moved again, and she had to crick her neck to meet his eyes. Why must he always stand so close? He’d done it even as a boy. Had he no idea how infuriating it was? Though even if he had, he’d see no reason to change his behaviour.

  “I care not what you think, Rushbourne. I never have.”

  “Such cruel words, from so beautiful a mouth.”

  Great heavens! A compliment? No, an insult. A bit of both? Confused, she took a pace backwards. “As I said, I’m not interested in your opinion, good, or otherwise. You have no right, and no reason to interrogate me. Good night.”

  She reached for her candle and turned back towards her corridor, only to find the wretched man had cut off her retreat. Damn him for being so broad-shouldered and imposing. His banyan was a perfect fit, tapering in at the waist and closed with silk-covered buttons across his deep chest. The garment drew one’s eye to his splendidly proportioned form—as was doubtless his intention in wearing it.

  “Going so soon?” He sounded disappointed.

  “I’m tired.” She fought the urge to rail at him. To give a bully the battle they wanted only brought them back for more.

  “We haven’t finished our conversation. I’ve barely managed to get near you the past seven years. I recall seeing you on fourteen different occasions at least, and you’ve avoided me at every single one. So, there’s a good deal of catching up to do.”

  “This is hardly the time or place, even if I wished to talk to you. Which I don’t.”

  “But the mystery of your anonymous beau and the stolen kiss in the dark are fascinating topics. I can’t imagine you letting the incident go without worrying over it for days. You always were a terrier.”

  She hadn’t planned on letting the incident go. Trying to find out who had kissed her was, in fact, essential, since her purpose in attending the party was to catch herself a husband. If only she could be sure the man who had kissed her wanted a wife. It had been a chaste enough kiss, so the fellow was no rake. But could the intentions of a stealthy kiss-thief be considered honourable?

  “Hah! You’re as curious as I. I knew you would be. Was the man old or young? If we track him down, shall I call him out?”

  She repressed her frustration with a deep breath. Maybe she should scream. It would get rid of Rushbourne soon enough. It had when they were young. But was she still capable of the same piercing sound she’d managed as a child?

  “I don’t wish to talk about it. Now, are you going to get out of my way, or bully me into staying, exactly like you did as a boy?”

  Damn. What had happened to her sophisticated poise?

  The light of his lantern flickered, making his cheeks look darker. “Bully you? Of course not. I’d never force you. What do you mean, I bullied you?”

  Soon she would be gnashing her teeth. Or pushing him down the stairs. Perhaps, if she set fire to his banyan, she might get rid of him.

  “You appear amused, Miss Heartless. It entertains you, does it, to cast unfair accusations about?”

  “Enough!” She threw up a hand. She had far more important things to think about than him. Her entire future for one. “I’m going to bed.”

  “A pity.” His voice had softened. Coming from him, the intimate tone was unnerving. “I had hoped we could investigate this mysterious occurrence together. After all, our host couldn’t possibly approve of men roaming the passageways in the darkness, hunting down unchaperoned young females to kiss.”

  He hadn’t changed a bit, the insufferable man. Always determined to get his way, regardless of what anyone else wanted. And for him to have the downright effrontery to deny the charge of bullying—it was unbelievable.

  “As I said, I’m tired.” She would not be drawn into any further argument. “And if you had anything of the gentleman about you at all, Viscount Rushbourne, you would stand aside and let me go.”

  The brightness in his eyes sputtered out, and he stepped back abruptly, a soldier standing to attention. She scurried past before he could change his mind, almost extinguishing her candle in her speed.

  He must have moved quickly too, for before she had even reached her room, she heard a door snap shut in the opposite corridor.

  As she paused with her fingers on the door handle, she wondered about the shadow that had crossed his face. Had she somehow managed to affect him? If so, it meant he was vulnerable to her opinion.

  And if he was vulnerable, she might, finally, after all these years, be revenged on the man who’d made her young life such a misery. And who, though she’d never let him know it, had had such a significant effect on the woman she’d become.

  Revenge didn’t go far enough. Viscount Rushbourne needed to atone for the sins of his youth.

  She, Miss Athene Hartville, named after the goddess of war, was going to find a way to bring him to his knees.

  Chapter 2

  Oliver reined in
his mount beneath a stand of withered oaks and waited for his younger brother, the Honourable Henry Paviland, to catch up.

  Harry, a strapping seventeen-year-old at the very threshold of adult life, had hung back, as ever. Was his aim to make people feel guilty at leaving him in the dust? Was it to attract sympathy? Oliver didn’t know—his brother had always been a bit of a puzzle.

  Nowadays, it felt as if there was something…broken about the young man. He was handsome, splendidly lean but powerful, brilliantly blond, and cheerfully blue-eyed—a complete magnet for the ladies. But something dark lurked beneath the surface. And nothing served to satisfy him.

  Shrugging off his disquieting thoughts, Oliver grinned as Harry arrived, panting and dishevelled by the stiff autumn breeze. “Coming in second as usual, Harry,” he joked. “You’ll blame the horse, of course.”

  “Not at all.” The fair brow furrowed. “There was some rough ground back there, and I wouldn’t want to upset Papa by ruining the stallion on my very first ride.”

  “Papa has probably already forgotten he gave it to you.”

  “I do wonder what’s afoot with him. He keeps calling me ‘Oliver’. I have to bite my tongue.”

  “See that you do. And if he speaks of Mama as if she were still alive, don’t leap to contradict him.”

  “It would only infuriate him—I know.” Harry’s mouth drooped sourly.

  “You don’t understand—” Oliver’s mouth snapped shut. He didn’t want the world to know of their father’s occasional mental weakness. The earl was a proud man—the fact his older son had already been made to take up the reins of the earldom was not common knowledge. But if Harry were told, it would be. And he couldn’t trust Harry not to mock the earl if he knew of his failings, or take advantage of the man’s impaired memory.