Helgate smirked. “Well, there is your problem then.”
Oliver narrowed his eyes. “Why is it a problem?”
Helgate’s ale was placed in front of him, and the barman answered for him, “Because women love when men obsess about the future.”
Oliver scowled at the man. “Notthiswoman.”
The barman shrugged. “You should have just brought her a jewel, then you wouldn’t be sitting here with female trouble again.”
“Again?” Helgate’s brow shot up, his whole face lighting up in intrigue. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Oliver gritted his teeth. “What?”
Helgate’s smile deepened. “You are in love with her.”
Oliver jerked back, as if the words had physically struck him. “I am not.”
Helgate chuckled, clearly enjoying his reaction. “Yes, you are. You’re in love with Louisa Talbot.”
Oliver stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “I assure you, I am not.”
“I assure you, you are.” He took of long sip of ale before saying, “You can tell yourself whatever you like, my friend, it doesn’t change the truth.”
“And just what would you know about love?” The man had never courted a woman in his life, neither had he been close to any woman in the fifteen years Oliver had known him.
Helgate shrugged. “I know it’s not the simplest path to tread when there are more straightforward ones available.”
“Hear, hear,” the barman agreed, nodding at them before leaving to help another customer.
Oliver couldn’t refute that bold claim either. For men like them, the simplest paths were business transactions, which was why they tended to also treat marriage as one. Gains and losses were weighed, decided upon, and put to paper.
Very straightforward.
Emotions, on the other hand, were messy.
And yet something about Louisa had wrapped itself around him, and no matter how hard he tried to resist, it refused to loosen its hold. But there was no path for him and Louisa to take. It had been cut off ten years ago. Probably even before that.
Oliver lowered back onto the chair stiffly.
“I see you are determined to clamp up,” Helgate remarked. “Let me ask you this: Did you tell her that you were the one who saved her? Did you tell any of them?”
“Irrelevant.”
Helgate leaned in, a hint of disbelief in his eyes. “How the devil is that irrelevant? It sets you apart from your father!”
“His blood still runs through my veins.” As Talbot had pointed out.
Helgate scoffed, shaking his head. “Christ, you are so stubborn at times,” he muttered. “Has it ever occurred to you that you might start mending this feud with Talbot if he knew you were the one who led his daughter back to his men?”
Oliver’s lips curled in a bitter smile. “He wouldn’t believe me.”
“Does it matter what he believes?” Helgate didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “You only want her to believe it anyway.”
“Damn it, Helgate,” Oliver snapped, slamming his fist on the bar. “I already walked away, now you want me to walk right back and mention this after the fact? I would look like a bloody fool.”
“I hate to point this out, old chap, but you already do look a bit like one. A fool in love.”
Oliver cursed the man. A fool in love? Wouldn’t that be the jest of the season—a Cavanagh falling in love with a Talbot?
