No mistake, she and Lord St. Alban had ten seconds before discovery.
“Olivia?” he asked. “What do you need me to do?”
“You can begin by unhanding me,” she said in the precise notes of a prim miss.
His hands dropped to his sides, and she could hate herself.
“The servants know to look for me here when they can’t find me.”
Free of him, too free of him, she slid along the wall and far away from him, too far away from him. Her fingers rushed to right her bodice, smooth her hair, straighten her crushed silk skirts. All the while, his serious gaze never wavered from her, but gone was the sensuous heat from moments ago. He watched her dispassionately as if from a great distance.
A full cry of unrequited lust sought release. She didn’t want his dispassion. Quite the opposite.
“You look the perfect lady,” he said once she’d finished. “Almost.”
She cut him a staying glare before stepping to the doorway, blocking any possible view into the studio. Even the most loyal servant couldn’t be trusted with a tidbit of gossip as choice as this one. “May I help you, Mrs. Landry?” Olivia called out. The click of the servant’s heels came to an abrupt stop.
After a quick, hushed exchange, Olivia turned back toward Lord St. Alban, Mrs. Landry’s footsteps receding down the hallway. She cleared her throat. “Your daughter will be awaiting you in the Duke’s main foyer.”
He looked as if he would say something, but, then, he didn’t. What did she expect? That they would pick up where they’d left off?
Again, she longed to cry out. She wasn’t finished with him yet.
She was being unreasonable, but her body didn’t care. It wanted what it wanted, and it wanted him.
He picked up one, then another, article of clothing and calmly dressed as if this night was a usual occurrence. A storm gathered inside her. The dratted man was entirely too self-possessed for her liking. A need to throw him off balance and keep him that way until he was gone from this room rose.
“Who would have thought you could kiss like that?” came out of her kiss-crushed lips. Surprise sparked in his eyes, and a little thrill fired through her. Good. It was a lie. But it was one she must tell herself, one she must tell him, and one they both must believe.
He cocked his head. “Who wouldn’t?” he asked, daring her to continue with the lie.
“You’re so very reserved. I would’ve thought your lips starched as stiff as your shirt.” Her fingers skated up and down the doorjamb, as if she was bored.
“Lady Olivia, I think we both know what’s as stiff as my starched shirt.”
She made herself go very still and keep her eyes locked onto his. She wouldn’t look. She wouldn’t use her peripheral vision, either.
He began walking toward the door. Toward her, her traitorous heart suggested. Her attempt at controlling the situation was reversing on itself. She held up a defensive hand. “I think that’s enough—” She stopped mid-sentence. She’d almost completed it with for now.
“They’re lovely, you know.”
Her arms crossed protectively over her chest.
“The sketches, my lady,” he clarified, the beginnings of a smile playing about his mouth.
“A narcissist, are you?” she threw out, a cover for the satisfaction that streaked through her at the sound of his praise.
He shook his head at her, like she was an obdurate school girl. “The beauty isn’t in the subject, but in the artist’s rendering of it.”
He came within a few feet of her. She would have to step aside or risk letting his body collide with hers. For a split second, she considered the latter. Its risks. Its rewards. But, at the last second, her feet acted sensibly and allowed him room to pass.
When he drew level with her at the doorway, his stride shortened and his pace slowed. For one wild second she thought he hesitated, that he would stop. But he didn’t. He rounded the corner without a backward glance.
Her gaze fixed absently on the room before her, she slumped against the wall. This time she permitted herself to collapse to the floor in a puff of ballooned silk skirts.
The taste of scotch lingered on her lips . . .
The imprint of his gorgeous, capable hands lingered on her skin . . .
The unrequited craving of lust lingered in her sex.
And she thought she’d drawn this obsession into submission?
Perfect little mess, indeed.
~ ~ ~
Mina had been in a few grand homes in her life—her father’s new mansion came to mind—but never one as grand as the Duke of Arundel’s.
Her gaze lifted toward the ceiling stretched to near infinity above their heads as she and Lucy stood in the foyer awaiting her father. She spied tiny angels peering over fluffy clouds painted onto its surface.
“Too bad ceilings can’t be stars all the time,” Lucy said.
Mina nodded. Lucy had the most charming way of turning words.
The girl reached out for her hand. “We must make a plan to see each other again. Soon?”
She gave Lucy’s hand a testing squeeze, and when Lucy’s eyes lit up in a smile, Mina knew it had been the correct action to take. She’d never had a friend like Lucy. Nannies, teachers, servants, and stars had been her friends. And Father. He was a friend, too.
But never a friend like this. A girl. A silly, frilly, delightful girl who used words the way artists used brushes.
The sound of footsteps echoed down one of several hallways that fed into the foyer. Mina turned toward the sound, expecting to see Father round the final corner, but it wasn’t he who came into view. It was a boy. No, not a boy precisely—he looked to be a few years older than her—but boyish. Not yet a man.
His face . . . it would be called beautiful on a woman. But on a boy not yet a man? She wasn’t sure. Angelic, perhaps, with his blond hair shot through with streaks of platinum and his pale amber eyes. Except he wasn’t at all like the chubby babies strewn across the ceiling above. He looked like the heir to the sun.
He caught sight of them, and his feet slowed. His eyes met hers for the briefest flicker of a second before continuing over to Lucy. “Lulu,” he called out in the most aristocratic voice Mina had ever heard, “what have I told you about treating the downstairs help like they are one of—”
“Us?” Mina finished for him. Her heart threatened to jump out of her chest, and her skin went hot, then clammy. She’d never said anything so bold in her life.
His eyes cut toward her, this time for a longer second. They held a measure of assessment, curiosity.
“Hugh!” Lucy cried out, “Miss Radclyffe may not be dressed in the first stare of fashion, but she is the daughter of the Viscount St. Alban. You must apologize this instant.”
Ever impulsive, Lucy wrapped her arms around Mina. Instead of feeling stifled as she usually did with embraces, she felt buoyed by the gesture. She lifted her hands in reciprocity and gave Lucy’s back a few reassuring pats.
“Mina,” Lucy said, no move to relinquish her grasp, “I’m so sorry for my dunderheaded cousin.”
“My apologies, Miss Radclyffe,” Hugh said, not bothering to meet Mina’s eyes again. He slid on a pair of kid gloves and offered a slight bow before slipping out the front door.
Lucy released Mina and took a step back. “Hugh, or Lord Avendon, as he insists on being called lately, is second in line to the dukedom, behind his father, and I’m afraid it’s gone to his head.” Lucy’s eyes turned sympathetic. “People like him must be terrible for you.”
Mina averted her gaze. She had no interest in pursuing this line of conversation with Lucy, a girl she hardly knew and who couldn’t possibly understand how terrible people could be.
Once again, footsteps echoed down a hallway. This time it
was her father. He joined them and asked, “Are you ready, meisje?”
“Yes,” Mina replied, the Dutch endearment warming her. She would ever be his little girl. As she was about to rest her hand on his forearm, she noticed that he looked a little . . . askew. “Father, your cravat has gone crooked.”
He reached up and tugged the garment straight. “Is that better?”
She nodded and directed her attention back to Lucy. “Thank you for showing me a wonderful evening.”
“Perhaps I can introduce you to my modiste, soon?” Lucy asked, uncertainty in her eyes.
“I should like that,” Mina said, seeking to reassure her new friend, even as she understood that more fashionable clothes wouldn’t alter how London Society viewed her.
She and Father stepped through the doorway and into chilly night air. She disliked leaving Lucy on this sour note, but it couldn’t be helped. There were certain aspects of her mixed heritage that she must face alone. And fixating on the terrible wasn’t the way she chose to go about it.
Chapter 13
Next day
Olivia squinted and contemplated the cup of coffee before her.
On a usual morning, she took it sweet and creamy. Today, black and bitter tempted the part of her that needed a cleansing, the pleasures of life stripped away. As a lesson in denial.
She risked one tiny sip, then another, and attempted to, if not like, then, at least, accept the strident brew as her penance. Her face scrunched up, and her resolve slipped away. She reached for the cream and sugar. Just a little. To soften the edge.
What was the use in denial anyway? Look where it had gotten her last night: inside her studio, evidence of her denial strewn about the walls for him to see. That was one form her denial had taken.
Of course, it could be said that denial had saved her from herself last night, if not from another restless night. The dark circles beneath her eyes attested to the fact.
And then there was a separate, but related, fact that had plagued her into the night: apart from what they’d done, and not done in her studio, what had the dratted man been doing there in the first place?
Lucy bounded into the room on a wave of bright energy. “Good morning, Mum.” She landed a fat kiss on Olivia’s cheek and plopped into her usual seat. “Last night was a raging success. Definitely the best soirée you’ve held in ages.”
“Oh?” Olivia replied. She couldn’t agree with her daughter. She remembered it as an exercise in humiliation.
A bit more than humiliation, a tiny voice reminded her. As if she needed reminding.
“Mum?”
A particular, tentative note in Lucy’s voice sounded Olivia’s motherly alarm. “What is the matter?”
“Last night,” Lucy began and stopped.
Tension coiled inside Olivia. Was it possible that Lucy had seen her with Lord St. Alban? “Yes?”
“Cousin Hugh mistook Miss Radclyffe for a servant.”
Relief surged through Olivia, even as her stomach sank. “Oh, no.”
“I’ve never felt more ashamed in my life.”
“Lulu, it’s not your shame, dearest.” Olivia reached for her daughter’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
“I feel ashamed for Hugh and people like him,” Lucy said, her reticence shifting into passion with each word she spoke. “I’m ashamed that I belong to those people.”
“You can’t control the attitudes and prejudices of others, only your own. I’m certain Miss Radclyffe understands this. Besides,” Olivia continued, “anyone who has ever met you knows that you belong wholly and only to yourself.”
The beginnings of a smile hung about Lucy’s lips, but Olivia could see that her daughter’s heart wasn’t in it. Then Lucy glanced at a point to the left of her plate, and the smile that had begun, dropped. It was another letter from Percy. Lucy slid it out of sight and began buttering her toast with a bit too much force, the knife a determined, choppy scrape across its brown surface.
The Duke strolled into the room, a whistle on his lips, and took his customary place across from Olivia.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Olivia said. “Isn’t today Monday? Shouldn’t you be breaking your fast with Lord Exeter?”
“Michael needed to move our breakfast to tomorrow.” The Duke’s smile reached all the way to his eyes. “Alas, you will have to put up with me this morning.”
Olivia couldn’t help but return his smile. “You’re always welcome at our table.”
Six days a week, the Duke took his breakfast with Olivia and Lucy in their apartment in the east wing. The seventh day was reserved for his heir and Percy’s elder brother, Michael, the Marquess of Exeter, and his ever-increasing family in the west wing, which they had gradually taken over. At last count, there were five boys, the eldest of whom was Hugh, second in line to the dukedom behind his father. It was a boisterous table in the west wing, which even Lucy at her most precocious couldn’t match.
Usually, Olivia enjoyed easing into the day across from the Duke and Lucy, but not today. Today, she would feel more at ease breaking her fast in a hole in the ground.
“Still reading nonsense, I see.” The Duke picked up his serious-minded Morning Chronicle and gave his eyebrows a waggle.
Olivia lifted her copy of the London Diary a notch higher. “Now and then, everyone needs a little nonsense in their lives, Your Grace.”
“Not according to Miss Scace,” Lucy piped up, her mouth crammed full of strawberry jam and toast.
Olivia was relieved to find her daughter somewhat restored to her usual ebullient self. The world could be such a foul and ugly place.
“Miss Scace says,” Lucy continued, “that every bit of nonsense one puts into one’s brain”—She now mimicked the no-nonsense Miss Scace through her mouthful of toast—“forces out ten bits of good sense.” She washed down her toast with a gulp of tea. “Or something like that.”
Olivia suppressed the impulse to laugh outright at her impertinent daughter. “I’m certain she is absolutely correct, but, at times, I enjoy taking a little nonsense with my morning brew. Now, eat up, Lulu, you’re off in five minutes.”
“Oh, Mumsy, make it ten,” Lucy whined, holding up a book, “I must complete this chapter before school, or I shall expire from anticipation. Drummond will understand. He always does.”
“And what does the venerable Miss Scace have to say about that bit of nonsense you’re reading?” the Duke asked, his eyes shining with good humor.
“This?” She held up Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto. Olivia had been equally fascinated with that novel at Lucy’s age. “She says it’s the worst sort, I’m afraid. A gothic romance.” Lucy shivered dramatically and stuffed the rest of the toast into her mouth before opening her book and becoming instantly engrossed.
The Duke shook his head in silent indulgence and returned his attention to his morning paper. Olivia squelched a pang of guilt before it surfaced. Contrary to Lord St. Alban’s belief, she wasn’t acting behind the Duke’s back to secure her townhouse. She was exercising her right to pursue her future independently. She didn’t expect a viscount to understand that which he took for granted every day of his privileged, male life.
Speaking of Lord St. Alban . . .
Her pulse quickened. It was entirely possible that he could stride into this room at any moment. As the Duke’s protégé, of course. Not as her . . .
One kiss didn’t make him that. No matter that he might have been if Mrs. Landry hadn’t done God’s work and interrupted them. Denial came in many forms.
Olivia stifled the humiliated groan that wanted release. How was she ever to face him again? How badly did she want her own townhouse? How badly did she want her independence?
She could endure the shame of facing him again. What wouldn’t she endure for a life dependen
t on no one for her well-being and happiness?
Why didn’t her goal ring as true today as it had yesterday?
“Mum?” A quizzical Lucy stood at Olivia’s side. “I said I’m leaving now.”
“Oh, yes, dearest. Love you,” she replied to Lucy’s retreating back. This left her alone with the Duke. She peeled away the buttery layers of her croissant until it was nothing more than a flaky mess on her plate. “Will Lord St. Alban be joining us this morning?” The question hadn’t aired quite as nonchalantly as she’d hoped.
The Duke peered at her over the top of his paper. “He sent a note around this morning that he had other matters to attend.”
“Ah,” she replied.
“In fact,” the Duke continued, his gaze fixed upon his newspaper, “I’d be shocked if he returned at all. At least, for my mentorship. Other reasons might bring him back.”
Her heart gave a solid kick. “I can’t imagine.”
“No?” the Duke returned, but remained otherwise silent, leaving her to stew.
It had gone too far, and now the Duke sensed something between her and Lord St. Alban. She must find a way to put an end to whatever it was, but how? She was being swept along by a force entirely out of her control and beyond her experience: her desire.
She needed to be alone. She pushed away from the table and stood. “I shall be in my studio if you need me.”
Her feet carried her through the maze of corridors leading to her studio. But the closer she drew to her destination, the heavier, the more leaden, her feet became. She wouldn’t be alone in her studio, not really, for he had taken it over. In more ways than one after last night. Even in the privacy of her apartments, her face flamed.
What she needed was a restorative rest. Small wonder she was anxious. She hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep all week. Well, she would remedy that deficit immediately. Instead of pointing right toward her studio, her feet went left and didn’t stop until she reached her bed.
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