by Sara Lindsey
She would tell him tonight, Olivia decided, after all the guests had gone. She only had another week before they were supposed to leave. She couldn’t guess what would happen after that, and she didn’t want the remainder of their time together clouded by secrets.
Her melancholy thoughts were banished by the arrival of her aunt’s maid, Alice, who had come to do her hair. Alice had brought Charlotte and Edward with her, since Olivia had told them they might come to her chamber and see her done up in all her finery, as they would not be allowed downstairs.
Charlotte, of course, was not content with watching. Her sharp young eyes found every loose piece of hair that had escaped the pins, every tiny bump where the coiffure ought to be smooth, and she proceeded to point out these flaws. Fortunately, Alice was used to Charlotte. Any other servant, she feared, might have been tempted to commit mayhem with the curling tongs.
Edward, in contrast, sat quietly on the floor looking very glum.
“Are you feeling poorly?” Livvy asked, worried that all the fuss over the party might have triggered the beginnings of an episode.
He shook his head. “I don’t want you to go.”
“To the party? Why not?” Olivia asked in surprise.
“No, I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay here.” With a cry, he launched himself at her and clung to her legs, burying his face against her knees.
Livvy’s heart shattered.
She motioned Alice to wait, and then drew Edward to his feet and pulled him onto her lap. He had become so dear to her, this shy, serious little boy.
He flung his arms around her neck and buried his face in her shoulder.
“My mama went away. I don’t want you to go away, too.”
A lump came into Olivia’s throat. She couldn’t speak, so she just hugged Edward more tightly.
“Your mama is living with my papa in heaven,” Charlotte explained. “It’s very far away, so they can’t come visit. Cousin Livvy isn’t going there, though. She’s only going to her home, where my other cousins live, and then she has to go to London.”
Edward raised his head. “Why does she have to go to London? Why can’t she stay here?”
“Because she’s going to get married, of course,” Charlotte sang, skipping around the room in her excitement.
Edward looked up at Olivia. “Is that true?”
“I hope so,” Olivia said, smoothing his dark curls. “I hope to have a pair of imps like the two of you someday.”
Edward’s brow knit in concentration. “So you are going to London so you can be a mama?”
“Er, well, yes, I suppose. It’s a bit more complicated than—”
“Then you don’t need to go anywhere.” Edward beamed. He slid off her lap and began to jump about with Charlotte. “You can stay here and be my mama.”
Livvy’s eyes grew wide at this pronouncement. And because Alice had resumed her task and was shoving pins into the coronet of braids she had fashioned. The maid seemed to view getting the pins to actually puncture Olivia’s scalp as a personal challenge from which she would not back down.
“Wait, Edward. She has to be married,” Charlotte insisted. “I don’t think you can be a mama unless you’re married.”
“Then she can marry my papa,” Edward countered.
Charlotte thought a moment, then slowly nodded. “All right,” she agreed. “But she did say she wanted a pair of imps. A pair means two and there is only one of you. How will she get another baby?”
Edward frowned. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m not entirely sure how my papa got me. He got you a puppy, though, and that’s a baby dog, so I expect he could get a regular sort of baby.”
Olivia choked on a laugh and began to cough. Edward raced over and thumped her on the back. When she could breathe, Livvy decided it would be prudent to change the subject. She raised her eyes, seeking inspiration, and saw the marquess standing in the door frame between their chambers, the hint of a smile twitching at his lips.
She hadn’t heard the door open. He might have been standing there for ages. How much had he heard? Her cheeks flamed as she replayed the conversation in her head.
Edward followed her gaze and ran over to his father.
Lord Sheldon held up a hand. “No, Edward, we are not going to discuss how you came into existence.”
Edward thought a moment. “All right. I don’t need to know that anyway. Just whether or not you could get another one of me.”
“What? Two Edwards? Heaven forbid. I can barely keep up with the one I already have.” He ruffled his son’s hair. “See here, Edward. I want you to get it firmly in your head that I am not going to marry Miss Weston—”
“No, indeed,” Olivia agreed.
“—or any other female.” The marquess shot her a quizzical look.
“They have to fall in love first,” Charlotte declared. “People need to be in love to get married.”
Lord Sheldon rolled his eyes. “That is the stuff of cheap novels and fairy stories, and you are not to believe a word of it, either of you. People get married every day for reasons other than love.”
“But you loved my mama, didn’t you?” Edward asked.
Lord Sheldon’s face grew distant and shuttered at the mention of his late wife. “Yes, I did,” he said softly.
For a moment Livvy glimpsed the strain of years spent hiding the still-raw wounds of his grief. Beyond the sadness she sensed the vicious, bitter anger of an injured animal, unable to tell friend from foe, but ever wary of further pain. Then, just as quickly it was gone and the mask of cool reserve was back in place.
“But marrying for love is not typical,” he continued. “I don’t know what sort of foolish tales Miss Weston has been telling you—”
“Be careful, my lord, or all this admiration may go to my head,” she said dryly.
“I doubt there is room. As far as I can tell, your head appears to be filled with the nonsensical dreams you impart to these children.”
He thought she was extraordinary, Olivia told herself. That was the real Jason. This was the cool, defensive facade he presented when threatened. She must not lose her temper. At least, not while the children were around.
Alice tucked some purple silk flowers into the wreath of braids encircling her head and fluffed the curls that had been artfully (and painfully) pinned to frame her face with wispy tendrils.
“There you are, miss.”
Olivia surveyed herself in the mirror hung above the vanity table. She was entranced by what she saw. For once she looked at herself without making comparisons to someone else. The woman who stared back at her was beautiful in her own right. Extraordinary, one might even say.
“Oh, thank you, Alice. I am tempted to live with Aunt Kate forever so that you can work this magic on me every day.”
The maid gave her a fond smile. “You look lovely, Miss Olivia. Come, my lambs, it’s time you were back in the nursery.”
They protested—Charlotte a bit more vocally than Edward—but allowed themselves to be led off once Livvy promised to save some sweets for them to have on the morrow.
Once they were safely out of earshot, she faced Jason. “Was there something else you wished to say to me, my lord? Another insult to get off your chest?”
“Have I unintentionally insulted you again, Olivia?”
“I doubt it was unintentional,” she huffed. “You can hardly have thought I would be flattered to hear my head is full of nothing but nonsensical dreams. Besides, the children and I were discussing my upcoming Season. Pardon me if I fail to see how such a subject can be construed as either nonsensical or a dream.”
“Because,” he drawled, “I am certain you have been spinning stories about how you are going to fall in love, get married, and live happily ever after.”
Livvy crossed her arms over her chest. “I have said nothing of the sort.”
“But that is what you expect will happen, is it not?”
“I expect I will get married,�
�� she allowed. “And what of you? Did you mean what you said to Edward about not wanting to remarry?”
His features grew shuttered. “I did. I have no wish for a wife.”
“Not even for Edward’s sake? Children of such a young age need a mother’s love.”
He shook his head. “You have such a romantic view of the world. Not all mothers are possessed of such loving inclinations. A great many children are raised by servants.”
“But surely your wife—”
“Oh, my wife adored Edward.”
Understanding began to dawn. “Then your own mother was cold?”
“Not deliberately, no. I don’t think she had the first clue how to be a mother. She was the youngest in her family and, from what my father said, quite cosseted and spoiled. Theirs was an arranged marriage. My mother was scarcely more than a child when she married, and she bore me almost exactly nine months from her wedding day. I think she tried in her own way, but she wasn’t suited to take care of anyone. She needed to be taken care of. She had no wish to dote upon a child; she craved the attention for herself. And she paid the price with her life.”
“What do you mean?” Livvy’s words were scarcely more than a whisper.
“My mother wanted more attention than my father saw fit to give her. Eventually she sought admirers elsewhere. When I was eight she decided to run off. She and her lover were killed in a carriage accident on their way to catch a ship to the Continent.”
Her heart ached for him. “I am so sorry. You must have missed her terribly.”
“Not particularly. I’ve a feeling having no mother is better than having a bad one.”
Livvy could tell he didn’t mean a word of it.
“Sometimes,” she said thoughtfully, “it is easier to live without that which we convince ourselves we do not want. It doesn’t truly help, though, does it? The wanting is still there, buried underneath all the fears and denials.”
“You sound as though you speak from experience. What is it you secretly long for? Love? A grand, all-consuming passion?”
Olivia struggled to ignore the disdain in his tone and to withstand his barbed taunts. She reminded herself that Jason’s hurtful words were his way of fighting his feelings by pushing her away. She assumed what she hoped was an impassive expression and airily declared, “One cannot expect more than one grand, all-consuming passion per generation in a family, and my sister has already claimed it.”
“You cannot expect me to believe that you—a young lady who has during our brief acquaintance devoured more ridiculous romantic novels than I knew existed—are not planning to marry for love.”
“Believe what you like, my lord.”
He cocked his head to one side. “I do believe you’re serious. You aren’t set on a love match. Why? Do you aspire to be a duchess?”
She shook her head. Just then, she didn’t aspire to be a marchioness, either.
“Wealth, then.”
“No, but please continue guessing. My character has not been so maligned since last I saw my older brother. This barrage of insults is making me feel quite at home.”
“It is not my intention to offend,” he said stiltedly.
“Is it not? You, my lord, are a cynic.”
“Brava, Miss Weston, you have figured me out.”
So she was back to being Miss Weston. It seemed the evening was off to a poor start.
“It wasn’t meant with admiration,” she informed him crossly.
“I would rather be a cynic and have my feet firmly planted on the ground than be a hopeless dreamer drifting among the clouds.”
“My feet are as firmly planted as yours. Just because I acknowledge the existence of love, the power it holds, does not make me weak and pitiable.”
“No,” he agreed. “Those adjectives are best reserved for the poor saps who believe themselves in love. Come, we are not allowed to quarrel until tomorrow, remember? Now, if I recall correctly, compliments are in order.”
He looked at her, really looked at her, his eyes traveling from Alice’s handiwork down her body in a slow perusal and then back up again. His gaze caressed her, leaving every inch of her alive with excitement. She was seized with the urge to press her body against his and wondered what it would be like to kiss him now, with her body feverish and yearning for his.
Was she wicked enough to ask him to kiss her again?
Yes.
It seemed every moment she spent in his presence made her a little more wicked.
How extraordinary . . .
Olivia was looking at him like she wanted to devour him. Jason wasn’t sure if he should run away as fast as possible or strip off his clothes and offer himself to her. If the blood rushing south at breakneck speed was any indication, his body enthusiastically voted for the second option. It also indicated that, unless he got himself under control, a body part other than his brain would soon be making the decisions.
She was looking at him expectantly. He clamped down on his desire, willing some blood back up to his brain. Oh, yes, he was supposed to be complimenting her.
What to say? Beautiful was apt, but trite. The word was also too boring and pallid to properly describe her. Beautiful didn’t encompass her sharp wit, her charming naiveté, her compassionate spirit, her compelling vivacity, her maddening persistence, or any of a thousand other remarkable traits she possessed.
Remarkable. The word suited her, but some masculine instinct for survival warned him that “remarkable” was not what a woman wanted to hear in this situation. He was about to go ahead and tell her she looked beautiful, and if she thought him lacking in creativity, so be it, when he suddenly knew just what to say.
“If you ever again refer to yourself as ordinary, Olivia Weston, I will take you over my knee and paddle your backside.”
Oh, Lord. He should not have let himself go there. Now he was assaulted by visions of his hands gliding over the firm, satiny flesh of her arse. Her radiant smile was worth every second of his discomfort.
“I believe that is the nicest compliment I have ever received. Certainly the most inventive.”
“Telling a woman she looks beautiful slips off a man’s tongue without thought. You deserve better than a glib line.”
Her smile widened, and she practically glowed with happiness. His breath caught in his chest, and his throat grew tight. His emotions, only held in check by an increasingly frayed leash, slipped free and ran riot.
When he’d entered the room, he had been thrown to see Olivia at the vanity. He was not upset by her presence in the Marchioness’s Chambers. Laura’s presence was everywhere in the castle, a constant aching reminder, but no more so in this room than any other. When he was married, Laura had always shared his bed. He had a few vague memories of his mother here, but they were such distant echoes, they barely impinged on his conscious.
Any number of people had suggested he leave Arlyss, especially in that first year. He had other estates, places he had never been with Laura, but Jason refused to consider moving. He didn’t want to uproot Edward, for one thing. More than that, though, whether it was a blessing or a curse, Arlyss was tied to Laura and he would not—could not—move on. He needed to remember to keep himself from being hurt again.
He needed to harden his heart against the domestic scene he had walked in on. To tell himself that it hadn’t felt natural. Unfortunately, he was hardening in other places.
He had been lusting after Olivia since their kiss, but he had braced himself before he’d entered the room. Of course, nothing could have prepared him for what he found. She looked stunning. And she knew it. There was a newfound confidence about her.
“Jason!”
“What?” Damn, he had either lost track of the conversation or said something inappropriate.
“I asked you if it would be equally dissembling for a woman to bestow that compliment upon a man.”
“Ah, er, that is, I don’t suppose so,” he babbled, not really knowing what she was talking about.
She thought he looked beautiful?
Her eyes were a warm, rich blue, like the sky on a summer evening. He wanted to lie back and stare into them, watching and waiting for the twinkle of a shooting star. . . .
Christ, what in blazes was wrong with him? He had never spouted such twaddle in his life. Not even when he was young, foolish, and in love. Perhaps this isolated existence was adversely affecting him.
“You always look dashing,” she continued, “but tonight you are just splendid. Women will probably swoon when they see you.”
“I hope not,” he grumbled.
“I remember one of Izzie’s most devout suitors was prone to impromptu verse. Do you suppose men will compose poetry when they catch sight of me?”
Despite the teasing glint in her eyes, Jason’s hands curled into fists at his sides. If he heard so much as a rhyming couplet praising any part of Olivia, he would take the fellow outside and beat him to a bloody pulp. Or maybe he would simply shoot him. One advantage of this relative isolation was that disposing of a body was far less trouble.
“Olivia,” he began.
“Won’t you call me Livvy?”
“No, in this I shall call you Olivia, or, better yet, by your full name. I want you to listen to me, Olivia Jane Weston. Whatever romantic notions are in your head, I pray you will act sensibly this evening. Duels over a lady’s honor are far less thrilling than your books doubtless make them out to be.”
She flitted forward and rested her hand on the sleeve of his coat. Her hands were delicate and graceful—an artist’s hands. Her long, slender fingers were so white next to the black wool of his coat. What would they look like, what would they feel like against his skin—No. This evening would be interminable if he kept allowing his mind to wander these forbidden paths.
She squeezed his arm. “If I decide to forgo good sense tonight, Jason Traherne, you will undoubtedly be the first to know.”
Since his good sense seemed to vanish in her presence, he was somewhat less than relieved by the prospect of Olivia forgoing hers. If neither of them displayed good sense, he had a very bad sense about how the evening was liable to end.