Fitzalan sat up. “What a useful opinion to have.”
“But,” said Miss Cage, the green-eyed brunette Olivia thought most likely to give Diana some competition, “what of Captain Alexander? The earl?” Miss Cage hadn’t been five minutes in the company of Miss Royce before she, too, possessed the same air of boredom. The world bored her. The very breath in her lungs bored her. Julia Cage always had been a quick study, with an ear for music and language.
“Well,” Olivia said, “It’s my opinion all men look handsome in a uniform.” She’d discovered during her stint as a governess that men liked to be admired. If they did not feel obliged to flirt, all the better. Disinterested interest suited a woman of her status. She’d never attracted much notice for any reason but her hair. Long ago, she’d realized the color put off most men. Red was simply not the fashion for a lady of any age. Men who weren’t put off by her awful copper curls didn’t want her—Miss Olivia Willow—they wanted what they imagined her hair signified. Thus, though she might seethe inside, impatient, annoyed or even on the edge of laughter, she’d learned to reflect a calm and dainty mendacity. Men soon met only the disappointment of their perceptions.
The viscount frowned, looking at her from under half-lowered lashes. “Yes, yes. But, Miss Willow, what of the good captain?”
She let out a breath and did her best to appear addlebrained by his notice of her. She supposed it was at least a little true. Lord Fitzalan was, indeed, well-favored, with exquisite manners and, despite his rank in life, not at all a terrifying man. “He’s sure to be very handsome. The young ladies find him quite the beau, I’m sure. So dashing. A hero of the waves.” She leaned forward, eyes wide and disingenuous. “I’ve followed his career, my lord, he cannot help but be handsome, I am sure.”
“The fashion, then, is for naval men.”
“I’m sure I don’t know, my lord.”
He jumped to his feet and strode, hands clasped behind his back, to the fireplace where he stared at the portrait for fully half a minute. The other men, seeing his attention elsewhere than his sister, closed in on Diana. With that, Olivia ceased to be the moment’s center of attention. Relieved, she left her stool and walked to a sidetable on which there sat a stack of drawing paper. Attract as little notice as possible, that was her motto. Second best umbrella and all that.
She was nervous about meeting the captain. The earl. Lord Tiern-Cope. Would he appear tonight? She flipped through the sheets, the results of a morning the young ladies spent taking likenesses of each other, of the gentlemen or of a view from nature. Her head throbbed along the scar hidden by her hair, a point of blossoming pain, a familiar sensation but sharper now than usual, and constant since her arrival at Pennhyll. Andrew used to love reading his bother’s letters, always with a titillating pause while he skipped over or rephrased some passage not suitable for a lady to hear without redaction. He was here. Captain Alexander at Pennhyll.
“Miss Willow.”
The voice came soft and unexpectedly, and she nearly jumped out of her skin because she’d let her thoughts stray to the new earl and lost track of her surroundings. “Lord Fitzalan.”
His eyes flashed the color of flint. “Forgive me if I startled you.”
“I don’t know what’s got into me.” The intensity of his regard unsettled her. Please, let him not be one of those men who thought a woman with red hair must be at the mercy of her passions. She put down the papers and let her eyes go blank. “Have you ever been absolutely convinced someone is about to leap at you from the shadows?” She felt she’d missed her mark, something she did not often do. To be convincingly vapid, a woman needed not just empty eyes, but a breathless voice.
He grinned. “Every time I walk a London street at night.”
“For that you may have some excuse.” Fitzalan studied her and, too late, she realized she’d spoken more frankly than prudence required. When dealing with the nobility, it paid never to forget one’s place, however familiar they deigned to be. Never presume too much.
“And your excuse?” he asked.
“A nervous constitution.” She fluttered her hand just above her chest so the viscount would imagine she felt her nerves just now. “A failure of my sex, I suppose.”
Fitzalan gave her the sort of look a man expecting eggs for breakfast might give a bowl of cold porridge. Leaning against the table, he took up the sheaf of drawings, shuffling through them until he found hers, a sketch of a plate of grapes. In the conviction that no one would actually study her effort, she’d added a rather comical face in the shadow of one of the grapes. “These look good enough to eat.”
“Ah, but just behind is your sister’s most admirable portrait.” Olivia brought out Diana’s drawing and set it atop her own. “She took your likeness quite well.” She tittered. “Miss Royce is an accomplished young lady. You must be so very proud of her.”
“I do hope,” he said softly, switching hers back to the top, “that around me you will not pretend you are an empty-headed twit.”
She widened her eyes in hurt insult. “I’ve never thought of myself as a clever woman, but I’m sure I’m not empty headed. Most assuredly, I am not a bluestocking. No, indeed, my lord. I never read a thing, unless I am certain my soul will be improved.” The lie came off her tongue with guilty ease. “I can’t imagine what you mean to imply.”
He touched the shadow with its lolling tongue and devil horns. “I think you can.”
Blast. He smiled, slowly, and she could not help thinking it wasn’t fair for an already handsome man to be twice as handsome just because he smiled.
“Can’t you, Miss Willow?”
She sighed. “I am undone.”
“Not yet,” he murmured. Before she could make sense of the remark, he grinned at her. “Fear not, I promise to keep your secret.” He examined Diana’s sketch. “My nose isn’t that long. Nor my eyes so small. And my chin is far more manly.”
“Fishing for compliments, my lord?”
“Shamelessly.” He lifted his eyes. “Am I having any luck?”
“There are more than enough young ladies here who, I daresay, would be more than happy to tell you they find you exceedingly handsome.”
“Do you agree with them?”
“As indeed you are.”
“Oh, much better, Miss Willow. As to the likeness of our brave and doughty captain hanging there above the mantel, I want your opinion.” He put down the sheaf of papers. “And mind you, nothing less than unadulterated truth. I’ve not my sister’s scruples about opinions unshared.”
“Accepting as true the brothers closely resemble each other, I find the subject rather harshly painted.”
“But, of course,” he said, eying Olivia while he once again studied the painting, “when this portrait was done, he was still a lieutenant and understandably concerned with advancing his career.”
“Which he did in exactly the manner suggested by his portrait.”
A girlish voice called out. “Lord Fitzalan? You simply must come here and explain why your sister may not have a phaeton.”
“A moment, Miss Cage.” Fitzalan’s attention returned to Olivia. “And that was?”
“With fierce determination.”
“Can you tell his temperament from a portrait? Mere dashes of paint upon a canvas?”
She lifted a hand toward the portrait and found the gesture blocked all but her view of the painted eyes. “That is not the face of anyone much at home with a smile.”
“You consider yourself adept at reading a gentleman’s face?”
Olivia smiled. “I do.”
“What do you read in mine?” Perhaps because he was aware their conversation was no longer private, he struck a pose. “Be brutally honest.” He winked. “Lie if you must.”
“Amiability, my lord.” She laughed because she could not help her amusement. “Nothing but amiability.”
Fitzalan staggered. “Amiability?”
“Assuredly so.” By habit, she fell into vapidity
, but she did not like it as well now that Fitzalan knew the truth.
His eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “Damned by faint praise.”
“My lord,” said Olivia, lowering her voice. “Don’t be petulant. You know very well you are as handsome a man who ever walked this earth. I’m sure the young ladies are breathless when they are about you.”
“But not you?”
“I’m not young, my lord.”
Briefly, his eyes darkened to a rain-cloud grey. “You’ve drawn my character accurately enough for, truly, I am amiability itself. You’ll never know a man more amiable than I, as I mean for you to discover. Now, Miss Willow, what do you read in that face?” He pointed to the painting.
She approached the portrait. She, too, clasped her hands behind her back. Dark hair, the captain had, but not black. He wore a naval officer’s uniform. Gold buttons sailed down one side of his coat and his shirt lace foamed over wide lapels. A cocked hat tucked under one arm showed black trim. His eyes gazed ferociously forward, a clear, pure blue, so clear she wondered at not seeing through to the wall behind. She turned sideways so as to see the viscount. “Oh, quite a lot, my lord. Andrew loved to tell of his brother’s adventures. Indeed, I feel I know him well, having heard so many tales of danger and bravery.”
Miss Cage walked over and twined her arm around Fitzalan’s, boldness she’d learned from Diana, who, when she deigned to rise, often made use of the gentlemen in such a manner. “What can you tell from the face?” she asked.
“Consider the strong cheeks.”
“It’s a very handsome face,” said Miss Cage.
Fitzalan glanced at Olivia.
“Yes, I admit he is handsome.”
“But?” said Fitzalan. He patted Miss Cage’s arm.
“Notice how his cheeks angle toward his temples.” Olivia spread her fingers, measuring the distance. “The nose forming a fierce line between his eyes. The unyielding mouth and determined chin.”
Miss Cage looked at Fitzalan. “Your sister told me she thinks his mouth gentle. I, however, to her replied that his is not so gentle as yours, my lord.”
Fitzalan’s eyebrows lifted. “Thank you, Miss Cage.”
Olivia faced the portrait again, absorbing the austere face. “Cold, those eyes,” she said, thinking how different he seemed from Andrew. “As if he had no heart at all.” A rather harsh opinion to hold of the man she used to imagine would fall helplessly in love with her. Not that she ever believed he would. Valorous sea captains might fall in love with redheaded spinsters, but, alas, noblemen did not.
“Miss Willow,” said Julia Cage. “We find him dreadfully handsome. Even if he were not a hero, all we ladies would think him quite the gallant. If you were still in your youth, I’m sure you’d feel the same.”
“Certainly,” she said.
“You see, Miss Willow?” Fitzalan said. “Not cold. Just stern. Don’t you agree? As an officer must be.”
Olivia spoke softly. “Tell me, Lord Fitzalan, were you well acquainted with the previous earl?”
“He stopped coming to London two or three years ago, but before that we saw each other now and again.”
“Since you have known them both, what is your opinion of him?” From the corner of her eye, she saw Miss Cage watching and listening intently. The subject of Tiern-Cope fascinated everyone.
“Captain Alexander, or, I should say, Lord Tiern-Cope, may not have his brother’s charm, but do not discount him on that score. He is—” Fitzalan tipped his head to one side, searching for the correct word “—formidable.”
Diana gasped. “He’s been disfigured, hasn’t he?”
The room fell silent.
“James?” Diana sat straight. One hand drifted to her bosom, and eyes big as sixpence fixed on her brother, pleading for a denial. “Maimed in the war,” she said. “And ashamed to show his ruined face.”
A collective gasp came from the ladies. Were all their hopes, then, to be pinned not on an earl by all accounts eager to take a wife, but on a viscount who’d so far proved immune to marriage-minded ladies?
Fitzalan’s smile faded. “Surely, ladies, the allure of nobility and wealth will overcome the impact of any infirmities?”
“He is disfigured.” Diana closed her eyes. When she opened them, they glistened with tears. “How badly has he been scarred? Tell me, James. Please, I must know.”
“Nonsense, Miss Royce,” Olivia said. “He was wounded in the chest. On the side, just here.”
Fitzalan said, “Who told you that?”
The pile of coals in the fireplace tumbled down with a hiss and a flare of light. But that wasn’t what made Olivia look away from the viscount. She looked away because the salon door swung open with a faint whoosh of air over the Chinese carpet, and the earl of Tiern-Cope walked in.
Chapter Three
Olivia’s head flashed with a pain that left her momentarily blind. The air turned dense, too thick to breath. In the middle of the maelstrom of sensation, just when she could see again and draw breath, there stood Andrew’s brother, framed in the opening of the doorway. A mad impression dashed into her head: he wasn’t real. Druid warriors must have magicked him into existence and let him loose to wreak havoc among dream-bound and waking mortals alike. Like the man in the portrait, his eyes were blue, but there the resemblance had both birth and death.
God knows he had the Alexander looks: blue eyes, dark hair and a narrow face. The resemblance to Andrew was remarkable, but something in the face set him apart from other handsome men, indeed, from any other man she’d known. The sharp cheekbones, the confident way he held himself, but most especially the eyes. Where the other gentlemen were open and gregarious, the earl’s eyes gave nothing away and put a frost on his smile. Nothing of Andrew’s gentleness, Olivia thought. Nothing at all. The sea had washed away whatever gentleness he’d possessed.
He stood perhaps an inch or two over six feet, but the impression of height came from his posture: rigidly upright. Tan breeches stretched taut over a flat belly and followed the shape of his thighs. His bottle-green coat, unbuttoned to show a gold-striped waistcoat beneath, did not fit as perfectly as Fitzalan’s but his shoulders were no less broad for the imperfection. Above the waistcoat, the plain front of his shirt begged for less sober lace. His boots, though shined to brilliance below the turned-down tops, set no example of London fashion. No one who saw him walking down the street would think him an aristocrat.
Hair cropped unfashionably close to his head revealed a stubborn and determined physiognomy, a man who knew what he wanted and took it. Gauntness defined the ridge of his cheekbone more than nature intended. Every feature could be marked in the portrait. Except, to England the sea returned not the youthful lieutenant of near-legend, but a man fully grown and in command of himself. There was no denying his striking looks, but it was his air of assurance, Olivia decided at last, that set him apart.
Tiern-Cope stared at them as if they were furniture in his way, a look devoid of welcome or interest. He was thirty, which for a man was still young. Though in truth younger than Andrew, he seemed a thousand years older and where Andrew wore his emotions on his sleeve, the captain was about as easy to read as a block of granite.
Diana leaned forward, hiding her face behind her spread-out fan. “James, you’re such an awful liar.”
Olivia didn’t see how anyone could have heard that soft exclamation over such a distance, but she felt a ripple of awareness come from the earl. He swept the room and each of its occupants in ruthless assessment. Olivia fancied his gaze lingered when it reached her. Her hair, of course, which she knew from long experience was coming free of its pins. Everyone who saw her for the first time stared at the shocking copper curls. His glance, and that was all it was, ended almost before it began, which was to be expected. If there was anything good to be said about her position in life, it was that her lack of rank afforded ample opportunity to study people. Olivia considered herself a student of knowledge gained through observ
ation.
“James.” A slow curve of his mouth brought no warmth to his eyes. He bowed, rather stiff and more to the left than the right. Diana smoothed her skirt. Miss Cage fluttered her fan and turned pink. Feminine hands went to curls or lace, adjusting and readjusting. The gentlemen stirred. One or two tugged on their waistcoats. Despite the flurry of activity his behalf, the earl’s expression did not soften.
Olivia frowned, disappointed, which she realized was unfair of her. The good people of Far Caister, herself included, knew more about the Naval career of Captain Sebastian Alexander than they did about Admiral Nelson. Andrew had been so full of life, a cheerful man who rarely lost the opportunity to relate his brother’s exploits in the highest of terms that she hadn’t expected a joyless man whose mouth refused to move beyond the facsimile of a smile he wore right now. Olivia wondered if he’d ever truly smiled in all his life. Probably not. How sad that Andrew’s brother should have no joy in him. How disappointing. After all those tales of courage at the line of battle Olivia had constructed a very different picture of the man. A girlish, romanticized ideal that, of course, had no relation at all to reality.
“Good afternoon,” the earl said.
“Lord Tiern-Cope,” said Fitzalan, bowing. Any trace of his usual good humor vanished with the serious business of introducing the earl. “You remember my sister. Miss Diana Royce.”
The captain—no, Olivia reminded herself, the earl—walked to Diana with a stride that put her in mind of an animal; the vicious sort with sharp teeth, relentless energy and boundless hunger, which was an odd impression to have of a man so recently and sorely wounded. Heavens, what must he be like at full health?
“Miss Royce,” said the earl, taking Diana’s hand and pressing it between his. His voice flowed over the room like silk over stone. Here stood a man used to giving orders and having them followed. And everyone in the room, from oldest to youngest, responded to that air of authority.
Historical Jewels Page 3