Historical Jewels

by Jewel, Carolyn

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  8:02 p.m.

  Olivia slipped into the scented water. “Heaven. Positive heaven.”

  “Aye, it’s nice, my Lady.” Edith soaped a cloth and Olivia, with wicked decadence, allowed the servant to wash her back. She reveled in the warm water, and relished the scent of verbena. Edith washed her hair, too, with fingers surprisingly strong for a girl her age.

  “Verbena,” Olivia said with a sigh. “I adore verbena.”

  “Aye, my Lady.”

  “I’ll just soak awhile, Edith, if you don’t mind. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired in all my life.”

  “Call when you’re done, My Lady.”

  Eyes closed, she leaned against the side of the tub. Wouldn’t it be lovely to think nothing of having a servant to look after her every need? A draft raised goose pimples on her shoulders, which surprised her because the water remained quite warm, and she knew from the warmth of the air that the fire hadn’t gone out. She sank deeper into the tub. Was Tiern-Cope in his bath right now? Water lapping at his thighs. The draft persisted. “Edith? Has the fire gone out?”

  “I’ll see to it, Mistress.” Edith’s voice sounded faint, as if she were far away.

  Olivia had the oddest sensation that the world had shifted. Her head felt full. She rubbed her temples, but the feeling only increased. Beads of water slid down the metal sides of the tub, eventually joining the bathwater. Condensation fogged the cheval mirror. The wardrobe door was open, revealing shirts neatly stacked on a shelf.

  Air swirled over her shoulders leaving a wake of chilled skin. To her left something stirred in the shadows. She blinked. The swordsman stood by the fire, as clear and solid as day. Her heart thundered in her ears so loud he must surely hear. She started to sit up, then remembered her naked state. Water sloshed in the tub. “I beg your pardon.”

  He inclined his head. Steam from the water swirled, but Olivia saw his dark hair. He was tall and wore a tunic worked with red and gold. A leather strap crossed from right shoulder to left waist and held the scabbard fastened across his back. A jeweled belt circled his waist. His eyes matched the blue of the sky. The way he stood struck her as familiar. She closed her eyes. He was still there when she opened them again. “I am not mad,” she said. “Is that you? Edith?”

  Even with the distance between them and the mist swirling in the air, she saw his blue eyes, the arrogant set to his shoulders that came of years of wealth and breeding. His grin sent a flare of alarm up her spine. He took a step toward her, and for one dreadful moment, she was convinced he was as real as she was. He tipped his head and spread his arms wide, as if to prove himself harmless. “Go away.” Fear made her voice thick. “Please, just go away.”

  He shook his head again.

  “I’m not mad,” she whispered.

  He shook his head again.

  “I wish you were real.” With a sigh—whether of resignation or something else, she did not know—she sat forward in the tub and set a wave of water in motion. She had the oddest sensation of moving not just through space but through time. Her head felt heavy, as if the very air were thickening, slowing her down, and she had to pull herself through the wake of her forward motion. Then, like the snapping of wire stretched beyond its length, the heaviness vanished.

  Water lapped against the end of the tub, rolling back and forth like tiny waves. She rose and stepped out of the tub. The steam had cleared so she could see her reflection in the cheval glass. Edith’s arm stretched into the mirror view, snatching a towel from a bench. Behind her and behind Edith, stood Tiern-Cope. Sebastian. He wore evening dress and held a package of awkward shape. Dun breeches, gold waistcoat, blue tail coat and shoes with gold buckles. His cravat had rather bold knot for him. Like her, his attention was fixed on the mirror. Edith unfurled a towel, holding it up to hide her. Too late, of course.

  “My lord.” Olivia raised her arms so that Edith could wrap the towel around her.

  “Olivia.”

  “You look handsome.”

  He walked to table while Edith toweled her off. She heard the clatter of porcelain, the wetness of liquid poured. “Here.” He wheeled around, cup and saucer in hand. “Sit near the fire so your hair will dry.”

  She took the cup and breathed in the steam. “I didn’t know you knew how to make tea.” Edith brought a chair to the hearth and Olivia, wrapped in her towel, sat.

  “I’m not useless.” His package lay on the desk, a bulky shape. The tea warmed her hands and when she sipped, cradling the cup, she sighed with pleasure. Fresh, strong tea. Not leaves saved from a second or third brewing. “Oolong,” he told her. “Sweet enough for you?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Good.” He took a step toward her. With the tip of his finger, he traced the line of her jaw. She felt his soul reach for hers. He wrapped one of her damp curls around his finger. “Edith, I’ve brought her something to wear.” With his free hand, he pointed at the desk. “See to her, won’t you? She’s a ball tonight.”

  “Milord.”

  Sebastian sat on the chair Olivia left, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Muscle shaped the back of his thighs in a way Olivia thought she’d never tire of seeing. With Edith’s help, she dressed quickly. He’d forgotten nothing, not stockings, chemise, petticoats, stays, slippers, garters, or gloves. Even the reticule and a fan that matched the gown. “I remember this.” Olivia ran her hands down the black velvet skirt and fingered the gold cord that trimmed the neckline. “I cut it down from one of Mama’s. Took me weeks to make it.”

  “It suits you.” He studied her. “Do something with her hair, Edith. Something to show off these lovely curls. You know how I like it.”

  “Yes, your lordship.” Edith placed two ivory combs in her hair, bringing the mass of curls away from her face. She pinned the rest into a fall of copper at the back of her head.

  “There are women, Olivia, who would kill to have your curls.”

  She smiled. “Sometimes I think I’d kill to give them away.”

  “There’s one last thing you need,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  He took a string of gold beads from his pocket. They settled around her neck, surprisingly warm. His fingers brushed the corner of her mouth. “You’ll do,” he said. “My own heart, you’ll do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  9:13 p.m.

  Everyone turned when Sebastian came into the Great Hall with Olivia on his arm. Egremont and Ned stood next to each other at one side of the hall. Sebastian knew from the expressions of his two closest friends they approved. Ned’s smile split his face. Egremont nodded. Olivia tightened her fingers on his arm at the silence occasioned by their entrance. He watched James look long and hard at them and knew he’d been right to believe James would fall. Nor was James the only man to notice her. Hew, who thought he was going to marry the woman, stared as intently as James. His eyes flashed, but not with admiration of his cousin.

  James approached them. “A vision,” he said, bowing to Olivia. “You are without a doubt the loveliest woman I have seen in all my life.” Sebastian did not release his grip on Olivia’s arm. They descended the remaining steps.

  A side door opened, admitting the musicians. They took seats and began a warm up. A man raised his fiddle and began a lament. Next came the rolling beat of a tympan, then pipes and last, the strum of a harp. Sebastian’s chest felt tight, and he ached inside, but not from physical pain. The music echoed his feelings. He did not like the way James looked at Olivia nor Hew either. As for the rest of the young men, they were dandies or else stout yeomen more at home with their sheep and border collies than dancing at Pennhyll Castle. Not a one worthy of Olivia.

  At his side, she tugged on his hand. “Let go.”

  He released her, gave her three steps lead and followed her into the Great Hall. Jesus. Had he actually stood in his dressing room, watching her step dripping from the tub? Jesus. Yes. He’d sprawled on a chair and watched a
servant help her dress, too. And she never objected.

  Applause and laughter rang out as they entered. They came to a halt in the center of the room because the crowd permitted no farther access. Diana giggled, holding on to Mr. Cage’s arm. Sebastian bowed to Diana and held out his hand. She took his hand. “My lord.” She curtseyed, as fresh and pink as the rose-petal silk of her ballgown. He disliked pink.

  Another roar rose up, hoots of laughter. “Kiss her, my lord,” said several of the gentlemen. James, smirking, pointed upward and Sebastian followed the line. A sprig of mistletoe hung a foot above his head, suspended from a line thrown over one of the arms of the chandelier overhead.

  “Can’t go against custom.”

  “How now, my lord.”

  “Kiss her.”

  Sebastian shrugged and drew Diana toward him. Laughter bubbled up again; giggles from the ladies, chuckles from the men. When she rested her gloved palms on his shoulder, he thought that at least he would not have to crane his neck to reach her lips. Diana raised her chin, her eyelashes fluttering down. He felt nothing, not a shred of anticipation or pleasure. Diana, the woman whom he was supposed to make his life’s companion, might as well have been his sister for all the desire he felt.

  “Come now, my lord,” one of the men said.

  He kissed her. A brief kiss that brushed her lips. Not even the faintest stirring of passion. He was empty inside. He reached up and plucked one of the three remaining berries from the sprig. The grandest ass since the dawn of time.

  Miss Cage tittered behind her fan. “My lord,” she said, looking around with exaggerated concern. “Miss Willow walked beneath the mistletoe with you. You’ll have to kiss her, too.” He looked at Olivia and found her watching him. He didn’t dare. God only knows what would happen if he took Olivia in his arms. What if he came to his senses to find he’d an audience of hundreds to his ravishment of her? To his great relief, James came to his rescue by grabbing Olivia’s hand and waist and whirling her in a circle. She held the skirt of her gown, wrist arching just so, the tassel of her ebony fan dangling.

  “Why, Miss Willow,” said James, bringing their tight circle to a halt. He looked up. “Here we are under the mistletoe.” Despite his laughter, he looked deadly serious about kissing Olivia, and it was all he could not to plant him a facer for the presumption. James put an arm around her waist, drew her much too close, and gave a smile that sent alarm bells ringing in his head.

  Olivia put her hands on James’s shoulders and on tiptoe, gave him a peck on the lips worthy of one’s maiden aunt.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” James asked, hands raised in a questioning manner.

  “I have,” Olivia said, pushing him away. She laughed with the others, but her cheeks flushed with color. “Take your berry, my lord.”

  James reached up and plucked a berry. “I’ll be revenged upon you for that poor excuse for a kiss, just you see.” He turned to Sebastian. “My dear Captain, Miss Cage is right. You must claim your kiss from Miss Willow.”

  Another round of cheering, stomping and clapping rose up. Sebastian mouthed the words “sodding bugger” at James who took Olivia’s hand and pulled her forward. By habit, his glance swept down. Oh, indeed. The black gown draped her figure in a way that drew attention to the curve of her hips, caressing the slope from her hip to backside. With her pale skin and copper hair so much in contrast with the ebony velvet, she was as lovely as any woman he’d seen in all his life. Refusal was impossible. He swore again. If he didn’t kiss her, he would call attention to what otherwise everyone would quickly forget. If he didn’t kiss her, she’d be humiliated, and she didn’t deserve such a public set down. He gave her a look and shrugged. He steeled himself, made a quick inventory of his state and found no trace of oddness, no suggestion that the circumstances were anything but completely ridiculous and utterly safe. No shifting shadows or half-glimpsed men.

  “Get on with it,” someone cried.

  He had to lean down, and, he supposed, she to stretch up. His hand touched her back, steadying her. The scent of verbena hung in the air. He drew her nearer. Heat enveloped him. His body clenched from being close to her.

  “My dear Captain,” he heard James say. “Pretend you like her, why don’t you? Just this once. It won’t kill you. And I won’t take offense at your kissing her, either.”

  Sebastian still held her, quite aware of his hand pressed to the small of her back. She smelled good. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted her mouth under his with an ache that went clear to the bone. There wasn’t anything he wanted more than to possess her mouth. He didn’t dare. God only knows what might happen. Olivia stretched up and kissed his cheek.

  Shouts of protest came up and laughter, too.

  “She’s not your sister, my lord.”

  “Foul, sir.”

  “Not well done.”

  “Kiss her properly, I say.”

  “That’s not a kiss,” Egremont said. He clapped Ned on the shoulder. Ned grinned.

  “I have kissed her.” He reached up and plucked the last berry from the mistletoe. The music stopped. At a quick signal from James, the orchestra struck up a country dance. Bold planning from the ladies to dispense with the minuet.

  Diana gave him a look when he walked with her to the spot where they would begin their dance. “My lord,” she said, adding a quick glance over her shoulder to where Hew and James stood with Olivia. “That wasn’t kind of you. Perhaps James should not have urged you to kiss her when you dislike her so, but, honestly, I wouldn’t have minded if you had.” She smiled. “Much.”

  He looked at Diana. Nothing. He felt nothing. How had his life come to such a pass that he should consider marriage to a girl who did not remotely suit him?

  “You hurt her feelings,” she said.

  “Whose feelings?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Miss Willow’s,” she said with a meaningful glace to the side of the room. The dance began. “You must make it up to her. She did not deserve such a slight.”

  “As you wish, Miss Royce.”

  Olivia, Sebastian noticed while he danced, stood in the line between James and her cousin, James none pleased that her head was bent toward Hew. Black velvet set off her pallor and made her hair gleam like copper fire. When he found himself craning his neck to keep an eye on Olivia and with whom she was presently dancing, he forced himself to look at Diana. She tipped her head, showing her cheek and a graceful stretch of throat. Diana danced wonderfully, exactly what one expected of a future countess. Someone else’s countess.

  The course of the dancing meant a pattern with Olivia, but when he expected to meet her in the pattern, another young lady had taken her place. He wanted to dance with Olivia, not another simpering girl. At the end of the dance, James joined Sebastian at the side of the room. “Miss Willow is certainly looking fine tonight.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s a nymph in that gown,” James said. “Wonder where she got it? You should have kissed her.” The musicians came back and took their places.

  “I can manage my social obligations without your interference.”

  James gave him a look without any of his usual dry humor. “Are you in love with her?”

  “Diana?”

  “Since you mention her.”

  “We will not suit.”

  “What about Olivia?”

  “Jesus.”

  “I’m serious, Sebastian.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’ve been on bended knee to her—”

  His body clenched. “Did she accept?”

  “If she does not take me and my offer seriously, the fault is yours.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Whatever you think, she did not deserve to be humiliated before all the people with whom she must live.”

  “I haven’t humiliated her.”

  “You did.” James blew out a breath. “The mistletoe was Diana’s idea, Sebastian. Meant in fun. You had no call to refuse to kiss Miss Willow. It
was ungentlemanly of you. Apologize to her.” At Sebastian’s look, he said, “Make it right. Or she’ll never live it down.”

  Sebastian found Olivia in an alcove formed by what had, in centuries gone by, been the passageway to the buttery. She sat on a green-velvet bench, fanning herself. With her unaware of his presence, he devoured her. James was right. The gown suited her. She ought to have trunks full of such gowns. Dozens and dozens of silks, velvets and satins in deep, rich hues. As if she sensed his thoughts, her head turned and their eyes met, connecting like a key put to a lock. She smiled. He bowed and held out his hand. “Dance with me, Olivia.”

  She shook her head and winced. “My head is pounding. Awfully.”

  “We’ll talk a while, then.” She made room for him on the bench, and he sat. “I’ve been ordered to make you an apology,” he said, extending one leg in front of him.

  “What for?”

  “For not kissing you.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, winced, and uncrossed them. “Will you accept an apology from me?”

  Her grin was infectious. “I am a toad swallower of great skill and experience. No apology is necessary.”

  “James is right about my manners.”

  “Sailor and all.” She opened her fan. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Rest assured, I have now been educated on the finer points of acceptable behavior with ladies.”

  Her mouth twitched. Sebastian tried very hard not to smile in return. “Have you?”

  “If I insulted you or distressed you, I am, of course, desolate.”

  “Does it hurt a great deal?” she asked. His eyebrows lifted, and she chuckled. “Your wound, my lord. Your wound. Not your apology.”

  The corners of his mouth curled. He hoped she never stopped smiling. “At the moment,” he said, “the apology hurts more.”

  Her mouth twitched again and then she gave up and smiled full on. He could not help but laugh with her. What else could they do when the day’s events so far outstripped propriety? She did laugh, and he knew she was thinking about being in his room. The image of her stepping from the bath stuck in his head.