by Cara Elliott
So, he had been observant enough to see that.
“Oh, er, nothing of any interest, sir.”
“A secret billet doux to one of your admirers?” John cracked a smile for the first time. “Ho, ho,” he added, his joviality sounding a bit too forced. “Have no fear, Miss Sloane. You may count on me not to say a word about it.”
Olivia bristled. How like a man to assume that a lady was capable of writing naught but love notes. Ashamed of herself for imagining, even for a scant moment, that he was different from the other tulips of the ton, she replied tartly, “You know sir, not all females are brainless widgeons.”
His brows shot up in confusion. “I didn’t say that.”
“Oh, yes,” she replied sweetly. “You did.”
“I—”
“Perhaps not in so many words. But the insinuation was there.”
He frowned.
Olivia lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated.
They twirled in silence through a spin. This time it was he who put his foot in the wrong place.
“So sorry,” he said through gritted teeth.
So sorry that he was stuck with her until the music ended. She closed her eyes for an instant. Oh, what did it matter that he thought her odd and ungainly? If she were to be ridiculed, it might as well be for her true self.
“Actually, sir, if you really wish to know, I was jotting down some ideas on a political essay that I had just read. On the subject of social justice.” Olivia took grim delight in seeing his eyes widen.
Ah, once again I have shocked him.
“It’s a very interesting subject,” she went on. “Especially given the difference in philosophies held by democracies and absolute monarchies.”
John made an odd little sound in his throat. Apparently she had rendered him speechless.
“Oh, but then, I see you are like most gentlemen and think females incapable of rational thought.” She paused for a fraction. “Would you rather discuss the weather?”
“I…”
The final flourishing crescendo of the music saved the earl from having to answer.
“Thank you for the delightful dance, sir,” she finished. “No need to escort me back to my wall niche. My sister is there by the potted palms and I need to have a word with her.”
Releasing her hand and stepping back, John inclined a stiff bow.
Damn. He watched her move off, unsure whether to feel relieved or annoyed. Hellion, indeed. No wonder she had been hiding in the shadows. If his two encounters were any indication, Miss Sloane had probably insulted and offended most of the gentlemen in the room with her outspoken opinions. Taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, he gave a mental toast to his quick escape.
There would not be a third encounter, he decided as he quaffed it in one gulp.
Yet somehow the wine’s effervescence left a strange burn on his tongue.
His attempt at humor had, perhaps, been a trifle cow-handed, but it had been unfair of her to assume he had a low opinion of the female intellect. As for defending himself, her unexpected attack had taken him by surprise. And apparently his military skills—not to speak of his chess skills—were indeed sadly rusted, for he hadn’t reacted quickly enough to regroup.
The thought was galling, and yet another reason why he intended to march straight out of this overheated room, with its overloud laughter, overbright lights, and overpowering perfumes.
“To the Devil with dancing,” he muttered under his breath as he snagged a fresh glass of wine. But as he turned for the archway, he hesitated. An experienced army officer leaving the field of battle in ignominious defeat? That was even harder to stomach than his rusty reactions.
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Olivia take leave of her sister and head back for the colonnaded alcove. Veering sharply, he caught up with her just as she circled around one of the decorative flower urns.
“A moment, Miss Sloane.”
She stumbled. Clearly he had caught her off-guard.
Good—it was time to take the offensive for a change.
“Allow me to correct your earlier misassumptions,” he said softly. “For a skilled chess player, you seem a little quick to jump to conclusions.”
Olivia drew in a sharp breath. “So, you did recognize me after all.”
“Your face was mostly hidden in shadow during our previous encounter, but nighttime reconnaissance missions teach a soldier to have a sixth sense about that sort of thing.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Be that as it may,” went on John, “It is this evening’s exchange that I wish to speak about.”
Her silence seemed a signal to continue.
“First of all, I have absolutely no interest in discussing the weather. Second of all, I have no preconceived prejudices about the powers of the female mind.” He paused. “But then again, after your display of haughty high-mindedness, perhaps I ought to reconsider.”
A momentary flare of outrage lit in her eyes. She scowled—and then curled a wry smile. “Touché, sir. Most gentlemen aren’t willing to listen to a lady’s opinion.”
“Most ladies aren’t willing to offer one.”
“Can’t you blame us?” asked Olivia. “Society doesn’t exactly encourage creative thinking in the fairer sex. We are meant to be seen and not heard.”
“Um, yes, well, I…” John flushed, realizing that his gaze had slid down to her bodice. Beneath the overblown ruffles, it appeared that she had a shapely swell of bosom. “I—I also wanted to apologize for trampling on your toes.”
Her laugh, like her voice, was very intriguing. Low, lush, and a little rough around the edges, it reminded him of an evening breeze ruffling through shadowed leaves.
“Good heavens, don’t look so stricken, sir,” she said. “The fault was all mine, I’m afraid. I can never seem to keep the dance steps straight.” Another laugh. “What a pity we can’t just ignore the rigid patterns and simply follow the rhythm of the music.”
“Like wild savages, dancing around a bonfire to the sound of a beating drum?” he said slowly.
“Haven’t you ever lifted your face to moonlight and spun in circles to the dusky song of the nightingales and—” Olivia shook her head. “No, of course not. What a ridiculous question to ask.” The errant curl had come loose again and was inching close to her nose.
“Your hair, Miss Sloane,” he murmured.
“Has decided to dance to its own tune tonight,” she said tartly, brushing it back with impatient fingers. “As you see, I seem to have no control over my body’s primitive urges.”
John almost let loose a very unlordly chortle. But quickly recalling his glittering surroundings, he managed to smother it in a cough. A peer of the realm did not chortle in public.
“Perhaps…” A dangerous glint lit in her eyes. “Perhaps I should give in to impulse, strip off my clothing, and waltz naked across the dance floor.”
He tried not to picture her lithe body without a stitch on. Discipline, discipline. A gentleman must be ruled by reason, not primal urges.
Clearing his mind with another cough, he quickly changed the subject. “Just what sort of social essay were you reading, Miss Sloane?”
Her mouth quirked. “Horatio Edderley’s most recent work on how a country should care for its disabled veterans.”
Veterans! His brows shot up in surprise. There seemed to be no end of unexpected statements from Olivia. Why, that was exactly the social issue that he had decided to focus on.
“And what did you think of it?” he inquired.
“Well, I cannot agree with all his points,” she began. “Hingham’s ideas are much more in line with my own thinking. I am very much looking forward to reading his new essays.”
“Hingham’s new essays are not yet available in England,” pointed out John.
“Actually, they are. Hatchards has one copy on order, and it’s scheduled to arrive tomorrow.”
“By Jove, I mean to purchase it,” he said, mo
re to himself than her.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Lord Wrexham. It’s reserved,” said Olivia. “For me.”
“But—”
“Ah, there you are, John! Why are you skulking behind the flowers?” Cecilia rounded the massive display of lilacs and ivy at a fast clip.
“I am not skulking,” he replied with a scowl. “I am conversing with Miss Sloane.”
“In a manner of speaking,” murmured Olivia. “In truth, I think I am shocking His Lordship.”
Cecilia regarded them both thoughtfully for a moment before saying, “Good! He needs to have his cage rattled, so to speak.”
John narrowed his eyes in warning.
“Now, if you will forgive me, I must take my brother away. The dowager Duchess of Needham, a dear friend of our mother, is demanding that he come make his greetings while he is in Town. And since he is haring back to Shropshire in the morning, it must be now.”
“Of course,” said Olivia, crooking a tiny smile. “I hope you have pleasant weather for your journey home, sir.”
“Pleasant weather?” repeated Cecilia, once they had moved out of earshot. “Somehow I doubt that Miss Sloane was bringing that odd look to your face with talk of whether tomorrow will bring rain or shine.”
John didn’t reply, hoping she might drop the subject.
“In my experience, she always has something interesting to say.” A pause. “So, what were you discussing?”
Sensing that this was a battle he would not win, John surrendered with a chuffed sigh. “Dancing.”
His sister fixed him with a skeptical stare.
“Truly,” he added before she could add a caustic comment. “Miss Sloane was explaining how…” Feeling his sister needed to have her own cage rattled just bit, he decided not to blunt the thrust of Olivia’s sentiments. “…How she thought dancing would be far more enjoyable if we all just ignored the choreographed steps of the waltz and instead simply stripped off our clothing and shimmied to the natural rhythm of the music.”
Rather than appear rattled, Cecilia merely nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose that makes some sense, given her upbringing.”
“What the devil does that mean?” growled John. “Is she a Polynesian princess in disguise?”
A small laugh slipped from his sister’s lips. “Not exactly. However, her father was a noted scholar of primitive cultures, and his work is very highly regarded by the leading members of the Royal Society. Native rituals was one of his specialties.” She paused for just a fraction. “Unfortunately, he succumbed to a tropical fever a year or two ago while on a research expedition to the South Sea Islands.”
He darted an involuntary look at the decorative colonnade, but Olivia had disappeared.
“Lord Trumbull was, by all accounts, a very interesting, erudite gentleman. Which I’ve heard drove his wife to distraction. Apparently he had no head for finances and left his family with barely a feather to fly with.”
When John didn’t respond, she went on. “It’s a pity. Miss Sloane and her sister, Miss Anna, are presently out in Society, and Lady Trumbull is aggressively angling to attract a rich husband for one of them, preferably one with a title to go along with the money. But without a dowry, her daughters will have a hard time attracting any suitors.”
“It’s Miss Sloane’s tongue, not her purse, that will likely scare off potential husbands,” muttered John. “She has some very…unusual ideas.”
“I have no idea why gentlemen seem to prefer ladies who are naught but patterncards of propriety over someone with a spark of individuality,” remarked Cecilia. “I swear, most of the prospects on the Marriage Mart might as well be fashioned from pasteboard instead of flesh and blood.”
The thought of Olivia’s lithe body, bared in all its fleshly glory, dancing naked in the moonlight made John’s blood begin to thrum.
“Speaking of propriety,” he said through gritted teeth. “I was not jesting when I said that I have met a very nice young lady in Shropshire.”
His sister slowed her steps as they passed beneath the overhanging fronds of the potted palms. “Go on.”
“She is a relative of my neighbor, and is from a very proper but impoverished family. So like Miss Sloane, she has no dowry to speak of. But then, I have no need to marry for money.”
Obscured by the slanting shadows, Cecilia’s expression had turned inscrutable. “No,” she said slowly, “you are fortunate enough to be able to marry for love, John.”
He avoided her gaze. “We are well suited. The lady in question has poise, polish, and a steady temperament. And she can converse intelligently on a number of topics that interest me.” Aware that he was sounding a little defensive, he quickly added, “All in all, I think she will make a perfect countess.”
“Then why do I see a shadow of doubt in your eyes?”
“Because,” admitted John, “there is one slight problem. Scottie doesn’t like her.”
“A definite problem,” agreed his sister.
“But I’m sure he’ll come around once he gets to know her better.”
Her silence was far more eloquent than any words.
Damnation. He had been hoping that she would agree with his assessment. “It will just him take a little time to get used to the idea. I am hoping that in a few weeks he will be more comfortable with the idea of a courtship.”
“So, you haven’t made a formal proposal yet?”
“No,” confessed John. “I—I plan to, just as soon as Parliament finishes the debate and votes on the bill concerning pensions for returning soldiers.”
“I would think that passion would override practical matters such as politics,” murmured Cecilia. “Assuming, of course, that she stirs a passion in your heart.”
“We rub together well,” he answered.
“And yet, it seems the contact sets off nary a spark.”
“Fire and friction aren’t necessarily good in a marriage.”
“Neither are ice and a piece of marble so perfectly polished that it’s lost any hint of individuality.”
John expelled a low oath. “That’s unfair. You aren’t even met the lady yet.”
“So it is,” said Cecilia. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. “My apologies. I promise that I shall keep an open mind.”
“Thank you.”
“I just want to see you happy, you know.”
“Ye gods, you think that at my advanced age I don’t know what will make me happy?”
His sister answered with an enigmatic smile. “I shall reserve judgment on that, too. Now come, the dowager is waiting.”
Chapter Six
You didn’t really say that,” exclaimed Caro.
“Oh, but I did,” replied Olivia. Setting down the coffee she had brought in from the breakfast room, she closed the door to the study.
Anna looked concerned, but Caro giggled. “Oh, Lud. I wish I could have seen the earl’s face.”
“He looked…well, I’m not precisely sure how to describe his expression. It was odd.”
“Dancing naked across the ballroom.” Anna tapped a pen to the tip of her chin. “Hmmm, come to think of it, that could make for an interesting scene in Count Rudolpho’s castle. My story has been getting a little boring since Emmalina escaped from the Barbary pirates. I need something titillating to liven up this next chapter.”
“Or I could use it as inspiration for a dark and dangerous poem.” Caro quickly got in the spirit of things. “Her pale flesh glistened in the firelight, a spectral beauty moving in rhythm with the jungle drums…” She paused. “I know, I’ll call it ‘The Hottentot of High Street.’”
Anna groaned. “Don’t you dare. Olivia is skirting on the edge of scandal as it is.” Fixing her eldest sister with a quizzing stare, she added, “You really shouldn’t have gone out of your way to be rude to the Earl of Wrexham. I’ve heard that the Perfect Hero is a real stickler for propriety.”
“Starchy?” asked Caro.
“
His shirtpoints probably stand up by themselves,” quipped Anna.
“Pffft. What a bore.”
Olivia pursed her lips. “Actually, I think he has a sense of humor, though he doesn’t wish to show it.”
“It won’t be remotely funny if he makes any disparaging comments about your conduct,” pointed out Anna.
“Afraid that your eccentric sisters might scare Lord Davies away?” asked Caro with a sly smile.
Two hot spots of color flared on Anna’s cheeks. “Of course not! That would be rather like the pot calling the kettle black.” She sighed. “I’m simply saying that it might be wise for Olivia to temper her tongue the next time she meets him.”
Olivia shrugged and went back to rearranging her notes. “Don’t worry, I’m not likely to engage in any intimate conversation with him again. The only reason we were together was because his sister forced him to ask me to dance. Given his druthers, I expect he’ll avoid me like the plague.”
For some reason the thought stirred a small frisson of disappointment deep within her chest. It had been rather fun crossing swords—verbal swords!—with the earl. He had been quick with his own retorts, and his attitude toward women was more enlightened than those of his fellow peers.
As for his smile…
Snapping her portfolio shut, Olivia looked up. “Oh, by the by, Anna, I thought of a phrase that might come in handy for your next chapter.
Anna paused with her pen hovering over the ink well. “I am always looking for artistic inspiration,” she said dryly. “Do tell me.”
“You could,” she said, “describe your hero’s mouth as possessing a sinuous sensuality.”
“Oooo, I like that,” piped up Caro as she surreptitiously scribbled something in the margin of the poetry book she was perusing.
“Might I inquire what sparked that thought?” asked Anna, once she, too, had written it down.
“You know how phrases are,” answered Olivia evasively. “On occasion they just pop to mind.”
“On occasion, they do,” agreed Anna, though the speculative gleam in her eye warned that the matter would not be forgotten.
After checking the clock on the mantel, Olivia gathered up several pencils, along with a small notebook, and jammed them into her reticule. “Hatchards will open in a quarter hour. Does either of you wish to accompany me?”