by Cara Elliott
“I would rather live in poverty,” interrupted Caro, “than see you sacrifice yourself on the Altar of Unhappiness.”
Olivia had to repress a smile. Caro did have a knack for composing dramatic phrases. That one was sure to end up in one of her next poems.
“And I know Livvie feels the same way.”
Anna ran a fingertip around the rim of her empty cup. “No one could have more supportive sisters. But you might feel differently if you were cold and hungry.”
“Never,” replied Caro, stoutly. “If need be, I could find work as a governess or a lady’s companion.”
“You would have little time to write,” pointed out Olivia. “There is nothing romantic about having to earn your bread. Toiling in the service of others would keep you busy from morning until night.”
Her youngest sister opened her mouth to reply but after a moment’s hesitation slumped back in her seat.
“Don’t look so stricken, Caro,” counseled Anna. “It is the way of our world. For the beau monde, marriage is all about the bartering of assets—wealth, privilege, power, beauty. A love match rarely happens outside the pages of a novel.”
“Lord Wrexham is here to see you, Miss Olivia.” The lone footman of the house—for the family had no funds to employ a proper butler—cleared his throat. “I have put him in the drawing room.”
“It is Miss Sloane, not Miss Olivia, as she is the eldest,” clucked her mother. “I pray you don’t make such a buffle-headed mistake in front of a peer of the realm, Freddie. He might think that we don’t belong.”
Olivia gave the young man a sympathetic smile. “Thank you, Freddie.” She began rummaging among the piles of notes and newspapers on her desk. “I shall be there shortly.”
Lady Trumbull’s horrified response rose above the crackling of paper. “Oh, you must not keep the earl waiting.”
“I told you, Mama, he has simply come to borrow a book, not to enjoy the pleasure of my company.”
“Men are odd creatures, child,” lectured her mother. “One never knows what may catch their fancy. And a widower may not be so choosy. You could at least make an effort to flirt with him.”
And donkeys might turn into unicorns.
“I doubt Lord Wrexham and I would suit.”
“Hmmph. You never know until you try.”
For all her grousing, her mother did on occasion make an astute observation, mused Olivia as she finally located her copy of Hingham’s essays under a copy of the Morning Gazette. “That is, for the most part, very true, Mama.” Leaving Lady Trumbull looking a little perplexed, she gathered up the book, along with another that she thought the earl might find of interest, and quickly left the room.
Chapter Fifteen
John turned from his study of the curio cabinet on hearing the drawing room door open and close.
“Your father collected an unusually intriguing variety of artifacts, Miss Sloane. He must have been a very interesting man.”
Olivia ignored the observation. “I thought you were going to send a servant for the book, sir,” said she, without preamble.
“It is very nice to see you, too,” he murmured.
A flush rose up to ridge her cheekbones. “Please don’t say I didn’t warn you. My mother has now decided that a widower may not be as choosy as a tulip of the ton. So you may find yourself considered fair game for all her machinations.”
He smiled. “As I’ve said, I’ve faced far more formidable adversaries than your mother. I shall survive.”
Her expression turned a bit pinched. “Speaking of surviving, Lord Wrexham, Lord Davenport approached me and my sisters while we were having ices at Gunther’s earlier today and asked me pass on a message to you. He overheard some talk at whatever haunt he was visiting last night, and said that you appear to have made some very nasty enemies. So you should take care to be on guard.”
“That’s surprising,” mused John.
“Yes, I was surprised, too,” said Olivia. “You don’t strike me as a man who stirs up strong passions.”
He wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or nettled. “What I meant was, I’m surprised Davenport bothered to mention it. From what I gather, he isn’t known for his altruism.”
“There is that as well,” she agreed. “He claims that he spotted us inside the tea shop and stopped on a whim because he had seen the two of us dancing together.” A pause. “I assured him that it was only because your sister forced you to ask me.”
“You seem to have an exceedingly low opinion of my backbone, Miss Sloane.”
“I—I did not mean…that is, I—I wasn’t intending…”
Her eyes turned an interesting shade of molten green when she was flustered—a fiery jade, shaded with a hint of smoke. Intrigued, John watched the swirl of hues spark beneath her lashes.
“Forgive me,” she finished in a rush. Shifting the books in her arms, she held out one of them. “Here is the Hingham, sir.”
“Thank you.”
“And this”—a smaller volume thumped atop the leatherbound Hingham—“is a collection of essays from America on the inalienable rights of its citizens that I thought you might also want to read.”
“I appreciate both of these,” he said. “But as you said, I could have sent a servant for books. I’ve come for you.”
The flustered look was back. “I—I don’t understand.”
“I thought we might go for a drive in the park. It’s the fashionable hour for promenading, so we won’t attract any undo attention.”
She stared as if he were speaking in Hindi.
“You know—horses,” he murmured, sketching an outline of said animal in the air. “A carriage, two people sitting on the seat.”
“I may be a bit of a recluse, sir, but I am familiar with what the everyday conveyances of London look like.”
But not, apparently, with the experience of actually riding in one, observed John to himself.
“Excellent. Then I’m sure you also know to bring a shawl, for the breeze can turn a bit chilly at this time of day.”
“I—I did not say that I would come, sir,” began Olivia.
“Miss Sloane…” He moved a step closer to her and lowered his voice a notch. “I thought we might discuss some of basic issues embodied in the proposed bill, and how best to address them. And it seems that we would have more privacy for such a chat outdoors.”
Her eyes narrowed at the word “outdoors.”
Casting a meaningful look at the closed door, John added, “First of all, I imagine that your mother has summoned your sister to come serve as a chaperone. And secondly, I would be willing to wager that her ear is already glued to the keyhole.”
Olivia’s wary expression slowly relaxed, allowing the corners of her mouth to curl upward. “You are no doubt correct on both counts, sir.”
She has a very nice smile, he decided.
“May I take that as a yes?”
Her lashes fluttered, the shadows not quite hiding the hesitation in her eyes. “I suppose so.” She drew in a breath. “Just as long as we are clear that it is purely a professional meeting.”
“But of course,” replied John. “We made an agreement, Miss Sloane. You need not worry that I am going to ravish you in the middle of Polite Society’s daily parade ritual.”
“I should hope not, Lord Wrexham,” replied Olivia tartly. “The lovely young lady you had hanging on your arm this morning—I assume she is the Steel Corset—would not be amused.”
John had to think for a moment—and then let out a low laugh. “The lovely young lady hanging on my arm this morning was my niece, who has been in Town to visit her mother, my sister. We were enjoying a last carriage ride together, as her father is escorting her back to her home in Norfolk tomorrow.”
The color ridging her cheekbones now spread to the rest of her face. “Perhaps you ought to choose someone else to assist you with parsing complex intellectual concepts, sir.”
A frown pinched off his smile. “Why
is that?”
“Because my wits don’t appear to be functioning very well of late,” replied Olivia.
“Given my son’s flair for drama, it is completely understandable that you might assume…the worst. However, Lady Serena Wells—which, by the by, is her proper name—is not here in London. She is visiting her relatives in Shropshire.”
“I am sure she is very pleasant,” said Olivia stiffly. “No doubt Prescott will come to appreciate that in the near future.”
“The chances would be better if that cursed Lady Loose Screw would stop writing him and…making him laugh.”
“You don’t wish your son to laugh?” she asked slowly.
John wasn’t quite sure how the conversation had managed to take such an uncomfortable twist. With his own thoughts on the future so muddled, the last thing he wished to discuss with Olivia was his maybe—or maybe not—engagement.
“Well, yes, of course I do,” he replied. “But Lady Serena believes that a parent must keep a certain distance and detachment, in order to remain a figure of authority.”
“Oh, quite right,” murmured Olivia softly—but not softly enough to hide the edge of irony. “Mustn’t relax that firm hand of discipline. You know the old adage—spare the rod, spoil the child.”
Hell and damnation.
He had the distinct feeling she was making fun of him, and it bothered him more than it should.
“I take it you have your own opinions on the subject,” he replied. “And I imagine they are more in line with Lady Loose Screw’s ideas.”
Olivia turned abruptly. “I’ll get my shawl, sir. It’s getting late, and I can’t afford to dawdle. I have a great deal of reading to do when I return in order to prepare my next essay.”
He watched her hurry from the room, a little puzzled by her reaction. It seemed uncharacteristic for her to flee the field of battle without firing a verbal shot in reply.
But then, I don’t really know her at all, he reminded himself.
The earl’s hands were not only strong, noted Olivia, as he guided his phaeton through the Stanhope gate leading into Hyde Park. They were steady and capable, controlling the spirited team of matched grays with a quiet, confident ease.
Strange, she had never paid any attention to a man’s hands before, but Olivia found herself mesmerized by their lithe grace. His snug-fitting York tan gloves accentuated his long tapered fingers—there was a graceful elegance to their movement, and yet it was not at all effeminate.
“Am I driving too fast for your taste?” he inquired politely, catching her eye. “You seem a trifle apprehensive.”
“No, not at all.” Olivia quickly forced her gaze to lock on some distant point straight ahead. “What do you wish to talk about, sir?”
“Ah, getting right down to business,” he remarked.
“That is the whole point of this exercise, isn’t it?” she replied.
“Most ladies would say that the point would also be to enjoy the experience.”
“Yes, well, I rarely have the same views on things as most ladies.”
“So I am learning.”
Olivia found herself feeling unsettled by his relaxed manner. The solemn-faced, steel-spined earl was far easier to deal with—at least she knew what to expect.
“No doubt to your dismay,” she muttered.
And yet, there was something liberating about this newfound relationship. After all, he knew her more intimately than any man, so she was free to be—
No, no, she chided herself. Don’t think about being friends. It was…
Terribly confusing.
A subtle pressure on the reins slowed the vehicle to a leisurely trot. The thudding of the hooves and jangling of the harness were the only sounds as he maneuvered the phaeton through a narrow carriageway and turned onto Rotten Row. An ancient “King’s Road”—or Rue de Roi—it was originally built to connect St. James’s Palace with Kensington Palace, but now served the crème de la crème of society as the fashionable place to promenade each day in the late afternoon.
“I can’t help but wonder—is there a reason you go out of the way to make yourself appear odd, Miss Sloane?” asked John after guiding his horses around an elderly dowager’s lumbering landau.
“I am odd,” said Olivia. And ungainly, she added to herself. “I don’t wish to mislead you as to who or what I am, sir.” Suddenly recalling her activities as Lady Loose Screw, she hastily added, “That is to say, now that you have discovered my secrets…”
Well, almost all of my secrets.
“…I would prefer that we have plain speaking between us.”
“I see.” His voice, like his hands, was calm and steady. It gave nothing away.
Olivia told herself that was enough of an explanation. And yet, for some odd reason she felt compelled to add, “As for what most of Society thinks of me, I suppose that like a hedgehog, I use a prickly exterior to deflect closer scrutiny. As I said before, if it ever got out that The Beacon is a lady, my career as a newspaper columnist would be over.”
The wheels jostled over a deep rut.
“And I care very passionately about my writing, sir. I should hate to give it up.”
John shifted his long, muscled legs, and suddenly she felt very small and vulnerable on the narrow seat. His silence seemed to strip away the layers of her usual defenses, leaving her uncomfortable. Exposed.
This was a bad idea. For any number of reasons…
“Miss Sloane,” murmured John as the phaeton pulled ahead into a less crowded stretch of the carriageway. “Rest assured that your secrets are safe with me.” He turned his head and their eyes met. “I have nothing but the utmost respect for your ideas and your writings.”
Ye gods, the man has beautiful eyes. She had always thought of brown as a rather dull color, but in the slanting sunlight the hue was alive with intriguing sparks of gold and amber.
“All the more so because of the many obstacles you face in making yourself heard, simply because you are a lady. It is…” He pursed his lips in thought for a moment. “It is unfair.”
“There is much injustice around us, Lord Wrexham,” replied Olivia softly. “Which is why I wish to wield my pen. My plight pales in comparison to what others suffer.”
“You have exemplary courage and compassion,” he replied.
Her cheeks turned uncomfortably warm. “I fear that you overestimate me, sir. I assure you, I have plenty of faults.”
Another small stretch of silence. A sidelong glance at his profile revealed nothing. Whatever he was thinking, the earl hid his emotions well.
As for her own…She drew in a tiny gulp of air, hoping to steady her skittering pulse.
“We all have our faults,” he finally murmured, his voice barely loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the thudding hooves. “Just as we all have secrets that we pray will never become public knowledge.”
Olivia felt her chest constrict.
“It has occurred to me that perhaps you feel I now have an unfair advantage over you because I know you are The Beacon. I wish for us to be true partners in this endeavor to win passage of this bill. So I…”
John hesitated, and she saw his hands tighten on the reins.
“I shall tell you a secret regarding my own personal affairs—one that would cause me to be the laughingstock of London were it ever to be known by the beau monde.”
“Sir, You need not—” she began.
He quickly cut her off. “On the contrary, I feel it important that from the very start of this campaign, we fight as equals.”
“Lord Wrexham…” Now was the time to tell him about Lady Loose Screw, Olivia told herself. But this unexpected turn had taken her completely by surprise, and her tongue seemed tied in knots.
“No, no, please hear me out, Miss Sloane.” John’s voice held a note of quiet command. “I would imagine you are aware of the newspaper advertisement—the one concerning a mother—that is causing such a titter throughout the drawing rooms of Mayfair.”
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Olivia nodded mutely.
“Well, it was placed by my son.”
“I…I see.”
“Yes, well, I am sure you also see how horribly embarrassing it would be for me if that fact ever became public.”
“You fear that the Perfect Hero would appear the Perfect Fool.”
He chuffed a humorless laugh. “Yes, you’ve summed it up quite perfectly.”
Olivia couldn’t meet his eyes. “I have read the advertisement, sir. And it seems to me that Prescott should be applauded for caring so much about your happiness.” She essayed a smile. “And indeed, he deserves a great deal of credit for conceiving of such a bold strategy. You have to admit, he is a very resourceful boy.”
“Too bold.” The earl’s mouth gave a grudging twitch. “And definitely too resourceful.”
A dappling of sunlight danced along the rueful curl of his smile.
Don’t look. Don’t feel…
It was guilt, she told herself, that was making her throat so painfully tight. Swallowing the sensation, Olivia reminded herself that she was The Beacon, a sharp-tongued intellectual, not a calf-eyed schoolgirl.
“There, you have had your say, sir, and now we both hold a weapon that can be wielded against the other.” She lifted her face to the breeze, grateful for the cooling touch against her skin. “But let us move on to more important things and not waste any more precious time on personal talk. You have a speech to write—a speech that can have even more influence than my newspaper columns. As a noted war hero, your opinion on the upcoming bill in Parliament will carry a good deal of weight with your peers.”
John nodded, but a flicker of his lashes seemed to darken his gaze for just an instant.
A sudden thought occurred to her. “Is that why Lord Davenport sent a warning about your having made some very unpleasant enemies?”
“There are some people who wish me to voice a certain opinion,” he replied. “But you need not worry, Miss Sloane. I am not easily intimidated.”
“I don’t doubt that, sir. However—”