by Cara Elliott
“No, she’s not merely excellent.” Prescott grinned. “She’s perfect.”
After a cursory look at Lord Seabury’s message, which offered abject apologies for his relative’s shockingly scandalous behavior, John rose and returned to the drawing room.
“Lady Serena Wells,” he announced, “has eloped with a captain from the Irish Guards. As I speak, they are on their way to Gretna Green, and from there they will sail to Dublin, where he is stationed with his regiment.”
Cecilia’s brows shot up in surprise.
“Apparently they have been in love for quite sometime,” explained John, “but as he is a man of modest birth and means, her family demanded that she make a more advantageous match. However, according to her…”
Looking down at the paper, he read aloud from the note, “I have thought long and hard, Lord Wrexham, and I have decided that it would be most unfair of me to mislead you any more than I already have about my true self and true feelings. For far too long I have tried to pretend that I fit snugly into the rigid patterncard of propriety required by Society. But the truth is, I don’t give a fig for the rules. I am tired of presenting a false face. There—I have said it! And by now you know that my actions speak even louder than my words.”
John glanced up and caught Olivia’s eyes for just an instant before going on.
“You are a most admirable gentleman, but I do not love you and it would have been wrong of me to pretend otherwise. I apologize if these words cause you any pain. However, I sense that your feelings were never truly engaged. I wish you happiness in the future, and hope that you may find the same sort of perfect match that I have.”
“It sounds as if her corset was crafted from something other than steel after all,” observed Cecilia wryly. “Satin, perhaps. Woven of soft, silky, sensuous threads.”
“There is a postscript.” John chuckled. “Allow me to offer a last bit of advice, sir—you had best warn any future object of your affection that your son is an Unholy Terror. She will have to be made of sterner stuff than I to win his affection. That, or she will have to have a few loose screws in her head to think of serving as a surrogate mother to such an Imp of Satan.”
At that, Olivia’s rigid features relaxed into something close to a grin. “She’s quite right. It won’t be an easy task, for it’s not just Prescott whom any potential bride must impress. I have a feeling Lucy’s opinion carries quite a bit of weight with your son.”
“Of course it does,” said Cecilia with an answering smile. “My nephew is quite a bright lad, so he’s already figured out that women are far smarter than men in most every respect.”
“Considering the present company…” John countered his sister’s arch stare with an answering waggle of his brow. “Only an utter fool would argue with that pronouncement. And I consider myself to possess some modicum of intelligence.”
“That,” said his sister in an irritating drawl, “remains to be seen.” She helped herself to one of the strawberry tarts, and proceeded to pop a small morsel into her mouth. “So it seems we must launch a new campaign to find you a bride—”
“I am quite sure that His Lordship would prefer not to be distracted from his upcoming speech by any further thoughts of marriage,” intervened Olivia hastily.
Was she blushing?
John glanced at Cecilia, noting her faintly smug expression. Knowing his sister’s penchant for scheming, he felt a small spark of hope flare to life inside his chest.
Perhaps Olivia’s objections to matrimony were not as impregnable as he had first feared.
“Really, Wrexham has had enough obstacles put in his way as it is,” Olivia went on in a rush. Turning to him, she added, “When do you plan on leaving for London?”
“Tomorrow morning,” he replied. “I must meet with supporters of the bill for a final review of the proposed measures.”
“And I intend to travel to Town the following day with Miss Sloane and the children,” announced Cecilia. “Scottie and Lucy are eager to resume their London visit, for they still haven’t seen all the promised sights. And our return all together is necessary to ensure that our alibi for Miss Sloane’s absence holds water.”
John nodded.
“And of course, Henry and I wouldn’t dream of missing your speech,” went on Cecilia. “We will be in the spectator’s alcove to cheer you on.” She allowed a fraction of a pause. “Would you like to join us, Miss Sloane? I cannot help but feel you have been an integral part of this effort, so you ought to be there for my brother’s triumph. That is, assuming you would care to.”
“I would,” answered Olivia. “Very much so.”
“Excellent! Then it’s settled.” She sliced off another bit of the tart. “I shall also host a small gathering afterward at our townhouse, to toast what I am sure will be a resounding success.”
“You have great confidence in me,” murmured John.
Cecilia considered the statement for the space of a heartbeat before replying coyly, “I trust you won’t disappoint me.”
“A breakneck chase, a night spent on the moonlit moors, a daring rescue.” Caro heaved a soulful sigh.
“Not to speak of a dashing hero,” added Anna dryly, “who coolly shoots the pistol out of one villain’s hand, then flattens the other with his fists.”
“How frightfully romantic,” exclaimed Caro.
“Ha! Don’t wax poetic over the perils,” chided Olivia. “We weren’t exactly waltzing through the wilds. Unrelenting worry over Prescott, bone-jarring fatigue, and gnawing hunger were our constant companions. Not to speak of the danger that the earl’s reputation might suffer if he were spotted with a lady.”
“And yours?” asked Anna.
Olivia gave a dismissive wave. “Mine didn’t matter. But Wrexham’s effectiveness in Parliament could have been damaged by scandal.” Suddenly aware of how selfish that sounded, she bit her lip. “I—I didn’t mean that the way it come out. I am aware that my actions have an impact on you and Caro. Be assured that I—that is, we—were exceedingly careful.”
“Caro and I aren’t worried about ourselves, Livvie,” replied Anna. “We are worried about you.”
Her youngest sister added a loud assent.
“You set off on a very perilous adventure and though the way was fraught with dangers, you came through it unscathed,” went on Anna. “I couldn’t have written a more riveting plot…er, would you mind if I borrow the dancing-in-the-moonlight scene?
“Feel free,” said Olivia, giving silent thanks that the sisterly passion for the written word was diverting attention from further probing into her own private feelings. Luckily, she hadn’t mentioned the fact that both she and the earl were bare-arsed at the time.
“However,” mused Anna, “I might embellish it with bit of exotic spice. Readers tend to need outrageously exaggerated emotion to hold their interest.” She pursed her mouth in thought. “Perhaps—”
“Oh, I have it! Your hero and heroine should be dancing naked in the silvery light of the full moon,” chimed in Caro. “I could compose a song that they could sing to the stars.”
“Because shimmying through the midnight shadows without a stitch of clothing on isn’t outrageous enough?” asked Olivia.
“Literary creations require a flair for Drama,” replied Caro loftily.
“Well, I would be quite happy to settle for a bit of mundane boredom in real life.”
“Oh, pffft, what fun is that?” muttered Caro.
A sharp tap, tap cut short the exchange. Anna set down her pen and pressed her fingertips together. “Much as this discussion of literary inspiration is fascinating, let us not take a side turn from the path of my original point.”
Olivia chuffed a martyred sigh.
“Which was?” queried Caro.
“The direction in which Olivia’s life is headed,” intoned Anna with a note of seriousness that did not bode well for what was coming.
“Actually, I’d rather not go down that road right now, if yo
u don’t mind,” she responded quickly.
“Ha! I knew you would respond with a clever quip. Of the three of us, you are the sharpest, both with your brain and with your tongue.”
“That’s not entirely true—”
“Yes, it is,” confirmed Caro.
“You are scathingly witty, and frightfully observant,” went on Anna. “And you use your intellect to remain detached from passion.”
“I care passionately about some things,” she said in a small voice.
“Yes, abstractions and ideals.”
“And what is wrong with that?” countered Olivia, though she couldn’t quite muster any force to her challenge.
“Nothing,” replied Anna. “Except for one thing—are you happy?”
Olivia looked down at her hands, which had somehow of their own accord knotted into fists. “Not all stories have a happily ever after.”
“But they should.”
Anna’s voice was soft as a feather and yet her words settled heavily on Olivia’s heart.
“You can write whatever ending you wish to, Livvie,” insisted Anna, “if you would dare to pick up the proverbial pen and put it to paper.”
She didn’t answer, for all her clever bons mots seemed to have chosen that instant to desert her.
“Anna is right, you know,” added Caro, eschewing her usual exuberance for a more subdued tone. “If you and Wrexham are in love, what is standing in your way?”
“If.” Olivia sighed. “For a very small word, it looms very large.
“You don’t know if the earl is in love with you?”
“I—I don’t,” confessed Olivia.
“Well then…” A wicked twinkle lit in Caro’s eye. “Why don’t you ask him? I could write a sonnet containing the question.”
“Carooooo,” warned Anna.
“Oh, very well. Not a sonnet then.” A pause. “Maybe just a rhyming couplet.”
“Our sister has her own style,” pointed out Anna. “She will decide for herself how to use it.”
“If,” repeated Olivia. “If I decide to use it.”
“I hope you do,” replied Anna. “I have a feeling there are regrets hidden in the past that you’ve never shared with us. Whatever they are, don’t let them cloud the future.”
A breeze from the open window curled through the candlelight, stirring a sudden swirl of red-gold hues. “How did the two of you become so wise?” she asked, watching the colors melt away into the darkness.
Perhaps they are right—if there is a glimmer of a chance at love, why not reach out and try to grab it before it fades away to nothing?
Anna and Caro grinned at each other. “By listening to you, of course,” they chorused.
“I’m not sure that’s a very good idea. I seem to have made a hash of…of so many things.”
“Take heart,” said Anna, leaning across a stack of books to give her a hug. “You like the challenge of fixing things that aren’t right.”
“Exactly.” Caro squeezed her hand. “May I at least write a poem for the wedding ceremony?”
A laugh welled up in Olivia’s throat. “One thing is for sure, we are never at a loss for words in this family. Though at times I wonder whether it’s a curse rather than a blessing.” She blinked a tear from her lashes. “But one thing I never question is the fact that I am blessed with such wonderful sisters. What would I ever do without you two?”
“Get into even more trouble without our creative counseling,” quipped Anna.
“Or find your life frightfully flat,” suggested Caro. “You have to admit, between the three of us, life is never boring here in High Street.”
“Boring, no,” agreed Olivia. “Confusing, yes.”
“You are very good at reasoning out conundrums,” said Anna. “Indeed, you are very good at doing most anything you put your mind to.”
“I wish that were so.”
“Wishes are all very well,” said Caro. “But sometimes you must take a risk to make them come true.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The buzz of anticipation was growing louder and louder, its low sound amplified by the arched ceilings and ornately carved stone. Olivia pinched at the pleats of her skirts, trying not to appear too nervous. A sidelong glance either way showed that the spectator alcove in which they were standing was filled.
“What a crush,” Next to her, Cecilia’s husband, Henry, blotted his brow with a handkerchief while his wife craned her neck to survey the peers assembled in the main gallery.
“Look, there is Sommers,” whispered Cecilia, pointing out Lumley’s coconspirator. The duke was conferring with a several of his cronies, and Olivia was gratified to see he was looking grim-faced.
“The man has a nerve to show himself—”
A shush from Henry warned her to silence.
The conversation around them died, too, as John rose.
Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, sure that the thudding of her heart must sound as loud as cannonfire to the neighboring spectators. The tension was unbearable—in another instant, she feared that her lungs might explode from the force of her pent-up breath.
“Gentlemen, I stand before you today to speak about an issue of elemental justice.” John’s voice rose clear and confident above the lingering hum.
She felt herself able to exhale.
“Do we, as a nation, care for those who have fought so valiantly to preserve our freedoms…”
Edging forward, she dared to open her eyes.
“So we must rise up!”
Olivia felt a wave of emotion ripple through the packed crowd and knew as she watched the faces of the peers seated in their regal chairs that people were moved by his words.
Their words.
Clasping her hands together, she blinked back the sting of salt against her lids. We did it—two as one, with the whole stronger than either of the separate parts.
John spoke on, his voice alternating between soft and soaring. Just as rehearsed, he modulated his voice to lift the last lyrical passage to a heartfelt crescendo.
A thunderous applause broke out as he returned to his seat.
“By Jove, he did well,” murmured Henry.
“Oh, exceedingly well,” agreed Cecilia. “But then, I never doubted it for an instant.”
“My wife is, of course, prejudiced,” said Henry with a fond smile. “What is your opinion, Miss Sloane? Do you think Wrexham was good enough to win the votes needed to pass the bill?”
Olivia listened to the cheers echoing through the hall. “I think he was more than good, sir. He was…he was perfect.”
“A toast to your eloquence, Wrexham.” Yet another of his fellow politicians clapped him on the back and raised a glass of champagne.
“Thank you, Sumner.” John looked around Cecilia and Henry’s drawing room, his gaze seeking Olivia as he quaffed a small sip. “However the victory is not mine alone. There were a great many people who worked very hard to win passage of this bill.”
“Yes, but you’ve proven yourself an able spokesman,” said Sumner. “Let us meet sometime next week to discuss your future within our party. I think you have the makings of a very effective leader.”
“Thank you,” he repeated, grateful that Sumner nodded and then moved away to join several other colleagues who were seeking out his sister to take their leave.
A few more congratulations were offered, but to his relief, the room was beginning to empty. Only a few family friends lingered.
And Olivia.
She was there in the recessed corner of the display alcove, perusing some of Henry’s collection of Elizabethan poetry books.
“Hail the conquering hero,” she murmured, an enigmatic smile flitting along the dimly lit curl of her lips as he came to stand by her side.
John grimaced. “Oh, bosh—to the Devil with such drivel. I should hope you know me better than to think I let any of these undeserved accolades puff up my conceit.”
Olivia kept her gaze on the gilt-stamped
leather spines. “You were wonderful.” The slanting shadows made it impossible to read her eyes.
“We both know it was because of us, not me.”
“You have more than proved your mettle in this field of battle, Wrexham.”
The cool formality of his title caused his jaw to clench. He missed the intimacy of his given name spoken in her smoky whisper.
“From now on,” she continued, withdrawing a step deeper into the muddle of grays, “you need no help in winning future victories.”
There is only one victory that matters to me.
John touched her arm, the heat of her skin beneath the slubbed silk setting off a flare of longing. “Come, I’ve something I want to show you. It’s in the library.”
“But the guests,” she protested.
“The guests are leaving, and Cecilia and Henry will keep those who linger entertained,” he cut in. “This is more important than hearing more meaningless praise.”
Olivia let him lead her through the side salon and into the corridor.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A surprise.” The paneled door opened with a soft snick of the latch. Feeling a flutter of butterflies in his belly, John drew her past a pair of fluted bookshelves and into one of the side study nooks. Strange how facing off against an opposing force of French Grenadier Guards hadn’t made him feel half so nervous as he felt now.
The light from the argand lamp cast a mellow glow over the work table. Centered on the polished oak was a chess set carved out of ivory and a deep, dark amber. In the flame’s gentle undulation, the subtle hues of gold and fire-kissed honey seemed to come alive.
John heard her breath catch in an audible gasp. “It’s—it’s the Russian set from Mr. Tyler’s shop!”
“I wanted to give you a…special token of thanks for all your help,” he explained. “I thought you might like this set, and Mr. Tyler agreed.” He found himself fiddling with the fob on his watchchain. “Sorry, it’s not as exotic—or erotic—as the forces that first brought us together. But as soon as I touched the figures, it felt right.”