It was a well-known fact that, above all else, unwed young ladies desired an advantageous match.
It was also well-known that a twenty-three–year-old young lady could ill afford to be particular where prospective bridegrooms were concerned.
Lady Olivia Foster sat at the window-seat, her knees drawn to her chest. She stared out at the swirl of flakes as they danced by the windowpane, down, down, until landing on the ground below. With a sigh, she trailed a finger over the glass and followed the slow descent of another flake.
Most young ladies loved the spring and summer season because of the balls and soirees. Olivia, however, embraced the winter. The cold weather had an almost cleansing effect and served to wash away all the lords and ladies who scurried off to their respective estates.
It also signified another Season that Olivia remained unwed and free of her father’s nagging attention. It was only when the Seasons ended and the ton was gone, that her father’s displeasure dissipated. Then, when spring came round, his fury and disappointment bloomed like hearty crocuses.
Olivia had heard on many scores what a disappointment she was as a young lady. Her father, the Marquess of Tewkesbury went to great pains to remind her that she had failed at a woman’s sole lot in life—to make a match.
“Hello, my dear.”
Olivia glanced to the door.
Her mother stood, framed in the entrance. A small smile wreathed her ageless face.
Olivia returned her attention to the window. “Mother,” she greeted.
The rustle of satin skirts indicated the marchioness had sailed into the room. She took a seat beside Olivia.
Olivia sighed.
“Am I making a bother of myself, daughter?”
Olivia’s lips twitched. “Never you, Mother.”
Her mother snorted and gave a tug to a strand of Olivia’s blonde hair. They’d always had a close bond; a relationship deeper than even the mother-daughter connection. Olivia had confided things to her mother that she’d never breathed aloud to another soul; all without recrimination. Just then, melancholy as she was, Olivia rather preferred her own solitary company to a visit with her mother.
Mother tapped a finger along the edge of the window-seat. The staccato rhythm indicated her nervousness.
Olivia looked at her mother. Really looked at her. The smile was not her mother’s usual. It was wide but forced. Creases wrinkled the corners of her eyes.
With a frown, Olivia swung her legs over the side of the seat. “What is it, Mother?”
“Uh, nothing, dear. Nothing at all,” she said, a touch too hurriedly.
Olivia knitted her brow.
`Her mother ceased drumming her fingertips and sighed. “Lord Ellsworth requested a meeting with your father.”
Olivia frowned. Lord Ellsworth had been the only real suitor Olivia had acquired last Season. At nearly sixty, he would have made a better match for someone her mother’s age. Still, her father had encouraged the Earl of Ellsworth’s suit for many reasons.
One: the earl was obscenely wealthy.
Two: Olivia’s prospects were limited. Very limited.
Three: She couldn’t remain unwed forever.
Olivia had begun to suspect that if the groom had made a reasonable offer for her hand, her father would have gladly accepted.
“What is he doing here?” Olivia applauded herself on the steady deliverance of those words.
Her mother wet her lips. “You know your father doesn’t tell me anything.”
No. Her father was quite clear on his view of women and the role they served.
Panic built in her chest. She’d thought she’d managed to escape a match with Ellsworth but what if she hadn’t? She drew in a deep breath. No, it was silly to believe the earl was here to offer for her. She’d not seen him in months, and they’d not left off on the best of terms.
“No, I imagine he isn’t happy about your last meeting.” Mother correctly interpreted the path Olivia’s thoughts had wandered down.
Olivia shared a smile with her mother. “It was entirely an accident.”
Her mother nodded, her face a solemn mask. “Oh, yes, yes. I’m certain of it.”
“I had thought the earl might be interested in my discourse on the European honeybee.”
“Because, every prospective mate wants to hear how the male bee explodes upon copulation?”
Olivia felt her cheeks go warm. “I didn’t say it in quite those terms, Mother.”
“And I’m sure he marveled at your scientific brain, daughter.”
Olivia chuckled. She’d happened to attend a rather dull scientific workshop at London Museum on Carolus Linnaeus’ work with the European honeybees. She’d only been in attendance because she’d known it to be the perfect place to ensure herself privacy from tedious Society members.
Olivia had been nodding off when the speaker revealed that fascinating bit about the male bee. Said information had proved very useful when Lord Ellsworth had paid her court.
“It was hardly amusing to your father.” Her mother’s disapproving tone interrupted her thoughts.
No, it hadn’t been. Olivia lifted her shoulder in a little shrug. “How was I to have known the earl would react as he did?”
Sick, to be exact. The earl’s complexion had gone a grossly shade of green and he’d hurried from the room ill.
That had been the last time he’d made an appearance.
Olivia frowned. Until today.
Now, it would appear as though it were her time to become ill. A knot twisted in her stomach and she had to force back the dread that climbed up her throat.
Mother took her hand. “You know you can’t avoid marriage forever.”
“I know,” Olivia said, her voice flat to her own ears.
Except she didn’t know it. She’d hoped that maybe, just maybe, she’d manage to escape the marriage noose.
“Not all marriages are unhappy ones,” her mother continued. “Your sister…”
“I know. Alexandra is beyond happy.”
Her sister, wed to the 5th Earl of Pembroke, was blissfully content. That hadn’t always been the case. Nathan had first broken dear Alexandra’s heart before doing right and soothing the shattered organ.
“You could…”
“Do you truly believe I can be happy with the earl, Mother?”
Mother’s lips flattened into a single line.
Olivia nodded. “I didn’t think so.”
“But you were happy once.”
Olivia jumped up from her seat, a hand up. “I don’t want to speak about it.”
For nearly five years, she’d done a remarkable job of shoving memories of him to the side. How ironic that she had teased dear Alexandra over being in love, had mocked the emotion, only to then go and commit the very same faux pas.
Olivia tried not thinking about the man she’d given her heart to. She didn’t allow herself to think of him during any waking moments. It was only at night when his memory would filter into her dreams. Those times she was unable to escape his grinning façade. The midnight black hair, unfashionably long by Society’s standards.
He loved me.
And he promised to return.
But he hadn’t.
For nearly five years, Olivia had honored his memory and the hope of his return by scaring off prospective bridegrooms. Only now was she forced to concede—he wasn’t coming back for her, and the time of childlike games would have to end. She could not remain the Marquess of Tewkesbury’s unwed daughter forever. Society left very few options for ladies outside of marriage.
“He loved you,” her mother said.
Olivia’s throat worked up and down. She wanted to clamp her hands over her ears and drown out those words. Damn her mother for raising his memory.
“I was a mere child.”
Her mother was as unrelenting as a pug tearing at one’s skirts. “You were eighteen.”
Olivia’s toes curled in her slippers and she resisted the urge to flee
. She took one more deep breath. She’d never allowed herself to believe that he had died. She would have known in that place deep inside her heart where he resided. “It matters not. He left. He didn’t return.” And I’m the spinsterish, oddity wallflower at ton functions.
She frowned. She was about to be the oddity wed to the Earl of Ellsworth. A little shudder wracked her frame.
Mother reached for her hand and Olivia jumped. She’d been so enrapt in thoughts of him that she’d failed to note her mother’s approach.
“Would you like to talk about him?”
Him. The gentleman whose name could not be named.
Mother didn’t refer to Ellsworth but rather, Marcus Wheatley, a man her mother and sister had whole-heartedly approved of. He’d made Olivia laugh. He’d teased her.
Then he’d gone off to fight bloody Boney.
Silly cit. That’s what happens when you go and fall in love with a viscount’s younger son. Those younger sons didn’t become lords. They became officers in the military or vicars.
Oh, how she’d wished he’d been a vicar.
“You do know you could have made a match of your own choosing? You are beyond lovely.”
Olivia knew what gentlemen saw when they looked at her: trim waist, golden hair, fair skin, and flared hips. She might as well have been a broodmare to them.
Olivia sighed. “Father will call for me soon?” Her dejected tone, pathetic to her own ears.
Mother hesitated and then gave a nod. “Yes.” She brushed back a loose golden curl that had escaped Olivia’s perfunctory chignon.
“And I don’t suppose any additional details about the European honeybee—"
“No,” her mother interrupted.
No, she supposed that ploy would not work again.
Olivia had run out of ploys, plots, and plans. She’d no longer be able to fend off her father’s plans to wed her off to…to…whichever fool was silly enough to want her.
“Olivia…”
“I’d like to be alone, Mother.”
Olivia reclaimed her seat by the window and stared out dismissively at the swirling flakes. Her mother’s golden visage, bow-shaped lips turned down in a frown, reflected back at Olivia, until she retreated.
The door closed with a firm, resounding click.
Olivia rested her forehead along the pane of glass. It would appear the winter Season was no longer to be her favorite. “I’ve run out of excuses, Marcus.”
The sound of muted silence met her statement.
There would be no reprieve. Not anymore. Olivia could no longer hold off her father’s machinations to see her wed.
Only divine intervention from the Lord himself would be enough to save Olivia now.
Chapter Two
A thundering boom echoed through the house. It bounced off the plaster and carried through the empty halls.
Olivia’s ears perked up. Father was in another of his tempers.
A maid went tearing down the hall, past Olivia, all but stumbling over her skirts in an effort to hide from the master’s wrath.
Hmm. After Father’s meeting with Lord Ellsworth, Olivia had assumed he would be all but waltzing around the house, humming Christmas ditties. Not that father waltzed. Or hummed. Or did anything remotely silly.
Unless…she paused mid-stride, a smile played on her lips. Unless the earl had rejected Father’s proposed arrangement. Hope stirred to life in her breast and she rushed to the Blue Salon.
She closed the door with gentle precision and hurried over to the hearth situated at the left side of the room. Much like she had as a small child, Olivia placed her ear alongside the plaster.
Silence met her efforts. She angled her head a bit.
Still nothing.
Olivia furrowed her brow.
“I don’t care if God himself summoned her! She is not going! By God, I’ve just accepted the earl’s offer for her hand. I’ll not have Danby interfering.”
Olivia jumped at the unexpected outburst. Her eyes slid closed in despair.
So she was to wed the Earl of Ellsworth. Her stomach flipped and she had to swallow back a wave of nausea.
Her mother’s muted reply was lost to the plaster wall.
“She is my daughter and I’m working out the arrangements with…” The name was garbled but Olivia knew well with whom he was working out arrangements.
“A fortnight? You want me to let her go for the fortnight?”
“He is alone for the Christmas season. Let her go for the time he asks. She will return and then you can…”
Fortunately Mother’s words trailed off.
Regardless, Olivia knew what would happen upon her return. She turned and borrowed support from the wall. A giggle bubbled up from her chest until her shoulders shook. It mattered not that she’d be forced to wed the earl. For now, all that mattered was that Olivia had been granted a reprieve.
The door opened and Olivia jumped. “Mother,” she greeted as her mother closed the door behind her.
“I imagined I’d find you here.” Her mother’s glance slid away, off to a point beyond Olivia’s shoulder.
Olivia bit the inside of her cheek, a frisson of unease raced along her spine. She smoothed her fingers along the edges of her ice blue skirts.
“I gather you heard all that?”
There was no point in lying, so Olivia said nothing.
Mother glided across the room. She paused in front of Olivia and held out an envelope. “Here.” She all but thrust the note into Olivia’s hands.
Olivia took it, this missive that represented freedom, and turned it over in her hands. She studied the broken seal.
Oh, Grandfather. Her eyes slid closed on a benediction that was his name.
Danby.
The Duke of Danby, to be exact.
The ton revered him. The family feared him. Not many saw him.
Except when he summoned you. When you were called, you went.
Father had said it mattered not if God himself had called for her, even as he’d surely known that one did not defy the duke.
“Read it,” Mother urged.
Olivia pulled out the note.
Tewkesbury, you fool. Send me my granddaughter. Not the married one.
Post Script
And Tewkesbury, send her immediately.
A smile pulled at her lips.
“Do be sure to wipe that pleased grin from your face when you see your father.”
Olivia tried for a solemn nod but ruined it with a giggle.
“What does His Grace want?”
Her mother lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “To see you? Company at Christmas? To torture your father? It could really be any of those things.”
Yes, one never knew with Danby.
She fought the urge to bury her head in her hands and weep with relief. A smile formed on her lips. Since the earl’s departure, yesterday morn, Olivia had held her breath in dreaded anticipation of her father’s call. She’d known that her future had been decided and she’d just waited for word on it from her cold, heartless father. Oh, at three and twenty she knew she could resist an arrangement with the earl. Yet, Olivia was not so very foolish as to believe she could remain unwed forever.
She’d only just begun to accept that it didn’t matter who she married. It mattered not the age of her future bridegroom, the amount of teeth in his mouth, the wealth he possessed. No one could ever be Marcus and so she would resign herself to a life with Lord Ellsworth.
An acceptance of her fate, however, could come after Christmastide. Olivia was determined to allow herself joy at this holiday season.
“You know, dear,” her mother began, gently, “this will not change what is to come in a fortnight. You know you’ll return and Father will see you wed to the earl.”
Olivia managed a nod. “I do. I know.”
But, all she knew for now was that there was a reprieve. It fueled Olivia’s hope.
Anything could happen at the holidays.
She smil
ed. Danby had proven that on many scores.
“When do we leave?”
Mother brushed her hand along Olivia’s cheek. A tremulous smile on her lips. “He didn’t summon me, Olivia.”
Olivia frowned. “But surely…”
Mother pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her words. “He didn’t summon me. One does what the duke requires and he requires your presence. If he’d wanted me to accompany you, then the note would have indicated as much. Just as your sister’s note had.”
Olivia remembered back to the summons her sister Alexandra had received some seven years ago. The missive had required Olivia, Mother, and Alexandra be present at Danby Castle. Father had been ordered behind. In no uncertain terms. At that time, the duke had been playing matchmaker.
Her lips quirked. It was rather an unlikely image of the staid, frowning duke—matchmaker. Ultimately that is what he’d been and Alexandra had found her happy ever after with the Earl of Pembroke.
Olivia’s smile died. She folded her arms across her chest and tried to rub warmth back into them. There’d be no matchmaking for Olivia. The only man she’d loved…well, Danby was all powerful but he was not God. He could not bring a man back from the grave.
“I should begin packing.”
“I already instructed your maid.”
Of course she had. Olivia did something she’d not done in many, many years. She threw her arms around her Mother and held on tight much like she’d done as a small girl who’d had night terrors.
Mother smoothed small circles across Olivia’s back. “Oh, dear. My sweet, beautiful child.”
Tears flooded Olivia’s eyes. She’d not been a child for more than a lifetime. It felt like the simplicity of cherry tarts and dolls and carols at Christmas all belonged to another woman. No, life had proven hard and ugly and unfair.
They’d not printed that in any of the Gothic novels her mother so loved.
Olivia blinked back the salty drops. She’d not cry. She’d shed her last tear five years ago when she’d been an innocent girl of eighteen. She took a step back.
“Do you believe I’m in trouble with the duke?”
Mother arched an elegant brow. “Why? Have you done something to earn the duke’s displeasure?”
Timeless Tales of Honor Page 80