Muscles twitched beneath her palm, but Jake’s features remained otherwise impassive. She wouldn’t have even known of his reaction was she not touching him.
“That is when she allows it to hit her: hers is nothing more or less than a Society marriage. Her husband is no different from the men of his set, and she is no different from the women of hers. Their extraordinary love has been perfectly ordinary all along.”
“Betrayed by an ideal.”
“Indeed, my lord,” she chirped on the bright note that rang more false to her ears with each word she spoke. Yet she couldn’t seem to plug the spring. It would flow until its reserves ran dry. “She’s never felt so betrayed. By an ideal. By her husband. By Society. She realizes that she’s been tricked into this life, that Society trapped her with a lie, but such is the life of every other wife. She swallows the bitterness and gets on with her life.
“Then, one day, not half a year into their marriage, her husband tells her that he’s bought a commission in the army to fight the French scourge in Europe. He races off to the Continent to involve himself in war and glory, and she never sees or hears from him again. Six months later, she’s informed of his death.”
“This hypothetical husband,” Jake interrupted, “never met his daughter?”
“Never. The wife is six months along when she receives the news.” She hesitated, certain her tale had gotten away from her. Yet she needed to see it through to the end. “You must understand that her grief for her husband is genuine. She hasn’t forgotten how handsome and charming he was. But after the initial wave of grief subsides, an unexpected and shameful feeling takes its place. Can you guess what it is?”
Lips pressed in a straight, silent line, Jake continued guiding them along the path dotted with puddles wide and deep enough to be a nuisance.
“Freedom. For the first time in her life, she feels free. The future stretching before her is no longer dull and lonely. It is bright and golden with the opportunity to set forth on a life entirely of her own choosing. Yet the shame stays with her for this future isn’t possible without Per—” She corrected herself mid-word. “Her husband’s death. So, she locks it away. All Society sees is a grieving widow with a young daughter. If the widow is a bit eccentric with her growing involvement in the arts, Society tolerates it. She is, after all, one of them.”
“A merry widow, it seems,” Jake inserted drily.
“Ten years later,” Olivia continued, “the unthinkable happens: the husband rises from the dead, and all the wife can feel is the walls closing in on her. An alive husband means the end of her freedom. It means a return to her dull and lonely future. It means a return to being a wife. She vows then and there that she will never be wife to any man again. She petitions the House of Lords to set her marriage aside and prevails thanks to the combined power of her noble families and the acquiescence of a Lazarus husband who must have reasons of his own for acceding to her request. To be sure, her reputation doesn’t emerge unscathed, but she cares not. What’s the point of a spotless reputation when freedom is within reach? What cost is too high?” She took a deep breath. “And that is the story of a marriage from a wife’s point of view.”
She tried to force a carefree laugh, but it lacked all substance and emerged hollow. She’d never felt more exposed in her life. Beside her, Jake planted his feet and brought their progress to a halt. His hand at her elbow, he pulled her around to face him, an unspoken demand pulsing between them. She wasn’t sure how she could meet his eye. Somehow, when they’d been walking side by side, her story had felt removed from her because she hadn’t been looking at him. But now she must, even as her courage from moments ago abandoned her.
Calloused fingertips touched beneath her chin and tugged, angling her face up, slowly, by increments, even as her eyes remained lowered, her lashes a soft brush against her cheeks. “Olivia,” he murmured, his voice a low, resonant rumble that penetrated through skin and bone to touch the very core of her.
Her gaze lifted, and the breath caught in her chest at what she saw in his eyes. Ferocity . . . Protectiveness . . . The same look he’d directed at the ton when he all but dared them to speak a word crosswise about his daughter. Except now it was protective of her.
“Not every marriage has to be that way.”
She inhaled a tiny sip of air and composed herself long enough to say, “How would you know? You’ve never been married or even engaged, I daresay.”
“I was engaged once.”
“Oh?” she breathed out, her heart a hammer in her chest.
“To Mina’s mother.”
Olivia’s mouth opened and closed. She’d gone speechless.
“Does that shock you?”
She shook her head for no words seemed to be coming to save her from the truth: she’d believed the gossip. She’d believed Mina the product of a lord’s tawdry liaison with a servant. She hadn’t even questioned it.
But for Jake to have been engaged to Mina’s mother, there was a different story, one less sordid, one more honorable, one in keeping with the man she’d come to know. She should feel ashamed, but she couldn’t. A curious and ineffable joy sprang up from the pit of her belly and shimmered through her veins. High-born or low-born, Jake had loved Mina’s mother.
Why did it matter to her? It confirmed what she’d felt about this man from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. He wasn’t the sort of man who let a woman fall.
It mattered. Too much.
“No wife of mine will ever be subject to such a marriage.”
“Of course,” she began, protesting his words because she must, “you don’t believe so now, but—”
“Never.”
She believed him. And, oh, how she shouldn’t. It occurred to her that she might be lost, that she just might be in lo—
“Here you are!” a sharp voice sliced through the air some distance away.
He blinked, then she blinked, and they each took a step back, snapping out of the trance that had overtaken them. When had their bodies drawn so close?
In unison, they turned to face a rapidly approaching Miss Fox. “I had a devil of a time finding you. You do realize that you’ve strayed off the main path, don’t you?”
That sounded appropriate. But she would keep the sentiment to herself as it didn’t apply to Miss Fox’s meaning. Olivia tucked her shoulder blades together and drew herself up straight, even as awareness of him at her side pulsed through her with every beat of her heart.
A winded Miss Fox drew to a stop a few feet away. “The rabid gooseberry performed quite a number on the posterior area of Miss Markley’s dress, and she had to return directly home in my carriage.”
Jake cleared his throat. “Seems the most prudent course.”
“And as we weren’t finished with our stroll,” Miss Fox continued, “I decided to come back. You two are such delightful and fascinating company.”
Olivia’s head canted to the side. What a curious person Miss Fox was.
“As to my lack of a chaperone,” Miss Fox went on like it was of the slightest concern to her audience, “since we have you here, Lady Olivia, you can play the part.”
Olivia nearly started out of her boots. Chaperone to Jake’s courtship of another woman? Not in an eternity of years.
“Lady Olivia,” Jake cut in, “won’t be accompanying us in that capacity.”
It was all Olivia could do to suppress the sigh of relief that wanted release. Really, though, the cheek of Miss Fox. “Lord St. Alban is correct. I have a round of calls that I must attend, if you will excuse me.”
She stepped away, and Miss Fox said, “But, Lady Olivia, it is too early in the day to pay calls.”
Olivia drew up short, flummoxed. It was time to put an end to this farce. Umbrage that had wanted to rise the instant she’d spotted Miss Fox st
rolling arm in arm with Jake was given its head. “Miss Fox, has it ever occurred to you to mind your own affairs?”
The smug smile froze on the chit’s face, and Olivia felt a mean bit of satisfaction at having hit her mark. She inclined her head, chirped a bright, “Good day,” whirled around, and marched away, her heels a muted crunch on gravel. Several yards down the path, a realization, hard and true and utterly annoying, struck her: she was heading in the wrong direction.
On a deep sigh—would nothing go right today?—she stopped and pivoted. There they stood, observing her like a particularly curious animal at the zoo, Miss Fox’s eyes wide and amused, Jake’s eyebrows drawn together in concern. They looked like a couple. And why shouldn’t they? They were a couple. The thought slid a tiny dagger into her soul. It was wrong that it did, but feelings couldn’t be controlled like actions. Right.
Well, she could do something about herself. She set her feet into motion and focused on a point in the distance well beyond their shoulders. Just as she was about to move past the duo, her eyes darted left and locked onto Jake’s. How still he could be. How serious. How appealing. But the contact was cut when she sailed past and left him behind.
No wife of mine will ever be subject to such a marriage.
Oh, that she didn’t believe him. Such a belief made her feel both warm and wretched. Such a belief allowed the possibility of a different narrative for how marriage could be for a wife.
For Jake’s wife. For Jake’s proper, stainless wife.
It was too late for her to have that sort of marriage. She wasn’t the sort of wife he needed, and she could never be the sort of stepmother his daughter needed.
She strode forward, her pace set at a purposeful clip, and remembered her destination. Queen Street offered a different sort of life, the free life she’d fought so hard to obtain. It would be enough to satisfy her.
It had to be.
Chapter 18
Next day
“It appears, Lord St. Alban,” Mrs. Bloomquist began, “the tide has turned in your favor, and an exception is to be made in the case of your daughter’s admittance to our school.”
Determined not to gloat, Jake nodded a simple affirmative. He towered over the formidable woman, separated by an enormous oak desk that commanded most of her otherwise small, plain office. He’d respectfully declined her offer of a seat.
“This morning”—Mrs. Bloomquist came to her feet and made her way around the imposing desk—“Lady Nicholas Asquith successfully championed your daughter’s cause at the board of directors’ meeting.”
“Lady Nicholas? Not Lady Olivia?”
“Oh, there isn’t much those two disagree on,” the schoolmistress said.
Relief flooded him. Their methods didn’t matter one whit. He almost reached out to shake Mrs. Bloomquist’s hand before he thought better of it. Viscounts didn’t shake hands. “When can Mina begin class?”
“Miss Radclyffe may start tomorrow, if it suits her schedule.”
He detected a kernel of censure in the woman’s voice. “Mrs. Bloomquist, I can assure you that once you’ve met Mina, you will understand how right your”—He placed an ingratiating emphasis on the word—“institution is for her.” He couldn’t help adding, “She will be a credit to it as well.”
Mrs. Bloomquist bobbed a single dubious nod as if she’d heard hundreds of doting parents crow about their exceptional children and had yet to meet one who lived up to the acclaim. “I look forward to meeting your daughter.” She strode to the door and pulled it open, her dismissal of him clear. “Good day, my lord.”
He opened his mouth to reply when a familiar figure hurried past the doorway. He darted around Mrs. Bloomquist, who emitted a flustered gasp at his sudden movement, and peered around the doorjamb, just catching the swish of a woman’s skirts before the front door closed behind her.
Olivia.
“Good day, Mrs. Bloomquist,” he called over his shoulder. He’d intended to bestow a viscountly kiss on the woman’s hand for good measure, but he had no time for that now.
In three steps, he, too, was out the front door and treading a forever slick London sidewalk. His eyes swept up and down the street for the Duke of Arundel’s crest. No sign of it. How had her driver managed to skirt traffic and clear out so quickly? Unless . . .
Jake crossed the street, dodging oncoming traffic, and rounded the same corner from last week. He caught sight of her distinctly nondescript overcoat and bit back a smile of triumph. A few footsteps later it occurred to him that he was following Olivia.
Again. And he shouldn’t be. The Bow Street runner was handling the search for Jiro. But was he really following her to find Jiro? Or was it to see her, to be near her?
He tested the sound of her name on his tongue. Oh-liv-ee-uh. He loved the way it began on a broad O and ended on an exhale. A vulnerability lay within that soft uh. Her name suited her.
Until yesterday, he hadn’t understood how vulnerable and strong she was. She’d entrusted her deepest, darkest secret to him, rousing an intimacy different from what they’d experienced in his bed. The knowledge made his insides sing.
A smile curled about his lips. Her confession only proved that her system wasn’t rid of him. What was the word she’d used? Purged.
Their systems weren’t purged of each other. Far from it. Just this morning, that point had been made abundantly clear to him when the chambermaid had arrived to change his bed sheets. He’d turned her away. Why? Because Olivia’s scent of lavender and sandalwood lingered in his room, and he’d been unable to part with the last trace of her. Yet her scent grew fainter with each passing hour.
He snapped to, his lips assuming their habitual firm line, and exhaled a forceful breath. What was this wretched rot? These were the musings of a lovesick pup.
Only yesterday, he’d been courting a different lady. Miss Fox . . . Anne.
His insides stopped singing.
Ahead, Olivia happened upon a pair of vivacious twins and a scruffy little dog, the three engaged in a boisterous game of tug using a knotted scrap of rope. The twins couldn’t be more than four years old apiece. He kept an eye on the lively trio while Olivia presumably sought out a parent to secure permission to sketch the little group at play. Soon, she returned with a short, three-legged stool and began drawing to her heart’s content.
Which details would attract her artist’s eye? The single lock of hair that curled to the left across one twin’s face while curling to the right across the other’s? The way their identical smiles created identical dimples in their cheeks? The dog dancing to catch the bit of rope just beyond its reach? Had she noticed the quick darting glances between the boys signaling their next move, known only to them? A twin herself, she likely felt a kinship with the pair that few others understood.
Before long, the boys and their dog ended up in a cuddle that turned into naps for all. Olivia collected her materials and resumed her progress down the sidewalk. His feet kicked into motion behind her, and he found his gaze straying to rest on the sway of her derriere.
An unproductive thought popped into his mind: two days ago, she’d been partially clothed. It nagged at him, his haste.
She’d been thoroughly pleasured, that wasn’t in doubt, but he could’ve gone slower. He could’ve controlled the situation better. He could’ve had her naked, stripped of her clothes, layer by layer until nothing but air and his lips kissed her sensitive skin. He could’ve viewed every inch of her, touched every inch of her, gratified every inch of her . . . Once wasn’t enough to purge their systems of one another, even if she refused to admit it.
She didn’t need to say it. He’d seen the knowledge in her eyes yesterday.
With each passing day, she revealed a new facet of herself to him. Like a diamond, she hid her cuts in plain sight behind her sparkle.
Within minutes of first meeting her, he’d noted her depths, but he’d thought an experienced sailor, like himself, would have the ability to skim along her surface. Yet he felt his vessel taking on water, pulling him into her depths, drop by drop. If he kept to his current course, it was only a matter of time before he was entirely submerged.
Yet, the more he learned about her, the more he wanted to sink a little deeper, to discover more, convincing himself all the while that he wasn’t going too far, that he would be able to find his way back to the surface before he drowned in her.
Yesterday’s confession hadn’t helped that problem. It had only fed his growing fascination. She was more than a carnal obsession.
She was principled, brave. At the same time that he wanted Mina’s path in life to be easy and clear, another part of him wanted Mina to be exactly like this woman. She would need to be, no matter how smoothly he paved the way for her.
He exhaled a humorless puff of a laugh. He admired the blasted woman. He was sinking deep, indeed.
Almost too late, he saw that she’d stopped in front of a humble gray door. He ducked around a delivery cart and slipped into the shadow of an abandoned doorway. She knocked and awaited entry, and he marveled at his first impression of her as nothing more than a ton frivolity. The rational side of him wished he could still see her that way. Instead, she’d become a mystery who dared him to solve her, and he couldn’t get enough, reason be damned. She’d become a physical ache in his body. Not since Mina’s mother had he felt this way about a woman.
Reality engulfed him like a cold blast of Arctic air. She, too, had been a physical ache in his body. And look how well that had ended. Disaster. Tragedy. Mina, yes, but heartache and public humiliation, too.
Olivia shifted on her feet and looked on the verge of moving on when the door swung inward and a man of Japanese descent stepped forward into the light. Attired as he was in the garb of an English dandy, it took a moment for recognition to spark and certainty to shoot through Jake. Surely, this was the man called Jiro.
Tempted by the Viscount Page 19