“Whatever you require, Your Grace.”
“Speaking of marriage”—She squeezed his arm—“how goes your courtship of Miss Fox?”
“We found that we don’t suit,” he replied in a carefully neutral tone.
“Oh? I’m so rarely wrong about that sort of thing. Take Nathaniel and me, for instance.”
“Nathaniel?”
“The Duke of Arundel, of course.”
Jake’s brow lifted, and a smile worthy of the Sphinx softened the Dowager’s features. He intuited in an instant the subject of tonight’s announcement. “May I be the first to congratulate you?”
“I accept your congratulation, my dear, but you are not the first to congratulate me. I have congratulated myself aplenty.” Her smile transformed into one triumphant and not a little self-satisfied. “The Duke of Arundel is quite a catch. And I know of, at least, one other lady who’d set her cap at him. But I landed him.”
No one could accuse the Dowager of false humility.
She began twirling a string of pearls with her free hand, a signal that she was about to state her business. “Now, let us discuss your marriage prospects. Even if Miss Fox won’t do, you’ve made a splash this Season. If you play your hand capably, you could be married by Michaelmas, or, at the very least, engaged.”
“I shall take that under advisement.”
“What sort of bride would you like?” The Dowager pointed in the direction of a girl dressed in pale pink muslin. “One who blushes for the first year of your marriage?”
A note of alarm clanged inside Jake’s head. “I’m not certain Mina would be well-served by a mother so near her own age.”
“You’re seeking an older woman?” A tiny frown of concentration pulled at the Dowager’s mouth. “Not many men in your position show that sort of fortitude when presented the array of possibilities that lie at your hand.”
A snort escaped him. It wasn’t fortitude guiding his choice of wife, but the Dowager needn’t know that. What he felt for Lady Olivia Montfort had naught to do with strength of character. It was its very opposite, in fact.
Weakness . . . Powerlessness . . . Something deeper, too . . . Something they must discuss tonight, privately, away from the prying, knowing eyes of the ton.
“How about”—The Dowager pointed toward a lady seated next to the punch bowl, blissfully unaware of their scrutiny—“a lady who has been on the shelf for a few years?” Her fingers stopped mid-twirl. “I know what you’re thinking, St. Alban, and you couldn’t be further from the truth. Certain ladies are like fine wines, and the shelf only enhances their flavor. Take my dear friend, Miss Dunfrey, never married, poor dear, but the details that woman knows . . .” the Dowager trailed off, her countenance taking on a dreamy cast. She gave her head a shake and resumed twirling her pearls. “Suffice it to say, she let me in on a few secrets the Duke will appreciate on our wedding night.”
Jake fought to keep his gaze expressionless and trained ahead of him, all gentlemanly concern for the safety of their progress. He wouldn’t betray a thought on that particular matter, not even to himself.
“Or how about a respectable widow?” the Dowager persisted. “One with children of her own, but safely within childbearing years, of course. The viscountcy must be secured, St. Alban. Now don’t get the wrong end of the stick. I don’t begrudge you the fact that the viscountcy fell out of my branch of the family tree. I made my peace with that turn of events a year ago. But if you die heirless, the title will revert to the Crown. Not a felicitous state of affairs, not in the least.”
He nodded, pretending to seriously consider the matter. In truth, he didn’t give a fig about the security of the viscountcy. However, a widow did coincide precisely with his intentions. Well, a former widow. An outright unrespectable, former widow.
“Ah, here we are,” said the Dowager, her tone grown soft and very unlike itself. Jake glanced up to find they were approaching the Duke. “Your Grace, St. Alban and I are discussing his prospects for an advantageous marriage, and we are agreed that a respectable widow is exactly what he needs.”
Jake couldn’t help noticing that wives and husbands were nothing more or less to the Dowager than commodities on the marriage market. A wife was what he needed, not who he needed.
Not so very long ago, he’d been in agreement with her. No longer. A wife must be more than a thing. She was a she, a person. A person with no value on the open market as she would be invaluable . . . priceless. Only one woman lived up to that standard.
The Duke’s piercing blue gaze lit upon Jake and turned hard and assessing. “A widow, you say? I think I can see exactly the sort of widow Lord St. Alban wants.”
Jake held his peace. The word want could mean lacking. It might have even sounded that way to the Dowager, but he caught the Duke’s true meaning. The man was speaking of desire. Specifically, Jake’s desire for Olivia.
The Dowager clapped her hands together and held them clasped before her. “Now that’s settled, whispers are floating about that the champagne may be running dry, and I must see to its resolution. There is no happiness at a ball where there is no champagne.”
With that, the Dowager flounced away and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Jake and the Duke alone.
“Lady Olivia,” the Duke began in a voice that wouldn’t carry beyond them, “may not be my daughter by blood, but she is my daughter in here.” He jabbed his thumb into his chest just above his heart.
“I understand.” More than the Duke could possibly know.
“And her interests will ever be mine.”
Jake understood what the Duke needed to hear. “I hope to make them mine, as well, Your Grace.”
The Duke nodded once in approval, and muscles that Jake hadn’t realized were tensed relaxed in relief. He watched the Duke follow his future duchess at his own ducal pace and vanish into the crowd.
A waiter appeared at his side with libation, but he shook his head. Champagne was all well and good, but he found himself in need of a more substantial drink. A drink conducive to plotting out one’s plan for the evening. In short, he needed whiskey.
He located a stocked sidebar and poured himself a finger of the silky, amber liquid, downing it in a single, grateful gulp. He and Olivia were known by the Duke. And he’d secured the Duke’s approval. Two hurdles cleared, but ultimately meaningless if he didn’t secure Olivia’s as well. Speaking of Olivia . . .
His gaze cut across dancing couples sweeping gracefully atop glistening parquet floors, certain he would find her amongst their number. He didn’t.
He began singling out small groups of ladies scattered about the periphery of the dance floor, engaging in lively conversations, again certain he would find her amongst their number. Again, he didn’t.
His brow knit in confusion, and his search expanded toward the outer edges of the room, over the old, the infirm, the spinster, and the wallflower, certain he would not find her amongst their number . . . He did.
There stood Olivia, her back pressed against a wall, her eyes following the dancers. He wasn’t certain if it was the atmosphere of the ball—enthusiastic violins singing the rhythms of a mazurka; golden light filtering through chandeliers vibrating alongside the hum of music and crowd; fashionable bodies radiating the excitement and tipsy joy that only a ball could induce—but she was part of it and above it all at once.
Clad in a distinctly unvirginal ivory gown of near-transparent silk shot through with threads of gold, light and music swirled, casting her as the goddess of the ball, its Aphrodite. And like a goddess, she stood apart, alone. Yet alone didn’t quite capture it.
Olivia looked lonely.
Comprehension of her place along her little spot of wall hit Jake all at once. Amongst the old, the infirm, the spinster, and the wallflower, she was the divorcée, equally odious to
polite Society. Protectiveness and outrage warred inside him until his blood coursed hot and fast through his veins.
Olivia should be dancing.
Englishmen were a lot of spineless cowards if they couldn’t traverse the treacherous distance of a ballroom floor to ask the crowning jewel of this ball to dance. No woman in this room—nay, in all of London—was her equal. She was a diamond cast before swine.
This couldn’t stand. His feet moved forward. Though she may resist, he would coax her onto the dance floor to take her rightful place, and they would stand before this lot, united.
Before this night was through, he and Olivia would be known, properly.
Chapter 25
Olivia’s lips ached.
Blithe social smiles held for hours on end tended to have that effect on the muscles of one’s face. Yet soldier on she would, for this was the Duke’s ball, a wild success, judging by the number of luminaries populating the room. Was that the Duke of Wellington leading Mrs. Arbuthnot onto the dance floor? Those two couldn’t help but invite scandal.
She tapped bored fingers against her thigh, but remained glued to her spot of wall. For the last decade, she’d played default hostess at the Duke’s gatherings, but not tonight. On this occasion, nothing was required of her. The moment the Dowager had arrived, her part had become entirely superfluous. The woman had issued a series of commands to the staff and seized control of the room.
Really, there was nothing for Olivia to do but stand aside and observe, which wasn’t the worst thing. Really.
After all, it was impossible to be indifferent to the thrum of exhilaration whirring around the ballroom. The guests understood why they were here: to witness the engagement of the Duke of Arundel to the Dowager Duchess of Dalrymple. It mattered not that the marriage would be the second for both bride and groom. The union of two grand families generated excitement and reinforced the rightness of their enclosed world.
She was happy for the Duke, truly she was.
Across the cavernous room filled with sparkling diamonds and eyes to match, she watched for him. A few minutes ago, she’d left Lucy with a newly arrived Miss Radclyffe, so she knew he was here. The man who said words like, We’ve only scraped the surface of our beginning.
She exhaled a clearing breath. He’d been absolutely and utterly wrong: he and she were finished. Finished? That wasn’t correct. They never were. They would have had to have begun to be finished. Except . . .
Hadn’t they begun something? Was he so absolutely and utterly wrong?
Placid, social smile affixed to her lips, she snatched a glass of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and gazed across the crowd before closing her eyes and allowing the music to seep into her at the cellular level. It really was lovely. One-two-three, one-two-three . . . The human body was meant to move in time to such a rhythm.
Of a sudden, her feet longed to swirl around the ballroom. She settled for tapping out the rhythm with her fingers against the glass. Was this how spinsters and confirmed widows did it? Tapping out rhythms with fingertips and feet hidden by skirts as they sat virtuously by the wayside. Was this her future?
Her eyes flew open. She might need another glass of champagne to brave the thought further.
Yet the thought refused to wait. When she’d petitioned the House of Lords to set aside her marriage, this was the fate she’d carved out for herself, forever to be on the periphery of events, but never in the stream of them. She’d known that freedom would have its price. Tonight, she was beginning to understand how Society would exact payment in the years to come.
Yes, another glass of champagne would be necessary.
A voice, sharp and vulpine, cut into her thoughts. “Lady Olivia, may I congratulate you on the Duke of Arundel’s impending nuptials?”
Olivia’s eyes startled left and found Miss Fox at her side. She nodded and kept her silence, unable to trust herself to discuss nuptials with Jake’s future bride.
“I now understand your need for discretion a few days ago,” the chit continued. “Might this marriage shift your position in the Duke’s household?”
Olivia felt her mouth start to gape open and snapped it shut, clenching her teeth together. The cheek of Miss Fox.
“Unless, of course,” Miss Fox added slyly, “you have other plans.”
She was referring to the haikus, Olivia knew it. “Miss Fox, you mustn’t rely on gossip for your facts. How surprising that you read the London Diary.”
Miss Fox’s gaze shifted toward the dance floor. “Something like that.”
Emboldened, Olivia said, “Of course, soon your own wedding banns will be read.” She was being imprudent, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Miss Fox never failed to provoke her.
A tight, knowing smile hinted about Miss Fox’s mouth. “You needn’t fear that particular outcome, Lady Olivia. I shan’t be marrying Lord St. Alban.”
“That is rather a surprise,” she said, somehow managing to suppress the lightning strike of joy that bolted through every cell in her body.
Yet it changed nothing. Mina needed a proper stepmother.
Miss Fox’s brow lifted. “Is it? I would think it rather obvious that we don’t suit. The man is a thoroughbred stallion to my one-eyed cart pony.”
Startled by Miss Fox’s words, spoken with such clarity and confidence in their truth, Olivia looked at the other woman, really looked at her. The chit was of a height with Olivia, but slighter, airier in some way, as if a strong wind could blow her off a cliff. While some might deem her features unremarkable, the more discerning would see finely wrought bones beneath translucent, milk-pale skin that a Michelangelo marble would envy.
“Miss Fox, you speak too ill of yourself. One would be a fool to miss your delicate beauty.”
A blush the soft pink of a spring rosebud stained Miss Fox’s cheeks. The chit had the prettiest blush Olivia had ever seen. Still, she stared ahead, clearly unused to flattery of this sort.
“Flashy beauty isn’t the only sort,” Olivia continued.
“No?” Miss Fox asked, notes of her familiar acerbic tone returned. She gestured toward the dance floor. “It does seem to arrest people in their tracks, though, doesn’t it?”
Olivia glanced across mahogany buffed to a mirror shine and caught sight of a familiar figure. Mariana. A relieved smile found its way to her lips. This night wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Then she remembered the woman at her side. “Mariana does manage to attract a few eyes,” she conceded.
In parallel, Olivia and Miss Fox watched the string quartet strike up a waltz and Nick appear at Mariana’s side. Mariana didn’t light up at the sight of her beloved in the way of some women with a wide, glorious smile. Instead, a radiant blush softened her cheek, and the heat of her gaze increased tenfold.
“She does love him rather a lot, doesn’t she?” Miss Fox asked, her tone rhetorical. It was obvious to anyone with eyes.
Nick took Mariana’s hand, and from across the room Olivia felt the electricity of that touch. Miss Fox must, too. Mariana knew the secrets of that magnificent man, and he knew the secrets of her. He led her into the stream of the waltz, and they were swept away in its current.
A crystalline memory of their first Season came to Olivia. While Olivia had pursued Percy, a boy full of light and near her own age, Mariana had abstained from giving herself over to London’s entertainments. It wasn’t until a year later that Olivia understood why: Mariana had been waiting for the return of the elusive Lord Nicholas Asquith from the Continent, a man the polar opposite of Percy. Experienced. Worldly. Opaque. Where Percy was a boy, Nick was a man.
“Just look at the way he gazes upon her,” Miss Fox said. “They do make one feel like an intruder for watching. But . . .” Her voice fell away.
“Just try not watching,” Olivia finished for her, for
ging an unexpected kinship between them. She might like this Miss Fox, fellow intruder.
“Right. They’re just so . . . so . . .” Miss Fox said, her mouth twisted to the side in search of the right word.
“Perfect,” Olivia said.
“Perfect,” Miss Fox agreed. “They have what everyone wants.”
Yearning, fierce and pure, shot through Olivia, threatening to unravel her thread by thread until nothing remained but the raw, quivering core of this longing. Miss Fox’s words were the simple and absolute truth. She wanted what Nick and Mariana had. Wanted it so bad, she could taste it. It tasted of . . . Jake.
If she was being honest with herself, she longed for a different sort of freedom from the one she’d fought so long and hard to obtain. She longed for the freedom to gaze upon Jake the way Mariana gazed upon Nick. To claim him in front of the ton for a single dance as hers . . . As hers?
She blinked, once, twice, and snapped to. He wasn’t the man for her. And she wasn’t the woman for him. They’d made those facts very clear to each other.
Another tray littered with bubbly champagne appeared to her right, tempting her with its happy dance. She found her own glass empty—when had that happened?—and traded it for a full. She took one . . . two . . . three . . . whoo! . . . bracing gulps. The bubbles effervesced all the way up to the tippy top of her head, and she felt lighter, floatier, even if she didn’t feel precisely better.
“They waltz as if no one else in the world matters,” Miss Fox said.
“Mm-hmm,” Olivia assented around the lump in her throat.
There was a proper way of dancing the waltz that involved distancing oneself from one’s partner, back held straight and rigid, arms stiff and unyielding, eyes averted and aloof. It was entirely possible to remain separate from one’s dance partner, both in body and spirit, during a waltz, if one put enough effort into it. If one cared to put enough effort into it.
Tempted by the Viscount Page 25