‘Thank you my lord. I am very grateful for your attentions.’
He frowned a little.
‘Why so formal, Livvie? You used to call me Marcus.’
Olivia concentrated upon unfurling her parasol and did not answer immediately.
‘Sir Jolyon spent a good hour with us yesterday, and was quite put out when I told him I was going driving with you today.’
‘He is fairly caught, then. All you have to do is reel him in.’
She gave an uncertain laugh. ‘What an odd expression, he is not a fish.’
‘But you want him to make you an offer, don’t you?’
‘I –yes, of course.’
‘Then a few more smiles, a few kind words and you will have him.’
Olivia sighed. Securing a husband was difficult, even with Marcus helping her. In fact, his presence made everything more complicated.
They did not meet again until the Appleton’s ball. Olivia was wearing a new gown of pale blue embroidered with silver, and her dusky curls were piled on top of her head, one glossy ringlet falling to her shoulder. There was no disguising the admiring glances that came her way.
‘You are looking particularly lovely this evening, Miss Canning.’ Sir Jolyon bowed over her fingers and she watched, fascinated, as a slight dusting of powder fell onto her glove. His hair, she thought, must be very short to accommodate the wig. Unlike Marcus, who wore his own thick hair unpowdered. And the shoulders of his coats unpadded. And –
‘…will that be convenient?’
She looked up, startled.
‘I beg your pardon, Sir Jolyon, what was that?’
He gave her an indulgent smile and squeezed her fingers.
‘I was merely enquiring if you would be at home tomorrow morning.’
She swallowed.
‘Y-yes, of course, sir. I, er, I shall be there.’
‘Good. Now, shall we dance?’
He was going to propose. He would call tomorrow morning and ask for her hand. Olivia felt a tremor of anticipation, but it was more fearful than she had expected.
The dance ended and she made her excuses to sit out the next. She was on her way to find her mother when she saw Marcus in her path.
‘How goes your campaign?’ he murmured.
His blue eyes were dancing with mischief and she tried to ignore the fluttering inside her, like dozens of tiny birds trying to escape.
‘Mama wants me to give more time to Sir Jolyon tonight.’ Somehow she could not bring herself to tell him a proposal was imminent.
‘Quite right too,’ he agreed. ‘But you will spare me one dance, will you not? What shall it be? The minuet?’
When the music struck up she stood with Marcus, enjoying the touch of his hand on hers, meeting his eyes with a shy smile. She would try to remember every moment of this dance with him. After all, if Jolyon did propose tomorrow then she might never dance with Marcus again.
‘Fawcett is watching us,’ he murmured.
She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, as she had been taught.
‘Is he…does he look, jealous?’
‘Not particularly, shall we give him cause?’
She heard the teasing note in his voice. He swept her around him and as she passed he kissed her gloved fingers. It was a flamboyant gesture, carried out with exquisite grace. Her step faltered. The expensive dancing master engaged by her mother had never taught her how to deal with this.
His hand tightened, supporting her. She looked up into his face and was surprised to see he was not laughing, but regarding her intently. She could not look away as they danced out the rest of the minuet. They might have been in an empty room: everything and everyone faded from her view as they circled, passed and saluted each other, caught in a world of their own. When the final notes of the music died away they just stood still, eyes locked.
‘Mine is the next dance, I think.’
Sir Jolyon’s voice brought Olivia to her senses. With a final glance at Marcus she took Jolyon’s outstretched hand and turned away.
She did not see Marcus again until much later. Jolyon was keeping her close, he even led her to a secluded alcove and whispered endearments into her ear, but the attentions she had craved for so long now seemed to stifle her. At the first opportunity she slipped away. The ballroom was crowded and even with the windows thrown wide it was too warm for comfort.
Olivia stepped onto the narrow terrace. The air was cool, but heavy clouds blotted out the stars.
‘Has Fawcett proposed to you?’
She heard Marcus’s voice behind her.
‘No. Not yet.’
‘Your plan to make him jealous is not working.’
‘No, you are wrong.’ She frowned a little at his harsh tone. ‘He was certainly put out after we had danced together.’
‘But not enough to make him sure of you. Perhaps we should give him a little nudge.’
He pulled her to him. Olivia gasped but even as she opened her mouth in surprise he kissed her, capturing her lips and sending a shock like a lightning bolt through her body. For a moment she remained rigid, then her very bones seemed to melt and she leaned against him, revelling in his kiss. He held her close, pinning her to him and when he raised his head his shadow enveloped her like a cloak. He rested his cheek against her hair.
‘Oh Livvie, I beg your pardon. I never meant –’
‘What in heaven’s name is going on?’
Sir Jolyon’s outraged utterance made them jump apart.
‘Oh, Lord.’ Marcus stepped forward, trying to shield Olivia. ‘Fawcett, I –’
‘Name your friends, sir!’
Marcus heard the horrified gasp behind him and tried to make amends. ‘I will apologise wholeheartedly for what has just happened –’
‘No, my lord, I demand satisfaction.’
Olivia stepped forward. ‘Sir Jolyon, you cannot mean to fight.’
‘I do, and I mean to kill this blackguard!’
‘No, no.’ With a sob she clutched at Jolyon’s arm. ‘It was all a mistake.’
He put his hand over hers.
‘You are far too innocent to realise what this –this reprobate was trying to do! Go in now, Miss Canning, and leave me to settle this.’
‘Yes, go away, Olivia. This is no place for you.’
The burning reproach in her look cut through Marcus like a knife, but he dare not consider that yet. The music and noise from the ballroom had so far prevented the altercation from attracting any attention and he was desperate to get her away.
When she was gone he addressed Sir Jolyon again. ‘I realise it looks bad, Fawcett, but –’
‘Curse you, Geringham, I will have satisfaction for this night’s work. Now will you name your friends, or shall I brand you coward as well as libertine?’
No one took any notice of Olivia as she stepped in from the terrace. This was all her fault. Everything had gone horribly wrong. Marcus had not meant to kiss her, but it had happened, and now he would have to fight Sir Jolyon. It was such a silly quarrel, perhaps they would not fight.
She waited and watched until she saw Marcus step back into the room. As if he felt her eyes upon him he looked directly at her. She would have run to him but he frowned at her and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head before striding out of the room. A few minutes later Jolyon appeared. He stood by the window, shaking out his ruffles. She went to him.
‘Sir Jolyon, please tell me –’
He smiled at her. ‘There is nothing to worry your little head about, madam. Lord Geringham will not trouble you again.’
‘Will, will you f-fight him?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I will have satisfaction.’
She grew pale. ‘But he is a crack shot. He is considered deadly with pistols…’
His smile was condescending. ‘Lord Geringham has already admitted to me that he is in the wrong. I therefore expect him to delope when we meet on Saturday.’
Olivia’s
hand crept to her cheek. ‘Then he might be killed.’
‘No, no, I only mean to wing him,’ replied Jolyon. ‘Although knowing how dashed unreliable duelling pistols can be, I suppose I must aim for the heart.’
She caught his arm. ‘Oh no, no, Sir Jolyon. Please, I beg you, do not go through with this.’
‘Calm yourself, Miss Canning, there is no danger to me, I assure you. Now, I must leave you –arrangements to make. I need a second, and a surgeon to come to Kingsdown. I shall call on you tomorrow –’
‘I would rather you did not,’ she cried.
He patted her hands. ‘No, you are right. Better we put off our meeting until you can be assured of my safety. Such sensibility does you credit, Miss Canning.’
With another bow he was gone. Miserably Olivia went in search of her mother, all pleasure in the evening at an end.
A cold mist filled the valleys around Kingsdown and hung over Cooper’s field. Marcus was there early, together with Amos Johnson, his second. As he took out his watch to check the time he heard a carriage rattling along the lane.
Sir Jolyon jumped out. He was wearing an unusually plain coat and was followed by two soberly dressed gentlemen. One had a rosewood box, which undoubtedly contained the duelling pistols. The other carried a leather bag of the type used by medical men. Marcus supposed he was the surgeon.
The two seconds conferred for a moment until Sir Jolyon interrupted them. ‘There is not the slightest hope of reconciliation. Let us get on with it!’
The duelling pistols were examined. The craftsmanship was excellent and Marcus suspected they would be very accurate. Not that he intended to find out, he would be firing into the air. He had no wish to put a bullet into Livvie’s future husband.
As he took his place opposite Sir Jolyon he wondered how good a shot his opponent might be. Not that it mattered. He had succumbed to the temptation to kiss Olivia and he must now face the consequences. He thought again of those few moments with Olivia in his arms. She had felt so good there, so right. He would never regret that.
‘If you are ready, gentlemen.’
He took a firmer grip of the pistol and faced his opponent, waiting for the signal to fire.
It never came.
There was the thunder of hoofs and a lone figure came galloping through the mist.
‘Away, away,’ cried the rider, his voice muffled by the scarf wound around his face. ‘You’ve been discovered, the constable is even now on his way!’
The surgeon ran to the carriage but the seconds stood irresolute.
‘What?’ demanded Sir Jolyon wrathfully. ‘Who has laid information against us?’
The rider waved his crop. He was a menacing figure, riding out of the mist with his hat pulled low and his greatcoat billowing about him. He shouted gruffly, ‘Depart now, sirs, while there’s still time!’
Marcus frowned.
Sir Jolyon cursed. ‘We had best go. I shall send my man to call upon you again, Geringham.’
‘Aye, do.’ Marcus handed his pistol to Sir Jolyon’s second, who put it hastily into the box and ran off. ‘Fawcett, will you take Johnson back to Bath with you? I want to have a word with our friend here.’ Marcus pushed his second towards Sir Jolyon’s coach before hailing the unknown rider. ‘You sir, how did the magistrates learn of this meeting?’
‘No idea, m’lord. I must go –’
‘Oh no you don’t.’ Marcus leapt forward, catching the reins. ‘I am curious to see who would put themselves to the trouble of warning us. Here, I’ll help you down.’
Ignoring the muffled protests he dragged the rider out of the saddle. ‘You can be easy, the others have gone,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Let’s have a look at you.’
He pushed aside the battered tricorne to expose a riot of dusky curls. ‘As I thought. Well, brat, what do you have to say for yourself?’
Olivia stopped struggling and looked at him, her grey eyes wary. ‘Are you very angry with me?’
‘It is a very serious point of honour to disrupt a duel.’
‘I have not informed the authorities, I merely said that to make you stop.’
‘And you succeeded. How did you know where to find us?’
‘Sir Jolyon told me.’
‘He what?’
‘I don’t think he meant to do so.’
‘What a fool,’ exclaimed Marcus. ‘Does he not know better than to inform all and sundry of the affair?’
‘I am not all and sundry,’ she fired up. ‘And I did not want anyone dying for my sake. Jolyon said you would fire into the air, but I couldn’t bear it if he shot you.’
‘So you concocted this little charade.’
‘Yes.’
‘And where did you get the clothes?’
‘They belong to James. He left them on his last visit.’
He looked at her, noting the overlong sleeves and the way the coat and riding jacket hung loosely about her slender frame. His lips twitched.
‘Well, I am certainly not letting you ride back into Bath dressed like that. You will come with me.’
‘I cannot go in a closed carriage with you,’ she objected. ‘Sir Jolyon –’
‘I think you should forget about Fawcett.’
‘But I cannot,’ she cried. ‘Mama has worked so hard to bring him to the point, and I know he is going to propose, although I am sure he will be very angry with me –’
‘You cannot marry a man who is angry with you over every little scrape.’
She hung her head. ‘I will try to do better and make him a good wife.’
He said gently, ‘Fawcett is not the man for you, Livvie.’
‘But it is a very good match, Mama says so. He is a knight, you see –’
‘Do you think your mama would object if you married a baron rather than a knight?’
Startled eyes flew to his face.
‘Oh no, no, Marcus. I know I asked for your help, and you have been very good, but I cannot ask you to s-sacrifice yourself.’
He smiled down at her.
‘Darling Livvie, I have no intention of sacrificing myself. I knew as soon as I came to Bath that Fawcett was not the man for you, but it was not until we danced together the other night that I realised why.’ He pulled her closer, ignoring the disreputable ill-fitting clothes. ‘I want you for myself.’
Her eyes widened. ‘B-but you c-can’t,’ she stammered, tears glistening on her lashes. ‘I am a nuisance and, and a tiresome brat. You have often said so. And I have embroiled you in the most horrendous scrape. Sir Jolyon is still going to fight you.’
‘I don’t think he will once it is known we are to be married.’
‘No, no,’ she cried, distressed. ‘You are just being kind.’
‘I am not being in the least bit kind,’ he retorted. ‘I need someone to protect me from all those matchmaking mothers in town. Marriage to you will put me forever beyond their reach.’
Firmly he pushed her into the carriage.
‘But you do not want to marry me,’ she wailed as the door was closed upon them. ‘You d-do not l-love me!’
‘You are wrong in both cases. I am determined to wed you, my dearest love, and there is only one thing that can prevent it.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her round to face him. ‘If you tell me that you cannot love me.’
The tears that had glistened on her lashes now spilled over.
‘Of c-course I love you, Marcus. I have always loved you, ever since I fell out of the tree and you carried me home.’ She put her hand up to his cheek, saying tenderly, ‘Dear Marcus, you are always rescuing me.’
‘Considering you have just saved me from fighting a most improvident duel, I think many would consider that you have rescued me.’
‘So I have,’ she replied, much struck. ‘Do, do you think then, that we would make a good match, Marcus?’
‘Yes, my love,’ he said, gathering her to him again. ‘I think we will make a very good match.’
Holiday Romance
Gilli Allan
GILLI ALLAN started to write in childhood, a hobby only abandoned when real life supplanted the fiction. Gilli didn’t go to Oxbridge, but after just enough exam passes to squeak in, she attended Croydon Art College.
She didn’t work on any of the broadsheets, in publishing or television. Instead she was a shop assistant, a beauty consultant and a barmaid before landing her dream job as an illustrator in advertising. It was only when she was at home with her young son that Gilli began writing seriously.
Gilli has been a school governor, a contributor to local newspapers, and a driving force behind the community shop in her Gloucestershire village. Still a keen artist, Gilli has recently produced the illustrations for the children’s book about Harald Hardrada, (provisionally called The Tale of King Harald –The Last Viking Adventure). Gilli has had five novels published. Her latest is Fly Or Fall.
Holiday Romance
It was the smell that took her back. The faint coconut fragrance of the lotion she’d smoothed onto her skin, mixed with something resiny and aromatic carried on the warm air. What was it that made this part of the world, the countries encircling the Mediterranean Sea, smell so distinctive?
Framed by the trees and the headland on one side and the terracotta roofs of the small town on the other, the sea was darkening to a violet blue. The sky, which had been clear all day, was now feathered with apricot clouds. She ran her hands down over her body, feeling the corrugations of her ribs, under her camisole. Still there, she thought, with a shiver of self-satisfaction, of excitement, of potential. I’ve got my body back…the body I had then.
The background hiss of running water stopped.
‘I’m going out,’ she called into the room behind her.
His answer echoed from the bathroom. ‘I was thinking of trying that place at the end of the quay, the one under the canopy of vines. But it’s early yet. Plenty of time.’
She turned and stepped back from the balcony into the living room of the apartment. ‘I want to go out now. I’ve finished all the books I brought with me. I need to find something new to read.’
Truly, Madly, Deeply Page 34