And so they had four days to kill. Lord Francis took them to Kew Gardens and the Tower and St. Paul’s and they spent a few evenings quietly at home. But news of their arrival in town was quick to spread and several hasty invitations were sent by hostesses eager to entertain the newly betrothed couple or curious to see again the long-absent Countess of Clifton.
They chose to attend a soirée at the home of Lady Methuen. Young Donald Methuen was a friend of Lord Francis. Olivia felt apprehensive about attending. It was so very long since she had been in town. She fully expected to be confronted with a roomful of strangers. It was a relief on their arrival to find that there were still some people who remembered her, and who made an effort to include her in a group and draw her into conversation. Sophia and Lord Francis had immediately been whisked away by a group of young people.
It was really quite pleasant, Olivia thought, after an hour had passed. It was good to be back. And she still seemed to have the social skills to cope with a large town gathering. Lord Benson, looking considerably more portly and florid of complexion than when she had known him as a rather handsome rake and gentleman about town, even tried to flirt with her. It was not altogether unpleasant to know that she was still young enough and was still in sufficient good looks to invite flirtation.
If she could only have left after the hour, she thought afterward, she would have been thoroughly charmed by the evening. As it happened, she did not leave, and the evening gave her a sleepless night.
A lady joined the group with which Olivia was currently conversing. Another lady, Mrs. Joanna Shackleton, a friend of Olivia’s during that long-ago Season when they had both made their come-out, took her arm firmly and would have drawn her away. But Olivia merely smiled at her and resisted the pressure on her arm. She was listening to a story being told by Colonel Jenkins.
“Good evening, Mary,” the colonel said when his story was at an end. “You are feeling better?”
“Oh, yes, I thank you,” the lady said. “It was just a slight chill, you know. Nothing to keep me at home for more than a couple of days.”
“James and I were wondering if your literary evening would have to be cancelled,” a lady to Olivia’s left said. “I do hope your recovered health will make that unnecessary, Lady Mornington.”
“Oh, absolutely.” The lady smiled. “I would not cancel those plans for all the chills of a cold winter. It promises to be an interesting evening. Mr. Nicholson is to be there.”
Olivia felt the pressure on her arm being renewed, but she ignored it. The lady was quite different from what she had expected. What had she expected? A tall, voluptuous woman with flaming red hair, she supposed, and scarlet lips. A woman whom one would only have to glance at to know her as a harlot.
In fact Lady Mornington was petite with short dark hair and a refined, quiet manner. She was not at all pretty, and it was not just spite that forced her to such a conclusion, Olivia decided. She was not pretty, though she did have fine intelligent gray eyes.
“Have you all received your invitations?” the lady asked, looking about the group. “If not, it is a dreadful oversight for which you must forgive me.” Her eyes stopped on Olivia even as the pressure on the latter’s arm intensified.
“Olivia,” Joanna said, “there is someone …”
“But I am sorry,” Lady Mornington said, smiling. “I am afraid you are a stranger to me.”
“Oh, the devil!” Colonel Jenkins said. “I just realized.”
“Olivia Bryant,” Olivia said.
“Bryant?” Lady Mornington’s eyebrows rose. “Oh. You are the Countess of Clifton.”
“Yes.”
“Mary,” the Colonel said, “what are you drinking? Let me take you to find a tray.”
“Olivia,” Joanna said, “there is someone …”
“You are here alone?” Lady Mornington asked.
“With my daughter,” Olivia said. “We have come to have her bride clothes made. My husband stayed at Clifton Court.”
“Ah, yes,” the lady said. “I read the notice of the betrothal in the Morning Post. The wedding is to be soon?”
“In a little over two weeks’ time,” Olivia said, “at Clifton. We will be returning there the day after tomorrow.”
Lady Mornington smiled. “This must be an exciting time for you,” she said. “Your daughter is a pretty and charming young lady and took well earlier in the Season, I heard. And Lord Francis Sutton is a gentleman with a good sense of humor. I like him.”
“Yes,” Olivia said. “Marcus and I are pleased with her choice.”
Lady Mornington smiled again and turned back to the colonel. “By all means,” she said, taking his arm, “let us find this tray, Colonel. I am as dry as the Sahara Desert.”
“Olivia, I am so sorry, my dear,” Joanna said, leading her away in the opposite direction. “I tried to save you from that embarrassment. You do know, I assume?”
“That Lady Mornington is Marcus’s mistress?” Olivia said. “Yes.”
“But I would not be worried,” Joanna said. “You are many times lovelier than she is, Olivia, and certainly no older. But men seem to find it necessary to have a chère amie as well as a wife. They are all the same.”
That was another thing she had expected, Olivia thought. She had expected Lady Mornington to be a very young woman.
But the facts did not console her, she found when she was alone that night, tossing and turning on her bed, trying to sleep. If Marc’s mistress had been more as she had expected, she would have been less concerned. The woman would have been obviously nothing more than an object for physical pleasure. But Marc could not have chosen Lady Mornington merely for his bed. There must be far more to their relationship than the physical.
She did not know why the thought should disturb her. Or rather, she pretended not to know. And she pretended not to be disturbed. It did not matter to her, she told herself, what his mistress looked like. Indeed, there was probably a dozen other women with whom he slept but who were not dignified by the title mistress. She did not care.
But the not caring kept her as wide awake as caring would have done. And it was somehow different, she found, imagining what the woman looked like, and actually seeing her and talking with her. That woman, she told herself, picturing Lady Mornington as she had appeared in the Methuen drawing room, had been with Marc for about six years. He had kissed those lips and touched the body countless times. He had slept in her bed probably more times than he had slept in his wife’s.
It did not matter. She did not care.
But at some time before dawn, she got up hastily from bed and vomited into the close stool, retching until her stomach was empty and hurting. And then she lay shivering and crying in bed, telling herself over and over again that she did not care, that it did not matter.
And that it was all her own fault anyway.
THE DAY AFTER Olivia, Sophia, and Lord Francis had left for London, Clifton was empty of all guests except the duke and duchess. Very empty, the earl thought as he rode out late in the morning to pay a promised call on one of his tenants.
He was missing her—them. Somehow, though he had not fully realized it until she left, she had taken charge of most of the wedding preparations. He had thought that his housekeeper and cook were doing the bulk of the planning, but it seemed that Olivia had been guiding them, and without her to run to, they were running to him. And so was Rose, with a hundred different concerns that he supposed she had taken to his wife in the previous week and a half.
He was missing seeing her and hearing her voice. And he was becoming thoroughly annoyed with himself. He had got over her years before, although he had never stopped loving her. He had even been happy, or comfortable at least. He had found the perfect woman in Mary—one who accepted his need for conversation and companionship but did not press other claims on him.
There had been a time—one evening—when their relationship might have developed into something more intimate. But they had both agre
ed, rather shamefaced, when they were already in her bedchamber, that it would be impossible. She still mourned a dearly beloved officer husband killed in Spain; he still loved a wife from whom he was estranged. After that they had been content with a warm friendship, unusual between a man and a woman. And of course it became the common belief that they were lovers. They had always scorned to try to put an end to the rumors.
Mary was the perfect woman for him. He did not need Olivia any longer.
Except that missing her was like a gnawing toothache.
And except that he had meant what he had said to Sophia, that he would not go back to Mary, having seen Olivia again, and having loved her again, though he had not, of course, said that to Sophia.
She was gone for ten days, three longer than any of them had expected when they left. But it had been ambitious to have expected all those clothes to be made within a week, he supposed. In the meantime, early wedding guests began to arrive, mostly family. The duke’s three older sons arrived with their wives and children. The earl’s mother came with her sister from Cornwall and Olivia’s parents from the north of England. Clarence Wickham came, escorting Emma Burnett. Each time a carriage appeared, he expected it to be his own returning from London. Each time he hastened out onto the terrace only to find himself greeting other guests.
But finally they came, late one afternoon when it was raining. He knew this time as soon as he got outside that it really was his carriage. And he felt as if butterflies were dancing in his stomach.
“Hello, sir,” Lord Francis said cheerfully, vaulting out of the carriage as soon as it came to a stop and the door had been opened. “A pea-soup day, would you not agree? But the roads are good hereabouts. No overturned carriages and shrieking ladies or any drama like that.”
The earl shook his hand and turned to hand Sophia out. But young love proved too fast for him. Lord Francis turned and lifted her by the waist.
“Ugh,” she said. “It has not stopped raining all day. Papa, how wonderful to see you. We were afraid that we would not get home today, after all. Is the rain not dreadful? Wait until you see all the clothes I have bought. You will have ten fits. Francis, put me down, do. I shall have bruises at my waist.”
“I thought you might not like to get your feet wet,” he said.
“Better wet feet,” she said, “than have you carry me like this into the hall and be the laughingstock among the footmen. Put me down.”
“As you wish, Soph,” he said, setting her feet on the wet cobbles.
The earl had turned to the carriage, feeling as eager and as timid as a schoolboy. She was wearing a blue dress and pelisse and a straw bonnet decorated with bright flowers. She looked like a little piece of summertime caught in all the gloom of the rain. He smiled at her.
She smiled back and set a hand in his.
“Welcome home, Olivia,” he said. And then he released her hand and imitated his future son-in-law. He took her by the waist and lifted her carefully to the wet ground. “I have missed you.”
“And I you,” she said. “We were away far longer than we had planned. One of the new seamstresses proved not worth her hire, I am afraid, and all sorts of alterations had to be made.”
“No matter,” he said. “You are home and safe now.” And he kissed her warmly on her parted lips.
He was glad that Sophia and Francis were still outside and watching them. She could not realize how deeply from the heart his words had been spoken or how eager he had been for that kiss.
“Yes.” She smiled up at him and took his offered arm. “It feels like heaven to be home again. Does it not, Sophia?”
11
THE DISMAY AT HAVING SO GIVEN HERSELF AWAY AS to glow at him as soon as she set eyes on him; to set her hands eagerly on his shoulders to be lifted to the ground instead of extending one cool hand; to assure him that she had missed him, too; and to raise her face for his kiss—the dismay soon faded. After all, Sophia had been standing there watching them eagerly and for her sake they had agreed to show each other affection.
Besides, as soon as they had all hurried inside out of the rain, noise and near chaos greeted them. Guests had begun to arrive, it seemed, and soon Olivia was in her mother’s arms, and then her father’s. And Marc’s mother was nodding rather stiffly to her from a little distance away. Emma and Clarence were there in the background—the former waiting to hug her, the latter to squeeze her hand and kiss her cheek.
Sophia and Lord Francis were being besieged by his brothers and their wives and by grandparents and even two children inexplicably escaped from the nursery. There was a great deal of laughter and noisy banter.
“So you finally ran him to earth, Sophia,” the duke’s eldest son, Albert, Viscount Melville, said, setting an arm about her shoulders. “We all thought he might keep running from you all his life. But the more fool he if he had. And we might have known you would be more persistent than to allow that.”
“She finally stuck out a slippered foot and brought him down actually, Bertie,” Claude said. “At least that is what I heard. Is it true, Sophia?”
“I heard it a little differently,” Richard said. “I heard that Frank waited until your foot was reaching out to take a step, Sophia, and then deliberately tripped over it.”
There was loud merriment from everyone gathered in the hall.
“Unfair, unfair,” Sophia protested, her cheeks bright with color. “He made me a very pretty offer, did you not, Francis?”
“On one knee,” he said. “It was a great shame to waste such an affecting scene on an empty room, wasn’t it, Soph?”
Olivia felt a hand at her waist. “Emma and Clarence have been impatiently awaiting your return, Olivia,” her husband said, smiling at her friends. “As have I. But we have had a chance to get reacquainted since yesterday afternoon.”
“Is that when you arrived?” Olivia asked, looking at them. “We were away three days longer than we expected. It was very frustrating when we longed to be back home. There is so much yet to do,” she added hastily.
“You must call on me for assistance,” Emma said. “You know that I am never happier than when I am busy, Olivia.”
“I want to hear all about London, Olivia,” Clarence said. “Most especially if it is still in the same place as it used to be. It is an age since I was there last.”
The hand at Olivia’s waist tightened slightly. “If you will excuse us,” he said to her friends. “Have you said hello to Mama and Aunt Clara, Olivia? They arrived the day before yesterday.”
“No,” she said. “Not yet.” And she turned in dread to speak to the dowager Countess of Clifton. They had used to be on friendly terms.
“Well, Mama,” the earl said, “they arrived home safely despite all our worries.” His arm drew his wife closer against his side. “Olivia kept the youngsters in line, it seems.” He looked down and smiled at her.
Olivia was grateful. “How are you, Mother?” she said uncertainly and reached out rather jerkily to kiss her mother-in-law on the cheek. “Aunt Clara? Did you have a good journey? I am sorry I was not here to greet you.” And she was sorry she had spoken the last words. She had not been there to greet them for fourteen years. And indeed fourteen years before, Clifton had not even belonged to Marc.
“I am well, thank you, Olivia,” the dowager said.
“You are in good looks, dear,” Aunt Clara said, kissing Olivia, too. “The years have been kind to you.”
“Thank you,” Olivia said and was thankful when the arm at her waist turned her again.
“Do you remember Francis’s brothers?” the earl asked her. “They have done some growing up since you saw them last.”
“Indeed they have,” she said. “Bertie still has his smile and Claude his cleft chin. You must be Richard. I would never have known you.” She smiled at the tall sandy-haired young man with the small girl in his arms.
“And you look not a day older, ma’am,” Claude said gallantly. “I can remember those times when you we
re constantly pleading with Papa not to be too harsh on Frank. It was understandable that an active young boy would find entertaining your daughter something of a burden, you used to say.”
“And yet his hand never felt one mite the lighter than it did on those occasions when you were not there to intercede for me,” Lord Francis said. “You caused me a great deal of pain in those days, Soph.”
“You have not met our wives, ma’am,” the viscount said. “Allow me to make the introductions.”
Sophia caught her mother’s eye and then looked to her father. She looked entirely happy, Olivia thought.
“I don’t know why we are all standing down here,” the earl said, raising his voice after the introductions had been made, and the two children, one of the viscount’s and one Richard’s, had been identified. “I believe tea was about to be served in the drawing room when we were distracted by the sound of the carriage. Shall we go up?”
“A cup of tea will be most welcome,” Aunt Clara said.
The earl kept an arm loosely about his wife’s waist as they ascended the stairs. “We can release you from your duties at the tea tray this afternoon, Mama,” he said, “now that my wife is home.”
“Olivia will doubtless wish to freshen up after her journey,” the dowager said. “It will be no trouble, Marcus.”
“Then we will wait for her,” he said. “Olivia is never long about these things. Sophia, you had better go up with your mama, too.”
Oh, goodness, Olivia thought, there was a seductive warmth about the atmosphere of Clifton Court—a family atmosphere. And her husband had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the role they had both agreed to before her departure for London. My wife is home. Her feet felt heavy on the second flight of stairs.
“Mama,” Sophia said. “I am frightened. I am so frightened.”
Mary Balogh Page 14