by The Rival
Another two hours had passed. Susan had returned to the receiving line after a brief bout of tears in the privacy of an upstairs bedchamber, where Olivia had comforted her and insisted, strongly, that De Vere was not a beast. But Susan was discomfited and stubbornly determined to believe the worst. “People are talking about his having murdered his brother, I have heard them whispering while waiting on the queue, over and over again,” she had wailed. “No one has forgotten anything. Now I am involved in a scandal that should have died years ago!”
Olivia sighed, standing alone by one wall in the vast ballroom, where many couples were dancing; hundreds of other guests congregated on the perimeter of the room, chatting and laughing as they sipped champagne and ratafia. Earlier she had seen stunning buffets laid out in the dining room, where other guests lingered and mingled, and the game room and library were crowded, too. Olivia had chosen to remain in the ballroom, however, a distinct wallflower, because she wanted to keep an eye upon Susan.
But it was no longer necessary. Susan stood across the way with her parents, chatting with half a dozen guests. She was actually smiling and enjoying herself. But the reason for her improved mood was clear. De Vere stood some feet apart from them, clearly keeping himself at a distance, his hands in the pockets of his breeches, obviously bored and disinterested in the fête and his fiancée. Against her wishes, Olivia’s heart went out to him. How alone he seemed. How alone and how lonely.
She realized reluctantly that he and she had more in common than not. Too well, she knew what the stares and whispers were like. The pointed fingers, the nasty comments, the snickers and being called names.
She did not want to remember her own childhood, just as she did not want to see through the facade of boredom and disinterest De Vere assumed. He was hurt. As she had been hurt.
He had suddenly turned his back on the Laytons. Olivia shrank against the wall, not wanting him to see her. As there were probably three or four hundred guests in the ballroom, she did not think hiding from his view an impossible task, even in the silver gown she wore. But, to her amazement, before he turned to leave the room, he gave her a direct glance. He had known precisely where she was all this time. Had he been aware of her watching him, too?
He left, striding up the short set of steps leading into the hallway. Olivia’s heart beat hard.
Do not follow him, she told herself. Do not get any more involved than you already are!
But there was no denying that he was a compelling man. She had never been acquainted until now with a man even remotely like him. She did not know why he fascinated her, why even now she wished to go after him and speak with him. She reminded herself that he was marrying Susan, her new, sweet, young friend.
She must return to the sanctuary of Ashburnham. Arlen would probably be thrilled to have her leave town.
Her mind was made up. It was the only sane thing to do. She felt a distinct sense of relief—she would leave the city tomorrow. She also felt a distinct sense of loss, which was absurd.
Olivia closed her eyes, hoping to regain her wits and composure. When she opened them she saw a vaguely familiar older couple not far from where she stood, and she froze.
Her heart beat hard, wildly.
She clutched the folds of her gown, telling herself that it was not the earl and the countess of Oldham whom she now stared at—that the couple were not her father and mother. It had been nine years. She could be mistaking them. Olivia was trembling.
But he was tall and thin as he had always been, clad now in an embroidered velvet frock coat and sateen breeches, and she had always been short and stout and was now, nine years later, quite plump. Dear God, it was the earl and his wife, and they had yet to see her. The earl was conversing with some younger macaroni, her mother listening with a barely veiled look of boredom. Her heart continued to drum. She was paralyzed.
Then she lifted her skirts and moved purposefully forward, steeling herself for she knew not what. The countess saw her first. Her eyes widened, her rouged mouth opened and formed an O. Then the earl turned, saw her, and stared. He had paled, and both bushy gray brows were raised.
Olivia pasted a smile on her face and curtsied. “Father. Mother. What a pleasant surprise.”
Her parents regarded her as if she were an absolute stranger. An endless moment passed. Clearly they were so stunned by her presence that all words of greeting failed them. Olivia said, far too swiftly, “It is I, Olivia.”
“Well,” the earl said, strained. He coughed. “How do. I thought you kept yourself in the country.” And he drained his champagne.
Olivia looked from his dark eyes, which were avoiding hers, to her mother’s equally dark but impenetrable gaze and felt all of the ancient hurt again—she was reduced, in that loveless moment, to being a child of six or seven years old. “Usually I do,” she said huskily, “but I am a friend of the Laytons’.”
“How odd,” the countess-said. “Sir John hardly has a reputable friend in the ton, but then, he was a brewer, was he not?” She sniffed disdainfully. “We, of course, have come only because of Stanhope.” She stared. “But then, you were always an odd one, befriending beggars and strays, wandering about with your solitary ways, were you not?”
Olivia opened her fan and used it to cool her feverish cheeks. “Yes, Mother, I was always odd.” She knew what her mother truly referred to was her gift of sight.
“We have seen Arlen, you know. But then, we see him about from time to time, as he is usually in town,” she continued. “He never mentions you or the girl.”
Her fan moved more swiftly, but the cool air caressing her face did not help. “The girl,” she said somewhat woodenly. “Your granddaughter. Her name is Hannah.”
“Oh, really?” The countess of Oldham shrugged. “I suppose you should bring her to Oldham House sometime for a visit.”
“Yes,” Olivia said, “I will.” Her smile felt like it would crack at any moment. Her words were a lie. The pounding of her heart had become deafening in her own ears.
“Well,” the earl said, and he coughed. He continued to avoid looking at her, his eyes darting about. “We must mingle, you know. Many friends here and such.” He nodded curtly and turned to go, his wife with him.
Tears filled Olivia’s eyes, and she hated herself for being such a fool. “She is like me, you know,” she said to their backs, far too loudly.
They froze.
“Odd,” she said. “She is odd like me.”
The countess shot her a wide-eyed, hateful look over her shoulder, and the next thing Olivia knew, they were both hurrying away, as fast as their legs would carry them, into the crowd. It swallowed them up.
Olivia closed her fan and used two fingertips to brush her eyes, regretting now that she had approached her parents, and even more regretting that last foolish outburst. But she was undone. Once again, her parents had managed to fling daggers into her heart. She turned, knowing she must have fresh air or succumb to the vapors.
A hand caught her by the arm, halting her in her tracks. “But we have yet to chat, Olivia,” a familiar, too silky voice said.
Olivia faced Elizabeth. “You startled me,” she said, hoping she was not flushed and teary-eyed.
“Indeed I did. You were engrossed.” Elizabeth’s smile was pleasant, her gaze fixed on Olivia. “Was that not the earl of Oldham and his wife?”
Olivia knew her color increased. “Yes.” Speech eluded her.
“Hmm. How long has it been since you have seen them?” Elizabeth mused.
Olivia regarded her, knowing that Elizabeth knew her parents had practically disowned her upon the eve of her wedding. “It has been some time,” she finally said. She turned to leave, but Elizabeth fell into step with her, fluttering her fan.
“So what do you think of the illustrious couple we are honoring this night?” Her tone was amused.
“I hardly know what you expect me to say.” Olivia paused beside a pillar, using her own fan to shield her expression from her s
ister-in-law.
Elizabeth shrugged far too gracefully. “Miss Layton is a bore. How long will she amuse a man like Caedmon?”
“I have no idea,” Olivia said far too stiffly. “And marriages are hardly made for the sake of entertainment.”
“Really?” Elizabeth’s slashing black brows lifted. “A marriage can be very entertaining, you know. Oh, I beg your pardon. You would not know—being as you seclude yourself in the country.”
Olivia did not know what Elizabeth wanted, but she sensed a deadly barb was to come. “I must excuse myself, I am overly fatigued,” she said.
“Perhaps ogling Caedmon is tiresome work.” Elizabeth laughed, halting Olivia in her tracks.
Olivia faced her, dread cresting within her. “I fail to find any humor in your statement,” she said, feeling ill. She had been ogling De Vere. And the last person she wished to notice her insane attraction for the man was the marchioness of Houghton.
Elizabeth laughed and laid a delicate palm on Olivia’s arm. “There’s no need to deny it. Most women find him quite fascinating. I would imagine more so now than ever. I mean, after all, how many men are there in England with his tainted past, his dark looks, and his future fortune and title?”
Olivia was very uncomfortable. “I was not staring at Caedmon,” she said.
“I think it is his past which most intrigues the ladies, don’t you?” Elizabeth continued as if she had not heard. “I had met his brother, you know. We were all children at the time. He was blond and charming, very handsome, very kind. As different from Garrick De Vere as is possible.”
“I doubt he murdered his brother,” Olivia said with a flash of anger. “In fact, I am sure there is no truth at all to the rumors!”
Elizabeth stared. “My, how you defend him. Do you know him well?”
“I know him not at all.”
“But you are acquainted with him. Clearly.”
Olivia fumbled for composure. What was Elizabeth’s meaning? “I am Susan’s friend. I am the Laytons’ houseguest. I met him when he called. You seem to be the one fascinated by him.”
“Me? I do not think so, my dear. My fascination with Caedmon ended many years ago—eleven, to be exact.”
Olivia wanted to know exactly what that meant and waited for Elizabeth to continue, finding it difficult to breathe.
Elizabeth gave her a coy smile. “He is a great lover, you know.”
Olivia stared, the dread welling, recalling the exchange she had witnessed earlier but not overheard, an exchange where both Elizabeth and De Vere had in turn evinced undisguised hostility toward one another. She wanted to tell Elizabeth that she did not care. She told herself to turn and leave immediately and not listen to another word. But she said instead, “What do you mean?”
“Well”—Elizabeth moistened her lips, raised her face, and leaned close to Olivia—“I mean exactly what I said. He is a lover extraordinaire.”
Jealousy, pure and simple, overwhelmed Olivia. But she told herself that Elizabeth was relaying pure gossip, nothing more. She tried to smile, knew it was sickly, and gave it up. “I am not interested in speculation and rumor, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth laughed. The sound was loud, but as beautiful as the woman herself. “Who said anything about speculation or rumor? I speak the truth. Why, did you not know? My dear sister, he was my very first affaire de coeur.”
Olivia stared in sheer despair, wanting to clap her hands over her ears, knowing what was to come.
Elizabeth leaned closer. “We were lovers,” she said succinctly. “Lovers.”
And she smiled.
CHAPTER SIX
Olivia did not move. But it was not shock that immobilized her, for she had known, hadn’t she? Ever since witnessing their hostile exchange earlier that evening. A man and a woman could not hate one another so without having been intimate first. It was a sickening dismay that incapacitated her.
Elizabeth was one of the reigning beauties of the realm. She, Olivia, was truly a country mouse in comparison. De Vere’s flirtation with her must have been just that, a simple, careless, meaningless flirtation.
Olivia could see them so clearly entwined in a heated, passionate embrace.
“My, Olivia, whatever is wrong? You have turned so pale. No, actually, you have turned green,” Elizabeth said with utterly smug satisfaction.
She was going to be sick. Olivia felt her stomach lurching and turned to flee for the nearest privy. But Elizabeth seized her wrist, detaining her. “He was mad about me, but Arlen would not allow the match, for he was as strange then as he is now.”
Olivia blinked at her, controlling her roiling insides with a great effort of will. “Really,” she managed.
But Elizabeth was not through. “He ran away to that sugar island to mend his broken heart.” She patted Olivia’s back. “Chin up, my dear. You are not the first to pine for a man like that. It is quite common, you know, for a wallflower like yourself to want such a rogue. Caedmon, of course, would never look twice at a woman like you.”
Olivia managed to say breathlessly, “You are very wrong, I hardly care about him.” And the enormity of the lie was stupendously obvious to her.
“I wonder what Arlen would think if he knew how infatuated you are?” Elizabeth queried.
Arlen. Cold, cruel, and unpredictable—Olivia began to comprehend the immensity of her dilemma. “Elizabeth,” she began, a gasp.
“Don’t worry, dear. I would never say a word. Besides, we both know that if Caedmon knew the truth about you, he would not deign even to dance with you.”
The truth. She was going to be ill. If he knew the truth, he would be repulsed, as Arlen was, as her parents were, as everyone was … . Elizabeth continued to smile at her, knowing the truth herself, because there were no secrets between her and her brother.
Olivia tore herself from Elizabeth’s grasp and turned away, aware of how rude she was being but unable now even to excuse herself. Blindly she stumbled toward the closest doorway. Elizabeth was going to reveal her dark secret to De Vere. And in that moment Olivia knew she could not bear to have him learn the truth about her.
“Dearest Olivia,” Elizabeth called after her, laughter tingeing her tone, “surely you are not in love with him?!”
In the hallway outside the ballroom Olivia spied the open terrace doors. It was hard to breathe: Elizabeth’s taunt echoed in her mind; the truth echoed in her mind. She needed air, desperately. To her right were gaming rooms filled with gentlemen, to her left a huge salon and the buffets, already crowded with guests. Couples and groups filled the hallway, but no one paid any attention to Olivia, for few of the guests knew her, as she remained so often secluded in the country. Olivia lifted her skirts and dashed outside.
Numerous guests ambled in the night air, sharing quiet conversation. Olivia raced to a quiet corner, gripped the stone balustrade, and leaned over it, panting hard. The truth. The truth was that she was ugly and odd, that De Vere was toying with her, and that when Elizabeth told him about her gift, he would scorn her as Arlen had.
The pain was there again, welling up inside of her, choking her. She was sixteen, had been married exactly two months, and she lay naked in her canopied bed beneath the crimson coverings. She was not alone. Arlen crossed her bedroom, donning a dressing gown. Olivia averted her eyes so she would not see his body, relieved that their lovemaking was over. She throbbed, not pleasantly. Her body ached, and she was sore. His passion had been endless. She knew from experience that it would be days before she healed. She had fought to hide her tears when he had been inside of her.
He faced her, belting the silk gown. “Are you all right?”
She forced a smile, for she was well aware of her duty. “Yes,” she lied. “I am fine.”
He continued to regard her. “I am astute. I know you do not enjoy my attentions. The sooner you take my seed, the sooner we can dispense with these evenings.”
Olivia felt hope. She sat up, clutching the covers to her neck. “Arlen,�
� she whispered, flushing now with happiness and excitement, “I am with child.”
His eyes widened. “What! And you have not told me?”
She felt her color increase. “I only just realized,” she whispered.
But he paced forward, towering over her. “It is too soon for you to know,” he exclaimed. “You have been my bride for exactly two months.” His eyes darkened. “Unless you were already with child when you came to my bed—but I know a frightened virgin when I have one.”
Olivia realized her mistake, and her happiness began to vanish. Through it, she had a flashing premonition that her marriage was about to change forever, but she ignored it. “Arlen. You do not understand.”
“Perhaps you lie to spare yourself my attentions,” he said coldly, in a tone she had heard often enough, but mostly with the servants.
She shook her head. “I just know,” she said softly. “I had a dream. We are to have a daughter—soon. By the year’s end.” And she felt the joy again, and so desperately wanted to share it with this stranger who was her husband. Then, perhaps, he would love her.
“A dream!” he scoffed, turning away.
“No! You do not understand,” Olivia had cried, and when he had faced her again, she had begun to explain how she could see the future, how she had been given this gift and had been aware of it since she was a child. Arlen had stared and stared, his eyes wide, with disgust at first, but then she had seen the fear and growing revulsion. Too late, she had realized the immensity of her mistake, a confession that should never have been. When her pregnancy was confirmed, and then later, when the child had been born, the cycle had become complete. The anger had turned to loathing, and there was revulsion, so much revulsion, and always, beneath the surface, there was fear.
“What else do you see!” he would demand upon occasion, attempting to force her to use her sight for his own ends. But sometimes, when he yanked upon her hair and forced her head backward, brutalizing her so she would give him the answers he sought, she saw the fear and wondered what he was hiding.