Dane stopped to gaze at her coolly. “Weren’t you listening? I said you must never serve kippers at any table containing Her Grace. The very smell of them makes her violently ill.”
Ew. “Right. No kippers.”
“Her Grace will have her own staff giving her requests to the kitchen, but it is up to you as the lady of the house to personally make sure her specific needs are melt.”
Petty was doing up the buttons on her gown, so Olivia stuck her hand up from behind the screen like a schoolchild. “Will there be any more such particular guests arriving today?”
“We’ll discuss that later. Right now, Her Grace will be preparing to meet us in the breakfast room.”
Proffit tied the last perfect loop into the knot in Dane’s cravat. Dressed to perfection, Dane strode to the door. “We must get there first, Olivia.”
Olivia, with one stocking on and her hair still in a braid, glared around the screen at her husband. “That is easy for you to say. I wear twice the garments you do.”
Dane remained unsympathetic. “I’ll expect you within moments,” he said, and left.
Olivia closed her eyes. “Betty, Sumner, go down and make sure the kitchen staff knows about the water and the dates and the buttermilk and … what was the other thing?”
“Kippers, my lady.”
“Yes, the kippers. Go. Hurry.”
With the male intruders finally gone, Olivia threw herself into the chair before her dressing table. “Hair, Petty, quickly!”
Moments later, just as Dane had commanded, dressed and hair temporarily tamed with an embarrassment of pins, Olivia was ready to greet her first guests in the breakfast room. She did think it was a bit rude of them to arrive at cock’s crow with a list of demands, but apparently a duke and duchess made their own manners.
She and Dane waited. And waited. She wished she could sit, but there was no doubt in her mind that the moment her rear touched the cushion, the persnickety Duchess of Halswick would make her entrance.
The door opened and Olivia straightened and pasted a welcoming smile on her face. Kinsworth entered. “My lord, my lady, Lord and Lady Reardon have just arrived.”
Olivia’s smile turned real. “Have more places set immediately, Kinsworth.”
The butler eyed her without expression. “Yes, my lady.”
At that moment, the servants’ door opened in the wall paneling and a flurry of activity left the table beautifully set for six. Olivia took a breath. Right. The Greenleigh staff certainly didn’t need her to tell them what to do.
By the time Kinsworth returned to announce Lord and Lady Reardon, Olivia was dying to see a friendly face. Willa’s fit the bill entirely, and Olivia even received a brief, cheerful hug. “I hear the Duchess of Halswick is here,” Willa whispered to her. “Did anyone remember to tell you about the kippers?”
Oh no. The kippers. She ought to have checked on that before coming to await the duchess. Should she remind Kinsworth?
The thought of the butler’s dry contempt made her hesitate. Then again, Dane had instructed her to see to it personally—
At that moment, Kinsworth entered once more, faint bemusement etched on his face. “Lord and Lady Cheltenham have arrived, accompanied by Miss Absentia Hackerman.”
Oh no. Mother wouldn’t!
Apparently, she would. Lady Cheltenham must have heard about the house party and the ball through her gossip web and decided that Olivia couldn’t very well throw her out on the drive, Hackerman girl and all.
Although, by the furious look on Dane’s face as he turned to glare at Olivia, that might actually be a possibility.
To make matters worse, Lord and Lady Reardon obviously knew something was amiss. Nate sent Dane a mystified glance and Willa blinked and frowned slightly. “I, ah, didn’t realize I would have the pleasure of seeing your parents again so soon.”
Olivia swallowed. “My … what a … happy surprise for us all.”
The staff did their magical plate performance again, making the arrangement for nine look as though it had been planned for weeks. Just then, Kinsworth announced the Duke and Duchess of Halswick and Lord and Lady Cheltenham and—dear God, why did they have to bring her?—Miss Absentia Hackerman.
She was going to kill Mother for this.
If she could find her behind the roundly voluptuous Duchess of Halswick. Somehow Olivia had imagined a spare, er, more abstemious sort of lady, not this brightly gowned dish of tightly corseted female flesh and jiggling décolletage.
The duchess threw herself down in her chair and waved them all down as well. “Sit. Sit. You can put me through the introductions later. I’m completely fagged, you know. Can’t bear the carriage. Makes me queasy.”
As they sat, plates appeared before them containing perfect coddled eggs and artfully arranged slivers of ham. Tea for the ladies, coffee for the gentlemen, buttermilk for the duchess, all done so smoothly that it was as though their minds were being read. Olivia began to relax.
The duchess crammed a large forkful of eggs into her mouth and kept speaking. “I made him ride all night, just to get it over with, didn’t I, Ducky?”
The Duke of Halswick was elderly and nearly blind, if one correctly deduced the reason his nose was nearly in his plate. Ducky didn’t answer.
The duchess waved her fork in the air. Lord Reardon neatly ducked a splat of eggs. “Anyway, I said to Ducky—”
She stopped, mouth open. Olivia had never seen a human being go from pink to green in less than a second. “Your Grace, are you—?”
“Kippers!” The duchess clapped her hand over her mouth and shot up from the table, causing her glass of buttermilk to flood the table. Everyone except the elderly duke rose abruptly as well, but there was no helping the woman. She dashed from one side of the room to the other, her vast bosom bouncing high, obviously looking for some vessel to—
The Duchess of Halswick fled through the door, there to heave violently onto the carpet down the hall.
The Greenleigh staff rushed to help her, quickly followed by the Halswick servants.
The breakfast party remained standing at the table, shocked motionless by the sounds still echoing through Kirkall Hall.
Lady Reardon placed a plump hand over her own mouth, swallowing hard. Miss Hackerman quietly snickered, then wiped the amusement from her face when Dane turned his furious gaze on her.
He threw down the napkin still clutched in his hand and strode around the table to the duchess’s plate. With a fork he flipped her now-congealing eggs over to reveal—
“Kippers.” Dane’s voice was flat and ominous. Three fishy little herring eyes gazed accusingly at Olivia. Dane dropped the fork to clink loudly on the plate.
Olivia flinched at the sound. “I thought—”
Dane cut through her stammer with one word. “Personally,” he said flatly. “I told you to see to this personally.” His hard blue gaze stabbed her right through the heart. “I cannot understand how a hostess of your experience could allow this to happen.” He turned and stalked from the room.
Crushed, Olivia slid her horrified gaze about the rest of the table. Her mother looked indignant and properly horrified, as if Olivia had ruined her breakfast party. Father looked vaguely disappointed and concerned.
Abbie Hackerman stood with her hands folded demurely before her, but her face shone with spiteful satisfaction. If Olivia hadn’t been so sure that Abbie had only just arrived—
Yet worse than any of that was the pity glittering from Lady Reardon’s eyes.
Olivia felt her hands begin to shake. She was a pathetic excuse for a viscountess and now the world would know it. Miss Hackerman would make sure of that.
A last resounding retch echoed loudly down the hall. The Duke of Halswick raised his head from his plate and blinked blearily at them. “Is that my Pippy?” He turned back to his plate, pushing his eggs about with a shaky fork. “She must have got hold of some herring.”
“I’m s—sorry. I’m so sorry—” Olivia tur
ned and ran away from the breakfast room and past the crowd gathering down the hall. She took the stairs at a run, her eyes beginning to blur. She’d never seen Dane like that before, so hard and cruel, not even that night in the inn. The look in his eyes!
She ran down the upstairs hall, gasping from her swift climb. Her room was close—
She rounded the corner and ran full-speed into a solid wall of dark green superfine. “Whoa there!” She felt herself grabbed and steadied. “Olivia? Olivia, what is it?”
She blinked and swallowed, shaking her head sharply. “Oh, Marcus—” She looked up into his face.
His worried jade gaze cost her the last of her control. He was so much like Walter. “Oh, Marcus!” She threw herself upon his chest so forcefully that he staggered back. His arms came about her, his hands awkwardly patting her back.
The story poured out of her, out of sequence and incoherent, yet Marcus seemed to understand every word. “Shh. Shh.” He smoothed her hair. “It can’t be as bad as all that.”
She shook her head, smearing tears across his weskit front. “It is! It is just that bad, and worse! It is as though someone is conspiring against me! And Dane said—Dane said—”
She fell apart again, the sobs coming from deep within her, from the place that had known all along that she was going to fail, that she would never be able to fool anyone, that she was never going to be good enough—
Marcus held her more tightly, chuckling softly. “Livvie, Livvie, it’s only a house party. The Season is over. By the time March rolls around again, no one will remember anything about this. For that matter, after tonight’s Hunt Ball and your marvelous mystery entertainment, no one will remember it tomorrow!”
Marcus’s words filtered through her misery. Perhaps … perhaps he was correct. Mrs. Blythe’s hired performers should arrive at any time. There was every chance that the ball would be a resounding success, eclipsing this morning’s fiasco into obscurity.
She sniffed back her tears and tried to catch her breath.
“That’s the ticket,” Marcus said soothingly, his arms still around her. “Breathe deep now.”
She did as he said, releasing that breath with a shaky smile. She swiped at her face with one hand. “Oh heavens. I’ve ruined your weskit.”
“I never liked it anyway,” he said with a grin. “Now, run and wash your face and change your gown.” He dropped a quick kiss on her brow.
Olivia tilted her head back to look up at him in surprise. “Walter used to do that,” she murmured.
Something flashed in Marcus’s eyes as he gazed down at her. “So it’s brother I’m to be,” he said softly. He ran his knuckles gently down her cheek, erasing away a last tear. “I suppose that’s just as it should be—”
“Olivia!” Dane’s deep exclamation separated them with a jolt.
Olivia’s gaze flew to the top of the stairs where her husband stood, his face like granite. He strode toward them, filling the hall with his size. Marcus pushed Olivia behind him, then held up both hands before him.
“Dane, calm down. She is upset, that is all. I only—”
Dane could only see the way they’d stood so close together, Marcus’s arms about her, his hand on her cheek, her face upturned to his, ready for Marcus’s kiss—
The pain was lethal, like a sword to his heart.
He didn’t even remember hitting Marcus, but there his closest friend was, downed on the carpet. Olivia knelt beside him, patting his face and checking his pupils.
She looked up at Dane, her gaze confused. “What are you doing? He’s your friend!”
Dane fled the pain and the sharp awareness that had sprung to life within him.
He loved her. It was astonishing and uncanny—and absolutely the worst thing that could ever happen to him.
Down the stairs and out the door, around the house to the stables. His stride grew and his pace quickened. He wasn’t running—quite. The grooms must have seen him coming, for his favorite horse, a white stallion called Galahad, was already nearly saddled by the time Dane strode into the stables.
He mounted Galahad straightaway and rode through the stable door, ducking low. The big hooves hit the gravel drive hard, sending pebbles flying behind them.
21
Olivia made it to the front door of Kirkall Hall just in time to see Dane race by her, his gaze hard on the horizon, his jaw set. “Dane!” She picked up her skirts and ran after him. “Dane!”
He was already out of earshot. She saw the horse leave the long drive and race off toward the large wood to the east.
He was gone. Olivia staggered to a halt, breathing hard, and stood there dumbfounded at how her wonderful new life had turned to rubbish in just inside an hour.
The rattle of carriage wheels on the gravel drive penetrated Olivia’s hurt and confusion. Another delivery. At least the remaining guests were not expected for several hours yet. She didn’t think she could bear to deal with more strangers now—especially highborn strangers who would expect her to be what she was very evidently not.
She stepped to one side and turned, prepared to wave the delivery around to the back of the house.
Oh no. A grand, ornate coach and four rounded the drive, heading right for her. The horses stepped high despite their journey, as only the finest of stock could do. Under the dust and grime of the road, the buckles on the horses’ tack gleamed with the unmistakable sheen of gold.
The polished ebony coach itself was large, luxurious, and positively draped in footmen, footmen wearing the unmistakable gold on white livery of—
Oh-dear-God-in-heaven. Olivia’s knees went weak. It couldn’t be. This was a dream—a nightmare containing all her worst fears and imaginings. Only in a nightmare would she be standing in the drive looking like a madwoman, her hair wild, her face undoubtedly ruddy, her slippers left somewhere back down the drive … .
She closed her eyes. She wished she could wake up now. She wished she would open her eyes and see the ceiling of her bedchamber, having never sat down to that unspeakable breakfast, having never stepped into Marcus’s arms, having never seen that look in Dane’s eyes, and most deeply, fervently, especially she wished that she was not about to greet the Prince Regent of all Britain in her bare feet.
The crunch of wheels stopped directly before her. Olivia opened her eyes just as the rather astounding number of footmen burst into action. Two ran forward to take the reins of the horses so they shouldn’t take the merest step that might unbalance His Highness. Two more ran to the back of the coach to unstrap a finely carved stepping stool—very nearly a set of stairs all on its own—and juggled it into position by the carriage door. Another young man stepped forward smartly to dust the stool with a silken cloth—for apparently such a task was too much for the two who had put it in place.
For a giddy moment Olivia wondered how that young man’s pay was entered into the palace housekeeping ledger. His Highness’s First Orderly of the Stool? Royal Stepping-stoolie?
Then a foot clad in a surprisingly dainty slipper stepped from the interior of the carriage onto the highest step of the stool. That’s when it occurred to Olivia for the first time that His Highness had not rolled up her drive by accident. She and Dane were hosting a house party and a Hunt Ball.
The Prince Regent was one of her guests.
For an eternal moment she couldn’t draw a breath. Having the prince stay was an honor, a privilege—an event that most ladies would have spent months preparing for. Mother had spoken many times of one lady who had ordered a set of china designed just for the occasion and then demanded the molds be broken so that no one else might claim that their plates had been touched by the Royal Fork.
Yet Dane had never said a word. Betrayal stole Olivia’s breath. He demanded that she be Society’s premier hostess—and then he cut her feet from under her with his own sword.
Nothing she had prepared could possibly live up to a Royal Visit. Not her menus, not her decorations, not her wardrobe—
Oh Go
d. She was His Highness’s hostess!
She looked down at herself, but nothing had changed. She was still rumpled and barefoot, and there was a whitish stain running down the front of her skirt.
A beringed hand reached out to grasp the open door for balance. Olivia remembered her manners and dropped in the lowest curtsy she could manage without getting her face any dirtier than it already was. Oh God, was that sour buttermilk on her skirt?
It was, and worse.
“Oh, get up, girl!” The much-imitated Royal Voice was terse and strained.
Olivia rose quickly—too quickly. Her head bumped something on the way up—hard. In horror, she looked up to see the Prince Regent of all Britain rubbing his chin in pain.
“Clumsy wench!” The First Knight of the Stool pushed Olivia away, making her stumble in the gravel.
The prince flicked the man away with an impatient gesture. “Good God,” he muttered, testing his jaw. “Spare me bumbling housemaids! If this is the best Greenleigh can do, I’d best get back in that thricebedamned arse-shattering carriage!”
Olivia’s head hurt, but worse was the ache in her chest. Dane had been afraid she would fail and she was, miserably. The prince was about to leave in a well-deserved huff. And why not, when she had butted the Royal Jaw with all her might?
With horror, she felt the tears coming. She pressed both hands over her eyes, but it was all just too bloody much! The final humiliation seemed almost fitting, after all.
She burst into tears in front of Prince George.
Dane was halfway across the wood before he remembered that the Prince Regent was due any moment and he’d forgotten to explain that to Olivia. George was apt to get up to some sort of mischief if not carefully watched and Dane wanted to be ready to steer his highness toward some of the ladies he had invited to the ball.
Dane pulled Galahad to a halt. The stallion reared, protesting having his run cut short. Dane leaned down to pat the thick white neck before him.
Celeste Bradley - [Royal Four 02] Page 18