by Jess Russell
“Sir, I don’t—”
But his father was gone. Rhys pressed Jolly forward; the pony tossed his head and snorted. Rhys knew he should not take the jump. But he knew just as surely, he must.
The hedge loomed before them, impossibly high at twenty yards away. Now at only ten, it was monstrous. He leaned into Jolly, shortened his reins, and squeezed his thighs. Come on, boy.
Rhys heard a click and jerked.
“I’ve brought your ale, Your Grace.”
Rhys could not speak or move. His forehead pressed against Sid’s flank; his hands clenched the towel.
“Your Grace?”
“Leave it,” Rhys managed to wring out.
The boy hesitated, clearly unsure how to proceed. Finally, “I’ll just put it here on the shelf, shall I?”
Rhys heard the click again as the stall door closed.
He could still see Jolly’s rolling, pain-filled eyes.
He had held the pony’s head, crooning nonsense to the poor beast. He tasted the bitter tang of blood in his mouth, felt the earth shudder as his father rode up and dismounted, heard his own screams as his father pulled him from his beloved pony. And finally he heard the click of the pistol as his father cocked the gun and shot Jolly right between his eyes.
But the sight Rhys could not live with was the look of utter trust in the pony’s soft, brown eyes, even in the face of Rhys’s betrayal.
Chapter Eleven
Olivia desperately needed to concentrate.
The half-finished sketch of an evening costume stared back at her, daring her to continue. She looked down at the pencil stub, took a deep breath, and willed her fingers to relax.
She had staved off Egg’s questions for the moment, but she knew they were bound to come sooner than later. And when they did she needed a story. A good story. Egg could sift out one tiny falsehood in a bucket brimming with truth.
Olivia glanced down. How had ruffles got on the hemline? Hideous. She scrubbed it out.
But really Daria Battersby was the outside of enough. How dared she flounce into the shop drawing battle lines? Heavens, she could have “dear Rhys” for all Olivia cared.
“Bother.” She scrubbed out the battleaxe, which had miraculously appeared, buried in the gown’s bodice.
Well, one thing was dead certain; she would never have to lay eyes on him again. After all, they did not move in the same circles. Not even remotely. She would never have to see that cursed eyebrow raise, as if to say, “You are nothing.” She would never have to sit across a dining table, receiving scowling looks and enduring tedious conversation. She would never have to ponder how his voice could be so wonderfully low, yet so melodic. She would never have the urge to rumple his pristine linen or dislodge a curl from his head or actually see him sweat. But most importantly, she would never have to suffer being clasped to his body, twirling dizzily around a glittering ballroom to the sounds of Vivaldi. Yes, she was very glad. Mightily glad.
Unfortunately, not seeing him did not necessarily translate into not thinking about him.
She pressed pencil to paper. At first a few tentative marks, and then, gaining momentum, her whole body took over. She lifted off the high stool as her hand flew across the page, filling the paper with sweeping lines, jarring dashes, and cross-hatched shadings. She stopped only when her fingers cramped painfully.
Olivia stared at her creation, and it stared boldly back. Gone was any notion of a dress. Oh the gown was there, but no longer the focus. The dress was merely a container for the woman inside. And that woman was herself. But—not—herself. This woman’s head was thrust back, her eyelids hooded and lazy, her mouth a mysterious smile. She lay cradled in the arms of a man.
Rude as the drawing was, and only in black and white, she knew the man’s eyes to be pure gold. His mask lay discarded on the floor, while hers dangled from the tips of her fingers, only a breath away from joining his.
She did not know how long she stared at the picture, but her heart had now slowed, her breath was steadier, and her bottom had found the edge of the stool.
Olivia slowly spread her fingers over the image and squeezed. The woman’s waist collapsed backward like a broken doll, as the man’s legs buckled, distorted and useless; his wide shoulders warped, and then bowed like an old man. She flung the wadded ball to the floor, her pencil skittering along the table and rolling to join the drawing. Then she laughed. It was all so hilariously comical…absolutely…hilarious.
Damn it! Concentrate. She reached for another bit of paper to begin again. It was the broadsheet from this morning. Well, it would do for a rough sketch. She retrieved her pencil from under the stove, and sat, ready to seize on the first brilliant impulse.
Magic. She needed a bit of mag—Monk? She stared at the paper. “Monk?”
What? She looked closer. “The Masked Monk?”
Olivia banged her forehead on the table along with her fists. “Ahhhhh!” Was there no escaping the man?
There was even a picture. It was quite crude, even grotesque, but spot on. How the artist cranked this out so quickly was nothing short of miraculous. Anyone with half a brain could see it was the duke—his tall, muscular figure towering over the minuscule dancers surrounding them, his shoulders wider than Prinny’s girth. The caricaturist had got Roydan’s nose just right, a blade of a beak arching out from his tiny black mask, dark curling hair, slightly shadowed jaw. And then his lips. They were beautifully drawn, as if the artist could not bear to distort their perfection. She would agree and could add they were softly firm, with a trace of sweet sauternes—
She abandoned the duke and her gaze raked over the woman pictured. Would this Michelangelo capture some tell-tale feature of herself? No, the mask hid all. Olivia’s breath emptied in a rush of relief.
She read the blurb three times.
“The world has surely gone topsy-turvy. Could our beloved Monk be turning in his cowl and halo for a mask? Madam Parkington had to pick her teeth up off the floor as the D of R made his way into her Persian Mecca last evening. This would have been enough in itself, but it seems our Monk has traded in his old ‘Bat’ for a new confection. Mouths were agape as our Monk waltzed—yes, waltzed—with this stunning creature. Her costume was the sheerest spun gold and her mask the Sun. Surely underneath she must be a Nun? But perhaps our dear duke is changing his ‘habits’?”
“Ha!” Really, these rags were too much. She could not help feeling just the tiniest sense of pride at the mention of the stunning creature in her golden gown.
Her laughter dribbled away, and her thoughts drifted along the well-traveled path of the previous evening. Only now, all the awkward and annoying bits were gone—which left her with only a handful of memories, but those moments were so—so potent.
Why was she so attracted to this silent, impossible man? She did not even like him. She ripped the paper in half. And then again. It was not enough, not nearly enough. She grabbed an armful of old papers and threw them in the air. As they fell she heaved them up again, stomping and twisting her foot and then her whole body, to grind them into the floor. Still not enough. She began ripping them to pieces. Yes! This was more like it. It felt good to exercise her cramped muscles, to do something big, something destructive.
“What on earth are you about?”
Oh dear. It was Egg. Olivia stopped mid-throw. Scraps of newsprint floated like gray feathers around her body. She plucked a stray bit from her left shoulder, smoothing it onto the drawing table by her side. “Just exorcising a few demons.”
Olivia waited for Egg’s quip. It did not come. All Olivia got was a tired half smile. Egg moved into the room to lean heavily on the cutting table. A lump rose from Olivia’s belly and lodged squarely in her throat. She swallowed hard, trying to force it down so she could speak. It remained fixed, threatening to choke her. Egg was too pale and drawn, her breathing too shallow. Olivia knew better than to call attention to the fact. Egg would only push herself to act livelier and tire herself even more.
Olivia swallowed again. Finally the lump moved down. “Well, now that I’ve got that out of my system, I say we deserve some tea.” After all they were English; tea would cure just about anything, wouldn’t it?
“If you will recall, my dear,” Egg said, stopping for more breath, “I am just returning from the last rest you insisted I take.” Egg frowned. “You will make yourself sick as well, and then where will we be?”
Lud, she must look a proper mess if Egg saw fit to comment on her state. Olivia scraped her hand through her hair, jamming a loose pin back in place, and scrubbed at her eyes hoping to erase the signs of having wept most of the night. Her body ached, not only with exhaustion but with a tightly curled yearning she could not seem to squelch no matter how tightly she had laced her corset that morning. If Egg were to cut the strings, Olivia felt quite sure she would collapse in a heap and be buried in her sea of paper.
The very last thing she wanted to do was to go back to that bloody sketch, but it was more important to restore some sense of normalcy in front of Egg who had quite enough to deal with just managing to breathe. “I will stay and finish this drawing, but you must sit by the stove and I will fetch you the bit of beading that needs doing. Then we shall both have a well-deserved cup.”
“Very well, but I insist you tell me about the ball and more especially about the Monk. You have not been very forthcoming, and I believe I deserve my share of the entertainment.”
Well, at least this was more like her old Egglet. There seemed no avoiding the conversation. The duke must be dealt with and then she would not talk of him ever again. Or think of him. Or even dream of him. She crossed the room to help Egg to the chair by the stove and retrieved the beading. Egg smiled as she began the tedious work of stringing tiny seed pearls.
“Isabelle says he is extremely handsome if you like the harsh, austere sort,” Egg said, her tone wheedling. “I only saw the old Gillray caricatures, and it is quite difficult to judge a man who is depicted on his knees using a knife and fork to fend off a highflyer baring her breasts. And then there was the one with the two-headed elephant. My dear,” Egg said loudly, “you are not even listening.”
“What? Oh, I assure you, I heard every word—breasts, elephants, and all. He was only a means to an end. Now we must forget about the duke. The whole encounter will be our little secret.” She did not dare look at Egg. Instead she plunged on, “And look what he brought us? I believe Eveline Barton used to be touted as one of the finest dancers at the Paris Opera. Though to be fair, she never danced some of the more demanding roles. But still, she is a good beginning.
“I dare say we will have to turn orders away soon.” She knew she was rattling on, and what’s more she knew Egg knew. One look at her friend’s face, and she would see the smirk. So Olivia did not bother to look.
She was saved by the arrival of Hazel and Jeb.
“Look here! Have you seen the papers today?” Hazel thrust the paper under Olivia’s nose.
Damn.
****
A bee droned in one ear, Lady Campbell in the other. Rhys adjusted his hat, trying to situate its short brim to block as much of the sun as possible. He was sure the adjustment made him appear quite rakish, but at this point in the afternoon he frankly did not care. A slow roll of perspiration inched its way down the back of his neck and into his wilting linen. One would think it was full summer instead of early May.
They were attending Lady Sutton’s Venetian Breakfast. Lady Campbell popped up from her seat no less than a dozen times with some excuse to leave her daughter with Rhys so they might have a tête-à-tête. But then her resolve would fail and propriety would win over. She would flutter about and eventually plop herself back down, continuing as dutiful chaperon.
Rhys would have found it mildly amusing, but for the fact that every time the good woman rose, he was obliged to do the same. In this heat the exercise was becoming tedious. He was thankful when the old Dowager Countess of Havermear trundled by and complimented Lady Campbell on attending the “young people.” Since then her ladyship had ceased her popping, but unfortunately her yammering increased two-fold.
Rhys spent precious energy waving away the insistent bee. If only he could do the same with Lady Campbell. Well, at least he was not called upon to actually respond. A nod every so often was all the lady seemed to require. Miss Arabella, even less attentive to her mamma, twirled her parasol and looked about the garden. Their lack of participation in the conversation had absolutely no effect on her ladyship’s prattling. Rhys had just resolved to make his excuses when—
“—looking forward to the Asherton’s musical this evening.”
In that second, the bee and heat ceased to exist.
“It is said Mrs. Pembly is not to be rivaled for her rendition of Mozart’s Queen of the Night,” Lady Campbell said, and loaded a cream puff into her mouth.
Damn. He had forgotten he agreed to accompany the Campbells this evening to Lady Asherton’s musical.
Rhys sat straighter. “I do beg your pardon, Lady Campbell”—who became so startled he had actually spoken that she almost dropped her puff. Rhys pressed on—“I must have neglected to mention, I took the liberty of sending our regrets to the Ashertons.” The half-eaten cream puff dropped onto her plate. “We are now engaged at the Dillinghams this evening.” Rhys flicked a nonexistent piece of lint from his breeches.
“Oh…Well…Yes, of course, Your Grace, whatever you deem best.” She glanced at her daughter as did Rhys, but no help there. Miss Campbell was busy dealing with the errant bee. “I am sure you know all the best entertainments.”
It was clearly meant as a question, but one Rhys chose not to answer. He congratulated himself on smoothly diverting their plans for the evening and prepared to take his leave.
But no, it was too much to hope for, as a frown creased her ladyship’s brow. “Dillingham, you say?” A frozen smile hung on her face. “I don’t believe I know the family.”
Rhys flicked another imaginary bit of dust from his sleeve. “Lord and Lady Milton Dillingham? They are quite new to town. I thought Miss Campbell would find a mask amusing.”
“A mask?” Lady Campbell’s smile slipped just a fraction.
Well, he could not blame her. Being a vigilant mother, she was no doubt mentally scrolling through Debrett’s for any Dillinghams. Rhys could see the precise moment when her ladyship connected Milton Dillingham with Nan Houser, former actress, who was now Lady Dillingham. Her smile shattered. He imagined it falling onto the plate with her half-eaten cream puff.
“You are fond of a mask, Your Grace?” Miss Campbell having dispatched the bee, was all attention. Did he detect a slight challenge in her voice?
Obviously Lady Campbell heard it as such and swooped in. “Oh, my dear, how marvelous! I don’t believe we have ever attended a mask. I suppose they are de rigueur these days?” Lady Campbell shifted to the very edge of her seat. Rhys feared she would launch herself into her daughter’s lap if she proved recalcitrant. “Arabella, we must put our heads together to find you something marvelous to wear.” Suddenly the delights of Mrs. Pembly’s aria were nothing compared to a mask. “Perhaps we could coordinate a costume with the duke. Apollo and Daphne? Or perhaps Antony and Cleopatra?” But even Lady Campbell seemed to see the absurdness of her fair, plump daughter as Queen of the Nile. “Well, I dare say we will think of something enchanting.”
“I believe the principal activity at a mask is dancing?” said Miss Campbell. It appeared she was not going to back down.
Lady Campbell prepared to launch, but one look from Rhys sent her back in her seat.
The girl rose. Rhys followed suit. “Do you dance then, Your Grace?” Ah, a standoff. “I have heard rumors.” Miss Campbell cocked her head to look up at him. “But as yet, have seen no evidence.”
As they were standing not two feet from each other, she had to tip her head back quite far to meet his eyes. The motion pointed up the fact that they would look simply ludicrous on the d
ance floor, for she would fit precisely—under his armpit. Her lips quirked to the side. By God she was picturing the very same image.
A hit! Cheeky girl. He could not help giving her credit for challenging him. Had she read the Parkington blurb?
He was saved from a rejoinder by her thoroughly frazzled mamma. “Arabella, dearest, you know the duke does not dance.”
Well, he supposed there was no getting out of it. It was his penance for ditching poor Lady Asherton, who would no doubt be devastated at the loss of her duke. “I would be most happy to stand up with you, Miss Arabella.” He gave her a slight bow.
Did the chit just give him an approximation of a “humph?” Amazing.
“Oh, how delightful, my dear. We are so honored, Your Grace.” Her ladyship fairly danced herself as she fluttered around the pair. “For my part I have always loved the cotillion—so elegant. I should dearly love to see the two of you perform a cotillion.”
“Not a waltz, Mamma? I hear they are all the rage at these kinds of entertainments.”
By God, she was toying with him. He could not help having some genuine admiration for this young girl.
Why could he not fasten on Arabella Campbell with any degree of lust? She was uncommonly pretty, and he found himself appreciating her wit and intelligence, but that was where it ended. And it was not enough. Try as he might, he could not force his mind into accepting lush curves, blonde hair, and a cherubic face when he yearned for black silk, full lips, and a willowy figure.
Here he was, crying for the moon when he had the sun in the palm of his hand. He hated that his mind had been so thoroughly poisoned by a dressmaker; that he would toss aside his morals so cheaply. He hated the disruption to his life and his plans. He hated that in the deepest, most secret spaces in his heart, he dared to call her…Olivia. Just Olivia…