At that moment in time she realized the true nature of love. And she loved him.
Chapter 20
It would be a night to remember. Olivia sat across from Sam in what had to be the most expensive and luxurious coach in which she’d ever ridden in her life.
He’d been busy this week, she mused, realizing now where he’d spent his time away from her. He had obviously purchased this beautiful and enormous rig specifically for the ball tonight, and his personal coat of arms had been painted on the black lacquered door in bright gold. The inside was incredibly comfortable, with its plush, ruby red interior, velveteen seating, window curtains, and floor carpeting.
He’d also had spectacular formal wear tailor-made on demand, and he looked positively magnificent tonight, dressed in black Italian silk, a white frilled shirt with silk-trimmed collar and revers, and a black, double-breasted waistcoat.
They’d both ordered baths before they dressed, as the hotel offered a tub and hot water with an hour’s notice. Olivia had washed with the vanilla-scented soap she’d purchased at Govance earlier in the week, then splashed a vanilla-based, Asian spice eau de cologne over much of her body as her chosen fragrance for this night.
After brushing her hair dry, she’d plaited it with a gold chain and a string of pearls, twisted together, then coiled the braid loosely atop her head, pulling out a few wispy tendrils around her neck and face to soften the effect.
After donning her undergarments and her tightest corset, which clasped in front and lifted her breasts, she pulled on the golden gown she’d worn the first night she met Sam. It was her best evening dress, with its stunning shimmer, tight waist, and low neckline, which allowed for a tantalizing peek at her cleavage. Sam had helped her by fastening the back buttons without thought. After their early afternoon escapade, she no longer felt even remotely embarrassed by his lingering touch or the kiss he dropped on her neck when he finished.
They left the hotel at exactly half past seven, allowing them ample time for their scheduled arrival at eight o’clock. They’d mutually agreed on the specifics, as they wanted to make their appearance well after many of the guests, giving them an opportunity to blend with the crowd before Sam was noticed. And frankly, Olivia wanted to be late enough to make Edmund stew as he watched for her and her so-called husband.
Sam sat across from her now, looking marvelously sophisticated and more handsome than she’d ever seen him. He’d bathed, shaved, and combed his hair neatly away from his face, and even added a touch of cologne—not because he liked it, she decided, but because it was a unique blend created by her, chosen only for him.
The excitement had begun to build in her the moment she’d seen the coach and he helped her inside. Now, as they were almost upon the estate proper, she could hardly contain herself. They’d spoken little on the ride, Sam lost in his own contemplation of the night ahead, but he seemed amused by her nervousness, commenting once about twisting her ivory fan in her lap.
The coach slowed as they pulled up behind a string of carriages and coaches, both private and hired, the house ahead lit up as it had been last night, only even more spectacularly, if that were possible.
Olivia sat forward with anticipation as she glanced out the window, slipping one gloved hand through the thin rope on her gold-embroidered reticule.
“Are you ready for this?” Sam asked quietly, breaking the silence.
She looked at him and grinned. “I’ve never been more anxious to attend a ball in my entire life.”
He smiled in return, the lights from the house now casting a glow across his face. “You look breathtaking,” he murmured.
She practically melted into her seat, staring at him with pure adoration. “As do you, your grace.”
His lips twitched up on one side. “And you smell good, too.”
“It’s a vanilla-based spice, a new purchase from Govance.”
“Buying from the competition, eh?” he teased.
In an utterly shocking decision on her part, she lowered her voice to just above a whisper, leaning toward him to ask, “Would you like to know a perfumer’s secret of seduction?”
His brows rose with titillation. “Here?”
She shrugged. “Why not?”
Wryly, he repeated, “Why not, indeed?”
Impishly, she said, “Many a seductress through the years has used only one heady, exotic, musky scent to… attract a gentleman when she wants him in her bed.”
His mouth dropped open, but he didn’t respond verbally, just watched her.
She scooted forward on her seat, perching on the edge. In a husky whisper, grinning broadly, she revealed, “They take their fingers and collect the sexual moisture from between their legs, then place it behind their ears, across their throats, and between their breasts, where, as it happens, gentlemen adore directing their attention.” She sat up a little. “The scent of musk has always been a favorite among men. And of course husbands like it because it doesn’t cost a penny.”
She’d shocked him, and it made her giggle.
He shook his head slowly. “Livi, love, you have absolutely changed my world.”
The coach came to a stop at that moment, and just as a footman unlatched the door, she stood and leaned over and kissed him once, quickly, on the mouth.
“For luck, my darling.” And then she took the hand the footman offered her and stepped from their beautiful coach.
Together they traversed the steps to the great front door, behind other guests whose carriages had preceded theirs, her arm through his, clinging to him a bit more firmly than the situation warranted. He seemed calm, but she could read his moods so well now, every different facial expression, every touch, and she knew without question that his anticipation of the events to come had to be eating him inside.
The footmen only briefly noticed them as they entered the foyer among the group of arriving guests, most of whom had yet to meet Brigitte’s intended, and so no one paid them any more attention than they might have under normal circumstances, although she and Sam, in their expensive and beautiful attire, made a striking couple.
Instead of taking an immediate left into the drawing room as she did last night, they instead made their way in slow progression down a wide hallway toward the back of the estate.
The Marcotte staff had decorated superbly for tonight’s event, lighting candles everywhere and placing freshly cut flowers in colorful, imported vases on every flat surface they passed, the aroma filling the air to mingle with a variety of perfume, sweet cigars, and the smell of delicious food that drifted out of the ballroom just ahead of them.
Sam kept his eyes focused straight ahead, and just as they reached the wide entryway, she gently squeezed his arm.
He glanced down at her and smiled, giving her a look that sent waves of comfort and serenity coursing through her. She returned it with a smile of her own; not a grin of excitement as she had before, but one of complete understanding and hope that tonight would only be the beginning of marvelous things to come.
Then at last they entered the ballroom, lit brilliantly by a thousand candles, reflecting off long mirrors that adorned the walls and the intricate gilt carvings that covered the high ceiling. Footmen in crimson livery carried golden platters of champagne in flutes and hors d’oeuvres as they worked their way through the crowd. A six-piece orchestra sat in the far northwest corner, now playing a gavotte as a blur of colorful skirts whirled around the dance floor in time to the music.
Olivia adored parties, and beholding the visual beauty in front of her, with the man of her dreams escorting her, made this one simply magical.
Sam began moving to their right, leading her around a group of minglers, laughing and chatting, their voices carrying just above the din.
“Are we going to dance?” she asked, hoping he’d say yes because once the family discovered them, the gaiety of the evening would be over and the drama would begin.
He lowered his head so she could hear him. “Not until they pl
ay a waltz. I loathe dancing, and refuse to suffer through any other style.”
She tilted her shoulders forward so he couldn’t help but look at her. “You loathe dancing?” she asked, surprised.
He gave her a wry grin. “The only thing I despise more is attending the opera.”
She laughed. “Then I’ll never make you suffer through any of them but The Magic Flute. I adore The Magic Flute.”
He snorted. “I think I could manage to stay awake through one production by Mozart. At least the first act.”
“Ahh… what a delight it’ll be to make you suffer for my personal enjoyment,” she teased, hugging his arm.
“I’d suffer through anything for you, Olivia,” he admitted, his watchful gaze directed again toward the crowd.
He’d said that casually, as if it were a passing thought, and yet the meaning behind his words pierced her heart with an incredible, inexplicable happiness. That’s when the waltz began, and without comment he led her straight to the dance floor.
Olivia cherished the moment, noting how very much this dance reminded her of their first one, in London, when she’d worn the same gown and gazed into his beautiful eyes, so angry with him because she thought he was Edmund. Now she saw only Sam, as individual as any man, with his own longings and fears and dreams.
She smiled up to his face as he regarded her, twirling her with an expertise that defied his impressive stature or his disclosure that he detested dancing. He was a marvelous dancer.
“I want to tell you something I’ve never said to you before,” she confided, peering intently into his eyes.
His brows furrowed briefly, and then instead of grinning at her, or teasing her, or even looking vaguely curious, his features instead turned solemn, his gaze taking on a depth of intensity she didn’t think she’d ever witnessed from him before.
“Tell me,” he urged, his voice gravelly, low, and just barely audible above the music.
Her own voice all but trembled with emotion as she revealed, “I’ve now known you almost as long as I knew Edmund. And with every breath inside me, with every beat of my heart, I want you to know that there is not one thing about him that compares to the wonderful person you are.” She inhaled deeply for strength. “If the two of you were standing together, wearing exactly the same clothes, the same hairstyles, the same expression, I would know you with my eyes closed, simply by touching your face.”
For a second or two he just stared at her, a cascade of candid feelings spanning his features, his pace slowing as the meaning behind her words took hold and struck him soundly.
And then he swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he pulled her into him as close as he could, his arm closing around her waist, his chest against her breasts. Then he lowered his forehead to rest it on hers.
“Oh, Olivia…”
His voice, the sound of her name on his lips, enveloped her as a pleading whisper for a lifetime of dreams.
She closed her eyes, their dancing now nothing more than a mere swaying of one heartbeat, one shared soul.
“I love you,” she breathed.
His body shook as he replied in a low, harsh murmur of wonder, “I love you, too.”
Olivia knew that nothing in her life would ever compare to this moment with him, to the staggering, exquisite joy she felt inside to hear him repeat those words from the depths of his heart, to hear them carried on a whispered wave of tumultuous feelings, always to be cherished as he held her close in a beautiful room full of people, as he swayed with her to the music of a thousand angels that sang in a triumph of everlasting gladness, only for them.
She wanted so badly to kiss him, to run away with him to an exotic land and never return, never look back, to be with him like this forever.
Tears glistened on her lashes when she felt him lift his forehead from hers and kiss her brow, very softly, his lips lingering for a moment or two before he pulled back.
She glanced up, witnessing adoration in his dark eyes, and met his smile, just a faint lifting of the corners of his mouth.
Suddenly his gaze darted over her head and she watched his features change, his smile vanishing as the planes of his face hardened, his eyelids narrowed.
At that moment she realized everything had changed around her. The music still played, but no longer a waltz, and those who’d been dancing near them had all scooted back to form a circle, watching and whispering among them.
Olivia became acutely aware of how they appeared, embracing each other indecently close, like two lost lovers in their own tiny world.
She felt Sam release her, placing his hands on her upper arms, pushing her back a little as her face flushed hot from an instantaneous, acute embarrassment.
And then Sam whispered, “It’s time,” and that’s when she realized they’d all noticed him.
The drama had begun.
Chapter 21
Sam felt his blood rushing through his veins, his senses immediately alert, realizing the moment of revelation had arrived.
He gently pushed Olivia to his side, reaching down to squeeze her hand once before letting her go.
He hadn’t seen Edmund yet, but he noted how most of the party guests surrounding them were staring, some of them gaping, and he knew with certainty it wasn’t because they’d been dancing so closely.
A hush fell upon them, and with it came the greatest villain in the terrible play that had been his life before Olivia, scooting out from among the crowd in a river of pink satin skirts to stand before him. Funny, but he wasn’t a bit surprised that she’d come for the festivity of exposing him.
“Samson,” Claudette said brightly, smiling, though her eyes betrayed her rage.
After all these years, he had no idea what to say to her, especially here in front of a crowd of the Riviera’s elite. Olivia saved him from response, however, as she took a step in front of him, in a manner of protection or possession, he supposed, hands on her hips as she stared at the countess.
“Aunt Claudette, what are you doing here?” she asked in a low, surprised voice.
Before the woman could summon a reply, an aging gentleman Sam didn’t know cleared his throat from behind a group of ladies and came forward, his bearing regal, his expression drawn. He tried to smile congenially but his gaze emitted his stone cold anger.
Sam realized at once that this man had to be Brigitte’s grandfather and guardian, undoubtedly confused and enraged to see him and not know a thing at all about what might be happening at his granddaughter’s betrothal ball.
“Monsieur,” he interrupted pleasantly, “would you and Olivia kindly come with me?”
Thankfully, Olivia answered for him. “Of course, Grand-père Marcotte.”
The man gave her only the slightest glance before turning his back on them, expecting them to follow without incident.
They met his quick pace through a gathering of people who parted easily for them, and Sam could feel Claudette’s sharp scrutiny on his back as she walked closely behind, animosity seeping from her like a river of ice.
The music started playing again and dancers gradually returned to the floor as the four of them neared the ballroom doors. Murmurs and eye-popping still ensued, but grew fainter as guests returned to their conversation and liquor, engaging themselves once again in the party atmosphere.
Silently, they strode down the corridor toward the front of the estate, then took a turn for what Sam assumed to be the drawing room. He heard Edmund’s voice from within before they entered.
His moment of truth had arrived, and although his head ached from tension and his mind still reeled from Olivia’s confession of love, he felt remarkably calm.
Marcotte entered the drawing room first, followed by Olivia, himself, and lastly Claudette.
“Out,” the old man ordered a simple parlor maid, who offered a quick curtsy and left, closing the doors behind her.
Edmund had been in the far corner, standing next to the cold fireplace, speaking to a blond woman who had to be Brigit
te, the heiress of Govance his brother had come to court and swindle. But the moment he heard Marcotte’s sharp voice, his head popped up and he looked at Sam for the first time in ten long years.
A macabre silence enveloped the room. Nobody spoke for several long, anxious seconds, and then Marcotte moved to a central position, shoved his evening jacket aside and placed his hands on his hips.
“Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”
His voice shook the beams. Sam reached down and instinctively grasped Olivia’s hand, though he never moved his gaze from his brother.
Edmund had blanched as his mouth opened in shock, his eyes darting to each of them as sweat beaded on his forehead and temples.
Brigitte merely gaped, clearly stunned as she shot a fast glance to her betrothed’s face and then back to Sam.
Claudette, naturally, recovered herself first as she lifted her skirts and began a slow saunter toward the center of the room where the old man stood waiting for explanation.
“Monsieur Marcotte,” she purred haughtily, “there has obviously been a complete misunderstanding—”
“Misunderstanding?” the old man bellowed.
The harshness in his voice stopped her in mid-stride, her hoops swinging out in front of her and then back again from her sudden halt.
“Who the devil are you?” he directed to Sam.
“Edmund’s twin,” Claudette said, carrying on as if she were the center of attention, her accounting the only one that mattered.
Marcotte grimaced. “I believe everyone is already aware of that, Madame Comtesse. It appears to be self-evident.”
She looked stung, her eyes widening as her cheeks turned even pinker beneath her rouge.
Marcotte exhaled a forced breath, eyeing Sam skeptically. “And so I ask again, monsieur. Who are you?”
Without pause, he replied, “I am Samson Carlisle, Duke of Durham, in France to confront my younger brother, Edmund, whom I haven’t seen in a decade.”
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