But no, she could only be sceptical of such admiration. She was certainly no longer susceptible.
Yet his concern seemed genuine; and in addition to the admiration was something that looked dangerously like tenderness.
Tenderness? To succumb to tenderness would be too rash and much too dangerous. It was a trap!
And yet ...
‘I’ve no idea how long you lay in the mud, soaked to the skin.’ His voice was like a caress, full of comfort and reassurance. He leaned across her to pull on the embroidered bell pull, seemingly unembar- rassed by their proximity. ‘I shall have a warm rug fetched for you. Let me feel your hands. Why, they’re as cold as ice. I’ll rub them for you.’
Olivia closed her eyes and surrendered to those dangerous, unfa- miliar feelings: comfort, safety. Exquisite peacefulness.
Mr Atherton held the key to her future happiness: her son. If he admired her and she could prove to him she deserved it, surely happi- ness might follow?
Then insidious reality intruded and she had to steel herself against her despair, her defeat.
She thought of Reverend Kirkman, imagining his outrage if he learned of the venture on which she had so rashly embarked.
It was he who had cautioned patience. Patience, he had exhorted her, was what she needed when once again her impetuous nature threatened her happiness. Patience would be her salvation, he’d soothed her, when she’d leapt up from her chair at the reading of Lucien’s will and later, when he’d physically torn her from her carriage, overruling her deter- mination to drive the horses herself in order to reclaim Julian.
Olivia was pliant, her eyes still closed as she heard the maid enter, felt Mr Atherton tuck the blanket around her, making sure her feet were well insulated, bringing the warm wool up around her neck with tender, competent fingers.
‘You must be very tired,’ she heard him whisper, as he stroked a strand of hair back from her face. ‘And still in shock from your accident.’
‘Yes,’ she murmured, her head falling to one side. Vaguely, she real- ized it was resting against his thigh as he sat on the arm of her chair. She didn’t move it. Didn’t want to.
Mr Atherton could get her what she wanted. Her son ... happiness. If Reverend Kirkman would sanction it. She could be happy. She could.
She was in the midst of a dreamless sleep when it happened: the meeting upon which her whole life had been focused for more than a year, the reason she was here.
Jolting awake at the sound of a carriage drawing up before the front door, her ears seemed suddenly acutely sensitive to the crunch of the gravel under what sounded like a dozen little feet, and the joyful chorus of young voices.
Then the drawing-room door was thrown open unceremoniously and three small boys burst into the room.
‘Uncle Max! Uncle Max!’ they cried, as they leapt upon him.
Olivia opened her eyes. Gripping the side of her chair for support she stared at the three youngsters, all jostling for prime position on their Uncle Max’s lap.
Fourteen months. It had been fourteen months since she had last seen Julian. The baby who had been removed from her care when Lucien had fallen ill was now a boisterous and sturdy toddler with a mop of dark curls and a sunny smile. His cousins were both fair- haired, a little older than he, but just as comfortable with their Uncle Max whom they were now pummelling with cushions.
‘Boys! Boys!’
The nursery maid clapped her hands for calm. Olivia could only stare. Charlotte, who had accompanied Julian to his new home four- teen months earlier, smiled. She’d been told to expect Olivia but to say nothing. Her pride in her young charge was clear, however the small, thin woman who followed in her wake was less forgiving of the young- sters’ unruly behaviour.
‘Boys, your manners!’ she cried, when she saw Olivia. ‘Your uncle
‘Max has a visitor. And Max, you’re no better, the way you encourage them.’
Mr Atherton exhaled on a long-suffering sigh as he stood up to greet his sister. ‘Afternoon, Amelia. They make me feel young again and I missed them,’ he said, his grin half apologetic. ‘And Mrs Templestowe doesn’t mind. She likes small boys. At least, you gave me to think you do.’
His laconic smile, as he turned back to her, suddenly became one of concern. ‘My dear Mrs Templestowe, are you all right?’ He took a couple of quick strides across the room and bent to clasp Olivia’s hands.
‘Amelia!’ He swung round. ‘Your vinaigrette, or burnt feathers, or whatever it is you ladies use. Mrs Templestowe had a nasty fall earlier and is still recovering.’
‘I’m all right,’ Olivia managed, faintly, as Max with great solicitude, patted her arm and eased her back into her chair.
‘I’ll send the boys away,’ he said. ‘Boys! We can play as soon as I’ve ensured our visitor is—’
‘No, please! I’d love the boys to stay.’ Olivia was aware of the urgency in her voice, which she hoped would be interpreted as polite- ness, as she struggled upright in her chair. ‘Tell me your names, boys, if you please.’
The exuberance had been knocked out of them. Almost sullenly they ranged before her, fidgeting, anxious no doubt to be out of doors and away from this strange lady. Olivia’s heart nearly broke.
Julian didn’t recognize her. Even when she took his hand to shake it, solemnly, there was no recollection in his eyes. He was as restless as his cousins, turning his bright gaze upon his Uncle Max as if begging to be reprieved and dismissed from the room.
‘So, you’re Julian,’ she repeated, forcing a tremulous smile. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Julian.’
‘Can I go now, Uncle Max?’
Not two minutes in her company and her darling boy couldn’t wait to leave. She meant nothing to him.
She closed her eyes, briefly. Why should she? If his Uncle Max thought it, Julian thought it, too. She had abandoned him. Forsaken him. Without a second thought.
A terrible lump formed in her throat. She couldn’t swallow past it. She felt the tingling, swelling in her glands as the tears forced their way up and out.
Releasing Julian’s hand, she fell back into her chair. She tried to take a breath, choked on it, then shuddered, burying her face in her hands as she let out a strangled wail.
When rational thought returned, the boys had gone. Amelia, whom she’d barely even greeted with the requisite courtesy, was sitting on the sofa opposite her, regarding her over the top of her tea cup.
At least, she could see part of Amelia. The rest of her was obscured by Mr Atherton.
Dear Lord, she was squeezed up against him, her head upon his chest, her face wet with tears. She supposed she must have been sobbing like a mad creature.
He gave a short laugh when he saw her obvious dismay at the state of his coat sleeve.
‘No cause for concern. I’m dressed like a country rustic and it’s not as if I’m unused to ruined jackets, Mrs Templestowe, being so often in the company of snotty-nosed little boys,’ he said, bracingly. He rose, perhaps realizing their closeness no longer appropriate now that her tears had ceased. ‘Wonderful! A smile,’ he said, his own warm and sympathetic as he gazed down at her. ‘Seems as if a good cry was just what the doctor ordered.’ He stooped to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, and his eyes met hers, their expression tender and enquiring. ‘Would you care to tell me what that was all about?’
‘Max!’
‘It’s not impertinence.’ Mr Atherton sounded defensive as he turned to face his sister. ‘If Mrs Templestowe is going to start sobbing in my drawing room for no apparent reason, then I believe it’s a fair question to ask what might have upset her. You, Amelia, are wearing a most unbecoming bonnet, which is surprising, for you are generally in the first stare. If that is what upset Mrs Templestowe then I would be relieved to know the fault did not lie with me, for I was up beforeFrensham was on hand to dress me. Perhaps I’ve committed some unpardonable crime in the manner in which I’ve mixed a green and black waistcoat with buff pantaloons. If the
fault lies with me, I’d much rather be told.’
‘You are entirely blameless, both of you,’ protested Olivia with a weak smile, sitting up straight as embarrassment at her emotional outburst washed over her. ‘It’s just ...’
Her words trailed into expectant silence. Stammering, she tried to come up with a plausible reason for her distress. ‘Julian.’ Her voice became a whisper. ‘I lost my baby a year ago. When I saw Julian—’
She couldn’t go on. She took another heaving breath, trying with all her might to resist another embarrassing deluge of sobs. Finally she managed a tremulous smile, blushing at being the focus of attention. ‘I’m all right now,’ she said, waving away Mr Atherton who looked like he was going to enfold her in his bear-like embrace once again. There was nothing like sympathy to bring on a bout of self-pitiful and self- indulgent wailing.
Yet hadn’t all her efforts been with this portentous meeting in mind? Success seemed within her grasp.
There was Mr Atherton, the man to whom Lucien had entrusted Julian’s future, and who was therefore responsible for Olivia’s happiness, looking at her with transparent sympathy and admiration. As if she were the most precious and novel creature ever to have crossed his threshold. She acknowledged the look with a mixture of hope and dread. She was used to men’s admiration but it had been a long time since she had courted it. Her beauty was a poisoned chalice. Mr Atherton was kind and decent. If she revealed to him her real identity he would be instantly disgusted. Even if he chose to dismiss the rumours that had blackened her name it wouldn’t be long before he discovered the rottenness within. Lucien had tainted her. She knew better than anyone that the beautiful mask she presented to the world concealed a soul that was destined to writhe in the flames of Hell with her late husband.
Hadn’t The Reverend Kirkman told her a thousand times?
It only strengthened her quest to regain Julian in this life. At any cost.
‘I’ll see that Charlotte is preparing the boys for nursery tea,’ Amelia excused herself.
‘It looks like rain yet again. My sympathies, Mrs Templestowe.’ Amelia hesitated in the doorway, looking at Olivia as if she couldn’t quite make her out. ‘I cannot imagine what it must be to lose a child.’
Read an Excerpt from A Little Deception
Chapter One
London 1818
“THE ONLY WAY we can honour Helena’s debt is by giving Lord Rampton the deeds to the plantation, Charles!” — Rose cast a withering look at the comatose young woman upon the bed before transferring her contempt to her brother — “since your wife is clearly in no state to petition his lordship for clemency.”
Charles stroked the limp, elegant hand that rested upon Helena’s chest as he knelt at her bedside, his mulish stare focused on the spires of St Paul’s through the dirty window pane rather than at his sister’s flushed and angry face. “We can delay tonight’s dinner...play for time,” he muttered. “More time will allow us to explore other options.” Though still a young man, the lines around his mouth and the furrows across his brow were deeply etched.
Rose picked up the blue glass vial, now empty, which had rolled under the bed. “Helena promised to wean herself off this” —sighing, she tapped the bottle with fingers far more workworn than those of the West Indies beauty whose gambling and laudanum addictions threatened their futures — “if you promised to take her to England. Perhaps it’s just as well she can’t attend tonight. Perhaps it would be infinitely safer if I accompanied you.”
Dropping the laudanum bottle into her pocket she gave Charles a wry smile. “No need to dismiss the notion out of hand—”
“You can’t possibly go, Rose, though don’t imagine I don’t appreciate your offer—” Charles looked more horrified than he had when he’d set eyes on his unconscious wife minutes before, and Rose laughed.
“Surely, you don’t subscribe to the notion that marriage confers some kind of magical status which I do not have, ”she mocked him, knowing it was true, “simply as your unmarried sister?” As the idea gained credence in her own mind, she added, more carefully, “Lord Rampton is due to set sail for the Continent before the week is up and our visit is for less than two months. We’ll have returned to the plantation before he’s back in England.” Suddenly the idea seemed to offer itself as their only salvation. And why not? She stroked his arm, her tone wheedling. “As you’ve said, I can perform no useful role as your unmarried sister but you cannot possibly go alone. We need to get the measure of this Lord Rampton. Discover his weaknesses and play on them to get the time we need to find the money. I’m certain poor Mama and Papa have a few relatives mouldering in the wings who could help. And besides” – she forced herself to sound light and playful while the merits of her idea grew– “you’d be the first to admit that you’re no good at the kind of inconsequential chatter that encourages a person to let down his guard.”
Rose could see Charles was wavering. His stubborn streak was always the final hurdle to overcome. To give in without a fight compromised the feeling that he was in charge, the young baronet, head of his household: his wife and two sisters.
“I’m not suggesting I go in place of Helena.” She steeled herself for his reaction to her next suggestion, careful to sound nonchalant, now fully confident of her plan’s merits. “I shall go as Helena.”
“Good God, Rose, are you out of your mind?”
She hurried on. “Lord Rampton has met none of us and Helena was in masquerade when she lost to this other man who’s transferred the debt to his lordship. How’s Lord Rampton to know the difference when it’s just for one evening? I’m sure I could persuade him to alter the terms—”
“No, Rose.” Shrugging off her hand, Charles ran a hand across his pallid brow. “As Helena’s husband I am responsible for her debts and as your brother I am responsible for your welfare. It would not be right to expose you to this ... well, we don’t know what kind of man Lord Rampton is. Ruthless. Calculating. Those are just some of the descriptions I’ve heard bandied about my Club. I admit it’s because of Helena we’re in danger of losing the plantation. But you had nothing to do with” – he looked pained – “the sordid business that night.”
“With due respect, Charles,” Rose cut in, sharply, “I’ve had to contend with Helena’s dangerous vices for the past five years and I think I can claim some credit for the fact we still have a plantation!” Changing tack, she added, softly, “I shan’t disgrace you, I promise. I’ll simply be there as Lady Chesterfield instead of Miss Chesterfield. It’s not such a terribly wicked lie.”
“You will not attend Lord Rampton’s dinner dressed like that!”
Edith, the loyal family retainer who had mothered the family for as long as Rose could remember, raked her charge with disapproving eyes before bundling Rose upstairs, pressing her down before her dressing table. No further description was needed as to what she thought of Rose’s drab grey velvet gown.
“It’s the best I have,” argued Rose.
“And has been since you developed a chest and were out of short clothes. Arabella! There you are! Tell me, what do you think of your sister’s gown? Would you wear it in fine company?”
Arabella, combing out her long, white-gold hair as she perched on the edge of Rose’s bed, regarded her gravely. “Of course not, but Rose doesn’t have any fine clothes. If I knew her ankles wouldn’t show I’d lend her something of mine ... which would still be preferable to that old rag she has on.”
Watching as Edith went about her task with deft fingers, smoothing her sister’s glossy chestnut hair back from her high forehead, coaxing the curls from a fashionably high top knot, she asked, “Does this mean you plan on going about in fine company, after all, Rose? I thought you said the Season was a lot of nonsense and you wouldn’t be caught dead at anyone’s ‘drawing room’?”
“Your sister only says such things because there’s no money to launch both of you, my girl. And does she look twenty-six with those fine eyes and glowing skin? Why
, she’ll always be a beauty.” Edith looked severely at her younger charge. “Just bear in mind what a lucky girl you are, Miss Arabella, and how much you have your sister to thank for that.”
“Perhaps you could wear something of Helena’s,” Arabella suggested, chastened.
“I couldn’t possibly!”
“Well, you’re exactly the same height as Helena and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, since you’re going on her behalf.”
Rose looked grim. “That was not what I was worried about.” An image of Helena with her languid self possession and her love of finery flashed through her mind and for a moment the enormity of what she was about to do threatened to engulf Rose. Could she carry it off? After all, compared with the worldly Helena she was a greenhorn, an unsophisticated Colonial. Cleverer than Helena, certainly, but by no means as self assured. Nor as beautiful. Without these attributes was she not as good as throwing herself to the lions and making fools of them all in the process?
She took a deep breath and cast all doubts from her mind. It was the only way. She had a role to play, and play it she would. To perfection.
“One of Helena’s gowns,” she murmured, thoughtfully. Then, twisting her head to look at Arabella said, wryly, “You’re right, dearest. Find me something...not too revealing. But don’t tell Charles. Helena is still sleeping so I can’t ask her, but it’s for her benefit. Dear Lord,” she muttered, putting her hand to her chest and stroking the comforting drab grey velvet. She couldn’t remember if she had a cleavage worth showing, or not.
Ashley Delacroix, Viscount Rampton eyed his dinner guest appreciatively across the table.
Babbage had not lied when he had called Lady Chesterfield a beauty. His use of the term ‘exotic’ was, perhaps, a little off the mark. ‘Classic English Rose’ was a more apt description; although perhaps Babbage had been referring to the young lady’s unusually sun-kissed complexion and taste in attire, for the gown that barely clothed Lady Chesterfield this evening was considerably less modestly cut than the type of evening gown most English women favoured. Not that Ashley was complaining. It was always a pleasure to dine with a beautiful woman, especially one not too shy to display her ample charms to best advantage. It might explain, too, the reason her husband didn’t look very happy, although that could, just as likely, be due to the nature of the business which had brought them together.
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