THE RAKE AND THE BISHOP'S DAUGHTER (The Friendship Series Book 3)

by Julia Donner

  Lady Ravenswold’s attention dipped to Olivia’s hands, noting the well-used gloves and gentle hold on the reins to safeguard Celeste’s tender mouth. Lifting her direct gaze to Olivia’s, she said, “I see that Mrs. St. Clair and I share a similar passion. A pleasure, indeed, to meet you, ma’am. I look forward to the farce of a multitude of dejected females when Harry presents you as his wife. There won’t be a smelling salt left in all of London. If I know him, and I do, he’ll have you leg-shackled as quick as anything.”

  “Stubble it, Cass, and take that violent beast you’re riding somewhere else. Fleet doesn’t know he’s old.”

  The countess gave the stud’s neck an affectionate slap. “Not that old. Bred him three times this week. Sorry, Mrs. St. Clair, I’m a plain speaker.”

  Olivia tipped her head in a bow of agreement. “Not at all. I love all things about horses. It’s one of two subjects on which I hold decided opinions.”

  “And the other?” Lady Ravenswold bluntly asked.

  “Abolitionism.” Too familiar with how that topic didn’t do well with her class, Olivia returned to the more acceptable subject. “Your stud reminds me of a mare my uncle has, sired out of Fleetwood’s Marvel.”

  Lady Ravenswold sparkled with pride. “This is Fleetwood’s Marvel.”

  A horse lover through and through, Olivia never thought to hide her admiration. “Oh, my word. How marvelous to see him in the flesh!”

  Lady Ravenswold grinned at Harry. “I like her. Vastly! We shall get along very well. Fleet and I should be on our way. He’s feeling restless.”

  Harry backed up his horse. “And looks ready to take a bite out of Marmaduke.”

  Lady Ravenswold laughed, the raucous sound of one who didn’t merely savor life, but consumed it whole. “With a name like that, he deserves to be bitten. Good day to you both. And don’t forget my lesson!”

  Before Olivia could comment on Lady Ravenswold, her horse, or the upcoming soiree, a bevy of girls rode up, hailing Harry with eager smiles of adoration. He greeted them, four girls all of come-out ages, and made introductions, but they merely glanced at Olivia with the merest show of politeness and fixed their avid attention on Harry.

  “We heard you’d come back to town, Sir Harry. Will you be attending the Jersey ball?”

  “Perhaps,” he responded to the girl riding a handsome, dappled-grey.

  The girl on a sturdy bay cob trilled, “Oh, we do so hope you’ll be there. No one dances the waltz like you, Sir Harry!”

  He indulgently scolded, “Now, Miss Caroline, you know you haven’t been given leave by the Almack ladies to waltz.”

  “But they gave permission to me!” said a bold brunette on a blaze-faced chestnut.

  When Harry lavished on her one of his blazing smiles, Olivia recalled Harry’s preference for chestnuts. He studied the elegant hack the girl rode, while pretending to listen. He talked with the clutch of effusive young ladies, answering their giggling questions with patience. Olivia marveled and admired his ability to display so much interest in their chatter. She sensed his impatience, even though not a bit of it showed on the surface.

  Marmaduke confirmed her suspicions, when he shifted his weight then did a slow sidle toward Celeste, prompting Harry to say, “I believe we’ve had our horses standing a bit longer than they like. Will you excuse us?”

  The bevy moved their horses out of the way. Harry touched his hat brim as they passed. Behind them, the girls trilled their farewells, and one called out, “We pray you’ll not forget to sign our cards at Lady Jersey’s, Harrikins!”

  Olivia kept silent as long as she could, then murmured, “Harrikins?”

  “They’re girls, young and high-spirited. We are middle-aged, wherein indulgence is expected. You said you remembered your come-out.”

  “I have no point of reference with what those girls are experiencing. I loathed the entire process and am sure that as soon as our union is announced, the news will dash the hopes of many maiden’s hearts.”

  “Their interest in me isn’t serious. They fully comprehend that their families have suitors already selected. I’m merely a diversion.”

  Olivia would never think of her first encounter with Harry as a mere diversion. The event had changed her life. She doubted that it would have mattered at the time if she were a love-struck girl or resigned spinster.

  “I disagree, Harry. Having been an impressionable girl, I appreciate how profoundly the passions of youth impact on one’s life. The dreams of younger days keep our frail hopes alive. Your marriage will dash the hopes of many.”

  “You make it sound as if you have no part of it, but since you’ve introduced the topic, if you have no objection, I should like it if the ceremony could take place as quickly as possible.”

  Her heart began to thump. Celeste twitched her ears back and forth. “But the engagement notices haven’t yet been announced in the newspapers.”

  “A friend suggested this avenue of surprise suited my style, and in truth, Olivia, it should be done quickly. The sooner the better. For the child’s sake.”

  Olivia looked down at her hands on the reins. “You are right, of course. Your friend seems to understand you very well.”

  “All of my friends know me perfectly well. I cannot wait for them to meet you.”

  Olivia couldn’t fathom why. She was so ordinary and had so little to recommend herself. Harry’s friends, an elite cadre once known as The Eligibles, were all so unique, sought-after and extraordinary; their names littered the society sections of every newspaper.

  The Asterlys were the darlings of the political realm—the baron for his connections, and she for her political gatherings and sponsorship of the arts. Lord and Lady Ravenswold drew crowds wherever they appeared; she for her dazzling beauty and audacity, and he with his size alone. Aloof and brooding, the Honorable Alfred Bates, the heir to Viscount Grieves, fascinated women. He terrified them with his disinterest and reputation as a fearless duelist, and men walked and spoke carefully around the future viscount.

  Perhaps their brilliance would provide an avenue for her survival. Being average and plain, she could submerge into the background of their radiance. Who noticed a grouse amid the splendor of peacocks?

  She peeked a sideways glance at Harry, London’s favorite scamp. Arbiter. Raffiné. Her lover. A flush scorched her skin as she remembered. Soon, he would expect more of that. Wouldn’t he? What if he didn’t? Her stomach sank. Percy refused to touch her while she was pregnant. But then, he never cared for that sort of thing.

  “Olivia, is everything all right?”

  His question jerked her thoughts back to the present. She noticed that they were heading out of the park.

  “Sorry. Wool-gathering.”

  “You looked distressed.”

  With a tiny head shake, she admitted, “I confess to some concern when it comes to meeting your brother and sister-by-marriage.”

  “Don’t be silly. They’re going to take you up and dote on you, just as I will.”

  Yes, he’d spoil her and act the gallant but would he ever love her? Would having the comfort of his child be enough? Would she end up ignored, sent off to the country for her dullness, too plain to fit in with his friends and a society that always considered her odd?

  When she didn’t speak, he gently said, “There’s no need for worrying any more, Livie.”

  Frustration replaced her lapse into pathetic despair. She shouldn’t worry about meeting one of the cleverest women in London—a female Harry worshiped and admired—a brother, whose family her father had so crudely insulted?

  Honestly, Harry could be as annoyingly dense as he was adorable. His family and friends were famous, as much for their uniqueness and brilliance, as they were for their loyalty to each other. And into this cage of flamboyant personalities, she, a bland, uninspiring, aging matron, was to be thrown, like a chunk of raw meat into the den of tigers.

  Chapter 17

  Determined to overcome apprehension and ena
ct her plan, Olivia halted in front of the impressive granite mansion in Cavendish Square. She’d left the carriage and walked around and by it for the last twenty minutes, dredging up the courage to knock. The weight of what she must overcome had kept her awake most of the night.

  Harry worshiped his sister-in-law, and in Olivia’s imagination, Lady Asterly had become an individual of impossible perfection. Fixed with the notion of introducing herself to this paragon before the soiree, she’d set out early that morning with determination. She would create a favorable impression before the event and thereby have an ally.

  Standing before Asterly House, she scarcely noticed the sharp September wind penetrating her spencer and chapping her cheeks. The niggling urgency to gain Lady Asterly’s good regard overwhelmed her practical nature. Something drew her here, drove her out of her grandfather’s house and to Cavendish. She felt compelled to explain that she hadn’t meant to hurt Harry last spring and didn’t share her family’s opinions. She wouldn’t tell Lady Asterly that she had no confidence that an aging widow could secure Handsome Harry’s affections. His interest still struck her as incredible.

  Her hesitation to brazenly force herself on Harry’s family was decided by an apron-covered manservant sweeping the walkway. Noticing her dithering at the entry gate, he bowed and went up the steps to rap the knocker for her. She bolstered her resolve, inhaled courage and exhaled cowardice.

  With a nod of thanks to the servant who came back down to open the gate, she climbed the steps and entered the door a footman held open wide. The chill wind pushed at her back, urging her forward and into the enveloping warmth of the foyer. Behind her, the heavy door closed with a thump.

  The impressive expanse of black-and-white-checkered floor gleamed. More wigged servants lingered in front of doors, moved in the hallways, and monitored the first floor gallery. The place appeared crowded with them in a time when the larger houses were cutting down on staff.

  A gentleman descended the wide staircase. There was a peculiar familiarity about the way he moved and the tilt of his head. He reminded her of Harry even though they shared little physical resemblance. Where Harry was lean, swift, and crackled with contained energy, his brother was powerfully built, his tread measured and yet assertive.

  Lord Asterly’s sand-colored hair had a lazy natural wave, his eyes marine blue-green and coldly assessing. Tanned, strong-planed features showed the result of the many years at war that Harry had mentioned. A celebrated Peninsular War hero, numerous injuries had never stopped Asterly from returning to battle.

  The baron’s swift appraisal left her with an understanding of what wayward subordinates to Major Lord Asterly had endured. They would have made sure they never displeased him a second time. He remained on the steps, having halted midway, to estimate the visitor from a distance and on higher ground. His hawk-like, impersonal stare made her skin prickle.

  A butler came across the foyer to greet her, an unlikely looking man for his position, burly with the awkwardly aligned facial features of a street brawler. “How may we be of service to you, ma’am?”

  She quickly delved into her reticule and withdrew a card. The butler accepted it with a snowy white glove. An almost imperceptible change occurred in his demeanor when he noted her name and the quality of the cardstock. Accustomed to the subtle alterations that relayed social attitudes, Olivia realized the butler knew who she was. He bowed slightly and carried the card to the staircase.

  Asterly came down from the heights to accept it. After studying her name for an interval that she knew was meant to put her on her guard, or in her place, he glanced at a door to her left. The butler bowed and gestured for a footman to open the door.

  Asterly halted in front of her to dip his head in a polite bow and accept her curtsy. Olivia turned to enter but was forestalled by a woman’s outcry, followed by a man’s voice hollering back an order not to leave the line of fence. She froze and shot Asterly an inquiring look.

  Gesturing for her to enter through the door the butler held open, Asterly explained, “It is nothing, Mrs. St. Clair. I had assumed you were here to meet my brother. Apparently not.”

  “Harry is here?”

  “In the pavilion with friends. Instructing a pupil in fencing.”

  “He teaches boys? It sounded like a female.”

  “It is.” He gestured again for her to enter.

  She preceded him into the reception room. “He never mentioned his fencing skills or that he was proficient enough to teach.”

  “Harry is excellent at everything.”

  She moved to the nearest chair but did not take a seat. “I’ve never heard that sharp tone in his voice. It quite surprised me, more so than hearing the woman’s outcry.”

  Asterly assisted her to sit then moved to the fireplace, where he said, “Crimm, have the coach put away and reschedule my appointment.”

  “Very good, my lord. Shall I bring refreshment?”

  Asterly looked at her and Olivia said, “No, my thanks. I have come to inquire if Lady Asterly is receiving.”

  The door quietly closed as Asterly answered, “She does not receive on Mondays and Tuesdays and expected an introduction to you on Wednesday evening. A soiree, I believe.”

  “That is correct, my lord.”

  “And yet, you have elected to come here pre-introduction, so to speak.”

  Courage, Olivia whispered inside her head. There was an aloofness about Asterly that led her to think that he was definitely not pleased with the harsh treatment of his brother. It was as she assumed. There would be repercussions for the insults her father had thrown in Harry’s face and for the manner he’d been treated at Beechgate Cottage.

  She’d been right to come ahead of time to smooth the waters. Treading through the awkwardness of introductions carried its own stressful moments without adding the hurdle of repairing prior damage. Perhaps Asterly considered her a hypocrite for deferring to her family’s high moral ground, while conceiving out of wedlock. Had Harry told them about the child?

  The ache of humiliation spread through her chest. Asterly must know or at least suspect a pregnancy. Rumor had it that she wasn’t the first female Harry had left in a family way. She certainly couldn’t be the only other instance, if the tales were true regarding his fleet of mistresses. Common knowledge accepted that Harry fathered the Wethermore heir. No one seemed to mind, not even the cuckolded Sir Hubert Wethermore. But that was never the case for an unwed mother. Fathering a bastard was often waved off with casual indulgence, while the hapless mother received the brunt of the responsibility. Another reminder of why she disliked the ton—which brought her back to her purpose.

  “My lord, may we be frank?” When he dipped his chin in a nod of agreement, she forged on. “ I have assumed that you and your brother have discussed the particulars of our present situation.”

  “Allow me to clarify my understanding, Mrs. St. Clair. You and your family recently condescended to recognize my brother’s paternity due to the dictates of societal conformity. Apparently, this change of heart came about without any sense of fairness to Harry nor the acceptance of the existence of his honor.”

  Her cheeks tingled. Why must her father be so disagreeable? He’d always been strict, but since receiving the bishopric, he adopted an unattractive comportment. Arrogance was never wise. The church was as political as the government, and the Asterly’s were influential in all circles.

  From his tone and hardened expression, Asterly took more than a little exception to his brother’s treatment. She didn’t suppose Asterly’s present attitude stemmed from personal insult, only protectiveness for his brother. That eased her discomfort and guilt, but still left her with some significant fence-mending. She forced her shoulders back and out of the onset of defeat’s inward curl.

  “Please, Lord Asterly, I ask you not to judge me by the strictures of my family’s beliefs and its requirements made on me. I beg you to not think me so unfeeling that I have not suffered regret for my family’s
disobliging behavior. Forcing Harry’s hand, as if he wouldn’t comply, or wouldn’t immediately address an obligation, may have been implied by Father and Grandfather. That was never my intention. I can only blame their actions as those of overly protective parents and family. I’m sure you can appreciate those sentiments.”

  His stance relaxed slightly. After a few moments, he said, “And I will also speak candidly. I’ve tried to reserve judgment, finding it impossible that Harry could have such unwavering devotion to a woman without heart. It goes without saying that few can resist the fellow. The one he’s dueling with at the moment is the only female I know of who can. My wife’s besotted with the creature.”

  “Did you say dueling?”

  “Fencing, to be more precise. With Lady Ravenswold and Mr. Alfred Bates. But Harry instructs while Mr. Bates acts as opponent.”

  “Harry instructs, but does not physically participate? That surprises me. He’s the sort of person who requires activity.”

  “I doubt Harry could fence with a female, nor would he take the chance. He has a tendency for brutality in a fight.” Asterly paused. “Ah, I’ve shocked you.”

  “Very much so. You are his brother, and have known him longer, but I’ve never seen anything but gentleness in his manner.”

  “Nor will you. We are speaking of situations ladies are not allowed to view.”

  Her rebellious seed, provoked by jealousy, spoke before she could subdue it. “And yet he’s teaching a woman in the gentlemanly arts.”

  “Mrs. St. Clair, if you would forgive me speaking so bluntly, I think I should explain something about my brother.”

  “If you think it necessary. With the exception of my father’s recent behavior, I’ve never been a proponent of speaking unfavorably of others when they are not present.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing derogatory, ma’am, merely a friendly observation. Something of a cautionary tale about his temperament, if you will?”