‘No,’ Richard said, bending his head over the letter once again. ‘I never wager on a certainty.’
Chapter Nine
Olivia Marney was lying in her bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The design of her bedroom had been a particular triumph for Olivia, who had taken the floral theme she loved so much and transformed her house into an extension of her garden. The domed starfish ceiling was patterned with trelliswork in delicate green and floral sprays of pale rose, and there were flower stands and brackets attached to the wall, from which cascaded a riot of ivies and miniature, scented limes. There were mirrors inset in the walls and the morning light was soft and ethereal. It was by that pale light that Olivia had noticed the finest of cracks in the bedroom ceiling, cracks which probably no one else would ever see but which quite spoiled her enjoyment of her pastoral surroundings. She would have to do something about the plaster. Perhaps it was the exceptionally dry summer that had made it fracture into a spider’s web of fine lines. She would need to send to London for a plasterer of sufficient skill to make the repairs. The last time she had tried to use a local craftsman, the fool had completely filled in an alcove that she had intended for a cinerary urn…
She became aware somewhat belatedly that something had changed. It took her several seconds to work out what had happened and then she realised that Ross was not moving any longer. In fact, he was propped on one elbow above her, his cynical blue gaze scanning her face.
‘Would you care for me to hand you a magazine?’ he said. ‘That might help you to pass the time.’
He did not wait for any reply, but swung himself off the bed and reached for his dressing-robe. Olivia averted her gaze from his hard, well-muscled body. She could not remember a time when she had permitted herself to look openly on Ross’s nakedness.
‘Naked men look so untidy,’ she remembered her mother, Lady Walton, saying to her on her wedding night. ‘It is best to lie back, close one’s eyes and think about something pleasant. The menus for the week, perhaps, or what one might wear for church on Sunday. You will find that your husband will soon finish and you will have the added benefit of having planned the food for an entire seven days.’
Olivia had often reflected that Lady Walton’s words had been all too true. With Ross, the moment had passed all too quickly. They had been virtual strangers when they had married, in a match that was a long-standing arrangement between their two families. Olivia had wanted to please her parents and had not objected to Ross as a husband. He seemed kind enough and she knew, in the instinctive way that one did, that he admired her. She was pretty and obedient; she thought that she should have been the ideal wife. It therefore caused her great pain when she realised that Ross found her lacking in some way. He almost seemed bored with her. And she, in turn, could not reach him. There was a part of him that had been locked away since she had first known him; the part that had gone to sea at fifteen and had seen naval action around the world, had fought and suffered and inflicted suffering on others. Ross never spoke of his experiences of war. It was other people who told her that he had been a hero.
They had fashioned a compromise in their marriage over the past six years, but occasionally that compromise was upset, as it had been when Ross had overheard her speaking to Deborah the previous week. She had known then that he would come to her and make love to her, almost as though he had something still to prove. Almost as though he still cared. And now he had come to her and she had been thinking about decorating the ceiling…If only she could be more like Deb—more open, more spontaneous, more capable of saying how she felt…
Olivia swallowed a sharp lump in her throat. Ross had his back to her as he tied the sash of his robe, but she could see his reflection in one of the inset mirrors. He was tanned from all the time that he spent outdoors, and his thick black hair tumbled across his forehead. There was a heavy frown on his brow. He looked up abruptly and his narrowed blue eyes met Olivia’s in the mirror. She hastily covered herself with the tumbled bedclothes and saw a parody of a smile touch Ross’s firm mouth.
He turned towards her and his gaze swept comprehensively over her as she huddled beneath the coverlet.
‘Do not worry, my dear,’ he said. ‘There is no enjoyment to be had from making love to a piece of statuary. I shall never trouble you again.’
He went through the painted door into his dressing room and closed it with studied quiet. Olivia’s bedroom resumed its bucolic peace. For a long moment she stared at her reflection in the mirror—the tumbled fair hair about her shoulders, the thin pale face that looked so bereft, the slender body that should still be desirable to her husband. She felt dreadfully lonely.
Rolling over, she rang the bell beside the bed to summon her maid. Her mind seemed strangely blank, but she was aware that if she did not get up and do something, she would probably cry. So she would go out. She would go out and see Deborah and her sister’s irrepressible spirits would cheer her. It was no great matter if she was not on intimate terms with her husband. Most people rubbed along together tolerably well without being madly in love. A sob caught in her throat and she gulped, taking a deep breath as the maid came in, and turning a smiling face in her direction.
‘Jenny, is it not a beautiful day? I shall go out to see my sister at Mallow. She is in need of some advice on her garden. I fear it is in a sad state of decay, but then Deb only ever wanted those plants that would flower immediately…’
And chattering inconsequentially, she made her toilette and shut out the knowledge in the maid’s eyes that said that she and the entire household knew that Lord and Lady Marney were estranged and that Lord Marney would shortly be seeking consolation elsewhere.
Deb was trying to write a letter that morning. It was a strange business, but she had found that since she had spent more time in Lord Richard Kestrel’s company, she seemed to have even less inclination to hire herself a temporary fiancé. It was odd, and she could see no direct connection between the two facts, but it was undeniable. To become betrothed, no matter how briefly, no matter how practically, seemed some sort of betrayal of her feelings. She was out of all patience with herself.
She sighed and re-read the missive.
Dear Lord Scandal, I need to be certain that you are a man of honour before I agree to a meeting. Though I have adopted so strange a mode of proceeding, I mean to be cautious in my choice. I confess that I am undecided. I shall write again to you shortly, and if you are still interested in rendering me assistance, perhaps we may meet…
Deb sighed and crumpled up the paper, throwing it inaccurately in the direction of the fire grate. It was her fifth attempt and it still was not quite right. The first had been too coy, the second too vague, the third too bold. She had had no idea that this business of advertising for a fiancé would be quite so difficult, nor that she would be so short of choice. She had visited the Bell and Steelyard Inn again the previous day and there were still no more replies to her advertisement. It seemed inexplicable.
Deb paused at the sound of a step in the corridor outside, for she had not told Mrs Aintree that she was pressing ahead with her plan. She felt a little ashamed of this, but she had lain awake for a long time into the night whilst she puzzled the whole matter out. She could find a fiancé or she could confess all to her father and accept his reproaches as her due. If it would end there, then perhaps she might have taken it on the chin. But it did not. Lord Walton was of choleric disposition and Deb knew that once he was aware that she had no matrimonial plans, he would compel her to return to live in Bath. If she refused, he would cut off her allowance. There would be no discussion.
Deb rested the quill pen on the inkpot and pushed the paper away from her. After three years away it would be impossible to go back and to live at her parental home. It had been bad enough before she had run away with Neil. The atmosphere there had been stifling. Her father had ruled with a rod of iron and her mother had practically pushed her into the lap of any eligible man who passed by. So, befor
e her parents tried to marry her off again, she had to find her own fiancé.
Dear Lord Scandal, you simply must help me. I have told my father that I am engaged to be married, but unfortunately this is not the case. I do not have a betrothed and most earnestly seek a gentleman who can fulfil the duties of a fiancé during the period of my brother’s wedding. This is crucial to me if I am to avoid the ignominy of being dragged home to live with my parents again…
Deb ran a hand through her disordered honey-coloured curls. She could not help but wonder what Lord Richard Kestrel would make of her attempts to hire herself a fiancé. Although it was the merest business arrangement, she felt the same wave of disloyalty sweep over her again. She groaned. This was ridiculous since she owed Lord Richard no loyalty at all. For all her affinity with him, she did not know whether he was trifling with her or not, although her blood burned to believe him faithful.
Both reason and observation were against Lord Richard Kestrel. Deb had heard of his conquests and seen him flirt with a great many ladies. For all his fine words, she suspected that he had tried to fix her interest in order to discover more about the Midwinter spy. All in all, he was not to be trusted, no matter what her instincts told her. And he was not a marrying man. Since Deb considered herself not to be a marrying woman, this should not have mattered, and yet, unaccountably, it did. Her feelings had been made starkly plain on the subject when Lily Benedict had cornered her at Lady Sally’s soirée a few days before and helpfully whispered that did she know that Lord Richard Kestrel had once been engaged to a lady who had found him in the arms of a Cyprian on the night of their betrothal ball…
‘Malicious cat!’ Deb said now, aloud. Even so, she knew that Lord Richard was a man one might flirt with or even take as a lover, but that marriage would be out of the question. And she told herself that she had no desire to enter that state again after her experience with Neil. She knew exactly how unfaithful, unreliable and downright cruel a man could be and she would not put herself in that position again.
She was about to pick up her quill with renewed energy to frame her letter to Lord Scandal when there was a commotion in the corridor outside and Olivia erupted into the room. Her face was flushed pink, her eyes bright, her hat tilted askew on her flyaway curls. For a moment it was almost like looking at a mirror image of Deb herself. Deb got up, smiling, and then she saw the expression in her sister’s eyes and her smile turned to a frown of concern as her insides turned to ice. Something was dreadfully wrong.
‘Liv?’ she said. ‘What has happened? What’s the matter?’
And then Olivia did something that Deb had never seen her do in her entire life. She burst into tears.
‘I am sorry, I am so very sorry…’ It was ten minutes later and Olivia was finally able to speak again, although not in any coherent way. Her words were making no sense to Deborah at all.
‘I cannot help it. I cannot stop crying!’ Olivia gulped. ‘Oh, Deb, you would not believe what has happened this morning…I simply have to tell someone. I cannot bear it any longer!’
She stopped and looked at Deb with tear-drenched eyes, as though daring her sister to contradict her. Deb waited. Olivia took a deep breath.
‘Ross was making love to me,’ she said. ‘Ross was making love to me and I was thinking about decorating the ceiling. The ceiling, Deb! I was entirely engrossed. So Ross stopped and looked at me and I realised what had happened and how angry he was, and I felt ill—quite sick with fear and misery—and Ross stormed off and I believe this is the end for us, the absolute end, Deb—’
‘Wait!’ Deb besought. She noticed that Olivia’s nose was running, so she rummaged around in her sleeve but could not find a handkerchief. Instead she was obliged to give her sister the small cambric cloth from the table instead. Olivia blew her nose heartily and did not even notice the unorthodox nature of the handkerchief.
‘Wait,’ Deb said again, as her sister dabbed at her reddened eyes and seemed about to burst into renewed speech. ‘Give yourself time to draw breath.’
Olivia sighed and Deb looked at her curiously. She was very shocked by Olivia’s outburst, for she would never have believed her sister capable of such strong feeling. She was also fascinated to see that Olivia did not cry in a pretty way at all. Somehow she had expected her sister to look pale and interesting with tear-wet eyes. Instead, Olivia’s nose had turned red and appeared twice its normal size. Deb felt a great rush of affection for her. She slid along the sofa and put an arm around her.
‘Now then, Olivia,’ she said calmly, ‘I am afraid that you will have to explain yourself more clearly. What it all this about Ross and the ceiling?’
‘I told you,’ Olivia sniffed. ‘Ross was making love to me and I was not paying attention.’
‘You mean actually making love, or…?’ Deb waved her hands about vaguely.
Olivia looked irritated. ‘Actually making love as opposed to—what, Deb?’
‘As opposed to kissing, or…’ Deb shrugged, trying to look knowledgeable. She hoped that her exceptionally limited knowledge of the ways of the world would not let her down here.
‘Yes,’ Olivia sounded ruffled. ‘Making love, Deb! Please do not interrupt me again!’
‘I am sorry,’ Deb said. ‘Do go on.’
‘Whilst Ross was busy, I was lying there, gazing at the ceiling,’ Olivia said, clearly unable to stop talking even had she wanted to do so, ‘and I noticed a hairline crack in the trellis work painted above the bed, so I started to plan how I might have it mended…’
‘Oh, dear,’ Deb said.
Her sister cast her a sideways look. ‘Indeed. So I was intending to call a decorator from London, and really I was quite carried away by my plans, and after a little while I suddenly returned to the present and realised that Ross had paused in what he was doing—’
‘How long?’ Deb asked.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Olivia wrinkled up her reddened nose.
‘How long do you think your mind was on other matters?’
‘Ten minutes?’ Olivia guessed. ‘Perhaps fifteen?’ Her voice faded. She looked stricken. ‘I cannot be certain. Once Ross starts, you see, he can sometimes go on for quite a while because he likes to—’
‘Please do not tell me the intimate details!’ Deb spoke hastily. ‘I would never be able to look Ross in the eye again.’
Olivia gave a watery giggle. ‘No, I suppose you would not. Oh, dear, I am being very indiscreet. I do not seem to be able to help myself!’
‘Never mind that,’ Deb said. ‘You have been discreet enough in the past six years. I expect it will do you good to be indiscreet for a change.’ She frowned. ‘Olivia, there is something I must ask. When Ross makes love to you, do you not join in at all?’
Now it was Olivia’s turn to frown. She looked at Deb in a puzzled way. Deb looked back.
After a moment Olivia said uncertainly, ‘Mama never said anything about joining in. Is one supposed to?’
Deb’s frown deepened still further. She fidgeted and avoided her sister’s bewildered gaze. ‘I think one is. I mean, I do not know. I thought that you would know…’
‘I don’t know,’ Olivia said, her forehead wrinkling. ‘I do not know anything about the way one is supposed to behave in the marriage bed. That is what I have been telling you, Deb. I feel completely stupid.’
They looked at each other again and then Olivia clapped a hand to her mouth. Above it, her eyes were very bright but with laughter this time, not tears.
‘Oh, how funny! I cannot believe that we are both so utterly without a clue…’
‘At least you had the benefit of Mama’s talk about the duties of a wife,’ Deb pointed out. ‘I never had that. I ran away and so she did not have time to warn me about what to expect.’
‘Mama never said anything about participating,’ Olivia said, torn between incomprehension and laughter. ‘It was all about gowns and menus—’
‘Menus?’ Deb stared. ‘How on earth could that possibly be r
elevant?’
Olivia smothered another snort of amusement. ‘That was Mama’s suggestion of a topic to think about whilst your husband was busy. The only other mention she made was of how untidy naked men look…’ She gave an unladylike guffaw. ‘Which they do, of course, all dangling bits and—’
‘Liv!’ Deb blushed scarlet. She put both hands over her ears. ‘Oh! You are shocking me!’
‘Isn’t it splendid?’ Olivia said, giggling. ‘Do you want to hear what happened after I realised that Ross had stopped?’
‘No!’ Deb shrieked.
‘Well, I shall tell you anyway! We looked at one another and then Ross offered to find me a magazine to help pass the time!’
Deb could not help herself. Her natural curiosity overcame her scruples. ‘Was he still…I mean, were you still…conjoined at this point?’
‘Yes!’ Olivia shrieked with laughter. ‘But after that he dwindled away…’
Deb could not help but give a snort of laughter herself and, once she had started, she could not stop. The sisters fell into each other’s arms, still laughing uproariously, and hugged each other hard.
‘I was so upset!’ Olivia gasped, between huge guffaws. ‘And now I find it so terribly amusing! Is it not strange…?’
There was gentle tap at the door. The sisters fell apart, Deb pressing a hand to her side. ‘Oh! Do not make me laugh any more. It hurts!’
Clarissa Aintree put her head around the door with an enquiring look. ‘Is everything quite all right, girls?’
‘Oh, yes thank you, Clarrie!’ Olivia said, gulping. ‘Everything is very fine! Would you care to join us for tea?’
‘I would not dream of intruding,’ Mrs Aintree said, her blue eyes twinkling, ‘but I will send in a pot.’
She closed the door softly behind her. Olivia wiped her eyes on the tablecloth and looked at Deb. She sobered slightly.
‘I am sorry, Deb,’ she said, ‘That was very funny and you have made me feel much better, but it was monstrous thoughtless of me to raise this subject with you. Forgive me?’
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