by Cheryl Holt
"Better?" the woman queried.
"Yes, thank you."
Though she hated the idea of being alone, she couldn't think of any other tasks for which she required the servant's assistance, so Olivia excused her. As she tiptoed out, Olivia glanced at the clock.
'Ten fifty-three," she noted. Seven minutes to the ceremony. Walking to the window, she peered out across the garden, wondering where Phillip was, where Winnie was.
She'd never been more isolated.
As an adolescent, she hadn't dreamed much about her wedding day, but had she, it would have been far removed from this debacle.
She'd have pictured the huge cathedral in town, the organ blaring, her father proudly escorting her down the aisle, her brother grinning from the front pew. Surrounded by friends and relatives, she'd have been ecstatic and joyous.
Instead, she was marrying a man she hardly knew, who was no more enthused about their union than she, and her sole companions at the festivities would be Penny and Margaret. The pair had generated such animosity and bad feelings that Olivia wished she'd had the fortitude to forbid them from attending.
To make it through the next few hours, she had to mentally detach herself, so that she was aloof and indifferent to what was transpiring around her.
She had to persevere, to be cordial and sociable, so that others would be lulled into believing she was a cheerful bride. Most of all, she needed to buck up for the wedding night when Edward would join her in her bed.
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The very thought of lying down with him, of participating in the physical acts Phillip had shown her, made her stomach roil with nausea.
How could she go through with it? How could she not?
A knock sounded, and Margaret peeked in.
"Have you seen Penny?" she inquired. "I can't find her anywhere."
"Perhaps you should ask Mr. Blaine."
"Freddy Blaine? What on earth would he know about Penny?"
"I can't imagine," Olivia replied, feigning ignorance.
"The earl is downstairs." Margaret changed the subject, content to disregard Olivia's blatant innuendo. "Are you ready?"
Olivia glared at her, so many scathing retorts on the tip of her tongue that she couldn't utter a word, lest she let loose with a stream of invectives that would have had others rushing in to determine the cause.
As she was about to promenade down to greet her groom, she dared not initiate a quarrel that would have her fuming and furious. What good would it do?
Margaret had pushed and shoved until Olivia had had no other option. At this late juncture, how could she recant? The female retainers were lining the stairs, equipped to throw rose petals as she promenaded down. The guests were seated in the parlor. If she refused to proceed, she would heap shame on her father's memory, would embarrass herself, and humiliate Edward.
Edward, of all people, didn't deserve to suffer disgrace and scandal simply because she'd been so stupid.
The lone choice was to trudge forward, a step at a time, until she arrived at the end. She wasn't the first woman in history to be miserable on her wedding day, and she wouldn't be the last. She could get through this!
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She had the strength to survive. It was merely a day. a single day, out of all the other lengthy days in her life.
When she didn't respond to Margaret's question. Margaret entered and stomped toward her as Olivia watched.
The older woman had manipulated all of them. She would achieve exactly what she'd wanted. How sad that, when events were concluded, she was the only person who would be happy.
"Well?" Margaret snapped.
"Yes, I'm ready."
Olivia pulled up to her full height, meeting Margaret's calculating expression, and she was pleased to detect that Margaret blanched and shifted away.
Within the hour, Olivia would be a countess, too, and she needed to remember that fact. Margaret might be more mature and have more experience, but Olivia would be her equal, and she would be sure never to underestimate her stepmother again.
"I'm glad you're being sensible," Margaret reproached. "It wouldn't do to exhibit any imprudent histrionics."
"Shut up, Margaret. I'm so weary of you."
Shoulders straight, she circled around her stepmother, hoping against hope that this would be the final occasion they'd be obliged to interact. Edward had sworn that Margaret and Penny would live elsewhere, and Olivia had decided that a request for them to visit would never be issued.
High society might titter and gossip as to whether there was a rift between them, but she cared not.
As she went by, Margaret clutched her wrist, and Olivia threatened, "Don't presume that you have the right to touch me." Glowering at the point of contact, she flashed such a malevolent scowl that Margaret dropped her hand.
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"I brought you this." Margaret held up a vial, containing a dark red liquid. "For tonight."
Olivia speculated as to whether it was wine, or some poor animal's blood, but she didn't want to know, and she didn't accept it.
"You can't have him discover that you're not a virgin," Margaret insisted.
"Or what? Will he publicly cry foul? Toss me over? Seek an annulment?"
Margaret was aghast, assuming that Olivia might skew the deal, and Olivia chuckled inwardly. It was amusing to terrify her.
"You think this is a game?" Margaret countered. "That you can confide the truth and be forgiven? You suppose he'd understand your sexual promiscuity? Go ahead. Try it." She gestured toward the door. "March down and tell him. March down and tell them all."
Because he'd been kind to her, and because he was Phillip's father, Olivia would never be so cruel. She and Phillip had done enough, and she would never make it worse.
Jerking the vial away from Margaret, she slipped it into a drawer in the dresser next to the bed.
"Wise girl," Margaret chided.
"Get out of here."
"We're going down together. After guarding you so vigilantly, I'll not have you stealing out the second you're by yourself."
"I won't permit you to accompany me." Sauntering over to the window seat, she perched on the cushion. "Hell will freeze over first."
They engaged in a silent staring match, and a minute ticked by, then another, and another. Soon, it was ten past the hour. The earl, Vicar Summers, and the guests
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were awaiting her. They'd be checking the time to see how tardy she was.
Margaret's malice and frustration were visible, and she yearned to grasp Olivia by the arm and haul her into the hall like a recalcitrant child, but Olivia wouldn't budge. Ultimately, Margaret yielded, worried about rumors if they persisted in dawdling.
Whipping around, she stalked off. "You'd better be directly behind me," she hissed. "Don't forget: I'm the only one who knows where Helen is."
Olivia loitered a bit longer, just to vex Margaret as much as she could, then she fixed a serene smile on her face and started down the hall.
At the landing, someone waved a signal, and a pair of violins began to play, the soothing music drifting up toward her.
She took a deep breath and descended, stretching the moment on forever. Her measured strides looked like a bridal procession, but in reality, she couldn't bear to reach the foyer.
The serving girls, many of them shedding buoyant tears, scattered their roses, whispering their congratulations as she passed. At the bottom, the male footmen stood at attention, forming a double row that led to the parlor. They too grinned and extended their felicitations.
Incapable of further delay, she advanced to the salon, where she paused at the threshold, assessing the details.
There were two dozen people present to witness her nuptials, mostly Edward's neighbors—thankfully, not Mr. Blaine—as well as members of the upper staff.
Edward stood beside the hearth, which had been filled to the brim with blooming bouquets and potted plants. Vicar Summers was with him, his prayerbook at the ready.
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Sensing her trepidation, Edward held out his hand, and it gave her the courage to continue. Floating toward him, she focused on that hand and nothing else, and when she approached him, she grabbed onto it, capitulating, sealing her fate.
He tucked her arm in his and linked their fingers. The violin duo ceased. The vicar opened his book and commenced reading.
"'Dearly beloved'," he intoned, "'we are gathered here in the sight of God to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony
The remainder was a white blur, a buzzing in her ears, and later in life, she would be able to recall none of it.
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Penny struggled against the ropes that Freddy had used to tie her to the bedposts.
When she'd agreed to the exploit, he'd promised he wouldn't bind her too tightly, but as usual, he'd lied, which meant that—once again—she'd progressed much farther than she'd intended.
She wasn't certain how she'd come to be naked and sprawled on her bed, the ropes cutting into her, but he had an ability to cajole her into wickedness that she couldn't resist. An acquaintance had furnished him with an opium pipe from India, and he'd let her experiment with it. She liked the lethargy it induced, liked the smell and the haze, the secrecy and stealth.
Though she hated to admit to such personal weakness, she'd discovered that he could spur her to many acts she'd ordinarily decline to perform, if he tempted her with the potent drug.
It was an elixir that mesmerized, that seduced her into wanting more and more. He would allow her a tiny
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sampling, and within minutes, she would be afire and craving another application.
She felt woozy, dizzy, her perception disoriented, but though she was lazed and comfortable, she comprehended that she had to get moving.
The clock was across the room on the mantel, but Freddy had the drapes drawn, so it was difficult to distinguish where the hands were pointing. They seemed to indicate eleven-thirty, which couldn't be, because if that was accurate, the wedding would be nearly over.
After the mischief she'd instigated to ensure that Olivia wed Edward, she wasn't about to skip the illustrious event. She planned to appear front and center, beaming at Olivia. Then she'd spend the day hovering at Olivia's side, the ecstatic, rapt younger sibling.
She would annoyingly flaunt her success—until something more amusing came along.
To aggravate Margaret, she had sneaked off well before the ceremony. Margaret would have searched everywhere, and would have been incredibly harried when Penny couldn't be found. She'd met Freddy in the woods, on a deserted path that led from his property to the estate. He'd plied her with brandy and the pipe, and before she knew it, she'd lost track of where she ought to be and when.
With no trouble, he'd lured her to the mansion, and up the back stairs to her bedchamber, and she still couldn't figure out how he'd managed it.
"What time is it?" she asked him.
He lounged beside her, as naked as she, his cock a limp, satisfied noodle. "Who bloody cares?"
"I can't miss the wedding."
"You should have thought of that before you failed to secure me an invitation."
He'd been royally peevish, his excessive pride
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damaged, that the earl had snubbed him, and she'd sworn she'd fix the situation, but she hadn't.
Though she'd never tell him so, she'd made no plea on his behalf, for any entreaty would have been suspicious and garnered more notice than she was prepared to endure.
Freddy hadn't proposed yet, and until he did, she couldn't give Margaret any hints as to her escapades, because Margaret would spoil everything.
Penny wasn't about to return to London, to their stuffy town house, filled wim Margaret's insipid rules and regulations, to her mother's frilly parties and suffocating soirees, to the vapid, pimply faced boys she insisted on introducing to Penny as potential husbands. The very idea of shackling herself to one of those oafish idiots made her skin crawl.
Penny had big dreams, and they didn't coincide with Margaret's.
"Bring me the pipe," she decreed, but he chuckled and didn't obey.
"You know you have to earn my permission to use it."
"Bastard!"
After she was married to him, and residing in his home, she'd find his hiding spots and enjoy the accursed thing whenever she wanted. He wouldn't be able to dole it out, to tantalize and tease her with its succulent allure.
She would show him who was in charge!
Why, she might buy her own pipe! She'd determine who supplied the illicit potion to him, and purchase it herself! Once she was his wife, she would have plenty of pin money to do whatever she wished, and he would soon ascertain that he couldn't order her about or control her habits.
"Let me go," she commanded, fighting against the restraints.
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"No."
"I have to be downstairs!"
"Sorry, but you're not going to make it."
"Prig, beast, brute, churl..." She couldn't devise enough names to call him.
"My, my," he jeered, "such foul language."
"I'll give you foul language, you swine."
She tried to lift her legs, to knee him in the groin, but her ankles were bound as firmly as her wrists. The bondage hurt, but thrilled her, too, and she didn't understand why she permitted him such liberties.
The sole explanation that seemed logical was that she relished the naughtiness so much she didn't want to quit Her behavior, when she was wim him, went against everything she'd been taught, everything that was suitable or befitting. It was the most horrid, offensive, dastardly conduct of which she could conceive, the maximum leap she could take from being the prim, proper girl her mother exhorted her to be.
He rolled onto her, and his John Thomas was erect once more. Down below, he fingered her, toying with her bared genitalia. To titillate him, she'd shaved herself, but he'd never evinced the slightest sign that he realized she had, and she was furious that she'd expended such effort without so much as a compliment being uttered.
He pushed his rod inside her. Luckily, after their previous indiscretions throughout the morning, it glided in.
"I loathe you," she asserted.
"Believe me, my dear, the sentiment is mutual." He started to thrust as vigorously as he could.
Early on, she'd discerned that he could be particularly huffy over insults to his masculine size and prowess, and she loved taunting him. "You think you're such a manly man. Why, your cock's so small, I can scarcely feel it."
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"If you don't shut up," he snapped, "I'll stick it in your mouth, so I don't have to listen to you."
Pressing his palm over her lips, he stifled any further remarks, which also cut off her air. Instantly, she calmed. She didn't like it when she couldn't breathe. It was the only way he could scare her.
He plunged into her over and over, but as so often happened, his cockstand began to wane. She wasn't sure why this occurred, and she pondered whether it was normal, but once prior, she'd made the mistake of commenting, and he'd whipped her with a strap, so she kept quiet.
"I'm already bored with you." Groaning in disgust, he jerked away and flopped onto his back. "That didn't take long."
The statement frightened her. She couldn't have him changing his mind or getting cold feet. He had the income to rescue her from her current circumstance, and he couldn't discard her. She wouldn't tolerate any rejection.
"You can't be bored," she contended. "I've done what you've demanded of me. Every time!"
"With too much sass, for my money."
"Well, if you weren't such an absolute boor, I wouldn't have to keep reminding you of it."
"What a spoiled, arrogant little shrew you are." He came up on his elbow and studied her, then sighed. "Oh, well, I can put up with a lot to obtain what I want."
"What is it that you want?"
He didn't answer, but climbed off the bed and
walked across the room.
"What are you doing?"
"Unlocking the door."
"Why?"
"Our moment of discovery has arrived."
Her pulse pounded with excitement. "Then we'll have to marry."
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"Yes."
"We won't have any choice."
"No, and we've fornicated sufficiently that I can insist you're pregnant."
Glancing down at her flat stomach, she envisioned it swollen and bloated. She'd never considered that they could create a babe, hadn't fathomed that it was a possibility. "I could have a baby?"
He was ignoring her. "If you're increasing, the old bat can't refuse the match. I'll bet we can have it accomplished in the next two or three days." He brushed his hands together in anticipation.
Suddenly worried, she barked, "I might have a... a ... child?"
"Of course. That's the plan." She was so aghast that he added, "You can't presume I've philandered because I’m fond of you."
"But I can't have a baby! I hate children!"
"So we'll hire a few nannies. It isn't as if we won't be able to afford them." He shrugged and clambered onto the bed to stretch out beside her, nude and anxious for someone to stroll in unexpectedly. He untied her feet, then toiled at the bindings on her wrists.
"How many trust funds do you have?" he inquired. "What are the terms? Have you been apprised of how much cash we'll be allotted immediately after the wedding?"
"My trust funds?"
"Does any property come with your inheritances? I hope there's an acceptable house in London, so that we won't have to be bothered with buying one."
"A house? In London?" She sounded like a dolt, repeating his questions, but the word baby kept screaming through her head, and she could focus on no other topic.
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"Ah, London," he mused. "How I'm eager to go."
"But I don't want to live in London," she protested. "My mother is in London. I want to stay here in Salisbury."
"As if I'd remain in this godforsaken place. Especially after your fortune is ceded to me." Gleeful, he lay on the pillows and laced his fingers behind his neck, staring at the ceiling. "My exile is about to end! Oh, how I'll rub my brother's nose in it!"
