The Fortune Hunter

by Diane Farr

  No matter what she wore when she eventually appeared, he would have to pretend she looked lovely. He wandered over to a looking glass that hung near the door and absently adjusted the false sapphire he had won from Sidney Cheyne.

  “Good evening, Lord Rival.” Olivia’s low, musical voice sounded on the stairs behind him. George whirled, startled at her promptness, and saw her moving slowly down to him. A half-smile played quizzically across her features.

  The suave greeting he had prepared was forgotten. He simply stared at her, his jaw slackening. He thought he had braced himself for anything, but no man could prepare for a shock like this.

  Gone was the chaste spinster covered neck to wrist in muslin. Gone was the respectable, no-nonsense director of the Helen Fairfax School for Girls. A dark-haired, smoky-voiced siren was gliding down the stairs, clad in what appeared to be molten moonbeams—and very little else. The candlelight sparkled sinuously along her slender form and flashed from the diamonds at her ears and throat.

  Her hair was coiled in shining braids twisted cunningly atop her head, which balanced gracefully on the willowy column of her neck. He had never noticed how long her neck was. He noticed it now, his eye drawn by the twin lines of diamonds suspended from her earlobes and dancing beside her slim throat. But there were many stronger claims on his attention. A glorious expanse of butter-soft skin, hitherto hidden, was spread like a banquet before him. Kid gloves covered her tightly from fingertips to elbows, but somehow they only served to emphasize how thin the veil was that covered everything else. That wonderful neck, those white shoulders, the softly rounded upper arms were bare, and as for the swell of her breasts—s’death, he could see everything! Almost. And what he couldn’t see, he couldn’t help imagining.

  The effect might have been vulgar on another woman. On Olivia Fairfax, it was not. Her queenly carriage, combined with the simple lines and lack of ornamentation on the gown, lent a quiet elegance to the glittering sweep of fabric. She was breathtaking.

  He watched, spellbound, as the vision approached and held out her gloved hand. He took it in his, and looked her full in the face. Those extraordinary eyes of hers! Clear as water, bright as moonlight. Platinum haloed with ebony. A man could drown in them and die content.

  He was painfully aware that his mask had dropped, and probably lay in metaphorical splinters at his feet. So much for his cherished savoir faire. It was impossible to feign indifference—the most he could do was hold his ground, when he wanted nothing more than to ravish her right there on the cold marble floor.

  The best part was, no one seemed to recognize her. Well—actually, the best part had been the expression on Lord Rival’s face when she came downstairs. But the second-best part was encountering so many people she had met before, and not having to speak to any of them. No one seemed to connect the poised woman in the spangled gown with the coltish little girl who had stumbled and shied her way through half a Season eight or nine years ago. She was able to move along the fringe of the throng, one hand resting lightly on George’s arm, and enjoy the beauty of the scene uninterrupted. Her daring costume was nearly as good as a disguise.

  It was fully dark by the time they arrived, but the public areas were brightly lighted and paper lanterns glowed in the trees along every walkway, hung in festoons and dancing in the lightest breeze. The effect was magical. Olivia exclaimed when she saw them, impervious to George’s teasing about her unfashionable display of enthusiasm. She didn’t care. She knew from the moment she alighted from the carriage and saw the splendor of the evening, of the gardens, of the shifting kaleidoscope of well-dressed people, that she was walking into a fairy tale.

  The dreamlike quality persisted. She felt wonderful, and completely unlike her ordinary self. The thrill of feeling beautiful was completely new to her. As she strolled on the well-kept graveled walkways, Lord Rival at her side, soft globes of colored light everywhere and magic all around her, it seemed to Olivia that this must be the happiest evening of her life. Nothing could possibly surpass it.

  He led her through the temples and pavilions, smiling at her unabashed delight, and finally to a little bridge where they could look out over part of the scene. Music drifted up from the Grove, where an orchestra played among the glimmering lights glimpsed through the trees and foliage. Olivia leaned dreamily against the railing before her and drank it all in.

  “Everyone should have one night like this,” she murmured. “One night, in every life, when heaven comes down to earth. When heaven is so close you can almost touch it.”

  “The evening has barely begun,” he said softly. “We may touch heaven yet.”

  She was so aware of his compelling presence beside her that she fancied she could feel heat and vitality radiating from him. His hand touched her waist and, for one delicious moment, she surrendered to temptation and leaned against his shoulder. The rough fabric of his coat scraped against her ear and she caught the clean, pleasant scent of his shaving soap. His very masculinity was fascinating—and utterly, thrillingly alien. She moved away, her senses humming from the brief contact.

  “Only the angels can touch heaven,” she said lightly, if a trifle breathlessly. “I am content merely to glimpse it.”

  “For now, you mean.” He leaned lazily against the railing, watching her.

  “For now,” she agreed, smiling.

  She turned her attention back to the music and the lights, trying to appear unconscious that his eyes were still on her. “Tell me,” he said at last, “how it is that you never came here before. I thought everyone managed to end up at Vauxhall at least once or twice during the Season.”

  “They may, but I avoid the Season. I thought you knew that.”

  “None better.” A grin flashed across his dark features. “You will never know how tirelessly I worked to flush you out of hiding! I know you are a hermit today, but how did you escape the Season during your salad days? You are an earl’s daughter. Someone must have presented you at court, given balls in your honor and all that.”

  She glanced sideways at him, wary as a stalked deer. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I want to know. You may chalk it up to idle curiosity. Come, now! I don’t always have an ulterior motive.”

  She laughed at his injured expression. “Very well! There is nothing mysterious about it. I was presented, I was trotted round to a few excruciating parties, and I attended three and a half balls. I was seventeen, and a late bloomer. In other words, sir, I was still too young and awkward to enjoy it much.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “How does one attend half a ball?”

  “One attends half a ball when, halfway through the evening, one is called to the bedside of one’s dying mother.” Her throat constricted and she looked away, vexed with herself. How stupid, to try to speak casually of such a thing. She ought to have avoided the subject entirely. She took a deep breath and hurried back into speech. “My mother was taken ill and left us before morning. It was all very sudden and wholly unexpected. Thus, my one and only Season was abruptly curtailed. I returned home. To my father’s estate.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “But why did you not return to London the next year?”

  “My father died the following March, just before the Season would have started up again.”

  “Ah.” She noticed he did not offer condolences on the loss of her father. Even in the distress of discussing those dark days, she felt a stab of amused gratitude. “And—the year after that?”

  “Oh, by then I had started the charity and was a confirmed recluse,” she said carelessly. High time to change the subject; they were nearing dangerous ground. She bestowed a bright smile upon him. “At what hour do we join your party?”

  He straightened immediately and offered his arm. “Whenever you like.”

  Relieved, she took his proffered arm and allowed him to lead her toward the quadrangle. But she had not succeeded in diverting his thoughts. He leaned down and murmured in her ear, “You cannot escape merely
by snubbing me. I am not so easily fobbed off.”

  She bit her lip. “Since I have plainly indicated my desire to change the subject,” she said severely, “it would be the height of bad manners for you to pursue it.”

  “Yes, but I’m such a rudesby that I will pursue it regardless,” he said equably. “I am agog to learn how, and why, you became a recluse at the tender age of—nineteen, was it? Yes. You would have been nineteen, certainly no more than that. A bit young to become a hermit, I think. What reason did you have? You are not shy. And it’s not that you dislike this sort of entertainment. You are displaying a level of enjoyment tonight that leads me to suspect that you are, if anything, starved for it.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Starved for it,” he repeated firmly.

  Olivia pasted a determined smile on her face. “How pleasant it is to walk among the trees,” she observed. “The paths are very well kept, are they not?”

  His eyes gleamed appreciatively, but he disregarded her attempt to ignore him. “Someone must have been rude to you. No, that can’t be it. You would not spurn society for such a paltry reason.”

  “We don’t often have such fine weather in September.”

  “Did the Regent paw you, I wonder? That would be enough to send anyone into hiding.”

  She choked, but went gamely on. “What a lovely piece the orchestra is playing! Are you fond of music, my lord?”

  “Passionately. Let us stop here awhile and listen.” He startled her by abruptly dragging her into a side path, much narrower and darker than the main walkway. The foliage grew thicker here, close to the path on either side, and as she followed him, half-laughing, half-protesting, he pulled her along to a small, deserted clearing that seemed utterly private. The place could not be as isolated as it felt, she told herself staunchly. Music was still plainly audible, and lamplight filtered through the leaves. The clearing floor was gravel, neatly raked, so it was obviously part of the public area. But they were quite alone.

  “You are a rogue,” she scolded him, pulling out of his grip. “What will your party think of us if we do not arrive soon? They will believe you have kidnaped me—and you very nearly have! Where are we?”

  He grinned and leaned casually against a tree, looking very much at home. “Every rake in England has a secluded corner permanently reserved at Vauxhall. This is mine.”

  She did not quite believe him, but his words gave her an odd, disappointed feeling. He had forced her to picture him here with someone other than herself. A host of someones, she reminded herself bleakly. What was unique and magical to her was common in his life, and completely forgettable. He probably did not even remember the kiss they had shared.

  Well. She mustn’t let that happen again. She folded her arms across her chest as if protecting herself from an onslaught, and fixed him with a gimlet glare. “You are the rudest person I have ever met.”

  “And the most persistent,” he said, with the glimmer of a smile. “It will save time if you simply tell me what I want to know.”

  Two could play at this game. Her eyes narrowed. “I will answer your question if you will answer mine.”

  “Done,” he said promptly. He looked keenly at her, sympathy writ large upon his face. “Something happened to you the summer after your father died. What was it?”

  She lifted her chin defiantly. “If you must know, I fell in love.”

  He straightened, frowning. “By Jove. Why didn’t you marry the chap?”

  She tried to laugh, but her laughter sounded as hollow as it felt. “I did not marry him, sir, because I discovered he was a fortune hunter.”

  There. She had said it. Her instinct was to walk away to hide her face, since the rawness of her pain must be visible—but it was more important to see George’s reaction. She stood her ground, therefore, and looked him squarely in the eyes.

  He looked stunned, but only for a moment. “I see,” he said quietly.

  Tears stung the back of her eyelids and she blinked furiously to clear them, gritting her teeth. “I am not . . . eager . . . to repeat that mistake.”

  “No.” He paced the clearing restlessly, once, then halted in his tracks and swore under his breath. “I cannot blame you for being on your guard with me. Did you believe he loved you?”

  “Oh, yes.” Her smile was brittle. “We all believed him. He was so guileless! So frank and open! He seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, you know. He was utterly, ardently in love with me. He made it all seem perfectly plausible. And I was young and . . . gullible.” She shivered. “There is no kinder word for it. I was a fool. I adored him.”

  “How did you discover the truth?”

  “Culpepper found out. And brought me proof.” She passed a hand over her eyes, her voice unsteady. “I had rather not dwell on it, if you please.”

  “My poor Olivia.” His voice roughened with what sounded like genuine compassion. She had to fight to keep from casting herself into his arms and weeping down his shirtfront. How absurd!

  She took a deep breath and tried to turn the tables on him. “Have you ever been in love?” she asked.

  One brow flew upward. He smiled wryly at her. “I did agree to answer your question, did I not?”

  “Yes.” She smiled faintly. “It’s a debt of honor.”

  “So it is. And I am meticulous in matters of play and pay.” He reached casually over and took her hand, drawing her with him into the shadows. “The answer is yes.”

  Her pulse leaped at his touch. “A dozen times, I suppose you will say! But that is not the same thing.”

  “I know it.” He touched her cheek briefly, then smiled teasingly at her. “I was in love once, and only once.”

  Olivia decided her best course was to ignore the fact that his hands had moved lightly down and linked themselves behind her waist. She placed her hands against his chest to hold him off—a bit—and asked, as nonchalantly as she could, “Why did you not marry the lady?”

  “She was already married.”

  Olivia stiffened and he shook his head at her, laughing. “Now, be careful, Olivia! You are jumping to conclusions. Clarissa was a paragon of virtue. I was not yet twenty, and incredibly callow. She was a few years older, and the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. I worshiped at her feet—together with half of London, unfortunately. I was one of a gaggle of moonstruck lads who dangled at her shoestrings, writing bad poetry and fighting duels over her and generally making cakes of ourselves. Her husband tolerated it because he knew she had eyes only for him. He was the luckiest chap I ever knew.” George shook his head, grinning ruefully. “I maneuvered all Season to get my Clarissa alone, and when I finally succeeded she laughed at me—very kindly and sweetly!—and then scolded me roundly for making advances to a married woman. She thoroughly routed me. As I recall, I actually apologized. A most painful experience.”

  Olivia could not help laughing. “I wish I could have seen it.”

  A speculative gleam lit his grin. “Come to think of it, you and she would have gotten along famously. What a pity you never met! She and her husband still make an appearance in town from time to time, but not often. They are too wealthy to care what others think of them—which is another thing you and Clarissa would have in common.”

  “Oh, you mean that she’s as much a snob as I am?”

  He chuckled. “You have it backward, my dear. A snob cares too much what others think of him. You and Clarissa are the two most unworldly women it has ever been my pleasure to know.”

  “And the richest?” she inquired politely.

  He flashed a wicked grin. “That, too.”

  “I sense a pattern emerging.” She looked sideways at him, lips pursed. He burst out laughing.

  “Touché, my sweet witcracker! Very astute.”

  Olivia felt absurdly pleased. It wasn’t every day she received a compliment out of Shakespeare. “How did you finally manage to fall out of love with her?” she asked.

  “I didn’t.” His smile softened. “
Ever since those days, I have found blondes insipid, empty-headed females irritating, and women of loose morals a bore. Clarissa Whitlatch left me with an unquenchable thirst for dark-haired, forthright, intelligent women.” His eyes gleamed as they studied her face. “And you are forcing me to add silver eyes to my list of requirements.”

  She felt her heart skip a beat and had to transfer her gaze to his cravat. She was afraid that a very foolish smile was playing with the edges of her mouth—but, really, it was impossible not to feel flattered when being flattered by George. He was so awfully good at it.

  His arms tightened behind her. “How did you fall out of love with your fortune hunter?” he asked her softly.

  I fell for another one. For one crazy moment, Olivia was afraid she had said the words aloud. She had to remind herself to breathe. Then she looked up into George’s face with, she hoped, a fair assumption of poise.

  “What I loved did not exist,” she said flatly. “I fell in love with an illusion. And I think we should join your party now.”

  11

  The supper box where Lord Rival led her seemed, to Olivia, overcrowded. It was designed to hold as many as eight, but when two of the party were as large as Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry, four persons were sufficient to fill it. The Sowerberrys’ ample forms took up fully half the box. Since their daughter and a young friend of George’s, Sidney Cheyne, had also been invited, the belated addition of Lord Rival and Lady Olivia was a bit problematic. They did squeeze in somehow, but six persons seated in too-close proximity and pretending to be at ease was not Olivia’s idea of a pleasant way to pass the time.

  She was unacquainted with anyone other than George. Mrs. Sowerberry, however, immediately attached herself to Olivia and enumerated, in a penetrating voice, all the acquaintances which she supposed they must have in common. Olivia bore this as well as she could, but eventually, in desperation, turned to include Miss Sowerberry in the conversation. Miss Sowerberry was a bony, flat-chested girl with the thick, kinky hair of a sheep. She had a downtrodden look about her, and responded to Olivia’s friendly overtures in a monosyllabic mumble. Olivia’s irritation turned to sympathy when the reason for this became clear—she caught Mrs. Sowerberry frowning fiercely at her daughter before reclaiming Olivia’s attention for her overpowering self.