Pippa, Mrs. Hunt’s daughter, was a few years older than Livy. She was vivacious and fun, and Livy looked up to her like an older sister. Since Pippa’s marriage last year, Livy hadn’t seen as much of the other.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hunt,” Livy said. “We cannot wait to catch up with Pippa.”
Livy, Fi, and Glory wandered into the perfumed throng. Booths lined the perimeter, and ladies were perusing the charities like they would shops on Bond Street. Glancing at the tables, Livy saw groups dedicated to sewing garments for those in need and reading the Good Book to women in prison. Although these were commendable causes, she could not work up much interest: needlework was her nemesis, and her reading taste ran toward sensation novels.
“I daresay I’ve never seen so many do-gooders gathered in one place,” Fiona murmured.
“Don’t you want to do good?” Livy queried.
“Yes, but I want to have fun while I’m doing it.”
Livy agreed, her eyes widening as she took in the taxidermied animals parading along the next table. All the creatures had gory wounds and looks of agony upon their furry faces. The banner hanging from the table read, Society for the Protection of Animals Subject to Cruelty and Untold Abuses. The two representatives of the organization were wearing white blouses and skirts speckled with what was, Livy hoped, artificial blood.
As Glory walked by, one of the ladies let out a huff of outrage.
“Have you no shame, young miss?”
Blinking, Glory looked around her. “Pardon. Are you speaking to me?”
“Indeed I am. That fur scarf you are wearing is an offense to decency,” the second lady decried. “To think how that poor ermine must have suffered for the sake of vanity and fashion.”
“Oh, this isn’t an ermine. Or a scarf.” Glory looked relieved. “This is Ferdinand the Second, and he’s a ferret.”
At the moment, Ferdinand II, who’d been napping in his favorite position draped around Glory’s shoulders, raised his head. He hissed at the ladies, who shrieked. One fainted; the other called for smelling salts.
The Willflowers forged on. They fared no better at a neighboring booth, where Glory got into a heated debate. The charity’s purpose was to protest the existence of opium dens; to illustrate the threat, a poster was on display. The caricature depicted a Chinese man with slitted eyes and a cunning smile, holding out a pipe to an unsuspecting Englishman. In the background lay cadaverous bodies draped with the British flag.
“You do realize you have it the wrong way around?” Glory was saying. “We are the ones importing opium to China. Not to mention the harm the East India Company is doing to the Indian economy and culture with the opium trade.”
The charity lady’s lips pinched together. “What do you know of such things, young lady?”
“My papa gave speeches on the topic in the House of Lords,” Glory replied.
“It is best not to repeat things one does not understand,” the lady said in patronizing tones.
Seeing the fire in Glory’s eyes, Livy and Fi dragged her away before more damage could be done. They found a quieter spot at the back of the room.
“Perhaps charities aren’t for us after all,” Fiona said. “How are you faring, Livy dear?”
“Much better. I’ve decided to redouble my efforts with Hadleigh,” Livy announced.
Glory looked at Fi and muttered, “I owe you an ice at Gunter’s.”
“Glory and I had a wager going,” Fi explained. “She said it would take a week for you to start campaigning for Hadleigh’s affections again. I said three days.”
“It is nice to know one’s bosom friends are invested in one’s welfare,” Livy said dryly. “Now, do you want to hear my plan?”
“We’re all ears…” Fi trailed off. “Is that Lady Fayne?”
Livy saw that it was Charlotte Fayne standing at the next table. She felt a prickle of antipathy, which she knew was motivated by sheer envy. Lady Fayne had looked so perfect standing next to Hadleigh, and the widow was everything Livy was not: glamorous, mature, and tall. She was the sort of woman Hadleigh would find appealing.
If Lady Fayne had kissed Hadleigh in the garden, he probably wouldn’t have rejected her.
Livy was ashamed by her peevish thought. Especially when Lady Fayne greeted them with a smile of genuine pleasure.
“If it isn’t the Willflowers,” Lady Fayne said as they made their curtsies. “How lovely to see you all again.”
“It is a pleasure to see you, Lady Fayne,” Fi said. “Your ensemble is ravishing.”
Livy had to admit that Lady Fayne looked faultless in a carriage dress of pale bronze, paired with a redingote lined with blue satin. Her honey-gold hair was arranged in a fashion similar to Livy’s own: parted in the middle, with braided loops over the ears. Compared to the worldly widow, however, Livy felt like a gawky miss fresh out of the schoolroom.
“If it is not too bold, may I ask that you call me Charlie?” the lady said. “All my friends do, and it is my fondest wish to become better acquainted with the three of you.”
Fi dimpled. “It would be an honor, Charlie. You must return the favor and call me Fi.”
Not wanting to be churlish, Livy said, “There is no need to stand on formality with us.”
“Ladies who share my own sensibilities. How delightful,” Charlie said warmly. “How are you finding the symposium?”
Glory crossed her arms. “Problematical.”
As Glory relayed their misadventures, Livy studied Charlie’s booth. The lady had no leaflets or paraphernalia to indicate the purpose of her charity. There was not even a sign with the group’s name. In fact, only two objects sat upon the table: a piece of paper and a blue satin reticule.
Curiosity prompted Livy to ask, “What is the nature of your charity?”
Charlie turned to her. “It is a bit of a secret, actually. One that I am only revealing to those who can correctly solve a riddle. Would you care to try?”
Curiouser and curiouser.
Despite herself, Livy was intrigued. “All right.”
Charlie picked the paper up from the table, handing it to Livy. Glory and Fi huddled in.
Livy read the single sentence aloud. “What is seen in the middle of March and April, that cannot be seen at the beginning or end of either month?”
“Hmm,” Fi said. “That is tricky.”
“A seasonal pattern, perhaps?” Glory guessed. “The weather or maybe animal migrations?”
“Neither are universal. They depend upon where you are, and this riddle sounds absolute.” Fi tapped her chin. “What else happens in the middle of March and April? Celebrations of some sort?”
“Would those not also depend upon where you live?” Glory said. “Different countries have different festivals, after all.”
“The answer is not a celebration,” Livy said definitively. “Nor is it weather or animal related.”
“What is the answer then?” Fi asked.
“The letter R.” Livy pointed to the letter in both words. “It is in the middle of both ‘March’ and ‘April’ but not at the beginning or end.”
“Very good,” Charlie said with warm admiration.
Tamping down the urge to preen, Livy gave a shrug. “It was not that difficult.”
“Not for an agile and inquisitive mind. But those are rarer than one would think.” Charlie leaned closer. “Can the three of you keep a secret?”
“Of course,” Fiona said promptly. “Would you like to pinky swear upon it?”
“Your word of honor will suffice.”
The lady retrieved a card from her reticule, handing it to Livy. Printed on thick ivory stock, the calling card had elegant lettering that spelled out three words, with an exclusive Mayfair address beneath.
“Society of Angels?” Livy canted her head. “Is that the name of your charity?”
“If you are interested in learning more about a group whose aim is to give intelligent and independent young ladies a worthy purpose, t
hen come for luncheon on Monday.” Charlie tucked her reticule onto her wrist and donned her gloves. “It would be best if you arrange to come unchaperoned. Good day, Willflowers.”
With a graceful nod, Charlie glided off, disappearing into the crowd.
Fi stared after her. “When I grow up, I want to be just like her.”
“Shall we go to her luncheon?” Glory asked.
Although Livy hated to admit it, her curiosity was piqued. She loved a good adventure. Nonetheless, she forced herself to logically consider Charlie’s proposition.
“Why the mystery and lack of chaperonage?” she wondered aloud. “What is the agenda of the Society of Angels? We should discuss this before making any decisions—”
“There you are, girls!”
Pippa, nee Hunt and now the Countess of Longmere, approached in a swish of butter-yellow skirts. Pippa had inherited her mama’s sunny coloring and disposition. When she entered a room, everything seemed to light up.
“I’ve been looking all over for you.” Pippa hugged Livy and the girls in turn. “How are my favorite Willflowers?”
“We are well.” Livy beamed at her. “And you, Pippa? How is married life?”
To Livy’s surprise, a shadow passed over Pippa’s lovely countenance, the way a cloud obscures the sun. It was gone the next instant, and Livy wondered if she had imagined it.
“It is splendid.” Pippa’s smile seemed a bit forced.
With a prickle of concern, Livy asked, “Is everything all right, Pippa?”
“All is well.” Before Livy could decide whether she believed the assertion, Pippa gave her a teasing look. “Still the inquisitive poppet, I see.”
“I am not a poppet.” If Livy was going to win Hadleigh’s heart, she would have to learn to project a more mature image. “Why does everyone think I am a child?”
“I apologize. It is just a habit.” Pippa’s eyes twinkled. “After all, I have known you since you were in leading strings.”
“Can we not talk about me in leading strings?” Livy requested.
“As you wish.” Pippa tilted her head. “By the by, who was that striking lady you were conversing with before I arrived?”
“Lady Charlotte Fayne,” Fiona volunteered. “She is here representing a charity today.”
Pippa’s brow furrowed. “That is curious, since her name is not on the list.”
Livy exchanged glances with the other Willflowers. “Curious indeed.”
“What is the mission of her charity?” Pippa asked.
“Something about giving ladies a noble purpose,” Fi said in an offhand manner, then smoothly changed the topic. “Any luck recruiting for the Hunt Academy?”
“We have had some interested volunteers,” Pippa replied. “But we could always use more help, particularly in tutoring the students in reading and writing.”
“I would be glad to assist,” Glory said earnestly. “In addition to English, I am fluent in French, Chinese, and German. My Italian is not quite up to scratch, but I am working on it.”
Glory was the linguist of the group. As she was a quarter Chinese from her papa’s side, she had a special interest in China’s culture and language.
“Thank you, Glory.” Pippa looked over at her booth where potential candidates were lining up. “Duty calls, I’m afraid. Hopefully I shall see you all soon?”
“I almost forgot,” Livy said. “Will you and the earl be attending our supper party this Saturday?”
“Oh dear, I forgot to reply, didn’t I? How rude of me.” Pippa bit her lip. “I shall have to consult Longmere. He has been, um, in demand of late.”
This time, Livy knew she wasn’t imagining the strain tautening Pippa’s pretty features.
Not wanting to add to the other’s distress, she said, “If your schedule permits, I do hope you both come.”
“Thank you, Livy. It was lovely seeing you girls.” With a flustered smile, Pippa headed off.
“Pippa doesn’t quite seem herself, does she?” Fi murmured.
“She does not,” Livy said with a frisson of worry. “What do you suppose is the matter?”
“According to the on-dit, Pippa’s papa has no particular liking for his son-in-law.” Fi was the expert on ton gossip. “That could cause tension.”
Since Livy had overheard her mama and Mrs. Hunt discussing the matter, she knew that Mr. Hunt did not approve of Lord Edwin Longmere, who fancied himself a painter and ran with a fast crowd. At the same time, Mr. Hunt loved his daughter and supported her, despite their differences of opinion concerning her husband.
“Perhaps we should pay Pippa a visit and talk to her in private,” Livy said. “She is the sweetest of ladies, and it pains me to see her unhappy.”
The others nodded in agreement.
“Now, what were you saying before Pippa arrived?” Fi asked. “About Hadleigh?”
The mention of Hadleigh brought Livy back to her own problems.
“I am going to send him a personal note asking that he attend our supper party. Once he is there, I will endeavor to get him alone again. To convince him that we are meant to be together,” Livy declared. “As Robert the Bruce once said, ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again.’”
“That is a splendid battle plan.” Fiona winked at her. “It’s not for nothing that you were voted Most Stubborn Debutante.”
“Most Determined,” Livy corrected.
And she was determined to win Hadleigh’s heart. No matter what.
7
Saturday evening, Ben found himself at the Strathavens’ supper party, seated in the place of honor next to the host. As both Strathaven and the lady to Ben’s right were engaged with others, Ben had time to mull over his decision to attend. In the end, he was here because of Livy’s note:
Please come. It would mean the world to me. It may be months until we meet again.
Simple words, yet he’d been powerless to resist them. Written in Livy’s bold and feminine hand, the message reminded him of all the letters she’d sent him during the dark period after Arabella’s death. When he had been at his lowest, Livy had been there for him; he owed her for her sweet and steadfast loyalty. He could not bear the thought of them parting as anything but friends.
Not that he’d had a chance to converse with her. She was seated on the opposite side of the table, two chairs down. An epergne sat in his line of vision, yielding peek-a-boo views of her through the silver branches piled with fruit and fragrant blooms. He caught the dazzling smile she bestowed upon her supper partner, Lord Ian Sheffield.
Ben clenched his jaw. He had a clear view of Sheffield, and he did not like the way the young blond Adonis was looking at Livy…as if she were the next course of the delectable supper. Sheffield had been sneaking glances at her bosom all night, and Ben was tempted to tear the bounder’s well-coiffed head off. Luckily, a liveried footman arrived with the next course, interrupting Ben’s murderous fantasy.
As Ben slashed into the tender veal roulade, exposing its innards of asparagus and lobster, he brooded over his reaction to Sheffield. He told himself that he was not jealous. Knowing the dangers of that green-eyed beast, he’d vowed to keep it locked away.
Arabella had adored his possessiveness, poking and whipping his bestial nature into a frenzy. She had been delighted every time he fought a duel over her. Every time he lost a friendship. Every time he stupidly and shamefully hurt another in the name of her honor. Whenever he’d come home bloodied and damaged, she had always wanted to fuck like mad.
Chen had helped Ben to realize how destructive his jealousy had been. His temper had controlled him, rather than the other way around. Now he took pains to separate his emotions from tupping. He would never let himself be manipulated by a woman again.
But Livy was different. Ben was protective of her…in a brotherly way. He wanted to keep her safe from cads like Sheffield who might take advantage of her youth, innocence, and beauty.
And, hell’s teeth, she was beautiful, he thought
in bemused wonder. He caught another glimpse of her through the centerpiece. His little queen had always been a pretty thing, but when had she blossomed into an irresistible woman?
Seemingly overnight, Livy had unfurled with sensual perfection, every detail of her designed by nature to stir the male imagination. Her glossy coronet looked almost too heavy for the tender stem of her neck, begging for a man’s hand to take down those thick tresses. Although her mouth was a bit wide for conventional beauty, her lips formed an alluring pink pout. Her pale blue gown exposed her creamy shoulders, the rounded swell of her breasts…
Bloody hell, this is Livy. Ben’s mind whirled in confusion. Why are you thinking about her lips and breasts?
At that instant, Livy’s glance collided with his. His breath caught oddly when her eyes, the clear green of a mountain spring, lit up in a way that they hadn’t for Sheffield. As he watched, she brought her hand to her décolletage, and he had to swallow as those fingertips trailed over the upper swell of her breasts. Christ, what was she doing…?
Then he realized that her fingertips had landed on a glittering object in the hollow of her throat: the tiny golden crown he had given her. She was showing him that she was wearing his gift. Then she smiled at him.
Beneath the table, he went instantly and ignominiously hard.
“Do you prefer it young and tender, Hadleigh?”
At the commanding voice, Ben swung his gaze to his host. Seated at the head of the table, the Duke of Strathaven was looking at him, raven brows arched over eyes too much like Livy’s. Guilt seared Ben’s insides, his neck heating beneath his cravat.
Devil and damn, had his host gleaned his salacious thoughts? While Strathaven was a famously devoted husband, he had been a rake in his younger days, and Ben did not doubt the man was familiar with the less than civilized workings of the male mind. And he was even more certain that Strathaven would not take kindly to Ben lusting over his daughter.
Olivia and the Masked Duke Page 6
