by Sara Ramsey
But she hadn’t expected to flirt with him.
Or for that flirtation to feel real.
He regarded her now, not touching his brandy even though he was rumored to live on the stuff. Finally, he said, “If you are enamored with me, your taste is less exquisite than I had heard.”
“Seeking a compliment, my lord?” she said. “I already praised your limbs and your teeth — it would be unseemly to praise you more extravagantly.”
Lord Rafael laughed, breaking a bit of the tension that had sprung up between them after her declaration. “No compliments necessary, Madame Octavia. Especially if you can only note the obvious. I had hoped you would fancy my perfectly-tied cravat, but if limbs are your preference, so be it.”
His cravat was perfectly tied. “You must come to stay with us in Devonshire this summer, then. I’m sure Somerville would pay your valet handsomely to teach his valet those tricks.”
It was an impulsive invitation — but again, she was intrigued by him, and wanted to see how he would react. Somerville always returned to his Devonshire estate in July. She hosted house parties for him there, but with few women in attendance, she mostly used her summers to gain a bit of peace from the social whirl.
And sometimes, when she had a day to herself, she would ride over to Maidenstone. Not that she ever went to the abbey. She hadn’t spoken to Lucy since becoming Somerville’s mistress four years earlier. But Octavia could visit Julian’s grave, and now her grandfather’s, without Lucy ever knowing she was there.
Lord Rafael’s gaze sharpened. “Will you be at the Maidenstone party in August? I confess I didn’t know whether you would attend.”
The Maidenstone party. It was all London had talked about since invitations were sent the week before.
Octavia hadn’t received one.
“It’s not how I would prefer to spend my summer,” she said, evading. “Somerville’s estate is also in Devonshire.”
Beyond Lord Rafael, other guests slowly circled closer to her. She rarely talked to any man alone for this long. Some guests could stay only twenty minutes before moving on to the next entertainment of the evening — they would want to court her favor before leaving. She should send Lord Rafael on his way and return to her party.
But that was an excuse, even though it was a good one. She didn’t want to talk about the Maidenstone party. After all, it wasn’t just a party. Her grandfather had died the previous year. There was no heir to the title, despite the fact that he’d remarried — with a girl younger than Octavia — and attempted to make one. His will had stipulated that whichever remaining Briarley granddaughter made the best marriage by the end of the year after his death would win Maidenstone Abbey.
That meant Octavia, Lucy, and their American cousin, Callista, were all in competition with each other. It was a very Briarley way of solving the problem, although Octavia would have preferred sabers.
The party, nominally hosted by her grandfather’s widow but organized by the estate executor, was intended to provide the remaining heiresses with a chance to find husbands. From what she’d heard as gossip had swirled through the ton, the most eligible bachelors of the day had been invited.
And the fact that Octavia wasn’t invited meant she couldn’t possibly hope to win the estate.
It was supremely unfair. She had maintained good relations with her grandfather even after the scandal. Perhaps especially after the scandal. The old earl delighted in Briarleys behaving badly — so much so that Octavia had hoped he might leave the estate to her.
But by putting the choice in the hands of an estate executor — the Duke of Rothwell, their second cousin on their grandmother’s side — her grandfather had almost certainly doomed her. From what she’d heard, the party was two months away. There was still a chance she might receive an invitation. But few men would let a woman with her reputation inherit anything at all. And she had never met Rothwell in London — if he didn’t wish to associate with her, he surely wouldn’t let her inherit.
She didn’t know, yet, what to do about the party. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. But competing for Maidenstone would mean seeing Lucy again — and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.
Lord Rafael’s eyes were still sharp — he knew there was something she wasn’t saying. But he let the subject drop. “There are still several weeks of the season left. I hope we may see each other in London before we’re reduced to the crushing boredom of Devonshire. Would you care to accompany me for a ride in the park? Perhaps in two days?”
He seemed to be asking her for her own sake, not because he wanted access to Somerville. That was a boundary she had never crossed before. She never showed favor to any other men, or encouraged them to see her as anything other than Somerville’s mistress.
And that made Lord Rafael dangerous. But his grey eyes gleamed with humor — good humor, not malicious humor. She wondered whether it would be so bad to go to the park with him. Somerville wouldn’t stop her — their arrangement was purely for companionship, not sex. It was her own morality, twisted though it may have seemed, that kept her from pursuing other liaisons. And, of course, the knowledge that kissing had ruined her once before — it could easily change her life again, and likely not for the better.
She wasn’t eighteen anymore. She was Madame Octavia, not Miss Ava Briarley. There would be no more illicit kisses in moonlit gardens — no chance to see whether a kiss could turn into love, the way she had always dreamed of.
Which is not to say that she didn’t want kisses. But love made fools of women and men both — and women often paid a higher price for momentary insanity.
She smiled, ready to thank him and send him on his way. No kiss was worth losing the security of her current situation.
He surprised her. “Don’t say no to me yet,” he said. “Say no to me in the park, when I ask you if you would like to go to the opera with me the following night.”
Octavia laughed in spite of herself. “If we are both so enamored as we claimed, this is not a wise liaison to encourage. And I should see to my other guests.”
He stood, holding his still-full glass of brandy. And then he surprised her again by extending his other hand. She offered hers, instinctively, and he bowed over it. “It was a pleasure to renew our acquaintance, Madame Octavia.”
Then he brushed his lips over her knuckles. It was entirely proper, entirely unremarkable.
And yet….
She wore gloves, but she suddenly wished that she could strip them off. Or perhaps that he would strip them off — let her feel his skin against hers as her fingers curled within his grip. He kissed her hand, but he looked into her eyes.
She knew he was charming. Charm like that could hide all sorts of secrets. But in that single moment, she thought she saw something more than charm. Not love — she wasn’t stupid enough to believe it was love. And not exactly lust, either. She’d seen that often enough. He didn’t look at her the way a man looked at a woman whom he believed would fall easily into his bed.
No — it was curiosity, and intrigue, and some moment of shared connection. Nothing stronger than that — and yet, was there anything better than a moment when the rest of the world fell away and the only two people left within it were entranced by each other?
Her breath caught.
He dropped her hand, slowly, and gave her a rueful smile. “You were right. This may not be wise.”
It wasn’t wise. Her life with Somerville was safe.
Lord Rafael couldn’t replace that.
But she had never wanted to make a mistake more than she wanted to make this one.
“I cannot go riding with you, my lord,” she said. “But you may call on me next week and try to convince me.”
For one swift moment, so fast that she later told herself she hadn’t seen it, she thought she saw triumph in his gaze. But then that rueful smile was back. “I shall have to think of something better than opera tickets to tempt you with. Until then, Madame Octavia.”
But that didn’t mean she forgot about him. She had lost Maidenstone. She had lost Lucy. She had lost Julian, and her grandfather, and her parents, and everyone else who had ever mattered. She perhaps should have been more concerned about losing Somerville as well — there wasn’t any passion between them, but he gave her everything else that she needed.
Money and security should have been enough. But when another man kissed her hand later in the evening, she wished he hadn’t, so that the memory of Lord Rafael’s lips wasn’t overlaid by his. And when Somerville smiled at her from across the room, with that distant, vaguely worried air he’d been giving her for weeks, she sighed.
Money and security should have been enough.
But nothing was ever enough. She was still Octavia Briarley, still ruined. The ruin she'd brought upon herself, in a single misjudged moment, with a single kiss, was something she couldn't escape. No one in England would ever forget it.
They might have forgiven her, eventually. If she had done what they expected her to do — if she had gone to the country, and worn her shame like a cloak around her — they might have let her marry. Someone desperate, of course — some man who needed a wife with a decent dowry and didn't mind the whispers about her. Someone who would have spent their entire marriage reminding her that she didn’t deserve him.
She hadn't taken the shame they wanted to give her, though. She'd taken her anger instead, using it to stiffen her backbone so she wouldn't bend under the gossip. And the people who would have forgiven her if she'd been meek seemed to hate her more because she was strong.
She was strong. But there were no paths forward that would bring her joy.
She would let Lord Rafael down gently, before anything disastrous happened. She couldn’t afford to lose Somerville’s protection.
But her heart — her daring, reckless Briarley heart — wanted more.
Chapter Three
Hours later, Octavia sat in her bedchamber in Somerville House as her lady’s maid unpinned and brushed her hair. Octavia had a lovely house several blocks away, which Somerville paid for, and she slept there most nights. But when Somerville needed her to host his parties, she stayed at Somerville House after. It was easier than going home and more appropriate for the illusion they maintained.
When he tapped on her door a few minutes later, she smiled. “Shall I excuse myself, miss?” her lady’s maid asked.
Agnes had been Octavia’s maid during her debut season. She was the only person in London who still called her “miss.” “Madame Octavia” was the name Somerville had promoted — no one liked to call a mistress “Miss Briarley,” but Octavia couldn’t pretend that she had been married before, as so many mistresses did. Agnes had chosen to stay with Octavia despite the scandal. Most of her family’s servants were loyal, no matter how dark the deeds of their masters.
“You may go, Agnes,” Octavia said. “We may stay here tomorrow night as well — I will tell you in the morning.”
Agnes nodded and left, letting Somerville in as she departed. Octavia turned to greet him. “How did you find the party tonight, my lord?”
His eyes flickered over her. She no longer felt uncomfortable wearing her peignoir and nightrail in front of him. She always had Agnes undress her before Somerville arrived, since otherwise Somerville would have to undo her buttons for her. It had only taken one awkward night of that for Octavia to make sure she was always ready to receive him without needing to call Agnes back in after.
He didn’t notice anything about her attire, but he raised an eyebrow at her necklace. “Do you like the diamonds well enough to sleep in them?” he asked.
She laughed and touched the necklace at her throat. “I adore them. I think Agnes thought it was charming of me to wear them to receive you. I’m sure she expects that I shall thank you for them properly.”
“You could be the best courtesan in London if you chose,” Somerville said. He almost sounded admiring.
“Shall I thank you again for the lessons?”
Somerville snorted. “As though I could ever teach you anything. You seem to have been born for the role.”
He said it without a trace of irony. But she wasn’t offended. If a statement like that was enough to offend her, she never could have survived going to the shops and hearing the whispered comments from her former friends.
“Shall we discuss what we learned?” she asked, gesturing him toward the pair of chairs in front of her fireplace. “I thought tonight’s event was a success, but I cannot say that everyone is equally in favor of your anti-vice legislation. What did you think?”
They often sat there on evenings such as this one. She had come to expect those quiet moments, when she didn’t have to act as anything other than herself. She had his undivided attention in moments like these — not, perhaps, as a mistress might have expected to have his attention. But she had precious few friends with whom to talk, and Somerville was, if nothing else, an excellent conversationalist.
Granted, it was entirely on his terms. If he was busy, he didn’t always make time for her, and she didn’t ask him to. She knew how important his career was to him.
She also knew that her welfare was entirely tied up in his.
He took the seat she offered him, but he shook his head as he did so. “The legislation can wait, my dear. There is something else we need to discuss.”
“Would you care for brandy?” she asked, still composed — still unaware. “I can fetch you a glass.”
“No,” he said.
There was something about that voice that, for a single moment, transported her back to her modiste’s shop on the day Julian and Chapman dueled. Back to that feeling that the whole room knew something that she did not — that her life had hung on a precipice, and she had been too blind to see it until she was already falling.
She sucked in a breath, but calmed her breathing after that. She was older now. She wouldn’t panic. She looked at him. Really looked at him, as she hadn’t done in ages.
His sandy hair and hazel eyes, his slim build and pleasing height, and his perfectly cut evening suit were nearly as familiar to her as her own reflection. But the worried air he’d had for weeks had intensified. She suddenly realized that it might not be about his legislation — but about her.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice sounding harsher than she meant for it to.
“I think it is time for you to find a new arrangement.”
She felt as dazed as if she really had fallen off a precipice — as though she’d hit the ground, hard. “What?”
He looked more sympathetic than the women had in that shop so many years ago. But it didn’t change the resolve in his voice. “You’ve seen the caricatures, Ava. The gossip has been building for weeks. Castlereagh even told me he could maneuver my legislation more easily if I had a wife instead of a mistress — and the leader of the Commons has not been one to help me before. I cannot ignore his offer.”
Octavia had seen the caricatures. She’d dismissed all of them. It was easier to dismiss them now — she’d seen enough of them over the years. And at least the last round had been somewhat flattering to her. Personally, she would far rather be vilified for being the power behind Somerville’s throne than for her apparent lack of sexual morals.
But Somerville probably didn’t appreciate the distinction.
Perhaps she should have guessed his plans. He’d been murmuring about that year’s crop of girls on the marriage mart more than usual. He’d been to Almack’s at least three times this season — invited by Castlereagh’s wife, who was one of the patronesses — which was three times
more than he’d gone the previous year. He’d gone without Octavia, of course. She wasn’t fit to be introduced to newly debuted girls.
She had known that Somerville would have to marry eventually, whether he wanted the girl or not. But….
She couldn’t stay silent. Not with him. “Are you really turning me out?” she demanded. “And do you really want to marry?”
“I don’t want to marry,” he said, ignoring her more important first question in favor of the easier-to-answer second. “You know that. I would happily let my nephew inherit the title. But if I’m to save England from sin and iniquity, I must pass this legislation. And it will be easier to do that if I have a wife, not a mistress.”
It was her turn to snort. “You do not give a bloody damn for sin and iniquity,” she said. “You want to be the prime minister.”
“Your language is deplorable,” he said, although he smiled as he did so.
“I learned it from your friends,” she retorted, not mollified by his attempt at humor. “And anyway, we both know that this campaign you’re waging against vice is meant to get you votes, not to save anyone. Does it really matter so much if you have a mistress?”
Somerville wasn’t quite as mercenary as she made him sound. He really did care about things like gambling, and cheap gin, and the proper care of fatherless bastards whom the parishes had to support. But he wasn’t a saint. And she suspected that at least half his motivation for this legislation was to keep anyone from looking too closely at his own morality.
Which is why she should have guessed that the caricatures bothered him more than her. If someone was targeting him, there was always a chance that his secret life could come to light.
And even at her angriest — even as the rage started to build within her — she didn’t want that to happen to him.
Somerville held up his hands. “If I thought I could keep you, I would,” he said. “I cannot imagine life without you. And I have been very grateful for the time you’ve given me….”
