“Her name is Olivia Kingsley, and she’s ...” He paused and looked at Miss Rossington.
She glared at Olivia, jealousy distorting her face.
“How old are you?” Odd, he’d never wondered at her age before.
She shifted her focus to him and lifted her chin. Her citrine eyes flashed with confidence, even as a seductress’s smile bent her overly-rouged mouth. “Eighteen.”
The same age as Livy when we met.
He tilted his lips at the corners. The termagant clutching his arm was about to receive a proper set down. “She only boasts three years on you, and I assure you, that is her natural hair color.”
He covertly scrutinized the crowd then Olivia as she made her way along the perimeter of
the ballroom, her brother and aunt beside her. She’d drawn the attention of nearly everyone present. From her stiff posture, she was well aware of the murmurs behind fans and hands directed her way. Her vibrant chestnut-red hair and ruby jewelry shining in the candlelight, she appeared rather lost.
His heart pinched painfully at her discomfit. Why he should care a whit about her feelings was beyond him, and that he did, rankled him no end.
Allen had always adored her glorious hair, though. “The color is splendid, is it not?”
Miss Rossington released an irritated huff, her fingers tightening on his forearm. Clearly, she didn’t agree.
“And how would you know about her hair?” Accusation rang in her petulant voice. “Women of her ilk are quite skilled at artifice.”
You ought to know.
Taking her measure, he gave himself a mental shake. God spare him title-hungry viragos with the morals of a bitch in heat. Miss Rossington had become much too possessive of late. Far past time to put her in her place, once and for all.
“Well, don’t you intend to answer me, Allen?” Her voice rose shrilly. “How do you know her?”
Handing the flute to a servant, he peeled her hand from his arm.
“She’s the woman I almost married.”
Other than her gloved hands, at no time should any part of a lady’s form touch a gentleman’s while dancing.
~A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment
Allen, Olivia’s heart cried silently across the distance.
Time hung suspended for an intense, agonizing moment.
“Olivia, stop gawking.” Aunt Muriel nudged her. “Come along. Let’s find a seat, shall we?”
Olivia dragged her gaze from him, and Bradford took her by the elbow. Skirting the guests, they maneuvered their way toward the chairs bordering one side of the ballroom.
Allen was exactly as she remembered: ruggedly handsome and wholly irresistible.
With an exquisite young woman on his arm.
Using her brother as a shield, Olivia eyed Allen covertly, drinking him in with her gaze.
Attired in black, except for a scarlet and silver waistcoat, he exuded maleness. High cheekbones framed a nose too strong to be considered aristocratic, but his lips were perfectly sculpted.
She’d tasted those lips once, long ago. She touched her mouth with her gloved fingertips in remembrance.
“Olivia!” Aunt Muriel hissed from the side of her mouth while smiling and nodding at acquaintances as she sailed forth, towing Olivia in her wake. She squeezed Olivia’s elbow. “Compose yourself.”
Olivia dropped her hand, her attention still locked on Allen.
His thick, sable hair swept across a high brow, accented his malachite eyes. A lock curled over his forehead, giving him a rakish air. Even across the room, his unusual green eyes glinted with something powerful.
She swallowed, not at all sure that what glistened in the depths of his gaze was hospitable. For certain, the look his companion leveled at Olivia radiated hostility.
“Buck up, kitten. The ton is watching,” Bradford whispered in her ear. He led her to a trio of empty seats along the primrose yellow, silk-draped wall.
Her legs gone weak, Olivia sank thankfully onto a chair.
Yes, indeed, this was the worst possible idea. Rather like setting sail upon the ocean in a leaky skiff.
During a tempest.
Without provisions.
Naked and blind.
“I see Lady Pinterfield.” Aunt Muriel stared at a woman wearing copious layers of ruffled puce, almost as garishly attired as she. “I need to speak with her. Her chef concocts the most delicious ratafia cakes. I simply must acquire the recipe.”
With a fluttering wave, she all but bolted toward the unsuspecting woman.
True to his word, Bradford, after snaring a flute of champagne from a passing footman, took a position beside an enormous potted ficus to Olivia’s left.
Several twittering damsels ogled him openly. Others whispered behind their fans, lust in their not-so-innocent eyes.
He curved his lips into a knowing smile and winked at them.
A chorus of thrilled giggles and blushes followed.
His grin widened as he leaned, ankles crossed, against the wall and perused the assembled female guests from beneath his hooded hazel-blue eyes.
Incorrigible scapegrace.
At six and twenty, he ought to stop behaving so recklessly.
Olivia snapped her fan open. She waved it before her while surreptitiously studying Allen and attempting to ignore the feminine buzz further along the neat row of chairs. From the corner of her eye, she noted several gentlemen had turned their attention to her, no doubt trying to decide whether to ask her to dance.
Please don’t.
Not that she didn’t enjoy dancing—she rather adored the pastime, and it had been three years since she’d attended any event with dancing as part of the entertainment—but tonight, she only cared to partner with one man.
Allen stood across the ballroom, his stance rigid and his countenance an unreadable mask. He didn’t acknowledge Olivia’s presence with as much as a nod.
That hurt, more than she wanted to admit.
She fluttered her fan faster, her grip on the handle tight enough to snap the fragile wood. Well, what had she expected? That he’d charge across the ballroom, take her in his arms, and profess his undying love in full view of all?
That would have been wonderful; more than wonderful, an answer to three years’ worth of desperate prayers.
Instead, it appeared he intended to disregard her.
A sob rose from Olivia’s chest to her throat and stinging tears welled in her eyes. She swallowed then blinked several times.
I will not cry. I. Will. Not.
He held a champagne flute in one hand, his other arm commandeered by that stunning petite blonde.
Miss Rossington?
Olivia turned her lips up in a cynical smile. At five feet ten inches, and with a head of unruly auburn hair, she was neither petite nor blonde. Nor nearly as curvaceous as the creature clinging to Allen, gazing at him with adoration, her full breasts crushed against his arm.
Ridiculously huge breasts, truth to tell. Did she stuff her gown? How did her small frame support those monstrosities? It was a wonder she didn’t topple forward onto her face.
The woman appeared entranced with Allen, and blister it, from where Olivia sat, he appeared as enraptured as the young lady. Jealousy nipped Olivia, sharp and deep. Hot tears pricked behind her eyelids again, and hiding behind her fan, she shut them.
Too late. I’m too late.
“Miss Kingsley, may I request the pleasure of a dance?”
Startled, Olivia opened her eyes and clutched her throat, her fan tumbling to the floor.
Allen had approached, rapid and soundless.
She peered past his muscled form as he straightened from his bow.
Where had the female barnacle gotten to?
Ah, there she was, attached to another attractive gentleman, so scandalously close a starving flea couldn’t have squeezed between them if the insect held its breath. Her cat-eyes sparked with displeasure as she took Olivia’s measure before turning her back in an
intentional snub.
“Has another claimed the next dance?” Allen’s melodious baritone drew her thoughts back to him.
Olivia opened her mouth, but her mind went blank—empty as a beggar’s purse.
Then dear Bradford was there, picking up her brisé fan and saving her from her gaucheness. “No, no one has requested a dance with my sister as yet. You’re the first.”
Bradford!
He avoided looking at Olivia as he stood upright. “Of course she’d be delighted to accept your offer.”
She chastised him hotly with her gaze.
Just you wait, Brady, you traitorous toad!
After returning the accessory to her, he extended his hand to Allen. “Good to see you, Wimpleton.”
Allen smiled and clasped her brother’s palm. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Bradford.
“Likewise, Kingsley. Are you finding London’s temperature a mite cool after your time in the tropics? No doubt you’re eager to return to the milder climate.” Green fire burned in the gaze he slid Olivia as he uttered the last words.
His stinging innuendo met its mark, and she flinched inwardly but refused to let him see he’d affected her. Rather amazed at her ability to appear composed, she met his cool regard. “We’re not returning, Mr. Wimpleton. After Papa died last year, Bradford sold the plantation.”
Allen’s forehead furrowed in momentary surprise, and then he swiftly schooled his expression. “I’d not heard of your loss. Please accept my condolences.”
“Thank you.” She inclined her head and another bothersome curl flopped free.
Dratted hair.
Bradford grinned, his attention directed across the room. “Olivia, since Wimpleton is partnering you for this dance, I’ve a mind to reacquaint myself with his sister and ask her to introduce me to that delectable creature standing beside her.”
Olivia followed his gaze. A ravishing brunette wearing a stunning lavender gown burst out laughing at something Allen’s sister, Ivonne, said. Poor dear. She really ought to be warned, so she could flee before becoming ensnared by her brother.
“Behave yourself, Brady.”
He chuckled and wagged his eyebrows. “Always, Kitten.”
With a mocking wink and half-bow, he took his leave.
So much for gallant promises.
His expression somber, Allen extended his hand, palm upward. “The waltz is about to begin.”
She stared at his outstretched hand.
Did she dare? Wasn’t this why she had come? Now was as good a time as any to test the waters. Sink or swim. Unable to take a decent breath, she did feel she was drowning, especially when she gazed into his eyes. Perhaps her new French stays were to blame for her breathlessness.
Fustian rubbish.
The musician’s first strains echoed loudly in the oddly quiet room.
“Miss Kingsley? The waltz?” Allen’s soft prompt steadied her nerves.
“Yes, of course.” Managing a tremulous smile, Olivia placed her equally shaky fingers in his hand and allowed him to lead her onto the sanded floor.
A path opened before them. Like the parting of the Red Sea, several other couples moved aside, allowing them to pass, a few gossiping openly as she and Allen walked by.
Prickles along her spine warned her that dozens of guests watched their progress, some not at all pleased with the turn of events. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed Miss Rossington’s pinched face and narrowed, fuming gaze.
Precisely what was Allen’s relationship with the woman?
He bowed, and Olivia curtsied, somehow managing to keep from teetering over from apprehension. The floor filled with other couples, many of which craned their necks in her and Allen’s direction.
She felt rather like a curiosity at Bullock’s Museum; an oddity to be stared at and discussed.
Allen took her in his arms, his stance too near to be considered wholly respectable. Shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, and coolly silent, he began circling them about the room.
He’s angry.
Why had he asked her to dance when he obviously struggled as much with her proximity as she did his?
For appearances? To prove she meant nothing to him?
She should never have come.
Such utter foolishness to think something might be salvaged of their love. She’d endure this dance with some semblance of dignity, and afterward, she would make short work of finding Bradford and Aunt Muriel. They would bid their hosts a hasty farewell, and Olivia would leave her dreams of happiness and reconciliation behind forever.
Silence, awkward and heavy, loomed between her and Allen. They’d never had trouble finding anything to say before. The years and hurt had created an unbridgeable chasm between them.
Nibbling her lower lip, she strove for something sensible to say, but all coherent thought had vanished the instant he touched her.
His hand upon her back branded her with possessive heat, and each time his thighs brushed her gown, her legs responded by going weak in the knees, ridiculous things.
She concentrated on counting in time to the waltz’s lilting strains—one, two, three, one, two, three—in an attempt to keep her mind occupied, but her thoughts hurtled around, bouncing off each other, dissonant and jarring, like church bells clanging on Sunday morning.
How could she have been so naïve as to think they might put the last three years behind them? While she’d remained trapped in the Caribbean, caring for her dying father, Allen had gone on with his life, it seemed. A tiny sigh escaped Olivia at the injustice, but then fate never claimed to be the mistress of fairness.
The lulling strains of the orchestra wound their way around her taut nerves until she became lost in the music and gradually began enjoying the dance.
She closed her eyes, remembering another waltz, where she and Allen had danced indecently close. That night, he’d whisked her onto the terrace, hurled convention to the wind, and asked her to marry him. So young and in love, she’d tossed aside her mother’s constant harping on proper comportment as carelessly as used tea leaves and said yes, even though Papa wouldn’t have approved.
Olivia hadn’t cared.
Especially when Allen smiled, his countenance full of joy, and then had sealed their troth with a scorching kiss, whose recollection yet curled her toes in her slippers and sent sensual twinges coursing through her body.
Cheeks heated by the recollection, she opened her eyes and searched Allen’s dear face. Though tall herself, she had to look up to meet his eyes.
He stared at some point beyond her, tension ticking in his jaw.
The slightly spicy scent he always wore wafted past her nostrils, flooding her senses. She stifled the impulse to bury her nose in his neck and kiss his throat, but she couldn’t help drawing in a deep breath and inhaling his essence, not only into her lungs, but into her spirit.
These last treasured moments dancing with him were all she would ever have, and she was determined to savor each one.
Did he hold the minutest trace of warm regard for her still, or had his disappointment and anger irrevocably hardened his heart toward her? Did he remember that fateful evening—their dance and kiss?
His gaze lowered and lingered on her lips for a brief moment.
Yes, he remembered.
His expression closed, he met her eyes.
“Why are you here? Did you think to take up where we left off?”
Infinite care and consideration should be given when a lady chooses her words.
~A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment
Allen cursed inwardly for asking Olivia the confounded question. “You humiliated me, practically leaving me at the altar.”
Holy hell, do stubble it.
She gasped and stumbled, and he tightened his embrace, steadying her.
Her azure gaze, huge and alarmed, flitted about the room, no doubt seeking a means of escape. The tip of her pink tongue darted out and touched her lower lip. “That’s not true. We hadn’t told any
one of our plans to marry.”
He ought to give her that, but his anger wouldn’t allow any concession.
The moment he’d seen her standing in the entry, he had sworn he wouldn’t acknowledge, let alone speak to her. Olivia was none of his concern. She held no interest any longer. He didn’t want anything more to do with her. He’d slammed that door closed when she’d chosen her father over him.
Ballocks, you colossal liar. You love her every bit as much as you did the night you rejected her.
His tongue, fueled by offended pride, paid his conscience no heed. “There were wagers on the books at White’s, betting we’d wed by summer’s end. The entire ton recognized me as a besotted fool.”
Her beautiful eyes widened in wounded shock, and her lower lip quivered the tiniest bit before she dropped her thick-lashed gaze to stare at his shoulder.
Trembling, she murmured, “This dance was a mistake. Please return me to my aunt or brother.”
“Like hell I will,” he said beneath his breath, his voice a harsh rasp.
His parents stood beside the Duchess of Daventry at the end of the opulent, overheated ballroom, concern etched upon their countenances.
They feared he’d make a scene.
He feared he’d make a bloody scene.
He had never been this out of control before.
Drawing in a fortifying gulp of air, he forced a smile to his stiff lips and nodded at the gawkers stretching their necks to see what transpired between Olivia and him. Allen would’ve loved to tell the lot to sod off.
Dancing nearby, Miss Rossington jerked her attention away with such abruptness, she mashed her partner’s foot. Stumbling, the man muttered an oath and bumped into another couple. They too, faltered before regaining their balance.
An amusing vision of the dancers tumbling over like stacked cards, one after the other, and ending in a writhing pile of arms and legs upon the floor flashed before Allen. The corner of his lips skewed upward.
“Mr. Wimpleton, I demand you release me at once.” Her face constrained, Olivia attempted to ease away.
“Cease.” He bent his neck, his mouth near her small ear. “We shall finish this waltz, and you shall pretend to enjoy the dance. I’ll not give the gossipmongers a single morsel to toss about ever again.”
A Kiss for Miss Kingsley: A Regency Short Story Page 2
