by Isobel Carr
“Yes, Roland,” his mother said uneasily. “You should speak to Lord Arlington at once. It really isn’t at all the thing to be making offers to young ladies without speaking to their fathers first.”
She sounded as though the affront were to her, not Lady Olivia’s father. Perhaps she was hoping the earl would refuse his permission. Save them all from impending scandal.
Lady Olivia clapped her hands over her mouth. Her eyes met his, brimming with amusement at his mother’s evident horror. The countess stared at them both, her eyes full of confusion and concern.
“I’m my own mistress,” Lady Olivia said as she reclaimed her seat in a flounce of silken petticoats. She looked pleased as Punch after he’d beat Judy into submission. “But I’m sure the earl will feel as your mother does. He does so like to maintain the little formalities that keep us all civilized.”
Beneath her hand, Devere’s arm tensed and flexed. He reminded her of a grain-high horse being held back when it wanted to run. Livy tipped herself against him, pretending to stumble. He steadied her without missing a step. A gentleman and a rake at the same time, or perhaps his inclinations were mercurial? A gentleman by day and a rake by night?
The idea shouldn’t be thrilling, and yet…
“Do you have a key?” she asked, waving one hand at the fenced lawn that made up the private park at the heart of the square.
“Yes,” he said, glancing down at her as he fished about in the pocket of his coat.
“My father’s house is only around the corner.” Livy pulled him to a stop as she eyed the empty square. “And I think this is going to take a few minutes more than the walk there.”
Devere nodded stiffly, light winking off the cravat pin set neatly inside the fall of crisp linen. Livy smiled to herself. This was turning out to be far more entertaining than she’d anticipated. Perhaps she was cut out for wickedness after all.
“Peter?” She turned her attention briefly to her father’s footman. “Mr. Devere will see me home.”
Peter looked skeptical, but he didn’t bother to argue with her. He merely nodded and walked briskly off in the direction of Arlington House. Livy took a deep breath. She didn’t need a witness, even a chance one, for the conversation they were about to have.
Devere led her carefully across the street, as solicitous as if she actually meant something to him, and let them both into the small park. It was deserted at the moment, not even a solitary nurse with her tiny charges or a footman with his employer’s lap dog making use of its oyster-shell paths.
From beneath the shade of the wide brim of her hat, Livy studied Devere’s profile. He had a long nose that turned down at the tip, like the ones on so many of the statues in Rome. He was swarthy like a Roman too, the shadow of beard on his jaw still visible even though she could smell his shaving soap.
He’d left her alone with his mother for less than ten minutes, but he’d returned shaved, in a clean suit of clothes, and with his hair neatly tied back rather than tumbling in riotous waves about his shoulders. She rather missed the pirate, which must surely be a very great failing on her part.
In the middle of the open square sat a stone bench, placed at the crossroads of the paths bisecting the immaculate lawn. Devere led her directly to it, dusted it off with his handkerchief, and motioned for her to sit.
He sat down beside her. Long lashes obscured his dark eyes. Devere’s hands locked into fists, giving away the simmering anger and uncertainty that he’d otherwise masked. He knew he was caught, and he didn’t like it one little bit. Livy bit back a smile.
“I’d like to apologize,” Devere began, pitching his voice low even though there was no one but her to hear him. “I honestly don’t even remember writing that letter, not that pleading inebriation makes its contents one jot less insulting.”
Livy sucked in one cheek and nodded. He sounded sincere, but she couldn’t let him off so easily. Not when his mistake could keep him at her beck and call all season.
“Let us lay our cards on the table, Mr. Devere. You have put yourself entirely at my mercy, and in my present circumstances, I do not find a letter such as the one you sent particularly forgivable.”
His head snapped about, and his nostrils flared. He’d only now realized how thoroughly he was trapped, and to how great an extent he’d placed himself in her hands. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“It was, however,” she went on, “very much what I expected after the events of last year. My father thinks the world will take pity on me, but you and I both know differently, don’t we?”
Devere dropped his gaze to his hands. The seams of his gloves strained. Yes, he knew very well how he and his peers viewed widows and fallen women—game to be stalked, meat for their tables. Her status as something of both would simply add to the frenzy of the hunt. She’d become a singular prize.
“Seeing as the world is what it is,” Livy said, “I must formulate a plan of defense. And since you have so obligingly volunteered, I shall allow you to be of use.”
“By marrying me?” He glanced up, staring at her, dark eyes seeming to beg for clarification. Livy steeled herself. Those eyes would make a weaker woman reconsider the wisdom of constant exposure. But the woman she was today had been forged in the fire of ruin and quenched in scandal broth. She wasn’t likely to succumb to a handsome face and a pair of smoldering eyes.
Her own rising anger sent a jolt of strength through her. Livy smiled, knowing that her expression was too predatory for a proper female but unable to change it to something more demure. Devere sounded horrified at the idea of marrying her. Good enough to bed, but not good enough to wed. Not anymore, anyway. Her husband had been the one to commit a crime, but she was the one paying for it. If Souttar hadn’t died, she’d have been tempted to kill him herself.
“I remain a very good catch, you know,” she said, ruthlessly pressing on. “I’ve complete control of my dowry already, near fifty thousand pounds. And the earl intends to pass only the title and one small, entailed estate to the distant cousin who’s his heir. Everything else will come to me, even Holinshed Castle.”
Devere nodded, the muscles in his jaw popping out as he ground his teeth. “But,” Livy said, allowing her smile to soften, “I shan’t hold you to it. Give me the season, serve as my shield, and then we can go our separate ways.”
He looked grim, keen intelligence flaring behind his eyes. “A broken engagement will be the final nail in the coffin of your reputation.”
Livy nodded. “I’m counting on it. One more soupçon of scandal and my father will never again force me to accompany him to town. I can live out my days as I choose, mistress of my own destiny.”
“As long as you understand what you’re doing,” Devere said, his tone clearly implying that she didn’t. “When you give me my marching papers, you’ll hand over that damned letter?”
“Of course,” Livy said. “You’ll have earned it, believe me.”
CHAPTER 3
A long-standing affection?” the Earl of Arlington said, not looking for a moment like he believed a word of it. The man’s brow furrowed, eyebrows pinched with doubt and something that looked like the beginning of annoyance.
“Yes, my lord,” Roland said, doing his best to appear earnest. It wasn’t his most practiced or natural expression, and it didn’t come easily. Especially when what he felt was a chaotic mix of excitement, dread, and anticipation. He might have been blackmailed into the role of Lady Olivia’s choosing, but it positioned him perfectly to carry out the bet he’d made with Vaughn and Thane. And the beauty of it was, she didn’t even see it.
Lady Olivia’s father, who couldn’t be more than a decade older than Roland was himself, simply stared back at him, looking unconvinced. The man must have married before he’d even reached his majority to have a daughter who was already nearly five-and-twenty.
Roland shook off a niggle of discomfiture. How far could he push things before the earl’s doubts flared into outright disbelief?
>
“I lost her once,” Roland said. “Not being an ideal candidate for the hand of an heiress, I didn’t fight for her as I should have, but I don’t mean to make such a mistake twice.”
“Meaning that you see yourself as more than fit to ask for her hand now that she’s damaged goods.” Roland held his breath as Arlington’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line. The earl wasn’t mincing words, and though he was a good deal younger than Roland’s own father, he was clearly every bit as used to having his own way. Privilege of being a peer. Their rarefied position in the world lent them all a certain arrogance regardless of their age.
“No, my lord. That’s not at all the light in which I see this, though I’ll admit that others might.” Roland leaned forward, holding his gaze steady, praying his argument was a convincing one. He’d had scant time to formulate it before being thrust into action and his head was starting to pound as last night’s debauch once again caught up with him. “Lady Olivia has done nothing wrong. She’s the wounded party, and I’d die to defend that fact.”
Arlington’s grimace softened. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, Mr. Devere,” he said with a bit of a sigh as he settled back into his chair. “I had my way in her first marriage. I take full responsibility for the disaster that ensued. Seeing as I failed so miserably, I’m prepared to let Livy have her way now, and if you are her choice, so be it.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Roland said. The sensation of a heavy weight pressing down on him grew until he had to force himself to breathe. It was done.
He’d wanted her father to agree, needed the man to do so if he was to keep his side of the bargain, but now that the earl had done so, the responsibility of defending Lady Olivia from the ton fell to him. Something that felt almost like guilt washed through him. Roland shook it off. There wasn’t any room for guilt in the game he and Lady Olivia were playing.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Arlington said with a familiar, skeptical look in his eyes. “I think you might both regret your haste a few months hence.”
“You mean you think your daughter might come to see that she had better options than a younger son?”
“To be frank, yes, and also, you might find defending her exhausting. It eats at you, you know, watching someone you love being persecuted and knowing that you’re powerless to prevent it.”
The front door shut with a soft thump that would have gone unnoticed if Livy hadn’t been on tenterhooks waiting for her father’s summons. She let her breath out and spread her hands over her stomach to keep from being sick. Only the wall of her stays shored her up and kept her from wilting.
Her father had sent Devere away. Panic welled up, choking her as effectively as a pair of hands about her throat. If the earl had said yes, she’d have expected to be fetched down to receive his blessing. Her mouth went dry. Without Devere, she was at point non plus. Out of options, save for the unappetizing one of brazening her way through the season on her own, fending off advances—without causing yet another scandal—as best she could.
Livy stood up and forced herself to go downstairs and find her father. If he and Devere hadn’t come to blows, she could still salvage things. The earl had never been good at denying her something she really wanted.
She cracked the door to the earl’s study open and peeked in. Her father was standing at the window, shoulder braced against the painted sash, gazing out at the street. He turned as she entered, an expression of wry amusement on his face.
The tension drained out of her. Whatever had happened, he wasn’t angry.
“What are you up to, pet?” he said, leaning back against the windowsill. “I remember all your suitors, and Roland Devere was never among them.”
“A younger son?” Livy said, closing the door behind her. “Of course not. Peers of the Realm, and the heirs thereof. No one lower than heir to an earl made it into the lists, though there were several who would have liked to have done.”
The earl shook his head, clearly not appreciating her levity. “I’ve told Mr. Devere that I’ll allow you to have your way, but I wanted to talk to you privately before giving the match my blessing. Are you sure, Olivia? Really sure? There’ll be no taking it back once an announcement is made.”
Resentment of that simple truth warred with relief. “I’m sure, Papa. I know exactly what I want.” Or more to the point, she knew exactly what she didn’t want: a life spent paying for the sins of someone else.
For a moment, Livy thought she’d shown too much of her hand, but the earl’s expression altered as she watched and the moment passed. “I’ve no objection to Mr. Devere,” her father said, “but I should prefer if you waited a bit before making any kind of public declaration. Let the ton at least see him court you publicly for a few weeks at least.”
“But privately?”
“Privately, you may consider yourself betrothed,” the earl said as he strode toward her, footsteps muffled by the thick Turkey carpets that were layered haphazardly over the floor. He gave her a quick hug and brushed his lips across her forehead. “I hope he makes you happy, darling.”
CHAPTER 4
Roland plucked two glasses of wine from a passing footman’s tray and handed one to Lady Olivia with a slight obeisance. Lent was over, Parliament was back in session, and the ton had returned to London in force, ready for the Season and a few months of unabashed indulgence. His parents were among the first to throw open their doors, and their soiree was a perfect setting for Lady Olivia to reemerge.
One corner of Lady Olivia’s mouth curled into a smile as she accepted the glass. Her fingers slid along his. Desire jolted through him. He wanted to taste that mouth, to drink down every gasp and cry. And he had every intention of doing so at some point before the lady gave him his congé. Even if there wasn’t a bet to win, bedding Lady Olivia Carlow would have been irresistible.
She tipped her head back, drained the glass, and plucked the full one from his hand without so much as an apologetic glance. Roland chuckled as she took a dainty sip from his glass, batting her eyes at him as she did so. She knew full well that he truly had meant everything in the letter he’d sent. The game was afoot.
“Moubray House will be filled to the rafters in another hour,” she said, her gaze moving out over the crowd as the first strains of the opening minuet momentarily brought the cacophony down to a dull roar.
Lady Olivia’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. Roland’s pulse leapt as his heartbeat settled into his groin with an almost alarming ferocity. Behind her, the room was a sea of swirling, colorful silks and velvets. The familiar steps of the dance turned chaos into practiced order as if by magic.
“Would you like to join them?” Roland said as a footman took the empty glass from him and disappeared into the crowd. Anything to get his hands on her, even if it was only during the decorous steps of the minuet.
Lady Olivia shook her head, the jeweled pins set into her pale hair winking in the light, bringing life to her powdered coiffure. “Not just now,” she said, her intake of breath causing her breasts to swell high above the confines of her bodice. Roland stared at the creamy expanse of skin. How far down would he have to delve to find a nipple? He could almost swear there was a hint of rose areola peeking over the edge of the dark silk with every breath.
A low, throaty chuckle brought his attention up to her face with a snap.
“If you weren’t so dark,” she said, “I think I might be able to make out a blush.”
“Because you caught me taking in the scenery?” He raised his brows dismissively. Magnificent scenery it was, too, a fact of which she seemed all too cognizant.
“Because I caught you considering it as if it were yours, Mr. Devere. It’s not,” she said with a little shake of her head, “and it never will be. Shall we take a turn about the room?” She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and pressed her magnificent bosom tightly against him as they wove through the crowd that milled about at the boundary of the dancers.
“Never?” Rola
nd said, a grin pulling at his lips. “Are you quite sure of that, my lady?”
She glanced up at him, the blue of her eyes deepened by the kohl she’d smudged into her lashes. Roland fought the sensation of drowning. She held him there, captive in a private moment in the midst of the throng.
“Did you mistake the terms of our bargain?” Lady Olivia said, a cool hint of warning in her tone. She sipped her wine—his wine—then set the empty glass on a narrow, flower-strewn commode as they drifted past it.
“I don’t believe so.” Roland forced himself to look away and study the crowd as he led her toward some imaginary destination. “But I also don’t believe the terms are so cut and dried.”
The laugh that escaped before Livy could stop it turned heads all around them. The crowd seemed to step back, leaving the two of them on display in their own little tableau. Devere seemed oblivious to the room’s collective attention battering them like the waves of a storm. The air of anticipation made Livy’s head swim.
With an elegant bow, Devere settled her on one of the long, padded chaises that lined the walls of his parents’ ballroom. He claimed the seat beside her, flicking out the skirts of his coat with practiced ease. The sensation of dizziness grew stronger, and Livy took a deep breath, trying to shake it off. He was just a man. A man like any other.
“You believe there’s room for negotiation?” Livy said. Let him flirt all he liked. Truth be told, it was a pleasant change from the quiet life she’d led at her grandmother’s and the strained unpleasantness of her former husband’s house.
Devere smiled in response to her taunt, and Livy tapped her left cheek with her fan. His smile widened, and she could feel a responding flush rising on her cheeks. It would be so very easy to succumb.
“That’s a no that means yes, my lady.”
