by Isobel Carr
They were only halfway up the line when the music came to an end, the violins stretching out the final notes long after the other instruments had fallen silent. As Livy rose from the prescribed curtsy, Thane retained her hand, placing it securely on his arm. “Would you like a drink, my lady?”
Livy nodded. “More than anything,” she said with a laugh. “Is there champagne?”
“If we can’t find a footman with champagne, we can form a raiding party and procure some. I happen to be more than familiar with the cellars.” He stood to his full height and glanced about the room. “I don’t see a single suit of Moubray livery in circulation. Let’s try our luck in the drawing room. They wouldn’t dare leave the dowagers unattended.”
Thane reappeared in the card room looking entirely too pleased for Roland’s liking. “I left her with your mother in the drawing room,” Thane said as he filled a glass of brandy for himself and cast a jaded eye over the table.
With the same self-satisfied expression still plastered on his face, Thane strolled away to join a knot of older Whigs who were in heated discussion beside the fireplace.
Roland tossed back the contents of his own glass and nodded to the table. His friends grinned back. Bastards, every one. They were enjoying this far too much. If they discovered that he was firmly under Lady Olivia’s thumb, there’d be no living it down.
He discovered the supper dance underway as he went in search of Lady Olivia. Hungry guests were already heading toward the dining room. Roland pushed past them, feeling like a salmon heading upstream.
Lady Olivia was exactly where Thane had left her, sitting on a settee beside Lady Moubray, with the Duchess of Devonshire, the duchess’s sister Lady Duncannon, and Lady Melbourne finishing out the circle. A beautiful trio, composed of some of the most scandalous—and powerful—women in the ton.
The duchess saw him first, a wide smile lighting up her face. “Mr. Devere, have you come to steal Lady Olivia back? Thane warned us that you might try.”
The entire room went quiet, all eyes on him. Roland bowed. This was what he, what they, wanted after all. For the ton to take notice. “The supper dance has already begun, and Lady Olivia was kind enough to promise it to me.”
Lady Melbourne and Lady Duncannon shared an amused glance. The duchess simply raised one supercilious brow. “That is kind, isn’t it?” she said pointedly, looking at him as though she could see right through him.
“Very,” Roland said through gritted teeth.
“Olivia,” the Duchess of Devonshire said as Lady Olivia rose from the settee and shook out her skirts, “do come to my at home tomorrow.”
“Yes,” Lady Duncannon drawled. “We clearly have more than just what you’ve been up to in the country this past year to catch up on.”
Lady Olivia accepted the invitation, bobbed a quick curtsy, and excused herself. Roland forced his shoulders to relax. He could keep the gentlemen at bay, but she was on her own when it came to the ladies.
Lady Olivia squeezed his arm, wrapping both hands about his biceps. She looked up, blue eyes gleaming with excitement. She looked like a gleeful child. Beautiful and full of wonder.
“I wasn’t sure what my reception would be,” she said. “Though my father and the Devonshires are great friends.”
“One never knows about the wives,” Roland said with a chuckle.
She shook her head, eyes clouding over for a moment. “No, one never does.”
They entered the ballroom just as the music died, the final strains of the violins sharp before they were drowned out by the sudden surge of conversation.
The room began to empty, and Roland tugged Lady Olivia to a stop. “Are you hungry?”
She shook her head. Roland clenched his jaw to keep from grinning. He could think of several more entertaining ways to spend the next hour, but he didn’t want to risk spooking her.
A few people lingered on the outskirts of the room, most of them in deep conversation. Roland put a hand over Olivia’s and led her back toward the drawing room. The corridor was empty now, only a faint murmur giving a hint to the presence of guests somewhere deeper in the house. He plucked a key from his pocket and opened the door to his father’s library. He pushed Olivia inside and shut the door firmly behind them.
The room was dark. Only the bit of moonlight leaking in through the windows made it possible to navigate around the chairs and desk. Roland locked the door, and Olivia spun back to face him as the bolt snicked.
“Why does your father keep the library locked? Most gentlemen would want to show off such a magnificent room.”
Roland smiled. “When Margo made her come-out, a group of drunken guests wandered in and spent the better part of the evening drinking Father’s best brandy and rearranging his books.”
Olivia crossed the room to the bookcase closest to the first set of windows and ran her fingers lightly over the spines of the books as though she could read the titles that way. Roland trailed behind her, stalking her.
If he rushed his fence, she’d run. He could see the line of tension in her shoulders, in the way she held her head. She was considering her next move, anticipating his, weighing her options.
“The earl just about had apoplexy in the morning when the mischief was discovered,” he added, taking another step toward her. “Especially when he found someone had taken it upon themselves to illustrate his copy of the Iliad. So now we keep it locked tight whenever there’s a party of any kind.”
Olivia glanced warily over her shoulder. She turned about, back to the bookcase, eyes locked to him, almost daring him to come any closer. Outright rejection would have led him to escort her promptly down to the supper room. But this wasn’t rejection, this was uncertainty, with a strong current of curiosity.
She nodded, golden curls a silver halo in the moonlight. “Making it a perfect room for trysting.”
“Well, yes,” Roland said. He closed the distance between them in two long strides and reached for her.
Olivia leaned back, one hand coming up to check his progress. She pushed back against his chest, fingers splayed wide. She shook her head, but her lips were parted and her nostrils flared as she breathed in. “But we’re not trysting.”
“No?” Roland stepped closer, legs tangling in her skirts.
“No,” she said, her breath hitching so that she could barely get the word out. Her hand trembled, the tension of the arm holding him back going slack.
Roland leaned in. “Why ever not?”
Livy’s lungs seized as Devere’s words slid across her skin. He hadn’t touched her, but he was close enough that it felt as though he had. His lips were beside her ear. His hands were on the bookcase, hemming her in. Desire flared inside her, making it impossible to catch her breath.
Why not? She’d known the answer a moment ago. She could still remember that there was one, but it had become elusive, evaporating under the heat of his gaze like a puddle on the walk after a summer shower.
“Because.” She forced the word out as his lips grazed the lobe of her ear.
His mouth moved to her jaw, tracing it in a series of feather-light kisses, lips soft and warm against her skin. She tipped her head back, and Devere kissed her hard, tongue sweeping inside, tangling with hers, demanding a response. Livy’s hand tightened on his waistcoat, pulling him closer.
Why not? Livy gave up searching for the answer and kissed him back. Trysts, seductions, lovers, none had come her way before or during her marriage. Why not have them now?
Devere’s gloved hand delved into her bodice, kidskin fingers brushing over her ruched nipple, sending a jolt of pure desire through her entire body. The rattle of the door handle brought her back to her senses. Livy came up for air with a gasp, the back of her head pressed hard to the books behind her as she pushed Devere back.
Devere leaned in. His soft shhhhh whispered across her cheek. “They can’t get in.”
Livy shoved, hard enough to rock him back a step. Flustered, annoyed with herself more t
han with him, she stepped past him, shaking out her skirts with both hands. “We’re not trysting, Mr. Devere, because I’ve no desire to do so.” Because it was too dangerous to do so. Too easy to lose her head, to lose the hold she had over him and become just another conquest.
“No?” He sounded utterly unconvinced, and there was little wonder. She’d kissed him with an abandon that had matched his own. Her knees still felt watery with the need to sink to the carpet and drag him down with her. Her own desire, her own lack of control was why they wouldn’t—couldn’t—play such games with each other.
Devere strode toward her. Livy stood her ground, though she felt decidedly faint. He smiled, gaze raking confidently over her.
“No,” Livy replied, grateful that her voice came out steady and sure. It was the only thing about her that was.
“If I lifted your skirts, I’d find you wet and ready, wouldn’t I?”
“But not willing,” Livy said, trying to hide her chagrin at the fact that he was right. She could feel the slick heat between her thighs and the throbbing ache shooting from breast to groin. And a part of her wanted to goad him into doing just that.
She could deny that she wanted him, but the truth was painfully evident. It was possible she’d made a fatal error in judgment when she’d thought to run him in harness for the season.
“Willing is only a matter of degrees.” Devere caught her by the waist and pulled her to him. “You’re already approaching the tipping point…” His voice trailed off as though he expected her to sink into his embrace at that very moment.
“I’m not fool enough to tumble into your bed, Devere.” Livy laced her voice with steel, more to bolster her resolve than because she believed it would bring him to heel like a well-trained hound.
He nuzzled into her hair, mouth hot over the pulse point below her ear. Livy shivered, fighting hard to maintain some shred of dignity and self-control.
“Pity,” he said, blowing over the wet mark on her skin. “If good, honest lust is not enough, I could make you fall in love with me.”
“And I could make you wish you were dead,” Livy ground out from between clenched teeth.
Devere’s answering laugh skittered up her spine, raising gooseflesh as it went. “That’s a dare if I’ve ever heard one.”
CHAPTER 7
The Duchess of Devonshire’s at-home was really more of a political assembly. A great number of the Whig grandees were gathered together under her roof. Some of them managed to confine their visit to the prescribed fifteen minutes and their conversation to mere social pleasantries, but the majority of them had settled in for the afternoon and were loudly discussing a vote to remove the prime minister from office.
A few of the female guests took one look at Livy and hastily decamped. The duchess scowled at their retreating backs and waved Livy over to her side. “Ignore them,” the duchess said. “I’d take you upstairs for a comfortable coze, but we’d risk the wrath of Nurse if we woke the babies from their nap.”
“Little Gee was just a newborn when I saw you last,” Livy said, a sharp pang slicing through her. “She must be walking by now.”
A child of her own would have been disastrous given the circumstances that had led to the dissolution of her marriage, but she’d wanted one. Badly. Hell, she’d wanted a dozen. The idea that she might never have one now was enough to make her wish she’d had one anyway. Bastard or not, the child would have been her heir.
The duchess looked as if she had no trouble following the train of Livy’s thought. “A reminder of just how long it’s been,” the duchess said, reaching out to give Livy’s hand a sympathetic squeeze. “Why on earth didn’t you write? You must have known miring yourself away in the country wouldn’t solve anything.”
Livy nodded. “At first I meant to, but then it just seemed impossible. A widow who isn’t really a widow? Was I supposed to put on a show of mourning? Was I supposed to suffer through the stories in the paper, the inevitable cartoons in the print shops?”
The duchess shrugged one elegant shoulder, a hint of a sad smile lurking in the corner of her lips. “I’ve put up with worse.”
“Yes, Your Grace, but you are, when everything is said and done, still a duchess, with a powerful husband and a secure place in the ton. I’m just the ruined daughter of an earl.”
“Which is still quite something,” the duchess replied almost tartly, her expression hardening. “You’re not some country squire’s daughter seduced by a handsome captain in the local militia.”
Livy found herself smiling, chagrined. “So stop acting as though I were?”
“Stop expecting people to treat you as such and give them a colossal set-down if they dare to even try. Be brazen, an unconquerable colossus.”
“Wise advice,” the Viscountess of Duncannon said as she joined them, her little King Charles’s spaniel frolicking about her feet until she sat and it settled in her lap with a possessive air. “And should you need help with that, I imagine there are plenty of semifallen wives in Town ready to assist.”
Shouting broke out across the room, followed by the sound of a fist being banged on a table and the high-pitched rattling of china. The duchess frowned.
“Gentlemen,” she said, not shouting, but loud enough that the room froze. “Fisticuffs must go outside.”
A few mumbled apologizes were followed by a swift, if quiet, return to the argument. The duchess shook her head. “Men, children, and dogs. The same rules apply when trying to tame them. And now, my dear, please explain just what you’re doing with Mr. Devere in your pocket?”
“Mr. Devere has made me an offer of marriage,” Livy said, throwing caution to the wind. As a tidbit of gossip, the news would spread quickly through the ton. “And I’ve accepted, though my father asked us to wait a bit before making a public announcement.”
The duchess’s brows shot up, disappearing behind the curls of her fringe. Her sister burst into a loud bray of unladylike laughter that startled the spaniel in her lap, causing it to leap to the floor and slink beneath the settee.
“Well, that is brazen.” The duchess’s mouth quirked into a sly smile.
“A magnificent choice,” the Viscountess of Duncannon said with such appreciative warmth Livy was left in no doubt of just what the countess thought magnificent.
Henry Carlow shivered and eyed the overcast skies of London with disgust. He turned his collar up and tugged at his gloves, attempting to edge out the chilling breeze that had whipped up to welcome him home. Damp, soot-stained, crowded, the greatest city of Europe or not, London was a far cry from the golden shores of Italy, where he’d spent the past several years as an aide to the ambassador to the court of Naples.
He scowled at the ever-increasing clouds and pulled his muffler up to cover his chin. His blood had thinned during his time in Italy. It was the only explanation for the fact that his bones ached with the chill and his ears felt as though he could snap them right off. What would it mean to spend a winter in England again?
The gulls were a raucous chorus overhead, their cries mingling with those of the street vendors hawking oranges and meat pies and gin out of innumerable barrows and baskets. The fishwives were every bit as lively, cursing one another with a vigor that could only be admired.
Bird shit splattered across the shoulder of his coat, and Henry cursed his family under his breath as he wiped it away with his handkerchief. What the devil was Arlington thinking?
He’d left behind sunny Italy and the charms of the most accomplished courtesan he’d ever encountered after receiving the alarming news that Arlington intended to bring Olivia to London for the Season. After the humiliation and scandal of her bigamous marriage, Olivia’s stated plan of living quietly in the country with her grandmother had been eminently sensible. And it had meant she’d be waiting there, securely, like Sleeping Beauty, until the day he swept in to rescue her from a life of shame and exile.
It had become a lazy dream to idle away the hot afternoon hours when everyt
hing in Naples ground to a halt. He’d always liked Olivia—it was hard not to—even if he’d resented the drain her dowry had put on the estate he was to someday inherit. Really, she was an earl’s daughter. There was no reason her dowry had needed to be so excessive. Her bloodlines were more than enough to have guaranteed a good match. Fifty thousand pounds was a fortune. The kind of dowry a banker’s daughter needed to secure a gentleman.
When Olivia’s marriage had ended so precipitously, Henry had written to express his condolences and to offer his support. It had been politic to take her side. He would be the next Earl of Arlington. It made perfect sense to marry the current titleholder’s daughter and secure the fortune along with the title. Society would understand the practicality of their arrangement. They might even applaud his gallantry.
And Olivia? Well, Olivia would be indebted to him. He’d be a hero. He’d make her a countess, just as her first husband would have done eventually. How could she be anything other than grateful?
Henry motioned to his valet and handed the man his sullied handkerchief. “See that the bags are secured, Perkins.”
Trusting his man to see to it, Henry stepped into one of the hackneys that waited to carry passengers away from the coaching inn and settled onto the sagging seat. The stench of old straw and rotting leather enveloped him. A sharp, foul note lay underneath it, a clear sign of someone’s late night of overindulgence and a hasty cleaning job.
“Perkins, get me an orange,” Henry yelled out the still-open door. He kept it propped open with his foot as he waited.
His valet appeared a moment later, orange in hand. Henry took it with a nod as Perkins climbed onto the rear-facing seat and shut the door behind him with a snap.
Henry put the orange up to his nose and inhaled gratefully. It was strange to be surrounded by the babble of his native tongue once again. The twang of the jarvie’s low accent as he urged his nag into motion was almost dear. Henry swallowed hard, the annoyance of the damp, gray skies dissolving under a sudden upswing of nostalgia.
