“Yes,” she said. “Or perhaps not quite so much. You had better tell me where we are going for our wedding journey, Francis. There is a difference between the type of clothes I will want if we are going to Italy, and the type I will need if we are going to Scotland.”
Lord Francis merely looked at her.
“But I have to know,” she said. “You must tell me, Francis. Where would you take me if we really were about to be married, and if we really were going on a wedding trip?”
“To bed, probably,” he said. “And you may well blush and look outraged, Soph. You could not expect any self-respecting male to resist that invitation, could you?”
“To bed,” she said, both her cheeks and her eyes flaming. “With you, Francis? I would rather …”
“Austria and Italy,” he said. “For the rest of the summer and probably the winter, too, Soph. We would dance in Vienna, and ride in a gondola in Venice, and lean with the Tower of Pisa, and get stiff necks in the Sistine Chapel, and shelter your complexion from the sun in Naples.”
“And Rome?” she said eagerly. “Would we go to Rome, Francis?”
“Where do you think the Sistine Chapel is?” he asked. “The Outer Hebrides?”
“I forgot,” she said. “You do not need to be quite so scornful, Francis. I am not a featherbrain, you know.”
“Well,” he said, “that is where I would take you, Soph—during the daytime. I suppose my first answer would still hold true for the nights. And don’t get all puffed up again. We are talking only of where I would take you if we were getting married, the key emphasis being on the if. You will need light and pretty clothes.”
“All right,” she said. “But it is going to be dreadful to spend Papa’s money on such a deception, is it not? And all the other expenses of the wedding. Oh, dear, I lay awake a whole hour last night just worrying about it all.”
“Perhaps it will be worth the expense if we succeed in mending a broken marriage,” he said, patting her hand again.
She looked up at him, suddenly happy again. “Even if by some chance it does not happen before the wedding,” she said, “there is still hope. I have just remembered something Papa said. He said that if in future it is really important to us that we see both of them together, then they will come together. We will have other chances, you see, Francis—perhaps at Christmas or Easter or at a christening if one happens fairly soon.”
Lord Francis continued to pat her hand and look down at her, an expression almost of amusement on his face.
“Oh,” she said, her smile fading. “I forgot. No, that will not work, will it?”
“Perhaps they will come together the next time you are betrothed,” he said. “Perhaps you could make a regular thing of this, Soph.”
“Don’t make fun,” she said. “This is serious, Francis. And you don’t think I would deliberately humiliate other gentlemen in this way, do you?”
“Only me?” he said.
“But you are different,” she said, looking earnestly up into his face. “You are … Oh, I don’t know. You are—Francis, that is all. I could not do this with anyone else. No one else would understand. I would not be able to talk like this with anyone else. And you do not have to say what you are about to say. Anyone else would have taken me straight off to Bedlam, I know.”
“That is not what I was about to say,” he said. “I was about to warn you again, Soph. You are not falling in love with me by any chance, are you? I don’t altogether like this business of feeling comfortable with me and all that.”
“In love with you?” she said, her eyes blazing to life again. “How stupid. What I meant was that I did not have to worry with you because you are just Francis and I really do not care if I hurt your feelings or not. Partly because you have no feelings, and partly because I have a whole lifetime of getting even with you to accomplish. Falling in love with you!” There was a world of scorn in her voice and on her face.
“Ah,” he said, “that is all right, then. I was getting a little uncomfortable for a moment, Soph. Nineteen days. That means eighteen at the outside for being betrothed to each other. I suppose we can survive that long, can’t we? And who knows? Perhaps it will be less than that. Perhaps your mama and papa will fall into each other’s arms when we return from London. Perhaps they will have missed each other.”
“Do you think so?” she said hopefully. “Oh, do you really think so, Francis?”
“I have to consider it at least a possibility,” he said, “if I am to cling to my sanity.”
10
LORD FRANCIS MIGHT AS WELL BE SITTING INSIDE the carriage instead of riding his horse, Olivia thought. For much of the journey Sophia had had the window down, her betrothed riding alongside talking with her. It was a good thing that the day was glorious and the open window necessary for their very survival. Twice, Olivia had noted, Lord Francis reached across to touch Sophia’s hand as it rested on the window. That was before she closed her eyes.
It made her heart turn over to see the love of those two for each other. She yearned to urge them to hold on to their love, not to let even the strongest tempest shake it. She wanted to warn them not to set each other on pedestals, not to expect perfection just because they were in love. She wanted to tell them to allow for human frailty. She was desperately afraid that they were too much in love.
“She is sleeping,” Sophia said softly. “You do not need to keep on doing that, Francis, thank you very much.”
“It is no trouble at all, Soph,” he said cheerfully. “How do you keep your skin so soft?” And he chuckled for no apparent reason.
“Did you see?” Sophia’s voice, still almost a whisper, sounded very eager. “Did you see them kiss?”
“Very promising,” he said. “The footman holding the carriage door open almost swallowed his tongue. I’ll wager it will be the on dit belowstairs today, Soph, and probably for the whole week.”
“I could have swooned with happiness,” she said.
“I’m glad you did not,” he said. “I never know quite what to do with vaporish females. Does one douse them with water, slap their cheeks, rush all about the house yelling for vinaigrettes, or kiss them back to consciousness? I suppose that last would be strictly dependent upon the female involved, of course. I might have tried it on you, Soph.”
There was a small silence. “I might wake her if I respond as I would like,” Sophia said, and Lord Francis chuckled.
So it had worked, Olivia thought. Sophia had been delighted by it, and she would not be able to conclude that it had been done for the benefit of the guests. There had been no one else out on the terrace except a few servants and Sophia and Lord Francis. There had been no other witnesses.
She was reacting like a girl, she thought with some disgust at herself, retiring behind closed eyes so that she might relive a brief kiss.
“Remember to buy yourself some pretty clothes, Olivia,” he had said, setting an arm about her shoulders after kissing their daughter farewell. “And don’t let Sophia drive you to distraction.” He had winked and grinned at their daughter. “I shall be watching for you in about a week’s time.”
And he had bent his head and kissed her—a firm kiss with closed mouth, neither too long nor too brief. A prearranged kiss, to reassure Sophia. The sort of kiss one might expect from a father or brother. Not one to dream about and live through over and over again in the mind just like a love-starved woman.
Which she supposed she was.
She had lain awake during the nights reliving every moment of their lovemaking in the hidden garden. Though lovemaking was hardly an appropriate term to describe what had happened. They had satisfied a voracious hunger and slaked a parching thirst. That was all. He had been away from the diversions of town and the arms of Lady Mornington for some weeks; she had been without a man for fourteen years. It had not been a lovemaking.
Yet she hugged to herself each night the memory of an uncontrollable passion that at the time she had mistaken for love. And h
ad felt her body aroused anew by the remembered skill of his caresses. And had felt sick at the remembered evidence of his experience.
He had come to her dressing room the evening before, after she had finished dressing. He had opened the door from his own room after knocking, not waiting for an answer. She had flushed at the thought that she might have been undressed or even in her bath. Though doubtless he would have looked coolly at her and remarked that, after all, she was his wife.
“Have you further need of your maid?” he had asked.
“You may leave, Matilda, thank you,” she had said, and the girl had left the room quietly.
They had scarcely spoken to each other since the ball, when they had quite alarmingly begun to quarrel in the middle of the dance floor. They had never quarreled. It was something new in their relationship, something she had no idea how to handle.
“Sophia is upset,” he had said abruptly, his feet set slightly apart, his hands clasped behind his back. He had seemed to fill her very dainty dressing room. “She has seen through the facade of our amiability and believes it to have been adopted for the benefit of the other guests. And she has noticed the slipping of that amiability since the day of the ball. She was in tears when I talked with her this afternoon.”
Olivia, sitting on the stool before her mirror, had twisted a brush in one hand. “Perhaps she will have to face the truth, Marcus,” she had said at last. “Perhaps we can protect her no longer.”
“No longer?” he had said. “Have we ever protected her, Olivia? If we had loved our daughter as we have claimed to do all her life, would we not have somehow patched up our differences and remained together for her sake?”
“Our differences,” she had said, laying down the brush and looking up at him. “You were the one who decided that a whore’s caresses were more exciting than mine, Marcus. You were the one who ruined life for Sophia.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I am not going to carry the guilt of that indiscretion to my grave, Olivia. And I am certainly not going to add to the burden of my conscience the belief that I ruined our marriage and our daughter’s happiness. There is such a quality as forgiveness, you know. Unfortunately it is something beyond your capabilities.”
“I suppose,” she had said, “you have been celibate from the time of that whore until a few afternoons ago, Marcus. I suppose I am to believe that of you.”
“No,” he had said. “I would not like to damage your impression of me as a depraved philanderer, Olivia. I have done too much other damage to your life, it seems. But I did not come here to quarrel with you.”
“Did you not?” she had said. “Why did you come, then?”
“We had an agreement,” he had said, “to make this month a very special one for Sophia. Can we not keep to it? We have been selfish enough for most of her life, Olivia. Must we also have her in tears as she prepares for what should be the happiest day of her life? It was the happiest of ours, was it not? Can we not at least do our part to see that it is so for Sophia, too?”
“And what about afterward?” she had asked. “Is it fair, Marcus, to allow her to believe that we have an affection for each other when immediately after her wedding she must know the truth?”
“She hopes that she can visit us together afterward,” he had said. “Will it be too much to do for her, Olivia? To spend some time together with her once or twice a year? Must we be bitter enemies just because I once spent an hour with a whore and because you would not forgive the transgression? Do you find me so abhorrent?”
She had looked down at her hands.
“You did not find me abhorrent two afternoons ago,” he had said.
She had looked up sharply at him. “That was the garden,” she had said, “and the sunshine and warmth and …”
“And appetite,” he had said. “It seems that we still find each other somewhat appetizing, Olivia.”
“Yes.” She had looked back at her hands.
“Well,” he had said, “short of resuming a marriage that seems to have died many years ago, can we at least be mutual parents to the child who survived that marriage? You will be away for a week. By the time you return there will be less than two remaining before the wedding. Perhaps once or twice a year in the future we can force ourselves to spend a week or so in the same house. Can we do it?”
“I suppose so,” she had said.
“She said she would give up Francis if only she could bring us back together again,” he had told her. “Foolish child. But she meant it with all the earnestness of youth, Olivia.”
She was twisting her hands hard in her lap, she had realized suddenly. Very well, then, she had wanted to blurt out to him, let us give her exactly what she wants, Marc. A marriage that is real. But the words could not be spoken aloud. He had been standing stiffly before her, his manner businesslike, his voice abrupt and almost cold. He was trying to persuade her to agree to a workable proposition.
“We must try again, then,” she had said. “We did well for the first week.”
“This evening,” he had said. “We must remain in the drawing room together. Tomorrow morning, when you leave, I must kiss you just as I will kiss Sophia.”
“Yes,” she had said.
He had stood there for a while not saying anything, as she examined the backs of her hands.
“I wish I could come with you,” he had said. “I don’t like to think of the two of you on the road with only young Sutton and my servants for protection. You will be all right, Olivia?”
“I came here alone,” she had reminded him.
“You will have new clothes made?” he had said. “As many as you wish, Olivia, and have the bills sent to me with Sophia’s?”
“You give me a generous enough allowance,” she had said.
“My daughter is getting married,” he had said. “At least allow me to buy my wife new clothes for the occasion. Will you?”
She had nodded.
“There are enough servants left at the house in town to see to your needs,” he had said.
“Yes.”
“Well.” He had moved abruptly and set his hand on the knob of the door into his dressing room. “You have lived safely for fourteen years without my assistance. I daresay I need not worry about you now.”
“No,” she had said.
Come with us, she had wanted to beg him quite unreasonably. Three weeks is all the time we have left. And the memory caused a tickle in her throat now as she sat with closed eyes in the carriage and did not even hear the occasional chatter of Sophia and Lord Francis. They could not expect to return within a week at the very least. A week—seven whole days!
But there would be countless years without him again after Sophia’s wedding, with perhaps the teaser of a week once or twice a year. She felt the desperate need to cry, but her daughter’s presence in the carriage forced her to resist the urge.
How foolish—how indescribably foolish—she had been fourteen years ago. Imagining that she could no longer love him because he had fallen off his pedestal. She had loved him anyway all those years, but had deprived them both of the chance of a mended marriage. She had deprived all three of them of the chance for a happy family life.
She wished, and felt guilty at the wish, that Sophia had not met Lord Francis again and fallen in love with him. She wished she had not seen Marc again. For now, having seen him, she knew with a new pain all that she had missed in those empty years. And all through her own fault. Not Marc’s, really. All people make mistakes and have the right to be forgiven—once at least. But she had refused to forgive. She had been afraid to forgive, afraid that their relationship would have changed. She had been too young and inexperienced to know that relationships are always changing, that they must change in order to grow and survive.
His lips had been warm on hers, his arm strong and sheltering. The side of her head was against the soft cushions of the carriage. She imagined that it was against his chest, his arm still about her, his cheek against the top of her head
. She imagined herself falling asleep in the shelter of his arms, warm and relaxed and assured of his love.
IT FELT WONDERFUL to be in London again. She had always loved being there right from the moment of her arrival for her come-out Season. It was there she had first seen Marc and admired him from across the width of a ballroom for several hours before he had suddenly appeared at her side, their hostess with him to perform the introductions. She had fallen in love with him during the set of dances that had followed.
And had not fallen out of love since, though her love had brought her joy for only five years and misery and heartache for all the years since. And Sophia, of course. Her love had brought her Sophia.
She had never been given to extravagance. Even during that first year, when her mother had taken her to a fashionable modiste to have new clothes made that would be more suitable for town living than the ones she had brought with her, she had been horrified at the large number that had been deemed necessary. She had been afraid that she would make a beggar of her papa. In the years since, she had used the modest services of a local seamstress and had even made some of her own clothes.
She felt alternately hot and cold when she discovered just how much Sophia’s bride clothes were going to cost. But Marcus had given her specific instructions to make sure that their daughter had all that was needed. Olivia supposed that her husband was a very wealthy man. He had had a comfortable fortune even before the death of his father. After that event, he had inherited a number of prosperous properties. He had also doubled her already generous allowance.
It was with only the greatest reluctance that she picked out patterns and fabrics for clothes for herself. But she would need some fashionable clothes for the week of the wedding, when Clifton would be overflowing with guests. Her own parents were even coming from the north of England.
Everything was to be made with the greatest haste, the dressmaker assured Olivia. She had received a letter from his lordship just a few days ago and had taken on extra seamstresses and deferred working on other orders so that Lady Clifton and Lady Sophia could take all their new clothes with them back to Clifton within a week.
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