by Mia Marlowe
“You see, Lord Rhys, we Symons are not without nobility in our lineage,” Mrs. Symon had said as an aside when introductions were made before supper. “In fact, given the right circumstances, my own dear Mr. Symon might inherit the Harrington title one day.”
“By right circumstances, she means the deaths of Lady Harrington’s five strapping sons and all their twenty-six children,” Olivia had mumbled under her breath when her mother and the viscountess moved on.
Across from Lady Harrington, a Lord Percy was flirting rather shamelessly with the young baroness and didn’t even flinch when the lady’s husband cast him a pointedly wicked glare.
Nothing to fear from a toothless lion, Rhys figured Percy had decided.
When the baroness began ignoring him, Percy turned his attention to Miss Amanda Pinkerton, who sat on his right side. With a few artful blandishments he had the dark-eyed beauty blushing in no time. Evidently, Lord Percy was a flirt of opportunity, not strategy.
“I say, Miss Pinkerton,” he said, “I do hope you’ll save a spot on your dance card for me when you arrive in London. You’ll have the young bucks lining up, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Amanda is being brought out by Lady Cowper and won’t have much say in the composition of her dance cards.” Doctor Nigel Pinkerton, Amanda’s father, glowered at Percy from his position across the table on Lady Harrington’s left.
Rhys decided there were no flies on Pinkerton. He respected men who protected their women. In short order, Pinkerton had sized up Percy and arrived at the correct number. The doctor had also befriended Horatio Symon when they were both in India. In fact, Amanda was born there and had only recently made the long cruise home with her father in order to have a proper London Season come spring. From what Rhys could gather from cryptic mentions, her mother, like many an English rose, had wilted and died in the East.
The last guest at the table was Colonel Billiter. He too had spent time on the Asian subcontinent, but served in the military instead of working to develop trade as Horatio Symon had done. If he’d heard of Rhys’s less than distinguished service in France, the colonel gave no sign when Olivia’s mother had introduced them.
The table was long enough to accommodate another twelve guests without crowding. The extra chairs were empty at present, as was the seat at the distant head of the table. With so many of his purported friends gathered round, Mr. Symon was conspicuous by his absence.
Mrs. Symon had assured Rhys that all the places would be filled by week’s end. A much larger house party was planned as soon as the general mourning for Princess Charlotte was lifted.
“We’ll have a sober little party of friends and family until then. Once it’s decently possible, we’ll shake off the winter doldrums with finer festivities,” Mrs. Symon had told him grandly. “We don’t want you to report back to the Duke of Clarence that we country mice are deadly dull.”
But no matter who joined them in the days to come, Rhys marked the members of this “sober little party of friends and family.” One of them, he was sure, had tried to harm the host’s eldest daughter.
Why? Which of them stood to gain if Olivia didn’t wed the Duke of Clarence?
Mrs. Symon was still worrying the topic of Olivia’s “accident,” picking at it as if she might unravel the horror of it like a knitter unravels a misshapen row of stitches. “I swear, I feel an attack of the vapors coming on every time I think about what might have happened to our dear Olivia.”
“What about what did happen to poor Molly,” Olivia said softly. Rhys heard guilt in her tone.
“She’s still alive and, with any luck, will remain so,” Rhys said. By the time he’d left the stable that morning, the head groom had rigged a tackle and sling so the mare’s front half was lifted off the ground, giving the injured joint a chance to heal. “Mr. Thatcher is making every effort to save her.”
He was rewarded by Olivia’s small smile of gratitude for his understanding, but then she turned her gaze to her plate, refusing to look at him again.
Mrs. Symon recaptured the conversational ball. “Well, horse doctoring aside, thank heaven Lord Rhys was there to save the day.”
“Hear, hear,” Lord Percy said, taking the opportunity to clink his glass with the baroness’s again.
“You know, Miss Symon.” Mr. Stubbs nudged Olivia with his elbow between stuffing great bites of beef into his gaping maw. “In some cultures when a man saves a person’s life, that person is bound to him from that time forth.”
Olivia shot a glance at Rhys from under her sooty lashes. “I hardly think Lord Rhys is the sort who wishes to have a woman bound to him for any length of time. Certainly not from this time forth.”
Mr. Stubbs laughed, a disgusting cross between a snuffle and a runaway case of hiccups. “Show me a man who does! The parson’s mousetrap is the bane of the male race.”
“I don’t generally hold with what the heathen do, but the principle you describe, Mr. Stubbs, is a sound one,” old Lord Ramstead said. “Here in Christian England, we honor our debts. Surely we all owe Lord Rhys hearty thanks for snatching the dear girl from the jaws of death.”
“Jaws of death,” Mrs. Symon repeated, giving a little moan as her eyelids fluttered. She fanned herself rapidly, then stiffened as her eyes rolled back in her head. Finally she slumped gracefully in her chair, like a feather descending lightly to earth. It took Rhys a moment to realize she’d fainted. He leaped to his feet, patting her wrists and calling for smelling salts.
Olivia wasn’t inclined to wait for salts. She rose from her place with her water glass in hand, dipped her fingers into the liquid, and then flicked them at her mother’s face. Beatrice Symon sputtered and sat bolt upright, casting Olivia an irritated glare.
“Good thing you came to, Mother,” she said tight-lipped. “I was just about to empty the whole glass on you.”
Mrs. Symon’s eyes flared for a moment as she dabbed away the droplets Olivia had showered on her. Then she schooled her face into a more pleasant expression before turning back to Rhys. “Thank you, Lord Rhys. I’m quite recovered. But mere thanks seem so paltry considering how you swooped in to save my darling daughter.” The last two words were spoken through clenched teeth. She forced a smile. “I’m certain when dear Mr. Symon returns home, he will want to reward you. Tell me, Lord Rhys, how can we properly show our appreciation?”
“That’s really not necessary.” He suspected Olivia’s mother kept beating this subject because it allowed her the most scope for theatrics. He was convinced now that the swoon had been feigned. If she hadn’t married Horatio Symon, she might have made a brilliant career on Drury Lane. She certainly knew how to capture center stage.
“Nonsense, dear boy.” She patted his forearm affectionately. “What will you have? A continental tour? A townhouse? Name it and I shall see that it is yours.”
A wicked idea took shape in his mind. “Actually, the reward I truly covet is something only Miss Symon can give.”
A chorus of intrigued “oh’s and “ah’s” rose around the table. Olivia returned to her seat, eyeing him like a mouse who gives the sleeping tabby a wide berth.
He cast his most winning smile to his fellow guests. “I only wonder if she’ll do me a simple favor.”
All eyes turned to Olivia. She bit her lower lip and blushed a most becoming shade of cherry pink. “If I can, my lord,” she finally choked out.
“In light of the small service I rendered this morning,” he said, willing her to meet his gaze, “I think the time for formality between us is done. I’d count it an honor if you’d call me by my Christian name and give me leave to use yours henceforth.”
“Well done, sir,” Colonel Billiter said softly. “A modest request when offered the world shows a man’s true measure.”
However, Rhys knew the request was far from modest from Olivia’s viewpoint. She’d name it a cheat on their bet, and she wouldn’t be far wrong. When her face drained of all color, Rhys almost regretted putting her on the s
pot like this.
But he needed to win that wager. Now more than ever. This was no time to play fair.
“Well, Miss Symon?”
She swallowed hard.
“Olivia, answer the man,” her mother said sharply.
There was silence so profound Rhys heard Olivia’s swift intake of breath. “Yes,” she said briskly, “you may use my Christian name…Rhys. And now, Mother, I beg to be excused. I fear I have the beginnings of a terrible headache. Good night to you all.”
Without waiting for her mother’s reply, Olivia stood and rushed from the dining room without a backward glance.
Rhys had won their wager, but he’d lost something even more important. Her trust.
He’d have the devil’s own time trying to win it back.
Chapter 9
“Too much excitement, non?” Babette said as she brushed out Olivia’s long hair before her looking glass. “Naturellement, you would have the headache after such a day.”
“After such a man, you mean,” Olivia said, forgetting for a moment that her mother wouldn’t approve of her becoming too chatty with the help.
Babette could be relied upon to deliver sound advice about which shoes to wear with which gown and how to disguise the lack of a bosom with clever flounces, but Olivia wasn’t sure she should take her maid’s advice about men.
Especially not since Babette’s previous employer had been La Belle Perdu. A courtesan specialized in saying “yes” to men, while Olivia categorically wanted to say “no” to this one.
“Lord Rhys might have asked for something harder than for you to call him familiar,” Babette reminded her.
“Believe me. This is hard enough.” How dare he force her hand like that? It proved beyond doubt that, despite his courtesy title, Lord Rhys Warrington was no gentleman.
She sighed at her reflection. He’d never claimed to be one. It served her right for entering into a wager with an admitted rake. Now she owed him another as yet unspecified favor.
What sort of favor would a rake want from her? Her toes curled inside her slippers.
“Alors, I will warm the bed for you and you will sleep like the babe, non?”
Babette took the copper tray filled with live coals from the fire and ran the warmer over the sheets. Then she wrapped a hot brick in several layers of flannel and tucked it into the foot of the bed.
“There you are, chérie. Snug as one could wish.”
Olivia climbed into bed and allowed Babette to tuck the covers up to her chin.
“Bonsoir.” The maid bobbed a quick curtsey. “Ring if the headache, she is not better, and I will make for you the hot chocolate.”
Good as that sounded, hot chocolate was not what she needed. Olivia sat up. It might not be wise, but if she didn’t ask, she’d stew all night. “Wait, Babette. I wonder if you might tell me your opinion on something.”
“But of course. What is it you wish to know?”
“This is a case of pure supposition, you understand. An imaginary situation.”
“Je comprends.” Babette nodded sagely. Then she shook her head in self-reproof and answered again, in English this time. “I understand. Tell me your imaginary situation.”
“Suppose a man could ask anything of a woman, and for one reason or another, she was honor bound not to turn him down. Whatever it is, she would have to say yes.” Olivia drew up her knees and hugged them to her chest. “What do you think he would ask for?”
Babette pursed her lips into a smile that reminded Olivia of a cat warming itself in the sun. “Most people, they would think this imaginary man will ask to join this imaginary woman in her imaginary bed.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“But most people, they would be wrong,” Babette hurried on to add. “You see, if a man could have anything from a woman, he would not ask for a bedding.”
“No?” She’d never admit it to another soul, but something inside her wilted in disappointment.
“Non,” Babette said with assurance. “That he can have anytime for the sake of a few fair words or the right amount of coins.”
“What would he want then?”
“The same thing we all want, mademoiselle.” This time, Olivia thought Babette’s smile was tinged with wistfulness. “To be accepted. To be trusted. To be loved.”
“Not all men, surely.”
“All,” Babette said emphatically. “And all women too. Oh, the men, they may not admit it, bien sur, but in their heart of hearts, it is what they truly want. What they need.”
Babette hitched her hip on the side of the mattress and settled down on the bed. “Now, this imaginary man, he may ask for something else. Nothing is more likely. A man, imaginary or no, has no end of trouble making to speak what it is he really wants. But the imaginary woman, she would do well to realize what it is he is truly asking of her.”
“To be accepted?”
“And to be trusted,” Babette said. “And if he is oh so lucky, to be loved.”
Olivia scrunched her toes under the sheets. Surely Babette’s advice didn’t apply to an admitted libertine like Rhys.
Then why did he tell her what he was if not to see whether or not she’d accept him and his continued presence? Even at their first meeting, he’d made it a point of honor to be sure she had every opportunity to think ill of him. Instead, she’d been intrigued.
And accepting.
Puzzling all this out was making her head start to pound in earnest.
“Thank you, Babette. That’ll do,” she said. “But if it’s not too much trouble, I think maybe I will take some of that chocolate now.”
“As you wish, mademoiselle.” Babette rose immediately. The confiding friend transformed immediately back into the amiable servant. She stopped at the door and looked over her shoulder at Olivia. “I hope your imaginary woman, she is pleased by what her imaginary man demands of her.”
“So do I,” Olivia whispered after the door closed softly behind Babette. “So do I.”
***
After all that had happened, Mrs. Symon insisted Rhys stay at Barrowdell instead of returning to his room at the inn in the village.
“You may as well join the house party, my lord,” Olivia’s mother had said. “Do say you will. There’d be no cause for celebration without you. And besides, you’ll be better situated to perform the duties His Highness has laid upon you if you bide under our humble roof.”
She’d paused so he could protest that of course Barrowdell was far from humble. Rhys didn’t disappoint her and said he’d be pleased to be a guest in such an opulent home. He sent Mr. Clyde back to the village inn to collect his belongings and took up residence in Olivia Symon’s shadow.
If he’d been inclined to send progress reports to Mr. Alcock, the man would be pleasantly surprised by how quickly Rhys’s project was moving forward.
When the time came for everyone to retire for the night, he’d met a handsome lady’s maid in the hallway with a cup of hot chocolate in her hands and a delightful French lilt in her voice. Rhys charmed her into giving him a whispered tour of Barrowdell’s upper stories. In hushed tones, she pointed out where each guest was housed. And most importantly, which room belonged to her mistress, Miss Symon.
Rhys waited in his chamber until the household was silent for better than half an hour. Then, moving stealthily as a sneak thief, he ventured from his room in the east wing to the family’s section on the west side of the imposing manor.
When he reached Olivia’s door, he scratched lightly on the oak and waited. Seconds crawled by. At any moment, another door along the corridor might open and someone might catch him hovering near Olivia’s room. It was no skin off his nose if that happened, but if it did, she’d be even angrier than she probably already was over his trick at the dining table.
He was just about to reach for the crystal knob when the door opened a crack and Olivia peered out at him.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed.
“Standing
in the hall where anyone might see me,” he whispered.
The door swung wide and she yanked him into her chamber. Then she carefully closed the door behind him. The latch clicked with an almost imperceptible snick.
“You’re far gentler with oak and hinges than you are my forearm,” he said softly.
“The door hasn’t done anything to irritate me,” she whispered back. “Now what do you want?”
In the soft light of the banked fire, he gave her a swift assessing glance. Her correctly virginal nightrail was covered by an equally correct wrapper. Her long hair was plaited in a loose braid that draped heavily over one shoulder. Despite the fact that she was arguably the most “missish” woman he’d ever seen, his body was of the contrarian opinion that she was still entirely swiveable.
“What do I want?” he repeated. “Besides to come in, you mean.”
“Yes, obviously, besides to come in. And for heaven’s sake, keep your voice down.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, unknowingly lifting them for his more careful perusal.
He forced his gaze away. No point in antagonizing her more.
“Keep my voice down, yes, of course.” He put a finger to his lips to shush himself, walked over, and plopped down on the foot of her bed. “As to what I want, why, I think that should be self-evident. I want to stay the night.”
“You most certainly”—her own voice had risen well above a whisper, but she caught herself and continued in a furious hiss—“will not.”
He patted the mattress beside him, inviting her to sit. “What about our wager? May I remind you that you lost this evening?”
“I didn’t lose.” She remained standing, and as still as if she was carved of marble. “You cheated.”
“I suppose I did from your point of view. Be that as it may, you still lost and therefore you owe me an unspecified favor.” He waved away her objections. “We didn’t set any ground rules that precluded trickery when we made our bet. Perhaps that’s something you should consider the next time you decide to wager with me.”
