by Mia Marlowe
The disconcerting flutter in her belly confirmed that it actually had.
“Mademoiselle, does something vex you?”
Not something. Someone.
Everyone should have a safe inviolate place within themselves where their secret self dwells. Someplace to think outrageous thoughts without censure, to imagine things as one wished them to be without worrying about how things might turn out if they actually happened. Olivia used to have just such solitary place tucked away in her mind, but now that private enclave seemed to have a permanent resident besides her own vibrant imagination.
Rhys Warrington had insinuated himself into her secret life so deeply she doubted she’d ever be free of him.
“Mademoiselle Olivia.”
She startled and looked back at her maid. Babette was still waiting for her orders about a gown.
“The honey-gold wool, I think,” she said. “And lay out the green pelisse. I’ll go to the stables to see how Molly fares after I break my fast.”
“Alas, that will not be possible.” Babette’s rosebud mouth tightened into a brief moue of apology. “Your mother, she craves a word with you, tout de suite. She waits for you in her apartments.”
Mrs. Symon’s suite of rooms sprawled over the entire third floor of the north wing. In addition to a sumptuous boudoir that would probably put Princess Charlotte’s to shame, Beatrice Symon possessed a private bath with a large copper tub. A lumber room held all her trunks packed full to bursting with out-of-season clothing, hats, shoes, parasols, fans, and assorted frippery. There was also an elegant salon where Olivia’s mother frequently held court with her “intimate friends.” To be invited to Beatrice Symon’s apartments meant glittering entertainment for a chosen few, patronage for an artist or poet, and a healthy commission for a modiste or milliner.
For Olivia, it usually meant a tongue-lashing.
***
“Don’t slouch so,” her mother advised. “How shall Jean-Pierre fit you properly all slumped over like that?”
This time the tongue-lashing was accompanied by fittings with the French designer her mother had taken under her wing as soon as he landed on English soil. Jean-Pierre du Barry was an acknowledged genius in all things haute couture. In order to ensure his designs were available exclusively to the women of the Symon household, Jean-Pierre was in permanent residence at Barrowdell Manor with a half-dozen seamstresses at his command to bring his creations to life. In the Symon’s London townhouse, he had his own studio space, drawing and designing and ordering huge quantities of silks and lace to his heart’s content.
Like all Beatrice Symon’s fashion choices, this one was spot-on. Jean-Pierre du Barry was a terror with silk moiré. He produced miracles with a bit of lace, a little judicious ruching, and the occasional flounce. He was an engaging gossip, always knowledgeable about what transpired in every great house on both sides of the Channel. He also quietly rejoiced in his notorious lineage, claiming to be the grandson of the French king’s favorite mistress.
“Your mother is right, Miss Symon,” Jean-Pierre said, pronouncing her name as if it were “see-moan.” His speech was only slightly garbled due to the handful of pins bristling from between his lips. “You spoil the line of the gown when you hunch your shoulders so.”
“But the neckline is cut so low,” she protested. Her small breasts rose like half-moons from the froth of scarlet lace that scarcely concealed her pink nipples.
“And that is why the gown has boning built into it. No need for stays, no need for a chemise. It is all-in-one,” he said, removing the pins and securing a bit of extra fabric into another dart. “The fitting, it is oh-so-important. The gown should feel like a second skin. No one but you can wear it. And I doubt I need to warn you, ma’m’selle, but you must take care not to gain or lose any weight between now and the night of the ball,” Jean-Pierre went on. “I cannot be held responsible for the consequences if you do.”
“Ball? What ball?”
“Next month, when your father returns from London, we’ll have a ball here at Barrowdell. Jean-Pierre has agreed to help me with the preparations,” Mrs. Symon said, then turned her attention back to the designer. “Nothing too extravagant, now. Not more than one hundred people, you know. I want everything to be very high-in-the-instep. Very exclusive. It will be the event of the year. Of the decade, no, the century, I warrant.”
Even given her mother’s natural effusiveness, this seemed an excessive prediction, but Olivia knew better than to voice that opinion.
“After all,” her mother said, waving her hand loftily, “how often does a royal duke announce his engagement?”
“The Duke of Clarence is coming here?” Olivia said.
“Why else would we be having a ball?”
“But…the agreement hasn’t been formalized yet,” she said, panic roiling her belly. “Has it?”
“No, not yet, but don’t fret, darling. Your father’s letters are very encouraging. And Lord Rhys is here to make sure all is well on this end. I’m sure the dear boy will send in glowing reports about you.” Her artfully plucked brows drew together in a frown. “I do hope he neglects to mention your unfortunate equestrian accident, but one really can’t blame him if he decides to take credit for saving the life of the future Queen of England.”
Her mother clapped a hand over her mouth for a moment. Then she sighed and a satisfied smile spread over her features, turning up even the corners of her eyes in happiness.
“There. I actually said it. My little girl…the future queen!”
“Mother, that’s not at all certain. Even if I wed the Duke of Clarence”—which seemed a more distasteful prospect each time she thought about it—“it does not signify that he will ascend to the throne. There’s the small matter that his father still lives and his older brother…”
“The king’s health is failing—God bless His Majesty, I’m sure—and as for the Prince Regent, he’ll never get another legitimate heir. Clarence is next in line and his issue will assuredly wear the crown! Oh, that I may live long enough to see it.”
Olivia sighed. “Mother, you might be a veritable Methuselah and never see that.”
“Hush, child.” She put two fingers to Olivia’s lips. “Don’t say such things. Don’t even think them. Do you want to tempt the devil? The crown is ours—I mean, yours—to lose.”
“She will never lose the chance for a crown in this gown.” Jean-Pierre finished turning and pinning the hem and rose to his feet. Then he floated across the room in his gliding stride and returned, carrying a long mirror. “Voilà! I give you a royal duchess if ever there was one.”
He held the looking glass up with a flourish before Olivia, inviting her to admire his handiwork. She stared at her reflection.
The gown played to her greatest strengths, emphasizing her slender lines, while subtly enhancing her meager curves. Even though Olivia had been accustomed to fine fabrics and embellishments since she was in leading strings, the lace and subtly inset jewel adornments on this gown were far more intricate and elegant than anything she’d ever worn before.
It was a gown fit for a princess.
Amazingly enough, she did credit to it. The warm red color made her exposed skin glow like alabaster. The design of the gown swept the eye upward and focused all attention on her face where her eyes, which were often a non-descript hazel, had taken on a decidedly moss green tint.
The girl in the mirror stared back at her, calm and regal. This reflection was so different from the one Rhys Warrington had shown her. Stripped bare, she’d been a sensual creature, passionate and adventurous.
The cool-eyed princess who looked back at her now was another being altogether. The young woman in this mirror would never let another see her secret soul, never bare her deepest longings in a wanton display.
Which one was the real Olivia?
Her mother expected her to be the elegant, unruffled young woman she seemed now, the one with a level head on her shoulders fit for a crown. The Du
ke of Clarence expected her to be his private bank and producer of royal children. And Rhys…
She didn’t know what he expected. He said he’d come to her chamber in order to protect her, and yet their time together quickly degenerated into a lesson in lasciviousness. Her cheeks heated.
She was still a virgin, through no fault of her own. Rhys was the one who stopped matters. He’d had the opportunity to dally with her last night, and yet he’d halted the lesson before any lasting harm was done.
If the whole interlude was a test of character, she’d failed miserably. Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes, but she blinked them back.
“Oh, my dear, it’s all right,” her mother said, hugging her and laying a cool cheek alongside Olivia’s hot one. “I’m so very happy too.”
Chapter 13
Rhys cut the apple into neat sections with his pocketknife. Holding his palm flat beneath Molly’s soft lips, he offered small wedges of it to the mare. She whickered her appreciation between bites and moved as close to Rhys as the suspended sling allowed. He patted her shaggy neck, heavy with her winter coat, and inhaled the homely smells of warm horseflesh and fresh straw.
Time spent with a horse was never time wasted. Rhys always found the quiet companionship gave a man a chance to think, and he had more than enough to think about. Who had tampered with Olivia’s saddle? What sort of evidence did Alcock really have that might exonerate him for the disaster at Maubeuge? And how in hell had Olivia dropped off to sleep so quickly last night when he was up for hours willing his body to settle?
All these things and more tumbled in his head as he spoke softly to Molly and ran a currycomb over her shaggy coat. There was another reason for his trip to the stable besides having a solitary think.
He knew if he waited there long enough, Olivia would come to see to the welfare of her mare. Since she had avoided him by not coming down to breakfast, this was the best way to be sure he’d encounter her on the rambling Symon estate.
She’d looked so delectable when the first rays of sunlight filtered through the slit in her curtains. Her mouth softly parted in the relaxation of sleep, her breasts rising and falling beneath the linens; it was all he could do not to climb under the sheets and wake her properly. Instead he’d slipped out of the chamber before the household roused and Olivia’s maid had a chance to catch him there.
Some rake I am, he thought ruefully.
While he waited for Olivia to come out to the stable, Mr. Thatcher came in to muck out the stalls and lay fresh straw for bedding.
“‘Morning, your lordship,” he said. “D’ye want me to saddle your mount?”
“No, thank you. I’m only here to check on Molly’s progress.”
“Aren’t ye the kind one? She’ll be off her front hooves for another couple weeks, but the old girl isn’t off her feed,” Mr. Thatcher said with a satisfied chuckle. “I take that as a sign that she’ll mend, though I doubt she’ll ever be sound enough to jump again.”
Rhys ran a hand down her foreleg to examine the injured fetlock, glad he hadn’t put her down in the ravine. The little mare seemed a sweet sort. “I daresay your employer is wealthy enough, he could afford to keep a horse as a pet, a sort of glorified dog, even if it wasn’t sound enough to be ridden.”
“Ye’ve the right of it there, I’d expect. If Miss Olivia asks him, there’s not much Mr. Symon won’t do for her,” Mr. Thatcher said. “Fair dotes on all his girls, he does, but Miss Olivia, well, she’s his favorite. Always says she reminds him of his dear departed mother, ye see. Same hair and eyes, Mr. Symon says. The rest of his brood takes after Mrs. Symon, ye understand.”
“I haven’t seen any of Miss Symon’s sisters,” Rhys said.
“And ye’re not likely to. Still in the schoolroom, they all are, though Miss Calliope is fifteen and has been pestering her folks to let her come out this spring. O’ course, once Miss Olivia’s match with the royal duke is made, talk below stairs is that the sky’s the limit for the younger ones.”
Her sisters’ futures were riding on Olivia’s slim shoulders.
“For a doting father, Mr. Symon doesn’t seem to spend much time with his daughters,” Rhys said. “I’ve yet to meet him either.”
Mr. Thatcher scratched his head. “And that’s not like him, but something mightily important must be keeping him in London. Reckon it’s to do with the royal duke and all. Mr. Symon didn’t even make it home for Christmas.”
Rhys made a mental note to send his valet Mr. Clyde on a mission to discover more about Mr. Symon’s business and general whereabouts. If his business interests were at all dodgy, Olivia’s father might have made an enemy who’d harm his favorite daughter as a way to hurt him.
“I suspect having all these houseguests has increased your workload,” Rhys said, anxious to keep the information flowing since Mr. Thatcher seemed disposed to share it.
“Not as much as ye might think,” Mr. Thatcher said. “Though all of Mrs. Symon’s guests make use of the stables and ride a bit for form’s sake.”
“Any here more often than others?” Rhys wondered. Someone who frequented the stable might go unremarked while they altered Olivia’s saddle.
“No, not so’s you’d notice,” Mr. Thatcher said. “Though Lord Percy is partial to taking out the gig for a run into the village tavern. And, present company bein’ the exception, your lordship, none of the guests see to the care of their horses with any regularity.” Mr. Thatcher gave him a gap-toothed grin and headed toward the stable door. “Well, that’s all to the good though since that’s my job, innit? Good day to ye, milord.”
Rhys couldn’t ask him the questions that burned his tongue most hotly. Which of the houseguests had reason to wish the match between the daughter of the house and the Duke of Clarence not to proceed? And who was willing to go to such bloody-minded lengths to see to it? Rhys was no closer to finding out who tampered with Olivia’s saddle than when he first discovered the sabotage.
“Wish you could talk, old girl,” he said to Molly.
“What would you expect her to say, Lord Rhys?”
His head jerked up sharply. He’d been so lost in thought he hadn’t heard anyone’s footsteps, but there was Miss Amanda Pinkerton, chin propped on the stall door, peeking over at him. She smiled, dimpling prettily.
“I expect she’d say, ‘Thanks for the apple,’” he said with a shrug.
Molly snorted.
“She says she already thanked you,” Miss Pinkerton said, her dark eyes snapping with fun, “but you obviously didn’t understand her.”
“That’s entirely possible. I frequently misunderstand what females are trying to tell me.”
“Oh, I very much doubt that, my lord,” Miss Pinkerton said, giving him the languid blink of an accomplished coquette.
The spot between Rhys’s shoulder blades tingled. It wasn’t unheard of for a young woman to insinuate herself into a compromising situation with a man of title or wealth in order to force a marriage. A chance moment of seclusion, an ill-considered kiss, or even the accusation that one had taken place and a fellow could be headed for the altar faster than a team of runaway horses if the lady’s family was of a mind to force matters.
Perhaps Miss Pinkerton hadn’t been in England long enough to know that Rhys’s title was a mere courtesy and his financial situation was fluid at best. Still, his shoulder blades were never wrong and they seemed to be warning him this lovely miss was a parson’s mousetrap waiting to be sprung.
“Did you learn to ride in India?” he asked, hoping someone else would join them shortly. For the moment, the stall door separated them, but the stab of nerves reminded him why he’d always avoided virgins as if they carried the pox. God save him from debutants.
“Oh, yes, I rode every day as a child,” she said. “Of course, riding a horse is easy after you’ve ridden an elephant. The fine fellow down two stalls is mine. An Arabian with a pedigree longer than most princes. Father bought him for me in Madagascar on the way Home. He�
�s called Shaitan.”
On hearing his name, the black gelding tossed his head and gave the slats in his stall door a vicious kick.
“It means devil,” Miss Pinkerton said.
“No doubt he deserves it.” Rhys gave Molly the last of the apple. “You must be quite accomplished to stay in the saddle of such a spirited beast.”
Miss Pinkerton tilted her chin in a fetching manner. She’d turn heads once she reached London. A certain sporting class of fellow wanted his wife to be an ornament to his arm, and Miss Pinkerton was an embellishment to make any man proud. Even if her father could offer only a meager dowry, Rhys expected she’d not finish the Season without several offers of marriage.
Not that any would ever come from him. When Rhys ever thought about marriage, which wasn’t often, the last thing he considered in a wife was a simpering China doll type. Marching through the decades with someone whose best asset was her appearance was bound to end in disappointment.
Time wounds all heels, my son. His father had been partial to mangling a few proverbs back in the days when he was still speaking to Rhys. When you choose a wife, remember that a fashionable face now may sport three chins and a wart or two before death parts you. Look for a woman with something special inside her, and you’ll spare yourself a lifetime of disappointment.
Rhys shrugged off that remembered advice. He wasn’t looking for a wife. Not ever.
“I’m frankly surprised that Miss Symon was thrown by this little mare. She looks too docile and too puny—the mare, I mean, of course.” Miss Pinkerton laughed, a musical twitter of the sort that grated on Rhys’s ears. It didn’t take much to imagine her with three chins and a wart.
“Miss Symon is a fine rider. Her equestrian skills are what truly kept her from harm,” Rhys said sternly. “A lesser rider might have been killed.”
“Oh, dear, I’ve upset you,” she said. “That was never my intention, I assure you. I was just thinking how fortunate Miss Symon was that you were there to save the day. Only imagine. One moment, she’s hurtling along toward certain destruction, and the next, she’s safe in your arms.” Miss Pinkerton gave a pudding-headed sigh. “It all sounds quite thrilling.”
