The Seduction of Lady X

by Julia London

  “Good afternoon,” Alexa said.

  “Good afternoon,” Harry responded; his gaze was on Olivia.

  “I, ah . . . I hope you don’t mind that I’ve come,” Olivia said, clasping her hands tightly before her.

  The marquis had done that to her, Alexa thought. He’d made her afraid of her own shadow.

  “Of course not. You are always most welcome. Always. Is everything—”

  “Everything is fine, Mr. Tolly,” Olivia said quickly, and smiled. “I wanted to see how Alexa was faring and to walk. I feel as if I have been caged by the weather, and I thought it would be nice to go out, even if in the rain.” She put her hand to her nape. “I should go back.”

  “You needn’t run off,” Alexa said.

  “Edward will wonder where I’ve got off to.”

  “Shall I walk with you?” Harry asked.

  “No, no,” she said, smiling at him. “You should stay and . . . and speak with Alexa. I am certain there is much you have to discuss.”

  “Indeed there is,” Alexa said, and sat on the settee. “Quite a lot, Harry.”

  “At least let me see you out,” Harry said.

  He was a good steward, solicitous of the marchioness. Alexa hoped he was that solicitous of his wife.

  “Thank you,” Olivia said softly, and walked through the door. He followed her out without looking at Alexa.

  Alexa sat on the settee and ran her hands along the velvet upholstery, her fingers sliding over a rough patch that was beginning to wear. She could hear Harry and her sister whispering in the foyer, then heard the door open and close.

  Harry appeared a few moments later without his cloak. From the corner of her eye, Alexa saw Olivia dart by the window beneath her umbrella.

  “How are you today?” Alexa asked cheerfully.

  Harry looked at her strangely. “Fine, thank you. And you?”

  “Very well, thank you.” She smiled.

  “Splendid,” he said absently. “Rue!” he called. “Rue, what has become of the brandy?”

  “The brandy, my lord?” she asked, popping into the parlor.

  “Sir,” he corrected her. “Yes, the brandy. An amber liquid in a crystal decanter. Quite necessary on a cold, wet day such as this.”

  “Did you not drink it, my lord?”

  “I am not a lord,” Harry said patiently. “And I did not drink an entire bottle of brandy. Please go and inquire of Mrs. Lampley.”

  “Yes, I will my . . . sir,” Rue said.

  “May I speak frankly?” Alexa asked when Rue had left.

  “Of course,” he said, and began to sort through the few bottles at the sideboard. “Feel free to speak whatever is on your mind.”

  “What is on my mind is Everdon Court. The marquis cannot bear the sight of me, and I can scarcely abide him. I should like to leave.”

  “I think it best if you remain at the dowager house for a time,” he said.

  “I had in mind something a little more drastic than that.”

  Harry held up a decanter and frowned at it thoughtfully.

  “Are you listening?” she asked, and stood up. “Harry, let’s leave here. Let’s go somewhere the marquis is not. I cannot bear to be confined to the dowager house and not allowed to see my sister because it displeases her husband.”

  Harry spared her a glance then. “And go where, Alexa?” he asked, sounding a bit impatient with her.

  “I thought perhaps we might . . . we might go to Ashwood,” she said.

  Harry stilled. He turned his head and stared hard at her, as if he could not believe he’d heard her correctly. His eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you know of Ashwood?”

  His voice was dangerously low, and Alexa’s heart began to flutter with uncertainty. “The man who came to see you said it. He said you had inherited.”

  “I don’t recall that he said so to you,” he said suspiciously.

  “I overheard it,” she lied.

  His expression darkened.

  “What?” she asked. “What have I said?”

  Harry suddenly closed the distance between them and stared down at her in a manner that made her feel as if she were a child, incapable of understanding something. “You must not mention it again.”

  “But why?” she asked. The letter had been very clear that Ashwood belonged to him. Why would he not admit it?

  “Because I have asked you not to. It is none of your concern, Alexa. We shall make our home here, as planned.”

  “You planned this. Not me. The marquis cannot bear the sight of me.”

  “Then you must resign yourself to the idea that for a time, at least, it will be a quiet existence. You will have enough to occupy you when the child is born.”

  Alexa gaped at him. “But it’s not fair!”

  “Not fair?” he snapped. “Shall I tell you what is not fair? That I am giving up my life for you. That your sister must languish in the prison of Everdon Court every day for the rest of her life. That you, in your astonishing lapse of judgment, have brought this on all our heads! That is not fair!”

  Alexa was so taken aback that tears welled up and started to fall. She lowered her head, mortified but unable to stop it.

  “Please do not weep, for heaven’s sake.” Harry sighed, and put his arms around her. “Come, come, Alexa. There will come a time that we shall both look back at this and find it amusing.”

  “I will never find it amusing!” she cried.

  “You are right,” he said, sighing again. “That was a wretched old chestnut. I think neither will I ever find it amusing, but these things do have a way of settling into comfort with time. I don’t think you will despair for long.”

  Alexa sniffed and rested her head against his shoulder. She liked the smell of his spicy cologne. He was hard, and strong, and she felt moved by his comfort. She lifted her head and gazed at his face. “How can you be so certain?”

  “I have faith.”

  Faith had long deserted her, and Alexa suddenly wanted some of his. She couldn’t seem to help herself; she went up on her toes and boldly kissed him. She didn’t know what she thought might happen, but she did not expect Harry to rear back as if he’d been stung. “What in blazes are you doing?” he demanded.

  Heat flooded her cheeks. “I . . . We are about to be married. I thought . . .”

  He moved away from her, putting the room between them.

  Mortified, tears began to flow again. Alexa felt humiliated and confused, and when Rue walked in with the bottle of brandy, wide-eyed and mouth agape, Alexa thought she might die from the embarrassment at being so soundly rejected.

  “Rue,” Harry said, taking the bottle from her and putting it down on the sideboard. “I am going to the village to have a pint.”

  “Am I to say it?” she asked anxiously.

  “I don’t give a damn.” He strode out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  At tea Edward was still contrite, and politely greeted Olivia when she entered. He didn’t comment when she ignored the needlework laid out beside her chair, nor did he complain when she stood up to look out the window as he read his newspaper.

  But when she mentioned the rain seemed to be waning, he said, “That should make your walks to the dowager house more pleasant.” He looked at her over the rim of his wineglass and drank deeply, then signaled the footman to pour more.

  Olivia glanced at the decanter—it was almost empty, which meant he’d consumed most of it in the last hour or so. Which meant that anything might happen. She waited for his condemnation, and his decree that she was not allowed to walk to the dowager house. She waited for him to make a cruel remark.

  When the footman had filled his glass, Edward instructed him to leave.

  “I worry about your health, my love,” Edward said, his eyes fixed on her. “Walking in the rain could make you ill.”

  “I wasn’t too terribly wet.” She warily resumed her seat, her eyes on the clock on the mantel, silently counting down the minutes and hours she m
ust remain in his company.

  Miss Foster arrived with the tea a few minutes later, bustling in through the oak doors and banging one against the writing desk. “Oh! Beg your pardon, my lord, my lady,” she said cheerfully. “Brock asked me to bring tea around, as Mr. Dembly has come with a delivery. I fear I grow clumsy in my old age.”

  “Thank you, Miss Foster,” Olivia said, and rose from her seat to help her. Edward frowned at Olivia but did not instruct her to sit.

  But Miss Foster did. “Sit, madam, please! Allow me to serve you. I made a fig cake, especially for you. I know how well you like them.”

  Olivia didn’t care for Miss Foster’s fig cake at all, and couldn’t imagine where Miss Foster had gotten that idea. “How kind. Thank you.”

  “Shall I pour?” Miss Foster asked.

  “Yes,” Edward said without looking up from his paper.

  Miss Foster wasn’t as deft with the service as Brock; there was such a clattering of china and pewter that Edward sighed loudly and lowered his newspaper to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger.

  Miss Foster did not seem to notice him at all. She put tea on the small table next to Edward’s chair, then handed a cup to Olivia.

  “Thank you, Miss Foster.”

  “It is my pleasure,” she said enthusiastically. With a bright smile, she removed the cover from the fig cake with a flourish. She served up a thick slab of it and put it on the table next to Edward.

  He ignored it.

  Miss Foster lifted the knife to cut another slab, and Olivia said quickly, “No thank you, Miss Foster. I am not feeling well this evening. I will wait, if you don’t mind.”

  Miss Foster looked crestfallen.

  “I am certain it is delicious, but I am a bit under the weather,” she said, and gestured to her stomach to indicate her distress.

  Miss Foster suddenly brightened and winked at Olivia. “I understand completely. My sister was the same way when she was with child; she could scarcely eat a thing for a time.”

  For a moment, the words didn’t make sense to Olivia. “Pardon?” she said. But then she realized what Miss Foster was implying at the very same moment that Edward did.

  He looked at Olivia, then at Miss Foster. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded.

  Miss Foster blinked. “Forgive me, my lord. I’m just an old woman, prattling on.” She put the lid on the cake platter.

  “That is not what I asked,” Edward said, casting aside his newspaper. “What precisely did you mean by that?”

  “I beg your pardon, madam!” Miss Foster said. “I spoke out of turn!”

  “I asked you a question, woman!” Edward snapped. “Explain yourself!”

  Miss Foster looked as horrified as Olivia felt. “There has been some misunderstanding,” Olivia said, but Edward waved her quiet, his eyes locked on Miss Foster. He rose up out of his seat, squaring off in front of the poor thing.

  “I meant only to say that when my sister was with child, she could not eat. And I thought . . . I thought perhaps that her ladyship—”

  “Oh no!” Olivia cried. “No, Miss Foster, you are mistaken! I am not with child. Wherever would you get such an idea?”

  The poor woman looked as if she might collapse. She looked frantically from Edward’s cold gaze to Olivia. “Everyone knows it, madam. I’ve heard it said—”

  “That will be all,” Edward snapped, and pointed to the door. “Leave us.”

  Miss Foster scurried out of the salon, still holding the knife she’d used to cut the fig cake.

  Edward’s jaw was clenched, his gaze hard, and Olivia knew she’d already lost. “I am not with child,” she said. “I cannot begin to guess why she would think so.”

  “Would you lie to me?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.

  “No, of course not. It is the one thing you want from me, Edward. If I were carrying your child, I would be dancing on the rooftop.”

  That did not appease him, judging by his dark look.

  “You may have Dr. Egan come and examine me if you don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you when you say you are not carrying my child, Olivia. So now I wonder, if not my child, then whose?”

  “How dare you, Edward!” she cried. “I am not carrying anyone’s child! I am faithful to you.”

  “Then explain to me why the staff of this house would believe that you are,” he said, and suddenly lunged for her. Olivia cried out and tried to dart out of his way, but he easily caught her and shoved her up against the wall, pinning her in place. “You’d best not be lying to me,” he said. “For if I discover you have cuckolded me and attempt to parade some bastard about as my child, I will kill you first.”

  She gasped. “Unhand me!”

  Edward brought his hand to her face, his fingers splayed against her cheek, pushing her head back. “Do not lie to me.”

  “I do not lie to you.” Olivia brought the heel of her shoe down hard on his foot. Edward hissed with the pain and let go. Olivia quickly moved away from him, putting the settee between them.

  “It’s Tolly, is it not?” Edward seethed. “He is your lover.”

  “You are mad,” Olivia said heatedly. “First you accuse me of your brother, and now Mr. Tolly? I will tell you again: I have always been loyal to you, even when I found it exceedingly difficult to be!”

  His eyes widened and he shook as he pointed his finger at her. “You will pay for this, Olivia. Dear God, you will pay.”

  Despite the shiver of fear that coursed down her spine, Olivia lifted her chin. “You cannot possibly punish me more than you have in these last several years.”

  Edward picked up his wineglass and hurled it across the room. It smashed into the wall and fell in pieces; wine ran down the papered wall. “Liar,” he roared, and pivoted about, striding out the door. “Liar!” he shouted in the hall.

  Olivia grabbed the back of the settee and sank down as fear, anger, and loathing choked the air from her.

  At the dowager house, Rue was gathering up Mr. Tolly’s boots to be shined when she heard a banging on the door.

  She dropped the boots and ran to the top of the stairs just as the door was flung open and the marquis almost flew into the foyer. “Tolly!”

  Rue gasped and the marquis looked up. “Come down here!” he snapped.

  She did not want to go down, and took one hesitant step.

  “Now!”

  Rue ran down the stairs.

  “Where is he?” the marquis asked when she’d made it to the ground floor. “Where is Tolly?”

  His demeanor frightened her. His eyes were wide and almost shiny. Once, Rue’s brother had trapped a rabid fox, and there had been a shiny look to his eyes, too. The marquis had eyes like that fox.

  “Where is he?” the marquis bellowed.

  Rue was trembling. She saw Mrs. Lampley in the corridor, saw her push her son behind her.

  “By God, I asked you a question, wench!”

  “I’m not to say!” she cried.

  The marquis’s eyes grew brighter, and he grabbed her arm and jerked her forward. “Why?” he breathed. “Why are you not to say?”

  Rue thought she might faint with fright. “Because he doesn’t like me to say when he’s gone for a pint!” she shrieked and closed her eyes, certain the marquis would hit her.

  He pushed her away, and Rue crumpled to the ground. When she opened her eyes the marquis had already gone, leaving the door wide open.

  She slowly pushed herself up as the sound of a horse riding away reached her. Mrs. Lampley was suddenly at her side, her arms under Rue’s. “Stand up, now, love,” she said.

  “Did you see him?” Rue asked. “He had the look of the devil about him, he did. And he smelled of drink!”

  “You’re not to say what he smelled of,” Mrs. Lampley softly chided her. “Shut the door before the rain washes us away, then clean up the mud.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Robert looked annoyed when Harrison entered
the common room of the public house. He frowned darkly as Harrison took a seat at his table.

  “Is your neckcloth wound too tightly? Or perhaps your boots pinch?” Harrison asked as he removed his hat and cloak. “You seem a wee bit unhappy.”

  “As you would be, were you me,” Robert groused. “One thinks he is well acquainted with a man and then discovers he hardly knows him at all.” He held up two fingers to the serving girl to indicate they needed two ales, then glared at Harrison.

  Harrison laughed. “All right then, let’s have it, old friend. What has you behaving so petulantly?”

  “When were you going to tell me, Harry? Are we not friends? Do you not trust me?”

  “Of course I trust you! What is it that you think I haven’t told you?”

  Robert grunted at that and sat back, looking away from Harrison, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Come on then, I cannot guess what has you wrought,” Harrison said. “When was I to tell you what, precisely?”

  “That you were planning to marry Miss Hastings, that’s what,” Robert snapped. “The very same Miss Hastings whom, a mere fortnight ago, you had hoped to put off on some widow!”

  “Ah,” Harrison said, sobering.

  “Ah,” Robert snapped.

  Fran put the ales on the table without looking at Harrison and sashayed away. No smile, no inquiry after his health, no brushing against him as she was wont to do. Harrison groaned and hung his head for a moment. This month had to be the worst of his life. “I guess everyone within a radius of Everdon has heard it, then?”

  “I’d wager a few,” Robert drawled. “And still, you’ve not answered my question. When did you think to tell me? When the first child was born?” He snorted and drank from his ale.

  So did Harrison. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, Rob. But I hadn’t determined how exactly to make the announcement.”

  Robert’s eyes rounded. “So it is true! Ach, I always believed you to be against marriage, in principle. I thought we were of like minds—better to bed them than to wed them.”

  “I do not believe we are of like minds in that regard,” Harrison said with a wry smile. “But neither have I been eager to join the ranks of the married. However . . .” He glanced around them. “Some things have changed.”