In spite of himself, Edward felt drawn to her; he moved closer to her side and looked at the angry clouds too. Not the most romantic scene, he thought with a hint of levity. Probably a good thing. I’ve had enough of romance in the country.
Yet he didn’t retreat from Olivia’s side; he couldn’t. In spite of how often his mind argued that a woman to love would never be in reach, he wanted to stay with Olivia and never leave her side. He found himself sidling closer to her, to the point that their arms touched. He held his breath, wondering if she’d take a step away. When she didn’t—just smiled wider as she continued to gaze across the valley—he could breathe again. Perhaps even a stormy sky had the makings of romance, of a sort. And perhaps he could enjoy a little of that romance, for a moment. He could leave for London in the morning with a pleasant memory of spending time at the edge of the flagstones with Olivia Wallington.
“Remarkable clouds,” he said, unable to think clearly enough to conjure a better response. She had been talking about the clouds, hadn’t she?
At Eton, I excelled in debate and oratory, yet a beautiful, intelligent woman has made me unable to form a coherent sentence.
“I know it really happened during that dreary, cold summer of ’16, but I like to think that a powerful winter storm like that one was the real inspiration for Frankenstein.”
She suddenly sucked in a breath and lowered her head so he couldn’t see her face—a movement precisely like one he’d seen elsewhere a few days before. All he could see was the tip of her nose
As before.
This was his nymph, his dryad. The kindhearted, clever, well-read woman he’d been thinking of for days.
Olivia quickly turned away and spoke, her words tumbling about in starts and stops. “I’m sorry—that’s not what—never mind. I—Ex-excuse me. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Blakemoore.” She lifted her skirts and made a move to run into the house, but Edward hurriedly grasped her arm to prevent such flight. By necessity, Olivia stopped her forward motion but didn’t turn to face him. A blush crept up her neck in spite of the cold, and she closed her eyes tightly, sending a tear down the one cheek he could see.
“Miss Wallington,” he said softly. “Please don’t go.” Oh, how he wanted to wipe that tear away.
“I must.” She pulled her arm, and he released it, suddenly ashamed for restraining a woman for any purpose. Fortunately, she didn’t flee. Her head tilted his direction, but only by a fraction, and as it had that day in the woods, her gaze remained on the ground. “Mr. Blakemoore, I apologize—”
“There is no need for an apology, least of all from you,” Edward said. “I’d no idea you were the woman I came across in the woods, or I would have . . . ”
What would he have done, exactly, beyond trying to win her good graces, beyond ridding himself of any guilt connected to being drawn to two different women, who were, in fact, one and the same? He found his capacity for speech severely hindered yet again. How could he tell her any of that?
She must have sensed rejection in his hesitation, because she lowered her chin further and said, “People often say I look younger than my years, but the truth is that I am far too old to tempt the most modest of gentlemen. Andrew is correct that I am the elder sibling, so you can quite easily deduce my years. I have a meager dowry left by my father, and a mother unlikely to approve of any match. I appreciate your kindnesses, but you certainly have no obligation to continue them. I shall take no more of your valuable time, and instead take my leave so that you may be free to dance with far more eligible ladies.”
That was quite likely the longest stream of words he’d heard from her. He tried to find the correct way to convey the smallest part of his thoughts and feelings since he’d first seen her in the wood. All he could manage was the simple, “Please. Don’t go. I’ve thought of you every hour since the woods.”
She lifted her chin a fraction. “You—you have?”
“Yes,” Edward said, his confidence returning. “You are the reason I’ve read Frankenstein three times in as many days.”
“Really,” she said, seemingly intrigued. “I wouldn’t have suspected you to be the rebellious type.”
“Oh, my mother has no qualms about my reading Mary Shelley or Shakespeare,” Edward said, enjoying every moment of his time with Olivia and wondering at his fortune. “She might, however, be disappointed to learn that in my Bible reading, I read only the interesting parts.”
“Leviticus?” she suggested with a teasing tone.
“Merciful heavens, no,” Edward said with a faux grimace. “Song of Solomon, rather.”
Fool. You went too far, he thought, his neck growing hot.
But she didn’t look shocked or offended. Instead, she put a hand on his arm. “Thank you for making me laugh, Mr. Blakemoore. I haven’t smiled so much in years. My cheeks are starting to ache.”
“My pleasure.” A phrase he’d never meant more sincerely in his life. The slight weight of her hand on his arm felt warm. He reached up and took her hand in his, remembering the moment when their hands had touched briefly in the wood, remembering again the ache in his chest when he heard about her mother and aunt’s treatment. “I’ve kept your secrets,” he said. “All of them.” He hoped she’d know that he meant not only the authors she’d read but also the words she’d spoken about her family.
“Thank you.” Her fingers gave the barest squeeze of gratitude.
“I’ve done more than read Frankenstein these last days,” Edward said, measuring his words. “I’ve pondered your mother and aunt. Has Andrew ever . . .” He struggled to voice his worry, which felt somehow disloyal to his friend.
“No,” she assured him. “My brother’s tongue has not the slightest barb.”
“I am relieved to hear that.” Edward felt his shoulders drop as the worry did. “And yet . . .” As his voice trailed off, he studied her face, and she gazed back into his eyes.
“Yes?”
“I cannot bear to think of you living in such conditions. Perhaps I could be a means of freeing you from an undesirable—”
She lifted her chin with a sharp movement, cutting him off. Her eyes were suddenly pained. “You wish to rescue me?”
Why did she sound so disappointed, so hurt? “I—”
“You pity me?” she said, her voice growing increasingly tense.
How could anyone pity a woman of such fortitude? “No, of course not,” Edward tried to say, but she wouldn’t hear him.
“I thank you for the consideration, Mr. Blakemoore,” she said with a cold formality, “but I shall save you from such an odious obligation. Good night.” She hurried inside, her eyes again on the ground—oh, how he hated seeing that, and knowing he’d caused it.
He wanted instead to be the one who could create the spark he’d seen in her eyes, to lift her chin forevermore, to see that smile always. That was what he’d meant by his offer, not that he pitied her. How could he feel pity for someone so strong, capable, and clearly making the best of a difficult situation?
He did wish better for her, and the time he’d spent with her—brief as it had been—had given him the hope of finding the very love he’d wished for since coming to Glenwood.
He wanted a better life for Olivia, and he wanted to be in it—if she’d let him. He ached to take her into his arms, kiss her soundly, and whisk her away from a life where she was mocked and treated poorly by her own relations.
With equal intensity, he wanted to scream into the night to let out his frustration over losing the one woman he’d ever wanted to pursue. His feet might as well have been cemented to the flagstones; he couldn’t chase after her knowing that she wanted to go.
She had to have known who he was at their introduction; he knew that now. That was why she’d paled. But then she’d recovered so quickly and had seemed to enjoy his presence. Had she enjoyed dancing with him and talking with him? Or had she merely placated him by pretending she did?
With nothing else he could do, Edward sat o
n a bench and raked his fingers through his hair. Every time he closed his eyes, there she was—his nymph turned flesh, Olivia Wallington, the perfect woman for him, who remained just out of reach.
Chapter Ten
The morning after the ball, Olivia went through her usual toilette and preparations in silence, not having the heart to engage in idle conversation with Mary while the latter helped her get dressed and did her hair. Olivia’s enjoyment of the evening, including the rare opportunity to think nothing and care nothing about what her mother and aunt would think, her chance to speak whatever she thought, had been cut short. Mary brushed through Olivia’s hair, then put it up in a simple twist, but Olivia asked her to please make it looser than usual. Even if Mother thought a softer silhouette to be vain, Olivia could not bear to have her hair pulled tightly any longer. Not after she’d seen how pretty it could look when done in a manner other than one expected of a spinster. Still sitting at her dressing table, Olivia dismissed Mary, then studied her reflection.
She looked different, somehow. The softer lines of her hair contributed, certainly—something she’d hear an earful about later, no doubt. But the change consisted of more than that. Her eyes lacked the light and excitement of the previous night, surely. Maybe that’s all it is, she thought as she stood and moved to her bedchamber door to go down to breakfast. But as she walked the hallway and descended the staircase to the dining room, she knew there was more to the change than lapsed excitement and hair that didn’t pull at her scalp to the point of a headache.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she paused with her hand on the newel post, thinking about the one dance partner she’d had before fleeing to ballroom of Dunstead Manor, waiting out the ball in a dark corner where Mr. Blakemoore didn’t find her. She would have preferred going straight home, of course, but she couldn’t justify ordering the horse hitched up again, taking her home to Landerfield, and the resulting unhitching upon returning to Dunstead Manor, followed by hitching again when Andrew and Emma were ready to leave and yet a final unhitching back at home. That would mean extra work for the driver and the stable hands at both Dunstead Manor and Landerfield entirely on her account.
She’d sat on a wingback chair in the dark and thought of handsome, rich, kind, funny, good Edward Blakemoore. Of how he’d felt pity for her. He needed a wife; Andrew had said that quite clearly. When she first met Edward in the wood, she hadn’t known who he was, of course. She’d been eager to deliver the food to the Wilby family and return home quickly so Mother wouldn’t question her absence or order her to stop helping the poor, who, in her estimation, must deserve to be poor or they wouldn’t be poor.
Edward had looked and acted just as she’d long dreamed her shadow man to be. She’d found herself giddy and flushed and hadn’t been able to think of anything else after he’d helped her in the wood. She’d headed home with broken bread and spilled soup, but half forgot that she never made it to the Wilby residence, caught up as she was in thoughts of the man on the forest road. On her subsequent morning walks, as she followed Mother and Aunt, she hadn’t flown away to her regular fanciful dreams of her shadow man. Her mind instead had held fast to the memory of the man in the woods—a man who turned out to be Edward Blakemoore. He’d completely replaced her shadow man, something she now regretted.
She’d gone to the ball in hopes of creating real memories to relive, only to return without her fancies to escape to. She’d never again be able to think of her shadow man as he once was; Edward Blakemoore’s face—and his pity—would forever occupy that place in her mind.
If only she could have kept her identity a secret. Before mentioning the book, she’d enjoyed the ball in ways she’d only dreamed of. Everything had been perfect—an adept dancing partner who enjoyed conversation and whose gaze could melt ice, a gaze trained on her. A walk onto the terrace with an unparalleled view. Perfection to such a degree that she’d grown entirely comfortable with Edward—then ruined everything by mentioning the one subject he’d remember her for, thereby connecting the oppressed life she led with the woman before him.
The facade had crumbled. She’d felt it collapsing about her the moment she’d spoken the title; she’d sensed a shift in Edward. He’d seemed on the verge of offering his hand in marriage, which on the outside sounded like a dream, if he’d done it from love. But he hadn’t. He’d done it from pity.
Many a woman would jump at such a man, eager to take a hand offered from pity if it meant having a handsome, rich husband and getting free from Mother’s thumb. Oh, were I that woman, but I am not.
Her hand gripped the newel post harder until the carvings in the wood bit into her palm. She let go and smoothed her skirts, wishing she had as simple a way to smooth her rumpled spirits. She lifted her chin, straightened her shoulders, and moved again toward the dining room. No one would ever suspect a thing.
Upon entering, Olivia noted the absence of Andrew and Emma. They were probably sleeping late after the festivities and having breakfast brought up to them. That meant facing the two elder ladies alone, as usual. Having her brother and his wife present was something she’d looked forward to during their visit; having them at meals deflected some of the criticism and attention.
She stepped through the door. “Good morning, Mother, Aunt—” Her greeting to Matilda stuck in her throat upon seeing her mother’s face and hands covered in patches of something white smeared on them.
Some remedy for the poison ivy, most likely. She’d forgotten about her mother’s rash. How was that possible, when it was the very thing that had gotten her to the ball in the first place?
She rounded the table and took her seat. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Quite unwell, if you must know,” Mother said with far less enthusiasm than she usually gave such statements. “Although Matilda’s ointment has helped significantly.”
“Thank you for caring for Mother,” Olivia said to her aunt. “No one else knew what to do.” With her knife, she sliced the top off her boiled egg, which sat upright in its stand.
“One does one’s duty,” Aunt Matilda said with a sniff. “I couldn’t sit idly by, watching my sister suffer while I had the means to ease her pain, now could I?”
“No,” Olivia said quickly. “Of course not. No one would ever question your devotion to Mother.” But as she reached for her egg spoon, she surreptitiously searched her aunt’s face. Did she think Olivia shirked her duties toward Mother? Before scooping a bite of egg into her mouth, she took a breath, ready to lavish further praise on her aunt and assure both women that she herself would never, ever abandon her filial obligations, especially with such good examples of proper devotion in the two of them.
But before a single word escaped, she reconsidered. No more saying what they wanted to hear simply to avoid their disapproval. She took a bite of egg after all.
I did nothing wrong, she thought. I shirked no duty.
Besides, she knew nothing of poison ivy or medicinal aids. Had she stayed by her mother’s side instead of going to the ball, she would have only been in the way, helping no one. A proper daughter wouldn’t have attended a ball in secret, but other than that, Olivia had always been loyal and true, sacrificing her own comforts for the sake of her mother’s and aunt’s well-being, even when such sacrifices weren’t necessary. Pushing her desires to the wayside had been her way of attempting to make peace under a roof where peace rarely reigned. Turmoil of one kind of another erupted in some form at least once a day, whether in the form of criticizing others or a complaint of some physical ailment that did not actually exist.
As Olivia sat at the table, spoon poised in the air above the egg, understanding dawned on her. Nothing she’d done to make her mother or aunt happy worked any better than surrendering to the tantrum of a child who only grew more spoiled as a result.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have left my true self in my dreamland so entirely over the years, she thought, slowly scooping out another bite of egg. Would life with Mother an
d Aunt be easier today if I’d spoken my mind all this time? She’d never know what might have been, but she could begin such a life now—a more honest one, where she didn’t have to hide her true thoughts and character away from her family.
Odd that she’d felt guilty hiding the ball from her family, even though she’d spent years hiding her true self. Hadn’t she been living a lie with them every day?
The very idea of saying her true thoughts and feelings to her mother and aunt seemed as unattainable as the golden goose from the fairy tale, but she wanted to try. And as she imagined what life would be like speaking as herself, she couldn’t help but reflect on the almost magical time she’d spent with Edward. Talking with him, dancing with him, walking with her arm through his, looking over the valley—throughout it all, she’d felt more alive, more genuinely herself, than at any other time in her life.
And then he’d ruined it all with his pity.
What if she could leave this house on the arm of Edward Blakemoore, or someone like him, someone who cared for her instead? She studiously salted her egg while trying to hide a sigh. The chances of falling in love with a man who truly wanted her aging hand were so low as to be almost laughable. That was why she’d made the best of her situation. With Andrew as her brother, she’d never want for food or shelter, which was more than many unmarried women could say. She should be content with her lot. She’d had a few moments of magic with Edward, moments she could relive again and again, should she so desire.
Maybe one day she could think of him without pain, and her dream world would again satisfy her, although she doubted it ever would. Not after experiencing a taste of what real life could be like.
Throughout the rest of the breakfast, remaining properly silent became a simple task; Olivia had nothing she wanted to offer up in conversation to those at the table. If Edward had sat opposite her, they would no doubt never run out of enjoyable topics. Unlike many men of her acquaintance, Edward hadn’t seemed intimidated by an educated and well-read woman. Oh, why couldn’t he have cared for her instead of seeing her a potential recipient of his charity?
Timeless Regency Collection: A Midwinter Ball Page 15
