by Muir, L. L.
“May I present my fiancée, Lady Irene Goodfellow. Irene, Miss Olivia Reynolds, daughter of the Earl of Telford.”
The blond woman’s eyes looked a bit narrow, as if she needed to squint in order to see clearly. But when she smiled, her eyes opened. It was a fascinating transformation.
“Miss Reynolds, may I call you Olivia? Since we both seem to be part of the King’s circle?”
“Of course. I would be honored.”
“And you must call me Irene.”
Livvy nodded, though she would do no such thing. She’d been in a daze when she’d agreed to use Forsgreen’s given name, but the fog was fading. Besides, there was something about Miss Goodfellow she did not trust. Until she had more reason to call the woman her friend, my lady would have to do.
Ashmoore squeezed her hand and hooked it into his elbow as he led her to the drawing room. Northwick was standing at the front window, looking onto the street, but spun on his heel when they entered.
“You are late.” His gaze slid from her to Ashmoore.
“Are we? I was not aware you were waiting for me, old friend. I would have come directly and left Miss Reynolds to find some other form of transportation.”
Northwick rolled his eyes.
She was grateful for their little repartee. It gave her a chance to catch her breath and slow her heart, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with Viscount Forsgreen’s amazing smile. Just being in the same room with Northwick made the memory of Stanley fade with each breath. Smiling or no, his was the face she most wanted to see that night. As exciting as it had been to be escorted by a man as dashing as Ashmoore, the man did nothing whatsoever to her temperature. He might as well be her brother. Although she had to admit it had been rather nice having another man about the house for the past few days, entertaining her father, making the quiet townhouse seem like a country party.
And he was ever so sensitive to the moments when she felt her father’s memory might be slipping. He seemed to disappear at the most convenient of times, though the aura of protection lingered. That, in itself made him seem like a family member—there if she needed him, there even if she did not.
“My Lord Northwick.” She curtsied.
“You will call me North.” He took her hand and dragged it up to his lips in spite of her half-hearted resistance.
“I will not, my lord.”
He only smiled. That was, until he glanced again at Ashmoore. The latter was grinning.
“I see you learned nothing at Jackson’s the other day, Ash. I shall be happy to repeat the lesson.”
“Oh, come now. You know I was the only instructor that day. Jostling your memory would give me nothing but pleasure of course.”
“You two stop it.” A man walked into the room, straight to Livvy, and took her hand, to lead her to the other side of the room, all without pausing. He spun her around to face the others and her skirt twirled beautifully before coming to a stop. "There. I have saved you. The Marquess of Harcourt, at your service Miss Reynolds.” He bowed low over her hand, but did not kiss it.
A woman cleared her throat. Standing in the doorway, in a lovely peach ensemble, could have been none other than his sister. She was identical to the Marquess in every way, from her brown curls to the grin on her face.
“Forgive me.” Harcourt left her side and went to the other woman’s rescue, leading her past the other men, directly back to Livvy. "Miss Olivia Reynolds, may I present my sister, Miss Anna Talbot. Anna, meet Olivia, the poor chick that has been tucked beneath Ashmoore’s wing for the evening.”
Anna laughed and pushed her brother aside, as if the ground he had been standing on had been her rightful territory. "Good boy, Harcourt. Now run along. We two have silly things to discuss.”
“I am all ears,” he leaned in.
“Yes,” Anna agreed. "And teeth, and a rather large nose. Now run along.” She tried to shoo him away.
“Large nose? I hate to point this out, Sister, but I could don one of your dresses and be mistaken for you at any ball.”
“Bother! Mistaken for me on a very, very bad day, after I have reached the age of fifty perhaps. While I could don your breeches and run about London every night playing The Scarlet Plumiere, saving damsels in distress from rogues like you.”
“I am not a rogue, Anna. I am a King. I so dislike having to remind you.”
“Yes, yes.” Anna reached up and patted her brother on the head. "You are a King. Now run along, Your Highness.”
She faced Livvy again.
“Where were we? Oh, yes. We were about to become fast friends and you were about to tell me what you think of our Lord Ashmoore.”
Livvy laughed. She would have paid a pretty penny to see such entertainment on a stage. What a difference there was between Anna and Irene. She loved Anna immediately. She did not see what the woman could possibly have seen in her during her glide across the room, but Livvy felt as if she had been invited to have tea with the queen.
“Lord Ashmoore? Which King is he?” She made a show of looking ‘round the room, staring at Northwick, then Ashmoore, then Harcourt.
“I believe he is the one winking at you, my dear.”
And so he was. She felt her face flush. "He does that often, I am afraid,” she confessed.
“Does he?” Anna looked back and forth between them for a moment. "Oops,” she whispered. "It seems as though Lord Northwick is not happy to have learned Ash’s new habit. I will wager they will be at Jackson’s tomorrow.”
“They were there only Thursday.” Livvy whispered, "I thought they were friends.”
Anna laughed. "The finest friendship is easily ruined by jealousy, my dear. I am afraid Lord Northwick is smitten. The question is, is our King of Spades?”
Livvy glanced at Ashmoore, but the man was following Northwick from the room.
“Looks like they cannot stand to wait until tomorrow.” Anna grabbed her hand and began to pull. "Hurry. I do not want to miss a thing.”
Harcourt stepped in front of his sister.
“We are going to find the powder room, Brother.”
“Liar. You are not going to poke that delicate nose of yours where it does not belong.”
“But it belongs in the powder room!”
“You are hoping to see a fight. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but there will not be one. They are going to talk.”
“I do not know who you mean.”
“Then you lost your memory somewhere between here and the windows.”
“Brother. I truly am in a hurry.”
“No.”
Anna stepped back. She put a hand to her throat. Her bottom lip quivered.
“Hell, no.” He turned to Livvy. “Pardon my language, Olivia.”
Anna rolled her eyes. "I am sure we have already missed the best part. Aren’t you worried Ashmoore will need a beefsteak for his eye by now?”
“Ashmoore? You mean Northwick.”
“I will wager a guinea on Ashmoore.”
Harcourt opened his mouth, then grimaced and shook his head.
Anna turned to Livvy and her grin sent out waves of dimples. "See that? I nearly had him.”
Ashmoore returned looking no worse for wear, a happy smile on his face.
Harcourt leaned toward his sister. "That will teach you to bet against Ash, Sister.”
Northwick walked inside. Nothing amiss with him either. In fact, he was smiling as well.
“And I told you they were only going to talk.” Harcourt stepped aside with a sweeping gesture, indicating his sister’s new freedom to walk where she liked.
“Damned Kings. They know each other just too well for anything interesting to happen.” Anna shook her head in disgust.
Livvy disagreed. She thought the fact that both men returned with smiles on their faces was very interesting indeed.
Northwick moved to the window and looked out at the street.
“Ah, my dinner companion has arrived. Excuse me,” he said.
Sin
ce Livvy had never been told who was on the guest list, she had no idea who Northwick was about to bring through the door, but she could not have been more surprised if the man had escorted in the famous Lady Ursula.
The woman could not have been his mother; his mother was deceased. But the woman had to be his mother’s age at least. She was lovely. Extremely lovely in fact, but she was quite stout.
The other little detail that caught and held Livvy’s attention was the way Northwick smiled at his new companion. He beamed, as if he had just blown out the candles on his birthday cake and his wish was standing in front of him when he opened his eyes.
If he had not looked so sincere, she might have believed he was play-acting, trying to make her jealous—for in honesty, she was jealous. Caper-green with jealousy, in fact. But then the woman smiled and the light from the sconces seemed to dim. Her smile could rival that of her host, in fact.
Stanley’s mother, then, The Duchess of Rochester!
North brought the woman toward her and Livvy dropped into her deepest curtsy.
“Your Grace, may I introduce to you Miss Olivia Reynolds, daughter of the Earl of Telford?”
“Miss Reynolds, it is a great pleasure.”
“The pleasure is mine, Your Grace.” Livvy straightened and smiled.
“The Duke and I used to play cards with Telly and your mother when we were much, much younger. I was so sorry to hear of her passing.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Winnie. Please. Aunt Winnie, if you would like. I think your mother would have liked that. And I am happy to see you look so like her.”
Livvy only nodded. Tears made it impossible to speak.
“No tears, my dear. This is your first foray back into society, is it not? I hope you can forgive me for not seeing to the task myself. I had no idea you had been hiding.”
Hiding?
“Someone as beautiful as you owes it to Society to participate. Give those young bucks a reason to behave themselves.
“You are too kind, Your Grace.”
“Oh? You think I am not earnest? Not just any pretty face gets through these walls.” She gestured around them, glanced at Irene, then turned back. "The inner sanctum, as it were. You must have a lot of your mother on the inside as well.” The woman took Livvy by the arm and walked her away from the others. "Did your parents ever tell you how they met?”
“You mean the story of how she and her friends held up his carriage for a lark?”
“And your father shot her before he realized—”
“They were all women? Yes. It is one of his favorite stories to tell, actually.” It took an effort to swallow.
“What is it, child?”
“My father...is not well.”
A moment later, she was sobbing against the bosom of The Duchess of Rochester. The rest of the dinner guests had slipped from the room.
“I am so sorry, Your Grace.” For the second time, she tried to compose herself.
“Aunt Winnie.”
“Aunt Winnie, then. I do not know what came over me. I am not usually such a milquetoast.”
“Of course you are not. But you have to give these things their due. One must spill the milk before one can clean it up.”
“That’s what Mother used to say.”
“And she was right. Now. Dry your face and let’s allow Stanley’s cook to stop re-heating our supper. I am starved.”
Livvy was surprised to find she was starved as well. She would have never expected to fit anything but nerves in her stomach that night, but she was wrong.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Stanley stood at the head of the table. Irene sat to his left. Harcourt sat beside her with an empty chair next. Ashmoore stood behind the chair at the far end of the table. Anna on his left, then Northwick, then another chair.
“I would rather look at your face than your ear, Ramsay.” Her Grace walked around the table to take the seat between Harcourt and Ashmoore, but Livvy got the distinct impression the duchess was more concerned that Livvy set next to her son.
She had no choice but to take the seat between Stanley and Northwick. The latter did not seem too dangerous at the moment, only giving her a brief smile as he held her chair. She wondered if he remembered their last conversation as well as she. Could he still smell the dust in the curtains? The strong smell of India dye in the new fabrics. Perhaps it was her new gown that kept that memory alive, down to the smallest detail. She was sure she could look at her arm and recall which hairs had stood on end when his breath had caressed her neck.
“You’re blushing,” he murmured, quietly enough that no one else could have heard him. "I am happy to see you remembered.”
The hair on her arms rose once more, as if Northwick had trained them to do so.
She braced herself to stand. If this was her reaction to being so near him for only a moment, she would not last the meal. But who could exchange seats with her? Not the duchess. She had already voiced her preference. Irene would ask for an explanation. Trading seats with Anna would only put her on Northwick’s opposite side! Trading with one of the men would ruin the seating arrangement, and she doubted Irene would allow it.
“Running away?” His voice was still low, thank heavens. "I never took you for a coward.”
“Lord Stanley,” she said, turning her head and shoulder away from Northwick’s whispers. "I have to thank you for holding this little party. I cannot tell you what it means to have met your mother. My own mother spoke of her, of course, but I never dreamed we would find ourselves in the same circles, if only for one night.”
“My pleasure, Olivia.” He frowned down the length of the table. “But what’s all this about one night, Ashmoore? You are not going to allow this woman to hide in her attic again, are you?”
“Of course not.” Ashmoore winked at her.
“Something in your eye, Ashmoore?” Northwick laughed.
“No. Something in yours, my friend.” Ashmoore rubbed the back of his knuckles against his chin, then held them up. “This.”
“So, it is like that, is it?” Winnie looked from one man to the other, then smiled at Livvy. "At least they are not blind, or witless. I have done a fine job, if I do say so myself.”
“I do not understand,” she confessed.
“She takes credit for raising the four of us.” North grinned when the duchess frowned in his direction. "Credit she certainly deserves.”
“But you are pledged to The Scarlet Whatsit, are you not, Northwick?” Irene was back to squinting.
Ashmoore grinned. Livvy felt her face heat.
“I am, Miss Goodfellow. At the moment.”
“But surely you do not mean to go back on your promise.” Livvy could not stop her tongue. She would take it back if she could, for whichever way the man answered, she would be disappointed.
“I will keep my promise if it is possible to do so.”
Stanley gestured with his knife. "You see, darling, he is having a devil of a time finding her. He cannot marry a woman he cannot take to the church, now can he?”
“I hope you will not think ill of me, Lord Northwick, but I hope you never find her.” Irene’s statement took the attention off of Livvy, for which she was grateful.
“Oh? You are another of her defenders, are you? Hoping she can go on as she has, saving innocent maidens from the wolves of the ton?” Northwick set down his spoon.
“Absolutely not. I will never defend the woman who put Stanley in the laughing stocks.”
“Truly?” Northwick seemed genuinely surprised. “I think you are the only woman I have spoken with in the past month that was not a fan of the famous writer.”
“Infamous writer, you mean.” Irene’s sneer was less than attractive. Livvy wondered if anyone else saw it before it was gone.
Ashmoore had. He glanced at Livvy, shook his head, then resumed glaring at Irene. At least she had one champion. For all her scrambling for the right thing to say, to defend herself, Livvy could not
manage.
“Well, I admire her. She saved Our Livvy, after all.” North patted her hand where it lay upon the table clutching her napkin.
Irene squinted at her.
“Did she? Do you consider yourself saved, Olivia? Do you mean to say you could not have saved yourself just as well by refusing to marry Lord Gordon?”
Livvy opened her mouth, but her voice failed her.
“Of course she could have, but she was saved the embarrassment.” Northwick came to her defense yet again.
“So, The Scarlet Woman saves some embarrassment while serving it to others. I think she has no right to play judge and executioner. Once you discover her identity, my lord, I insist that you sue her.”
“Why?” Stanley laughed. “She has never been so inaccurate before. I believe Ursula misled her.”
Irene’s blood boiled up into her face. “Surely you will not speak of that woman at the dinner table.”
Stanley rolled his eyes. Livvy found her voice.
“What do you mean, misled? Were the twins not actually yours, my lord?”
Everyone laughed but Irene.
“There were no twins, Olivia. No Spanish damsel waiting in the halls of some hotel. We believe Ursula was seeking revenge after I put her aside.”
Irene huffed and attacked her main course. The food hardly required a knife, but she stabbed at it regardless.
Livvy felt each stroke, pounding home the realization she’d been spread lies.
Lies. Lies. Lies.
She clutched the edge of the table to keep from jumping to her feet and running out the door. How dare she sit there and sup with the man when she’d wronged him so grievously?
“I am so sorry, my lord.” She looked at Viscount F and begged for forgiveness, even though he could not possibly know why. Hopefully, he saw it as only pity.
He grinned back. “Not to worry, my dear. No harm done. As I said, the blame was Ursula’s.
“I think I cannot bear to hear that name again, my lord.” Irene drained the wine from her goblet and smiled. The action had stained two areas above her lips and when she smiled, they looked like small red tusks.
Stanley said nothing.
