The Butterfly Formatted

by Vale, Victoria

  “No,” he rasped, shaking his head, his hold on her tightening until it began to hurt. “Ye dinnae love me. How could ye? I was always just a diversion for ye. The dirty, lowly stable boy ye could coerce into fuckin’ ye—”

  “No, that isn’t true!”

  “It is! Ye know it’s true! Ye’re always beggin’ me for more … ‘please, Niall … take me, Niall … fuck me, Niall’ … like the little tart ye are. And when ye were done with me, I s’pose ye might have made yer way through the footmen next!”

  Each word fell on her like a physical blow, and still, she did her best to remain strong in the face of it, to get through to him no matter what.

  “You do not believe that,” she managed between sobs. “I know better, and so do you.”

  “Ye dinnae know anything, and that’s yer problem. Yer just a little girl livin’ in a fantasy. So let me tell ye how it is going to be. Yer gonna go to London and have yer bloody Season. Ye’re gonna dance and drink champagne and flirt with those fancy lairds until ye find one ye like. Ye’ll let him court ye and woo ye, and when he asks ye to wed him, ye’ll say yes. Ye’ll go off to some big country mansion and host parties and have his bairns and be a grand lady like ye were raised to be. And ye’ll forget about me.”

  She shook her head. “No … I won’t.”

  “Ye will,” he insisted, giving her a shake so hard, it rattled her teeth. “Grow up, Livvie. Take a good look around ye. We are in a stable. This is where I belong. Ye belong in London with men who have titles and money and … just go. We’re done. It is over.”

  He set her away from him then, taking a step back, then another, his chest heaving and a thick vein standing out along the side of his neck. He was trembling, even the clench of his hands not enough to keep her from seeing it. The tears were coming so fast, she had no hope of trying to stifle them. But, why should she? He had to know how this hurt her, how devastating it was to experience the sting of scorn from someone who had only ever handled her with affection and care.

  “You are a coward,” she sobbed, swiping the back of her hand across her watery eyes. “I could never have thought it true, but I can see now that it is. You’re a bloody coward!”

  Setting his gaze someplace beyond her, he shrugged one shoulder as if what she’d said—as if she herself—meant nothing to him.

  “And ye’re a spoiled, petulant little brat. Now, go. I cannae even stand the sight of ye anymore.”

  The last of her defenses crumbled, his cruelty and coldness having destroyed them. She turned to flee, certain she might collapse at his feet and begin to beg in earnest if she did not get away from him. And what would that serve, other than to make her look like even more a fool than she already did? No, she must escape this with what was left of her dignity.

  Still swiping at her eyes, she ran from the stable, her chest burning as she fought to breathe past the sobs ripping through her chest, compressing her lungs until she was certain she might collapse from lack of air. She ran, and did not stop running until she had burst into her chamber.

  Maeve came rushing from the dressing room, eyes wide at the sight of Olivia, face reddened and streaked with tears. “Goodness, my lady! What’s happened? Are you all right?”

  “Get out!” Olivia screamed, her body shaken from the force of the anger that came pouring out of her just then. “Get out and leave me alone!”

  She did not make a habit of treating servants badly and had never raised her voice at Maeve. Thankfully, the maid must have realized she only needed to be left alone and fled without another word.

  The moment the dressing room door clicked shut, she crumbled to her knees, every bit of what she’d tried to hold back rushing out of her all at once. She sobbed like some wounded animal, the sounds she made foreign and shrill, echoing from the walls and ceiling. Tears raced down her face and neck like rivers of fire, her cries tearing her fragile body with a force that left her breathless. Before long, she could not even hold herself up anymore, lying down upon the floor as her crying quieted to hiccups and pants, her tears drying upon her face. Curling into herself, she closed her eyes and tried to pull herself back together, to mend what Niall had just torn to pieces.

  “I hate him,” she whispered, her voice gone hoarse from crying. “I hate him, I hate him!”

  But, even as she spat the words, they made her feel no better. They were not true. She did not hate him, could never bring herself to hate him.

  Nevertheless, he had spurned her, tossed her aside, and made it clear that the future she had wanted with him would never happen. She did not know what had caused this, if it were something she had done, or if she was right to assume that Niall had simply grown afraid. Couldn’t he see that she was afraid, too? But, she had been willing to face it all as long as she’d had him. Now, what was she to do?

  Thank goodness Adam was not here, having set off for his Grand Tour days prior. She would not see him again for at least two years, his travels taking him to faraway and exciting places. Before leaving, he had asked her what she wanted, if she were certain she knew what she was doing with Niall. Adam had no idea of the depth of her love for their friend, nor was he privy to their plans to elope. She had tried to make light of her dalliance with Niall, insisting that she knew it could not last, all the while praying that it would. When he had asked her what she wanted for her life, the answer had been simple.

  “Happiness, I suppose,” she had told him. “In whatever way I can find it.”

  And that was exactly what she would do. This hurt more than anything she had ever experienced. It would probably always hurt, though like any other wound, would become less painful over time. She would find the strength, day by day, to put Niall behind her and force her memories of him into the deepest, darkest corner of her mind.

  Happiness … she would find it without him. She no longer had any choice.

  London would give her the chance to start over. There, she would become a new person. She would be beautiful and charming enough to catch the eye of a good man. Perhaps not a man as perfect as Niall … but he would care for her. He would treat her well and please her stepfather with his connections and wealth. She would marry him and go on to do all the things that would be expected of her. And somehow, she would find a way to be content with her lot in life. She would do it if it killed her.

  “Good-bye, Niall,” she whispered as the setting sun began casting her room into darkness. “I hope someday you can be happy, too.”

  Two months in London did very little to cure Olivia of her melancholy. She spent her days paying calls, taking walks, exploring the city—which proved to be her favorite part of the entire experience. There were museums and parks, coffee houses, and Bond Street! There was always something to see, do, or explore … all under the watchful eye of her cousin or his wife. She would much rather have done it all with Adam, but could not begrudge him his time on the Continent.

  She had already received a letter from him, filled with a recounting of his sea voyage and his first days in Paris. He’d promised to send her gifts from every stop and had thus far purchased a parasol, several silk fans, and a volume of poetry written in French just for her.

  When writing him back, she kept her words light so he would not suspect the pain she hid. It would worry him to know she went about her first Season lonely and missing Niall. She would not ruin his trip by burdening him with her troubles. As well, it would destroy the men’s friendship, so she kept it all to herself. None of it mattered, anyway. She had come here to find a husband, and by the time Adam set foot back on English soil, Niall would be far behind her.

  The evening was when the true husband hunt began, with weekly trips to Almack’s where she sipped watery lemonade and danced with the men who inspected her as if she were a prized mare. There were also the parties and balls she received invitations for. Being the sister of the rebellious future Earl of Hartmoor had her quite in demand, her social calendar always filled.

  Between her busy days an
d whirlwind nights, she should not have time to pine after Niall. Yet, that was exactly what she did. Mostly at night when she lay alone in the dark, thinking of the times she’d spent in his arms. Their game of ‘what-ifs’ plagued her dreams, their whispered wishes floating up to the stars.

  He had told her to forget about him. That proved harder than she could have ever thought. She’d met many men since coming to London, a handful of whom were genuinely interested in her. There was a viscount, the second son of a duke, and a baron … all three handsome, charming, wealthy, and possessing all their teeth. According to her dear friend, Avis, these were the most important qualities for one to consider while on the Marriage Mart. After all, a girl could wind up with a man old enough to be her father, or with a dying estate, or putrid breath.

  Still, when she tried to picture life with any of these men, Olivia could not conjure any excitement over it. If only she could bring herself to feel something … anything other than friendship or camaraderie toward one of them. Instead, she could only compare them to Niall and find them lacking. While it was not well done of her, she still found herself wishing they were taller and broader in the shoulders. Their faces were too boyish, too smooth, lacking all the character and ruggedness of the visage she loved most. When their soft, gloved hands took hers, she longed for calloused fingers and a firm grip.

  Each night before falling asleep, she would remind herself that she could not have what she truly wanted and must make do. If she could only find a man to take her mind off Niall, someone who made her feel … well, anything, then perhaps, she might stop feeling as if she would curl up and die.

  Another month passed her by, then another, and day by day she began to lose hope. Oh, she was having a perfectly lovely time in London and rather thought she might enjoy living here instead of Edinburgh. She’d made wonderful friends, gotten to experience the opera and the theater and so many other exciting things. In truth, she found more comfort in her friends and new adventures than in the prospect of marriage, which still did not appeal. Thus far, she had rebuffed the viscount’s clumsy proposal and dashed the hopes of the son of the duke, who had hinted that he might be working himself up to offering for her. She liked both gentlemen well enough, but knew she’d never be happy with them.

  Olivia had given up the husband hunt and settled on enjoying what time she had left in London when a hand tapping her upon the shoulder one evening at Almack’s changed everything.

  She turned, fan fluttering to ward off the stifling heat. At first, she saw only a man’s waistcoat, having nearly bumped her nose against it turning to face someone standing far too close even in such a crowd.

  But then, she glanced up, up past the white swirl of a whimsically tied cravat adorned with sapphire tiepin, into the face of the prettiest man she had ever seen.

  His skin was pale and smooth like marble, emphasizing a shock of rich, auburn hair which fell over his forehead in a tumble of artful curls in the style of Byron. There was something decidedly haughty about his face. Though, it proved more alluring than off-putting. Perhaps that was because in the midst of those prominent cheekbones, straight nose, and angular jaw sat a merry pair of blue eyes. They matched his tiepin in their dark hue, and she wondered if he or his valet had achieved the effect on purpose.

  “Pardon me,” he murmured, his affected accent as haughty as his face. “But I practically stepped on this a moment ago and thought it might belong to you.”

  He raised one gloved hand, revealing that it held her beaded silk reticule. Raising her arm, she found that the string had snapped completely.

  “Goodness,” she said, reaching out to accept it from him. “I am not certain how that happened!”

  “Looks as if the string has frayed,” he remarked, reaching out to grasp her wrist and inspecting the broken cord.

  “Th-thank you for returning it to me.”

  His boldness took her aback, but she had the devil of a time pulling her arm away, or finding some way to demur. In a transition so smooth she’d hardly registered it until it had happened, he’d turned her hand over and lifted it, pressing his lips to her knuckles.

  “Lord Bertram Fairchild,” he murmured, still hovering over her hand as he glanced expectantly up at her.

  “L-Lady Olivia Goodall. How do you do?”

  “Quite well at the moment,” he said, finally releasing her hand. “Though lacking for dance partners having arrived so late. Do not tell me your card is completely filled?”

  This man’s charm served to put her at ease quite effectively. There was something about him that drew a smile from her as easily as a bee drew nectar from a flower. Lifting the hand he had just kissed, along with the broken string of her reticule and the silver dance card case tied around her wrist, she smiled.

  “One dance left,” she told him as he opened the case.

  As she’d said, the next to last dance had been left unclaimed, just above the waltz that she could not participate in. She had neatly marked it through with a line so that no one would attempt signing for it.

  “No waltzing for you this year?” he asked while scribbling his name on her card.

  “The patronesses have not permitted me to waltz this year. Perhaps next Season.”

  “If someone hasn’t already made an honest woman of you by then, which I find unlikely.”

  Her eyes went wide as he replaced the tiny pencil in her case and dropped it to dangle from her wrist. He was so nonchalant standing in the midst of the crowded assembly room, saying such bold things.

  “Lord Fairchild …”

  “Forgive me,” he said with another one of his bright smiles. “It is only that … well, if someone were to make off with you to the altar before I’ve come to know you, I should think it quite a tragedy.”

  Olivia could only stare at him, slack-jawed, as he began backing away from her, gaze lingering on her face, then sweeping lower over her body. She shivered, experiencing the trickle of attraction down her spine for the first time since coming to London.

  “Until our dance, Lady Olivia,” he said, giving her a wink. “I am looking forward to it.”

  He disappeared into the crowd before she had a chance to respond. But, really, she did not think she would have been able to speak, her tongue stuck tight to the roof of her mouth.

  She watched the top of his bright head float across the room, then blinked and forced herself to look away before her woolgathering attracted someone’s attention. She went off in search of more lemonade, her stomach doing a little flip at the thought of the upcoming dance with the mysterious and handsome young lord.

  Had she, at last, found the man she might experience a romance of sorts with while in London? God, she hoped so. She’d grown weary of sadness and grief. She wanted dancing and smiles and secretive glances across the room.

  Lord Bertram Fairchild had just become her best chance.

  CHAPTER NINE

  f all the things Olivia had enjoyed during her former life, she had missed music the most. As a girl, she’d become accustomed to it being a part of her everyday life. It had all begun when she’d walked into the music room at Dunvar House to find an eleven year-old Adam seated at the pianoforte. When she’d sat beside him on the bench and watched him masterfully play without the benefit of sheet music, she had been enthralled. The connection he felt to the music seemed visceral, instinctual. He’d told her that his mother had taught him herself. However, his talent for the instrument went far beyond anything that could be taught. Seeing him so passionate about the music had made her want to learn, as well. It had made her want to connect to the music in her own way.

  So, just as his mother had, Adam nurtured Olivia’s own discovered talents. He’d taught her the pianoforte, though as the years passed them by, she’d begun to feel the pull toward stringed instruments. First there had been the violin and cello, which she’d come to play adequately. However, it wasn’t until a harp had been brought to Dunvar House that she’d found the instrument that she’d
been born to master.

  The first time she’d touched her fingers to harp strings, something had resonated through her like a ripple on the surface of still waters. Those little undulations upon her soul never ceased, growing stronger and wider every time she sat to play. An instructor had been brought in for her at Adam’s behest. He’d managed to convince the earl that the skill could be useful for Olivia as a noble lady, giving her an edge over the others when it came time for her to debut.

  In less than a year, she’d surpassed all that the instructor could teach her, her talent growing by leaps and bounds with the guidance of a teacher to feed it. Each holiday from school, she would spend countless hours practicing, learning compositions, and even experimenting with songs of her own—little bits of music born only from her mind.

  She’d missed playing with Adam, seeking out harp and piano duets for them to learn, the quiet moments they would encapsulate themselves in the music room, becoming lost in melodies and harmonies for hours. Often, the window would be left open for Niall, who might come from the stable if he heard the music floating out through the evening air. Climbing into the house, he’d settle into a chair and listen.

  The rarest moments came when she could sneak him into the house when her stepfather was away and play only for him. She’d loved to feel his eyes on her while she did the thing she loved most … enjoyed the way he could appreciate what she did, even having no knowledge of music himself.

  As she grew stronger, now able to walk about the London townhome without losing her breath, Olivia found her way back to it. She and Serena spent most of their afternoons in the drawing room, where Adam would play for them all—including Niall and Lady Daphne. Olivia never ceased to be amazed by her brother’s ability to pour his soul into the notes, to intertwine so much of himself into the music so that no one could doubt his mastery.