He’d said so in his sleep?
Bugger it. No wonder she’d been so buoyant. So confident.
Unable to look into her stricken gaze a moment longer, lest his noble intentions desert him, Oliver presented his back. For if he didn’t, if Blaike vowed she loved him once more, his resolve would crumble like a termite infested log.
She touched his arm.
“Please. Oliver.”
His whispered name forced past Blaike’s tight lips, conveyed her life-altering torment and disbelief.
“Don’t do this. Don’t reject my love.”
“Gentry and common bastards do not wed, Blaike. You live in a fantasy world if you think they do.”
He did this for her sake. She’d understand someday. Eventually, when her emotions had calmed, reason would reign. And, in time, her heart would heal.
The pulverized organ that somehow managed to continue beating in his chest never would.
Hands fisted, spine rigid with suppressed emotion, he tucked his chin to his chest.
“Until we reach England tomorrow, Blaike, we should avoid each other.”
Only an utter fool breathes the slightest hint of a secret to a gossip. For confidences
like wild creatures, caught and caged, escape the instant the door is opened.
~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living
Just over two weeks later, Blaike sat, ankles crossed, in the drawing room’s window seat at Highfield Place House. Freddy, his soulful eyes observing her every move, rested his hoary snout on one of her thighs. An unopened book lay upon the other.
She fiddled with the edges of the novel’s pages and puffed out her cheeks, releasing a long breath.
In recent days, she sighed far too often. It must be a symptom of the blue devils. How long did recovery from a mangled heart take?
No. The real question was how long before she stopped loving Oliver?
Pain lanced behind her breastbone once again, and she whispered lest anyone overhear and ask more prying questions, “I’ll never stop. Ever.”
Truth to tell, it sounded more like she made vow.
Freddy, ancient and decrepit now, perked his ears up and wiggled his bobbed tail as he licked her hand. Curled together on the navy brocade settee as they were wont to do, the equally aged cats, Pudding and Dumpling slumbered on.
Bending over, she rubbed Freddy’s chest, his favorite petting spot.
“I missed you too, my sweet friend. I feared we might lose you before I returned home.”
Life without the pudgy little dear would never be the same.
Wonder of wonders, she even missed M’Lady Lottie’s raucous screeches.
Straightening, Blaike uncrossed her ankles and patted Freddy’s thick back. “As soon as Blythe and Brette arrive, we’ll go walkies. How’s that? Even baby Leopold is permitted to go today, the weather is so mild. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
Not really.
Little stirred her interest lately, much less a walk in which she painted a false smile upon her face and pretended all was right with the bleak world.
Only in the past couple of days had the discoloration on her face faded to almost nothing, and she felt confident enough to venture out now. Although if she looked closely, there was the slightest greenish-yellow tinge on her cheekbone. A fine dusting of rice powder concealed the mark, else she’d not have agreed to the outing or having to explain yet again how she came by the injury.
After their walk today, the women had an appointment for the final fittings of their new gowns to be worn at this Friday’s welcome home ball.
Blaike would’ve preferred to dispense with the folderol, including tonight’s supper party, but the others wouldn’t hear of it. Besides, her twin was so excited at the prospect of seeing everyone again, Blaike couldn’t be the cross patch and ruin her fun.
Blaire’s enthusiasm might have something to do with an expectation she’d see Lieutenant Drake. Blaike hadn’t told her of his change in status after all. Not only did she not want to crush her twin, she didn’t know exactly what his position was, and she refused to spread speculation. Blaire would know soon enough in any event.
Nothing remained secret for long in the haut ton’s elite parlors or assemblies.
At least Blaike wouldn’t have to worry about encountering Oliver and suffering that painful awkwardness. Once the family had learned of his role in rescuing the twins in Port de Lyon and again his masterful feat eluding the other vessel at sea, they lauded him a hero.
So far, and much to Blaike’s relief—and consternation, bother it all—he hadn’t accepted any of the many invitations sent his way and remained conspicuously absent
He’d not even seen her off the Sea Gypsy.
That had hurt awfully, his not bidding her farewell, and even gentle Blaire had commented on his lack of consideration.
A contrite, rather flustered, Mr. Hawkins had conveyed Captain Whitehouse’s apologies.
Bitter tears stung, and she shut her eyes.
Simple everyday things—eating, speaking, breathing—took her full concentration. Her mind, the rebellious, undisciplined thing, continually turned to Oliver.
And the same question resounded over and over, the clamor never ceasing and even waking her each night after she’d finally fallen into a tormented sleep.
Why?
Even though she suspected he had acted out of a ridiculous honorable notion, she’d humbled herself and written him a letter asking him—pleading with him—to reconsider.
He hadn’t replied.
A fresh wave of humiliation engulfed her. Nevertheless, she’d had to try.
Then, at dinner last week, Heath had mentioned Oliver intended to sail for the Caribbean soon, and implausibly, Blaike’s heart fractured further. He truly meant to go on with his life, as if what had transpired between them had never occurred—meant nothing to him.
“There you are, dearest.”
A sunny smile arcing her mouth, Blaire glided into the room, whilst tying her bonnet’s lilac colored ribbons. The double ruffles of her elegant black embroidered lavender walking dress rustled with her movement. She’d regained a small amount of weight and healthy color once more brightened her cheeks.
Unlike Blaike, she glowed with happiness and couldn’t disembark the Sea Gypsy swiftly enough.
Blaike’s twin angled her head, disquiet crinkling the outer edges of her face.
“I’m worried about you, Blaike.” After nudging Freddy aside, she sank onto the window seat’s mulberry hued cushion. “I know you pine for Captain Whitehouse.”
Blaike pulled her attention from the fashionably dressed passersby and searched her sister’s compassionate countenance. No sense denying it. Her twin knew her too well. She lifted a shoulder.
“It will pass. These foolish things always do, don’t they?”
It must. For a lifetime of this agony proved too awful to contemplate.
“Hmm, you cannot convince me of that,” Blaire denied. “I may have been sick as death most of that horrendous crossing, but I do know you didn’t return to our cabin until the early morning hours that first night. And I’ve seen how you look at the captain when you think no one is watching.”
She squeezed Blaike’s fingers. “He did the same, you know. Couldn’t keep his gaze off you. I thought for certain . . .”
A sad, dismayed laugh escaped Blaike.
“As did I.” She swept her hand across her forehead, almost as if she could wipe the memories from her mind. “He said he loved me. And in the next breath, he said he’d never ask me to marry him. ‘Not now. Not ever.’ His very words.”
“Oh, Blaike, darling.” Blaire rapidly blinked, her eyes shimmering with sympathy. “I’d like to plant him a facer for hurting you, the roué.”
That was one French word Blaike understood well.
Emotion strangled her for a long moment, and she almost crumbled under the pain rending her soul. “I just don’t understand
why he rebuffed me when I know he loves me, and he knows I love him.”
“Nor do I.” The lines of her mouth ribbon thin, Blaire too gazed out the beveled window, the diamond-paned leaded glass windows above showering them both in miniature rainbows.
Freddy settled more snuggly against Blaike, his tubby body shuddering with a contented groan. His light snoring and the clock tick-tocking atop the fireplace’s Italian Bardiglio marble mantel filled the pregnant silence.
Laughter resounded in the hallway, and in a jiffy, the others bustled into the room, Brooke carrying her wee son. “Are we ready?”
She peered at Blaike and Blaire expectantly.
Blaike nodded. “Yes, I just have to put on my redingote and bonnet.”
“Jenkin.” Brooke addressed the butler. “Should his lordship return home early, please inform him we’ve gone for a stroll. Also, I forgot to mention, Mrs. Tremblay and her assistants are expected later for our fittings. Please show them to the floral salon when they arrive. Have Cook prepare light refreshments as well. Five fittings can be rather tedious.”
In a trice, Blaike had donned her outer garments, and the entourage, complete with Nurse pushing Leopold’s pram, made for the park. The sunshine and the other foursome’s excited chatter did help to ease Blaike’s doldrums. The women had always been close, and she’d missed her sister and cousins terribly those awful months in Geneva.
That complete story had yet to be revealed, though Brooke and Heath had been apprised of Blaike’s suspicions regarding Madame Beaulieu, as had Blythe and Leventhorpe.
At once, Heath had penned a letter to the ambassador.
Blaike couldn’t bring herself to share the rest of the sordid tale quite yet.
Maybe she never would. What need was there?
Blaire would go to her grave with the knowledge.
If Blaike had actually been despoiled, and not just set upon, the risk of a child might’ve necessitated the telling. But by the grace of God, she’d been spared that degradation.
The sun warming their backs, Brooke and Brette strode arm in arm, each holding a parasol. Brooke held Freddy’s lead as well, whilst Blaike and Blaire flanked a very pregnant Blythe. They too, carried unopened parasols. Across the way, the flush of pink and white cherry tree blossoms were visible near Kensington Park’s entrance.
Red squirrels darted across the plush lawns, pausing on their haunches every little bit, their tiny black noses twitching as they searched for predators.
As Blaike and the others strolled along, several of le beau monde’s denizens warmly welcomed the twins home, while others, curiosity burning in their probing gazes, remarked on the premature return.
Blaike’s and her twin’s rehearsed response remained the same.
They’d missed their family far more than anticipated and with the birth of their new cousin, had opted to return home earlier than planned.
Those who looked upon them kindly accepted the explanation, and society’s strictures silenced those inclined to prying.
Brooke glanced behind her, her cheeks glowing from the fresh air.
“I forgot to mention. Our numbers for supper tonight are slightly increased. Heath ran into an old friend of his at White’s yesterday. Viscount Sethwick and his wife will join us along with Captain Whitehouse. The Viscountess owns quite an extensive shipping enterprise, and Heath wants to introduce her to the captain. He thinks it will be mutually beneficial.” She turned her mouth up into a tolerant smile. “I did scold him for bringing a business element into our celebration of your return, but as Captain Whitehouse is a particular friend and we owe him such a debt of gratitude, I knew you wouldn’t mind too terribly much.”
Mind?
Was Brooke out of hers?
Of course Blaike minded.
She nearly gargled her tongue to mask her shock. Then the dread blanketing her.
Oliver at dinner.
No. no.
She just couldn’t.
Not yet.
Not sit at the table with him and blather nonsensical twaddle, as if he hadn’t torn her heart from her chest and tossed it upon the wharf for gulls to feast upon.
Blaire leaned forward, catching Blaike’s attention. The question in her wide eyes fairly shouted, What are you going to do?
Fingertips pressed to her forehead, Blaike muttered to herself, rather more peevishly than she’d intended, “I do believe a megrim to rival Jupiter’s has come upon me.” Never mind that she’d never had a megrim in her life until this very moment. “I shall be forced to take to my bed at once, likely for days.”
At least a week, until the Sea Gypsy weighed anchor for warmer shores, carrying Blaike’s love and heart with the vessel.
Blythe gave her a gimlet eye, then bent near and whispered for her ears alone.
“I hope you’re not expecting one of us to clobber you with a hammer to alleviate your headache, as Jupiter requested. If I recall my Roman mythology correctly, it killed him. Besides, dear one, your head isn’t what’s aching. Your heart is.”
Blaike shot her an astounded look. Was she so transparent?
Who else knew?
Brooke? Brette?
Likely, they all did.
Her focus shifted to their backs.
Was dinner someone’s misplaced attempt at matchmaking?
She leveled a severe glance at Brette, notorious for her meddling in that department.
No, Heath couldn’t know what had transpired between Blaike and Oliver. A coincidence was what this was, and she grudgingly admitted a beneficial one for Oliver. She’d mentioned Lady Sethwick to him herself.
Well, not by name, but by reputation.
She couldn’t begrudge him the opportunity. But by Jove, she could be absent from dinner. She had all afternoon to contrive a believable excuse.
A sprained ankle was not out of the question.
Leopold cooed and giggled, and at once his doting aunties surrounded his pram, admiring the handsome babe with his mother’s vibrant, almost violet eyes. The future Lord Leventhorpe would be a favorite of the ladies, to be sure.
“Best be careful, Brooke. We may spoil him.” Brette chuckled as Leopold waved his little fists. Her regard sank to Blythe’s swollen belly, and she half-winked. “That goes for your little one, too.”
“You’re a fine one to talk. In a few months, we’ll have three darlings to simper over.” Blaire motioned to Brette’s less noticeable mound.
Brooke gave her son a doting smile and caressed his plump cheek. “A child can never have too much love, I don’t think.”
So caught up were they with the infant, they didn’t pay attention to passersby. On such a lovely day, one expected crowded foot paths, to encounter acquaintances, perhaps extend an invitation to call or come for tea, or even witness a scandalous tête-à-tête.
Blaire’s muffled gasp had four more pairs of eyes swooping to where she stared. She quickly schooled her dismayed features and turned her attention elsewhere, but not before Blaike saw the confusion in her eyes.
Lieutenant Drake strolled away from them on a pathway across the greens, an elderly dame attired in black from her bonnet to her parasol on one arm and an attractive brunette in a superb jonquil walking gown on his other.
The woman Oliver had mentioned? And in public together, too.
Blast, now Blaike might—no would—have to explain to her twin.
Biting her lower lip, Blaire observed the lieutenant’s progress from the corner of her eye.
He glanced their direction briefly, then saying something to his older companion, guided her down another pathway.
Had he glimpsed them, and that was why he’d steered his companions in the other direction?
Even as she formed the thought, he angled his head just the merest bit, cutting the Culpeppers another sideways look. Actually, his focus was riveted on one particular pale-faced Culpepper.
“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?”
An insightful lady knows well t
hat secrets, much like surprises,
though favored by some, are abhorred by others. Neither is right nor wrong.
~Scruples and Scandals-The Genteel Lady’s Guide to Practical Living
No. Not this too.
He couldn’t be here.
Jonathon Severs just couldn’t.
Not on top of everything else.
Nausea and fear battled for supremacy within Blaike’s bell.
Blaire’s dismayed gaze collided with hers
Mustering every jot of self-control she had, Blaike turned a bland gaze to him. Dressed like a popinjay, his coat a shade this side of fuchsia and trimmed in Pomona green, he rather resembled a parrot, right down to his hooked nose.
Dread trotted a spiky path down her spine.
His leering gaze widened in appreciation as he took in Blaike’s sister and cousins. “I don’t believe you ever mentioned there were five of you, Miss Culpepper. Quite exceptional, I must say.”
To a woman they responded with expressions frostier than a January dawn in Geneva.
His sister, wearing a smug smile, clung to her brother’s arm, her manner more possessive than sisterly.
“Hello Blaire. Blaike. What a coincidence. We just arrived in London three days ago. Our elder sister, Anne, is to wed Lord Desmond in a fortnight.” She angled her chin in a superior fashion. “He’s an earl, you know. I doubt you’ve met him. Lord Desmond only travels in the highest circles.”
Blaike had never mentioned her peerage connections to the pretentious twit. Titles weren’t important to her, but she longed to rattle them off just to see Jacqueline’s flummoxed expression.
When Blaike didn’t return the Severs’s greeting, Brooke slid her a puzzled glance. Savvy and possessing a keen intellect, she’d swiftly deduce something was as off as cream left in the sun for a week.
Brooke angled her head, appearing every bit the regal peeress. “May I ask how you are acquainted that you address my cousins so informally?”
Blaike didn’t wait for an answer.
Spine rigid, she looped her arm through Blaire’s, and wordlessly, they pivoted and strode in the other direction.
Never before in her life had she cut someone. But so help her God, the urge to beat Severs and his snotty sister to a pulp with her parasol so overwhelmed Blaike, her rage frightened her. She hadn’t thought herself capable of such fury or of wishing someone bodily harm.
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