The carriage bounced suddenly as the result of a sharp dip in the road. The duke snorted in his sleep, but then shifted the position of his head and resumed his soft snoring.
“I must agree, your grace,” said Lilly. “Has he really not planned anything?”
“When the deuce are we going to arrive?” Amelia asked as her father’s snoring became louder.
“To my knowledge, no, he has not,” said the duchess, ignoring Amelia. “But we shall find a way to entertain ourselves regardless.”
“My goodness, it is hot in this carriage,” Amelia said, again to herself. She pulled off her gloves and began wafting air against her neck.
“I’ve brought a few books,” said Lillian to the duchess. “All romantic tales, however. Do you enjoy such tales, your grace?”
Amelia let her hands fall to her lap. “For goodness sake, Lilly,” she exclaimed. “When will you stop reading those novels?”
“I have read and enjoyed a few,” said the duchess, again ignoring Amelia.
“I shall lend one to you, then,” said Lillian excitedly and leaned forward slightly in her seat. “I have just the one in mind, too. It is such a very sweet tale, one very rich in passion. I myself have read it three times.”
“When are we going to arrive?” Amelia asked again. Neither lady acknowledged her question.
“What is it called?” the duchess asked politely.
“Lady Washburn and the Prince.”
“Oh, indeed that does sound very interesting,” said the duchess.
“It sounds like nonsense,” said Amelia, turning to Lillian. “Really, Lilly, what amusement can you find in such drivel?”
Lillian lifted her shoulders and then let them drop again as she sighed. “The romance,” she said. “I hope very much to find a man I can love as deeply as my characters. It must be wonderful.”
“Oh, good Lord,” Amelia muttered, and turned to look out of the window again.
The duchess smiled. “I’m sure you will my dear. We all have a prince somewhere.”
“I think we’ve arrived,” said Amelia, but yet again she was ignored.
The duchess looked at her husband, who was now snoring quite loudly and with his mouth drooping open. “Unfortunately my prince looks and sounds rather unattractive at the moment.”
Lillian giggled.
“We’ve arrived!” Amelia exclaimed.
The duchess and Lillian immediately looked out the window. “Oh, indeed we have,” said the duchess, then she tapped her husband on the shoulder. “Wake up, darling. We’re here.”
The duke snorted into consciousness. “What?” he asked dazedly, and rubbed his eyes.
“We’ve arrived!” Amelia said again as she began bouncing up and down slightly.
“Oh, thank God,” said the duke.
The duchess reached out towards her husband and began wiping his chin. “Darling, you really must learn not to drool in your sleep.”
“I shall make a note of that, dear,” he said as he swatted her hands away from his face.
“I cannot wait to leave this carriage,” said Amelia, still bouncing up and down. But then her bouncing ceased quite suddenly, and the happy expression on her face crinkled into a frown as she spotted something rather odd through the carriage window. “What on earth is going on?”
Chapter Ten
Olivia wasn’t quite certain how it happened. She was only acutely — and painfully — aware of the fact that it had happened. In one moment, she had been preparing to descend (with as much grace as possible on one good ankle) from her father’s carriage, and in the next, she had found herself staring up at the Duke and Duchess of Willingham from a puddle of mud.
She would later learn that the two horses drawing the carriage had been startled by a bird, of all creatures. A little sparrow had decided — at the precise moment Olivia placed her healing, but still unsteady, foot on the first of the carriage’s steps — to perch atop one of the horse’s heads. Naturally, the animal had received quite a fright and began rearing up and braying frantically. These actions of the first horse in turn startled the second horse, which quickly followed the first horse’s example.
The horses’ sudden movements pulled the carriage forward sharply, causing Olivia to lose her balance and tumble directly forward into the puddle of mud she currently occupied.
“Oh, my dear,” a woman’s voice cried. “Geoffrey, help her at once!”
The duke, who was scarcely in need of his wife’s instruction on how to be a proper gentleman, had already bent down to help Olivia to her feet. Her father was at the duke’s side. “I say, Olivia,” said Mr. Winter as he grabbed her right arm while the Duke of Willingham grabbed her left. “That was quite a spill you took. How is your ankle?”
Though they had not yet been introduced, Olivia knew the man standing to her left was Philip’s father, the duke. There was no mistaking the deeply dark brown hair father and son obviously shared.
The duchess gasped. “Oh! Has she turned her ankle?”
“Yes,” answered Mr. Winter. “But several months ago. I do hope she’s not set back her healing.”
“Are you all right, miss?” asked the duke once he and Mr. Winter had pulled Olivia upright.
“Oh, yes, your grace,” Olivia lied. Though her ankle was now quite painful after such a fall, she was far too embarrassed by her present state to complain about it.
Her gown was soaked through with moisture, and mud was clinging to the folds of the fabric. Her hair too was caked with mud and she felt a few flecks on her cheeks. Her father’s light blue jacket was covered with mud from supporting her. But her father’s dirty jacket bothered her little when she noticed the duke’s own green velvet jacket was also covered with mud.
Olivia was absolutely mortified. Not only had she disgraced herself entirely by falling into a puddle of mud, but now the Duke of Willingham was soiling his own clothes to help her stay on her feet.
“I just need to get indoors and clean up,” Olivia said nervously. She tried to pull away from the duke and her father, but their hold on her arms was firm.
“Oh, of course,” said the duchess urgently. “We must indeed get you indoors, my dear. Geoffrey, carry her.”
“Carry her?” the duke asked.
“Quickly!” the duchess ordered.
“Vivian, that is hardly proper.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mr. Winter said pensively. “I think you could manage, sir,”
Olivia cringed at her father’s unintentional insubordination. Her father did not know who the other man assisting his daughter was, but to call a duke sir! Olivia could have died on the spot.
“Please, no,” said Olivia desperately, while trying to pull away from the two men. “Papa, I can manage walking.”
But she was ignored.
“If you have the proper leverage,” said Mr. Winter, “you could lift her, I think. She can’t weigh more than eight stones. Give it a go, sir.”
“She says she can manage the walk,” the duke said to Mr. Winter.
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Winter. “She needs to be carried.”
“Well, you carry her then,” said the duke. “She’s your daughter.”
“I have got an ailment in my back,” said Mr. Winter. “You will need to do the honors. Come now, man, stop dawdling. She needs to get inside and rest.”
The duke blinked at Mr. Winter several times, confused.
Good God, Olivia thought. Did her father not realize who this man was? She was so dreadfully embarrassed.
Being the center of attention and a source for bother was alone enough to cause Olivia’s nerves to overreact. But what with her father treating the Duke of Willingham like a servant, Olivia was very nearly close to fainting. And Olivia never fainted. Seeing two girls close to her in age standing behind the duchess did not ease the pain of the situation either. They both were watching the scene intently, eyes wide. The dark-haired one was obviously another relative of Philip’s, but the other on
e, the blonde one, was a complete mystery to Olivia.
Not that the girls’ identities mattered at the moment. All that did matter was that they were absolutely lovely and well-bred … and Olivia was covered in mud before them. She wanted to die — just fall over dead then and there. How could she possibly recover after such a ridiculous situation?
The footmen, too, were adding to the ridiculousness of the scene. With the startled horses now calmed and sent off to the stables, the footmen were left with the remaining duty of seeing to their master’s guests. At present, they were circling Olivia, her father, and the duke. They knew full well they should be assisting her — not the duke or her father.
But especially not the duke.
Even with a firm sense of their duties, the footmen nevertheless appeared quite unable to figure out exactly how to tell a duke to step aside. So they continued to hover.
“Papa, really,” Olivia pleaded, “I can walk.”
“Nonsense, Olivia,” said Mr. Winter, and then he looked up at the duke with an obvious sense of purpose behind his eyes. “We shall carry her together, then.” Mr. Winter hooked his arms under Olivia’s. “On the count of three, my good man, pick up her feet,” he said.
Olivia cringed again.
“Geoffrey, listen to the man,” said the duchess, waving her in her husband’s direction. “Carry the poor girl.”
The duke stared at his wife for a moment, still very obviously confused as to why she was condoning such impropriety, but then he approached Olivia and began following Mr. Winter’s instruction.
“One … ” said Mr. Winter.
Olivia wanted to disappear.
“Two … ”
“Papa!” said Olivia, quite fed up with it all. “Please stop! I cannot ask the Duke of Willingham to bring further ruin to his attire for my benefit alone.”
“The Duke of Willingham?” her father asked, nearly dropping her in the process. “Where?”
Olivia utilized her father’s moment of confusion to hop away from him a few paces, lest he again insist upon her being carried. In actuality, no — she was not able to walk on her own, Olivia realized now, but she would never admit to it, especially if it meant being carried.
The duke cleared his throat. “Here,” he said, and bowed slightly. “I am the Duke of Willingham.”
“By Jove,” Mr. Winter exclaimed. “Are you really?”
“Yes, I am,” said the duke.
Mr. Winter smiled. “Have you come to buy some horses?”
The two younger girls giggled at the question.
“We’ve got some very fine stock,” said Mr. Winter. “Come, let me show you.”
The duke looked over at Olivia and then down at his own soiled clothing. “Now?”
Mr. Winter laughed. “Of course!”
The two girls giggled again.
“You must be mad,” said the duke.
Mr. Winter laughed heartily and slapped his muddy hand on the duke’s shoulder, splattering mud all along the side of the duke’s face.
“Oh, no,” Olivia groaned. She didn’t know how much more of this she could stomach. Why couldn’t God simply drop out of the sky and save her?
• • •
Philip tipped his glass back and forth, from left to right, watching the brandy within in it change form with the movement. He was seated on one of the new sofas in his blue drawing room. His elbow was propped up on the arm of the sofa and his head was resting against his fist. He was only vaguely paying attention to what his three friends were discussing around him.
He was bored.
Actually, he was more irritated than anything else at the moment. He was waiting for Olivia and her father to arrive so he could see to her comfort and get down to introducing her to his mother and sister so she could have a bit of fun with them while he was off with his male guests. If she had fun, then perhaps he could do away with some of the nagging guilt he had been carrying around for what now seemed like ages.
Oh, yes the guilt — the persistent, undying guilt that had been growing like wildfire after every one of his encounters with Olivia. Added to the guilt most recently was the kiss they had shared.
Philip told himself time and time again since that day by the river to put it away and forget it, but he could not. She had been far too warm and responsive and soft and fragrant to just simply forget.
He had dreamt of her.
Not every night, but often enough in the last several months to drive him mad each morning he awoke from the dream. And the dream was always the same: He was in his house, standing at the start of the hallway that led to his bedchamber. Olivia was at the end of the hall, standing by his door in a simple white linen nightgown a nun might wear. Nevertheless, he found the gown oddly erotic. Without fail each time he would begin to near her in the dream, she would begin to undress, undoing a single button of the nightgown in rhythm with his footsteps.
Then, when her buttons were undone so that he could see the line between her breasts, she would begin to slowly slide the collar over each shoulder one at a time, exposing pale and supple flesh. Raging desire would take over then, and he would increase his pace to reach her faster. But whenever he tried to rush to her, she would begin dressing again, doing up the buttons quickly. And when he finally reached her and tried to wrap his arms around her body, she disappeared altogether, leaving him aroused and alone and with only the white nightgown in his arms.
He had had the dream last night, which — compounded with the knowledge that Olivia would soon be in his house — put Philip in a rather foul mood at present. He knew he should be paying more attention to his guests and participating in their discussion, but they were close friends from university. He could get away with being rude for one afternoon.
The three friends in question — Lord Brighton, Lord Masters, and Mr. Southerland — were all passionately discussing hunting techniques. And of course, in keeping with true male fashion, it was indelibly fixed within each man’s brain that only his hunting methods were the most superior.
“I tell you, you’re full of nonsense, Masters,” said Southerland. It was the fourth time he’d said those words to Masters within the last half hour by Philip’s count.
“Quit your gaming, Southerland,” said Masters. “You’ve never killed so much as a dove.”
“You aren’t much better, Masters,” said Brighton. “I’ve witnessed you only ever having killed a single stag, and that was because the poor creature had broken his leg while trying to run away after you missed him with your first shot.”
“Well, the two of you have been hunting with me only three times in all our acquaintance,” said Masters. “I’ve killed many a deer and quail, especially in my childhood, I assure you.”
“Oh, should we feel obliged then to write your mother for confirmation of your abilities?” Southerland teased.
“You’ll be lucky to write at all once I break your hand,” said Masters.
“Touchy, touchy,” said Southerland. “What do you say to that Brighton?”
“I say you can’t hunt properly either. I’ve never seen you kill anything.”
Southerland whipped his gaze around to Brighton. Philip was still watching the amber liquid in his glass.
“You git,” Southerland exclaimed. “You know perfectly well I’m a fair hunter.”
“Ha!” Brighton said in unison with Masters.
Southerland turned to Philip. “Ravenshaw,” he said. “What do you think? Am I a fair hunter?”
All three men anxiously awaited Philip’s answer — Southerland because he wanted someone on his side, and Brighton and Masters because they wanted Philip to chide Southerland along with them.
“I think you are all equally terrible,” Philip said before downing the remainder of his brandy.
A footman entered the drawing room then before anyone could respond to Philip’s remark.
“Lord Philip!” the footman exclaimed through labored breaths. “You must come quickly. There is s
ome trouble in the drive.”
Philip stood immediately. “What sort of trouble?” he asked.
“The duke and one of your other male guests are arguing, and a lady has fallen in mud. I think she injured her ankle as well.”
“A lady? Which lady?” Philip asked anxiously. Let his father argue. The man liked it. But if it was Olivia who had fallen in the mud, then that was a much more urgent matter.
“I do not know, my lord, but she has sort of reddish blond hair … from what I could tell through the mud covering her.”
“Wait here!” Philip commanded his three friends, and then he was out of the drawing room like a shot. It had been Olivia. No one else he invited would have matched the footman’s description. As he skidded to a halt in the foyer to open the front door, Philip reassured himself with the knowledge that, while the mud had been in his front drive, at least he had not aided in Miss Olivia’s falling into it.
• • •
God must have otherwise been detained, for he did not show, sending instead Lord Philip to be her savior. Olivia, who had, during her carriage ride, prepared herself mentally to deal with seeing him after so many months, experienced a pang of embarrassment. Instantly she remembered their kiss by the river, and for some reason, to be covered in mud before him now was infinitely more distressing than all the embarrassment she had just endured in front of people she barely knew.
Never mind that her father was presently arguing with the duke, the duchess standing behind them, attempting to calm her husband. Forget the fact that she had, until this point, made a particularly special effort to irritate Lord Philip since their introduction. No; none of those facts mattered to Olivia now. All that mattered was that she did not look her best. It was pathetically female of her, and horribly out of character.
Philip ignored his father entirely, rushing instead directly to Olivia.
“Miss Winter,” he said, “are you all right?”
Olivia forced a smile against the pain of her ankle. “Yes,” she said on an even more painfully forced laugh. “I just need a bath drawn.”
“Of course,” Philip agreed, looking at the mud on her face. “You there!” he said, pointing to one of the footman. “Run along and tell Mrs. Jones to have a bath drawn in the guest room at the start of the eastern corridor.”
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