Stephanie James

by Love Grows in Winter

  “Gardens tend to be most lovely at night,” Brighton continued when Olivia did not respond to his offer of a tour. “Would you like to take a walk with me now?”

  Did he really think her to be that foolish and naive?

  Just then, perhaps because of Lord Brighton’s shocking offer, Lord Masters at last spoke up.

  “Lovely rugs in this room, are they not, Miss Olivia?”

  For goodness sake, Olivia thought. Was that all he could come up with? Well … it would have to do.

  “Oh, indeed,” she replied with a fair bit of faked enthusiasm. She stepped around Brighton so that her back was now facing that horror of a man. “And what do you think, my lord, about the wallpaper?”

  “Oh,” said Lord Masters as looked to the nearest wall to examine the wallpaper. “Quite lovely in the candlelight,” he said at last.

  “I believe so as well,” said Olivia.

  Lord Brighton was looking back and forth between the two of them with a confused expression on his face.

  “Did you happen to notice,” Olivia continued, “how soft the cushions of the sofas are, my lord? They are positively delightful.”

  “I have not yet, Miss Olivia, but I will make a note to sit on them,” said Lord Masters.

  “Wallpaper and sofa cushions?” asked Lord Brighton. “Are the two of you quite mad?”

  Olivia smiled and looked at him. “Why, of course we are not, Lord Brighton. Apparently Lord Masters and I merely share an appreciation for aesthetics. Tell me, my lord,” she said to Brighton, “have you taken the time to appreciate the perfect height of the ceiling in this room?”

  Lord Brighton looked at her as though vines had sprouted from her ears. He let out a brief “hrmph” sound before walking away from the two of them to join Lord Philip and Mr. Southerland, who were talking by the fire.

  Olivia giggled. “I cannot thank you enough, Lord Masters,” she said. “I thought I would never get away from him. Do you realize he invited me to take a midnight stroll in the garden just now?”

  Masters ruffled his brows slightly and looked downward. “Lord Brighton is my friend.”

  “Oh, I am so very sorry, my lord,” Olivia said quickly. “I did not mean to offend you. I should not have derided him to you as I did.”

  Lord Masters look up quickly and let out a short, nervous laugh. “Oh no, need to apologize, Miss Olivia,” he said. “I was merely attempting to say that I know how he can be, as he is my friend.”

  Olivia relaxed slightly. “Oh,” she said. “Well, I still am sorry. I was a bit improper. I fear my exasperation led me to it.”

  Lord Masters laughed and seemed to be a bit more at ease with their conversation. “Yes, Lord Brighton does tend to exasperate people indeed. And I apologize for his behavior.”

  “It is quite all right, my lord, I assure you,” said Olivia. “No real harm done, after all.”

  “Lord Brighton tends to lose hold of his senses whenever beautiful women are near. And you are a beautiful woman, Miss Olivia.”

  As soon as the words had left his lips, Olivia saw Lord Masters’ shoulders tense, and he lowered his gaze to his feet once again as he quickly muttered, “Forgive me, Miss Olivia.”

  He had embarrassed himself, she realized … but that did not stop her at all from enjoying the compliment. Indeed, what made his words mean so much was that he obviously was not comfortable with her knowing he thought she was beautiful. He was a sweet man, really; a dear and sensitive soul, who compelled her to be as kind and delicate as possible in return.

  She liked him instantly.

  “Now it is you who need not apologize, my lord,” she said. “I thank you for your compliment. It was accepted with the utmost appreciation.”

  Lord Masters raised his head. A gentle and warm smile was on his face. “Miss Olivia,” he began quite formally, but still with a significant amount warmth in his tone. “I would be doubly honored if you would accompany me to — ”

  “Not asking the young miss to join you for a private midnight stroll around the garden, are you Masters?”

  It was the loud Irishman who had laughed loudly with her father at dinner.

  “Come off it, Masters,” said the Irishman, clapping both his large hands on Lord Master’s shoulders and pushing him to the side so that he was now in front of Olivia. “The lady couldn’t possibly be interested.”

  Olivia looked at Lord Masters, the poor man. He appeared to be positively overwhelmed and without the wherewithal to regain the upper-hand. He nervously stuttered out a few words in a feeble attempt to best the Irishman. “Excuse me, Southerland, but the young miss and I having our own conversation … ” but he was simply ignored.

  “I do not believe we have had a chance to speak to one another, Miss Olivia,” said the Irishman with an annoyingly confident smile on his face. “Please allow me to remedy that fact now.”

  He leaned against the back of the sofa behind him. Olivia looked over to Lord Masters to continue speaking to him, but he had already left them to begin a conversation with Lord Philip and Lord Brighton. He had given up, and all because of this insufferably arrogant man.

  Olivia stiffened her back and stuck out her chin. “If I had wanted to speak to you … Mr. Southerland, is it?”

  His smile faded a bit when he realized she had not quite remembered his name. He cleared his throat. “Yes, Miss Winter … Mr. James Southerland of Staffordshire.”

  “Oh, yes, that is right,” she said in the most pretentious tone she could manage. “If I had wanted a conversation with you, Mr. Southerland, I would have spoken to you myself. As it was, I was quite enjoying the conversation I was sharing with Lord Masters, which you so thoroughly ended with your impudence. Pray tell, what has you believing I would now accept your conversation after you so harshly shoved the man away from me?”

  Mr. Southerland cleared his throat again and shifted his weight away from the sofa and back onto both feet. He obviously had not expected her to be so direct, Olivia noticed with a certain amount of personal accomplishment.

  “Forgive me, Miss Olivia,” he began. “Sometimes I lack the ability to be diplomatic. I tend to prefer the direct approach.”

  Olivia nodded her head. “An admirable trait to be sure, Mr. Southerland. I, too, prefer the direct approach.”

  He smiled. “Yes, I can tell. It is quite refreshing to find a young lady willing to be honest. I knew you were different. You look different, for certain. I cannot say I have ever seen a beauty to match yours, Miss Olivia … if it is not to bold to say.”

  Olivia narrowed her eyes. “I see,” she said, disbelieving. “I doubt very much, Mr. Southerland, you have spent all of your life until now in Staffordshire, which leaves me unable to believe you have seen no other woman who is more beautiful than I.”

  “Shall I try another compliment then, Miss Olivia?” he asked, smiling. “I will say whatever is necessary to gain your attention.”

  One half of Olivia’s mouth tilted upward in a rueful smile. “Determined, are you not, Mr. Southerland?”

  “And why would I not be, Miss Olivia? I like you.”

  Olivia exhaled deeply. “Well, then,” she said as she thought. “You must apologize to Lord Masters.”

  A pained sort of look spread over Mr. Southerland’s face. “Must I?” he asked.

  “Yes, you must. I will not speak to you otherwise.”

  Mr. Southerland let out a gruff sound, which told Olivia quite clearly he did not like her demand. But he agreed nevertheless.

  “Very well, then,” he said.

  Mr. Southerland bowed to Olivia, then turned around quickly and strode over to Lord Masters.

  • • •

  “I suppose you think you’re funny, don’t you?”

  “Shut it, Masters,” said Mr. Southerland, “and accept my damned apology.”

  “Why should I? You have stolen her from me. I was making progress, too, damn you! I was about to ask her to stroll with me tomorrow, and she would have acc
epted, I know it. But then you had to come along and muddle up my chances.”

  “You and she would never have got on, Masters, face it! You’re much too soft.”

  “I most certainly am not,” he cried. “I have beaten you plenty of times at boxing.”

  Mr. Southerland placed his hands on his hips. “Only because I let you,” he said.

  “You rotten bast — ”

  “Gentleman,” said Philip sternly.

  Both men looked at him as though they had forgotten he’d been present for their entire argument.

  “You tell us, Ravenshaw,” said Mr. Southerland, squaring off his shoulders. “You know the girl. Which of us would she like the best?”

  Lord Masters straightened his posture and fastened the button of his dinner jacket. “Yes, Ravenshaw,” he said. “Which of us would be best suited for Miss Olivia’s personality?”

  Philip cringed at the question. He was growing quite tired of the both of them squabbling over Olivia. Good God, it was disgraceful. He wanted to punch the both of them until they were unconscious. At least Brighton was permanently out of the picture. “The girl is quite out of her senses,” he had said earlier. “I cannot imagine what came over me. Let Masters take a shot at her.”

  Philip would forever be indebted to Lord Masters for having spoken to Olivia, as it had successfully driven Lord Brighton away from her at last. If Masters had not accomplished that feat when he had, Philip would have done it himself in a much more violent and less proper manner.

  But the relief of Brighton’s departure from Olivia was short-lived, however, as Mr. Southerland used Masters’ gentle personality to his advantage, pushing the man away from Olivia. Philip was not quite sure how he felt about that. Yes, he had chosen Mr. Southerland for her, but now he had lost confidence in his choice. Perhaps Lord Masters was a better match for her after all.

  But then again, Lord Masters had his faults as well. Were he and Miss Olivia truly a match?

  And just why exactly did all three of them only have eyes for Olivia?

  “What’s this shared fascination with the girl?” asked Philip. “There are two other young ladies present in my house, both of whom are pleasant and eligible. Why have you two no interest in either of them?”

  Lord Masters seemed to ponder the question, but Mr. Southerland’s face took on an annoyed and impatient expression. “Lady Lillian’s father is an earl, a snobbish one at that. He would never approve of any of us, especially me. We are all beneath him in rank. Why would he want his daughter to marry less than an earl or a duke, or even a damned prince?”

  “What of my sister? She’s beautiful.”

  Lord Masters cocked his head and scoffed. “The same rules apply. Moreover, none of us would dare show an interest in her, Ravenshaw, even Brighton. Your father is here for starters, and you would most certainly have our heads. You know too many of our dark secrets.”

  Mr. Southerland laughed. “Too right you are, Masters. So then,” he said, bringing the conversation back to the original question. “Which of us will it be for Miss Olivia?”

  Philip tried to choose, but in the end, as much as it pained him to admit it, only one person could decide.

  “Perhaps you should both try for her,” Philip suggested. “May the best man win.”

  • • •

  Dear Richard,

  The most peculiar thing happened to me tonight after dinner at Tyndall Hall. Somehow, in the presence of two well-bred ladies, I managed to command the attention of three eligible bachelors.

  One of the men was horrible. He attempted invited me to walk with him unattended through the garden at night! I assume, dear brother, you are able to guess my reaction. The second man who approached me was entirely likeable. The third struck me as a bit rude, but overall I do not think he is too terrible a person.

  In the end, brother, both the second and the third man asked me to walk with them tomorrow, supervised, of course. To be honest, I could not choose between them, so on the morrow, I shall walk with Lord Ambrose Masters, son of the Baron Riddle, through the gardens of Tyndall Hall, and then with Mr. James Southerland of Staffordshire in the afternoon through the same gardens. Though they did not appear to be upset with my decision to walk with both of them on separate occasions, would this not be a situation which would cause men to turn on one another?

  A letter to Richard

  Autumn 1808

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dear Olivia,

  What does your Lord Philip think of all the male attention you have been receiving?

  “Damn!” Philip yelled as the quail flew away unscathed. He was ready to chuck his rifle into the woods. He was missing every bird that flew overhead. Ordinarily he was an expert shot, in possession of unwavering concentration. This morning, however, Philip could barely focus on the birds he was intended to shoot. They were little black blurs passing in front of his sites as he tried to aim, and his shots were always too late. “Damnit to Hell!” he yelled.

  The other men laughed. All but Lord Masters as he was presently walking Olivia through the gardens, Philip’s own gardens, away from the shooting.

  “What’s got you out of sorts today, Philip?” asked the duke.

  “Nothing, Papa,” said Philip, brushing off the knees of his trousers as he stood. The grass was tall and brushed against their knees in the wind. The hunting dogs supplied by his father were barking and skipping around his legs in the tall grass, obviously eager for something to fetch, but Philip had yet to provide them with a fallen bird.

  “Thinking of a woman?” teased Mr. Southerland.

  “Absolutely not,” Philip lied. But in fact he was thinking of a woman. One woman. The only damned woman who had disgusted him, berated him, annoyed him, frustrated him, aroused him, and captivated him within less than half a year. And now he was jealous. He hated the thought of Olivia and Lord Masters. He hated the thought of her with Mr. Southerland, too. He hated thinking of her with any man. And he knew why he hated the images, but he was not yet ready to admit to himself that he wanted her for any other reason than the physical.

  “A woman, did you say?” the duke asked Mr. Southerland, and then he turned to Philip. “You’ve met a woman, Philip?”

  “No, I have not, Papa,” said Philip. “I did not sleep well last night and as a consequence, my game is suffering.”

  “Trust me, your grace,” said Mr. Winter, “if Lord Philip had met a woman recently, I would be first to realize it as I spend so much time with him.”

  “Indeed,” said the duke. “Quite right, Mr. Winter. Perhaps you will shoot well after you have eaten this afternoon, Philip.”

  “He can’t shoot any worse,” said Mr. Southerland.

  The men laughed. Philip scowled. “I could shoot you.”

  “Then you’d be hanged for murder,” said Mr. Southerland. “Tsk, tsk, my friend. Where are your senses? Gone away with your thoughts of whichever woman you’re thinking of, I suspect. Tell me, Philip, who have you found to replace the lovely Lady Charlotte Chambers? I dare say you must have replaced her long ago. Only a greater woman would have allowed you to let the beautiful Charlotte go to the likes of the Earl Norland.”

  Philip gritted his teeth. The duke leaned in to whisper in Philip’s ear. “Let it go, Philip. He cannot know the truth of that matter.”

  The secret of Philip’s failed proposal had remained safely kept among Philip, his father, their servant Rivers — and Charlotte, of course. So, while Philip would have loved the feel of his fist hitting Mr. Southerland’s nose for his last flippant comment, he would have had a difficult and embarrassing time of explaining exactly why he had become so enraged. And so, he merely inhaled deeply and said, “You would not know her.”

  Mr. Southerland laughed. “Oh! So there is a new woman. One of intensely captivating beauty, I imagine.”

  “Of course,” said Philip, scanning the morning sky for more birds. “Eyes like the night sky, skin like satin, and hair like ribbons of silk.”


  Mr. Southerland laughed again, this time more animatedly. “Oh, do stop it, Ravenshaw,” he said, lowering his rifle from the sky. “Lord Masters’ poetry is enough for me. I do not need you to start that nonsense as well.”

  Philip along with his father and Mr. Winter laughed. “Ah, but I cannot stop it,” said Philip, “for Cupid’s own arrow has struck my heart for certain this time. I dare say I shall never find her equal.”

  “Where did you meet her, Philip?” asked Mr. Winter. “Was it in the village, or back in London?”

  Philip did not answer the question and indeed he did not have to, for at that precise moment, the dogs had disturbed a cluster of birds and they were now taking to the sky with haste. Each of the men fired away, hoping to hit their targets. All around them, the birds fell one by one to the ground, and the dogs bounded towards their fallen corpses through the tall grass. Philip himself had managed to hit three in a row, and would have hit more had he not been burden by the task of reloading his rifle. Finally his concentration and aim had returned.

  He had just finished reloading and was about to look skyward to search for more birds when a distant figure caught his eye. It was Lord Masters walking towards the group with his rifle thrown over his shoulder and a simpering look on his face. And what was that in his hand? Flowers?

  It was a rose. A single white rose from one of the many bushes Philip had ordered for his garden, and Master’s was sniffing it like a fool with an equally stupid smile on his face.

  “I would ask if you had yet to steal her heart, Masters,” began Mr. Southerland, “but it is quite clear that she has apparently stolen yours.” Mr. Southerland laughed heartily, as did Mr. Winter.

  “I would not go so far as to say that exactly,” said Lord Masters, still smiling. “And if I may be so bold, Mr. Winter, I would say that Miss Olivia is perhaps the most perfectly pleasant young lady I have ever met.”

  Mr. Winter smiled with paternal pride. “You may indeed be so bold, my lord.”