Stephanie James

by Love Grows in Winter

  “I’d suppose it’s a safe bet,” he said.

  When their tea was steeped and poured they sipped in silence, leaning against preparation tables set opposite one another. The silence was killing Philip. He felt as if they should be talking about something, bonding in some way now that her guard was down. Drinking tea alone in the kitchen in the middle of the night, while admittedly highly improper, was a perfect opportunity to connect with Olivia, which could hardly be completed if they did not speak. Each time he searched his mind for something to say, however, he always came up short. Just as he was about to attempt one of his pointless comments, Olivia thankfully spoke up and saved him from almost certain embarrassment.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “For what? The tea?” asked Philip, looking down at his teacup. “Because it isn’t very good tea. I suspect this is the cook’s tea and she likes a diff — ”

  “No, no, not the tea,” said Olivia. “For sitting with me as I cried. I know it can’t have been very pleasant for you.”

  “If I made you feel at all better, Miss Winter, then I am glad I was there.”

  Olivia smiled faintly. “You did make me feel better,” she said. “I had initially wanted to be alone, but your company proved to be surprisingly comforting.”

  A weak laugh sounded in Philip’s throat. “Comforting,” he said. “That’s quite a change from our usual run-ins.”

  Olivia smiled again and set her empty teacup on the table behind her. “Yes, it is.”

  Still smiling, they looked into each other’s eyes. As if in a trance, Philip set down his teacup and moved closer to her, vaguely aware that her body had tensed as he did … but she didn’t move. She stood firm, still looking in his eyes. He lowered his head. Their mouths were close enough now so that he could feel her breath moving across his lips. His hands came up to her arms. Instead of tensing any further, or running, or protesting in any way, Olivia moved her hands to his chest.

  He brushed his lips over her hair and kissed her gently before breathing in the perfume that clung to her curls. Shock jolted through him as he felt Olivia kiss his jawline, her unpracticed and nervous technique apparent, but no less arousing. He mimicked her advances and kissed along her jawline very slowly, gently, until their lips were barely touching once more. Olivia moaned and her fingers clasped tightly around the front folds of his robe.

  Desperately wishing to kiss her, he hesitated to wonder if he would startle her if he proceeded any farther. As he thought of what to do, however, Olivia decided for him, seizing his mouth and moving her lips seductively over his, her tongue touching his lips timidly now and then.

  At the first feel of her tongue, Philip’s arms wrapped around her body fully and he deepened the kiss. Her arms were around his neck now, holding on tightly as though he might disappear. But he wouldn’t disappear. He would never willingly choose to leave Olivia now. The devil himself could not drag him away. He was where he belonged, with whom he belonged, and he would trade it for nothing.

  Their mouths separated and Olivia’s head lifted up. Philip instantly began kissing her neck as her fingers combed roughly through his dark hair. But when he slipped his hands underneath her robe to touch her breast, she gasped and then froze. He could feel her breath quickening and she had tensed once again. Oh God, what was he doing?

  He backed away from her then and ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing down what Olivia had disturbed with her hands. She was not frightened this time, Philip knew. The expectant look on her face bespoke something else entirely other than fear. She was waiting for something — for him to continue kissing her, to say something, to do something, anything besides stop. He had to get away. No matter how much he loved her, wanted her, he would not take her against a cutting table in a kitchen after a cup of bad tea … not the first time, at least.

  “You can find your way back to your room?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good night then,” he said briskly as he walked past her and out of the kitchen.

  Two hours later Philip was still lying awake in his bed, thinking about the kiss, playing it over and over again in his mind. She had been kissing him back, there was no denying that. But had she enjoyed herself this time, or would she feel just as ashamed as she had after they had kissed alongside the river all those months ago? Philip closed his eyes and threw his head back against his heavy wooden headboard. He was pained by his desire for her. He hated leaving her alone in the kitchen, but he could not have stayed without doing more than kissing. And he loved her too much for that. There, he admitted it. He loved her. And he knew what he had to do now. He could avoid it no longer.

  • • •

  On the opposite end of the house, just about the time Philip had arrived at his decision, Olivia herself was lying in her own bed, wide awake and unable to sleep, trying to convince herself that, after all the frustration, misery and pain he had caused her, there was absolutely no possible way she had just fallen in love with Lord Philip Ravenshaw. And over bad tea at that.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The weeks leading up their departure to London had left Olivia increasingly confused. She had not seen Lord Philip after the night in the kitchen. The next morning at the breakfast table, she had felt a pang of excitement fire in the pit of her stomach when the door to the breakfast room had opened. She had thought, hoped, it would be Lord Philip, but it was only Lady Albright coming to join them.

  Choosing not to dwell on the curious change in her feelings toward the man (for now she wanted to see him rather than avoid him) Olivia had spent most of the morning trying to decide how to begin a conversation with him. And when he did not show, she could not stop herself from feeling disappointed.

  As it turned out, Lord Philip had left the house early to hunt in the fields with the other men, which was not at all curious. However, when he was pronounced absent from the house the next morning, having left for London ahead of everyone else, this was considered by the entire group to be very odd indeed.

  “He did not stay to see us all off?” asked Lady Amelia. “Why ever not?”

  But the only one who knew the answer to this question was Olivia … or at least she believed she had a very good idea as to why Lord Philip had left early: because of her. Oh, the impudence of the man! He had the gall to kiss her a second time, but not to see her again afterward? He was a devious little coward. Yes, yes indeed he was. She was well rid of him.

  Olivia told herself many things like this, all of them, of course, collectively a feeble attempt to convince herself that she did not love him. How could she love a man so annoying … so boringly proper, so stuffy, so attractive?

  So attractive? Of course she did not find him attractive.

  All right, she did, but she absolutely, positively was not in love with him. And she would prove it, too. The next time she saw him (if he was ever man enough to show his face in front of her again) she would prove to herself that she had absolutely no feeling for him. There would be no excitement, no nervousness, searching for things to say, or any other behaviors which would signify she loved, or even liked him.

  Two days later, when she was in the carriage on the way to London, Olivia was still steaming over Lord Philip. Not helping the matter at all was the fact that the journey to London was wrought with boredom, headaches, and nausea. Boredom because the trip was so very long, headaches because the carriage tossed her around a little too much, and nausea from when she had tried to read to pass the time. And try as she might to ignore all he hardships of the rough roads, the air and weather had been positively frigid and rainy the whole way. All in all, the journey to London had been the perfect preamble to the terrible trip Olivia was expecting.

  “London!” one of the coachmen yelled to announce their arrival.

  Olivia peeled back the cold, wet curtain in front of her window and poked her head out to see. “And so it begins,” she said to herself.

  She let the curtain fall back gracelessly and sl
umped down in her seat. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders more tightly, she decided that the only good aspect of this trip was that her accommodations would be much more comfortable. But in the end, Olivia was able to be negative about that as well.

  “I bet they live in the largest house on the block, filled with furnishings of the highest expense,” she said begrudgingly. “All of it a reflection of what snobs they are.”

  They had had their moments of kindness in the country, but now that they were in London and surrounded by all of society, their true personalities would doubtless come out, and Olivia would be exposed to the annoyingly subtle brand of vicious ridicule that all members of high society seemed to have perfected.

  “Welcome to Willingham House,” said the butler, bowing customarily as she entered the house. “I am Rivers. Allow me to alert the lady of the house that you have arrived.”

  Rivers left the room then and left Olivia to wait in the foyer. It was much the same as Tyndall Hall — big, long tapestries and portraits of unfamiliar faces hanging about the walls, bordered on both sides by golden sconces. Busts were placed on columns and stood eerily against the walls. Little tables sat on either side of the door, just beneath two more golden sconces, and held the largest floral arrangements Olivia had ever seen. The floors were wood polished to a high shine and covered where she stood before the stairs with a large circular rug from the orient.

  Instead of finding perverse pleasure in realizing she had been right about the expensive furnishings, Olivia felt intimidated. The large room seemed to engulf her, making her realize how out of place she really was. It had been easy to be disdainful of London and society from afar, but now that she was here and quite outnumbered, her resolve to be strong and unaffected by this trip to London was a bit harder to maintain.

  She wanted to flee the room, to run out of the front door and hop into the carriage and go back to Dorset. She even lifted her foot to make a move for the door, but before she could …

  “Ahem.”

  Olivia jumped and turned suddenly to face the source of the noise. It was Rivers again, having appeared like a ghost, silent and frighteningly.

  “Her grace requested that you be seen to your quarters so that you may rest before tea, which will occur in precisely one hour in the Chinese drawing room,” he said.

  “That will be lovely, yes,” said Olivia, nodding her head nervously.

  She followed Rivers up the grand and curving stairs, down the long hallway, around a corner and then another, and finally into a room that was arranged and decorated so delicately Olivia felt her mere presence upset its serenity. Pink roses were everywhere, and not just in small vases on the many little tables about the room, but on every other imaginable surface one might find to place a rose. There were images of roses on the rugs, on the bedcovers, the pillows and cushions, the fabric of the chaise and chairs next to the fireplace. The fireplace had rose carvings in its mantle, as did the vanity on the other side of the room. The wallpaper was covered in massive, vining roses, and on the walls — covering the wallpaper in carefully chosen areas — were colorful drawings and paintings of roses.

  Everything looked excessively feminine and frail. But even though it did, there were so many roses around her that Olivia wondered if she might be stuck by thorns during her stay.

  “Does everything suit you, Miss Winter?”

  “Indeed it does,” said Olivia to Rivers. “Very lovely.”

  Rivers nodded. “Splendid. If you should require anything, the bell pull is just here.” He pointed to a rose-embroidered strip of cloth with a huge pink tassel next to the door. “Tea will be served, as I said, promptly in one hour,” he went on. “And as you have not brought a maid of your own, we have assigned Matilda to you. You may call her Jenkins.”

  Rivers’ presentation of the day’s events to come was so absolutely mechanical, Olivia began to wonder at all if Rivers was indeed human.

  “Thank you, Rivers,” she said.

  Rivers bowed and exited the room. Olivia looked around the room again, this time noticing even more places roses could be found. She remembered this about certain houses in London — once a theme was selected, it was done to excess. This room was no exception.

  Weatherworn and exhausted from her journey, Olivia could hardly wait to dive into bed and rest before tea, an event she was hardly looking forward to, in all honesty. If she had been a little less tired, Olivia very likely would have been downright panicky about the whole thing. There were bound to be ladies of all stations (except for hers, of course) present at tea. But as she was tired and ready to sleep, Olivia shrugged off her concern, along with her shawl, and comforted herself with the thought that she could sit silently in the corner and would most likely go unnoticed.

  She yawned and stretched her arms over her head. A maid entered suddenly from a side door and curtsied quickly.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Winter,” said the girl. She was plump with red hair and freckles. “I am Matilda Jenkins. You may call me Jenkins.”

  “How do you do,” Olivia said, nodding her head slightly before pulling off her gloves one finger at a time. “I am Olivia Winter. You may call me Olivia. I do not dispense with many formalities.”

  “As you wish,” said Jenkins. “I came to retrieve your tea dress, Miss Olivia … if you have selected one for such an occasion that is.”

  Olivia noted the half-formal, half-informal way in which Jenkins addressed her and smiled. “I should have,” said Olivia. “I’m not sure what my maid packed for me before I left Dorset, but I should be able to find something suitable enough.”

  Jenkins went to Olivia’s traveling trunk, opened it and began searching its contents for the best day dress she had.

  “Will this one do, Miss Olivia?” asked Jenkins.

  Olivia turned to see the dress Jenkins had selected. It was one of the newer gowns her father had ordered for her. It was a pale pink and one of the many like it that her father had bought in his attempt to make her more of a lady. And upon seeing the pattern embroidered on the bodice, Olivia let out a long and very audible breath.

  Roses.

  • • •

  “Of course it is all very difficult nowadays to find suitable servants,” said Lady Denham. “The time and effort one must take and invest in order to train them.” She shook her head disapprovingly. “It is all simply exhausting. Would you not agree, your grace?”

  “I suppose one could say it is exhausting, yes,” the duchess said diplomatically.

  Everyone took a sip of their tea. Olivia, however, did not. She was too busy watching everyone in the room, which seemed to be filled with London’s finest. A viscountess, a dame, a few countesses and even a marquess’s wife were all scattered about the room. Olivia had not put forth any effort in remembering their names, or into noticing anything about them in general except for the fact that each of the women had at least one daughter with them. The viscountess had three daughters with her.

  The duchess, Lady Amelia, and Lady Lillian Charlesworth were present, of course. But also in attendance was Lady Lillian’s mother, the Right Honorable Countess of Denham, who acted every bit as haughty as her name might imply. She was the epitome of snobbery and had displayed herself as being such to Olivia within the first five minutes of entering the room … after having been properly announced of course.

  Never once since tea began had the Lady Denham stopped complaining about something. First it was the current fashion trends — she had thought them too risqué. Second came her complaints about the horridness of the latest Italian Opera to be released — she had thought it too passionate to be proper. Next came her complaints about keeping up with multiple houses, then the dreadful bother of keeping up with current decorative trends for said houses, and then finally about finding servants for all of the houses. Really, if it were all such a burden, Olivia thought to herself, perhaps the woman should give up and move to the country and be a hermit for the rest of her life … in a county far, f
ar away from Dorset, naturally.

  But apparently Lady Denham simply loved to complain. And each time she found a new topic about which to complain, the Right Honorable Bore would always finish with, “would you not agree, your grace.” In fact, the duchess was the only person in the room with whom the countess appeared to be interested in conversing. But as the duchess was the highest-ranking peer in the room, little mystery existed as to why this was.

  And when the subject of the duchess’s eldest son arose, Olivia understood a bit more clearly as to why Lady Denham was so keen on behaving in such a solicitous manner. Even more shameless was the fact that Lady Denham had brought up the subject herself.

  “Do you hear from Lord Skivington often, your grace?” asked Lady Denham.

  At this question the duchess was overcome with obvious distress about her eldest son. Sadness appeared in her eyes and she breathed rather deeply. “Not as much as I would like,” she said. “But we know that he is alive and in good health.”

  “Marvelous,” said Lady Denham. She raised her teacup to her lips, but before taking a sip, Lady Denham’s next question was, though asked in as casual a tone as she could manage, by far and away the most desperate thing Olivia had ever heard.

  “Do you know when he is expected to return?”

  But no one else seemed to hear the desperation, for as soon as this question was uttered, they demonstrated themselves to be equally as desperate. Every lady in the room — mothers and daughters alike — all leant forward, anxious for the duchess’s response. It dawned on Olivia quite suddenly that this was why so many daughters were in attendance. It was not for a mere bonding experience, or even to enjoy a nice visit and tea. Each mother was hoping to see her daughter become a duchess. Though she tried to suppress the thought, Olivia could not help but think back on the first dinner she had shared with Lord Philip, after which he had viciously accused her of trying to trick him into marriage. When every lady in the room moved forward in their seats, Lord Philip’s reaction to her that night became justified entirely, though Olivia would never give him the pleasure of telling him so.