Did Aunt Muriel truly believe Olivia don’t know about Bradford’s reputation with females? She was neither blind nor ignorant.
He turned and flashed their aunt one of his dazzling smiles, his deeply tanned face making it all the more brighter. “All pale in comparison to you two lovelies, no doubt.”
Olivia made an impolite noise and, shaking her head, aimed her eyes heavenward in disbelief.
Doing it much too brown. Again.
Bradford was too charming by far—one reason the fairer sex were drawn to him like ants to molasses. She’d been just as doe-eyed and vulnerable when it came to Allen.
“Tish tosh, young scamp. Your compliments are wasted on me.” Still, Aunt Muriel slanted her head, a pleased smile hovered on her lightly-painted mouth and pleating the corners of her eyes. “Besides, if you attach yourself to your sister, she won’t have an opportunity to find herself alone with young Wimpleton.”
Olivia managed to keep her jaw from unhinging as she gaped at her aunt. She snapped her slack mouth shut with an audible click. “Shouldn’t you be cautioning me not to be alone with a gentleman?”
Aunt Muriel chuckled and patted Olivia’s knee again. “That rather defeats the purpose in coming tonight then, doesn’t it, dear?” Giving a naughty wink, she nudged Olivia. “I do hope Wimpleton kisses you. He’s such a handsome young man. Quite the Corinthian too.”
A hearty guffaw escaped Bradford, and he slapped his knee. “Aunt Muriel, I refuse to marry until I find a female as colorful as you. Life would never be dull.”
“I should say not. Daventry and I had quite the adventurous life. It’s in my blood, you know, and yours too, I suspect. Papa rode his stallion right into a church and actually snatched Mama onto his lap moments before she was forced to marry an abusive lecher. The scandal, they say, was utterly delicious.” The duchess sniffed, a put-upon expression on her lined face. “Dull indeed. Hmph. Never. Why, I may have to be vexed with you the entire evening for even hinting such a preposterous thing.”
“Grandpapa abducted Grandmamma? In church, no less?” Bradford dissolved into another round of hearty laughter, something he did often as evidenced by the lines near his eyes.
Unable to utter a single sensible rebuttal, Olivia swung her gaze between them. Her aunt and brother beamed, rather like two naughty imps, not at all abashed at having been caught with their mouth’s full of stolen sweetmeats from the kitchen.
She wrinkled her nose and gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Bah. You two are completely hopeless where decorum is concerned.”
“Don’t mistake decorum for stodginess or pomposity, my dear.” Her aunt gave a sage nod. “Neither permits a mite of fun and both make one a cantankerous boor.”
Bradford snickered again, his hair, slightly too long for London, brushing his collar. “By God, if only there were more women like you.”
Olivia itched to box his ears. Did he take nothing seriously?
No. Not since Philomena had died.
Olivia edged near the window once more and worried the flesh of her lower lip. Carriages continued to line up, two or three abreast. Had the entire beau monde turned out for the grand affair?
Botheration. Why must the Wimpletons be so well-received?
She caught site of her tense face reflected in the glass, and hastily turned away.
“And, Aunt Muriel, you’re absolutely positive that Allen—that is, Mr. Wimpleton—remains unattached?”
Fiddling with her shawl’s silk fringes, Olivia attempted a calming breath. No force on heaven or earth could compel her to enter the manor if Allen were betrothed or married to another. Her fragile heart, though finally mended after three years of painful healing, could bear no more anguish or regret.
If he were pledged to another, she would simply take the carriage back to Aunt Muriel’s, pack her belongings, and make for Bromham Hall, Bradford’s newly inherited country estate. Olivia would make a fine spinster; perhaps even take on the task of housekeeper in order to be of some use to her brother. She would never set foot in Town again.
She dashed her aunt an impatient, sidelong peek. Why didn’t Aunt Muriel answer the question?
Head to the side and eyes brimming with compassion, Aunt Muriel regarded her.
“You’re certain he’s not courting anyone?” Olivia pressed for the truth. “There’s no one he has paid marked attention to? You must tell me, mustn’t fear for my sensibilities or that I’ll make a scene.”
She didn’t make scenes.
The A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment was most emphatic in that regard.
Only the most vulgar and lowly bred indulge in histrionics or emotional displays.
Aunt Muriel shook her turbaned head firmly. The bold ostrich feather topping the hair covering jolted violently, and her diamond and emerald cushion-shaped earrings swung with the force of her movement. She adjusted her gaudily-colored shawl.
“No. No one. Not from the lack of enthusiastic mamas, and an audacious papa or two, shoving their simpering daughters beneath his nose, I can tell you. Wimpleton’s considered a brilliant catch, quite dashing, and a top-sawyer, to boot.” She winked wickedly again. “Why, if I were only a score of years younger …”
“Yes? What would you do, Aunt Muriel?” Rubbing his jaw, Bradford grinned.
Olivia flung him a flinty-eyed glare. “Hush. Do not encourage her.”
Worse than children, the two of them.
Lips pursed, Aunt Muriel ceased fussing with her skewed pendant and tapped her fingers upon her plump thigh. “I would wager a year’s worth of my favorite pastries that fast Rossington chit has set her cap for him, though. Has her feline claws dug in deep, too, I fear.”
Displaying envy or jealousy reflects poor breeding; therefore, a lady must exemplify graciousness at all times.
~A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment
Chapter Two
Duty.
An heir apparent must marry.
Allen snagged a flute of champagne from a passing servant.
Bloody well wish it were a bottle of Sethwick’s whisky.
Part Scots, Viscount Sethwick boasted some of the finest whisky Allen had ever sampled. The champagne bubbles tickling his nose, he took a sip of the too sweet, sparkling wine and, over the crystal brim, canvassed the ballroom.
Which one of the ladies should he toss his handkerchief to and march down the aisle with?
A posturing debutante, beautiful and superficial?
A cynical widow, worldly-wise and free with her favors?
A shy chit past her prime but possessing a fat dowry?
Or perhaps a bluestocking or a suffragist who preferred reading books and carrying on discourses about women’s oppression rather than marry? At least with the latter he could have intelligent conversation about something other than the weather and a bonnet’s latest accoutrements.
He really didn’t give a damn—didn’t care a wit who he became leg-shackled to or who the next Viscountess Wimpleton would be. The only woman he’d loved had left England three years ago, and he hadn’t heard from Olivia since. His gut contracted and shriveled up.
So much for forgiveness and love’s enduring qualities.
Livy’s gone and not coming back. You drove her away and now must pick another bride.
Familiar regret-laced pain jabbed Allen’s ribs, and he clamped his jaw. He had been an immature arse, and the consequence would haunt him the remainder of his miserable, privileged life. Heaving a hefty breath, he forced his white-knuckled grip to relax before he snapped the flute’s stem.
Mother, no doubt, was pleased as Punch at the crush attending his parents’ annual ball. If too many more guests made an appearance, the house might burst. Devilishly hot, the ballroom teemed with overly-perfumed, sweaty—and the occasional unwashed—bodies.
God, what he wouldn’t give for a more robust spirit than this tepid champagne. The weak beverage did little to bolster his patience or goodwill. At this rate, he would be a bi
tter curmudgeon by thirty. A drunkard, too. Given the brandy he’d imbibed prior to coming down stairs, he was half-way to bosky already.
After finishing the contents in a single gulp, he lifted the empty glass in acknowledgement of his mother’s arched brow as she pointedly dipped her regally coiffed head toward Penelope Rossington.
He might not give a parson’s prayer who he wed, but his parents did. She must be above reproach, and if Mother thought Miss Rossington suitable …
Responsibility.
Allen had an heir to beget.
Miss Rossington was pretty enough, exquisite some might say, and generously curved too. Her physical attributes made her quite beddable. She was also dumb as a mushroom and shallow as a snowflake. He’d had more intelligent conversations with barmaids.
He cocked his head as she gave him a coquettish smile before murmuring something to her constant companions, the dowdy and turnip-shaped Dundercroft sisters. They giggled and turned an unbecoming, mottled shade of puce.
A practiced flirt, Miss Rossington had recently become possessive of him and exhibited an unflattering jealous streak. Still, she would do as well as any other, he supposed, since those behaviors seemed universally present in the ton’s marriageable females.
Allen released a soft snort. He never used to be so judgmental and jaded.
Exchanging his empty flute for another full one—only his third this evening—he caught his mother’s troubled expression. She pulled on Father’s arm before lifting onto her toes and fervently whispering in his ear.
Father speared him a contemplative glance, and Allen raised his glass once more.
Cheers. Here’s to a bloody miserable future.
His parents couldn’t fathom his cynicism since theirs had been a love match.
Frowning, Father murmured something and patted Mother’s hand resting atop his forearm.
Casting Allen a glance, equally parts contemplative and maternal, she nodded before smiling a welcome to Bretheridge and Faulkenhurst, two of Allen’s university chums.
Steering his attention overhead, Allen contemplated the gold plasterwork ceiling and newly painted panels adorned with dancing nymphs and other mythical creatures. Mother had begun massive redecorating shortly after Oliva Kingsley had left. He’d always suspected she had done so to help erase Olivia’s memory.
Bloody impossible, that.
Fully aware Olivia had ripped Allen’s heart from his chest and hurled it into the irretrievable depths of the deepest ocean, his parents worried for him. They also fretted for the viscountcy’s future if he didn’t shake off his doldrums and get on with choosing a wife.
Propriety.
He’d always been the model of decorum.
Tedious, dull, snore-worthy respectability.
Except for a single time when he had rashly shoved aside good sense, Allen had always heeded his parents’ and society’s expectations. Never again would he indulge such an impulse. His position required he attend these damnable functions, dance with the ladies, and ensure the Wimpleton name remained untarnished. Bothersome as attending the assemblies was, pretending to enjoy himself proved Herculean, though, he had become quite adept at the subterfuge.
Copious amounts of spirits helped substantially, but drowning self-recriminations in alcohol fell short of noble behavior, or so his Father had admonished on numerous occasions, most recently, this afternoon.
Finally acquiescing to his parents’ gentle, yet persistent prodding, Allen had set his attention to acquiring, what would someday be, the next viscountess. Another blasted obligation. Those not borne into the aristocracy didn’t know how fortunate they were, especially only sons.
However, once he had made his choice, he needn’t feel obligated to attend as many social functions, and when he did appear, he could spend the evening in the card room, or better yet, escape to the study with a few coves and indulge in a dram or two.
Maybe he and his bride would retire to the country, at least until the title became his—not that he wished his father into an early grave or was overly eager to assume the viscountcy. Since seeing the magnificent horseflesh bred at Sethwick’s castle, Craiglocky, Allen had considered entering into a cattle breeding venture of his own. Surely that would keep his mind occupied with something other than melancholy musings.
His wife would want for nothing except his affections. Those weren’t his to give. A certain tall, fiery-haired goddess possessing sapphire eyes had laid claim to them, and his love would forever be entangled in her silky chestnut hair. But he would be a kind and faithful husband. He quite looked forward to dangling his children upon his knee, truth to tell.
An image of a chubby-cheeked imp with sea-blue eyes and wild cinnamon curls sprang to mind. On second thought, he did have one stipulation for his future wife. She could not have red hair.
Taking a sip of champagne, he rested a shoulder against a pillar.
Miss Rossington glided his way, a coy smile on her rouged lips, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a bold invitation in her slanted eyes. Her dampened gown left little to his imagination, and though she wore virginal colors, he would bet the coat on his back, she’d long ago surrendered her maidenhead.
He quirked his mouth. Perhaps, she wouldn’t do after all. Though he must wed, he didn’t relish cuckoldom.
Barely suppressing an unladylike curse, Olivia gave her aunt the gimlet eye. Did she say a year’s worth of pastries? Hound’s teeth, then it was a given. Aunt Muriel took her pastries very seriously, as evidenced by her ample figure.
Olivia scowled then immediately smoothed her face into placid lines.
Ladies do not scowl, frown, or grimace.
Or so Mama had always insisted, quoting A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment as regularly as the sun rose and set from the time Olivia was old enough to hold her own spoon.
She hadn’t quite decided how to go about competing for Allen’s affections, if any chance remained that he still cared for her. Perhaps she should ask Aunt Muriel for advice.
On second thought, that might prove disastrous. Her aunt had already suggested a clandestine kiss. No telling what scandalous, wholly inappropriate notion Aunt Muriel would recommend. Why, Olivia might find herself on the edge of ruin in a blink if she followed her aunt’s advice.
Tonight, she would find out precisely where she stood with Allen, whether she dared still hope or should concede defeat and accept her heartbreak. Just what kind of woman was she up against, though? “No doubt this Rossington miss is excessively lovely.”
If only Aunt Muriel would say she’s homely as a toad with buggy eyes and rough, warty skin. Oh, and Miss Rossington was missing several teeth and had a perpetual case of offensive breath.
“Hmph. If you consider a heavy hand with cosmetics, dampened gowns, and bodices that nearly expose entire bosoms lovely, I suppose she is.” Aunt Muriel resumed her preening.
Bradford’s mouth crept into a devilish smile. “I quite like dampened gowns—”
“Brady!” Olivia kicked his shin. Sharp pain radiated from her slippered toe to her knee. Bloody he—
Proper ladies do not curse, Olivia Antoinette Cleopatra Kingsley! Mama’s strident voice admonished in Olivia’s mind.
“—and exposed bosoms.” Brady risked finishing, nestled in the carriage’s corner with his arms crossed and a mouth-splitting, unrepentant grin upon his face.
He enjoyed quizzing her, the incorrigible jackanape.
“Of course you do.” Aunt Muriel lifted her graying eyebrows. The twitch of her lips and the humor lacing her voice belied any true censure. “My poor sister would perform one-handed somersaults in her grave if she knew what a rogue you have become, always up to your ears in devilry. Don’t know where you got that bend. Your father was as stiff and exciting as a cold poker, and your mother never did anything remotely untoward, always quoting that annoying comportment rubbish.”
Another rogue dominated Olivia’s thoughts.
What if Allen dismisses or cuts me?
/>
The possibility was quite real.
She had no reason to believe he might yet hold a tendre for her, but she most know for certain, no matter how devastating or humiliating. She feared her rehearsed speech would flit away the moment she opened her mouth, leaving her empty-headed and tongue-tied, and although she had attempted to prepare for a harsh rebuff, practicing imaginary responses couldn’t truly ready her for his or the ton’s rejection and scorn.
As the carriage lurched to a rumbling stop, she sent a silent prayer heavenward. No stars, dim from the new gas streetlamps before the mansion and the coal-laden clouds blanketing London shot across the sky for her to wish upon. It had been on a night very much like this that she’d been a young fool and crushed her and Allen’s dreams of a future together. However, in her defense, she had only known him for a blissful fortnight before he proposed.
Already completely taken with Allen, she’d become teary-eyed during a waltz and shared her dismay. In a matter of days, her father intended to move the family to the Caribbean for a year. Father hadn’t given them any notice or time to prepare, just announced, in his impulsive, eccentric way, that they were off to Barbados to oversee a sugar plantation. She had been full of girlish hopes and dreams, and Father’s plans severed them at the root.
What maggot in his brain had possessed him to buy a plantation? He had known nothing of farming or harvesting, preferring fossils and rocks to humans and their usual activities. Even Olivia’s Season could be ascribed to a deathbed vow Father had made to Mama; one he had repeatedly attempted to renege on until Bradford had intervened on Olivia’s behalf.
She had long suspected Father never intended for her to marry, but to remain at his side as his companion, housekeeper, and nurse until his days ended.
Closing her eyes, she pictured that romantic dance three years ago.
Allen had held her closer than propriety dictated, but not so much as to be ruinous. After whisking her onto the veranda, he’d captured her hand, and they had sped to a garden alcove. Whether he’d planned to ask her, or had been caught up in the moment and spontaneously decided to, she would never know, but he had hurled convention to the wind, dropped to one knee, and after promising to love her for eternity, asked her to share the rest of his life.
Romantic Legends Page 60
