Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She had loved him almost from the first moment she’d seen him standing across the ballroom, sable head thrown back and laughing unrestrained. Her chest welling with emotion, she had tossed aside her mother’s constant harping on proper comportment as carelessly as used tea leaves, and said yes, even though Papa wouldn’t have approved.

  Olivia hadn’t cared.

  Especially when Allen had smiled, his countenance full of joy, and then had sealed their troth with a scorching kiss. Her nipples pebbled and a jolt of arousal heated her blood as recollection of their potent embrace produced a familiar response. A quick survey of her wrap assured her that her body’s reaction remained a secret, and Aunt Muriel and Bradford hadn’t a hint of her sensual musings.

  That had been the happiest moment of her life, and the cherished memory elicited a tiny, secretive smile.

  Then, Allen had revealed his intention to elope to Gretna Green.

  That night.

  Taken aback at his impetuous suggestion, uncertainty had niggled, its sharp barbs pricking and stirring her misgivings. Mother had died a year ago, and Father suffered from ill-humors. It might have been too much for his frail health if Olivia had eloped. She had thought to have a few weeks, months perhaps, before wedding Allen. Besides, a fortnight wasn’t enough time to truly fall in love—not a deep, abiding, eternal love, was it?

  More than enough time when your soul finds its other half.

  She breathed out a silent, forlorn sigh. Her silly doubts had fueled her fear of making a hasty, impulsive decision. And so, regretfully, she’d said no to hieing off to Scotland, and instead, asked him to wait a year for her to return to England.

  “We could write back and forth, truly get to know one another and plan for our future together. A year isn’t so very long.” She tried to persuade Allen to wait. “Many couples are betrothed for a lengthy period.”

  Setting her from his embrace, his answer had been an emphatic, “Like hell I shall. I love you and want to marry you now, not in a year, dammit. That’s a bloody eternity.”

  “But, I cannot elope tonight.” She touched his arm, trying to reclaim the happiness of a moment before but, shoulders and face stiff, he had turned away from her. “It’s too sudden, Allen, and I’m worried what the shock would do to Papa.”

  Head bowed, his forearm braced against the arbor entrance, and his other hand resting on his narrow hip, Allen had spoken, his voice so raspy and quiet, she had strained to hear him.

  “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t want to wait to marry. You would be as eager as I am.” Dropping his hands to his sides, he faced her, his voice acquiring a steely edge. “It seems I have misjudged your affection for me. Go to the Caribbean. I won’t try to dissuade you again.”

  He had left her standing, crushed and weeping, in the arbor. Wounded at his callousness, after regaining her composure, she had made her way to the veranda where she’d encountered Allen’s sister, Ivonne. Claiming to feel unwell, Olivia had asked her to find Father and Bradford and tell them to meet her at the entrance. Betrayal fueling her anger, she hadn’t even bid her hosts farewell.

  It wasn’t until the ship was well out to sea did she realize, she hadn’t ever told Allen she loved him. Not a day had passed since sailing that she hadn’t lamented not eloping. Wisdom had arrived too late, and she had destroyed her greatest opportunity for love and happiness.

  Maybe my only opportunity.

  No doubt the torturous road to Hades was paved with a myriad of regrets, for life without him would surely be—had been—hell.

  A white-gloved footman in hunter green livery opened the door. He set a low stool before the carriage and smiled. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  “Good evening, Royce. My nephew will see us alighted.” Aunt Muriel waved her hand at another carriage where a large woman teetered within the doorway. “Go help over there before Lady Tipples topples onto the pavers and cracks them.” A grin threatened. “Tipples topples. Didn’t plan that. Funny though.”

  “At once, Your Grace.” After bowing, Royce dashed to the other conveyance. He and another footman managed to wrangle the squawking woman, swathed in layers of orange ruffles and bows, onto the pavement.

  “Wouldn’t mind her absence tonight, truth to tell.” Jutting her chin toward the commotion, Aunt Muriel slipped her reticule around her wrist. “She always wants to bore me with the latest clap trap or her current revolting ailment. I heard more about gout and constipation last week than a body ever needs to know.”

  Chuckling, Bradford descended first then turned to hand Aunt Muriel down.

  Hands clasped so tightly, her fingers tingled, Olivia remained rooted to her seat, her attention fixed on the entrance.

  Allen is in there.

  Bradford stuck his head inside the carriage. All signs of his former joviality gone, he regarded her for a long moment, kindness crinkling the corners of his eyes. He chucked her beneath her chin.

  “Come along, Kitten. Put on a brave smile, and let’s go meet the dragon. I dare say the past three years have been awful for you, always wondering if Wimpleton still cares. Who knows, mayhap tonight is providential. In any event, you’ll have an answer, and you can get on with your life.”

  Bradford had suffered the loss of his first love, and his facade of a carefree, womanizing rake, hid a deeply injured man. If anyone understood her plight, it was he.

  “I suppose that’s true.” Although her existence would be only a shadow of what life might have been with Allen.

  Such a pity hindsight, rather than foresight, birthed wisdom.

  Bradford extended his hand. “Let’s be about it then.”

  Sighing, and resigned to whatever providence flung her way, Olivia placed her palm in his. “All right.”

  “That’s my brave girl.” He gave her fingers a gentle, encouraging squeeze.

  Not brave. Wholly terrified. “So help me, Brady, you step more than two feet away from me, and I shall—”

  “Never fear, Kitten. I shall forsake my romantic pursuits and act the part of a diligent protector for the entire evening. I but lack my sword to slay your fears.”

  Despite her rioting nerves, Olivia grinned. “How gallant of you, dear brother, and a monumental sacrifice, at that.”

  “Indeed. A selfless martyr.” Sarcasm puckered Aunt Muriel’s face as if she had sucked a lemon. “For certain he’s deemed for sainthood now.”

  “Anything for you, Liv. You know that.” He tucked Olivia’s hand into the crook of one elbow while offering the other to their aunt before guiding the women up the wide steps. A few guests smiled and nodded in recognition as the trio entered the manor.

  Olivia forced her stiff lips upward and reluctantly passed her wrap to the waiting footman. Had he detected her shaking hands? The scarlet silk mantle provided much more than protection from the spring chill; it shrouded her in security. Her stomach fluttered and leaped about worse than frogs on hot pavement, threatening to make her ill.

  She ran her hands across her middle to smooth the champagne-colored gauze overlay of her new crimson ball gown Aunt Muriel had insisted on purchasing. The ruby jewelry she wore was her aunt’s as well.

  Though Bradford, now the newly titled Viscount Kingsley, had inherited a sizable fortune, Olivia had balked at acquiring a new wardrobe. “My gowns are perfectly fine. I’ll simply wear a shawl or mantle until I become accustomed to England’s clime once more.”

  Besides, if she didn’t reconcile with Allen, she was leaving London, and a wardrobe bursting with the latest frilly fashions was a senseless waste of money as well as useless for country life.

  “Chin up and smile, Livy. You look about to cast up your crumpets.” Bradford clasped her elbow, as if lending her his strength.

  Casting up her accounts was the least of her worries. Swallowing her panic, she offered him a grateful smile as they stood before the butler.

  “Her Grace, the Duchess of Daventry, Lord Kingsley, and Miss Kingsley.” The majordomo announced
them in the same droning monotone he had the previous guests.

  Behind Olivia, someone gasped.

  Perfect.

  A low murmur of hushed voices circled the room in less time than it took to curtsy as the three of them advanced into the ballroom. Perhaps Bradford’s rise in status caused the undue interest. After all, he had been third in line to the viscountcy, and if their curmudgeon of an uncle and two cousins hadn’t drowned in a boating accident, Brady would have been spared a title he disdained.

  Combing the room from beneath her lashes, her stomach lurched.

  Every eye was trained upon them. Her. At least it seemed that way from the brief glimpse she had braved.

  This is a mistake.

  Head lowered and her attention riveted on the polished marble floor, she prayed for strength. Where was the pluck Papa had praised her for, or the feistiness Bradford often teased her about? Or the spirit Allen had so admired?

  She could do this. She must if she were ever to discover the truth. Otherwise, not knowing would badger and pester her, preventing her from ever finding the peace she craved.

  Had Allen forgotten her? Did he love another now? That Miss Rossington?

  There was only one way to find out.

  Olivia forced her eyes upward. Inhaling, she squared her shoulders, commanded her lips to tilt pleasantly, and lifted her head.

  Her gaze collided squarely with Allen’s flabbergasted one.

  A lady of gentle-breeding should never appear too eager to engage the attentions or affections of a gentleman.

  ~A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment

  Chapter Three

  What the hell is she doing here?

  Allen damned near dumped his champagne down Miss Rossington’s ample bosom upon hearing Olivia’s name announced. Unprepared to see the woman he had once loved more than he had thought humanly possible standing in his home again, her presence had blindsided him.

  Utterly lovely, staring at him, her eyes startled and huge, Olivia’s beauty clobbered him with the same force as a horse’s kick to the gut. Those huge, Scottish beasts Sethwick’s sister raised with hooves the size of carriage wheels.

  Vises clamped his heart and squeezed his lungs as whooshing echoed in his ears, wave after wave, in accompaniment to his frantic heartbeat. Perspiration broke out across his upper lip and beaded his forehead. He didn’t need a looking glass to know he had gone white as new-fallen snow.

  For one very real moment, he couldn’t suck in an ounce of air and feared he would swoon. Wouldn’t that give the quartet of chinwags standing by the potted ficus something to bandy about? Especially Lady Clutterbuck, the worst gossipmonger in Town.

  Say, did you see Wimpleton? Keeled over like an ape-drunk sot.

  That he had taken to imbibing freely for some time now would lend credence to the tattle.

  Tiny blackish specks frolicked before his eyes, and the roaring in his ears became deafening.

  Breathe, man.

  Jaw rigid, he marshaled his composure and dragged in a painful, inadequate breath, then another. The blood thrumming in his ears lessoned a degree.

  One more ragged breath and his vision cleared a mite.

  Olivia’s presence sent him hurtling back to the evening she had announced her father’s intention to move her family to Barbados—in two bloody days.

  Desperate not to lose her, and willing to endure censure and scandal, Allen had thrown his pride aside and implored her to flee to Scotland with him that very night. His one instance of selfish impulsiveness. Look how well that had turned out.

  Now, she hovered, hesitant and anxious, at the ballroom’s entrance, and a tidal wave of devastation and hurt crashed down upon him, drowning him in remorse. It took every ounce of self–control to regard her impersonally.

  One hand pressed to her throat, Olivia looked positively wan—terrified even.

  Hell’s teeth. She better have a damned good reason for showing up on her aunt’s coattails.

  When had the Kingsleys returned to England? Why hadn’t anyone told him? Warned him?

  Likely because he had been absent from London the previous week, overseeing the delivery of some prime horseflesh to Wyndleyford House, their country estate. He’d only returned to London this morning.

  The duchess, stately as any queen, perused the ballroom. Her regard lit on Allen for an extended moment, and she dipped her head, her mouth arcing before her scrutiny gravitated onward.

  No blatant snub from her grace. Well, at least that was something.

  Allen fought dual impulses. One, to turn on his heel, giving Olivia the cut direct, and the other, to charge across the room, sweep her into his embrace, and beg her forgiveness in front of everyone.

  Only she had the ability to make him act recklessly, and the last time he’d done so hadn’t gone all that well. No. Much wiser to keep his distance, pretend she hadn’t once been his reason for living, and focus on his pursuit of an acceptable bride.

  Miss Rossington clawed at his arm, her citrine eyes sparking with jealousy, and her ruby-tinted lips tightly pursed. She looked about to fly into one of her starts.

  “Who is she? I don’t recall seeing that creature before.” She squinted, her tightly furrowed brows forming a vee between her eyes. “Egads, she’s a longshanks, isn’t she? Probably starves herself to stay that slender. And would you look at her hair? Colored, to be sure, just like a lady of the night.”

  Her almond-shaped eyes tapering to slits, she tittered with feline satisfaction. Haughtiness turned her striking features into an over-indulged, petulant child’s.

  What did she know of ladies of the night?

  He took a half-step back and took her measure, as if finally seeing her for the first time.

  Deuce take it.

  Allen cupped the back of his neck where a pair of cannon balls seemed to have taken up residence. Was he addled? He had half-heartedly contemplated courting this hellcat. Large bosoms and a beautiful face didn’t compensate for a narrow mind and spiteful shallowness.

  “Men prefer a woman with curves, or so I’ve been told.” She rubbed her breasts against his arm, fairly purring. This was no innocent miss, but a woman skilled in using her physical charms. Very experienced, or he missed his mark. “She’s a bit long in the tooth, isn’t she?”

  Allen clamped his jaw, his nostrils flaring, as she hurled yet another insult at a woman she had never met. It said much about her character. … Or lack, thereof.

  His too, that he had slid to such depths, that he would have ever considered tainting the Wimpleton name, his family’s heritage and exemplary standing, with a trollop like Penelope Rossington just so he could put the distasteful task of marriage behind him.

  That had been before Olivia’s unexpected return.

  Now the notion of a making a match with Miss Rossington was as welcome as gargling hot coals. Allen contemplated his half-full champagne flute. More fine bubbles floated to the top and popped. Truthfully, a union with anyone except Olivia held as much appeal.

  How could he still want her?

  His treacherous eyes searched her out again, a brilliant scarlet bloom in a bouquet of pale pinks, creamy ivories, and chaste whites.

  How could he not?

  “Do you know who the gentleman with her is?” Miss Rossington practically licked her lips as she ogled Kingsley. “He seems far superior in breeding. Perhaps she’s a poor relation—”

  “He’s her brother. Her name is Olivia Kingsley, and she’s …” He paused and looked at Miss Rossington.

  She glared at Olivia, jealousy distorting her face.

  My God, such a bratling.

  “How old are you?” Odd, he’d never wondered at her age before.

  Miss Rossington shifted her focus to him and elevated her chin. Her green eyes flashed with confidence, even as a seductress’s smile bent her overly-rouged mouth. “Eighteen. Almost nineteen.”

  The same age as Livy when we met.

  He tipped his lips at the ed
ges. The termagant clutching his arm was about to receive a proper set down. “She only boasts three years on you, and I assure you, that is her natural hair color.”

  From the corner of his eye, he covertly scrutinized the crowd. Most of the guests had made a pretense of resuming their activity prior to the announcement of the Kingsleys’ and duchess’s arrival.

  Olivia had drawn the consideration of nearly everyone present. Beauty such as hers commanded recognition, though she would be the first to decry the attention. Modest, she’d never seen the exquisiteness in her looking glass others did when gazing upon her. Maneuvering her way along the perimeter of the crowded ballroom, her brother and aunt, like alert sentinels, guarded her.

  Rather, the Duchess of Daventry, much like a schooner, the wind filling its canvases, sailed forth, parting the seas before them. With furled brows and piercing gazes, she and Kinsley cowed the more brazen or insolent guests who dared to stare at Olivia outright.

  Though her face held a placid expression, Olivia’s stiff posture and the firm set of her shapely mouth revealed she was well-aware of the murmurs behind fans and hands directed her way. Her vibrant coppery hair and ruby jewelry shone beneath the glowing chandeliers, but Allen detected vulnerability in her sooty-lashed eyes.

  His heart pinched painfully at her discomfort. Why he should care a whit about her feelings was beyond him, and that he yearned to comfort and protect her rankled him no end. A man should be able to control his deuced, capricious emotions, yet his disloyal heart—what was left of the mangled organ after she had shattered it to hell and back—ached for her.

  Nodding at something Kingsley said, the bronze highlights in Olivia’s cinnamon hair glinted like dark honey.