Allen had always adored her glorious hair. “The color of her hair is splendid, is it not?”
Miss Rossington released an irritated huff, her talon-like fingers tightening on his forearm. Clearly, she did not agree. “And how would you know about her dull hair? Rusty nails shine brighter. Assuredly that shade is not God-given.” Accusation rang in her petulant voice, and his estimation of her dove lower. “Women of her ilk are quite skilled at artifice.”
You ought to know.
Taking Miss Rossington’s measure, he gave himself a violent mental shake. God spare him title-hungry viragos with the morals of a bitch in heat. She had become much too possessive of late, and her disparaging Olivia was beyond the mark.
Yes. It was far past time to put Penelope Rossington in her place and disabuse her of any notion she was viscountess-worthy, once and for all. If ever a woman was beneath the privilege, it as she.
Feeling far freer than he had in a long while, Allen took a deep breath and notching his chin, he caught site of his mother poised, statue-still, her focus riveted on Olivia.
Her eyes round as tea saucers, Mother’s gaze traveled from Olivia, lingered on Miss Rossington for a fraction then drifted back to Olivia once more. She unfurled her fan, and Allen swore he saw her grin—a face splitting show of white teeth—before she began frenetically waving the fan and bustled toward Father, shoving guests aside in her haste.
“Well, don’t you intend to answer me, Allen?” Miss Rossington’s voice rose shrilly with all the charm and appeal of someone chewing glass. “How do you know her?”
Allen handed his flute to a passing footman. “It isn’t any of your concern, but I shall indulge you anyway.”
And quite enjoy your reaction.
He peeled her claws from his arm, finger by finger, and once free, smoothed his wrinkled coat sleeve.
“Olivia Kingsley is the woman I almost married.”
Other than her gloved hands, at no time should any part of a lady’s form touch a gentleman’s while dancing.
~A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment
Chapter Four
Allen.
Olivia’s heart cried silently across the distance as she ravenously scoured every inch of him from his burnished hair to his gleaming shoes, before returning to his adored face. Their gazes locked, and time hung suspended for an intense, agonizing moment.
“Olivia, stop gawking. People will think you’re fast or desperate.” Speaking under her breath, Aunt Muriel nudged her. “Come along. Let’s find a seat, shall we?”
Olivia dragged her gaze from Allen, and Bradford took her by the elbow. Skirting the guests, they wove their way through the crush toward the black Trafalgar chairs bordering one side of the ballroom.
Allen was exactly as she remembered—ruggedly handsome and wholly irresistible.
With an utterly exquisite young woman on his arm.
Using her brother as a shield, Olivia covertly eyed Allen, drinking him in with her gaze.
Attired in black, except for a scarlet and silver waistcoat, he exuded maleness. High cheekbones framed a nose too strong to be considered aristocratic, but his lips were perfectly sculpted.
She had tasted those delicious lips once. So long ago. She touched her mouth with her gloved fingertips in remembrance.
“Olivia!” Aunt Muriel hissed from the side of her mouth while smiling and inclining her head at acquaintances as she sailed forth, towing Olivia in her wake. She squeezed Olivia’s elbow when she didn’t respond immediately. “Put your hand down. Compose yourself at once. I’ll not have you disparaged for acting the ninny.”
Olivia pretended to scratch her upper lip—indelicate, but a far cry better than pressing her fingers to her mouth—then dropped her hand, her attention still locked on Allen. “But, Aunt Muriel, you said you wanted Allen to kiss me. Surely that’s scandal-worthy.”
“True, but an indiscretion in a secluded nook is a far cry from making a spectacle in full view of the beau monde. A lady can do exactly what a strumpet does, the difference being, she doesn’t carry on in the street.” Exchanging nods with a dour-faced peeress, Aunt Muriel steered Olivia forward and muttered an almost inaudible, “Lady Clutterbuck. A pedantic fussock, and the worst tattlemonger in all London.”
Adopting a smile, Olivia spared the dame a glance, nearly recoiling at the disapproval lining the woman’s close-set eyes and, pouting fish lips. No ally there.
A group of arrogant, young bucks swaggered toward a cluster of giggling debutants, and Olivia seized the opportunity to sneak another look at Allen. His thick, sable hair swept across a high brow, accented his heavy-lashed malachite eyes. He had the most arresting eyes she had ever seen on a man. An errant lock curled over his tanned forehead, giving him a rakish air. Even across the room, his unusual green eyes glinted with something powerful.
Umbrage? Anger? Outrage?
Her step faltered, and she swallowed, not at all positive that what glistened in the depths of his gaze was hospitable. For certain, the black look his lovely companion glared at Olivia radiated hostility.
Miss Rossington?
“Buck up, Kitten. The ton is watching, their pointed teeth bared and ready to attack anyone showing the least weakness.” Bradford whispered the warning in her ear as he led her to a trio of empty seats along what had once been a peach and ivory silk-draped wall, now a sunny primrose yellow.
Lady Wimpleton had recently redecorated and refurbished the inside of the mansion too.
Everything was much the same, yet different as well. Rather like Olivia and Allen. She stole another glance at him. His dark visage offered her no quarter, and her legs gone weak, she sank thankfully onto a chair.
Yes, indeed, this was the worst possible idea. Rather like setting sail upon the ocean in a leaky skiff.
During a tempest.
Without provisions.
Naked and blind.
Perhaps she would seek out the ladies’ retiring room and spent the next hour or two cloistered there.
“Ah, I see Lady Pinterfield.” Aunt Muriel indicated a woman wearing copious layers of puce and black, almost as garishly attired as she. “I need to speak with her. Her chef concocts the most delicious ratafia cakes. I simply must acquire the recipe, though she’s been impossibly difficult to persuade to part with it. I haven’t given up yet, mind you. I shall invite her to tea to sample her very own recipe. She cannot refuse me then.” Pulling a face, Aunt Muriel sighed. “I suppose I can be persuaded to endure her company for an hour in exchange for those delicacies.”
With a fluttering wave, she all but bolted toward the unsuspecting woman.
Olivia gave a closed-lip smile as Aunt Muriel swooped in on her startled prey. Heaven help Lady Pinterfield if she still wasn’t eager to share the recipe.
True to his word, Bradford, after snaring a flute of champagne from a cheerful footman, took a position beside an enormous, cage-shaped potted ficus to Olivia’s left.
Several twittering damsels openly ogled him, lust in their not-so-innocent eyes.
He curved his lips into a knowing smile and gave them a roguish wink.
A chorus of thrilled giggles and blushes followed, and then a quiet buzz hummed as they bent their heads near and a flurry of whispering commenced with an occasional bold peek from below fluttering lashes.
Others—older, more experience ladies—spoke behind their fans to one another or, with a seductive curving of their painted mouths, brazenly stared.
His grin widened as he leaned, ankles crossed, against the wall and perused the assembled female guests from beneath his hooded eyes. He quite enjoyed the reactions he garnered.
Incorrigible scapegrace.
At six and twenty, he ought to stop behaving recklessly, but to do so meant he had put Philomena’s memory aside. That wasn’t something Olivia was certain he would ever be able to do. He had been just shy of twenty when Philomena had died, but he’d truly loved her. Still did, for that matter.
Oli
via and Bradford made quite the pair, both doomed to suffer for their lost loves, although a large portion of Olivia’s misery could be attributed to her own making.
A young woman pointed at her and snickered.
Tendrils of heat snaked from Olivia’s neck to her cheeks. Edging her chin up a degree, she whipped her fan open. Waving it briskly, she surreptitiously studied Allen and attempted to ignore the not-altogether-kind feminine tittering further along the neat row of chairs. Let them prattle. She didn’t count any of them as friends. Groups had gathered in nearly every open space, and from one, several gentlemen scrutinized her, likely trying to decide whether to ask her to dance.
Please don’t.
To discourage their attentions, she angled her back toward them. Not that she didn’t enjoy dancing—she rather adored the pastime, especially the waltz. It had been three years since she’d attended any event with dancing as part of the entertainment, but tonight, she only cared to partner with one man.
Deliberately turning even farther away from their appraisal, she caught her breath.
No. It cannot be.
A woman bearing a striking resemblance to Philomena disappeared through the French windows.
Impossible. Utter piddle.
Olivia had become so flustered upon seeing Allen, she now imagined things. See what the man did to her?
Allen stood across the ballroom, his stance rigid and his countenance an unreadable mask. He didn’t acknowledge Olivia’s presence with as much as a blink or a nod.
That stung. More than she cared to admit. She had attempted to brace herself for this response but underestimated how painful the actual rejection would be.
She flapped her fan faster, her grip on the slender handle tight enough to snap the fragile wood. Well, what had she expected? That he had forgiven her and would charge across the ballroom, take her in his arms, and profess his undying love in full view of all?
Yes. Though unrealistic, far-fetched, and idealistic, that is what she’d hoped for.
It would have been wonderful—more than wonderful—an answer to three years’ worth of desperate prayers. Instead, it appeared he intended to disregard her. To give her the cut. He had never been cruel before, which proved how much she’d wounded him.
Deeply. Irrevocably. Permanently.
A crest of disappointment engulfed her, and a sob rose from her chest to her throat as stinging tears welled in her eyes.
I will not cry. I. Will. Not!
Not here. Not now.
She wouldn’t give the gossips the satisfaction. Later, in her bedchamber, when no prying or gloating gazes could witness her heartache and mortification, she would indulge in a good cry. One final time. Then, she would dry her eyes, square her shoulders, and march, head held high, into her lonely future.
Like waves to the shore, Allen drew her perusal once more. He held a champagne glass in one hand, his other arm commandeered by that stunning, petite blonde.
Olivia quirked her lips into a cynical smile. At five feet ten inches, and with a head of unruly auburn hair, she was neither petite nor blonde. Nor nearly as curvaceous as the creature clinging to Allen, gazing at him with adoration, her full breasts crushed against his arm.
Ridiculously huge breasts, truth to tell.
Did she stuff her gown? How did her small frame support those monstrosities? With her nipples poking forth so, it was a wonder she didn’t topple forward onto her face and crack the parquet flooring with them.
The blonde shifted away from Allen slightly, bringing Olivia’s less than charitable musings to a screeching halt.
She blinked in disbelief.
Were those …?
No. They couldn’t be.
Olivia’s jaw loosened, but she managed to prevent it from smacking against her chest.
She squinted at the girl’s bosom.
Yes. They were.
Dual earth-toned circular shadows were clearly visible through the gown’s light fabric.
Good God. Wasn’t she wearing a chemise?
Parading about naked beneath one’s gown, displaying one’s ware like a Friday night harlot was beyond the pale.
The woman peered up at Allen, her countenance enraptured, and blister it, from where Olivia sat, he appeared as entranced as the young lady. Or maybe it was the blatant display of womanly attributes he found spellbinding.
Her bountiful bosoms certainly held numerous other gentlemen’s rapt attention.
Dropping her gaze to her beaded, crimson slippers, jealousy nipped Olivia, sharp and deep. Scorching tears pricked behind her eyelids again, and hiding behind her fan’s protection, she shut them.
Too late. I’m too confounded late.
She drew in a shuddery breath, willing her eyes to stop pooling with moisture.
Well, that was that. Bradford could find their aunt while Olivia waited in the carriage. At least she knew Allen’s feelings now, but the knowledge brought her no respite.
“Miss Kingsley, may I request the pleasure of a dance?”
Startled, Olivia eyes popped open, and she clutched her throat, her fan tumbling to the floor. Allen had approached, rapid and soundless. And oh, so very welcome.
Where had the female barnacle gotten to? The way she had clung to Allen, Olivia doubted the chit had been pried loose voluntarily and was likely vexed. Offering a poised, albeit timorous smile, she peered past his black-clad muscled form as he straightened from his bow.
Ah, there she was, attached to another attractive gentleman, so scandalously close a starving flea couldn’t have squeezed between them if the insect held its breath. Her cat-eyes sparked with irritation as she took Olivia’s measure before turning her back in an intentional snub.
Had she some claim to Allen? An informal promise? A secret betrothal?
Olivia’s stomach and hope withered.
“Has another requested the next dance?” Allen’s melodious baritone drew her ponderings back to him.
Olivia opened her mouth, but her mind went blank—empty as a beggar’s purse, just as she had feared.
Then dear Bradford was there, picking up her brisé fan and saving her from her gaucheness. “No. No one has requested a dance with my sister as yet. You are the first.”
Bradford!
He avoided looking at Olivia as he stood upright. “Of course she would be delighted to accept your offer.”
She chastised him hotly with her gaze.
Just you wait, Brady, you traitorous toad.
After returning the accessory to her, he extended his hand to Allen. “Good to see you, Wimpleton.”
Allen smiled and clasped her brother’s palm. He seemed genuinely pleased to see Bradford. They had been good friends before the Kingsley’s departure.
“Likewise, Kingsley. Are you finding London’s temperature a mite cool after your time in the tropics? No doubt you’re eager to return to the milder climate.” Green fire burned in the gaze he slid Olivia as he uttered the last slightly clipped words.
His stinging innuendo met its mark, and she flinched inwardly but refused to let him see he had affected her. Rather amazed at her ability to appear composed, she met his cool regard.
“We’re not returning, Mr. Wimpleton. After Papa died last year, Bradford sold the plantation.”
Allen’s forehead creased in momentary surprise, and then he swiftly schooled his expression. “I heard of your loss. Please accept my condolences.”
“Thank you.” She inclined her head and another bothersome curl flopped free.
Dratted hair.
Allen’s lip twitched. He’d forever been tucking stray tendrils behind her ears or helping her re-pin errant strands. More than once, he had expressed the wish to see her hair down.
Bradford grinned, his attention directed across the room. “Olivia, since Wimpleton is partnering you for this dance, I’ve a mind to reacquaint myself with his sister and ask her to introduce me to that delectable creature standing beside her.”
Olivia followed
his regard.
A ravishing brunette wearing a stunning lavender-pink gown burst out laughing at something Ivonne said. The raven-haired beauty really ought to be warned, so she could flee before Bradford ensnared her. Poor dear. Once under his spell, women usually stuck fast, like ants in molasses, for a good while.
Until he broke their heart.
He didn’t do it intentionally, but when they became too clinging, their sights set on marriage, he gently severed his association. Only, they didn’t always willingly go their own way, and then he was forced to brusqueness.
“Behave yourself, Brady.”
He chuckled wickedly and wagged his eyebrows. “Always, Kitten.”
With a devilish wink and half-bow, he took his leave and sauntered away.
So much for gallant promises.
His expression somber, Allen extended his hand, palm upward. “The waltz is about to begin. Shall we?”
Olivia stared at his outstretched hand.
Did she dare? Wasn’t this why she had come?
Now was as good a time as any to test the waters. Sink or swim. Unable to take a decent breath, she did feel she was drowning, especially when she gazed into his eyes. Intense emotion simmered there, and her pulse quickened in response. She inhaled, an inadequate, puny puff of air. Mayhap her new French stays were to blame for her breathlessness.
Fustian rubbish.
Allen was to blame.
The musicians’ first strains echoed loudly in the oddly quiet room. Perhaps he commanded all her senses, and everything else had faded into the background.
“Miss Kingsley? The waltz, if you please?” Allen’s soft prompt steadied her nerves.
“Yes, of course.” Summoning a tremulous smile, Olivia placed her equally shaky fingers in his hand and allowed him to assist her to her feet. His unique scent—crisp, spicy, yet woodsy—smacked her with the force of a cudgel.
She inhaled deeply, savoring his essence as he tucked her hand into the bend of his elbow and led her onto the sanded floor.
A path opened before them. Like the parting of the Red Sea, several other couples moved aside, allowing them to pass, a few speculating openly as she and Allen walked by.
Romantic Legends Page 62
