A Lord for Olivia (13 page)

“Indeed it does.” Lavinia nodded. “No matter how well cut or draped, a dress looks second-rate unless the—”

“Come, Olivia,” Corbright said, taking her by the elbow. “You cannot wish to listen to this any further.”

She pulled free. “Indeed, I am quite fascinated. But Mr. Barteau, I am sure you cannot guess the mantua maker, no, not even if you have a look at the construction.” Her smile was mischievous. “Don't you agree, Aunt?”

Barteau bristled. “I am sure I can, young woman. It was made in London, I know that. One does not find such dressmaking in the provinces.”

Olivia laughed at that. “Made right here in Norvale.”

“No, by Jove! You are bamming me! And your gown, Miss Lavinia Ormhill. Clearly by the same hand.” Mr. Barteau hopped from one foot to the other in his eagerness to work out the puzzle. “Do tell me what local mantua maker has such ability?”

“Oh, put him out of his misery, Miss Ormhill,” Corbright snapped. “She made the wretched things. Now do come away, Olivia.”

“Yes, do,” the elder Miss Herville, Jane by name, pleaded. “I wish you to meet some more of my guests, for I do not believe you know George and Arthur Swalen. You, too, Lord Edmund.” She led the young people away from the older couple's fashion discussion, which continued unabated.

“So this is the prize of that famous wager,” the elder brother, George, cried, upon being introduced to Olivia. “I have had it incorrectly, for I heard you lost, Lord Edmund, and thus had to marry her. Meeting you, Miss Ormhill, I cannot believe it to be thus.”

Edmund frowned. “That drunken wager was null and void the minute it was made. Please do not further any discussion that causes Miss Ormhill embarrassment.”

“Hear, hear!” Corbright threw in. “For once we are in complete agreement, Edmund. I intend to have a word with that innkeeper, to stop such talk.”

“One look at Miss Ormhill will put it to the lie. At least the part about Lord Edmund losing and being forced to wed her.” George smiled down at Olivia. “May I hope you will favor me with a dance after dinner?”

“And me?” The younger brother chimed in.

Olivia would have preferred to say no. She saw little to like in either of these young men, with their bold, roving eyes. Politeness dictated that she agree, however.

“Good,” George crowed. “I shall have your waltz.”

“I am sorry, it is already spoken for, sir. Another dance, perhaps.”

A few minutes and all of Olivia's dances were bespoken, as the informal evening would include only a few sets. Dinner was announced, and Corbright, who had stood at her elbow during the entire discussion of her dances without reserving any, offered Olivia his arm to escort her to the table. She accepted reluctantly.

“It was clever of you to say your waltz was taken, Olivia. How I have longed to dance it again with you.”

“You mistake the matter, Lord Corbright,” she said in as chilly a voice as possible. “The waltz is reserved for someone else.”

“The devil. I won't have any dances with you at all, then. Who has it?”

“Not you. And I am glad you have no dances, for you have made yourself persona non grata to me this evening thrice over.”

He held her back as the others went in. “What do you mean? Why?”

“First, you insulted our houseguest by ignoring him; then you were insufferably rude to my aunt, but worst of all, you introduced me to your uncle as your fiancée. I am
not
your fiancée, sir, and I'll thank you to give no one else that impression.”

Corbright's expression could only be described as petulant. “I meant no harm. I think of you that way, and—”

“Shall we go in? We are being left behind.” Olivia turned her face toward the door.

“Who has your waltz? Perhaps he will give it up.”

“You are forbidden to try. If he gives it up, I will sit it out with my aunt. Are you going to escort me to dinner or not?”

Corbright led her off in silence, a fierce frown on his face.

Olivia's dinner companions consisted of dull Mr. Marshmore on her left, and too, too bright Mr. George Swalen on her right. Mr. Marshmore could speak only of pigs, as she knew from previous dinners. While she could converse knowledgeably with him upon the merits of the various breed and the best means of farrowing, she did not find the topic perfectly suited to dining nor sufficiently interesting for an entire evening spent at his side.

She turned with relief to Mr. Swalen, who fixed that lively, mocking eye on her and said, “So the other scandalous rumor about you is true.”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You are, indeed, a lady farmer, versed in livestock and crops and caring for little else. Hard to imagine in one so outwardly feminine.”

Her chin came up. “I have never understood why such knowledge renders a woman less feminine. Perhaps you will wish to reconsider your request for a dance?”

“By no means.” He looked unrepentant, a disagreeable kind of merriment dancing in his eyes. “I have never paired a farmer in the cotillion before. Now tell me, do you truly find porcine management fascinating? If so, I will dig down deep and see what I can manage to say to the point.”

“Perhaps we should discuss horses instead, Mr. Swalen. I expect you are just the sort of gentleman to have a great interest in that subject.”

“Depends,” he said after considering judiciously. “Draft animals do not fascinate me, nor yet hackneys. Now if the subject is thoroughbreds, especially those bred to race, I am your man. As to that, I am your man for any number of other purposes, if you wish it.”

What I wish,
she thought,
is that I were not seated next to you.
She smiled a tight little smile and asked him if he had a favorite in the fall meet at Newmarket. That distracted him from his rakish teasing and launched him on a discourse that gave her leisure to look surreptitiously about the table. Her eyes first went to Edmund, who was seated just across the table from her and down enough that she could see him around the massive epergne of fruit that was the centerpiece.
Next to him sat Mary Benson. She had her head tilted to one side, and was looking into his eyes with an expression that could only be interpreted as adoring.

So. Edmund has made a conquest already.
She studied him a moment before turning back to nod and murmur encouragingly to Mr. Swalen.
I do not blame her. He is as handsome as he can stare. Doubtless her father will separate them as soon as possible, though.
Miss Benson was a great heiress with a notoriously protective father.

Her next opportunity to look around brought her aunt and Corbright's uncle into view. To her surprise, Aunt Lavinia was looking at Mr. Barteau with almost as much admiration as Mary Benson was bestowing on Lord Edmund. Moreover, Mr. Barteau showed none of the disdain or disinterest that gentlemen usually displayed with her plain aunt. He focused his attention entirely on her, and spoke with enthusiasm. She wondered if the discussion of fashion was still under way.

“Miss Ormhill. I do believe you find my horses less interesting than Marshmore's swine.”

She swung her attention back to Mr. Swalen. “Not at all. You were saying that your stallion was out of Bastion by Silver Loo, and I was looking for my brother, Jason, for that reminded me he expressed an interest in adding that line to our breeding program. Have you met my brother?”

“No, I haven't had that pleasure as yet.”

She gestured with her head. “He is sitting two seats down from our host, next to Jane Herville. After dinner I will introduce you. Perhaps he will wish to send you a mare to be bred.”

Swalen smiled insinuatingly. “To breed into your line would be delightful, Miss Ormhill.”

Olivia drew in a sharp breath and felt her face flush. “I wonder, sir, how it comes you think you may speak to me thus? I pray it will not be in hearing of my brother or friends, for you may find you have to defend yourself.”

Mr. Swalen glanced down the table at Jason. His upper lip lifted in a perceptible sneer. “I am all in a quake. Your brother indeed looks formidable.”

“I have friends,” she snapped.

“Do you speak of Debham? Or Corbright? But to call on them would doubtless raise expectations you seem unwilling to fulfill. As you chose to conduct your life as a man, why do you not enjoy the freedom of a man, Miss Ormhill? I would be more than happy to, ah, serve you, without any expectation of marriage.”

Olivia had never been spoken to in such a manner before. She turned away, blinking furiously, horrified to find that she was near tears. And the devil of it was, the obnoxious man spoke some truth. Who would take up arms on her behalf? Jason, certainly. Edmund, as Swalen said. And Corbright.

And could she bear the consequences of such an action, where failure must mean death to someone she cared for, and success might well mean being beholden to someone she preferred to keep at arm's length?
And it would mean I must admit to myself and all the world that I need a man to protect me,
she thought. This aspect of female existence had never before been borne in on her with such force.

Rather than have more speech with the man who had become so suddenly a demon in her mind, she turned back to Mr. Marshmore and smiled at him, determined to engage him in conversation about porcine matters until the dinner had ended.

 

T
he ladies followed Mrs. Herville into her salon, named rather grandly the Queen Elizabeth drawing room, though it was doubtful the great queen had ever been near Norvale. There the conversation quickly turned to the eligible men present that evening. Olivia learned that the Swalens were former army officers who had recently purchased the Smithfield place. She parried a spate of pointed questions about her relationships with Lord Corbright and Lord Edmund, then spent the next half hour listening to the praises of both men being sung by young ladies and their mothers. Clearly her announcement that she had no claim to either of these gentlemen, nor wished to have any, had relieved them a great deal.

Mary Benson particularly sang the praises of Lord Edmund, whom she declared all that a gentleman should be. “He told the most exciting war story at dinner,” she said.

This surprised Olivia, knowing how unpleasant a topic the war was to him.
She is fairly smitten,
Olivia thought.
I do hope her father isn't too rude in letting Edmund know his suit is unwelcome.
Mr. Benson was a wealthy man, heir to a fortune made in India by his uncle. Mary had many suitors, though at the advanced age of eighteen she still languished unmarried, as her father had refused all offers for her hand. She was a featherheaded young woman, as was quickly proved when Jane Herville asked her to retell Lord Edmund's war story.

Mary waved her hands distractedly. “Oh, I can't
remember it all. Something about his horse joining in the fighting. It left me quite breathless, but you must ask him for the details.”

It looked as if they would have the chance to do so immediately, for the gentlemen began filtering into the room just then, obviously intent on dancing with the young ladies rather than spending their time together over the port. Corbright made directly for Olivia, which she could not understand, as he had no dance to claim. Just behind him Edmund and Mr. Benson entered together, and to Olivia's surprise the men seemed on extremely good terms with one another. The older man steered Edmund straight toward Mary, and though she could not hear what was said, Olivia concluded it contained nothing to dampen Mary's spirits, and Edmund took his seat beside the girl while the father joined his peers by the fireplace.

“Looks as if Eddy has made a conquest,” Corbright murmured into her ear, startling her a little, for her attention had been entirely focused upon the same little saga.

“It does indeed, and with her father's approval, more's the surprise.”

“Doubtless he is unaware of Edmund's penniless status. Or perhaps Mr. Benson is becoming desperate to marry off the little hen-wit.” He smiled down at her, then sat by her side. “I cannot tolerate hen-witted females, you know. Intelligent ones are much more to my taste.”

She felt a wave of the old magic sweep over her as Franklin looked into her eyes, his warm approval softening the heart it had first won when she was an awkward sixteen-year-old smarting under the criticism that she was a bluestocking. His words particularly soothed her after George Swalen's insults. For the first time in several years she smiled at him without reservation. “Even if they don't care to pursue Greek anymore?”

“Ah. You will return to your true nature once you are relieved of the burdens you currently carry.”

Olivia frowned, but before she could respond, Mrs. Herville began urging her guests into the ballroom, where a small band of local musicians struck up a lively tune as they
entered the room. Corbright escorted Olivia there, and to her surprise made as if to lead her out. “This dance was promised to . . .” She remembered the name with a sudden blush. Her obnoxious dinner partner had taken her first dance, and she had wondered how she would get out of it without refusing to dance the rest of the evening. She didn't want to do that. It had been a long time, but Olivia had always loved to dance, and found herself yearning to take the floor again.

“To my utter surprise Mr. George Swalen approached me and asked me to take his place. He said you had taken exception to some remarks of his during dinner and he doubted either of you would enjoy the dance.”

“He is entirely correct,” Olivia said, chin up. “I am pleased not to have him partner me.”

Corbright looked severe. “Did he insult you in any way, Livvy? For if he did, I will make him pay for it!”

“You men. Always so eager to fight! No, Franklin, there is no need to do anything more than dance with me.”

“With the greatest pleasure.” His pale blue eyes flashed with an intensity that made Olivia catch her breath. Corbright made good use of the little snatches of conversation they were allowed during the dance to continue the compliments he had begun in the drawing room.

“Your gown is ravishing,” he said. “You are by far the loveliest woman here.”

A few moments later: “. . . and the most intelligent.

“. . . and the most interesting.

“The Greeks, you know, had many strong yet feminine women among their pantheon of goddesses. Men who do not find the combination of beauty and brains beguiling are fools.”

His remarks almost form a counterpoint to Swalen's,
Olivia thought as they were separated again in the figures of the dance. The blue-devils that had threatened after her dinner partner's disdain fled her, leaving a kind of effervescence in their place.

“You are gallant, sir,” she responded.

“Honest,” was his reply. “I should like to see you attired
as a goddess. Lovely as is your costume, I imagine you in Grecian drapery. Diana, perhaps, with her quiver and bow.”

She laughed. “I cannot hit a target two feet in front of me.”

“Athena, then. Wise as well as lovely.”

“Sometimes I am not wise at all.” For a moment she felt sad, thinking of her dilemma with her brother, who so yearned for her to marry and free him of his obligation to watch over her. Did the solution now weave through the formations of the dance with her?

“Or best of all, Aphrodite.”

She blushed. “A rather naughty female at times, I believe.”

“Yes.” He looked quite serious as they moved apart once, and when they came together again he said, “Perhaps I should best liken you to Odysseus's wife, that pattern of fidelity and capability, whose name I suddenly can't recall.”

“Penelope.”

“That's the one! Like you, she managed his affairs quite well while he was gone, and fended off all suitors, to welcome her long-lost husband at last.”

The dance had ended. They stood together, staring at one another, as the others left the floor. Slowly, reluctantly, he relinquished her to her next partner. Her mind busied itself with Corbright's comments and her own surprisingly favorable response as she gave superficial attention to her partner in the next dance.

This distraction ended when Edmund stood before her for the waltz. The warmth in his brown eyes brought her back to the present with a heart-fluttering thump. She dimly recollected seeing him dancing with Mary in the previous set. She decided to tease him upon the matter.

“It seems you have made a conquest, my lord.”

He did not pretend to misunderstand her. “She is a child, and a rather silly one at that. Her father is a man of sense, though.”

“I am surprised he was so cordial to you. He guards his daughter like a dog with a bone, in the general way.”

“From fortune hunters, you mean.” His expression darkened.

Olivia saw that she had hurt him, and regretted it. “That was not my meaning.”

“Wasn't it?” He lifted a skeptical eyebrow as the music began and he swung her into the waltz.

“No, I meant—”

“Never mind, Olivia. I do not want to talk about or think about Mary Benson just now.” The look he gave her sent a surge of warmth through her blood. For the rest of the dance they gave themselves up to the music and the rhythm, and the feeling of being so close.

Perhaps I am a bit too much like Aphrodite,
Olivia thought as she found herself disappointed when the music ended.
To have two men create such warmth of feeling in me in one night is quite scandalous.
The reasons differed, though. Corbright had soothed her pride, but Edmund had stirred her blood.

Arthur Swalen did not appear for his dance, either, and Olivia decided to sit at her aunt's side instead of accepting another partner. She noted with amazement that Aunt Lavinia was being returned to the chaperones' chairs by Mr. Barteau.
Aunt Lavinia has been dancing!
She could never remember a time when her aunt had danced, much less danced a waltz.

Mr. Barteau bowed deeply to Lavinia, thanked her lavishly for the dance, and offered to bring both women some lemonade. As the room was warm, this was a welcome suggestion. Edmund had already left her to seek out his next partner, and she sat fanning herself as she watched both him and Franklin partner other women in a minuet.

“He dances divinely,” Aunt Lavinia said.

“Who, Corbright or Lord Edmund?”

Lavinia looked a little startled. “Both,” she pronounced, after a moment's consideration.

“Yes, both.” Olivia sighed.

“But that was not my meaning. I referred to Mr. Barteau.”

Olivia turned to give Lavinia her full attention. “I did not know you could waltz, Aunt.”

“Nor did I.” It was Lavinia's turn to sigh.

Olivia was speechless. Her aunt was clearly infatuated. She glared at Mr. Barteau, just returning with their lemonade.
I do hope his careless attentions to her do not arouse hopes that cannot be fulfilled, and break her heart.
From things her aunt had let drop in conversation through the years, she knew the homely woman had once yearned for suitors, for a husband, for family. Failing that, she had lived with her brother, Olivia and Jason's father. Olivia's mother had died when she was twelve. From that time until this Lavinia had been a mother to Olivia and Jason, and their affection for her was deep. Olivia thought she had been reasonably contented with her lot in life. It would be a great shame for her equilibrium to be upset to no purpose. Mr. Barteau was no paragon of physical beauty himself, of course, but Olivia knew wealthy men expected—and usually could command—a beautiful bride even when they were quite homely.

She sipped her lemonade and listened as Lavinia and Mr. Barteau continued what was obviously an ongoing conversation about fashion history.

When the dancing had ended and the party began to break up, Corbright returned to Olivia's side and remained there as the guests took their leave of their hosts; then he followed her to her carriage. “I'll call on you tomorrow,” he said, handing her up.

She looked down at him and smiled. “It being Sunday, I expect I shall see you in church.”

“I expect I shall, else I would not dare call at your home after, or your uncle would read me the riot act!”

“Just so. He thinks you half a pagan.”

“I am.” He ignored the servant trying to put up the steps, stepping up to bring his lips to Olivia's ear. “ ‘Great God! I'd rather be a pagan, suckled in a creed outworn. . . .' ”

She tapped his cheek with her fan. “Shush. He'll hear you.”

He kissed his hand to her as he descended to the carriageway.
“Au revoir.”

Olivia settled next to Lavinia, smiling.

“You both look like the cat that ate the cream,” her uncle grumbled from deep in the corner of the carriage.

“A delightful evening,” Olivia said.

“It was indeed,” Lavinia said. “And he is to call tomorrow.”

“Don't scowl, Uncle Milton. He has promised to be in church,” Olivia said.

“He said nothing of it to me,” Lavinia cried. “I did not think to mention it to him.”

Olivia guessed her meaning, but Uncle Milton wondered, “Why should you think to urge Lord Corbright to church, sister?”

“Corbright? Why, indeed? I meant Mr. Barteau.”

 

“Aunt Lavvy?” Olivia awakened her aunt by shaking her shoulder. “Jason and Edmund have not come home from the party.”

“I expect they went to the Black Lion afterward. You know Jason always says he can't sleep after dancing.”

“Yes, but it is so late.” Olivia looked at her aunt's mantel clock. “Three
A
.
M
.”

“You worry about him too much, Olivia.” Lavinia's voice sounded weary. “Go to sleep, dear. Edmund is with him, after all.”

Edmund is with him.
It did comfort her a little. “Sorry I woke you.” She leaned over and kissed Lavinia on the cheek. Once she was back in her room, sleep refused to come. The events of the evening played around and around in her head: Corbright's rudeness, Mary Benson's infatuation with Edmund, George Swalen's insults, Corbright's flattery, her two dances, for she did not count any of the others, only the dances with Franklin and Edmund. How she had responded to both men. And then there was her aunt's infatuation with Mr. Barteau.