The Wedding Affair (28 page)

Silence dropped over the room for a moment.

“Indeed,” Simon said. “I think on that note, gentlemen, we should rejoin the ladies, since we seem to be missing their company.”

At his right, he thought he heard the Earl of Townsend murmur, “Speak for yourself, Simon.” But the earl drained his port glass and pushed back his chair along with the others.

Simon dawdled behind the others as they entered the drawing room. The vicar made straight for Kate Blakely and began what looked like a monologue. The three newcomers—Ponsonby, Warren, and Chadwick—carried out their assignments with the same military precision with which they had executed maneuvers on the Peninsula; they fanned out to create multiple diversions, and each was soon surrounded by young ladies.

With the bridesmaids distracted, Simon strolled through the drawing room, pausing to chat with each of the older ladies, his path precisely arranged to end beside the sofa where Olivia sat with Lady Townsend.

If he couldn’t be in bed with Olivia, Simon thought, then the next best thing was to sit beside her. He could think of worse ways to spend an evening than flirting with Olivia. Scheming to find ways to touch her even under his mother’s watchful gaze was entertainment enough for the moment—and since she was so delightfully responsive to every glance and breath and word, he looked forward to an even more enjoyable night when they were finally alone.

The sooner, the better.

***

Only a moment after Olivia had retrieved the stickpin and tucked it safely away once more, the gentlemen returned to the drawing room. Olivia was still vibrating from her close call—in another few seconds, Lady Stone would have seen the sapphire. Or worse, the duchess herself might have turned her head and recognized it.

A pretty problem it would have been to explain to the duke’s mother why his stickpin was in Olivia’s possession. What on earth would she have said, anyway?
“I found it in the hall just now. One of the gentlemen must have dropped it, so I mean to ask as soon as they rejoin us. Unless one of you recognizes it?”

But the duke was wearing bottle green tonight, with a glorious diamond in his neckcloth, so he couldn’t have lost a sapphire at dinnertime. And since Olivia couldn’t even make
herself
believe a valuable stone could have lain in the hallway for hours without Halstead’s vigilant staff noticing, she knew better than to try that story on the duchess.

Stop it
, she told herself. The stickpin was safely back in her reticule. The mark on Penny Townsend’s cheek was tiny, barely a pinprick, and would quickly heal. No real damage had been done.

But Olivia had thought the stickpin was safe before, bundled into an extra handkerchief and tucked deep into her bag. She couldn’t keep taking chances.

She sat quietly and tried to listen while Daphne and her friends entertained the company with music, even though in Olivia’s shattered state, cats screeching on the garden wall would have sounded better. The duke sat beside her, looking like the perfect gentleman. There was not even a touch that would appear anything but proper to an observer.

And yet there was nothing at all proper about the emotions he roused in her. Every word, every glance, every half smile made her feel naked and as though she was sprawled across a blanket somewhere with him leaning over her and looking his fill.

The music finally ended, and as Olivia lifted her hands to applaud, her reticule slid off her lap. As the bag hit the carpet she saw that the drawstring had come open, and her heart went to her throat. If the stickpin fell out now…

Simon swooped up the bag and laid it in her hands. What no one could see, Olivia was certain, was the way he slowly stroked the underside of her wrist just beyond the edge of her glove, sending a torrent of sparks along her skin.

The duchess said, “Perhaps on another evening, you might be persuaded to entertain us, Lady Reyne.”

“I’m afraid the few feminine talents I have are far too rusty for that, ma’am.”

“A pity. But perhaps your daughter will have a gift for music or dance.”

How could she have forgotten about Charlotte? “I beg your pardon, but if I might be excused from the company, I am anxious to look in on my daughter.”

The duchess nodded. “Miss Blakely, please show her ladyship to the nursery wing.”

Kate made the quickest curtsey Olivia had ever seen as she excused herself from the vicar. “Thank you for the rescue,” she told Olivia as they started up the stairs. “I really thought I was going to scream if I had to listen to one more admiring comment from Mr. Blakely about the girls’ performances!”

Olivia managed to get her first deep breath in an hour. “I hope when he renews his offer of marriage, you will remember his conduct from tonight.”

“Even being Colonel Sir Tristan Huffington’s private secretary and writing down his memoirs would be less trying,” Kate said gloomily. “Though perhaps not a great deal more exciting.”

“Has he asked you? The colonel, I mean.”

“No. Perhaps Daphne is right—she says he’s the poorest of poor relations, retired on half pay from the Army.”

They were out of the public areas of the house now. The stairway here was both narrower and steeper, and they stopped to catch their breath on a landing so high above the entrance hall that the marble floor looked no bigger than a chessboard.

Kate said softly, “Are you all right, Olivia? I couldn’t help but notice, back there… with Penny… You looked so upset.”

“Kate, please. It’s nothing, really.” Olivia smiled, though every muscle in her face felt stiff. “I just need to hold my little girl for a while, and then I’ll be fine.”

***

After Simon dismissed his valet, he sat by the fire in his bedroom toying with a glass of brandy while he waited for enough time to pass so he could go to Olivia.

A stolen kiss in the abbey ruins was not enough to satisfy, and the sort of light flirtation he’d been able to indulge himself with this evening had simply made his hunger grow. Last night in her garden had provided only a taste of what he wanted from Olivia Reyne. He wasn’t finished exploring her…

He checked the clock. Less than half an hour had gone by since he’d dismissed Hemmings, not long enough for the house to quiet sufficiently for him to steal down the hall and around the corner to visit her. He should wait until midnight—if he could hold out so long. Olivia’s bedroom was directly at the head of the stairway, so everyone in Halstead would pass as they went up and down. Until every last person was safely tucked away for the night, he couldn’t make a move.

A pity he hadn’t been successful at establishing her in the room directly next to his. Then there would be no sneaking up and down corridors, no watching at corners to be sure no one was observing, and no waiting until the dead of night to safely visit.

Simon refilled his brandy glass and crossed his room to the connecting doorway. He hadn’t so much as peeked through that door in a year at least. Though he didn’t deliberately avoid the duchess’s bedroom, he also didn’t have any reason to visit. Most of the time he forgot the room was even there. It was a good thing Hemmings had thought to lock it; Simon might have forgotten entirely.

He simply didn’t think about the part of his future that would require him to choose a duchess. He was a long way from thirty yet, so there was plenty of time to set up his nursery.

The very idea of a nursery reminded him of Olivia’s daughter, and he wondered how she was adapting to her new surroundings.

Despite the fact that Halstead’s nursery wing had not been used since Daphne grew big enough to rebel at being treated like a baby, Mrs. Greeley would have kept it ready to use—just in case. And no doubt somewhere on Halstead’s enormous roster of employees the housekeeper would have found a maid or two with experience in caring for younger siblings. So Miss Charlotte was without a doubt safely watched over. By now, she should be tucked securely in one of the narrow cots in the night nursery, sound asleep.

After the cramped quarters of the cottage, however, the child must be overwhelmed. Simon remembered lying awake and watching the shifting shadows of the firelight on the angled ceilings, imagining monsters creeping silently out from under the bed ready to attack. He suspected—remembering her stick horse—that Charlotte was even more imaginative than he had been. What if she saw monsters? What if she again suffered the nightmare that had awakened her and sent her wandering the night before?

He shook his head at his own wild speculations and pushed open the door of the duchess’s bedroom next to his own. The furnishings were sparse, for his mother had moved much of her favorite furniture to her new suite. Simon had never bothered to replace the missing pieces, for surely a new duchess would wish to choose her own.

Furnished with only a bed, a bureau, and a couple of small tables, the room looked huge, and despite the weak light of the candlestick he carried, Simon could easily cross the carpet without fear of stubbing his toes. He touched the flame to the lamp standing atop the bureau, and the wick caught instantly. He lit candles at each side of the great bed, setting them safely away from the bed curtains. As each wick caught, another pool of warm light sprang to life and rippled outward, overlapping until the pale gold hangings and draperies seemed to glow.

The icy colors of the room had been exactly right for his mother. But Olivia would require brighter shades. Scarlet, perhaps, to match the flame of passion that lay deep inside her. Or would that be entirely too predictable—and overwhelming, as well? Royal purple would be just as dramatic with her dark hair and milky skin. Yes, he thought. A variety of shades of purple could be restful. Paired with pristine white to emphasize her grace and purity…

What in hell was he thinking? Even if he’d been able to sneak her into the adjoining bedroom, an affair of a few days’ duration was hardly cause to redecorate. And even if he stayed on after the wedding, he could not keep his mistress right here at Halstead.

He was losing his mind, Simon thought. The best cure would be to find Olivia, take her straight to bed, and work out these strange ramblings of his through an energetic romp. He must take full advantage of the short time while she would still be so conveniently near at hand.

Though the house was not yet utterly quiet, and night lamps still burned here and there to see the last of the guests to their beds, no one was in sight as Simon left his bedroom. The curving wings presented considerable danger, however, because he couldn’t see far enough down the passages to be certain he was alone. If someone came around a corner while he was tapping on her door…

But which door was hers? Simon had had no reason to care which room the Earl of Townsend had occupied and which one had been assigned to his countess. They were in the blue suite, he remembered. But the odds were fifty-fifty that he would knock at the wrong door. Being discovered in the act of tapping on his mistress’s door would be embarrassing enough, but if he chose wrongly and interrupted his friend’s amorous plans, he might as well stand in the entrance hall and shout his intentions of making love to Lady Reyne.

Simon paused at the top of the stairs, senses tingling. An instant later he had confirmation he was not alone when Charles Townsend leaned around the side of one of the tall-backed chairs on the landing. “I thought that must be you, Simon. What are you doing tiptoeing around wearing a jacket that looks awfully like a dressing gown?”

“I have a better question,” Simon parried. “What are you doing out here when your countess is waiting for you? A shared bedroom, Charles… The
ton
will be shocked when they hear. So if you’re going to have to hold your head up under the gossip, you might as well have the fun to compensate.”

“Thanks for the advice, old friend. If you’re about to tell me you’re headed down to the library for a book of sermons to help you sleep, don’t bother. Lady Reyne’s room is that one, by the way.” Charles pointed at the door nearest the top of the stairs.

Simon felt a wash of relief. “Why would you think I’m interested?”

“But she’s not there just now.”

“What? Where is she? And how do you know?”

Charles snickered. “You gave yourself away there, my friend. Miss Blakely came down perhaps half an hour ago. She told Lady Reyne’s maid that her ladyship was going to stay upstairs with Miss—whatever-her-name-is.”

“Charlotte,” Simon said absently. “Lady Reyne promised Charlotte she’d tuck her in tonight—before she knew they’d be here instead of at the cottage, of course. I wonder if the child is too frightened up in the nursery to go to sleep.”

“Watch out there, Simon. Talking about nurseries and remembering little girls’ names… You’re starting to sound like a man who’s ready to settle down.”

“And you’re starting to look like one who’s had his wings clipped. Do you always jump when the heiress demands it?”

Charles’s voice was low and even. “That’s my countess you’re referring to, Simon.”

Simon could have cheerfully eaten the words. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound… I’m sorry, Charles. Daphne’s breaking out the archery equipment tomorrow. If you’d like to take a shot at me for that insult, I’ll stand still and pretend to be the target.”

“No—it wouldn’t be sporting, to say nothing of raising too many questions. How about I beat you senseless in a game of billiards instead?”