Chapter 28

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

N ic couldn't keep his eyes off her. When she appeared at the head of the stairs, ready to leave for the ball, he had simply stood and watched her descend. She was beautiful, with her cool English looks—her golden hair and blue eyes and creamy complexion. And yet she was so much more than her appearance. Beneath her calm smile lay a warm and passionate woman who believed in living life her own way, who was honest and kind, and who refused to take second best.

As she reached the last few steps, she held out her gloved hands toward him, and he moved forward in his own elegant evening wear to grasp her fingers.

"Olivia, you look exquisite. You quite take my breath away."

Her smile made her eyes sparkle, and the pearls sewn into her dress and woven into her hair softly glowed.

"You were right," she said. "Esmeralda is the best modiste in London." She glanced away, in that manner she had when there was something bothering her. "I hope everyone else will think so, too, when they see this dress."

"It was thoughtless of me to take you to see her, Olivia. For an intelligent man I can be very dimwitted."

"You apologized to me," she reminded him quietly, squeezing his hands, "and there is nothing more to be said. I have decided to make Esmeralda my modiste after all. I like her."

Nic laughed. "You like her? So that is all that is required for Lady Lacey to employ someone?"

"Not just that, but it helps."

Bundled up in her fur cloak, Olivia climbed into the coach, and Nic settled opposite her.

"Do you know Mrs. Cathcart? Will she be there this evening," Olivia began, meaning to explain to Nic about Esmeralda's difficulties and Mrs. Cathcart's part in them, but when she looked up from fussing with the folds of her dress, she saw that something in his face had changed.

"Why do you want to know about Miriam Cathcart?" he asked evenly, his eyes watchful.

But the change in him had made her wary. "It is a simple enough question, Nic. Will she be there this evening?"

"I don't know Mrs. Cathcart's movements, but I would imagine so," he said with studied indifference. "She is asked everywhere despite her reputation."

"She is the Earl of Marchmont's mistress, is that so? "

"She has been mistress to so many men I've lost count."

The comment was malicious, and Nic was not a malicious man. And then it occurred to Olivia that he had been one of this woman's lovers. Of course, it made sense. Miriam Cathcart was someone who lived by her beauty and her wits, the sort of woman Nic would be drawn to. He had probably financed her, taken her to Esmeralda's to be fitted out in the latest fashions, kissed her, held her . . .

The image shouldn't have hurt—she'd told herself Nic's past was nothing to her—she'd come to terms with it. But it did hurt, it hurt a great deal.

Olivia wished she could shrug or laugh off this revelation. She wished she had more trust and confidence in their relationship, but she couldn't tell herself the past was gone and forgotten. Because if he'd been Miriam Cathcart's lover once, then why not again?

Olivia looked away, hoping he could not read her thoughts in her face. Where was her direct honesty? But her pride wouldn't allow him to see that she loved him and was terrified of losing him, so how could she ask him for the truth? How could she bear for him to feel sorry for her? What if he began making love to her because he was being kind to her, rather than because he wanted to?

She'd rather leave now and never see him again .

After a time she found the courage to glance back at him, but Nic was staring off into the distance, his face pensive. She didn't know what he was thinking about but she had a good idea. Olivia looked down at her beautiful dress and felt sad. This was meant to be a night of triumph for her and instead it was turning into a night of despair.

They reached the Querrols' house in Belgravia to find the square choked with vehicles and guests waiting to be admitted. It seemed that anybody who was anybody in London society was there and eager to be seen. There was no option but to join the throng and wait their turn.

Nic looked out over the richly jeweled and fashionably dressed members of the society from which he had considered him outcast. Not because of any decision by them—his birth would always give him an entrée—but because he himself had wished it so. He'd stood in the shadows for a long time, and now he could finally step out into the light and take his rightful place among the aristocracy of England. It was the role he'd been brought up to play.

Before the tragedy, his father had often spoken to him about what was expected of a man in his shoes, usually when he was scolding him for his wild ways. As a young man, Nic knew he'd pushed boundaries, seeking pleasure and adventure wherever he could find it. In the year before his father's death he had begun to turn his back on such youthful indiscretions, but with his father dead and the scandal turning his mother from him, he'd saturated himself in the role of Wicked Nic Lacey.

He remembered feeling betrayed and angry, and wanting to lose himself in every debauchery available to him. And soon it had become habit. Nic hadn't planned to lock his feelings off from the world, but now he could see that was what he'd done. It had taken Olivia to open that door and set him free.

He'd turned another page in the book of his life. He was married, and with Olivia by his side, he could begin to repair the damage of the last nine years. He could take his place among his peers and strive to be a good landlord and master, just as his father was, just as he hoped his own son would be.

The Laceys would go on, just as they'd always done.

Why did she ask me about Miriam Cathcart?

The question popped into his mind, tearing a hole in the hopes and dreams he'd begun to build. Miriam Cathcart was the sister of his school friend, and he'd believed himself in love with her, for a short while. But she had used him, just as she used everyone. She'd turned a callow youth into a cynical man, and he'd sworn never to allow himself to feel like that again.

Olivia was the first woman since Miriam who meant something to him. She'd slipped by the guard he'd placed around his heart, and despite his sworn declaration that he would never fall in love again, she'd won his heart before he'd even realized it.

I love her.

The acknowledgment didn't shock him. Perhaps he'd known it since the moment his mother insisted he marry Olivia and he'd been only too glad to submit. He'd sworn never to love again and never to marry. But here he was, married. Nic had spent years carefully avoiding being involved with anyone, protecting his heart, and now he'd fallen in love with his wife.

"Lord Lacey!" The interruption was welcome.

He bowed, greeting his acquaintance, and introduced Olivia. She was her usual calm and beautiful self, and Nic was amazed as always how chilly she seemed, how emotionless, when he knew only too well the burning passion inside her. He watched as his acquaintance's gaze lingered on her appreciatively.

He told himself he wasn't jealous. Olivia had never shown the slightest preference for anyone other than him, and he knew he satisfied her. It might be arrogance, but it wasn't jealousy that worried him. If anything were to drive her away, then it was more likely to be something he had done in the past.

He groaned softly.

"Nic?" Olivia was watching him worriedly, her fingers tightening on his arm. "Are you all right?"

Nic forced a smile. "Everything is perfect, my dear. Did I tell you how beautiful you are tonight?"

She returned his smile, although her eyes remained anxious. "Several times, but you can tell me again. Your leg . . . ?"

"Yes, I have two of them. Your point is?"

His voice was curt and she took the hint, falling silent and looking away. He was sorry then, thinking himself a moody bastard, knowing he'd hurt her when she was only showing her concern for him. But he didn't want her pity. Bad enough that he was a cripple, without his beautiful wife drawing attention to it.

They moved forward again, climbing the final step, and this time they reached the front door and stepped inside the entrance hall. A great dome arched above them, colorfully painted with fat, cavorting cupids and smuglooking nymphs. The ballroom was at the far end of the hall, music and chatter growing louder the closer they came.

A servant was helping remove the guests' coats, cloaks, wraps, and other outer garments, while another was serving champagne from a tray as they waited. Finally they reached the ballroom, and a bewigged servant in knee breeches announced them to the crush below. It was a moment to savor. The rising murmur as everyone turned to look, a tribute to both his wife's beauty and the dress Esmeralda had made her, and to Nic's reputation. He'd heard they were calling them the rake and the angel. Well, let them.

"Lacey, a pleasure," drawled Querrol. "And Lady Lacey?" He raised his monocle, ogling Olivia as she spoke to his wife. "My, you have fallen on your feet, haven't you, Lacey? I heard you'd married a country bumpkin."

"Olivia's family live in the village of Bassingthorpe, but they are not bumpkins, Querrol."

"Will we be seeing you at any more demimonde balls, Lacey? I can't believe you'll still be blinded by married bliss by the time the next one comes around. All mares ride the same on a dark night, as you've said yourself often enough."

Nic shrugged indifferently. "Sometimes it helps to change the saddle, but I expect you're right."

He was sorry for it as soon as he'd said it—it felt like a betrayal of his newfound happiness—but Querrol was such a rumormonger, it was better to play the familiar game. And then Olivia appeared at his side, as calm and serene as ever, accepting Querrol's compliments and saying all the right things.

Nic presumed she hadn't heard his less than flattering comment, but as they moved away she disillusioned him.

"Is that how you see me, Nic? A mare?" Her voice was quiet and low.

"You weren't meant to hear that," he replied, equally subdued. "I'm sorry that you did."

"Why are you sorry? Because it's true?"

"No, it isn't true!"

His raised tones caused a momentary ripple in the crowd around them, as though someone had dropped a stone into a pond .

"Should I believe you?" she said, her blue eyes clear and bright.

Now was the time to tell her he loved her. "Olivia—" But as Nic drew her closer, bending his head to do so, they were interrupted in the worst possible way.

"Nic, how delightful. It has been an absolute age."

He looked up, only just biting back a curse, as he met the calculating gaze of Miriam Cathcart. Her face was harder than he remembered, but she had the same big brown eyes and high cheekbones. She was wearing yellow, a sunbeam among the whites and pinks so prevalent this season, but neither she nor her dress was nearly as gorgeous as Olivia.

"Miriam. The pleasure is mine. May I introduce my wife, Olivia? Olivia, this is Mrs. Cathcart, an old friend of an old friend."

Olivia did not hesitate. She really was amazing at slipping on her polite mask; he'd never have known what she was feeling if he didn't know her so well, and understand her better than he understood any other human being. And what was she feeling? Nic knew that she was feeling hurt and betrayed and vulnerable, and it was all his fault.

"What a splendid dress, Lady Lacey," Miriam declared, her avaricious gaze lingering. "May I ask who made it for you? I thought I knew the names of all the best modistes in London . . ."

"Madam Esmeralda made it. I was so pleased that I have ordered several more. "

Miriam stared at her a moment, and then gave a titter, lifting her fan to hide her mouth. "Oh, Lady Lacey," she said, full of malice, "I'm surprised your husband hasn't told you." And she gave Nic a sideways glance for good measure. "Madam Esmeralda is a dressmaker to the demimonde. No respectable woman will go to her. If I were you, I would cancel your order immediately."

Olivia's calm smile didn't even falter, as Nic couldn't help but wonder if she had been preparing for this moment. "Well, now I understand, Mrs. Cathcart," she said.

"Understand what?" Miriam asked.

"Why she knew you," Olivia said.

Nic gave a snort of laughter before he could stop himself, and received a glittering look from Miriam Cathcart and a bland one from Olivia. But Olivia hadn't finished with her yet.

"Besides, I'm not interested in Esmeralda's past. She is a marvelous dressmaker, and that is all I care about. I am fussy when it comes to my clothing, Mrs. Cathcart. It is most annoying to find you are wearing a poorly sewn garment at the very moment when you want to look your best." She smiled, but as she turned away, her gaze slid over Miriam's yellow dress in a meaningful way.

Miriam went an unpleasant shade of red. "Well!" she huffed. "You should explain to your wife who I am," she informed Nic angrily. "From what I've heard about the circumstances of your marriage, she has no right to set herself higher than me. "

Nic's smile faded. "Why not, Miriam? My wife is worth a hundred of you."

"You didn't think that once," she pouted.

"I was a child then, Miriam," he said wearily. "Now I'm a man."

"Then perhaps we should have supper together." She let her gaze slide down over his tall, lean body, her brown eyes inviting. "You can show me how much of a man you are."

Nic smiled. "I don't think so, Miriam. Whatever we had is long past. Goodbye."

And he walked away, following Olivia.