Chapter 12

The lights hanging from the boughs of the trees lining the path twinkled like stars, but as far as Olivia was concerned, they were nothing but dim flashes in the dark, and the vibrant flowers blooming around her were dull and lifeless.

She had selected the event from among the pile of invitations on Thel’s desk with the assurances that the Duke of Haversham was a friend of his family. It seemed fitting, given that Mrs. Zephyr had only stepped aside when Thel had mentioned the duke’s name. But despite Thel’s nonchalance, her stomach twisted as they approached the entrance to the sprawling grounds behind Thel’s parents and daughter.

Constance glanced over her shoulder, looking every inch her rank in a sapphire evening gown with a heart-shaped neckline and her hair braided and wrapped around her head like a crown. It was only when she tucked a golden curl between her lips that Olivia realized something might have been wrong. Then the duchess leaned toward her granddaughter, and they shared a whispered conversation. Constance met Olivia’s gaze, and her cheeks pinkened. She directed a nasty scowl at Olivia, plucked the lock of hair from her mouth, and turned around, her head tilted higher.

“Did you see that?” Olivia asked Thel. The expression on Constance’s face had held such malice. What had the duchess said to elicit such a reaction?

Thel looked around. “See what?”

“Your mother said something to Constance that made her look at me like…” She wasn’t sure how to describe how the brief exchange had unsettled her.

Then they were next in line to be introduced, and Olivia’s anxiety washed all other concerns away.

Her name was not on the guest list. She had seen ladies arrive at the doors of grand events, only to be turned away in disgrace. Such a cut might damage her reputation beyond saving.

She froze as they reached a wooden arch covered in pink and white roses. Her fingers clenched around Thel’s arm. She tried to summon the cool confidence that was the hallmark of Lady Allen, but her feet refused to budge.

“Wait here,” Thel whispered. He pried her fingers from his sleeve and walked over to a small podium she had not noticed in the shadows, where a footman was standing. The two men shared a quiet conversation before Thel returned.

“What did you do?” she asked.

“Smoothed the way,” he said. Then he tugged her forward.

She reluctantly followed him, even as prickling started in her fingers and crept up her arms. She did not know which outcome would be worse: if she entered without her name being announced, or if she was turned away before anyone noticed she had arrived.

She was so focused on keeping her expression carefully neutral that she tripped over her own feet. Thel caught her before she could stumble forward. She was about to thank him when a footman standing near the door spoke over her.

“The Duke and Duchess of Hestia, the Marquess of Lowell, the Lady Constance Vaith, and the Countess Dowager Allen.”

The tight coil in her stomach released. Whatever Thel had done had worked. None of the other guests had any reason to doubt she had been invited.

A handful of curious guests lingering near the arch glanced her way. She tensed, expecting whispers and snide comments, but she heard no snickering or snap of fans opening. The few ladies who met her gaze only widened their eyes and stepped aside. After the third time this happened, she leaned closer to Thel and whispered, “When was the last time your parents attended social events?”

He shrugged. “My mother prefers to spend her days in the country.”

That explained it. The presence of the duke and duchess after such a long absence was enough to draw attention away from her. While she remained with them, she was sheltered from scandal. The lack of muttering made her feel as if she had been transported back in time to before the articles had begun. It should have brought relief, but there was a gnawing hollowness in her stomach.

If it were not for her, their granddaughter might never have been targeted. It was her fault there was conflict in their family, and she was taking advantage of their goodwill by riding along on their coattails.

They traversed the garden without incident and arrived at a grand marble staircase that led into the house. The duke and duchess proceeded up the steps toward the muted sound of an orchestra, but as Olivia made to follow them, Constance tugged her arm. The girl’s face was pale, and her eyes were so wide, the whites were visible all around her irises. The vulnerable expression on her face was so different from the scowl the girl had given her in the receiving line that Olivia was rendered speechless. Which was the act: the innocent girl Olivia was seeing now, or the girl she’d glimpsed earlier?

“What do I do if someone asks me to dance?” Constance whispered. “This is my first ball.”

Olivia set her suspicions aside. Standing outside a ball was not the time to interrogate her charge. She gestured to Thel to follow his parents, then drew Constance aside. “Show me your dance card.”

Constance fished it out of her sleeve and spread the leaves apart. This dismay on her face would have been comical if she had not been so obviously distressed. “There are so many dances. Must I join all of them?”

Olivia stifled a laugh. She had almost forgotten the careful hand debutantes required.

“No, you mustn’t. In fact…” She tapped on three lines, dispersed through the sheet. “As this is your first season, you are expected to sit these out. Use the pencil attached to the other end of the string to place an X in those spaces. Any man who asks to see the card will understand what that means.”

Constance found the small nub of pencil, then frowned. “What do I do during those dances, then? I don’t want to be perceived as a wallflower.”

“I’ll show you,” Olivia said, gesturing toward the house.

They climbed the steps and stood just outside the door so Constance could see inside without being observed.

The ballroom was long and narrow, with a ceiling that went up three stories to a peak. Garlands of greenery hung from the rafters between rows of black chandeliers, burning with candles rather than gaslight.

Several tables and chairs were set up closest to them, and beyond that, women in colorful dresses swirled in the arms of suited men.

Olivia motioned toward a group of matrons gracing a table along the far wall.

Constance screwed up her face. “But they’re older than my grandmother. They’ll pinch my cheeks and treat me like a child.”

“Exactly. No one will bother you for a dance because no one will want to come near. Now, let’s not waste any more time.” She drew Constance into the ballroom and pointed out the three men she had selected as initial candidates.

First was Sir Newton, newly arrived from Scotland. His copper hair and bright-green eyes made him immediately recognizable. Next was Lord Winsley, the second son of their host, the Duke of Haversham. He was more difficult to spot, but she eventually found him lurking in the shadows near the last candidate, Mr. Inwood, heir to a remarkable fortune and blessed with a softness of features that had many ladies swooning over him.

Each young man was eminently suitable, of even temper, and handsome enough to attract Constance’s attention.

“What if none of them interest me?” Constance bit her lip. “What if there’s… someone else?”

Olivia’s heart thudded in her chest. This was her chance to extract information. She had to be careful. If she seemed too eager, too much like a parent, she might cause Constance to withdraw. She kept her tone light. “Then I would suggest you use tonight as an opportunity to test your feelings.”

Constance tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

Olivia grasped for a reason the girl would follow. “Infatuation is a fleeting state, not a solid base for a marriage. Exploring other possibilities will either reveal you have settled your heart or confirm you are still uncertain.”

“I suppose so,” Constance said. “Well, no use waiting until I sprout roots.”

They stepped into the light, and within moments, Sir Newton separated from the group of ladies he had been speaking to and headed directly toward them.

A look of utter panic filled Constance’s face.

“Stay calm,” Olivia whispered. “He will greet me first, as we have already been introduced. That will give you time to reassemble. If you still feel as if you cannot speak, begin with a deep curtsey.”

Constance gave a shaky nod.

Sir Newton arrived. “Lady Allen. Lady Constance.”

Constance answered the young man’s bow with a curtsey. “Sir Newton.”

Something tight inside Olivia unwound. She had worried about Constance’s ability to cope with the pressure of her first official event.

“May I have your next dance?” Sir Newton asked.

Constance glanced at Olivia, then tilted her head back and returned her attention to Sir Newton. “Certainly, sir.”

The girl accepted Sir Newton’s hand and cast only a fleeting glance over her shoulder before the pair vanished into the swirl of dancers.

###

Olivia’s cheeks ached as she smiled and nodded along to Mr. Millwood’s droning voice. Behind her, a harpist plucked a gentle melody. Each strumming note sent a throb of pain through her temple. She would have made an excuse to depart from Mr. Millwood, but her position near the musicians gave her a near-perfect view of the ballroom. As such, she was able to track Constance’s movements without appearing to do so.

She reached into her pocket and flipped a worn shilling over and over in her fingers.

The repetitive motion soothed her, although it was not as effective as shifting her weight from foot to foot. That had driven her governess to distraction. It was also not something Lady Allen would have been seen doing.

Mr. Millwood turned his head as another young woman in a scandalously low-cut dress walked past them, and she took the opportunity to make her apologies and rush off before he could claim her for the next dance. Her head ached so fiercely, she was uncertain she could finish a dance without tripping over her own feet.

Not that it mattered. She had only attended to encourage Constance to socialize.

As she passed Mrs. Millwood, the woman covered her face with her fan and giggled. Her companion, a woman Olivia did not recognize, shushed her but then began giggling as well.

Their laughter was at her expense, of course. That much was obvious. She had received many such reactions since leaving the duke’s and duchess’s side. Without the novelty of their presence, she became again the target of whispers, it seemed.

“Lady Allen!”

Olivia stopped, then forced a smile, even as her neck screamed in protest. She turned to see Baron and Baroness Mason. Her shoulders immediately eased. Lady Mason was one of her earliest success stories. Her match and the following wedding had been the talk of the season. Even the queen had attended and expressed her appreciation.

Except Lady Mason wasn’t smiling. Her usually sparkling brown eyes were downcast and she carefully clutched her husband’s arm. Despite the cloying warmth in the ballroom, she wore elbow-length white gloves and a cotton fichu embroidered with white flowers.

“Lady Allen,” Lord Mason said, baring his teeth in a grin. He tugged the lapel of his red corduroy suit jacket, which barely disguised his bulging stomach. “I am heartened to see you, despite those nasty rumors.” He leaned in, his dark-brown eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her shiver. “I was a friend of the earl, and I do not believe for a moment that a mere chit such as yourself could have overwhelmed him. Those scandal rags have no shame.” He patted his wife’s hand on his sleeve. “Rest assured, we remain on your side.”

Before she could express her thanks, the harpist behind him tipped her instrument over and it clattered to the ground with a thud .

Lady Mason yelped.

“Merely an accident,” Lord Mason said. He tugged her closer, and for a moment, Lady Mason’s glove slid down, revealing a striped pattern of bruises along her arm.

A pattern Olivia knew too well.

Cold washed over her as she remembered how her wardrobe had changed over the course of her marriage, how her favorite dresses with their delicate cap sleeves and plunging necklines had become impossible to wear. How she had set aside her fine, lace gloves in favor of silk so no one would see the marks the earl had placed upon her.

By the time Olivia had processed what she had seen, Lady Mason was gone, absorbed into the crowd with her husband.

What had gone wrong?

The last time she had seen Lady Mason, the woman had gushed about her husband. All signs had indicated she’d been in love, and her comments had suggested Lord Mason had felt the same.

Olivia made for the doors, not caring when her shoulder bumped a man’s arm.

Lady Mason had expressed concerns about Lord Mason before she had walked down the aisle. She had called her betrothed “intense” and “intimidating.” Having seen many young women transform from blushing brides to bundles of nerves when the altar had beckoned, Olivia had dismissed the young Miss Culter’s worries and reassured her Lord Mason had been her perfect match.

She had pressed more than a dozen girls into matrimony, assured of the safety of her choices. She had never considered some of the men her girls had married were like the Earl of Allen.

How many of them had she failed? How many of them had coped the same way she had, by carefully developing a mask to use within society, to hide the truth of the abuse that occurred in their own homes?

She had almost reached the door when a hand caught her arm and forced her to a stop.

“Come with me,” Thel said.

“I-I cannot,” she said.

“Come with me,” he repeated, and the thread of anger in his voice took her breath away. She dropped her gaze and followed demurely behind him, out of the ballroom and down a hallway. He swept her through an open door and followed behind.

Her head pounded, her mouth was dry, and she was certain she owed apologies to half a dozen ladies for bumping them in her rush to depart the ballroom. But minor inconveniences were nothing compared to the hell Lady Mason was living.

Thel clutched her upper arms and shook her gently. “Olivia, look at me.”

The movement jolted her out of her spiraling thoughts, but she couldn’t face him as herself. He would surely see the evidence of her guilt. Instead, she draped her arms over his shoulders and grinned. “Is it time for a lesson in punishment?”

He frowned. “You were upset a moment ago. You looked as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“A trifling matter.” She pressed her lips to his in a chaste kiss.

He loosened his grip. “You don’t have to do this, Olivia. You don’t have to hide yourself from me.”

Her seductive smile slipped. “I don’t know what you mean.”

He cupped her face in his hands and rubbed her cheeks with his thumbs. “I don’t expect you to be perfect. God knows I have my own flaws. But I would rather have all of you than see only the parts that you feel are acceptable.”

A lump formed in her throat. She tried to swallow it down, but it wouldn’t budge. She opened her lips, and no sound came out.

“You can’t let it go, can you?” He walked over to a daybed, tore the heavy blanket from atop it, and draped it over his shoulders. Then he walked toward her, the blanket draped around his body. When he was close enough to touch, he raised his arms.

“Come to me, Helen,” he said in a gravelly voice.

His words were straight out of the story she had read in his notebook, where George comforted his wife. He was giving her an excuse to fall into a different role alongside him.

It was a temptation she could not resist.

Her eyes burned with tears before she let the character of Helen settle around her. She opened her mouth once again, and this time, words came out, rough but understandable. “Yes, husband.”

Then she launched herself against his chest.

The blanket smelled musty and scratched where it touched her skin, but she didn’t care. The added sensation helped drown out the guilt and anger churning within her.

He dug his fingers into her scalp and rubbed circles that sent a tingling sensation down her back. She relaxed against his body, putting more and more of her weight on him until he paused his ministrations to pick her up and carry her to a chair. Then he settled her on his lap.

She kept waiting for him to ask for whatever it was he wanted in exchange, to demand another lesson or start one without her consent. Nearly every man she had ever been intimate with had used kindness as a currency to buy sexual favors.

But he remained silent, wrapped around her like a tight-fitting glove.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

She was the furthest thing from okay. His gentle words and actions stoked a furnace deep inside her and made her want to kiss him and sob in equal measure.

“You’re shaking.” He kissed the top of her head. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

She breathed in his clean soap smell until she no longer felt like she was going to explode, her muscles relaxing an inch at a time.

“There. That’s better.”

She knew she should return to the ball, but the emotions whirling within her were not yet settled, and her head still ached.

She plucked his cravat free and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Are you sure?” Thel asked.

She answered by tearing at his clothes in a fury, desperate to feel his skin beneath her fingers. He stayed passive beneath her, one hand still rubbing her back.

At last, his chest was bare. She reached for the fall of his trousers.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “I want you to have your pleasure first.”

His words sent bolts of heat to her center. She took his right hand and slid it beneath her skirts. He smoothed his palm up her thigh until the backs of his fingers brushed her curls, his thumb tantalizingly close to her entrance. Still, he did not venture further. It was as if he were charting her, learning every curve and hollow of her body. Finally, he slid his finger around her clitoris.

She saw stars.

“There you are,” he said.

He rubbed in small circles until she was moving her body into his hand, pleasure thrumming through her in a heady wave. He slipped his other hand beneath her skirts and gently, oh so gently, slid a finger inside her.

“The motion you showed me combined with penetration should…” He slid his finger out and then back in, deeper each time, until she was riding him.

A throbbing beneath her signaled he was equally excited by their actions. She reached between his legs and, with a few quick movements, freed his impressively thick cock.

He stroked himself but then stopped, his cheeks turning the same color as his engorged member.

“Continue,” she said. “Show me how you pleasure yourself.”

He grasped his cock, traveling all the way down before returning. He appeared to prefer a long motion, rocking his hips into it, never speeding up but continuing at an even pace, much like the way he had thrust inside her.

She touched his hand. “Allow me.”

He released his grip, and she took over, copying the movement. His groans and the rocking of his hips were all the encouragement she needed.

He closed his eyes. “I cannot last long, I fear.”

She grabbed his cravat from the floor, then slid her hand up and down his cock three times before he moaned. She slid the cravat over him and caught his seed, then tossed the scrap of fabric over the side of the chair.