Chapter 9

The moment Lord Lowell left the room, the tension in Olivia’s shoulders eased.

God, what he must think of her. One moment she was accusing him of slander and cringing from his touch, the next she was patting his arm and assuring him all would be well. She felt like a young woman again, at the mercy of the powerful emotions swirling inside her.

Then there was the matter of Constance and her involvement with the newspaper. She wished it was as simple as demanding the girl stop, but until they knew if Olivia was right about the girl being manipulated, it was too risky. If someone intended to ruin Olivia’s reputation, confronting Constance might prompt them to escalate. Likewise, forcing Constance into a corner could tie her more firmly to the man who was manipulating her. Not that she had any proof that it wasn’t Constance herself who had arranged the articles. It was Olivia’s instincts that warned her the situation was not as simple as it seemed.

No, the best course of action was to earn the girl’s trust by continuing in her role as matchmaker. Even if it meant confronting memories she had repressed since the earl’s death.

She lifted a length of lavender satin that slid along her skin like a caress and carried it to Constance. “How do you feel about this for an evening gown?”

Constance ran her hand along the fabric. “It’s beautiful. I cannot wait to attend my first event.” Her eyes glazed over. “Sometimes I imagine I’m a princess invited to a royal ball, dancing with princes from each country until I find one who…” She flushed. “My apologies, Lady Allen. Mrs. Quill says I am prone to flights of fancy.”

An ache started in Olivia’s chest. Constance reminded her so much of herself, before her imagination had been routed out, first by her parents, then by her governess, and finally by her husband.

She would not be like them. Constance deserved to enjoy every moment of her adolescence before she was thrust into the role of wife and then mother.

Olivia picked up the bolt of satin, draped it around her shoulders, and swished it around like a cape. “You might be a princess, but I am a queen, watching over the grand ball from my throne upon the dais.”

Constance’s mouth fell open, but it did not take her long to recover.

“There’s something missing.” She raced over to her dressing table and plucked a silver tiara from atop her jewelry box.

Olivia knelt as the girl returned and placed the sparkling piece atop her head. When she straightened, she pitched her voice high and said, “Good evening, Lady Constance. Have you been introduced to my son?” She scooped up one of Constance’s hats and placed it atop a bolt of black linen. “He is quite shy, I’m afraid.”

Constance wrapped herself in a shimmering pink chiffon. “Good evening, Your Highness. Pardon? Oh, yes, I would be honored to share your first dance.”

Constance grabbed the bolt and bounced around the trunks, while Olivia hummed a lively polka tune. She could almost imagine they were at St. James’s Palace, a venue she had only visited once, the year she had come out. She would never forget the anxiety of kneeling before the queen in her best dress, and the unfathomable relief of earning no more or less than a nod from the monarch.

“What is going on here?” Lily asked.

Olivia froze as reality crashed down on her. Yards of fabric pooled at her feet, spilling across the floor and over several trunks. She had gone far beyond encouraging Constance and allowed her fantasies to take hold.

“I apologize,” she said, snatching the tiara from her head.

Lily’s frown eased. “’Tis no worry, my lady. I’ll have it cleaned up in a trice.”

Olivia didn’t want it cleaned up. She wanted to dance in the spilled fabric, to lose herself in her imagination and forget, for a few minutes, everything that had happened in the past week. Or, more accurately, the past decade.

“Of course,” Olivia said. “I apologize again for our exuberance.”

Lily clucked her tongue and positioned Constance onto a circular dressing stand as her helpers wheeled into the room. The maid wasted no time in wrapping her charge in strips of paper, jotting down each measurement in a small notebook.

It was tiresome to watch, and even more to sit through, so she was not surprised when Constance began to fidget. Olivia knew she should keep her silence to avoid embarrassing herself further, but she also had a job to do. Regardless of Constance’s involvement in the articles, she would not allow any girl in her care to wade into a season without preparation. There were too many men ready and willing to swoop in and play “the hero” to soiled doves, with no thought of marriage.

She met Constance’s gaze in the mirror and asked, “Have you ever seen your father speak cruelly to a servant?”

Constance looked appalled. “Never.”

“Have you ever seen him shout at a woman, servant or otherwise? Has he ever whipped a horse into a lather and then refused to take care of the beast when it was done with its work?”

Constance shook her head. “He would never do such things.”

“But if you had only seen him at balls, or garden parties, how would you know he is not a cruel man?”

This was a question she wished someone had brought up when she’d been a debutante. She hadn’t understood then how the aspect one showed in society was a falsehood. That was likely the reason she’d made no friends in her year, and how the earl had insinuated himself into her life so readily.

Constance screwed up her lips. “I don’t know.”

“Precisely. But there are ways you can ensure that a suitor is not cruel.”

“How?”

“For one, compliments that are not complimentary. I once heard Mr. Rutlidge tell Miss Whisperwill that her lovely, orange gown was the same shade as his favorite cat’s fur. Miss Whisperwill, an animal lover, was quite pleased with this comparison, until Mr. Rutlidge asked if he should check beneath her skirts for a tail.”

Constance hissed, surprising Olivia into a laugh. The next moment, she was hissing right back and holding her hands as if she had claws. Lily, from beneath Constance’s dress, uttered a series of words that Olivia didn’t recognize, and then scurried out from beneath the hulking fabric.

“Enough with both of you,” Lily said, sticking her thumb in her mouth. “I’ll bleed myself to death before this is up.”

Olivia gulped. “My apologies.”

Constance was in fits, but Lily was scowling, which did not bode well for Olivia or her relationship with Lily’s employer.

So as much as it pained her, she sat demurely on the couch and only called a halt to the dress fittings when Constance had to be reminded to straighten her back three times in as many minutes by a snappish Lily.

The room was uncomfortably warm, even as the fluttering curtain drew in a breeze that carried the smell of freshly cut grass. If she were at her townhouse, with its private backyard, she might have run through the lawn with her bare feet, but she did not have the luxury at the marquess’s home. Instead, she said farewell to Constance and left Lily and her helpers to clean up the mess they had made of the room. Constance would have gowns, at least. Lily had already pinned together the pieces of several dresses that were going to be lovely when they were finished.

She made a mental note to send Saffron a letter of thanks, as they would occupy Lily for some time.

“Lady Allen?”

She stopped. In her musing, she hadn’t realized that she had walked to Lord Lowell’s office. He stood in the doorway, a newspaper tucked beneath his arm. His cravat was missing, and his shirt was half-unbuttoned, revealing a tantalizing amount of muscular chest.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Y-Yes, of course.” She wrenched her gaze back to his face. “The dress fittings went well.”

“I am glad to hear it.” He stepped closer. “I’ve just come from the bank. I checked Constance’s account, and it was nearly depleted.”

The news was not a surprise but made her feel as if she had swallowed a stone. It was difficult to believe the girl she’d danced with had paid to have such awful things published.

“There is something else,” he said. “I sent a footman to the office of the London Evening Standard and got a copy of tomorrow’s edition. Perhaps you should see it before you return home.”

She steeled herself for the worst and accepted the newspaper. It was folded to display the newest article from her nemesis. As she read it, her face grew hot, and she had to tamper back the urge to tear the paper into shreds.

ACCUSED MURDERESS FAILS AGAIN. I am pleased to inform the esteemed readers of the London Evening Standard that Lady Allen has failed in her latest attempt to prevent the spread of truth. There is no alternative now than to reveal the full extent of her crimes. It did not start on the night of the earl’s death, but a fortnight earlier, when the cowardly woman began dosing her husband’s nightly draught with laudanum. With the earl unconscious, the seductress donned a cloak and crept out of her marital home to pursue her wicked endeavors. However, the men who imbibed of her flesh should not be blamed. They are as much victims of feminine wiles as the cuckolded earl, who, after many nights of restless sleep, caught wind of her schemes. On his final night, he refused to drink her potion, and in doing so received his ultimate gift—a fatal dose forced down his throat.

How did her enemy know she had dosed the earl? They had refused visitors the days before he’d passed, and she had told no one, not even Saffron, of the earl’s pain. Laudanum had been the only thing that had brought him peace. Only the two of them and a handful of staff knew.

Staff.

That was the answer. Her enemy must have paid one of her former maids. If so, they were likely in possession of far more damning information. She was not proud of all that had happened during the earl’s final hours, when he had become delirious with fever.

“Is it true?” he asked softly.

“There is an element of truth,” she said, without looking at him. She didn’t want him to see how upset she felt, or it would open the floodgates and she wouldn’t be able to stop feeling.

That had been the case in the early days of her marriage. The earl would say something to set her off, some cruel insult or barbed comment, and it would cause her to lie in bed and sob for hours, lost to misery. It had taken her until the age of thirty to learn that if she was neutral, unfeeling, she could not be hurt.

The marquess put his hands on her shoulders, a shockingly intimate gesture, as his thumbs grazed the tops of her breasts.

“You don’t need to pretend with me,” he said.

She knew she should reciprocate, encourage him with a flutter of her long lashes or a gentle sigh. That was what Lady Allen would do now that there was no longer any reason to resist her attraction. But Lady Allen felt a million miles away, and it was Olivia trapped beneath his touch.

Her jaw trembled, and a tear slipped down her cheek. She quickly brushed it away and put some distance between them. “It is nothing,” she said, relieved when her voice held no trace of tremor.

He tugged her into his office, then closed the door and locked it.

Her mouth went dry. “My lord, what are—”

He wrapped his arms around her. One hand cupped the back of her head, the other curled around her waist, trapping her against him. She didn’t have the willpower to push him away, not when the solid muscle beneath her fingertips made her want to melt into his embrace.

The impropriety of the moment made her freeze, yet he didn’t kiss her or make any overtures she recognized as the precursor to an intimate encounter. He only held her tightly, silently. She smelled soap on his skin, combined with the musk of his sweat, and relaxed.

The earl had never held her. Nor had most of her previous lovers. With rare exception, they had taken what they wanted, then left. She never let anyone stay beyond their coupling. There was no point. When both parties had achieved release, why extend the moment?

He released her and stepped back with jerky movements. “I apologize. I should not have done that.”

The set of his shoulders. The pain in his voice. The tightening of his features. It was like seeing a reflection of herself from the early years of her marriage when the earl had punished her for failing to become pregnant by refusing to acknowledge her presence.

That simply would not do.

She closed the distance between them, went up on her toes, and brought their mouths together.