Chapter 1

Chapter 1

London, England, Spring, 1817

“Look, mother. You can see Leo tonight. It’s just about the right time for it,” Olivia Colfax said, pointing up at the starry sky above, as her mother hustled her toward the waiting carriage.

“Oh, Olivia, there’s no time for that. Come along. We’ll be late if we don’t hurry,” she replied, but Olivia held back, standing mesmerized at the bottom of the steps leading up to the house.

It was a remarkable sight—the darkening spring sky revealing the stars in their alignment. There was the tail, triangularly traced out between three bright stars, and the lower body, with the hook above for the head.

It looked nothing like a lion, of course. But Olivia marveled at the sight of the distant stars, so far away, and yet shining like diamonds ready to be plucked from the heavens.

“But don’t you think it’s fascinating, mother?” she said, and her mother glared at her.

“No, Olivia. I don’t. What’s fascinating—or infuriating, rather—is your inability ever to be on time. We’re going to be late for the Eaton House Ball, and you know how much I detest being late for things. And where’s your father? He’s the one you get it from… oh, why can’t we ever be on time for anything?” she exclaimed.

Olivia’s father, the Earl of Colfax, now emerged from the house. He seemed lost in thought and made no apology for his tardiness as he came haphazardly down the steps.

“Oh, there you are, Ethan. Come along,” Olivia’s mother said, urging both Olivia and her father toward the waiting carriage.

Olivia caught her father’s arm, pointing, once again, up into the night sky at the constellation she had been observing.

“Look, Father, it’s Leo, the lion. He’s the lion of Nemea in the Greek myths. No weapon could kill the beast, but Hercules defeated him in the end,” Olivia said.

She adored Greek mythology and was fascinated by the astronomical story the ancients had created in the sky. Her mother gave an exasperated exclamation.

“Oh, Olivia. No one cares about Hercules or Nemea or constellations. None of those things are going to get you a husband, are they?” she exclaimed, shaking her head as she bundled Olivia into the carriage.

Olivia shrugged. She cared about those things, and as for finding a husband, she was only interested in the sort of man who would be interested in the same things she was. Olivia had always known she was different.

As a child, she had always been far more interested in books and learning than in tea parties and dresses. And as she had grown up, such interests had led to a constant clash with her mother, who took a more traditional view toward the acceptable pursuits of young women in society.

“No man wants a bookish wife,” she had said, and whenever Olivia expressed something of her intellectual passions, her mother would berate her for neglecting what was, in her opinion, the only concern of a woman of her rank and class… marriage.

“What if I was to marry an astronomer?” Olivia retorted, sitting back in the carriage and folding her arms.

Her mother glared at her in the gathering gloom. Dusk was falling, and it would not be long before every constellation was visible in the night sky above.

“I doubt there’ll be any astronomers at Eaton House this evening. Please, for my sake, and your father’s, can’t you just be… normal, for once,” her mother said.

Olivia raised her eyebrows, folding her arms in a gesture of defiance. She did not know what her mother meant by “normal,” though she presumed she meant the same as everyone else—all those silly women, whose one obsession is the finding of a husband, and the comparison of his pocketbook.

But Olivia wanted something more. She had no intention of being part of that idly rich fraternity of women, who spend their married lives flitting between tea parties and salons, and after the birth of their daughters, ensuring they, too, can do the same. Olivia was different, and she knew it.

“Normal? But I don’t want to be normal, Mother. I like being different. And I don’t see anything wrong with being so,” Olivia retorted.

“Oh, Olivia. How you vex my nerves so. It wouldn’t be so bad if you had sisters, or even a brother,” she replied, pulling out her handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes. “But must you insist on going against my wishes in every way? Won’t you tell her, Ethan? She listens to you.”

Olivia’s father, who had been sitting in the corner of the carriage making no attempt to intervene now looked up from his thoughts.

“What? Oh… no, don’t involve me in this, Edwina. If Olivia wants to get married, so be it,” he said.

Olivia smiled to herself. She knew her father had little interest in affairs of the heart. Without a son, the title would pass to Olivia’s cousin, Patrick—a distant relative currently residing in Bath.

It hardly mattered to Olivia’s father who she married, and in more private moments between the two of them, he had made it clear she should seek happiness over her mother’s well-meaning intentions.

“Ethan… you can’t possibly… I simply despair. Very well, have it your way, Olivia. But don’t come complaining to me when you end up on the wall, a faded rose, seen as nothing more than a maiden aunt,” she said. “A woman only has but a few seasons before tongues start to wag, and some deficiency becomes assumed.”

Olivia made no reply. Her only deficiency was in refusing to be like all the rest, and Olivia considered that her greatest advantage. She was proud of her interests in subjects as diverse as botany, astronomy, and literature, and had recently published a study in the propagation of roses in a well-known botanical journal—under a man’s name, of course.

But none of this was of any interest to her mother, who would have far preferred her daughter to spend her days deciding which dresses to wear, and who best to make friends with for her own advancement.

“Now, remember, Olivia, tonight’s an important evening. You’ve got to make a good impression,” Olivia’s mother said, as the carriage pulled up outside Eaton House.

The countess said the same wherever they went, but the Eaton House Ball was of particular importance, marking as it did the opening of the London season. New debutantes were arriving with their parents or chaperones, and from the carriage window, Olivia watched a stream of young women making their way excitedly up the steps, where liveried footmen stood stiffly at attention.

Beneath the burning torches lighting the way, a river of sparkling tiaras and glittering dresses made their procession, and Olivia wondered how she could possibly compete with such elegance, poise, and grace.

Not that I want to, she thought to herself, watching a tittering crowd of young women, all of whom had only one thing in mind…

“Come along, Olivia. We don’t want to be last in. Those presented last get only the dregs,” Olivia’s mother said, repeating one of her favorite sayings.

Stepping down from the carriage, Olivia found herself among a sea of faces, some she recognized, some she did not. This was her third season, and while many of her contemporaries were already married or engaged, Olivia was yet to make a suitable match—or even an unsuitable one. At first, on account of her debut, she had attracted the attentions of several would-be suitors.

There was Lord Halifax, who had sought to court her, only to realize she was not the sort of woman to say yes to every foolish thing he said, and then came the Baron Carmichael, whose attentions had proved so forward to be almost scandalous.

But neither of them—nor any of the others—had proved a match for Olivia’s intellect, and when it had become clear she wanted a man with who she could converse with, rather than simply agree, their interest had been lost.

“I hope Elizabeth’s going to be here,” Olivia said, as she followed her parents up the steps to the house.

“Don’t spend the whole evening talking to Elizabeth, Olivia. You’ll miss out on the dancing,” the countess replied, turning to Olivia with a pointed look on her face.

“But she’s my best friend, mother. I want to talk to her. Besides, you always say what a dear creature she is, and how you wish I’d be more like her,” Olivia said, using her mother’s own words against her.

The countess tutted.

“You could certainly learn a thing or two from Elizabeth, Olivia. At the Cutler Ball, I saw her dance with four different gentlemen, all of them eligible,” she said.

Olivia rolled her eyes. Her mother was right. Elizabeth did attract the attentions of any number of would-be suitors. She was pretty and vivacious, but with a kindness to match her beauty, and would make any man the perfect wife.

But like Olivia, Elizabeth was waiting to find the right match and had turned down three proposals in the past six months alone. Olivia, on the other hand, had received no proposals, hence the urgency in her mother’s tone.

“Well… Elizabeth’s… perfect,” Olivia replied.

She enjoyed the sight of her best friend’s success, and one thing she was not, was jealous. She adored Elizabeth, and Elizabeth adored her.

“And you could be, too, Olivia, if only you’d take your head out of your books for a moment. Men don’t want women who read books,” Olivia’s mother hissed.

They had reached the top of the steps, and a steward ushered them inside, through a pair of large double doors and into a brightly lit hallway. A black and white marbled floor stretched out toward a grand staircase leading up to a landing above, and the walls were lined with large portraits looking down on the throng of guests waiting to be announced.

Music came from the ballroom beyond, and the clink of glasses, along with the sound of laughter and chatter, suggested Olivia and her parents were at the tail end of arrivals, as the excitable debutantes waited for their introductions.

“Look at this. I told you we were late,” the countess said.

“Patience, my dear,” Olivia’s father said, glancing at Olivia and smiling.

Olivia was looking around her, thoroughly bored by the evening already. Balls were all the same, and this one would be no different—she could tell simply by looking at the other guests, and from the sounds coming from the ballroom beyond. They would be introduced, greeted by their hosts, then find themselves caught up in inane chatter until the dancing began.

There would be those whose dance card was already marked, and those who would find themselves left on the wall. After a period of dancing, an interval would occur, during which refreshments would be served, only for the rest of the evening to proceed in just the same way as before, only now, there would be the added—and quite frankly dull—intrigues of who danced with who, and who had danced with them again.

“They say the Duke of Ellenbrough’s here. Wasn’t it terrible what happened to the duchess? But to lose his wife and child. It brings tears to one’s eyes, even after three years,” a woman standing in front of them was saying.

“Is it really three years?” her companion asked, and the first woman nodded.

“Three years since he’s been seen in society,” she replied.

Olivia listened with interest. She had read about the Duke of Ellenbrough, Gavin Nermore, in the society pages. His wife had died in childbirth, leaving him a widower. It was a tragic tale, and her mother had sent flowers to the duchess’ mother—an acquaintance of hers from her own coming out. But that had been some years ago, and Olivia had entirely forgotten about the duke, whose tragic story had been replaced by whatever tale had come next in the annals of society life and intrigue.

“Simply terrible,” the countess had said, dabbing at the tears in her eyes with a handkerchief—Olivia could picture her in the drawing room at home, shaking her head and brushing a tear from her eyes.

But to hear the Duke of Ellenbrough would be at the ball aroused Olivia’s interest. His wife had been dead for three years, and yet it was said he remained in a state of mourning, living practically as a recluse. It seemed odd for such a man to attend such an occasion, though perhaps he was simply trying to relieve some of his sorrow through distraction.

There were those who had cruelly suggested it was high time he returned to society, but in Olivia’s mind, a heart did not mend simply because societal convention brought an end to the period of mourning.

“They say he’s heartbroken. It’s understandable, of course. How could one be consoled after such a tragedy?” the woman in front continued, shaking her head sadly.

Olivia agreed. It was a terrible tragedy, and she could only feel deeply sorry for a man who had lost so much and was now forced to live with that loss for the rest of his life.

“Did you hear that, mother? The Duke of Ellenbrough’s going to be here,” Olivia whispered.

Her mother raised her eyebrows.

“Isn’t he in mourning? I’d have thought a ball would be the last place he’d want to be,” she replied.

Olivia shrugged. It did seem odd, and yet who knew how a person would respond under such circumstances? Olivia had never known the pain of loss—not of someone close to her—and she could only feel sorry for the duke and hope he would one day find some semblance of peace in his sorrows. She was curious to lay eyes on him, imagining a sullen, broken figure, whose face would display the terrible burden he carried.

It was almost their turn to be announced, and through the doors leading into the drawing room, Olivia caught sight of Elizabeth, catching her eye and grinning at her. Elizabeth was talking to a man dressed in the uniform of the militia, and Olivia did not know if her best friend needed rescuing or to be left alone…

“The Earl and Countess of Colfax, and Lady Olivia Colfax,” the master of ceremonies announced, and several heads turned to watch as Olivia and her parents entered the ballroom.

“Look at all these officers,” Olivia’s mother whispered, for the room did appear overly crowded with the distinctive red uniform of the militia.

But Olivia was not interested in officers—unless they happened to be interested in the same things she was. But in her experience, most men were the same, and there was little to differentiate them from one another, save the color of their hair or their eyes.

But it was the Duke of Ellenbrough who interested Olivia the most, and looking around her—having decided Elizabeth was best left alone with her handsome officer—she tried to discern who the unfortunate duke might be.

“Olivia, don’t keep looking around you like a startled deer,” her mother whispered.

“I was just wondering if the duke had arrived yet,” she asked.

Her mother narrowed her eyes.

“I don’t think so, no. Why? What does the duke have to do with you?” she asked.

“Nothing. I’m just… curious about him, that’s all,” Olivia replied.

Her mother tutted.

“And I’m sure he’s not interested in being the object of your curiosity, Olivia. The poor man’s a widower. He’s lost his wife and child. He doesn’t need your curiosity. Sympathize with him from afar, but don’t force yourself on him,” she said. “Really, I can’t understand why you don’t show an interest in someone eligible.”

But Olivia did not want to gawk at the duke. If anything, she felt terribly sorry for him, and wondered what sort of life he had lived in those three years since tragedy had struck. Could one ever be said to recover from such a terrible loss?

“But shouldn’t he be supported in returning to society? Olivia asked.

Her mother raised her eyebrows.

“Yes, he should be. But it’s hardly your business, is it, Olivia?” she replied.

Olivia did not argue, but again she glanced around the ballroom, curious to catch a glance of the duke when he arrived.

“I think I’ll go and talk to Elizabeth,” she said, noticing her friend was no longer in the company of the handsome officer, and before her mother could object, Olivia had slipped away through the throng, hoping the evening would not prove as dull as she feared it would be.