In Your Arms Again (37 page)

“But that is only half the battle,” North reminded him, taking a drink of his proper-tasting coffee. “You are not totally without friends, but if I truly want to make a difference and have my ideas for more organized policing heard, I will need more peer support than merely yours.”

His brother didn’t seem the least bit offended by his words. “True, I am by no means a darling of the
ton
, but you have other connections that will help you achieve your goals. Spinton has indicated he will support you, has he not?”

North nodded. “Yes.”

“And then there is Devlin’s brother-in-law, the Marquess of Wynter. Miles will lend you whatever aid he can, I am certain of it.”

Thank God for Blythe, Devlin’s well-connected wife.

Brahm waved his toast at him. “And then there are all those poor unfortunate peers for whom you have worked.”

Those numbers were great indeed. “But there is no guarantee all of them will want to publicly support me.”

“Of course not. Some will not, but others will, and all you need is a few to plant a few suggestions in the right ears. Your views will find an audience in the House of Lords, mark my words.” As if to punctuate his words, he tore another bite off his toast.

Could it possibly be this simple? North’s heart sped up at the thought. The things he could do with the right people behind him. The changes he could implement, the laws he could help create. A whole new world was opening itself up to him.

All he had to do was let go of the old one first. Harker was his last bit of business. He would leave no loose ends. He couldn’t afford to, not when the price could be so very high.

“But first,” Brahm began, toast finished, his features twisted in distaste. “Before we try to convince anyone you are a man worthy of backing, I’m sending you upstairs to my valet.”

Brahm’s
valet? Dear God. “He will not make me look like you, will he?” North asked in horror as he stood.

Collecting his cane, Brahm rose with him, and with a hand on his shoulder, led him toward the door. “He is good, but even he cannot work miracles.”

A
week later Octavia, resigned to the fact that North was not going to come to her anytime soon, finally left her house for a bit of diverting amusement.

And without a doubt it would prove amusing. Tonight was the night Beatrice and Spinton were going to announce their betrothal. No doubt all of London would be flabbergasted by the news. It was a chuckle she sorely needed. People would speculate as to what happened between her and Spinton—and probably blame North. Never mind that Spinton had been falling in love with someone else at the same time.

No, not the same time. She had loved North for most of her life. Few people could say that.

In fact, her life had been fairly extraordinary in many ways, but she’d trade it all if she and North could simply live happily ever after. Alas, North would not have it. Or he would simply not have it
yet
. But when? How long was she expected to wait? How long would she have to endure the pitying looks of society matrons while her cousin married
the man originally intended for her? How long would people whisper behind her back about North not coming up to scratch?

There was no point in thinking about it. It only made her grind her teeth in her sleep, and her left jaw ached enough as it was.

Still, she had taken extra care with her appearance, just so everyone would know she wasn’t wasting away waiting for North to make up his mind. Her hair was artfully styled as a gleaming crown of curls atop her head. It had taken Janie hours to achieve, but it was worth it, for the look was very flattering to her face and revealed the long line of her neck—something she had been told was one of her best features.

The gown itself was beautiful—and new. Madame Villeneuve had outdone herself. It had an underskirt of rich burgundy with a shimmery gold crepe overskirt embroidered with hundreds of tiny burgundy crystals imported from Austria, which sparkled in the light. The crystals formed the pattern of a twining vine of roses along the bottom and up the right side of the skirt. The bodice was pale gold crepe ornamented with leaf-shaped pieces of burgundy velvet, and the sleeves were fashioned of similarly cut pieces of the burgundy crepe, sewn together to look like a bouquet of vines at her shoulders. Burgundy gloves and slippers completed the ensemble. For jewelry she wore a simple one-strand diamond necklace with matching dainty earrings. With a gown this strong, simple ornamentation was a must.

After dotting perfume behind her ears and at the base of her throat, she fetched her gold shawl and went downstairs. George, her coachman, had the carriage waiting, and the footman was lowering the steps when she stepped out into the warm night air.

The trip to Spinton’s was blessedly short, giving North little time to plague her thoughts. She thought of him all the
time now, instead of a mere hundred times a day. It was tiring, vexing, and more than a little heartbreaking.

When she arrived at Spinton’s, the butler told her that Beatrice and Spinton were waiting for her in the white drawing room. Octavia thanked him and made her way down the corridor. She didn’t need to be announced in this house, and probably never would.

It was odd, joining Beatrice here rather than the other way around or arriving together, but Beatrice had come early to oversee the final preparations. Spinton’s staff had been planning his ball for months—it was supposed to have been
her
betrothal party. Of course, Spinton had never come right out and called it that, but he had made his hopes perfectly clear. How much happier he must be to be with someone who actually wanted to marry him.

She reached the drawing room in a matter of minutes. The door was ajar, so she did not bother to knock, assuming they had left it open for her arrival. She walked in to find her cousin and Spinton locked together in a heated embrace.

It only proved that they were a perfect match. Octavia had never inspired that kind of passion in Spinton. Good for Beatrice!

“Ahem.”

They flew apart like frightened sparrows, both of them flushing a deep crimson.

“Not that it is any of my business,” Octavia remarked with a teasing grin, “but the two of you may want to shut the door when you want a little time alone.”

Beatrice blushed even further, but she smiled happily all the same. “Forgive us, Octavia. We were carried away.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Do not trouble yourself, Bea. I am not offended. Now, I see you have guests arriving; shall we go?”

She let them leave the room ahead of her, content to walk
behind and admire her cousin’s happiness. Beatrice was clad in a gown of dark blue silk that almost perfectly matched the shade of Spinton’s coat. They were both perfectly groomed and perfectly content.

And she was perfectly jealous, despite her pleasure at seeing such a perfect match.

They had no receiving line. Spinton, being a bachelor, greeted arrivals by himself as they entered the open rooms that served as a ballroom on the first floor. Both Octavia and Beatrice were nearby, saying hello as the house filled with chattering, glittering guests. No one seemed to think anything amiss, although Octavia heard a few whispered speculations on her relationship with Spinton. Apparently some people thought it was mighty generous of the earl to take her back after her “shameful chasing” of North Sheffield.

There was nothing shameful about her chasing of North. It was what she had done after she caught him that would burn their gossip-loving ears!

Oh well, they would never say anything to her face, and she truly didn’t care what they said behind her back. She knew who her friends were. They would not turn their backs on her. And once something new to gossip about came along, society would forget all about her and North.

She milled about the crowded room, sipping champagne, chatting and dancing when it suited her. It wasn’t until Brahm Ryland arrived that she felt as though she had a true friend in the room—other than Beatrice, of course.

The viscount’s arrival caused a ripple of excitement through the crowd. Some guests were tickled by the scandalous peer’s appearance. Others were dismayed. One very proper matron packed up her two daughters and departed in an indignant huff. Brahm watched her go with an expression of rueful amusement.

“You certainly know how to clear a room, Lord Creed,”
Octavia informed him with a smile. She wanted to ask him about Cassie, but even she wasn’t that disrespectful of propriety.

Brahm made an expression of mocking regret. “I do. And to think that Lady Abernathy and her girls are going to miss the highlight of the evening.”

Did he mean the wedding announcement? That was unlikely; no one had been told. But if he didn’t mean Beatrice and Spinton’s betrothal, what did he mean?

“To what do you refer, my lord?”

Brahm graced her with a smile that would have charmed a woman who wasn’t in love with his brother right out of her dress. It was a smile so very much like North’s own. “You will see, Lady Octavia.”

That was it? He wasn’t going to tell her?

Thankfully, he did not keep her waiting for very long. A short while later there was a commotion near the entrance that attracted everyone’s attention, and then North Sheffield-Ryland was announced.

Octavia could scarce believe her ears. North hadn’t used the name Ryland in years. He seemed to enjoy flaunting his illegitimacy. Why use it again now, when he had made it clear that he didn’t care what society thought of him?

One glimpse of him answered her question. Ryland was his family name, and despite some negative associations, it was still a name belonging to a titled English family. Obviously, North had decided to join the family—and the society to which it belonged.

Her heart lurched at the sight of him. Gone were the unruly curls, replaced with neatly combed and tamed waves. His dark locks were still a little longer than fashionable, but had been recently trimmed, as had his sideburns. His jaw was smooth and freshly shaved, the skin there soft and as rosy gold as that on his cheeks.

He was dressed in austere black evening attire with a cream-colored waistcoat and snowy white cravat. The knot at his throat was simple yet elegant, his shirt points high, but not dandyish. The perfectly tailored coat showcased the un-padded width of his shoulders; the lean trousers accentuated the muscular curves of his legs.

He was breathtaking.

“You dressed him, didn’t you?” she asked his brother in a low whisper.

Brahm grinned, tapping the floor with his cane. “I helped. And now that I have seen everyone’s reaction to him, I will be on my way.”

Octavia whirled to face him. “But you cannot leave now. He just got here!”

The handsome viscount nodded. “Exactly. Having me here—a virtual pariah—will not do him any good. Besides, our brother Wynthrope will be here soon, and he despises me even more than society does.”

There was such a wealth of regret and sadness in his eyes when he mentioned his brother that Octavia’s heart immediately went out to him. She knew the two of them had never been all that close, but she had no idea the dislike was mostly on Wynthrope’s side.

“Thank you, Lord Creed.” She wasn’t totally certain what she was thanking him for, but it was a lot, whatever it was.

His body angled away from her, the oldest Ryland brother fixed her with a curious expression. “Why are you thanking me? I have little or no sway over any of my brothers. Anything North does is because of you, my lady. Not me.” And with that he tipped his cane to her and limped through the crowd toward the exit.

Octavia watched him go in amazement. Her? North had done this for her? Surely not. He despised society. He
wouldn’t have entered this ballroom unless he wanted to. She had nothing to do with it.

Besides, it was obvious that he was up to something. This change in appearance wasn’t solely for her benefit—not when he had yet to notice her attendance. Right now he was more interested in charming those around him than in whether she had noticed him.

Just as those cynical thoughts drifted through her mind, North’s head lifted, and his pale gaze locked with hers. He had known exactly where to look, as though he had been aware of her standing there all along.

He smiled—not one of these false smiles he was giving everyone else. This was a real, honest-to-God Norrie smile—slightly self-deprecating, lopsided, and so uncertain that Octavia’s heart clenched at the sight of it.

“He is a fine-looking man,” a matron beside her murmured to her young daughter. “Aside from his own fortune, his father is rumored to have left him a portion equal to that of the three legitimate boys. If these political rumors are true, whoever marries him could very well be a very influential lady someday. He might make you a fine husband.”

Might?

The daughter, turning her head toward her mother, made eye contact with Octavia and flushed a deep, embarrassed pink.

“Do not trouble yourself,” Octavia said lightly as the aghast mother turned as well. “He would make a fine husband. You might want to snatch him up before someone else does.”

There could be no doubt who that “someone else” was. No one—
no one
—was going to marry North Sheffield but herself. She’d die before she’d let another woman have him. He was hers.

Flashing both women a tight smile, Octavia left before
she could cause a scene and headed straight for a footman carrying a tray of champagne. Snatching one off the silver platter, she drained it in one gulp and returned the empty glass to the tray.

“Thank you,” she said to the expressionless footman as she grabbed another.

“Be careful,” a soft voice whispered near her ear. “You know how you get when you have had too much to drink.”

The shiver had barely reached the base of her spine when Octavia whirled to face him. Had he followed her? He must have.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Taking the untouched champagne from her fingers, he placed the glass on the tray of yet another passing footman. “The dancing is about to start, and I want to dance with you.”

“You do not dance. Not well at any rate.”

He chuckled. “I can waltz.”

As the music started, Octavia smiled. “This is not a waltz.”

“True enough. A turn about the terrace then?” He offered her his arm.

Leaving with him could be dangerous. People would talk and speculate. If they were carried away—and the chances were good they would be—it could mean her ruination. Of course, she was ruined already; people just didn’t know it. As far as society was concerned, Beatrice had been there the entire time she was under his protection at his home. The fact that neither of them would say what she needed protection from drove the gossips mad, but the truth had a way of seeping out. Servants listened and then talked to other servants. No doubt some people knew about Merton’s heir—his infatuation with her, the poor boy’s awkward apology, and the banishment to the country his father had punished him with. And maybe a few had even heard that Octavia slept in North’s bed while under his protection. How long would it be
before others heard it as well? How long before that became the reason she and Spinton broke their engagement? How long before she became a source of innuendo and shame?

How long before she began caring what the gossips said about her?

She took his arm, and with it, her chances. If society was going to talk about her, she could not stop it. And she refused to allow the opinions of others to color her actions.

They made mindless small talk as they drifted toward the French doors, presenting the shared image of being totally unconcerned about what people would think of seeing them together. Only the absence of guilt would save them from the gossips.

Outside, the night air was warm, the slight humidity cut by a gentle breeze. They walked down the stone stairs to the gardens below, the scents of flowers and freshly cut grass rising to meet them.

Lanterns, held high on posts, burned and flickered as they walked the gravel path. Other couples and groups drifted past them, their conversations muffled, often punctuated with happy laughter.

Octavia and North were both silent. Anticipation churned in her stomach as they walked deeper and deeper into the garden. To all others they might have looked as though they had no destination in mind, but Octavia knew exactly where they were going. Veering off the main path that led to the maze, she guided him toward the northern edge of the garden, where an artfully designed wilderness waited in murky darkness.