Stephanie James (16 page)

He had dreamt of her.

Not every night, but often enough in the last several months to drive him mad each morning he awoke from the dream. And the dream was always the same: He was in his house, standing at the start of the hallway that led to his bedchamber. Olivia was at the end of the hall, standing by his door in a simple white linen nightgown a nun might wear. Nevertheless, he found the gown oddly erotic. Without fail each time he would begin to near her in the dream, she would begin to undress, undoing a single button of the nightgown in rhythm with his footsteps.

Then, when her buttons were undone so that he could see the line between her breasts, she would begin to slowly slide the collar over each shoulder one at a time, exposing pale and supple flesh. Raging desire would take over then, and he would increase his pace to reach her faster. But whenever he tried to rush to her, she would begin dressing again, doing up the buttons quickly. And when he finally reached her and tried to wrap his arms around her body, she disappeared altogether, leaving him aroused and alone and with only the white nightgown in his arms.

He had had the dream last night, which — compounded with the knowledge that Olivia would soon be in his house — put Philip in a rather foul mood at present. He knew he should be paying more attention to his guests and participating in their discussion, but they were close friends from university. He could get away with being rude for one afternoon.

The three friends in question — Lord Brighton, Lord Masters, and Mr. Southerland — were all passionately discussing hunting techniques. And of course, in keeping with true male fashion, it was indelibly fixed within each man’s brain that only his hunting methods were the most superior.

“I tell you, you’re full of nonsense, Masters,” said Southerland. It was the fourth time he’d said those words to Masters within the last half hour by Philip’s count.

“Quit your gaming, Southerland,” said Masters. “You’ve never killed so much as a dove.”

“You aren’t much better, Masters,” said Brighton. “I’ve witnessed you only ever having killed a single stag, and that was because the poor creature had broken his leg while trying to run away after you missed him with your first shot.”

“Well, the two of you have been hunting with me only three times in all our acquaintance,” said Masters. “I’ve killed many a deer and quail, especially in my childhood, I assure you.”

“Oh, should we feel obliged then to write your mother for confirmation of your abilities?” Southerland teased.

“You’ll be lucky to write at all once I break your hand,” said Masters.

“Touchy, touchy,” said Southerland. “What do you say to that Brighton?”

“I say you can’t hunt properly either. I’ve never seen you kill anything.”

Southerland whipped his gaze around to Brighton. Philip was still watching the amber liquid in his glass.

“You git,” Southerland exclaimed. “You know perfectly well I’m a fair hunter.”

“Ha!” Brighton said in unison with Masters.

Southerland turned to Philip. “Ravenshaw,” he said. “What do you think? Am I a fair hunter?”

All three men anxiously awaited Philip’s answer — Southerland because he wanted someone on his side, and Brighton and Masters because they wanted Philip to chide Southerland along with them.

“I think you are all equally terrible,” Philip said before downing the remainder of his brandy.

A footman entered the drawing room then before anyone could respond to Philip’s remark.

“Lord Philip!” the footman exclaimed through labored breaths. “You must come quickly. There is some trouble in the drive.”

Philip stood immediately. “What sort of trouble?” he asked.

“The duke and one of your other male guests are arguing, and a lady has fallen in mud. I think she injured her ankle as well.”

“A lady? Which lady?” Philip asked anxiously. Let his father argue. The man liked it. But if it was Olivia who had fallen in the mud, then that was a much more urgent matter.

“I do not know, my lord, but she has sort of reddish blond hair … from what I could tell through the mud covering her.”

“Wait here!” Philip commanded his three friends, and then he was out of the drawing room like a shot. It had been Olivia. No one else he invited would have matched the footman’s description. As he skidded to a halt in the foyer to open the front door, Philip reassured himself with the knowledge that, while the mud had been in
his
front drive, at least he had not aided in Miss Olivia’s falling into it.

• • •

God must have otherwise been detained, for he did not show, sending instead Lord Philip to be her savior. Olivia, who had, during her carriage ride, prepared herself mentally to deal with seeing him after so many months, experienced a pang of embarrassment. Instantly she remembered their kiss by the river, and for some reason, to be covered in mud before him now was infinitely more distressing than all the embarrassment she had just endured in front of people she barely knew.

Never mind that her father was presently arguing with the duke, the duchess standing behind them, attempting to calm her husband. Forget the fact that she had, until this point, made a particularly special effort to irritate Lord Philip since their introduction. No; none of those facts mattered to Olivia now. All that mattered was that she did not look her best. It was pathetically female of her, and horribly out of character.

Philip ignored his father entirely, rushing instead directly to Olivia.

“Miss Winter,” he said, “are you all right?”

Olivia forced a smile against the pain of her ankle. “Yes,” she said on an even more painfully forced laugh. “I just need a bath drawn.”

“Of course,” Philip agreed, looking at the mud on her face. “You there!” he said, pointing to one of the footman. “Run along and tell Mrs. Jones to have a bath drawn in the guest room at the start of the eastern corridor.”

The footman bowed and ran about his business.

“Shall I help you in?” Philip asked, extending his arm.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said.

Philip placed one hand beneath her elbow and allowed her to grasp the forearm of his other arm. “My pleasure,” he said, smiling.

Olivia did not like the tender look on Philip’s face. He looked as though he was lost inside of his own thoughts, as though the rest of the world did not matter — except for her. It made her feel dreadfully uncomfortable. The last thing Olivia wanted anyone to do at the moment was look at her. She was far too hideous.

“Stop looking at me!” she bellowed, unable to stand it any longer.

“Sorry,” muttered Philip, and then looked away quickly.

• • •

As Philip patiently escorted a rather slow-moving Olivia into the hall, Lady Lillian watched with keen interest.

“Amelia,” Lillian said, swatting her friend on the arm lightly to draw the girl’s attention away from the duke and Mr. Winter.

“What is it, Lilly?” said Amelia, an annoyed tone in her voice.

“Do your eyes see what I see?”

Amelia followed Lillian’s fixed gaze over toward her brother and the girl he called Miss Olivia. “What do you see, Lilly? Philip helping the poor girl? I see nothing else.”

“Of course you do! Just look at him, Amelia. You’ve only just missed how he was looking at her, but I’ve seen that look on his face before. He loves that girl, whoever she is.”

“And I’ve seen the look on that girl’s face before on the faces of other girls, Lilly. That girl, whoever she is, hates my brother.”

“She might indeed,” agreed Lilly, “but she shan’t hate him for much longer.” She giggled and then inhaled deeply as though she were taking in the perfume of the most delightfully fragrant flowers. “They will fall in love. I would bet my life on it.”

“You’ve been reading too many of those novels of yours, Lilly. They have clouded your head with nonsense. Tea in the drawing room before dinner. That is what will happen next, Lilly. Not some grand display of love.”

“Oh, no certainly not,” said Lilly. “It’s far too soon for that sort of thing, but believe me it will happen. He loves her, I am sure of it.”

Amelia scoffed. “When will you snap out of this love phase, Lillian, and join the rest of us in reality?”

Lillian smiled. “Hopefully never. I do so love a happy ending.”

Olivia’s skin was still warm beneath her dress from her bath. The lavender scent from the bath oil she had used still clung to her skin and made her feel pristinely cleansed and relaxed. Oh, to again be clean! Having been covered in mud, even for so short a time (though it had seemed an eternity whilst her father proceeded to argue with the duke), had caused Olivia to forget momentarily what it felt like to be clean. The pain of her ankle had been greatly reduced by the heat of her bathwater, and she was able to forget that it was injured, and (more importantly) she was again able to walk on her own.

She had been so relaxed after her bath all she had wanted was to lie down on the bed in her assigned room and simply fall asleep, but she could not. The house was full of guests (herself included), and she had to make an appearance at dinner.

Once she had toweled the dampness from her skin, Olivia’s maid Betsy helped her into one of the new dresses her father had ordered for her during her recuperation. It was made up of two pieces, the first layer being pale pink linen with a rounded neckline and white silk embroidery on the bodice. The second layer was a mint-green silk overlay with sleeves extending to her elbows and sashes that, when tied at the back, produced a bow between her shoulder blades. It was an excessively feminine dress — not at all something she would have chosen for herself upon sight. But once she tried it on, Olivia had fallen in love with it.

Her hair had been toweled but was still damp in its bun.

A bun, yes.

Olivia had instructed Betsy to fix her hair in a bun at the back of her head. It was a small compromise Olivia had decided to make for the occasion. Time and time again, she had flouted the convention of propriety in front of Lord Philip with a distinct amount of pride and satisfaction by wearing her hair down. But now she was to be in the company of a duke and duchess, which naturally left Olivia without the conviction to behave in an unbecoming manner.

She therefore chose to arrive at dinner properly dressed and styled. But how was she supposed to behave? How was she supposed to greet her betters, or did someone have to introduce her first? Was she supposed to say “your grace” to each of them, or use “my lord” and “my lady”? She was fairly positive “your grace” was the accepted form of address, but she wasn’t exactly sure. Could she speak to them without having been spoken to? Or did she have to remain silent in their presence altogether? Where was the appropriate place to sit in the drawing room? Presumably not on the same sofa or chaise, but she wasn’t exactly sure. Did such sitting restrictions even exist? There would be at dinner, Olivia knew. The order of precedence would undoubtedly be followed. Where would she sit then? Was she so low in rank that a separate table would have to be brought in? She thought that might be the case, but she wasn’t exactly certain.

Oh, good Lord, Olivia wasn’t exactly certain about one thing too many. She was going to make an absolute fool of herself, of that she was
entirely
certain. And right in front of the two younger girls too, which was a far more worrisome possibility for Olivia to comprehend than anything else. She feared the two younger girls more than any slip-up she could potentially commit.

Olivia feared that they would behave just as nastily towards her as all the other young ladies she had encountered in London. And she was particularly intimidated by the girl with the dark hair. Her coloring was far too similar to the black-haired girl who had tormented Olivia at every available opportunity two years ago. It was silly after all this time to allow herself to be so affected by the memory, but since she’d known no form of kindness while in London, Olivia had been indelibly affected. Perhaps the girls were an exception and they were indeed pleasant, but if they were as snobbish about propriety as Lord Philip (and Olivia suspected they might well be), then they would not hesitate to ridicule her from the start.

They were after all well-bred, and in Olivia’s limited experience, well-bred ladies were only pleasant when they sought to gain something. The rest of the time, however, they were horrid, especially to those they deemed to be underlings or outsiders. But this time around, Olivia was not outsider drowning in their midst. She was in the county of her birth and the girls were not.
They
were the outsiders this time. Her fists clenched at her side as she stood in front of her chamber door, readying herself to descend to the drawing room.

She would not tolerate any sort of ill-treatment. Not this time.
If they dare utter one cruel word,
Olivia thought,
I’ll have my revenge on them. I swear it.

And with that thought empowering her for the moment, Olivia flung open her chamber door and marched out proudly, but with a slight lag thanks to her ankle (God, she hoped it wasn’t permanent).

The stairs slowed Olivia’s proud gait a bit, as she was forced to take them one by one, and very carefully while clinging to the rail lest she fall and injure herself further. The slow tempo of her descent down the stairs gave Olivia time enough to appreciate the art that hung in a staggered pattern along the wall adjacent to the staircase.

Lord Philip had good taste. She could not fault him in that aspect, but portions of the décor were rather obnoxious, as though they existed in the house to show off the amount of money Lord Philip obviously possessed. The paintings were of landscapes mostly, with a few being of some unknown person or another. Each portrait was bordered by a thick, gold filigree frame, which must have been very expensive. In between each painting was a tapestry of oriental design.

Behind all of the dressings, the walls were papered with the most elaborate patterns Olivia had ever seen, and lined at the top with finely chiseled designs. Olivia next surveyed the foyer when she had descended low enough down the stairs to see it. The walls there, too, were papered, and boasted sconces dripping in crystal. Tables were positioned beneath each sconce, and each bore large floral arrangements. Alabaster busts on marble columns appeared on either side of each table. The black-and-white tiles were polished to a high shine, and the ceiling bore a scene of heaven filled with angels and cherubs.