Stephanie James (18 page)

“Oh, yes,” said Philip, as though suddenly awoken from a dream. “Miss Winter, may I next present Lord William Brighton?”

“You may,” said Olivia before curtsying.

Brighton dipped low into one of his most extravagant bows. “It is a pleasure indeed, Miss Winter, to meet a young miss as beautiful as you.”

Philip looked quickly from his friend to Olivia. Surely she wouldn’t fall for such a trite and improper comment. But she had a giddy smile on her face. Philip took a moment to tell himself to remember to flog Brighton later.

“May I next present Lord Ambrose Masters?”

“Indeed,” said Olivia, and then she curtsied.

Masters was a bit more modest than Brighton. He simply smiled and nodded his head. “Miss Winter, It is a pleasure,” he said, and continued to stare at her with a simpering look on his face. Good God, were they all bewitched by Olivia?

“And lastly, Miss Winter,” said Philip. “May I present Mr. James Southerland of Staffordshire.”

“Of course,” said Olivia before curtsying yet again.

“Hopefully being the last to be introduced doesn’t imply that I’m the least of these men,” said Southerland. “Socially, yes they outrank me, but the quality of a man’s character is not necessarily indicated by his title.”

Philip cringed at Southerland’s impropriety. Only a few moments ago Philip had mentally praised the man for his honesty, but now here he was, using it to make a fool of himself.

Mr. Winter laughed heartily. “Too right you are, my boy.”

The duke glared at Mr. Winter as though he was spoiling for any reason to resume his argument with the man. Oh, God, Philip thought. That was the last thing he needed to happen now. The duchess spotted the tension just as quickly as her son.

“Miss Winter,” she said. “Are you at all recovered from you fall?”

“Oh, yes, your grace,” Olivia said. “Quite. I am much better. A simple bath was able to cure all.”

Everyone laughed lightly.

“Miss Winter,” said Lady Amelia. “You must sit next to me.” Amelia scooted closer to Lillian on the sofa they shared and patted the vacant spot. Olivia sat down obediently and calmly, but inside, her heart was beating wildly and her throat was painful with a heavy dryness.

“Do you read at all, Miss Winter?” Lady Lillian asked.

“Oh, yes,” said Olivia. “Quite a lot, in fact. Even more so in recent months.”

It was a direct stab at Philip, which she hoped he realized. She stole a glance at his face and realized that he had interpreted her meaning.
Good
, she thought.

“Wonderful,” Lady Lillian exclaimed, obviously thrilled to meet a fellow reader. “What sort of books do you enjoy? Tales of romance and adventure perhaps?”

Lady Amelia groaned. “Lillian,” she said, “must you talk only of books? There is more to life, you know.”

“Amelia, hush,” said the duchess. “What do you think of Tyndall Hall, Miss Winter? I believe the restorations of the estate were expertly done.”

“I agree entirely, your grace,” said Olivia. What else could she say? It was not acceptable to contradict a duchess. “The Hall is quite lovely.”

Silence followed. China clattered lightly as a few of the guests took a sip of their tea. The sun was beginning to set and the light pouring in from the windows was turning orange with a hint of red. In a few moments time, the room would be dark.

As if summoned by thought, the very moment in which Olivia noticed the fading light, two footmen entered the drawing room and began lighting the sconces along the walls.

Olivia noticed her father, then. He was fidgeting in his small chair near the fireplace, alternating crossing and then uncrossing his legs. The two girls by her side, and the duchess across from her were still as stone. Only their intermittent blinking gave them away as human.

The duke was staring out of one of the windows. He drank no tea.

Lord Philip’s male guests were staring at their tapping feet, and Lord Philip himself appeared to be examining the structural soundness of the windowsill by which he stood, pressing on it lightly with the heal of his hand.

The footmen exited the room when all the candles had been lit.

Olivia acknowledged light throbbing in her ankle. Too much walking, she supposed.

A few moments ticked by. The room grew darker; the lit candles in their sconces became a more pronounced source of light in the room.

Would they be having beef for dinner, Olivia wondered.

China clinked again.

The sky had gone purple, and still no one spoke.

Was this what it meant to be rich and noble? Was boredom and dry conversation inherent parts of elevated socialization?

A third footman — a young man whose customary gray wig appeared awkward next to his unwrinkled face — entered the room. He cleared his throat. “Dinner is served, my lord.”

Thank the heavens, Olivia thought. Perhaps dinner would be a much livelier affair.

• • •

Philip barely paid attention to his food at dinner. He also ignored his father as he tried to speak to Philip about business matters and general gossip. Philip did not care for anyone’s conversation at the moment. Every voice at the table in fact was nothing more than an indescribable nuisance, an annoying obstacle which prevented him entirely from hearing the one conversation he desperately wished to hear. Lord Brighton, Philip’s absolute last choice for Olivia, ended up seated next to her at dinner, as fate would have it. Philip could see plainly that the man was doing his best to charm Olivia. Oh, and was she ever being charmed. Smiling and giggling like any other young girl, damn her.

He could see her face from where he sat, and it seemed to be that every time Brighton turned his head towards her to speak, she would close her eyes and laugh daintily soon after. And each time Brighton made Olivia laugh, he would turn back to his food with a stupid grin on his face and take a bite with textbook table manners. Oh, yes indeed, that was another thing which annoyed Philip to the fullest.

Curiously, Brighton’s normally deplorable table manners had disappeared for the moment. He was, Philip deduced, on his best behavior. Good God, he was shameless. Brighton was pulling out every trick in his repertoire for the purpose of impressing Olivia. Could she see how ridiculous the whole act was, or was only Philip aware of the guise because he knew the man?

Olivia laughed again, this time throwing her head back slightly, which exposed the long line of her neck to Brighton.

Philip’s fingers tightened around his spoon, which caused the bit of soup he’d just scooped up to splash onto the white tablecloth.

God, he desperately wished he could hear what Brighton was saying to Olivia. But nothing could be heard over his father’s words, his mother and sister’s conversation about new fashions, or especially Mr. Southerland and Mr. Winter. The two men, who were seated across from Brighton and Olivia, were engaged in a very crude and loud conversation. The two were laughing heartily at each other’s comments, which garnered a look or two from Olivia in moments when they were especially loud. And each time she glanced at them, a brief look of panic would drift over her face, as though she were worried her father would make a fool of himself … again. Luckily for Olivia, however, Brighton was present at her side to distract her from any kind of worry. And he did a damned fine job of distracting her, at that.

Devil take it, Philip thought. It was just like Brighton to use all of his tricks to charm a woman, even a respectable one. Philip knew how the man operated. He had seen Brighton in action himself firsthand several times. Philip had in fact developed the habit of waiting for Brighton’s practiced lines, which were always delivered in the same order and in the same tone. And every time, they were effective. Philip had always laughed at this, having found it supremely entertaining to watch Brighton, the slob, gain the undivided attention of any woman he wanted. But now Brighton’s routine was anything except entertaining.

Olivia laughed again, and this time touched Brighton’s shoulder briefly.

Philip spilled the contents of his soup spoon into his lap.

“Are you quite all right, Philip?” asked the duke.

Philip was brushing his linen napkin over his trousers.

“Pardon?” said Philip, finally tearing his eyes away from Olivia’s face. “Oh yes, Papa. I’m fine. Just a twitch in my hand, that’s all.” He turned his gaze back to Olivia.

Was she really so naïve as to believe everything Brighton was telling her? The silly smiles on her face and her laughter led Philip to suspect that, yes, she did believe him. Why could she not decipher his less-than-noble intentions? She was a simple little fool; that was why. She did not have much experience with men, if any, Philip knew, especially men of Brighton’s caliber. Olivia simply did not know any better.

• • •

Olivia was on her absolute last false smile. She was growing quite tired of this charade, but Brighton simply would not leave her alone. She had tried to be nice to him at first, but that seemed only to make him talk more. Damn the luck. All she wanted was to enjoy her meal, which was quite good, and sit in silence. But as fate would have it, such an evening was not to be granted to her. No, it was not. She was, instead, meant to entertain the buffoon, the bloated codfish in nice clothes at her side. And oh, why did she ever entertain him with her false enthusiasm? It had only encouraged him. But what choice did she have? This was the way of society.

When the meal ended and the ladies were allowed to retreat to the drawing room for tea, while the men remained to socialize in private, Olivia was at last able to relax … but not for long. She sat quite contentedly at first on one of the sofas in Lord Philip’s drawing room and listened to the other women speak. Initially she had watched the candlelight from the wall sconces sway over the floral patterned wallpaper. She had examined the oriental rugs, the tables and writing desk, which were all polished to a high-gloss shine. Absentmindedly she paid attention to the conversation between the three women, but she knew very little about fashion or the books they spoke of. She found their conversation pleasant nonetheless. And, within time, as they spoke to each other, they began attempts to include Olivia in their conversation as diplomatically as possible, which allowed Olivia the ability to discover something about each of them she had not thought even possible, least of all expected.

They were kind.

“What do you think of the ending, Miss Olivia?” the duchess asked Olivia, during their conversation about a particular book.

“I cannot say, your grace,” Olivia had replied. “I have not read the book myself, you see.”

Having at first expected a rather disgusted look to appear on the duchess’s face, followed by a snide remark of some kind, Olivia was overwhelmed with disbelief when the duchess merely smiled and said, “Not to worry, Miss Olivia. I brought along my copy. If you are interested, I would gladly lend it to you.”

“Thank you, your grace,” said Olivia after her momentary shock had worn off. “That would be lovely.”

But if she was shocked to find that the well-born London women before her were kind, then she was positively astounded by what happened when the men joined them in the drawing room.

They
all
wanted to speak to her.

Before the men entered, she had suspected with resigned defeat that Brighton would undoubtedly want to speak to her again. But she had not expected the other two men to follow suit. Olivia believed Lady Lillian and Lady Amelia to be far more interesting and delicate beauties than herself, but neither of them seemed to be in demand by any of the young gentlemen. In fact, the two ladies were completely ignored by the other men.

Olivia did not quite know how to handle the attention.

“How did you enjoy the meal, Miss Olivia?” Lord Brighton asked while standing altogether too close.

“Oh … well … I thought it was lovely, my lord,” said Olivia as she tried to back away from the man, but he closed the distance by stepping towards her whenever she stepped back, damn him. “Absolutely delicious.”

A strange look spread over his face which Olivia did not quite understand. The look did, however, make her think of a cat about to pounce on its prey.

“And how do you like the grounds of Tyndall Hall, Miss Olivia?” asked Lord Brighton.

Olivia looked over Lord Brighton’s shoulder and saw Lord Masters hovering in the background. His brows were furled with a combination of worry and anxiety, and he was holding his hands together, fingers fidgeting. He made to step forward when Olivia looked at him, but then retreated suddenly as though not quite sure of himself. Olivia wished he would grow a backbone and save her from Brighton.

She tried to step back again.

“I couldn’t say, my lord,” she said. “I have not yet seen the grounds.”

“Perhaps I could give you a personal tour?” he said. “We could start with the garden.”

An acceptable place to start, yes, thought Olivia. But the look on his face told Olivia that she would be anything but safe. She saw Lord Masters move to within arm’s length behind Lord Brighton. God, she wished the man would hurry up and say something.

“Gardens tend to be most lovely at night,” Brighton continued when Olivia did not respond to his offer of a tour. “Would you like to take a walk with me now?”

Did he really think her to be that foolish and naive?

Just then, perhaps because of Lord Brighton’s shocking offer, Lord Masters at last spoke up.

“Lovely rugs in this room, are they not, Miss Olivia?”

For goodness sake, Olivia thought. Was that all he could come up with? Well … it would have to do.