The Fifth Kiss (7 page)

“Everything!” he answered cruelly. “That dress you're wearing is dull in color, outmoded in style by years and years, and is too broad in the shoulders, besides being—”

“Never mind,” she cut in, making a face at him. “I quite regret having asked. This dress is completely suitable for my purposes. I don't care to spend my days poring over the pages of
The Mirror of Fashion
or
La Belle Assemblee
just to familiarize myself with the latest designs. Nor do I wish to run up huge bills at some fashionable modiste's.”

Her brother hooted. “That, my dear Livie is quite plain. One only needs to take a quick look at you to see that you do not patronize a fashionable modiste's!”

Miffed, she turned her back on him and stalked off. But later, she put her head into Charles' study door and asked if he agreed that she was a dowd.

“A
dowd
? Who said you
were
?” Charles asked, surprised.

“Jamie. He wants me to buy a ball gown so that I might attend Lady Crawford's
fête.
”

“Well, why don't you?”

She sauntered in and perched on a corner of his desk. “Oh, it's too great a bother. There would be the expense … the search for a pleasing pattern … choosing the fabric … the fittings …”

Charles shrugged. “Well, please yourself, of course. These matters are quite out of my element. But as to the expense, I would not let
that
be a consideration. Papa can afford it. We're very well to pass, you know.”

“Are we?” she asked with sudden interest. “I've never thought much on that subject, although I've always taken for granted the fact that we had sufficient income for our needs.”

“More than sufficient. Papa's income may not be remarkable by the standards of, say, someone like Strickland, but it is sizeable. And in addition, you know, you have a legacy from Mama that assures you a comfortable independency for the rest of your life. I daresay you may purchase gowns to your heart's content.”

That night she studied herself in her dressing-table mirror with a frown of concentration, and the next day she asked Jamie to accompany her to the modiste's establishment. Since he was the only member of the family with any claim to knowledge of fashion, she needed his counsel. Flattered that there was
something
he could teach his sister, Jamie readily agreed to help. They spent an entire day together, during which he persuaded her to purchase not only a ball gown but a walking dress, a dinner gown, a morning dress, a riding costume, three pairs of shoes, a pair of long white evening gloves, and a Norwich silk shawl shimmering with silver threads. And as a final surprise, he stopped at a jeweler's establishment on the way home and bought her, with his very own funds, a pair of lovely pearl earrings.

Although the necessity of enduring several additional fittings was a nuisance, Olivia made no further complaint, for she had to admit (when she found herself greeting the arrival of each new parcel with eager excitement) that the results of these efforts were rather pleasing. On the night of the ball, she came downstairs in her new gown feeling quite foolishly nervous. The gown was not particularly daring by the current standards of fashion, but it was the most revealing creation
she
had ever before worn. It was made of Persian silk in the color of spring jonquils. It was cut low across the shoulders and bosom, the neckline trimmed with rows of tiny beads. The waist was high and gathered in the center, and the skirt fell away in soft folds to the floor. (She loved the sweep of the soft train behind her; it made her feel queenly as she descended the stairs.) She had put on the long white gloves and the pearl earrings, and she'd draped the silver shawl over her shoulders. Her dark curls had been brushed until they glowed, and the color of her cheeks was high, clearly revealing her inner excitement.

Charles and Jamie, waiting at the bottom of the stairs to get a glimpse of her, beamed. “Now,
that
is something I like!” Jamie said proudly.

Charles puffed at his pipe with brotherly satisfaction. “You look like … like …” he began, struggling for a simile.

Jamie glanced at him scornfully. “Searching for the name of the correct Grecian goddess, are you?”

Charles grinned. “For an appropriate quotation. The only thing that comes to my mind is Dryden, however, and it must be a paraphrase at that.”

“Well, go ahead and paraphrase it,” Jamie said impatiently. “We shall have to leave in a moment.”

“Livie,” Charles declaimed, lifting her hand to kiss, “
you look like another Helen who'll fire another Troy
!”

Olivia giggled. Helen was said to be as tall and fair as Olivia was small and dark. “What gammon!” she said, blushing. But she felt quite pleased with herself as she took Jamie's arm and went with him to the waiting carriage.

Morley Crawford greeted them at the doorway of the Crawford house in Upper Grosvenor Street and added to Olivia's self-satisfaction by revealing clearly that he was quite bowled over. “I
say
!” he exclaimed, gaping at her in awe. “The other fellows will climb all over me to claim a dance with you! You had better promise me
right now
that I may have the first country dance, the supper dance and a waltz!”

James warned her with a wink not to dance with her host more than twice and took himself off. Mr. Crawford pulled her arm through his and led her up the stairs to the ballroom, assuring her all the while that three dances with him would not constitute a
faux pas
. They finally compromised on two dances and his exclusive company for supper.

The ballroom was crowded beyond belief, for Lady Crawford was one of those hostesses who was convinced that a ball was not a success unless it was rated a “dreadful squeeze.” There were dozens of young men present, most of whom took admiring note of Olivia's entrance. Her hand was sought for every dance, and as she passed from one young gallant to the next, she discovered that she was enjoying herself hugely. She found no partner whose individual qualities were at all remarkable, but the heady satisfaction of being the reigning belle of the evening was enough to send her spirits flying.

Only one small incident occurred to mar her pleasure. On her way down to supper on Mr. Crawford's arm, she was jostled by a gentleman in a bottle-green coat who was working his way up the crowded stairway. “I beg your pardon,” the gentleman said, more by rote than with real regret. They were about to pass each other without further ado when he cast her a quick glance. His eyes lit up in appreciation for a fraction of a second, but in that instant, they recognized each other. It was Lord Strickland. As soon as he realized that the striking-looking young woman he'd jostled was his sister-in-law, his eyes grew icy and his expression hardened.

“Good evening, my lord,” Olivia said, smiling at him with satirical politeness.

One eyebrow shot up as he looked her over with cool detachment, taking in every detail of her costume from the earrings to the little silver slippers on her feet. His eyes glinted sardonically, and she felt a blush rise up from her throat to her cheeks. “Good evening,” he said with a curt bow. Then, without another word, he turned and went on his way up the stairs.

There was something so insolent in his behavior that she was left speechless. She continued to stare at his back until he turned on the landing and disappeared from her sight. Her cheeks burned with humiliation. How could he stare at her in that hideous,
measuring
way—and then not even take the trouble to
greet
her properly? She would have liked to slap his face!

“Who was
that
?” Mr. Crawford demanded with a growl. “How
dared
he look at you so! I'd like to call him out!”

Since Mr. Crawford had made no effort to defend her honor while Strickland was nearby, Olivia couldn't help but be amused at his belated and exaggerated gallantry. Her anger at Strickland dissipated at once, and she broke into a peal of laughter. “Call him
out
?” she asked, teasing. “For saying ‘Good evening' to me?”

Crawford was not accustomed to being treated scornfully. “Well, I … I mean, it was his … his
tone
—!” he said defensively.

Olivia instantly realized that she'd offended him. “A duel will not be at all necessary, Mr. Crawford,” she said swiftly, trying to placate him. “The gentleman was only my brother-in-law, Lord Strickland.”

He gaped. “Strickland? You don't mean … the famous Tory Hawk?”

“Yes, I believe he is sometimes known by that epithet.”

“Good God! Is
he
your brother-in-law?” He looked at her with something very like awe.

“Yes, he's my sister Clara's husband,” she said, turning to continue down the stairway, a wave of annoyance at his obvious veneration washing over her.

“You don't
say
!” he murmured admiringly, following her down. “Mama must be in transports. She hardly expected to nab so large a prize at her annual squeeze.”

“
Is
he a prize?” Olivia asked, stopping and looking back at him in surprise.

“Oh, yes, indeed! Rarely accepts purely social invitations, they say. Likes political gatherings or card parties, not
this
sort of thing. But if he's your relation, Miss Matthews, why was he so rude to you?”

Olivia waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, we just don't get on. We haven't liked each other from the first. Don't trouble yourself over him, Mr. Crawford,” she advised, and she quickly changed the subject.

But all through supper, over the lobster patties, the cheese buns, the French nougat, the little apple
soufflés
and the champagne, Olivia found herself dwelling on her brother-in-law's humiliating stare. What had his sardonic expression meant? It was as if he'd instantly concluded that her change of style in dress announced loudly that she'd placed herself on the Marriage Mart. Was he laughing at her? Was his insulting expression saying that she would always be a priggish bluestocking, no matter what she wore? If only she could
show
him …!

But show him
what
? What was it she would like to prove to him? She could find no answer, and, to pull her mind from this most unpleasant preoccupation, she focused her attention on her escort. When supper was over, she told Crawford that she'd had enough of the dancing and would rather sit down somewhere with him where they could chat in privacy.

Morley Crawford smiled a bit smugly at the suggestion, and he murmured something into her ear to the effect that he was delighted beyond words. He led her to the library, to a small sofa in a secluded corner of the room where a chance intruder would not be likely to notice them at once. He took a seat beside her and tentatively slid his arm along the back of the sofa behind her.

“I suppose, Mr. Crawford,” Olivia remarked with her disconcerting directness, “that you've known a great many young women.”

Mr. Crawford was both surprised and flattered. “Did your brother tell you that?”

“No, although he
did
describe you as ‘dashing.' I assume that ‘dashing' means that you've had … er … some experience with the ladies.”

Crawford preened. “I daresay that I …” He shrugged with becoming modesty and looked down at his knees. “Shouldn't say this, I suppose, but I
am
reputed to have some … er … ability to make myself agreeable to the fair sex.”

“I'm not at all surprised,” Olivia said, looking him over with cool dispassion. “You have an obliging manner and a most pleasing appearance.”

Both her words and her tone were sincere and honest, but Crawford found them somewhat discomposing. He'd never before met a girl so very frank and outspoken. “Thank you,” he mumbled in growing perplexity. “You are … too kind.”

“Have you often been alone with a young lady … just as we are now?” she asked, eyeing him speculatively.

“Well, I don't know if I'd say
often
,” he ventured cautiously, wondering rather dazedly where this was leading, “but from time to time …”

“What did you talk about on those occasions?”

“
Talk
about? Why … nothing that signifies. Mere … commonplaces …”

“Such as …?” she persisted.

He shrugged again. “Oh, you know. All the usual things. How amusing the party is …”

“How amusing the party is?” Olivia echoed interestedly. “I see. And …?”

He floundered about for an answer. “Oh … I might ask if they'd seen Kean as Richard Second.”

“Ah, yes. And then …?”

“Then I might say … er … how charming they look …”

She cocked her head and grinned at him. “Were you going to say that to me?”

“Well,
yes
” he said, a bit on the defensive again. “And I would have meant it, too! You
do
look charming. Very lovely, in fact.”

“And what do the other young women usually say to that?” she asked curiously.

“They generally say, ‘Thank you, sir.'”

“Like this? Thank you, sir.”

“Well, they flutter their eyes a bit when they say it.”

Olivia tried again. “Thank you, sir,” and she fluttered her lashes at him.

“That's the way,” he said with an approving grin.

“And then what happens?” she pursued.

Mr. Crawford was warming to his role as teacher. “Then I usually say, ‘You have lovely hands.'” He picked up one of her hands and held it in his.

Olivia stared at their joined hands for a moment and then broke into a laugh. “Oh, I see! How clever of you, Mr. Crawford. It's a
ruse
, isn't it?”

He dropped her hand at once and stared at her aghast. “A
ruse
?”

“To take the lady's hand. I think it's quite delightfully devious, Mr. Crawford. You needn't be embarrassed. Here, take it again and let's proceed.”