Displaying envy or jealousy reflects poor breeding; therefore,

a lady must exemplify graciousness at all times.

~A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment

 

 

 

Duty.

An heir apparent must marry.

Allen snagged a flute of champagne from a passing servant.

Bloody well wish it were a bottle of Sethwick’s whisky.

Part Scots, Viscount Sethwick boasted some of the finest whisky Allen had ever sampled. The champagne bubbles tickling his nose, he took a sip of the too sweet, sparkling wine and, over the crystal brim, canvassed the ballroom.

Which one of the ladies should he toss his handkerchief to and march down the aisle with?

A posturing debutante, beautiful and superficial?

A cynical widow, worldly-wise and free with her favors?

A shy chit past her prime but possessing a fat dowry?

Or perhaps a bluestocking or a suffragist who preferred reading books and carrying on discourses about women’s oppression rather than marry? At least with the latter he could have intelligent conversation about something other than the weather and a bonnet’s latest accoutrements.

He really didn’t give a damn—didn’t care a wit who he became leg-shackled to or who the next Viscountess Wimpleton would be. The only woman he’d loved had left England three years ago, and he hadn’t heard from Olivia since. His gut contracted and shriveled up.

So much for forgiveness and love’s enduring qualities.

Livy’s gone and not coming back. You drove her away and now must pick another bride.

Familiar regret-laced pain jabbed Allen’s ribs, and he clamped his jaw. He had been an immature arse, and the consequence would haunt him the remainder of his miserable, privileged life. Heaving a hefty breath, he forced his white-knuckled grip to relax before he snapped the flute’s stem.

Mother, no doubt, was pleased as Punch at the crush attending his parents’ annual ball. If too many more guests made an appearance, the house might burst. Devilishly hot, the ballroom teemed with overly-perfumed, sweaty—and the occasional unwashed—bodies.

God, what he wouldn’t give for a more robust spirit than this tepid champagne. The weak beverage did little to bolster his patience or goodwill. At this rate, he would be a bitter curmudgeon by thirty. A drunkard, too. Given the brandy he’d imbibed prior to coming down stairs, he was half-way to bosky already.

After finishing the contents in a single gulp, he lifted the empty glass in acknowledgement of his mother’s arched brow as she pointedly dipped her regally coiffed head toward Penelope Rossington.

He might not give a parson’s prayer who he wed, but his parents did. She must be above reproach, and if Mother thought Miss Rossington suitable ...

Responsibility.

Allen had an heir to beget.

Miss Rossington was pretty enough, exquisite some might say, and generously curved too. Her physical attributes made her quite beddable. She was also dumb as a mushroom and shallow as a snowflake. He’d had more intelligent conversations with barmaids.

He cocked his head as she gave him a coquettish smile before murmuring something to her constant companions, the dowdy and turnip-shaped Dundercroft sisters. They giggled and turned an unbecoming, mottled shade of puce.

A practiced flirt, Miss Rossington had recently become possessive of him and exhibited an unflattering jealous streak. Still, she would do as well as any other, he supposed, since those behaviors seemed universally present in the ton’s marriageable females.

Allen released a soft snort. He never used to be so judgmental and jaded.

Exchanging his empty flute for another full one—only his third this evening—he caught his mother’s troubled expression. She pulled on Father’s arm before lifting onto her toes and fervently whispering in his ear.

Father speared him a contemplative glance, and Allen raised his glass once more.

Cheers. Here’s to a bloody miserable future.

His parents couldn’t fathom his cynicism since theirs had been a love match.

Frowning, Father murmured something and patted Mother’s hand resting atop his forearm.

Casting Allen a glance, equally parts contemplative and maternal, she nodded before smiling a welcome to Bretheridge and Faulkenhurst, two of Allen’s university chums.

Steering his attention overhead, Allen contemplated the gold plasterwork ceiling and newly painted panels adorned with dancing nymphs and other mythical creatures. Mother had begun massive redecorating shortly after Oliva Kingsley had left. He’d always suspected she had done so to help erase Olivia’s memory.

Bloody impossible, that.

Fully aware Olivia had ripped Allen’s heart from his chest and hurled it into the irretrievable depths of the deepest ocean, his parents worried for him. They also fretted for the viscountcy’s future if he didn’t shake off his doldrums and get on with choosing a wife.

Propriety.

He’d always been the model of decorum.

Tedious, dull, snore-worthy respectability.

Except for a single time when he had rashly shoved aside good sense, Allen had always heeded his parents’ and society’s expectations. Never again would he indulge such an impulse. His position required he attend these damnable functions, dance with the ladies, and ensure the Wimpleton name remained untarnished. Bothersome as attending the assemblies was, pretending to enjoy himself proved Herculean, though, he had become quite adept at the subterfuge.

Copious amounts of spirits helped substantially, but drowning self-recriminations in alcohol fell short of noble behavior, or so his Father had admonished on numerous occasions, most recently, this afternoon.

Finally acquiescing to his parents’ gentle, yet persistent prodding, Allen had set his attention to acquiring, what would someday be, the next viscountess. Another blasted obligation. Those not borne into the aristocracy didn’t know how fortunate they were, especially only sons.

However, once he had made his choice, he needn’t feel obligated to attend as many social functions, and when he did appear, he could spend the evening in the card room, or better yet, escape to the study with a few coves and indulge in a dram or two.

Maybe he and his bride would retire to the country, at least until the title became his—not that he wished his father into an early grave or was overly eager to assume the viscountcy. Since seeing the magnificent horseflesh bred at Sethwick’s castle, Craiglocky, Allen had considered entering into a cattle breeding venture of his own. Surely that would keep his mind occupied with something other than melancholy musings.

His wife would want for nothing except his affections. Those weren’t his to give. A certain tall, fiery-haired goddess possessing sapphire eyes had laid claim to them, and his love would forever be entangled in her silky chestnut hair. But he would be a kind and faithful husband. He quite looked forward to dangling his children upon his knee, truth to tell.

An image of a chubby-cheeked imp with sea-blue eyes and wild cinnamon curls sprang to mind. On second thought, he did have one stipulation for his future wife. She could not have red hair.

Taking a sip of champagne, he rested a shoulder against a pillar.

Miss Rossington glided his way, a coy smile on her rouged lips, and if he wasn’t mistaken, a bold invitation in her slanted eyes. Her dampened gown left little to his imagination, and though she wore virginal colors, he would bet the coat on his back, she’d long ago surrendered her maidenhead.

He quirked his mouth. Perhaps, she wouldn’t do after all. Though he must wed, he didn’t relish cuckoldom.

 

 

Barely suppressing an unladylike curse, Olivia gave her aunt the gimlet eye. Did she say a year’s worth of pastries? Hound’s teeth, then it was a given. Aunt Muriel took her pastries very seriously, as evidenced by her ample figure.

Olivia scowled then immediately smoothed her face into placid lines.

Ladies do not scowl, frown, or grimace.

Or so Mama had always insisted, quoting A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment as regularly as the sun rose and set from the time Olivia was old enough to hold her own spoon.

She hadn’t quite decided how to go about competing for Allen’s affections, if any chance remained that he still cared for her. Perhaps she should ask Aunt Muriel for advice.

On second thought, that might prove disastrous. Her aunt had already suggested a clandestine kiss. No telling what scandalous, wholly inappropriate notion Aunt Muriel would recommend. Why, Olivia might find herself on the edge of ruin in a blink if she followed her aunt’s advice.

Tonight, she would find out precisely where she stood with Allen, whether she dared still hope or should concede defeat and accept her heartbreak. Just what kind of woman was she up against, though? “No doubt this Rossington miss is excessively lovely.”

If only Aunt Muriel would say she’s homely as a toad with buggy eyes and rough, warty skin. Oh, and Miss Rossington was missing several teeth and had a perpetual case of offensive breath.

“Hmph. If you consider a heavy hand with cosmetics, dampened gowns, and bodices that nearly expose entire bosoms lovely, I suppose she is.” Aunt Muriel resumed her preening.

Bradford’s mouth crept into a devilish smile. “I quite like dampened gowns—”

“Brady!” Olivia kicked his shin. Sharp pain radiated from her slippered toe to her knee. Bloody he—

Proper ladies do not curse, Olivia Antoinette Cleopatra Kingsley! Mama’s strident voice admonished in Olivia’s mind.

“—and exposed bosoms.” Brady risked finishing, nestled in the carriage’s corner with his arms crossed and a mouth-splitting, unrepentant grin upon his face.

He enjoyed quizzing her, the incorrigible jackanape.

“Of course you do.” Aunt Muriel lifted her graying eyebrows. The twitch of her lips and the humor lacing her voice belied any true censure. “My poor sister would perform one-handed somersaults in her grave if she knew what a rogue you have become, always up to your ears in devilry. Don’t know where you got that bend. Your father was as stiff and exciting as a cold poker, and your mother never did anything remotely untoward, always quoting that annoying comportment rubbish.”

Another rogue dominated Olivia’s thoughts.

What if Allen dismisses or cuts me?

The possibility was quite real.

She had no reason to believe he might yet hold a tendre for her, but she most know for certain, no matter how devastating or humiliating. She feared her rehearsed speech would flit away the moment she opened her mouth, leaving her empty-headed and tongue-tied, and although she had attempted to prepare for a harsh rebuff, practicing imaginary responses couldn’t truly ready her for his or the ton’s rejection and scorn.

As the carriage lurched to a rumbling stop, she sent a silent prayer heavenward. No stars, dim from the new gas streetlamps before the mansion and the coal-laden clouds blanketing London shot across the sky for her to wish upon. It had been on a night very much like this that she’d been a young fool and crushed her and Allen’s dreams of a future together. However, in her defense, she had only known him for a blissful fortnight before he proposed.

Already completely taken with Allen, she’d become teary-eyed during a waltz and shared her dismay. In a matter of days, her father intended to move the family to the Caribbean for a year. Father hadn’t given them any notice or time to prepare, just announced, in his impulsive, eccentric way, that they were off to Barbados to oversee a sugar plantation. She had been full of girlish hopes and dreams, and Father’s plans severed them at the root.

What maggot in his brain had possessed him to buy a plantation? He had known nothing of farming or harvesting, preferring fossils and rocks to humans and their usual activities. Even Olivia’s Season could be ascribed to a deathbed vow Father had made to Mama; one he had repeatedly attempted to renege on until Bradford had intervened on Olivia’s behalf.

She had long suspected Father never intended for her to marry, but to remain at his side as his companion, housekeeper, and nurse until his days ended.

Closing her eyes, she pictured that romantic dance three years ago.

Allen had held her closer than propriety dictated, but not so much as to be ruinous. After whisking her onto the veranda, he’d captured her hand, and they had sped to a garden alcove. Whether he’d planned to ask her, or had been caught up in the moment and spontaneously decided to, she would never know, but he had hurled convention to the wind, dropped to one knee, and after promising to love her for eternity, asked her to share the rest of his life.

She had loved him almost from the first moment she’d seen him standing across the ballroom, sable head thrown back and laughing unrestrained. Her chest welling with emotion, she had tossed aside her mother’s constant harping on proper comportment as carelessly as used tea leaves, and said yes, even though Papa wouldn’t have approved.

Olivia hadn’t cared.

Especially when Allen had smiled, his countenance full of joy, and then had sealed their troth with a scorching kiss. Her nipples pebbled and a jolt of arousal heated her blood as recollection of their potent embrace produced a familiar response. A quick survey of her wrap assured her that her body’s reaction remained a secret, and Aunt Muriel and Bradford hadn’t a hint of her sensual musings.

That had been the happiest moment of her life, and the cherished memory elicited a tiny, secretive smile.

Then, Allen had revealed his intention to elope to Gretna Green.

That night.

Taken aback at his impetuous suggestion, uncertainty had niggled, its sharp barbs pricking and stirring her misgivings. Mother had died a year ago, and Father suffered from ill-humors. It might have been too much for his frail health if Olivia had eloped. She had thought to have a few weeks, months perhaps, before wedding Allen. Besides, a fortnight wasn’t enough time to truly fall in love—not a deep, abiding, eternal love, was it?

More than enough time when your soul finds its other half.

She breathed out a silent, forlorn sigh. Her silly doubts had fueled her fear of making a hasty, impulsive decision. And so, regretfully, she’d said no to hieing off to Scotland, and instead, asked him to wait a year for her to return to England.

“We could write back and forth, truly get to know one another and plan for our future together. A year isn’t so very long.” She tried to persuade Allen to wait. “Many couples are betrothed for a lengthy period.”

Setting her from his embrace, his answer had been an emphatic, “Like hell I shall. I love you and want to marry you now, not in a year, dammit. That’s a bloody eternity.”

“But, I cannot elope tonight.” She touched his arm, trying to reclaim the happiness of a moment before but, shoulders and face stiff, he had turned away from her. “It’s too sudden, Allen, and I’m worried what the shock would do to Papa.”

Head bowed, his forearm braced against the arbor entrance, and his other hand resting on his narrow hip, Allen had spoken, his voice so raspy and quiet, she had strained to hear him.

“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t want to wait to marry. You would be as eager as I am.” Dropping his hands to his sides, he faced her, his voice acquiring a steely edge. “It seems I have misjudged your affection for me. Go to the Caribbean. I won’t try to dissuade you again.”

He had left her standing, crushed and weeping, in the arbor. Wounded at his callousness, after regaining her composure, she had made her way to the veranda where she’d encountered Allen’s sister, Ivonne. Claiming to feel unwell, Olivia had asked her to find Father and Bradford and tell them to meet her at the entrance. Betrayal fueling her anger, she hadn’t even bid her hosts farewell.

It wasn’t until the ship was well out to sea did she realize, she hadn’t ever told Allen she loved him. Not a day had passed since sailing that she hadn’t lamented not eloping. Wisdom had arrived too late, and she had destroyed her greatest opportunity for love and happiness.

Maybe my only opportunity.

No doubt the torturous road to Hades was paved with a myriad of regrets, for life without him would surely be—had been—hell.

A white-gloved footman in hunter green livery opened the door. He set a low stool before the carriage and smiled. “Good evening, Your Grace.”

“Good evening, Royce. My nephew will see us alighted.” Aunt Muriel waved her hand at another carriage where a large woman teetered within the doorway. “Go help over there before Lady Tipples topples onto the pavers and cracks them.” A grin threatened. “Tipples topples. Didn’t plan that. Funny though.”

“At once, Your Grace.” After bowing, Royce dashed to the other conveyance. He and another footman managed to wrangle the squawking woman, swathed in layers of orange ruffles and bows, onto the pavement.

“Wouldn’t mind her absence tonight, truth to tell.” Jutting her chin toward the commotion, Aunt Muriel slipped her reticule around her wrist. “She always wants to bore me with the latest clap trap or her current revolting ailment. I heard more about gout and constipation last week than a body ever needs to know.”

Chuckling, Bradford descended first then turned to hand Aunt Muriel down.

Hands clasped so tightly, her fingers tingled, Olivia remained rooted to her seat, her attention fixed on the entrance.

Allen is in there.

Bradford stuck his head inside the carriage. All signs of his former joviality gone, he regarded her for a long moment, kindness crinkling the corners of his eyes. He chucked her beneath her chin.

“Come along, Kitten. Put on a brave smile, and let’s go meet the dragon. I dare say the past three years have been awful for you, always wondering if Wimpleton still cares. Who knows, mayhap tonight is providential. In any event, you’ll have an answer, and you can get on with your life.”

Bradford had suffered the loss of his first love, and his facade of a carefree, womanizing rake, hid a deeply injured man. If anyone understood her plight, it was he.

“I suppose that’s true.” Although her existence would be only a shadow of what life might have been with Allen.

Such a pity hindsight, rather than foresight, birthed wisdom.

Bradford extended his hand. “Let’s be about it then.”

Sighing, and resigned to whatever providence flung her way, Olivia placed her palm in his. “All right.”

“That’s my brave girl.” He gave her fingers a gentle, encouraging squeeze.

Not brave. Wholly terrified. “So help me, Brady, you step more than two feet away from me, and I shall—”

“Never fear, Kitten. I shall forsake my romantic pursuits and act the part of a diligent protector for the entire evening. I but lack my sword to slay your fears.”

Despite her rioting nerves, Olivia grinned. “How gallant of you, dear brother, and a monumental sacrifice, at that.”

“Indeed. A selfless martyr.” Sarcasm puckered Aunt Muriel’s face as if she had sucked a lemon. “For certain he’s deemed for sainthood now.”

“Anything for you, Liv. You know that.” He tucked Olivia’s hand into the crook of one elbow while offering the other to their aunt before guiding the women up the wide steps. A few guests smiled and nodded in recognition as the trio entered the manor.

Olivia forced her stiff lips upward and reluctantly passed her wrap to the waiting footman. Had he detected her shaking hands? The scarlet silk mantle provided much more than protection from the spring chill; it shrouded her in security. Her stomach fluttered and leaped about worse than frogs on hot pavement, threatening to make her ill.

She ran her hands across her middle to smooth the champagne-colored gauze overlay of her new crimson ball gown Aunt Muriel had insisted on purchasing. The ruby jewelry she wore was her aunt’s as well.

Though Bradford, now the newly titled Viscount Kingsley, had inherited a sizable fortune, Olivia had balked at acquiring a new wardrobe. “My gowns are perfectly fine. I’ll simply wear a shawl or mantle until I become accustomed to England’s clime once more.”

Besides, if she didn’t reconcile with Allen, she was leaving London, and a wardrobe bursting with the latest frilly fashions was a senseless waste of money as well as useless for country life.

“Chin up and smile, Livy. You look about to cast up your crumpets.” Bradford clasped her elbow, as if lending her his strength.

Casting up her accounts was the least of her worries. Swallowing her panic, she offered him a grateful smile as they stood before the butler.

“Her Grace, the Duchess of Daventry, Lord Kingsley, and Miss Kingsley.” The majordomo announced them in the same droning monotone he had the previous guests.

Behind Olivia, someone gasped.

Perfect.

A low murmur of hushed voices circled the room in less time than it took to curtsy as the three of them advanced into the ballroom. Perhaps Bradford’s rise in status caused the undue interest. After all, he had been third in line to the viscountcy, and if their curmudgeon of an uncle and two cousins hadn’t drowned in a boating accident, Brady would have been spared a title he disdained.

Combing the room from beneath her lashes, her stomach lurched.

Every eye was trained upon them. Her. At least it seemed that way from the brief glimpse she had braved.

This is a mistake.

Head lowered and her attention riveted on the polished marble floor, she prayed for strength. Where was the pluck Papa had praised her for, or the feistiness Bradford often teased her about? Or the spirit Allen had so admired?

She could do this. She must if she were ever to discover the truth. Otherwise, not knowing would badger and pester her, preventing her from ever finding the peace she craved.

Had Allen forgotten her? Did he love another now? That Miss Rossington?

There was only one way to find out.

Olivia forced her eyes upward. Inhaling, she squared her shoulders, commanded her lips to tilt pleasantly, and lifted her head.

Her gaze collided squarely with Allen’s flabbergasted one.