Sometimes people do not know what is best for them. It is your duty to show them the way.
Lady Olivia’s Particular Guide to Decorum
“Olivia!”
Olivia sighed as she heard her mother’s voice. She was already having a frustrating morning, what with snarling the thread nearly every time she tried to sew. She couldn’t help but realize her entire life was made up of deadlines—she had to deliver shifts by a certain time, respectability and a bride to Mr. Wolcott in a month, and then allow Lord Carson to see the error of his ways and ask for her hand in marriage before her father the duke took his children to the country so he could go hunting.
She did not like hunting.
But these deadlines were all her own fault, brought on by her own determination to do what was right, so she couldn’t complain.
Even though you are complaining, Pearl’s voice pointed out in her head.
“Coming, Mother,” she replied, placing her sewing on the table. She smoothed her gown, picking a few stray threads off her skirts as she walked down the hallway to her mother’s sitting room.
“Yes?” she said as she entered, glancing around the room to see what she might have to fix. It was remarkable how many things suddenly needed her attention now that her older sisters were not in residence. She didn’t mind being in charge, of course; but she did wish her mother and the household in general were less in need of her attention.
She had wrongs to right and wives to find outside of the home.
“Olivia, what is this I hear about your speaking with that—that person?” her mother asked.
Olivia regarded her mother in confusion. “What person?” Cook was the last person her mother had asked her to speak to, and Olivia couldn’t see what her mother’s issue might be.
“Mr. Beechcroft’s . . . son,” she replied in a stiff voice.
The flare of indignant anger rose up in her chest. But despite her mother’s casual dismissal of doing anything that required her to think or act, she would not allow Olivia to lecture her.
Olivia had discovered that, to her chagrin, when she had tried to inform her mother about the conditions at the workhouse.
She had learned to escape the house without being entirely clear about where she was going. Her mother was too distracted by her various and multiple thoughts about the weather, her tea, her lady’s maid’s latest illness, and other extremely important things to bother about where her daughter was going.
Even though her daughter Della had done the same thing, culminating in an elopement with the girls’ dancing instructor. You’d think their mother would have begun to pay more attention to what her remaining daughters were doing, but it seemed she just couldn’t be bothered.
“Mr. Wolcott?” Olivia replied in a casual tone of voice. She couldn’t let her mother know that Mr. Wolcott was her latest project. “Lord Carson introduced us. He is a great friend to Lord Carson,” she added, knowing her mother would seize on that point to allow Olivia to keep his acquaintance.
The only thing she and her mother agreed on, actually, was that Olivia should be married to Lord Carson. Persuading her mother that being polite to Mr. Wolcott would speed the betrothal would allow her to work unimpeded on the Wolcott Project.
“Oh, I did not know that,” her mother replied, patting the chair next to her. “Come sit down and tell me all about this gentleman. A friend of Lord Carson’s, you say? You know your father and I have great expectations of your succeeding where Eleanor . . . did not,” she said, her nose wrinkling at the last two words.
If only the rest of Society were as malleable as her mother. Or wanted something as desperately as the duchess wanted this marriage between her and Bennett.
Almost as much as Olivia wanted it.
She sat down, exhaling in relief. “He is well-spoken.” Especially when pointing out how grossly she’d misread Bennett’s feelings for her. But she wouldn’t be sharing that with her mother. Besides which, she would be changing Bennett’s mind very soon. “And quite polite, despite being . . .” And then she paused. She couldn’t very well say “a bastard” to her mother. “Born as he was,” she finished weakly.
Her mother frowned. “But is he respectable? Does he fit in? It would be horrible if anyone thought less of Lord Carson because of his choice of friend.”
Does he fit in? No, he doesn’t. And not just because of his birth. He stands out, in words and appearance and behavior. Telling me never to let anyone see my pain.
His hair, his looks, his build, were all dangerous. Everything he was combined to become a veritable force, a fearsome storm of fire and emotion and passion.
Not the usual mild type of gentleman Olivia was familiar with. Even Bennett’s presence seemed to dim in Mr. Wolcott’s company, not that she’d admit that. Beyond the confines of her own mind, that is.
Or perhaps to Pearl. But that was it.
“He is a gentleman,” Olivia replied in a firm tone. “He was at school with Lord Carson, and you would never know he was not one of us.”
She was keenly aware of a prickling, guilty sensation flowing through her. Not one of us. It sounded so condescending, something Pearl would point out to her, even though it wasn’t how she meant it.
Although it wouldn’t matter how she meant it if he heard it. It sounded terrible.
“As long as you don’t get it into your head to fall in love with him or anything,” the duchess said, her tone indicating just how ridiculous a proposition that was. Olivia forced an amused smile to her mouth. Did she sound so snobbish when she spoke? The thought made her cringe.
“Being polite to him and allowing him to dance with you every so often is only genteel. Plus I understand his father has quite a lot of money,” her mother added, ruining the effect of charity. “And Lord Carson will take it as a compliment that you are so kind to his friend. I had thought he would have asked by now.”
“Quite a lot of money,” Olivia said hastily, wanting to divert her mother’s attention from a proposal from Lord Carson. Soon enough, Olivia promised herself.
“Well, then, as a polite gesture, you can invite him to dine with us when the Marquis of Wheatley comes in a few days. He will even out the table.” The duchess made it sound as though it was a grand, beneficent gesture—and it would be, if Mr. Wolcott’s father wasn’t so rich as to remove the taint of his son’s birth.
“Of course,” Olivia agreed, even though inside she wasn’t certain how to feel. On one hand, she was pleased her mother was being so generous, but she had to admit—this time to only herself, Pearl would not understand—that Mr. Wolcott made her feel all prickly and odd in a way she’d never felt before.
And there was the fact that her mother would likely exhibit the same kind of condescension she’d just expressed, and Olivia didn’t want Mr. Wolcott to feel uncomfortable.
That must be the cause of the prickly sensation, she decided. Not because of him, and how she felt around him, but because she was so acutely sensitive to other people’s emotions. It was what made her so good when she visited the Society for Poor and Orphaned Children. Sometimes she had to close her eyes when she visited the home, since the suffering was too much for her sensitivity.
And if she were able to secure Mr. Wolcott a place in Society and a bride, she would have gained the society one thousand pounds, which would go a long way toward reducing their suffering. Which would then relieve her nerves.
Speaking of which, she had promised she would start tomorrow, meaning today. “Excuse me, Mother,” she said as she stepped toward the door. “I have to go see about things.”
Which if her mother were a normal parent would be insufficiently clear, but because the duchess seldom listened to anybody but herself, and even then only listened about half the time, Olivia’s vague statement wouldn’t be questioned at all.
No wonder Della and then Eleanor had been able to go fall in love and do something about it without anybody noticing. It had worked out wonderfully for Eleanor, now married to Bennett’s brother, although not so well for Della, whose last letter had contained the news that her lover—never her husband—had left her and now she had a daughter.
Eleanor had refused Olivia’s assistance in helping Della, saying that it might jeopardize the girls’ reputations if it were known they were in contact with their scandalous older sister. A refusal that rankled, since Olivia knew she could help if given the chance.
But she should be grateful she hadn’t been, since now she had a task that would take all of her time.
“A Lady Olivia is here, sir,” the butler said with a faint raise of his eyebrow.
The butler, as well as the rest of the staff, had come along with the town house rental. The owners of the property had taken themselves off to the country to recoup their finances following a disastrous turn at the tables by their oldest son. Mr. Beechcroft hadn’t quibbled at the price they asked for the property, provided the house came with a full staff.
Edward knew his father had long ago learned to turn a blind eye to perceived slights. He had been a wealthy businessman working with and among the aristocratic elite for too long not to be inured to it.
But Edward still winced every time he caught one of the upper staff’s moue of disdain at having to take direction from people they would not normally be in service to.
He wished he could somehow communicate that they were not so very different from one another; he and his father had none of the breeding required to be in polite society, and his father had come up from the working class to where he was now.
But he supposed that the snobbishness of the upper class was matched by the snobbishness of the people who served them. At least that was how it felt to him.
“Where have you put her?” Edward asked tersely. This would be something for the staff to chew over as well; why was a duke’s daughter paying a call on Mr. Beechcroft’s natural son? He should have anticipated her foolhardiness and arranged to meet her on neutral ground.
Although there was no neutral ground possible between them, and that was the entire problem. He was not of her world, no matter how much money he had. Nor was she of his; she didn’t know what work was, what it was like to be dismissed because of her birth.
“She is in the yellow salon,” the butler replied.
Edward nodded, and walked quickly down the hall.
“Good afternoon, my lady.” She was standing by the window, her fingers on the sill. She jumped as he spoke, and he wondered what had her thinking so deeply.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wolcott.”
He felt his throat thicken as he looked at her. She was so lovely, so shiningly beautiful, it nearly hurt. She wore a pale cream-colored gown trimmed with green ribbons, and her hair was neatly dressed, pulled away from her face with a few strands artfully falling in front of her ears.
“I hadn’t realized when you said we would start tomorrow—that is, today—that you would pay a call here. Are you certain that is appropriate?”
“Of course it is,” she said, gesturing to the corner of the room. “I have my sister here with me, and our ladies’ maid is taking tea in the kitchen.”
Edward glanced to where a young lady was hunched over a book in the corner. A book she quickly covered with her hand as he approached. Interesting.
“I haven’t met you yet, have I?” he asked, walking forward to her.
She shook her head, not meeting his eyes. Where her sister was all bright lightness, this lady was a study in contrast—black hair, pale skin, and dark eyes.
“That is my sister Ida. I told her you had a massive library she could visit if she would come here. My family knows the owners of the property, you see, and while I prefer to be doing things, Ida enjoys reading about things.”
Edward suppressed a smile at Lady Olivia’s dismissal of her sister’s academic pursuits.
“Of course, you are welcome to peruse the library. It is just—”
“I know where it is,” Lady Ida said, interrupting. She rose and gave a brisk nod to her sister. “You’ve got half an hour and then we have to go.”
Edward watched bemusedly as she marched out the door.
“Well,” he said, turning back around to Lady Olivia, “we have half an hour. What can we accomplish in that time?”
What can we accomplish in that time?
For a moment, Olivia just stood and stared at him, his words conjuring up all sorts of things that were not pertinent to why she was there. Images of him taking her in his arms, pressing his mouth against hers, letting her slide her fingers through those unruly curls.
She was in love with Bennett, not his friend. She needed to remember that.
Although perhaps you aren’t so in love with him if you could be so distracted, a voice said in her head. The voice sounded remarkably like Pearl’s voice, which annoyed her even further.
“I have a list,” she said, drawing a piece of paper from her reticule.
“Of course you do,” he replied in a dry tone of voice. Was he laughing at her?
“Are you laughing at me?” she asked. She might as well say aloud what she was thinking. It wasn’t as though she had to be the polite young lady around him. She was only with him to fulfill her part of the bargain, not to endear herself to him.
It felt wonderful, if she were being honest with herself. To be honest aloud, unlike the usual softening of tone and opinion she had to force herself into when out in company.
Although she didn’t always succeed there, as past encounters showed.
“I think I am,” he replied in a surprised tone. “I haven’t had much cause to laugh lately, so thank you.”
She sat down in the chair closest to her, and gestured for him to take the one opposite. “It’s been that bad, has it?” She felt her chest start to burn with her righteous anger.
He sat down, crossing his long legs, momentarily distracting her with wondering just how long they were.
“It’s not what you think,” he replied, his voice soft. “It doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. It’s something else.” His mouth tightened into a thin line. “It’s something I don’t feel like discussing.”
“Oh.” Olivia bit her lip to keep from peppering him with questions, questions he already said he did not wish to answer. But that was the unfortunate thing about her, she already knew; once there was a mystery to be uncovered, or a wrong to be righted, she wouldn’t rest—or stop asking questions—until she solved it.
But if he refused to speak with her because she had pressed him too hard, she would never have the satisfaction of seeing him received in Society, nor would he donate a thousand pounds.
Nor would he be happily married.
Nor would she be happily married. That was the most important reason of all.
Although that thought didn’t please her as much as it should have. This was all for her eventual marriage to Lord Carson. That was why she was doing it, she reminded herself.
“Your list,” he said, stretching his hand out. “Can I see it?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, holding it out for him to take. His fingers brushed hers during the exchange, and she felt a shiver run through her.
He unfolded the paper and smoothed it out so he could read it. She watched, fascinated by the firm gesture. His fingers were long and thick, not the gentleman’s hands she was accustomed to seeing. His nails were clean, but cut short, likely to be able to write more efficiently. She spotted a dot of ink on his ring finger and smiled to herself.
“A list of potential brides?” he said after a moment, lifting his gaze to hers. “Do you know if they meet my standards? Even though my standards are, as you said, quite limited.” He looked back down, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “I have been introduced to a few of these ladies already, and I highly doubt if they would wish to be on this list.” He looked back up, a rueful smile on his mouth. “And the ones who have not been openly rude are likely just biding their time until they can be.”
Olivia felt her cheeks heat. In embarrassment over her fellow Society ladies’ despicable behavior, or in having presented the list in the first place, she didn’t know. She snatched the paper back from him and crumpled it up in a ball in her hand.
“You have to be open-minded about this,” she said, the words spilling out in a rush. “It is not as easy as just selecting an item from a menu.”
“But it’s your menu,” he shot back. “Wasn’t that why you came over with this list? To see which lady piqued my interest, even though marriage is not a matter of choosing a name and proceeding?”
“Oh, and what do you know about marriage?” she replied, clapping her hand over her mouth as she realized what she’d said.
His lips curled into a smile devoid of humor. “Exactly. I know nothing of marriage, not having witnessed one in my own life.”
Oh no. She’d done it again. Spoken without considering whom she was talking to, a man who’d grown up keenly aware of the stigma of his birth.
She released her hand from her mouth and took a deep breath. “I apologize, Mr. Wolcott. That was—”
“Thoughtless? But also expected?” His voice held a bitter tone that felt as though it was actually stinging her.
“Both,” she said quietly. Her cheeks were hot, flushed with embarrassment. And then her whole body followed suit, making it feel as though she were standing next to a hot oven.
“The thing is,” she said, licking her lips, which felt suddenly dry, “that you will never be able to find a suitable wife if you believe every single female you meet is likely to reject you.”
He raised a brow. “Is that your strategy? Believing anyone you decide upon will wish to have you?”
The words stung. Was it because they were true? She couldn’t think about that now. She would not think about that now.
“We’re not discussing my situation, Mr. Wolcott.” She glanced at the clock in the corner, noting it had already been fifteen minutes. “We don’t have much more time before Ida returns, and we should have a plan in place to accomplish your goal.”
“Your goal,” he corrected. “Being properly received in Society is your goal, not mine. I have no hopes of it.”
“But you do wish to be married,” she retorted. “And in order to find someone, you’ll need to overcome the hurdle of your birth.”
“Thank you for acknowledging it is a hurdle. Most ladies don’t even mention it. They just sniff and look anywhere but at me.”
“Goodness, why wouldn’t they want to know you? I mean, just look at you!” Of course she spoke without thinking. But then again, it gave her the excuse to just look at him herself.
So tall and handsome and wildly, virilely attractive. That hair of his curling everywhere, as untamed as he seemed to be. And yet he spoke and acted politely, far more assured than many of the young lords she had met in Society. It was just that his politeness seemed to encase someone else entirely different, an outsized man whose passion and intensity might scorch her if she got too close.
She was not going to allow herself to get too close.
Was she?
“You do have a point.” He spoke reluctantly, and Olivia tried not to be smugly pleased he had agreed with her. More people should do that in general; it would make her life so much easier. “So what is your suggestion? Beyond making a list of ladies who would be horrified if I came courting?”
Olivia folded her hands in her lap. “I suppose I will have to rethink my tactics.”
He nodded at her to continue.
“I will ask if there are families in particularly desperate financial straits, as you suggested earlier. And to those families, we will need to show your good points. To prove that you should be viewed in the same light as any other young gentleman.” She couldn’t help but look at him again; it felt as though her eyes were drawn to him in a way they had never wanted to look at anything before. Not even Bennett, with whom she was madly in love.
“You and I will appear in company together. I will introduce you to the people I know, and they will come to know you as well.”
“Bennett has tried that, you know,” he said drily. “How will you succeed where he has not?”
“Well,” she said in a prim voice, “Lord Carson is capable in so many ways, but he is not a lady. He doesn’t know what ladies find intriguing about gentlemen.” He kept his gaze steady on her, making her wish she wasn’t too old to squirm in her seat under the scrutiny.
“Because he’s not a lady,” she repeated, and then his expression relaxed, and it looked almost as though he wanted to laugh.