Chapter Three
“She’s beginning to try my temper, Livvy,” Lady Emmaline Keswick complained as she fell back against the pale green sofa cushion with a dramatic sigh. “If this goes on much longer, I’m afraid I might do something desperate.”
Olivia chuckled softly from the seat beside her, mindful of the tiny kitten curled up on her lap, dozing like a sweet angel.
“You ought to be battle-hardened by now,” she said, arching her brows at Emmy. “Your mother has been trying your temper for years.”
“I know.” Emmy frowned and brushed a dark curl from her cheek. “But I don’t usually feel so guilty about it.”
Olivia smothered a smile. She and Emmy were gathered in the warm, comfortably elegant drawing room at the Keswicks’ townhouse, sharing a light repast of tea and scones before heading off to Bond Street to visit the shops, weather permitting. A light, late spring storm had blown in overnight, covering the sky with a flimsy quilt of clouds, portending a potentially drizzly day.
Emmy was not as fashion-minded as Olivia, but she hoped an afternoon out would help to lift her friend’s spirits. At least it would provide a respite from her grumpy mother.
“Your mother’s ankle will be good as new in a few weeks,” she said, “and then you can go back to being irritated with her sans guilt like you’re used to.”
Emmy sighed. “I only hope I can last that long.”
“I shall say a nightly prayer for you,” Olivia teased, patting Emmy on the knee.
The kitten lifted her head, yawned adorably and with a smack of her lips, promptly went back to sleep.
“I should probably do the same for my aunt,” Olivia mused aloud, stroking the kitten’s fur. “Your mother is driving her mad, as well.”
“Is she?” Emmy’s head came up, her gray eyes alight with curiosity. “Why?”
Olivia’s smile turned wry. “Because she’s being too nice. Aunt Augusta feels awful about the accident, and I think she would feel better if Lady Keswick were angry with her, but instead she’s being the soul of charity, and it’s making my aunt feel worse. She thinks she’s doing it on purpose.”
Emmy snorted a laugh, her smile deepening the dimples in her cheeks. “Well, of course she’s doing it on purpose. My mother is a very shrewd woman. She knows precisely what she’s doing to your aunt.”
Olivia blinked. “Goodness. I had no idea Lady Keswick was so devious.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that,” Emmy said. “But I will own that she can be rather...creative when it comes to getting what she wants.”
Olivia chuckled. The way Emmy spoke of her mother, one might almost believe she disliked the woman when, in fact, the opposite was true. Emmy adored Lady Keswick and the feeling was mutual. Although they were unalike in nearly every way, the love between them was genuine.
If not for Lady Keswick’s determination to marry Emmy off and Emmy’s total disinterest in cooperating, the two would probably be the best of friends.
Olivia couldn’t help envying their relationship. It was by no means perfect, but it was a far cry better than the one Olivia shared with her father. At least Lady Keswick cared for her daughter. Would Olivia’s mother have cared for her? Would the two of them share the same closeness Emmy shared with her mother? She liked to think they would but, of course, she would never know for sure.
“By the way,” Emmy said, reaching out to pet the still-dozing kitten, “how was your drive with the duke yesterday? Has the idiot proposed to you yet?”
Olivia’s lips pursed at the insult—the idiot was the man she hoped to marry, after all—but she didn’t bother to scold. Emmy was only trying to be supportive, in her own brash way.
“No,” she said with a sigh. “Not yet. We had a lovely time, though, and at one point I’m certain he would have kissed me if we’d been alone. Even Nellie noticed it.”
“And you would have let him kiss you? If you had been alone?”
Olivia notched her head to one side. “What an odd question. Of course I would have let him. If a handsome duke tried to steal a kiss from you, wouldn’t you let him?”
Emmy shrugged. “I’ve never been tempted to do so before.”
“Really? Not once?”
Emmy shook her head. “Not that a duke has ever tried to kiss me, of course. But other men have, and I’ve always declined.”
“Why?” Olivia couldn’t fathom being three-and-twenty and still unkissed. Kissing was one of life’s greatest pleasures, so far as she was concerned.
“I didn’t see the point, I suppose,” Emmy said. “I cared nothing for any of them, and if I didn’t feel anything before kissing them, why should I feel anything after?”
Further proof that Emmy had never been kissed. In Olivia’s experience, kissing was about giving pleasure as much as receiving it. She liked kissing, and being desired, knowing her kiss brought pleasure to the gentleman in her arms. Perhaps this made her wicked, but she’d accepted long ago that she was no angel.
“Well,” Olivia said, “perhaps you simply haven’t met the right gentleman yet. When you do, I’m certain you will feel differently about kissing him.”
Emmy’s nose wrinkled. “Maybe,” she said. “But he will have to be someone truly spectacular.”
Olivia nodded. “Like Paxton.”
A peculiar noise sounded in the back of Emmy’s throat, and then her gaze fell to her lap, and she began plucking at the lace overlay of her skirts as an unusually fraught silence fell over the room.
Olivia frowned down at the top of Emmy’s head. “What was that noise?” she demanded.
Emmy’s gaze met hers, innocence personified. “Hm? What noise?”
“The noise you made with your throat,” Olivia said, throwing her a pointed look. “It is obvious there is something you wish to say, Em, so say it.”
Emmy shook her head. “It’s nothing. Really.”
“Come on. Out with it.”
Emmy’s gaze turned wary, and she pressed her lips together, finally huffing out a breath. “Oh, all right. If you insist.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “You know I have nothing against the Duke of Paxton. He is a decent man with impeccable manners and an unimpeachable family line, but, well...” She frowned. “Don’t you think he is just a little too...nice?”
Olivia’s brows shot up. “Too nice?”
The sharpness in her words roused the kitten from her nap, and Olivia stroked her fur in apology. “What do you mean, he’s too nice?”
Emmy pursed her lips. “He’s always smiling, always spouting off compliments and waxing optimistic. It’s too much.”
“It is not too much.”
“Well, it is for me.”
Annoyance had Olivia’s lips dipping into a frown. “Well, you are not going to marry him. I am. And I don’t think he’s too anything. I like his optimism, and I am certain we will share a long and happy marriage together.”
Just as soon as he asks me.
“I hope you’re right, Livvy.”
“I am,” she said firmly. “I know I am.”
Emmy nibbled her lower lip, her eyes shadowed with concern. “I know you have your heart set on marrying the duke, but time is not exactly on your side and, well, I’m worried you might be putting all your eggs in one basket.”
Olivia’s stomach clenched, but she would not give credence to Emmy’s fears. Even if they mirrored her own. “It’s true, Paxton has not proposed marriage to me yet, but I know he wants to. And he will. I’m certain of it.”
“But if he doesn’t—”
“He will.”
“But if he doesn’t,” Emmy said, holding up her hands. “If he should—I don’t know—suddenly fall ill and die, what will you do? Have you an alternative option? Another gentleman waiting in the wings?”
“I don’t need an alternative option,” Olivia insisted. “Nothing is going to happen to Paxton. He will offer for me, and I will marry him.”
She had to. She must.
“There are other men, Livvy,” Emmy said, her voice tinged with exasperation. “Men who are just as handsome, just as charming, just as rich.”
Olivia sighed. “But there is only one duke.”
And it had to be a duke. Only a duke would do. Marrying well—marrying the best—was the only way she could make her father proud of her. She’d already tried everything else; excelling at her studies, mastering the pianoforte, mastering everything, and none of it had worked. Her father barely knew she existed.
Perhaps he would never care to know her better, perhaps he would always resent her for her mother’s death, but she would never stop trying to curry his favor. She couldn’t help it. He was her only parent, and she wanted his love. She wanted him to be proud of her and, as a woman, there were very few ways in which to achieve this. Marriage was just about the only avenue left to her, and she intended to use it.
“Meow.”
The tiny squeak broke into the tense silence, and Olivia smiled as the kitten clumsily leapt from her lap to the floor and stretched her limbs with a lusty yawn.
“She is so darling,” Olivia said, as the little ball of black fluff flopped onto the floor and began chewing on her paw. “What on earth possessed your brother to bring a kitten home?”
Emmy shook her head. “I really don’t know. He says he found her and thought to give her to me and Mother for a pet.”
Olivia’s brows dipped. “He found her? Where?”
Emmy popped a bite of buttered scone into her mouth and shrugged. “On the street, apparently.”
“Hm.” Olivia looked down at the kitten, now playing hopscotch on the patterned Persian rug. “It is difficult to picture your brother in the role of savior. Even for a tiny, helpless kitten.”
“But, of course, I only saved the thing so I could fatten it up and eat it.”
Her head snapped up at the sound of Griffin’s droll voice, and she watched him, her pulse thrumming, as he strolled into the room with confident ease. Her cheeks warmed as her eyes met his, dark gray, beautiful. Mocking.
Always mocking.
“Good afternoon, Olivia,” he said, the words polite, even as his eyes teased.
Her toes curled in her striped satin slippers, and she sniffed, her gaze falling to her lap as she brushed at the fur clinging to her skirts. “Griffin.”
Her mind whirled and her heart leaped, as it often did when Griffin was near, and she mentally admonished the fact that she’d just been caught talking about him. It didn’t matter that what she’d said had hardly been complimentary. She worked hard at making him think she didn’t speak of him, or even think of him, and the dratted man had caught her doing just that.
“And good afternoon to you, too,” Griffin said to the kitten as she trotted across the carpet to greet him.
He scooped her up into his arms, his smile affectionate, his eyes soft, and Olivia’s heart practically melted into a puddle on the floor.
The man was far too handsome for his own good. Certainly too handsome to ignore, no matter how hard she tried. Her gaze flicked over him. Dark hair cut short, broad shoulders, strong thighs. Distractingly large hands.
He wore a dark gray coat and burgundy cravat over black trousers and boots. The image of the perfect marquess, ruggedly elegant, effortlessly assured. Entirely irresistible.
Olivia swallowed and looked away, her lips thinning. Drat it all, she wasn’t supposed to melt over him. Not anymore. Not after what happened last December when she’d humiliated herself before him at the Stevensons’ Christmastide house party, when he’d called her a silly, spoiled brat.
Not after he took such care to show me how little he thinks of me.
“Are you two ladies ready to leave?” Griffin asked, and Olivia looked at him, confusion crinkling her brow.
“I am,” Emmy said, pushing off the sofa and smoothing the wrinkles from her pale peach gown. “Are you ready, Livvy?”
Olivia slowly rose to her feet, her perplexed gaze on Emmy’s face. “I am, but what...”
Emmy gave her a wide smile. “My mother asked Griffin to be our escort during her recovery,” she said cheerfully. “And he agreed. Wasn’t that sweet of him?”
Olivia looked at Griffin and found him watching her, absentmindedly scratching the kitten’s ear as a smile tugged at his lips.
“Oh, yes,” she said faintly. “Very sweet, indeed.”
And very, very unwelcome.
“Shall we, ladies?” Griffinswept his kitten-free arm toward the door, eager to leave and get this deuced outing over with as quickly as possible.
Emmy gave the kitten’s ears a scratch before heading for the door, humming to herself. Olivia followed, tugging on her gloves as she glided past Griffin, a serene smile pasted to her lips, her blue gaze resolutely avoiding his.
He sighed. She didn’t want him here, just as he knew she wouldn’t. And though she tried to hide it, he’d caught the brittle edge to her smile.
Too bad, sweetheart. You’re stuck with me, just as I’m stuck with you.
He followed after her and made his way into the corridor, the scent of jasmine and the subtle sway of luscious hips threatening to annihilate his peace of mind.
Ignore her.
Admittedly, ignoring Olivia Blakely was not an easy thing to do, but neither was it impossible. He’d had plenty of practice these last two years, ever since he’d realized how beautiful she was. On the outside, at least.
He was there the night she made her debut, just eighteen years old, looking quite different from how he’d remembered her. Elegant and mature with her blond curls swept up and her pink satin dress accentuating womanly curves he’d never seen before. Or, at least, never noticed before.
The first lick of desire low in his belly had caught him totally unaware, and he’d shifted on his feet, uncomfortable with the idea of lusting after little Olivia Blakely, the girl he’d known since she was eight years old. His sister’s longtime friend. She’d never been anything more than that.
Until that night.
He’d watched her all evening, a blonde goddess surrounded by slavering admirers, all of them hungry for her attention. He’d been hungry for it, too, but he’d kept his distance. She was beautiful, yes, and she knew it. She reveled in the attention she received, teasing and toying with every man in her orbit, though none were good enough for her. Countless proposals, countless rejections.
Olivia, his sister’s sweet little friend, had grown up, and grew into a shallow, title-chasing flirt.
“Have you named the kitten yet, Griff?” Emmy asked over her shoulder, interrupting his reverie as the group made their way into the entrance hall.
He cleared his throat and shoved all thoughts of that long ago night from his mind. “I haven’t,” he said. “I thought I would leave that to you and Mother.”
“But she’s your cat,” Emmy pointed out, turning to face him with raised brows.
Olivia stood a short distance behind her, busily situating her velvet cloak around her shoulders.
“She is not my cat,” he returned. “I brought her home for you.”
Emmy smiled. “Be that as it may, she likes you best. She chose you. Therefore, she is your cat, and you should be the one to name her.”
Griffin frowned and glanced down at the kitten in his arms. “But I wouldn’t know what to name her. I’ve never named anything before.”
Emmy threw him a speaking glance, clearly disappointed in him. “It is hardly a monumental decision. If you name her something awful, she won’t care. She won’t even know.”
Griff hesitated, unsure exactly why he was so reluctant to give her a name. She was only a kitten, after all. Hardly a life-altering commitment. Still...
“Oh, very well,” Emmy said, throwing her hands out. “I shall name her. Let’s see…” She scrunched up her nose and eyed the kitten thoughtfully. “What about…Pudding? Or Pumpkin? Parsnip? Persimmon? No, no, I have it! Princess Plum Cake.”
“Oh, I like that last one,” Olivia said, her lips trembling with mirth.
She would choose now to speak.
Griffin scowled. “Don’t be absurd,” he said. “That isn’t even a real name.”
Emmy shrugged. “If you don’t like it, I suppose you’ll have to name her yourself.”
Griff sighed and looked down at the kitten’s furry face. She returned his gaze, her yellow eyes bright with mischief, and then one eye winked, reminding him of a flickering star in a sky black as night.
“Artemis,” he said promptly.
The kitten mewled, as if affirming his choice, and Griffin smiled. “Yes. Artemis.”
“Artemis?” Emmy notched her head to one side, considering the name. “Artie. Yes, I like it.”
Griffin shot her a stern frown. “No, not Artie,” he said. “Artemis. A strong name befitting the feline goddess of the hunt.”
The feline goddess in question chose that moment to grip her tail between all four paws and gnaw on it as if it were a furry sausage.
“Goodness me,” Emmy said, her voice dry as dust. “You had best arm yourself, Livvy. A fierce and terrifying predator walks among us.”
“Fiercely and terrifyingly adorable, you mean,” Olivia quipped, her gaze on Artemis, a soft smile curving her plump, wine-red lips.
Forcing his gaze from that irritating smile, Griffin turned to Winters, who hovered near the front door. “Take Artemis to my mother’s rooms,” he instructed. “Thank you, Winters.”
With a bow, the butler collected the kitten and carried her from the room.
“Shall we, then?” Emmy asked, pulling on her pelisse as she headed for the door. “Where shall we go first? I know we need to visit the plumassier for your costume, Livvy, but should we stop at Madame Adelasia’s first?”
“Yes, let’s,” Olivia said, following her out the front door. “Her shop is on the way, and I would like to see if any new earrings have arrived. I still need to find the perfect pair to go with my costume.”
Emmy nodded. “And I need a pair of red gloves to go with mine.”
Grabbing his beaver hat from the coat rack, he donned it and followed the two chattering ladies down the front steps toward their awaiting carriage. He inhaled deeply, willing the damp spring air to clear his thoughts, and cleanse the scent of jasmine from his addled senses.
“Have you chosen a character yet, Griff?” Emmy asked once the trio were settled and the carriage had set off, Olivia and Emmy seated side by side on the bench opposite his.
“Character?” he asked, crossing one leg over the other. “For what?”
Emmy threw him a frown. “For Lady Henley’s costume ball, of course. It is next week.”
Griffin shook his head. “I don’t do costume balls.”
“Well, you will be attending this one,” she replied crisply. “You are to act as my escort. Remember?”
Bloody, bleeding hell.
Olivia’s head dipped and she appeared to be fighting a smile, almost as if she’d read his mind. Or perhaps she’d simply read his expression.
He cleared the frown from his lips and turned to the window, looping his hand through the leather strap attached to the upholstered wall beside him. He gazed out at the passing carriages and strolling pedestrians, though he barely noticed the view as images of costume balls and musical soirées and God only knew what else flashed through his mind. Bloody sprained ankle.
“I cannot wait to see everyone’s costumes this year,” Emmy said, clacking her heeled slippers on the carriage floor. “There are sure to be some excellent efforts. Lydia Tuttenham told me last night that George Milton will be in attendance and apparently, he has a real treat in store for us.” She chuckled. “Although, I cannot imagine he will be able to best his wolf in sheep’s clothing costume from last year’s ball.”
Olivia groaned. “I had forgotten all about that night.”
“It was rather a clever creation,” Emmy said, still chuckling, “but I don’t think he considered how warm it would be, poor man.”
“Well, I say he deserved every miserable moment,” Olivia said with a sniff.
Griffin raised a brow, curious despite himself. Olivia wasn’t usually so mean-spirited. He held his tongue, though, and continued his feigned interest in the passing scenery.
“Oh, let it go, Livvy,” Emmy said, her tone more than a little exasperated. “It’s been nearly a year! I can’t believe you are still sore with him after all this time.”
“Let it go?” Olivia scoffed. “The man proposed marriage to me that night, Em! And when I asked him how I could possibly agree to marry a man with a large, red tongue hanging down the middle of his face, he behaved like a petulant child and called my costume boring.”
Griffin couldn’t help himself. He turned from the window and looked at Olivia, who was gaping at his sister, her color high, her full lips parted in indignation. Gorgeous, he thought. Even with her bristles up.
“To be fair,” Emmy countered, “you had just rejected the man’s proposal.”
Olivia sniffed. “That is no excuse for such ungentlemanly behavior.”
“I’d wager his behavior would have been less offensive to you if he’d been a rich duke,” Griffin drawled before he could stop himself.
Olivia’s bright blue eyes met his, and he caught the barest flash of emotion there—indignation? hurt?—before her expression cleared. “Well, of course it would,” she said brightly. “One can forgive almost anything for a duke. Isn’t that right, Em?”
“Er, well…” Emmy shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
“If only there were more of them to go around,” Olivia went on, her voice mournful now. “Alas, single dukes are in tragically short supply these days. It almost renders the lesser titles more appealing.” She shot Griffin a treacle-sweet smile. “Almost.”
Arching a brow in reply, he said nothing, fighting the urge to laugh. She irritated the hell out of him, but she amused him, too. Always had. Spending time with Olivia Blakely could give a man whiplash.
The carriage rolled to a stop in front of Madame Adelasia’s shop, and a moment later the door swung open. Olivia exited first, her head high, her back ramrod straight, coolly regal in her snow-white gown as she descended the steps with the assistance of a liveried footman.
Griffin looked at Emmy, expecting her to follow suit, but instead he found her watching him. Her gray eyes, so like his own, teemed with a mixture of exasperation and curiosity.
“What?” he asked, his tone more defensive than he’d intended.
“Why do you say things like that to her?” she asked, her voice low. “You never behave that way with anyone else. I don’t understand it.”
Griff grunted, resisting the urge to tug at his cravat. “She’s hardly an innocent lamb. She insults me every chance she gets.”
“True,” Emmy said, nodding. “But her insults are nearly always provoked. The same cannot be said for you.”
She exited the carriage then, leaving him with the echo of her words, unwelcome but undeniably accurate. He did provoke Olivia and, worse, he enjoyed doing it. He’d like to pretend he didn’t understand the reason why, but he knew damn well what it was.
Olivia Blakely was a frivolous, spoiled, title-chasing flirt and he did not like her.
But that didn’t stop him from wanting her.
He hated himself for the weakness, hated that he couldn’t eradicate the feeling, that no amount of reasoning or self-admonishment could kill the attraction. He’d tried it all and still he wanted her.
Disgust soured his belly and, with gritted teeth, he stepped down from the carriage and headed toward the shop, his steps clipped and impatient.
Ignoring her used to be easier, he thought as he pushed the shop door open. Before December, before the Stevensons’ Christmastide ball where a tipsy Olivia had found him in the library and angled for a kiss beneath the mistletoe. He thought of the mischievous twinkle in her bright blue eyes, the shy, sweetly seductive smile curving her generous lips. How tempted he’d been to say yes, to give her what she wanted—what he’d wanted, too.
Thank Christ he’d come to his senses in time.
And that was why he pushed her buttons, wasn’t it? Because if he could keep her at arm’s length, and make her believe he found her company undesirable, she would be less likely to turn her considerable charms on him. Charms he knew he would be powerless to resist. He had no defense for them, and he knew it.
He thought of that sweet, tipsy smile again and his gut clenched. And then he remembered his cutting words, and the way her smile had withered on a mortified gasp.
It was for the best, of course.
But he wasn’t proud of it.