Chapter Five
“Viscount Amberson is certainly a fine example of the male species,” Aunt Augusta said the following afternoon, her walking stick crunching with each step on the sanded footpath. “Handsome face. Strong shoulders. Firm rump.”
Olivia choked on a laugh, even as her gaze dipped of its own accord to the retreating man’s posterior.
She and her aunt had ventured into Hyde Park and were strolling along the sunny, tree-lined footpath bordering Rotten Row when they came upon Lord Amberson and his two younger sisters. Olivia had danced with the gentleman a handful of times and found his company pleasant, if a bit pedantic.
Her aunt was right about his rump, though. It did look firm, even from beneath the folds of his morning coat.
“You shouldn’t say such things, even if they’re true,” Olivia said with a smile. “He’s a man, not a horse on the auction block.”
“Oh, tosh.” Aunt Augusta waved her free hand in the air, her sleeve a slash of ruby red velvet. “It amounts to much the same thing, doesn’t it? He is a man on the marriage mart.” She raised a brow at Olivia. “He admires you. I could tell.”
Olivia lifted a shoulder, her gaze falling to her feet as she kicked a pebble out of her path. “Perhaps he does.”
“He would make you a fine husband, I think.”
“I’m certain he would,” Olivia said. “But I’ve already chosen the man I will marry.”
A beat of silence passed between them, and then, in a quiet voice, her aunt said, “But has he chosen you?”
Olivia’s head came up and her lips parted as if to leap to Paxton’s defense, but no words came. She turned her gaze to the bridle path and passed unseeing eyes over the assemblage of men and women on horse-back, her chest suddenly tight.
“The Duke of Paxton is a fine man, my dear,” Aunt Augusta continued. “And I know you’ve made up your mind to marry him, but...is that truly what your heart wants? Are you certain he is the man you wish to share your life with?”
Olivia’s nod was instant. “Of course. Paxton is sweet and thoughtful and will provide well for me. He is precisely the sort of man I wish to marry.”
“That isn’t what I asked, dearest.”
Olivia pressed her lips together. She knew it wasn’t, just as she knew her answer was not the one her aunt had wanted to hear, but it was an honest one. Mostly.
“The duke is precisely the sort of man most women would like to marry,” Aunt Augusta said. “He is everything you said, and rich to boot. But, Olivia…” Her steps slowed and she pulled Olivia to a stop in the middle of the path, turning to meet her gaze. “If Paxton wasn’t a duke, would you still want to marry him?”
Olivia shifted on her feet, uncomfortable beneath the weight of her aunt’s assessing hazel eyes. She had no idea what to say. The truth was, she didn’t know the answer, and she wasn’t certain she wanted to. But admitting that to herself and admitting it out loud to her aunt were two very different things.
“What do you think of the man behind the title? Do you like him? Do you care for him?” Aunt Augusta’s voice was quiet but firm. “Can he make you happy, Olivia?”
The barrage of questions pelted her like stones, and she swallowed hard, searching for her voice. “I am…fond of the duke,” she answered stiffly. “I hold him in the highest esteem.”
“But you do not love him.”
It was not a question. Indeed, it felt more like an accusation, and Olivia stiffened as hurt and indignation swept over her.
“What does love matter?” she demanded, the words quiet but sharp. “Many marriages are loveless yet still happy and successful. Including yours.”
She cast a glance around, careful to keep her expression serene. An argument would not go unnoticed on Rotten Row.
“That is true,” Aunt Augusta said with a nod. “But I was never a romantic. Not like you.”
Olivia’s lips pressed into an unhappy line. She had no defense for that. Her aunt was right. She was a romantic and always would be. But any chance she’d had at love was lost to her now, and wishing for it would be nothing but an exercise in futility.
The realities of life were not always kind, and sometimes they left no room for dreams of love.
“Why are you speaking of this now?” she asked her aunt. “You’ve never done so before. What has changed?” She’d softened her tone, but she could not mask her frustration completely.
Aunt Augusta’s marriage had been arranged by her parents, and although it was not a love match, she spoke of her late husband with affection. By all accounts, she was content in her loveless marriage, and had always seemed perfectly happy to accept the same for her nieces. Until now.
“I suppose I’m getting soft in my old age,” Aunt Augusta said with a rueful sigh. “Seeing how happy your cousin is in her marriage to Dearborn, and how much they love each other…” She trailed off, twisting the tip of her walking stick into the sanded path. “I can’t help but hope for the same for you.”
Longing, sharp and poignant, gripped Olivia’s heart until her chest ached with it. “What happened between Sophie and James is wonderful, and I am very happy for them,” she said, forcing a small smile. “But their love is a rarity, a happy accident. A miracle, really. And miracles are scarce.”
Aunt Augusta’s eyes softened. “I disagree. I believe miracles happen every day.”
Olivia lifted a shoulder, working to keep her smile in place. “For other people, perhaps. But not for me. And so”—her tone brightened—”if I am lucky enough to receive a proposal of marriage from the duke, I shall accept it, and spend the rest of my days as England’s most grateful duchess.”
Aunt Augusta smiled and, though it was a little sad, she said no more on the subject and the two resumed their stroll up the path.
Olivia drew in a breath, relieved to quit the conversation. It was a lovely day and she wanted to enjoy it. Shoving all thoughts of love and miracles from her mind, she focused on the warm spring sunshine, the scent of wet grass, the breeze brushing her skirts against her legs.
The path ahead was crowded, teeming with the top hats and twirling parasols of lords and ladies dressed in their finest, all out to see and be seen.
A young couple caught her eye, the lady’s arm looped through his, their heads bent together in conversation, clearly very much in love.
The lady’s bright green shawl suddenly slipped free of her shoulders and took to the skies, a jungle bird in the middle of London. The winds were temperamental today, calm one moment and the next whipping trees and skirts around like flags on Naval ships.
The lady’s escort took off after the escaped garment, narrowly missing it not once but twice before finally snatching it up in his fist. He carried the shawl back to his lady, draping it around her shoulders, lingering over the task as if he cherished her, as if he couldn’t help but keep her close to him.
Envy knifed through Olivia. She wanted that for herself. She wanted a husband who would look at her like that, who adored her for her, a man who would walk the streets of London with his hand curled protectively over hers, a man who would chase down her favorite shawl on a blustery London afternoon.
The image floated through her mind, of a strong, strapping gentleman walking toward her, a tender, sheepish smile curving his lips…and she realized it was Griff’s smile she had conjured, Griff’s gray eyes gazing at her so lovingly.
“Idiot,” she muttered to herself, dropping her gaze to the ground at her feet.
“Did you say something, dearest?” Aunt Augusta asked.
“No, it was nothing, Auntie.”
She tipped her head back, letting the sun touch her face for a moment, as if it might burn away Griffin’s image from her mind. Why did she still harbor these feelings for him? Why could she not let them go and forget him?
The idea that the Marquess of Keswick might bestow such a smile on her was absurd. More than absurd. It was impossible.
He didn’t even like her, for pity’s sake.
The duke, on the other hand, did. He liked her very much, in fact, and she was rather fond of him, as well. And why shouldn’t she be? He was young and rich and sweet. And rather handsome, too, with his auburn hair and warm brown eyes.
A comforting warmth settled over her as her aunt’s earlier question flashed in her mind. Yes, she thought, the Duke of Paxton was precisely the sort of man with whom she wished to share her life. Even if she didn’t love him.
Love was an indulgence, a luxury only those with time could afford to seek. And time was one thing Olivia did not have.