This Marquess of Mine: (Romancing the Rogue Book 2)

Chapter Eleven

Aunt Augusta’s sigh filled the carriage as it crawled its way up the gravel drive, one of many in a long queue of carriages following the torch-lined path leading to Lord and Lady Henley’s front door.

Turning from the window, Olivia gazed at her aunt’s frowning face, her pinched brow illuminated by the oil lamp burning above her head. “Are you all right, Auntie?”

“Oh, I’m fine, my dear,” she said. “I only wish Lady Keswick could be here tonight. She was so looking forward to showing off her costume.”

Guilt threaded her voice, and Olivia reached over to pat her knee. “I know she was. But there will be other costume balls.”

“Exactly,” her aunt said. “Which is why I should have stayed with her tonight—”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Olivia shot her a scolding look. “Lady Keswick will survive without you tonight. She wanted you to come. She said so herself.”

“I know she did,” she replied, but her voice suggested she didn’t quite believe her.

“Besides, you had to come,” Olivia said. “For me, if no one else. I spent far too much time on your costume not to see you wearing it tonight.” She swept her gaze over her aunt’s colorful gown and smiled. “And I must say, there has never been a more glorious Queen Mab. You look magnificent, Aunt.”

“I do, don’t I?” She patted the sparkling crown circling her head and grinned.

Olivia had fashioned the crown herself, adorning a simple gold circlet with paste jewels and flowers of every color until it sparkled. She’d even designed her aunt’s gown, as well as her own, and she couldn’t help feeling proud of how their costumes had turned out.

She only wished she were in better spirits tonight. She adored costume parties, and had been anticipating this evening for weeks, but her thoughts were focused elsewhere, on the letter from her father that arrived earlier today.

Three lines. He’d told her he needed to economize, that his growing family meant this Season must be her last, and yet he’d wasted an entire sheet of new paper to pen her three silly lines.

I hope this letter finds you well on your way to a proposal of marriage. Do write back and tell me how your search is progressing, so I can determine when I should begin my own. Your stepmother and I are eager to see you wed.

Olivia dropped her gaze to the mask in her lap and studied her work, thinking of Paxton as she stroked the beautiful peacock feathers she had so painstakingly attached to the demi-mask. She hoped he liked her costume.

She’d apologized for her forwardness the other night, and he’d forgiven her without preamble, but his disinterest in kissing her was a blow to her pride, not to mention her confidence. Her father’s letter certainly hadn’t helped.

All she could do now was continue on as before, waiting patiently, praying fervently that Paxton’s love for her would win out in the end. She’d designed her costume with just that purpose in mind, and while she had to admit the bodice was a bit low, a bit daring, she felt no shame.

A daring bodice could further a lady’s cause as well as anything.

“You look beautiful,” Aunt Augusta said, breaking into her reverie, and Olivia realized she’d been fidgeting with her gown. “Your costume is a work of art.”

“Thank you, Aunt.” Olivia gave her a smile and rubbed a gloved palm on the bench seat, the slide of velvet on velvet oddly calming.

“Are you unwell, dearest?” Aunt Augusta asked, her brows drawing together. “You’ve been rather quiet today.”

She hadn’t told her aunt about her father’s letter. It would only upset her, and why should they both be agitated tonight?

“I’m fine,” she replied, though she could see her aunt did not believe her. Instead of the truth, she gave her a fib. “I suppose I am feeling a little pensive tonight. My costume has me thinking about my mother. Do you think she would have liked it?”

“Of course she would,” Aunt Augusta said without hesitation. “She would have lovedit.”

Olivia nodded, her gaze lowering to the mask again. Her inspiration for the costume had come from a collection of children’s stories which had belonged to her mother, a gift she had apparently received from her own mother when she was a little girl.

The book was stained and well-worn, and one of Olivia’s most prized possessions, a rare remembrance of her mother, and one she could actually hold in her hands.

“She would be proud of you, you know,” Aunt Augusta said softly, reaching over to give her hand a squeeze. “Very proud.”

Olivia met her gaze. “Do you think so?”

How nice it would have been to have a parent who was proud of her.

“I know so,” Aunt Augusta said firmly, drawing a smile from Olivia’s lips. “I only saw your mother once or twice during her confinement, but her excitement was obvious. She couldn’t wait to meet you.” Her eyes gentled with the memory. “She was an excellent woman. I wish you had known her.”

Olivia’s smile turned regretful. “So do I.”

She thought of her mother often, of the memorable moments in her own life and what they might have been like had her mother been there to share them with her. She spoke to her sometimes, too, hoping the words would somehow find their way to her.

Her father had never wished to discuss her mother with her, so she’d had to rely on Aunt Augusta’s meager memories to form an image of her in her mind. Lady Melissande Blakely—she was Melissande Simonnet before she married Olivia’s father—was not related to Aunt Augusta by blood, but she knew the young lady from the time she made her come-out at the age of seventeen.

According to Aunt Augusta, Melissande had been shy and sweet and very pretty, and the young Earl Blakely was instantly smitten with her. The two married after a whirlwind courtship and, by all accounts, were very happy together.

It was difficult to reconcile the father she knew—distant, disinterested—with the image of a besotted swain wooing his lady love. Did her mother share his feelings? Was she smitten, too? Or was she tempted by other men? She wished she could ask her.

If only she hadn’t died. If only she was here.

How different would her life have been if her mother had never gone?

Shoving the maudlin thoughts from her mind, Olivia secured her demi-mask over her eyes as their carriage rolled to a stop at the front of the Henleys’ home. The carriage door swung open, and a footman secured the steps before handing Aunt Augusta down to the gravel path.

Olivia followed and the two ladies made their way into the entrance hall where they handed over their wraps before heading for the ballroom, the sounds of laughter and music signaling the way.

Lady Henley’s ballroom was enormous and sparsely decorated, its only ornamentation the sweeping panels of burgundy and gold silk that sparkled beneath the candlelight. The guests were garniture enough, in truth; colorfully costumed to resemble their favorite character of the written word. Not a terribly original theme, but it was a favorite for a reason.

A quartet of musicians played Handel at the rear of the room while liveried servants in burgundy and gold circled the room with trays bearing drinks.

Olivia swept her gaze across the packed ballroom, spotting a Robinson Crusoe, a Little Bo-Peep, at least three Apollos and even a Bottom, arse’s head and all. She pointed the costume out to her aunt, and they shared a smile.

Venturing further into the crowd gathered around the dance floor, Olivia searched for her would-be betrothed among the sea of faces. She smiled when she spotted him at the other end of the room, a dapper Romeo in knee breeches and a ruffled shirt. His mother was with him, sans costume, and a third party was there, as well, a pretty brunette Olivia did not recognize.

The young lady was dressed in a beautiful gown of emerald-green velvet with a full skirt and the trumpet sleeves that were so popular during the Renaissance.

Olivia’s brow knit. Was the girl Juliet to Paxton’s Romeo?

“Do you know the lady with Paxton?” she whispered to her aunt as the duke led the unknown young woman onto the dance floor.

Aunt Augusta studied the lady and shook her head. “I’ve never seen her before. Perhaps she is his sister?”

Olivia frowned. “He doesn’t have a sister.”

“A cousin, then?”

But she knew of no such cousin. The sudden appearance of this pretty young lady she did not know filled her with unease, though she couldn’t explain why.

She was probably worrying over nothing.

“Ah, Keswick! Good evening, my boy,” Aunt Augusta called out, and Olivia’s shoulders stiffened.

With her heart pounding in her throat, she turned to greet him, steeling herself as she pasted a polite smile on her face. She tried not to think of their last encounter when he’d kissed her in Lady Chavel’s rose gardens and then told her it was nothing but a consolation prize. Still, she could feel her cheeks warming as he approached.

“But where is your costume?” Aunt Augusta asked, her tone affronted. “Did you forget this ball was fancy dress?”

A regretful smile curved his lips. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a costume man, Lady Augusta. I’m only here to act as Emmy’s chaperone. Therefore, I am exempt.”

“Nonsense,” Aunt Augusta said with a wave of her walking stick. “I am a chaperone and I have dressed up.”

“And you look wonderful, my lady.” Griffin bowed deeply, humor lighting his eyes. “You wear that dress far better than I ever could.”

Olivia forced her gaze to the parquet floor, battling the urge to drink in every last inch of him. He wore no costume tonight, but he was breathtaking all the same. Dressed in black from his hat to his boots, he exuded confidence and strength, a seductive devil sent to tease and torment her.

“And what of Olivia?” Aunt Augusta asked. “Doesn’t she look wonderful, as well?”

Olivia stiffened and her gaze shot to Griffin’s of its own accord. His eyes swept over her costume then back up to her face, and whatever it was she saw in those dark gray depths made her want to squirm in her slippers. And not in a bad way.

“She certainly does,” he said, his voice soft.

Olivia’s blush deepened. “Thank you, my lord.”

Why was she blushing? The compliment was coerced, for heaven’s sake. You are behaving like a ninny.

“Oh, there’s Delia!” Aunt Augusta blurted out, referring to her good friend, Mrs. Prewitt. She squeezed Olivia’s arm. “She’s just returned from her trip to Scotland, and I haven’t seen her since she got back. Excuse me, my dear. Keswick.”

And with that, she was off, charging through the crowd in her multi-colored gown, making Olivia smile when she used her walking stick to herd a bewigged Rob Roy out of her path.

“Your costume is magnificent,” Griffin said, coming up beside her. “I cannot recall a peacock from any stories I’ve ever read. What is it from?”

Lacing her fingers behind her back, she turned to him, both relieved and annoyed by his casual attitude. Evidently their kiss had already left his memory.

She was not so lucky.

“It is from a story titled Princess Rosette,” she said, snagging a glass of ratafia from a passing servant’s tray. “She marries the King of the Peacocks.”

Feeling abysmally out of her depths, she took a long drink from her glass, savoring the balm to her suddenly dry throat. Making small talk wasn’t usually so difficult, but then she’d never attempted it with a man who, only two days ago, had put his tongue in her mouth.

“I don’t remember that tale,” he said, moving aside to let a pair of Roman goddesses pass by.

“There is no reason you should,” she said with a polite smile. “It is one of Madame d’Aulnoy’s creations. From her collection of stories called Les Contes des Fées.”

His brows rose. “A French children’s book?”

“My maternal grandmother was French,” she explained. “The book belonged to my mother.”

“I see. And this Princess Rosette, she is your favorite character from these stories?”

“Oh, no,” Olivia answered, gazing into her empty glass. “That would be Belle-Belle. From Belle-Belle ou Le Chevalier Fortune.” She slanted him an arch look. “Belle-Belle slays a dragon.”

There. She could pretend nothing had happened, too.

“A dragon slayer? Impressive,” Griff said before casting a pointed glance at her costume. “But why did you not come dressed as Belle-Belle, if she is your favorite?”

“Because Belle-Belle spends most of her story disguised as a boy.” She curved her lips into an impish smile. “I could hardly attend Lady Henley’s costume ball dressed in trousers, now could I?”

“More’s the pity,” he said, amusement creasing the corners of his eyes. “I would have liked to have seen that.”

She shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll have to rely on your imagination instead.”

His eyes glinted, all amusement gone, and she stilled as his gaze flicked to her lips, her breasts, her hips, scorching a path down her body all the way to her toes. His eyes snapped to her face and locked on hers, and the desire burning there, the want, shocked her to her very core.

She swallowed, scrambling for something to say, something sophisticated and coolly unaffected, but her mouth seemed incapable of forming words.

Was it true? Did he want her? Or was that look in his eyes the workings of her hopelessly hopeful imagination?

“Here you are, Livvy!” Emmy materialized out of nowhere, her color high, her breathing labored as if she’d sprinted across the ballroom. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Olivia grinned, taking in Emmy’s Lincoln green skirt and fitted coat, the jaunty bycocket perched on her head, the quiver and bow she’d strapped to her back.

It was a Robin Hood costume that would not scandalize the ton.

“You look glorious, Em,” she said with a grin. “And your hat is simply div—”

“Please, Livvy.” Emmy held up her hands. “I have something I must tell you. Something important.” Her voice was low and urgent, and Olivia’s smile slowly faded.

“What is it?” she asked, unease knotting her belly. “Is something the matter?”

Emmy nodded, her eyes pained. “It’s the duke,” she said. “He is betrothed.”