Chapter Twelve
The duke is betrothed.
The words clanged through Olivia’s mind like raucous, discordant bells. She gave her head a shake as if to clear them away, certain she must have misheard.
“Betrothed?” she echoed. “But…that is impossible. There must be some mistake.”
Emmy shook her head, anger simmering in her eyes. “The young lady’s name is Jane Withers. She is the daughter of one of the duchess’s closest friends, and apparently the two mothers have long wished their children would marry…”
Olivia searched the room for Paxton, but he was no longer on the dance floor, and she could not find him in the crowd. She needed to see him, to meet his gaze and see for herself, in his eyes, that it wasn’t true. It cannot be true.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why did he never mention her to me? Why did he let me believe he was mine? He said he cared for me. He said he would marry me—” Her throat caught, and her eyes fell closed as a wave of dizziness came over her. She longed to yank off her mask and toss it to the floor. “I have to leave. I can’t stay here. I can’t—”
She turned, preparing to flee, when a hand closed around her wrist, gentle but firm. Surprise parted her lips and her gaze shot up, straight into Griffin’s fierce gray eyes.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low and gruff. “Don’t run away. Don’t let him see your pain.” He gave her wrist a gentle squeeze. “Dance with me, Olivia.”
The quiet calm in his voice washed over her, soothing her nerves and easing the knot of panic in her chest. She nodded.
Griffin tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her onto the crowded dance floor as the strains of Mozart’s Sussex Waltz began to fill the room.
Olivia did her best to hold her head high, to show everyone in the ballroom that she was fine, that she would always be fine, but her heart thudded in her ears and her lips refused to keep a smile.
Her skin prickled, as if every pair of eyes in the room was watching her, though she couldn’t bring herself to look, afraid of what she would find in their faces.
Pity. Derision. Smug satisfaction.
Paxton is betrothed.
How could it be true? After everything they’d been through, after weeks and weeks of patient waiting, he had betrothed himself to another woman.
She was too stunned to be angry with him. Her mind was hazy, sluggish, her body curiously numb, as if she’d received the news in a dream. Only she was awake, and this nightmare was all too real.
Numbly, she joined hands with Griffin, and they began to move around the dance floor in the opening steps of the waltz. Her limbs were stiff, but she did not stumble, steadied by the familiarity of the steps and the oddly comforting press of Griffin’s hands in hers.
“Olivia.” His soft voice drew her gaze to his. “Smile.”
“I am smiling,” she muttered, not at all certain it was true.
“You’re not,” he said, with a pointed look at her mouth.
He slipped a hand around her waist and pulled her in close, his fingers pressing into her flesh, warm and strong, and despite the circumstances—despite herself—a tiny shiver ghosted across her skin.
She placed her hand on his shoulder and stretched her lips into a toothy grin, the muscles in her cheeks aching with the effort.
“You look like a rabid dog,” he said, laughter shining in his eyes as he guided her around a passing couple. “Try again. With fewer teeth this time.”
The urge to roll her eyes was strong, but she batted her lashes instead and softened her smile to demure. “How is this?”
He nodded approvingly. “Better. I could almost believe you like dancing with me.”
Olivia snorted a soft laugh. “Clearly I missed my calling on the stage.”
His smile deepened. “Clearly.”
She studied him openly from behind her demi-mask, drinking in the strong planes of his face, the little lines creasing the corners of his eyes. Gratitude washed over her, warming her chest and she dropped her gaze to his evening coat.
He was a puzzle to her, this man. He did not like her and yet, here he was, dancing with her when he did not dance, all so she could salvage her pride.
“Griffin?”
His eyes met hers. “Yes?”
She parted her lips, intending to thank him, but the words slipped away as an older woman and her partner passed by, their gawking eyes pricking her skin like needles.
“...it is no less than she deserves…”
“...she brought this upon herself…”
Olivia stiffened, shame scorching the tips of her ears. She sucked in a soundless breath of air and fought to keep her smile.
“Ignore them,” Griffin murmured, giving her hand a staying squeeze. “They are nothing to you.”
She huffed out a humorless laugh. “They are right, though. I do deserve this.”
“You don’t believe that.”
Her gaze fell to his cravat and snagged on the simple diamond pin tucked in the folds of ebony silk. Candlelight caught in the diamond and flashed, as if winking at her. Mocking her.
“The duke proposed to me last Season,” she said, the words acrid on her tongue. “I turned him down. His mother has never forgiven me for it, but I thought Paxton had and that maybe, with a little time, he might ask me again.” She swallowed. “Obviously I was wrong.”
And now it was too late. She’d bungled everything, and the damage had been too great to repair.
Disappointment speared her but she fixed another smile to her lips and kept her gaze on Griffin’s cravat. She would not look for Paxton again. She would not give him the satisfaction.
“Why did you turn him down?” Griffin asked, his tone oddly flat. “I should have thought you’d snap up the first duke to offer for you.”
Silly. Spoiled. Title-chaser.
The words he’d slung at her all those months ago struck her like arrows, poison-tipped, straight through the heart, and her breath caught in her throat. Reality returned, abrupt, unmerciful, an unflinching reminder of his true feelings. His poor opinion.
He is not your friend.
Cloaking herself in pride, she threw him a teasing half-grin. “Isn’t it obvious?” she said airily. “I was holding out for a prince.”
His lips quirked as if torn between a smirk and a smile.
The final strains of the waltz faded to an end, bringing cold reality with it. Olivia fixed her smile and notched her chin up with queenly composure as she laid her hand on Griffin’s proffered forearm.
“Thank you for the waltz, my lord.” She kept her voice light and breezy as they exited the dance floor. “I realize how difficult it must have been for you, dancing with someone you hate. But I am grateful to you.”
She looked at him, and his eyes shuttered. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I don’t hate you, Olivia.”
She arched a brow. “But you don’t like me, either.”
He was silent, no words, not a single gesture to refute her words. Her heart gave a painful thud, and she widened her smile, her armor, before turning and walking away, the echo of his words nipping at her slippered heels.
I don’t hate you, Olivia.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment. With shame.
Because despite his ambivalence toward her, despite all her attempts at pushing him away, she still cared what he thought of her.
She suspected she always would.
Several hours and oneinterminably long costume ball later, Olivia flopped onto her back on Emmy’s bed and released a slow, exhausted sigh.
“Well,” she said to the ceiling, “I think this evening qualifies as a complete and utter disaster, don’t you?”
The mattress sank as Emmy sat down beside her. “I’m so sorry, Livvy. I know you had high hopes for tonight.”
Olivia huffed out a humorless laugh. High hopes? Yes, she’d had high hopes for the evening. The higher the hopes, the greater the fall, apparently.
“I wanted a betrothal, and I got one,” Olivia said dryly. “Pity it wasn’t mine.”
The evening should have been magical. She’d spent countless hours assembling her costume, and took such care with her appearance tonight, certain the romance of the evening would inspire her duke to finally ask for her hand.
Her duke.She scoffed. He’d never been her duke, had he? She’d wanted his name so badly she’d convinced herself their marriage was inevitable, a foregone conclusion, and she’d left no space for the possibility of an alternate outcome.
What a fool she’d been.
“You tried to warn me, didn’t you?” She crossed her arms beneath her head and sighed. “You asked me what I would do if the duke should fall ill and die. I thought you were being morbid, but you knew something might happen, didn’t you? You knew the duke would not be mine.” She shook her head. “I should have listened to you.”
“Paxton is a fool,” Emmy said. “And if you would like for him to suddenly fall ill and die, I would be more than happy to look into it for you.”
The glint in her eyes was almost frightening, and Olivia couldn’t help but smile a little. “I almost wish he were dead,” she said. “At least then I could tell myself he would have married me if we’d only had more time.”
She didn’t mean it, of course. No matter how angry she was with him, she would never wish him harm. He was as much a victim of his mother’s overbearing personality as she was.
“Did you have no idea he was considering marrying this Miss Withers?” Emmy asked.
Olivia made room on the bed so Emmy could stretch out beside her. “I’ve never even heard of Miss Withers,” she said, her exasperation showing in her voice. “He’s never once mentioned her to me.”
“It is obviously the match his mother wants. Paxton would rather marry you. Everyone knows that.”
“I thought so, too,” Olivia said, fussing with the sleeve of her nightrail. “I thought if I was patient, his regard for me would eventually eclipse his desire to please his mother. I thought I was making progress.”
Her father’s letter flashed in her mind, and she grimaced, her pride recoiling at the thought of conceding defeat. “I don’t know what I’ll do now.”
“Well, I do,” Emmy said with characteristic confidence. “You will compile a list of your many admirers, cross out the ones you don’t like and let the rest fight for the honor of your hand.”
Olivia wrinkled her nose. “Paxton was the only duke amongst them.”
“Hang Paxton.” Emmy slashed a hand through the air. “And hang dukes, for that matter. I never thought he was good enough for you, and he’s just proved me right.”
Olivia turned her head to look at her. “You’ve never liked him very much, have you?”
Emmy shrugged. “He’s a nice man, but I never felt he was the right one for you.” Her brows drew together, concern lighting her eyes. “Are you very disappointed?”
Olivia draped her hands across her belly and nibbled her bottom lip as she assessed her feelings. “My heart isn’t broken, if that’s what you are asking,” she said slowly. “I am disappointed, of course, but honestly I feel more lost than anything else.”
For weeks she’d thought of little else but catching herself a duke, putting her need to please her father above everything else. Now that it was over, she had no idea what to do with herself.
“I did want to marry him,” she said, her gaze on the ceiling again. “Yes, because it would make me a duchess, but also because I genuinely liked him, and I believed we would be happy together. I still do.” She shook her head and tried to smile. “But none of that matters now, does it? It is over.”
Emmy gave Olivia’s arm a gentle squeeze, but she made no reply. What else was there to say? Words would change nothing. What was done was done.
Paxton was betrothed to another, and Olivia had no choice but to let him go.