Chapter 15
Two nights later, Ivy was still replaying Owen’s words in her mind as she headed from the kitchen to the library, where she met Diane most nights to play chess and gossip about the day.
“I would not touch your sister if she were the last lady in England. She is related to you, after all.” She had been deeply offended at first, but after some contemplation, had realized the insult was meant more for Barnes than her, and now she was using it as a reminder that this situation with Owen was a ruse, and nothing more.
Besides, right now she was feeling she could forgive Owen anything.
Not only had he convinced the ton he was courting her, but he had also introduced her to Lord Hartford, and she had had a long and pleasant conversation with the marquess.
Before the party, Hartford had not known she existed, but the day after, he had known her well enough to have a book of poems by Robert Browning delivered to her.
Owen had taken one look at the small, leather-bound poetry book and snarled about men who lacked self-preservation before stomping away.
Ivy could not be happier; their plan was working.
At the party, Brackley had been the attentive, smitten lover, so it should not have bothered her that after the party he had chosen to ride home on horseback, or that he had not spoken to her since.
She suspected he was avoiding her, and when she did spot him from afar, he looked so thunderous and cranky that she did not feel all that compelled to seek him out anyway.
No matter the reason for his poor disposition, it was very obvious that the flushing and chills she had experienced in his presence at the party had been one-sided.
“I would not touch your sister if she were the last lady in England.” Owen may not find her attractive, but Lord Hartford had at least seemed pleased by her.
He had compared her to two different flowers and a type of rare vase during their conversation, and although she had found the compliments strange, she knew she should be flattered.
Being called a rose was preferable to being growled at.
Ivy’s thoughts drifted from Hartford to what she had just learned while in the kitchen.
Ostensibly, she had been there for tea, but in reality, she had been hoping to catch the maid, Eliza.
She had been relieved when she had spotted the sassy maid dropping off the dowager’s tea tray.
Ivy knew she would not have much time, so she had quickly dived in, pretending she had spotted a man near the stables that she did not recognize, and asking if Eliza knew him.
“No!” the maid had cried, “but is he tall with a hat that keeps his face in shadow?”
“Precisely so,” Ivy had lied.
Eliza had nodded. “I have seen him twice now, though never so close as the stables. Both times he was in a clearing near the east fields, where you kin have a good view of the house.” She had blushed furiously, likely praying Ivy was not going to ask why she had been in the east fields, but Ivy already knew it was because she was meeting Thomas, and had no opinion about the maid’s activities one way or another.
“Did he flee when he saw you?”
“Aye.” Eliza had nodded. “I told the butler, and he said he would let the master know.”
Ivy wondered if he had done so. “Perhaps you had better find a different place to… to read your Bible.”
Eliza had scrunched her nose for a moment, and when she realized what Ivy was pretending to assume, she had nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, madam. Of course. I like to read in the sun, but I shall find another place.”
Who was the stranger? Did he have anything to do with the accusations being made about Lord Brackley? Ivy did not know, but whatever the man’s reason for trespassing and spying, she most certainly had to tell the Dove about it.
Ivy’s foot lifted over the library threshold, but before she could call out for her friend, she spotted two silhouettes in front of the blazing fireplace: Diane and Barnes.
Spots of color splotched Diane’s cheeks, and she looked angry enough to spit as she faced Barnes, who was standing unnervingly close and looking down at her as if he wished to spank the sass out of her.
There was something intimately explosive about the tension that made Ivy falter. She knew her brother and Diane did not get along—hated each other, in fact—so why did she feel as if she was about to intrude on a lovers’ spat?
She slowly backed out of the room and bumped into a broad chest. She would have squeaked in surprise if a rough hand had not quickly clamped over her mouth, while another snaked around her waist to hold her steady. She knew by the scents of leather and polish that it was Owen.
“I would not go in there,” he murmured, his breath coasting across her cheek. He withdrew his palm from her mouth, but kept his arm wrapped around her waist, his forearm flexing under her breasts.
“I was not going to,” she whispered.
“I have been looking for you. I thought I might find you here. Someone has been reading through my books on historical war figures.”
Oh, heavens. “How—how can you tell?”
“They have been returned out of order. I only noticed because the section is near that on horses.”
“Barnes must be interested,” she lied.
“Mmm.” The low hum made her stomach dip. “Barnes was never much for history, if I recall.”
“Why were you looking for me?”
“To apologize.”
“To apologize? For what?” Why did her voice sound so breathless?
And how could he be both soft and hard against her, his broad chest so warm and enticing that she had the wild thought that she would like to turn around and bury her face in it while he held her?
The unbidden fantasy was so alarming that she said somewhat abruptly, “You are still holding me.”
“I know. Apologies are not easy for me to face.” Yet he inserted an inch of space between them, his arm loosening and his palm sliding down her ribs until his fingers were splayed across her belly. Ivy’s skin felt like it was on fire.
“If you cannot face me, hurry on with it.” She intended to sound teasing, but her heart was pounding, and she was afraid her voice came out higher than usual. The feel of his chin by her temple and his hand spanning her waist were forcing her stomach into acrobatics.
“I am sorry for losing my temper with Barnes at the party, and I am sorry for saying I would not touch you if you were the last woman in England. I meant to insult him, but I used you to do it, and that was untenable. It will not happen again.” He paused, and she felt the barest rasp of his unshaven cheek against her temple.
“And I would touch you. If you were the last woman in England, that is.”
Ivy let out a soft snort.
Owen sighed. “That came out wrong. I should think it is obvious by now.”
“What is obvious?”
His hand on her belly dropped lower as he shifted, and if she did not have her corset on, his index finger would have been resting on her navel. Ivy swallowed.
“It should be obvious that I would touch you,” he said softly, stirring the fine hairs on the nape of her neck.
The words hung between them, and she did not know what to think.
Did he mean them in a kindly way, simply letting her know he did not find her repulsive?
Or did he mean he wanted to touch her? Instead of asking, fearing either answer, she said, “Barnes can drive any reasonable person to madness. I should know.”
His chin bumped her shoulder with a nod, and his warm palm slid off her completely, his heat abandoning her as he stepped into the shadows of the corridor. “I have received an invitation for an evening musicale at the Fleetwood estate in two days.”
“Fleetwood?” Her frazzled brain was unable to make connections as she turned to face him.
His lips lifted with a hint of a smile, as if he knew she was momentarily incapable of thinking straight. “Baron Fleetwood. It is my understanding that your uncle, the future Marquess Rothford, will also be in attendance, along with Lord Hartford.”
Ivy’s skin flushed with both dread and anticipation. If her uncle was going to attend, did that mean her father would as well? It was quite a trip from London, so she did not think so.
But the reminder of her father was enough to shore up her determination and settle the flutters in her stomach. She had to succeed with Hartford. There was no other choice.
“You will still teach me how to seduce Hartford?”
The chill in the hallway intensified. Several seconds passed before he said, “We will have lesson number three at the musicale.”
“Thank you.”
But he was already gone.
“Do you think he will choke?” Diane asked Ivy. She nodded to Barnes, who was deep in conversation with several gentlemen at the Fleetwood musicale two days later. Ivy did not know why Owen was securing invitations for Diane, but she suspected it was to put Ivy at ease, which was strangely sweet.
“I hate to disappoint you,” Ivy said, “but he is not eating, therefore I do not think so.”
“I meant, do you think he will choke on all the false words coming out of his mouth? He despises Lord Pithins. It was only a few days ago he said the man was as dry as plaster.”
At that moment Barnes tilted his head back and laughed as if Lord Pithins were the most amusing man in the room.
Barnes was handsomely dressed, with the light from the chandelier catching in his dark hair and his eyes creasing with cheer.
Ivy’s brother was beyond irritating, but she did love him, and she was proud of the person he had become.
She could not understand why Diane felt so dissimilarly.
“Why do you dislike my brother so much?”