Chapter Seven #2
“Is it really necessary to go to Lady Fortesque’s tonight?” he asked. “Can we not write something more entertaining in the schedule than wasting an evening with that critical old battle-axe? There is a masquerade at Covent Garden which would be infinitely more diverting.”
Lisbeth looked at him, her eyes huge with shock. “No, you cannot just write something better in my schedule! Besides, that old battle-axe is my grandmother! Goodness, Bellamy, next you will be proposing that we attend a gaming hell or a… boxing match!”
A choke of laughter escaped him before he could control it. “I would, actually, but not with you. I suspect you would take too much pleasure in causing a scene.”
Pure astonishment came over her features. “Me! Cause a scene? I’ve never heard such a ridiculous thing in all my life!”
“Would you go to a boxing match… if it were on my list of wagers?”
She turned to look out the window again. “Certainly not!”
“Ah, but, Countess, you did say I could collect on any and all wagers, did you not?”
Lisbeth paled. She had agreed with those terms. They were, in fact, terms she had made up herself.
What if he insisted that she go through with the wager?
Looking back towards him, she saw his self-satisfied smile and realized he was bluffing.
There was no odious boxing match on his list at all! Scoundrel!
“I believe I said within reason. I would, of course, honor any wager as per our agreement.”
Oliver laughed again, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of comedic exercise. “Liar! You have yet to see the list but still you seem so confident.”
“Correction, Bellamy, I have seen the list. I simply could not read it. A legible list will present itself in short order, I expect, or I will march into White’s Club and gain a list of my own.”
At this point he knew her well enough to believe her mad enough to do just that.
As humorous as it would be to see her bodily removed from White’s, it would also effectively put an end to his chance to make any money out of this debacle.
Although everyone seemed to know what he was doing they did not realize that the countess also knew or that she condoned it. He had to keep it that way.
“I should have known you and the battle-axe were related,” he said on a heavy sigh. “Well, won’t this be fun?”
They entered the house on Grosvenor Square and were ushered through a mirrored hall to a large rectangular room furnished in blue, white, and silver.
It was a stunning room. Full to the brim with small but expensive antiquities and bric-a-brac that Lisbeth explained had been her grandfather’s passion.
Part of Oliver wanted to stop and study each piece but, he reminded himself, he wasn’t on a trip to a museum.
Plaster moldings framed arches in white with the interiors the same blue as the outer walls.
More molding in the shape of silver grape vines connected each arch.
A brilliant fresco occupied the entire scope of the ceiling depicting a confrontation of ancient Greek gods, all vying for their immortal positions.
He spared a glance at Lisbeth, wondered if she would miss him if he were to lie down on the floor somewhere, and just study the ceiling for the night.
He had seen many marvelous things while traveling with the army—some that he was trying diligently to forget—but he did like a good piece of art.
Fascinated by the architecture and decoration, Oliver hardly noticed the occupants of the room at all, until one of the guests bowed in front of him. He bowed in return, smiled, but did not stay to have a tête-á-tête. It was then that he saw couples dancing and others playing cards.
Above the din of the music and conversation he could hear the battle-axe’s voice.
It was husky, harsh, and full of authority.
The kind of vocal pattern which could only develop over years of constant ordering about and belittling of lesser beings.
Lying on the floor, even though it would completely ruin his jacket, still seemed the best way to pass the evening. It would be worth his valet’s wrath.
As soon as Lisbeth heard her grandmother’s voice, her legs faltered and refused to move another step.
They mirrored her feelings exactly. She did not want to be here.
Her heart seemed to be hiding down somewhere near her liver, quivering with anxiety.
She wanted to turn and run out of this house as fast as she could.
Pretend she had not accepted her grandmother’s surprise summons.
It was far too late to turn and run, and besides, she had not done anything wrong.
It was not she who had abandoned her own flesh and blood.
Her grandmother had turned her back on her when Lisbeth needed her most. Disowned her, thrust her from her life like an unwanted burden, without even bothering to ask if the rumors were true.
She had simply chosen not to acknowledge her as her granddaughter.
It had been a hard lesson to learn. Lisbeth had tried several times to contact her grandmother for support during those early days but had been denied at every turn.
It had stupefied her. Did her grandmother actually think her capable of murder?
The dawning of this realization had made her weep with a shame she had no reason to feel.
Lisbeth had grieved for the loss of her family, defeat colliding with hopelessness in an all-consuming terror. Had she really lost them? Lost them all?
When she thought of the tears she’d shed, the pain she’d felt, the days she’d spent waiting to wake from the nightmare of her life, the old anger welled up inside her and threatened to choke her.
However, Lisbeth was no longer that weak woman who had hoped and prayed they would come to realize their error and come back into her life and want to love her again.
If her grandmother now wanted to repair the ties she had so viciously severed, she would have to beg for her forgiveness on her knees before Lisbeth would even consider such a thing. Even if she could forgive, she would never forget.
“Are you all right?”
Bellamy. She’d forgotten about him. She closed her eyes for a moment, fearing he would see, from her tears, the torment she was suffering and realize how close she was to teetering over the edge.
“Of course.” She took a deep breath. A sob rose in her throat. Panic took over. Her whole being began to shake.
I can’t do this.
No! She was not going to collapse and make a fool of herself.
Not here. Not now.
Damn her. Damn her. Damn her.
Behind her she heard, “Perhaps you should have a drink first. Lord knows I could do with one.”
She felt Oliver’s hand curl around her elbow, warm, strong, supportive.
She could see nothing in front of her as he led her to the side of the room, to a shadowed corner where he could shield her from the inquisitive eyes of the other guests in the room.
He handed her a drink and guided it up to her lips.
“Drink,” he commanded softly.
She obeyed and choked on the strong liquor as it burned a trail down her throat. “What in God’s name was that vile concoction?”
He steadied her and took the glass away, searching her face. “Trust me, you don’t want to know. Feel better?”
He always seemed to make her feel too many emotions, too often. In any other circumstance she would have resented his actions. This time, however, he made her feel protected. Safe. Something she hadn’t felt for a long time. She nodded.
“Good,” he said. “You were as pale as a ghost, and I couldn’t have you swooning on me.”
Lisbeth looked up as he adjusted a small curl, tucking it behind her ear.
His eyes held concern. Concern for her? Surely not.
And yet, somewhere in the chocolate depths of his eyes she saw a flicker of something else too.
Compassion? Pity? She couldn’t bear to look any further in case she saw something worse than pity in his gaze.
“I’m not practiced in the art of dealing with fainting females, you see,” he said in a soft whisper.
She looked at him and his ridiculous sideways grin.
Lord help her, but she wanted to kiss him.
Kiss his lips and pretend nothing else existed.
Kiss him and let him kiss her, let him take her away from this place, both body and mind.
She realized she was staring at his lips when she felt a finger under her chin and her eyes rose once again to his.
They were warm, brown, and steady in their regard.
“Do not let her best you. You are the Black Raven,” he said. “Act like it.” Then he turned her back towards the room.
He was right. She was the Black Raven. She was the woman who turned young men gray overnight and made children eat green vegetables. The woman who made people cross themselves as they crossed the street. Lisbeth would forever be grateful to him for reminding her to play the part she had been given.
He offered her his arm. “I’ll be right here if you need me.”
Shaking her head she said, “I won’t need you. There is no reason why you should be hauled into this any more than you already have. In any case, I daresay this won’t take long.”
“As you wish, my lady,” he replied. “I am sure Venus and I shall get along famously until you return. Although, I must admit, she does not look much of a conversationalist,”
Lisbeth nodded her thanks, flung her shoulders back, tilted her chin up, and walked off in the direction of Lady Fortesque.