Chapter Four
London
“A somewhat unsuccessful Season so far, Olivia. We must discuss what to do about it.”
Olivia paused, her teacup at her lips, and eyed her brother. Then she set the cup back on the saucer with a clatter.
His eyes narrowed and she withstood the instinct to cringe.
“I’m only stating the facts as I see them,” he said.
“Perhaps now’s not the time to state facts as you see them, my love,” a soft voice spoke.
Olivia glanced at her sister-in-law. Eleanor seemed such a timid creature, at least in public, with mild features and hair an unremarkable shade of brown.
But the unusually intense expression in her dark-green eyes spoke of a sharp intelligence beneath the awkward exterior—intelligence and a passionate concern for the few people she loved.
And Olivia was fortunate enough to be one of those few.
“Nevertheless, Eleanor, you cannot fail to agree with me,” Olivia’s brother said.
“Perhaps, Montague, but there’s no harm in showing a little compassion.”
Montague? Eleanor rarely addressed him by his full name, save in admonishment.
He arched an eyebrow.
“You speak as if Olivia’s lack of success—however one might define success in Society—is entirely her own fault,” Eleanor continued. “But there’s nothing in Olivia to fault.”
Except one thing.
Evidently unwilling to point out her one fatal flaw, Olivia’s brother did not respond. The silence stretched, punctuated by the ticking of the drawing room clock while the specter of Olivia’s birth remained suspended, like a ball having been tossed into the air waiting for someone to catch it.
Like it or not, Society valued birth above all.
The sister of a duke might command respect and adoration of the sycophants who paraded about the ballrooms of London and exchanged gossip at Almack’s, but only if she were a legitimate sister.
Lady Olivia Whitcombe would have been the toast of Society.
Plain Miss Whitcombe, however, carried the indelible stain of her birth, which pretty gowns, diamond necklaces, and a large dowry did nothing to diminish.
“We ought to consider our options,” Montague said, “such as—”
“My love, did I overhear your speaking to Jenkins about buying a horse?” Eleanor interrupted, and Olivia shot her a look of gratitude.
“Yes, but…”
“Surely it’s not the season for it,” Eleanor continued, “and it would be unfair on the horse to keep him here in livery in London, isolated from your other horses.”
“A horse doesn’t require the company of friends, Eleanor,” Montague said. “But I won’t keep him in London. He’s too fine a hunter for that.”
“Did you purchase him through Tattersall’s?”
“No, a private sale. Cost me five hundred guineas.”
Olivia stared at her brother. “Five hundred? That’s a lot for a horse.”
“It’s a bargain, given his pedigree. Italian, you know. An entire horse, so I might use him for stud. Beautiful animal. Devereaux clearly didn’t want to part with him.”
“Who?” Olivia asked.
“Earl Devereaux,” Montague said. “He’s recently returned from Italy and brought his horse with him.”
“From Italy?” Olivia said. “How did he transport a horse from Italy?”
“With difficulty, I presume,” Eleanor said, smiling. “But why not sell the animal in Italy and save himself the cost of passage?”
“I get the feeling he wasn’t expecting to have to sell the animal at all,” Montague said. “His estate’s deep in debt, so Stockton tells me.”
“I thought lawyers weren’t supposed to engage in gossip,” Eleanor said. “I’m surprised at Mr. Stockton. He’s usually a man of integrity.”
“I believe it’s due to that integrity that he encouraged Devereaux’s man to contact me to broker the sale,” Montague said. “Devereaux was only willing to sell his horse to the right sort of man.”
“You mean one with a title and pedigree as pure as the horse?” Olivia said, wincing at the bitterness in her voice.
“Surely you’re not comparing your birth to the bloodline of a horse.”
“Montague!” Eleanor cried. “Must you distress your poor sister further?”
He raised his hands in supplication. “I meant no injury to you, Olivia,” he said. “In answer to your question, no—Devereaux seemed to care only for one thing, that his horse be treated well. When he visited Rosecombe, I managed to convince him that I would.”
“He visited us?” Olivia asked. “When?”
“During our house party.”
“I don’t recall a Lord Devereaux being at the party,” Olivia said.
“He refused to stay,” Montague replied. “He arrived just after dinner and left the moment we shook hands on the sale. But I doubt either of you would value an acquaintance with him.”
“Why not?” Eleanor asked. “Is he a dishonorable man?”
“On the contrary—he seemed overly honorable, but he’s somewhat ill-tempered.”
“No wonder, poor man,” Olivia said. “He’d just lost his horse. Wouldn’t you be bad-tempered if you had to part with something you loved?”
He snorted. “One horse is like any other.”
“To you, perhaps, my love,” Eleanor said. “When do you take possession?”
“He arrives at Rosecombe next week.”
“Then when we return to the country, perhaps I’ll ride him.”
“I’d advise against that, Eleanor. By all accounts, Destriero is not suitable for a woman.”
“Destriero?” Olivia said. “What a beautiful name.”
“Even if his former master’s temperament sounds decidedly less beautiful.
” Eleanor laughed. “Perhaps it’s as well that you didn’t introduce him to us, Monty.
Though if he has nothing else to recommend him, his favorable opinion of you is to be commended”—her eyes sparkled with mischief—“even if I find you infuriating at times. Have you met him before?”
“We were at Eton at the same time,” Montague said, “but I only knew him by sight. He was several years above me and went up to Oxford while I was still in the lower school. He was in the same year as Dunton.”
Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “That unsavory creature! Were they friends?”
“Not at all. Devereaux was always getting into fights—mostly with Dunton.”
“Then that’s one more thing to recommend him,” Eleanor said before sipping her tea.
“He was an excellent boxer,” Montague continued.
“What, Dunton?” Olivia asked, recalling the red-faced, portly duke she’d had the misfortune of being introduced to at the beginning of the Season.
“Heavens no!” He laughed. “Devereaux. He was awarded a boxing blue. Rumor at White’s has it that he flattened his opponent from Cambridge with a single blow.”
“Surely you exaggerate,” Olivia said, shuddering at the notion of such violence.
“Unlikely, given the size of him,” her brother said. “He looks more like a pugilist than an earl.”
“Perhaps it’s as well you didn’t introduce him to us at our house party,” Olivia said. “He sounds like a man to fear, though doubtless like every other man you’ve introduced me to, he’d not consider me worthy of his attention.”
Montague sighed. “Don’t lose heart just yet, Olivia. How about we hold a ball in your honor?”
“What,” Olivia said, unable to disguise the sharpness in her voice, “so I can be paraded around like a prize heifer? You’re aware of my pedigree, brother. The bull that sired me may have had a known bloodline, but not the cow.”
“Sister, I—”
“What was it?” Olivia said, no longer able to temper her despair. “A quick rutting in a paddock? What suitor wishes to be stained with that?”
“That’s enough!” he roared. “I’ll not have you utter the language of the guttersnipe in my home, and certainly not before my wife.”
“Montague,” Eleanor said, “your sister was only—”
“No, Eleanor,” he interrupted. “Olivia has to learn that she, more than anyone, must act with decorum.” He turned to Olivia. “You’re upsetting your sister-in-law. Don’t you know she dislikes loud voices?”
“The only loud voice in the room is yours, Montague,” Eleanor said. “Olivia cannot help her birth, and I won’t have her forced to wed any man who thinks less of her because of it. I would advise against holding a ball.”
“But…”
Eleanor raised her hand. “I know you have good intentions, my love, but we wouldn’t want Olivia’s marriage to come about through an act of coercion—not on her part, nor on the young man’s. Let the suitors come to her of their own free will.”
“And if they don’t?”
Olivia winced at her brother’s tone.
“Then they don’t deserve her,” Eleanor said. “What would you prefer, Montague, a man who would not love her? Love can be found in the most unlikely of circumstances, when you’re not looking for it. After all, is that not how you and I met? Did you intend to marry me at first?”
He colored and shame flickered across his expression. “Our initial engagement was not a usual one, I’ll admit…”
“Quite so. If I recall, you confessed, the day after proposing to me in public, that you never intended to marry me and you’d only offered marriage to put paid to your mother’s plans to match you with Lady Arabella Ponsford.”
“Sweet heaven!” Olivia cried. “Mr. Baxter’s wife? Were you going to marry her?”
His color deepened, then Eleanor let out a laugh.
“Come, come, Monty, my love. I’m only teasing you. It’s long since forgiven and forgotten. I’m merely attempting to point out that forcing Olivia into a conventional courtship may not be in her best interests.”
His shoulders relaxed and he sighed. Then he approached Olivia and offered his hand.
“Forgive me, sister,” he said. “I only want you to be happy. I wish I knew how to achieve that.”
His voice wavered as it always did when he revealed his heart—the living organ that he concealed behind a layer of cold steel.
Eleanor rose. “I must see to the cook about supper. Please excuse me.”
Without waiting for a response, she exited the drawing room, closing the door behind her.
Montague drew Olivia into his arms.
“Please forgive your overbearing older brother,” he whispered, placing a kiss on her forehead. “There’s no urgency to find you a husband. I’ll sponsor as many Seasons as it takes. None but the best of men for my little Livvie.”
She suppressed a cry at his pet name for her, only uttered at the tenderest of moments. His anger, dominance, and belligerence she could withstand, but when the moments of kindness broke through, like a ray of summer sun from behind a thick thundercloud, her resolve crumbled.
She buried her head in his chest. “What if I don’t…”
“Hush,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’ll always have a home with Eleanor and me. You know the children adore you. Horatio told me the other day that you’re his ‘favoritest person in the whole world,’ and you know how difficult he is to please.”
“But I want a home of my own,” she whispered, “children of my own. I want what you have with Eleanor—someone to love me without condition, without expectation, whom I can love in return.”
“Such a thing is rare in our world.”
“You mean your world.”
“No. Ours. You belong to this world, and I’ll beat into a pulp anyone who says otherwise.”
“Except perhaps this Lord Devereaux,” Olivia said with a grin, “seeing as he can flatten a man with a single blow.”
He let out a soft laugh. “Aye, except him. But it’s unlikely you’ll ever meet.”
His chest rose and fell in a sigh, and Olivia grew still, taking comfort from her brother’s solid embrace and the faint echo of his heartbeat.
“Did you speak the truth back then?” she asked. “About how you and Eleanor met?”
He nodded. “I’m ashamed of it. I behaved abominably, with no thought for Eleanor and her feelings.
But it turned out for the best. For me, that is.
I’d never have noticed her ordinarily, until we were thrust into each other’s company on a silly whim of mine.
But that whim was the one action that redeemed me and found my soul mate.
And more than anything, I want you to find yours.
” He patted her arm. “And he’ll be the most fortunate man in the whole world.
Perhaps you’ll find him at Lady Fairchild’s ball next week. ”
“I thought you disliked the Fairchilds.”
“They’re more amenable now their daughter’s safely married,” he said. “Lord Fairchild made a point of saying at White’s yesterday that he very much looked forward to seeing you dance.”
“I don’t think I can face another ball, brother.”
He placed his fingers under her chin and gently tilted it upward until their eyes met.
“You don’t have to go, Livvie, but it’s the last ball of the Season.
How about you come to one more—for me? Then we can return to Rosecombe, where I’ll even let you ride Destriero—defy his previous master’s insistence that he’s not fit for a woman.
In fact, I’ll let you do anything if it makes you happy. ”
Her heart softened at the love in his voice. Perhaps, if she could not find a husband to love her as she wished, she at least had a brother who would strive to make her happy, a loving sister-in-law, and four nephews and nieces whom she loved as if they were her own children.
My own children…
“Very well.” She nodded. “One last ball.”