Chapter Eight
The next time Olivia glanced about the ballroom, the mysterious, brooding stranger had disappeared. She drew her shawl about her to temper the shivers rippling across her skin at the anticipation of his dark gaze meeting hers once more. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps he’d been a figment of her imagination—a demon materialized from the darkest depths of her soul to taunt her inadequacy and inferiority. And, in truth, she’d have preferred a demon from Hades to the flesh-and-blood tormentors in the ballroom tonight.
Excepting Mr. Arnott, who’d been gallant enough to ask her for a second dance!
It was almost too good to be true. Nearly every ball Olivia had attended, she’d been without a partner all evening.
For a handful, she’d been partnered once—though an offer from one of Montague’s married friends, given with sympathy and doubtless at her brother’s insistence, didn’t altogether count as a genuine offer.
But tonight, she was to dance a second time.
It was almost enough to make all those dance lessons worth the effort.
She caught sight of him, leading Miss Peacock about in time to the music.
Miss Peacock glanced across the room, her eyes glittering with spite, then resumed her attention on Mr. Arnott.
Olivia allowed herself a smile. Miss Peacock’s spite would be tempered when her partner exchanged her for Olivia at the end of the dance.
As the dance continued, Olivia rose and circled the perimeter of the ballroom, compelled by the need to observe the party.
At least, that was what she told herself.
A little voice in the back of her mind whispered that she wished to set eyes upon the dark demon again—or, at least, confirm whether he existed—much as a deer wished to court danger by approaching the lair of the wolf.
She caught sight of the familiar figure of Mrs. Stowe sitting alone. Dressed in a plain gown of dark blue muslin, her graying hair fashioned into a simple chignon, Mrs. Stowe exuded an air of crumbling elegance and exhaustion.
“Miss Whitcombe, is it not?” she said, rising. “What a pleasure. Have you danced tonight?”
“I have, ma’am. And you?”
The older woman gave a smile of amusement. “My dancing days are done, I’m afraid.”
“Is there no one here with whom you’d wish to be partnered?”
Mrs. Stowe glanced at the company, and Olivia caught a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. She followed her gaze and caught sight of two men deep in conversation—Earl Staines and the Duke of Foxton. The duke glanced toward them, his lip curled in a sneer, before resuming his attention on the earl.
Mrs. Stowe sighed. “Balls are for the young, Miss Whitcombe,” she said. “But my charge is dancing, as you see.”
She gestured toward a young woman in the center of the dance floor, dressed in a gown of pale yellow that complemented her rich auburn hair.
“Miss Turton’s mother was taken ill, and I offered to chaperone her. I couldn’t see the young woman deprived of the last ball of the Season when she’d been looking forward to it so much.”
“You’re too kind, Mrs. Stowe,” Olivia said.
Mrs. Stowe let out a soft laugh and resumed her seat.
“I am more enterprising than kind, Miss Whitcombe,” she said.
“Lady Turton expressed her gratitude with twenty guineas. Which came at an opportune time, as my son is in need of a new suit before he returns to Oxford.” She gave a smile of affection and indulgence.
“Suits are so expensive, and my darling boy will insist on growing. He’ll be taller than your brother if he grows any more—or even that rather imposing man I spotted earlier. ”
Olivia’s heart gave a little flutter. “Which man?”
“I cannot see him now. Perhaps he left. He looked decidedly out of place and not at all happy. A distant cousin of our host, perhaps. I’ve not seen him about Town before.”
“I-is your son enjoying his studies?” Olivia asked, maintaining her composure despite the frisson of disappointment.
“I believe so. Of course, I possess a mother’s indulgence and am therefore all too likely to exaggerate his academic prowess if asked. But he’ll not want for friends or acquaintances when he finishes his studies next year. I fancy everyone here tonight has an Oxford education.”
“Every man,” Olivia said, unable to disguise the bitterness in her voice. “Don’t you think it unfair that men are given the opportunities for intellectual advancement that are denied our sex?”
“Ha!” a male voice barked, and Olivia glanced up to see Sir Heath Moss standing before them.
“May we be of assistance, Sir Heath?” Mrs. Stowe said, her voice hardening. “Or is there anything in particular you wished to say?”
“No, madam,” he said, his handsome mouth curled into a sneer, “I was merely expressing my surprise at the notion of providing a woman with an education.”
“Do you fear intelligent women?” Mrs. Stowe said.
“How can I fear something that doesn’t exist?”
“Just because you fail to see it, does not necessarily mean that it doesn’t exist,” Mrs. Stowe said. “Men can be extraordinarily unobservant. They only see what they wish to see.”
“I beg to disagree, madam,” came the reply, “for I find myself compelled to see you and your”—he turned his attention to Olivia, his eyes glittering with disdain—“friend.” He folded his arms and smiled. “Would you permit me to bestow some friendly advice upon you, madam?”
“I find it unlikely that any advice offered would be given with the intent of friendship, but I will hear anything you wish to say, Sir Heath,” Mrs. Stowe said.
He narrowed his eyes, but his smile broadened.
showing white, even teeth. “Just so,” he said, the undertone of a snarl in his voice.
“If not friendship, then a concern for your reputation. A widow may benefit from her late husband’s status in Society, but only if she’s in possession of a title and a fortune.
A penniless widow compelled to reduce herself to trade, however, must take the greatest of care not to risk her reputation by associating herself with those who may cast a stain on it. ”
Mrs. Stowe raised her eyebrows—the only sign that Sir Heath’s insult had hit home.
“I fail to see how attending Lady Fairchild’s ball is likely to place my reputation at risk, sir,” she said, “unless you fear I’m at risk of being compromised by predatory males, of whom there are plenty here tonight.” She met his gaze, unblinking. “Well, one, at least.”
He let out a cold laugh. “You can be assured, madam, that any predatory males in the room tonight would not stoop to sniffing round widows past their prime”—he glanced toward Olivia, wrinkling his nose—“or bastards.”
Olivia stepped back, wincing at the contempt in his voice. Mrs. Stowe rose to her feet.
“If I were a man, I’d call you out for that, Sir Heath. However, it would not be of any benefit to the world, given that you’re too poor a shot and too much of a coward to face me by yourself at dawn. I believe you pay others to undertake the task for you.”
She stepped toward him, and his eyes flared with fear.
“But,” she continued, “I do not tolerate incivility, and neither does Lord Fairchild. If you wish not to be thrown out onto the street tonight, I demand you retract your insult toward Miss Whitcombe.”
“Yes,” he sneered, “Miss Whitcombe, not Lady Olivia, as some poor, deluded fools have been deceived into believing. Though I’ve heard that at one time you were known as Miss FitzRoy. How tiresome it must be to have such uncertainty over one’s name.”
He dipped his head in a bow, his lips curled into a mocking smile.
“Do forgive any transgression, Miss Whitcombe,” he said.
“I ought to have referred to…natural children. I believe that’s the term we must use in Polite Society.
But I must express my concern on behalf of those of us in possession of a name and good breeding.
Those of low birth, or no birth at all, can never truly belong in Society. ”
“How dare—” Mrs. Stowe began, but Olivia caught her arm.
“It matters not,” she said. “I-I’ve no wish to discuss my birth with this…gentleman.”
“I see no gentleman,” Mrs. Stowe said. “I see a—”
Sir Heath raised his hand. “I’m sure your description of me would be most intriguing to any man who considered your opinion worth hearing.
Unfortunately, I fail to see any such man in the company tonight.
” He glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, I see the dance is coming to an end. I must find Miss Peacock, who is promised to me for the next. You’d both do well to resume your seats.
Unpartnered women in a ball exude such an air of desperation when standing, do they not? ”
“I am not unpartnered, Sir Heath,” Olivia said. “Mr. Arnott asked me to dance a second time.”
“Oh, did he?” Sir Heath gave a sly smile, then retreated.
Olivia curled her hands into fists to temper the trembling in her body. Hot tears stung her eyes, and she bit her lip to stem the flow as her cheeks warmed.
A thin, lace-gloved hand took hers.
“Pay no attention to him, my dear,” Mrs. Stowe said. “Men such as him, and women such as Miss Peacock, take their pleasure from seeing the distress of those whom they wish to torment.”
“But what he said…”
“Is of no consequence to anyone who really matters. Those who cannot see your worth are, in turn, of no value themselves.”
“Eleanor says the same.”
“A sensible woman,” Mrs. Stowe said. “Not all men are like Sir Heath, and for that we can thank the Almighty. There are many men of value.”
“Was the late Mr. Stowe such a man?” Olivia asked.
Mrs. Stowe’s brow furrowed in pain, but before she could respond, her charge appeared, her cheeks rosy with exercise.
“Did you enjoy the dance, Miss Turton?” Olivia asked.
“Oh yes!” Miss Turton flopped onto her seat and heaved a sigh.
“Posture, Margaret, dear,” Mrs. Stowe said, a smile of indulgence in her eyes. Miss Turton straightened herself and let out a huff.