Chapter Six
My lord—
It is a very fine ribbon, which you know very well. But ribbons are not my primary, nor even my secondary, pleasure in life.
If you mean to get in my good graces, a ribbon is not the way.
Olivia
*
Olivia—
I adore a challenge. But you must give me a hint. Or I will have to use methods of discovery that are nothing short of dastardly.
Augustus
*
Montaigne walked backto Carrington Place, despite the cold, despite the wet trousers, and despite the aching in his bollocks that did not subside with his erection.
Olivia Watson was the most bewitching, beguiling woman in London. He couldn’t keep from reliving the sweet smell of her against him and imagining again and again all the ways in which he could have taken her against that wall. He again marveled at the fact that, in the years since their last meeting, she had not lost any of her appeal to him. He still felt himself melting before her warm brown eyes, willing to do anything to just get a little closer to her.
By the time he arrived at Carrington Place, he was glad to be home. Generally, in fact, he liked arriving home. After all, of his friends he had been the only one who had never taken lodgings away from his family home. His friends had teased him for it over the years. He had always made out that it would upset his mother if he were to leave or that he had a responsibility as the heir to tend to his younger siblings. But that wasn’t true. His mother would have understood if he had wanted his own household. And she certainly didn’t need his help with his siblings.
He just didn’t want to live anywhere else.
When he crossed the threshold, he heard the familiar sound of boisterous voices and the smell of fresh tea cakes emanating from the drawing room. After the erotic and emotional trial of Olivia Watson, the warmth of his home brought a lump to his throat—which showed, more than anything, how she was threatening to unman him.
He heard a step in the hall and looked up to see his youngest sibling, Petunia, only eighteen, standing there.
“I can’t believe you let Percy drive your curricle,” she exclaimed, her glossy light brown locks bouncing with the force of her astonishment, “He has been crowing about it ever since he got home.” She turned back towards the drawing room and, when she saw he wasn’t following, she called back to him. “Come, Auggie, and take tea. Mother has been waiting for you.”
Montaigne smiled. He had planned to withdraw to his rooms and change his buckskins, but there would be no escaping his family now. And he couldn’t even say that he was particularly reluctant to avoid them.
When he entered the drawing room, Montaigne took in his family seated as they were in their customary semi-circle. In the past few years, their number had shrunk and together their group still looked small to him, especially now with Beatrice gone. He was still adjusting to her absence, even after a year. She had married a barrister last spring and now lived with him in a small townhome on the other side of Mayfair. Some had said that it was an unworthy match for her—but those people, Montaigne always thought, had never seen his sister laugh at one of her new husband’s jokes.
They had lost Lawrence to matrimony three years before that, although Montaigne made sure his brother always came to Carrington Place for part of the season, with his wife and young sons. Lawrence was the closest to him in age and held the living at the vicarage attached to the family estate in Derbyshire, but Montaigne had insisted that he and his wife take the manor as their quarters. In fact, he had given it to them as a wedding present, with funds allocated from the earldom for the upkeep. Given his general reputation, his gift to his brother hadn’t circulated much in the ton, but those who had heard of it declared it odd, extravagant, and damaging to the estate. They had divined rightly that it suggested the earl must not be eager to marry himself. And, certainly, giving away one of the most valuable pieces of property associated with the earldom to one’s younger brother was not a common action of most heirs. But his own future aside, Montaigne had never seen why he should have everything, just because he was older than his siblings.
Of course, Montaigne thought with a pang as he lingered on the familiar figures before the fire, they had lost his father first. When he was fourteen, his father had died of a disease that had weakened him over the course of a year. It was the only time he could remember dreading coming home. Each time Montaigne returned from school, he found his father worse and worse until, one day, his sire could not get out of bed to greet him. He died not long after, on a warm summer day, the kind that was so beautiful you couldn’t believe it was real. He didn’t know how his mother had borne it.
Despite the early death of her beloved husband, his mother had never lost her kindness or her good humor. Montaigne took her in now, seated closest to the fire, still a comely matron, youthful for her age, which was now past fifty.
“Auggie,” she called out to him, “Percy told us about the tea mishap. I hope you did not walk all the way home in those wet breeches. Come, sit by me, close to the fire.”
“I thought you had gone to Leith’s for new buckskins,” Percy objected.
“He wasn’t at home,” Montaigne lied, settling into the armchair nearest his mother.
“Now I feel bloody guilty,” Percy said, “I took your curricle.”
“You’ve been bragging so much,” said Elizabeth, his second oldest sister. She was a pretty, dark-haired girl of two-and-twenty, Percy’s twin. Thus far, she had proved a bit too brash for the young men on the marriage mart. Doubtlessly, she terrified no small number of them, but she seemed not to mind and enjoyed the flow of parties, even if she didn’t yet take the prospect of courtship seriously. “And here Auggie has been out in the cold, trudging home with tea-soaked trousers.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Montaigne grumbled, “They dried long ago.” It wasn’t quite true, of course. He shifted in his seat. His smalls were still damp.
Petunia handed Montaigne a cup of tea that she had poured from the sideboard. He accepted it, gratefully. He lifted the warm brew to his lips and gulped it down, feeling his spirits rise with his body temperature.
“It was deuced unlucky,” Percy said, “Especially since the incident cut our visit short. Miss Mapperton is so charming.”
“Yes,” the Dowager Countess said, her eyes sparkling, “We have heard much about Miss Mapperton’s attractions from Percy. Do you share his assessment, Auggie?”
“Mother!” Percy objected, his cheeks aflame. “I have only said that she is a very charming young lady.”
“And that she is the most beautiful woman you have ever seen,” Willa said, quietly.
Willa was the shyest of his siblings and, at four and twenty, the oldest still at home, besides himself. She wasn’t bookish, although people often mistook her for being so, given her quiet manner. Instead, she was very invested in charitable works, spending much of her time with the children at a local orphanage. Montaigne worried about her catching sick from her work there and his mother fretted that the dismal scene wore down her spirits. But she loved the time that she spent with the children—and he couldn’t imagine denying her that. Blonde, bespectacled, and generally regarded as too plump for the tastes of fashion, Willa had struggled at the balls and parties that Beatrice and Petunia found to be their natural element. Montaigne thought that his sister would flower with the type of spousal companionship that had brought Lawrence and Beatrice such happiness. One day, he knew, the right person would see how special his gentle sister really was.
“Well,” Percy equivocated, coloring afresh, “I suppose I did say that I found her comely.”
“Percy finds the most beautiful woman he has ever seen three times a week, at least,” Elizabeth broke in, “I wouldn’t give it much credence, Willa.”
“Yes, but the way he said it,” Willa said, with a soft smile. “It seemed like he actually might mean it this time.”
“I found Miss Mapperton very charming and very pretty,” Montaigne interjected. “And I don’t see why Percy shouldn’t get to know her further. She seems everything that is amiable and, in regard to fortune, it would be a practical match.”
“La! Auggie,” said Petunia, “You sound like an old woman, like mother, when you talk of matches.”
“Petunia,” his mother said, “Did you just refer to your mother as an old woman?”
“You know what I mean mother, older than one of us!”
“Well, I am the oldest of us,” Montaigne said, “I am three-and-thirty, if it can be believed.”
“You are positively ancient,” Elizabeth retorted, “Percy and I shrink in horror at the husk you have become. You should be thinking about a match for yourself—before you’re too old for any woman to have you.”
“Not Miss Mapperton, though,” Montaigne said. “She seemed too taken with Percy to even notice an earl in her midst.”
Percy laughed. “She is too young for you, of course, Auggie. Although you were very gallant with her, making us seem like a most welcoming family.”
God bless his brother. He truly had not noticed his attempts to flirt with Natasha Mapperton.
His family was aware, of course, of his bad reputation and, given their closeness in age, Lawrence and Beatrice had always been more attuned to the implications of having a brother termed the Downstairs Menace and the Ten Guinea Lord and a Rank Rake by the scandal sheets. But he had explained to them long ago that it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding—that the papers talked rubbish. Given how well his siblings knew him—and Leith and John and Trem—they largely disregarded the talk. With Percy, of course, it lent him a little mystique. And with the girls, they looked to him as a brother who knew about the less seemly side of the world. But they could not see him as Olivia did—as a terror who was dangerous to young women. He was sure his sisters would laugh at the notion, if anyone ever dared to say anything to their faces. Which, given his position and the power of the Carrington name, he understood no one ever did.
No, the rumors only truly distressed his mother. Once, after he had lost Olivia, and he had been drinking himself silly each evening, she had been, he knew, extremely worried about him—and it had been her intervention which had made him realize he needed to take control of his life. For the sake of his family. And his friends. His mother had asked him years ago to put an end to the rumors, to stop the implications that he seduced servants and was an abandoned rake. He had told her there was nothing he could do about the tattle. And that she had better put it out of her mind. He wasn’t interested in marrying anyway and he didn’t care what the matrons said. But he knew it hurt her to have him regarded as a paragon of vice, albeit an untouchable, wealthy, titled one, when she still saw him as “her sweet boy.”
He never could bear to tell her that any sweetness he had once possessed had been lost long ago.
“I am glad you approved of my manners, brother,” he said with a laugh. “But did you recognize the other lady at the table?”
Percy furrowed his brow, clearly struggling to recall another woman.
“The companion?” he finally said.
Montaigne nodded.
“No, should I have?”
“I don’t know if you should have. But she used to work for us here. Olivia Watson. As a maid.”
Augustus had never told his mother what was wrong with him back then, although she had begged for him to speak with her about his distress. He had been only twenty, then, and he hadn’t known how to discuss such a thing with his mother. But the Dowager Countess had heard something about the relationship between he and Olivia, after she disappeared, from their long-time housekeeper, Mrs. Phelps. His mother had tried to speak to him about it and he had refused. He had asked her never to bring it up with him ever again. Now that Olivia was back, however, he wondered if that had been the right approach.
“No!” his mother exclaimed, “Olivia Watson, really? I always liked her extremely. I hope she is well.”
Montaigne felt himself blanch. “You liked her extremely? I was not aware you had an opinion on Miss Watson.”
“I can’t say I knew her well, of course,” his mother said, and he could hear some carefulness creeping into her tone, “We hired her from a rich old widow near Bond Street. I know she had come from an orphanage before then. She was a very pretty girl, with such a nice manner, and diligent, too. I was so sorry when she left. Mrs. Phelps was indignant because she left without notice, but I was worried. I am so glad to hear that she merely found employ elsewhere.”
“It would seem so,” Montaigne said, unsure of how to ask what he now burned to know. Thankfully, Percy, Elizabeth, and Petunia had turned away from the conversation and had begun arguing over whether their mutual friend, Lord Thomas Rutherland, would marry Miss Templeton. Only Willa still listened to him and his mother. “When I saw Miss Watson, I didn’t acknowledge the association. She has risen to serve as Mrs. Mapperton’s companion, you see, and I didn’t want to embarrass her by bringing up her role in our house. But I was never sure—you didn’t dismiss her, did you?”
“Me? Dismiss Olivia Watson?” his mother said, her voice full of alarm. Then she lowered it, seemingly not wanting to attract the notice of her other children. “Not at all, darling. I wouldn’t have done that.” Her deep blue eyes met his. “Under any circumstances.”
He nodded. He hadn’t really thought his mother had done it. If he had, he would have asked her long before now. He would have begged her for information. And, yet, perhaps, some part of him had always wondered. His mother was known for her kindness, but every countess had her limits. Perhaps, she had found out about their relationship and worried he would marry Olivia. It was true that Lawrence and Beatrice had both made marriages that others had regarded as unremarkable, some would even say beneath them, but their spouses had still been people of property and respectable family.
But he could tell now, from her tone and expression, that his mother had not been the catalyst that had led Olivia to flee so long ago. Perhaps, he needed to accept that it had really been Olivia herself who had bolted of her own volition. Perhaps, she had merely tired of him and sought better fortunes elsewhere.
Or, perhaps, she had misunderstood him. It was possible she had figured he was not serious about her and had left to save herself heartache. Or that she had been offended by his lack of serious intentions. She was proud, certainly. There was no denying that. He wouldn’t blame her, if she had taken offense. He had been barely more than a boy then and he hadn’t thought of the future. He had been focused only on Olivia, having her near him, having her in his bed. And he doubted that what the papers had printed in the thirteen years since had helped to disabuse her of her misapprehension. It was ironic, really, it was. But he would fix it now. He would show her all he could give her.
He had to believe that he could convince her to give their love a second chance. If she wouldn’t have him for love, perhaps she would have him for other reasons—and her affection would grow with time. He had money, after all, and title. He could give her any worldly advantage she wanted, if only she would have him. Surely, between all he could offer and the lust he had seen flare in her eyes, she could be convinced to become his wife. He just needed to approach her carefully.
“Mother, I did want to discuss another matter with you…”
The dowager countess turned towards him and he continued to speak.
It was time to set in motion the second part of his plan.