Chapter Eight
Augustus—
That display in my rooms was devious, indeed. I suppose you think you are very clever offering so many sweets at once. But I do not see how you will discover my true favorite from such a method. With such inefficient measures, I suppose you will never guess.
Olivia
*
Olivia—
Oh, I already know the answer to your interesting riddle. If you meet me in the gardens after dinner tomorrow, you will find an ecstasy hitherto unknown to yourself.
Augustus
*
It was expected,perhaps, that given his obsession with Olivia Watson—he was, after all, spending his days plotting to make her his wife—that he would struggle to stop thinking about her. But Montaigne was exceeding, even by that measure, the bounds he had thought possible. She occupied his waking and dreaming thoughts. After the ball at Almack’s, he spent the next two days with his head full of her, plagued by a persistent cockstand.
He hadn’t been able to understand how she wasn’t besieged by offers to dance at Almack’s. Yes, many of the debutantes were quite pretty, and Miss Mapperton, who had made a conquest of anyone in that crowd with any susceptibility or taste, was captivating. But Olivia.
Olivia. Olivia. Olivia.
She had the form that, while he acknowledged was not fashionable, he personally would be willing to die for. The soft swell of her bosom in her evening dress beckoned him to confirm the lascivious nature of which the scandal sheets accused him.
He woke at night, poised somewhere between memory and fantasy, his breathing hard and his cock harder, thinking only of her.
All of this—and, at the ball, they hadn’t even touched. He had yearned to sweep her into one of the waltzes that certain society matrons still found scandalous. But, perhaps, it had been for the best that he had not, given that the idea of holding her that close again made his hands shake. It wouldn’t have helped anyone or anything if he had transformed into an insatiable beast on the floor of Almack’s.
Even though Percy had begun making daily pilgrimages to Bloomsbury to call on Natasha, he had largely let him go alone or with Petunia and Elizabeth. He went once or twice for a morning visit, luckily more sparsely attended than that first at-home at the Mappertons. But he found that it was difficult to say much to Olivia in front of others.
At least, he knew when he would see her next, and that, there, he might actually have the opportunity to speak with her further. The second part of his plot had been set in motion. He and his mother would host a ball in three days’ time at Carrington Place. He had told his mother that he thought it was appropriate to hold one given that Petunia had just come out, but it was just an excuse, of course. He wanted the opportunity to get Olivia alone. He wasn’t completely sure what he would do when he had achieved that goal, how he would convince her to take him seriously as her suitor.
At least, she had accepted his apology at Almack’s. And it had given him a glimmer of insight into her perspective—she did feel wronged by him, harmed, and he would figure out why. Once they were alone, he would get to the bottom of it and fix it.
Given the state of his mind, when he received a missive from John inviting him for a casual dinner at Edington House, he almost declined it. But he thought better of it. His friends, of course, were all attending the ball at Carrington Place—and even though he did not look forward to telling them of his intentions, it would make securing his object that much easier.
When he arrived in the Edington House drawing room and saw Catherine, John’s wife, her silver blond hair secured under a matronly little cap that did nothing to hide her unusual beauty, he was glad he had come.
“Monty!” Catherine cried, jumping up and kissing his cheek.
“Unk Monty,” Griffon, Catherine and John’s son shouted, from the floor.
“Hello, little fellow,” he said, patting him on the head, and was rewarded by Griffon grasping his leg with a ferocity he could not believe the boy possessed.
“Up!” he cried, and Montaigne leaned to pick up the child, who then climbed onto his shoulders. Montaigne grabbed his shins so he wouldn’t fall, and the boy took the opportunity to begin lightly pulling his hair.
“Oh no, Griff,” Catherine said, coming over and taking the boy. “Follow Cresley to the nursery now.” She smiled at the butler, who took the hand of his little charge. “Mrs. Hoggins is waiting for you.”
Griffon gave his mother a large kiss and his pant leg another tug before he scampered from the room.
“He loves you so much,” Catherine said, when the boy was gone, “Between you and me, I think he likes you the best of our friends.”
“Hardly a competition,” Monty laughed. “Trem only has eyes for Henrietta and Leith is deuced awkward with children. And I grew up in a big family.”
“True. John and I do wonder if you ever think of settling down yourself. You’d make such a good father.”
Montaigne paused. It was unusual for Catherine to say such a thing—but it was rather fortuitous. “I have, actually, of late.”
“No! Who? John didn’t say!”
“That’s because John doesn’t know.”
“Oh, you must wait for him—and Leith and Trem and Henrietta, too. They’ll be here any minute.”
At the mention of Leith’s name, Montaigne felt a little slide of dread in his sternum. He knew the others would happily accept his interest in Olivia, despite her rank. But Leith—he was different than the others, even though he tried to protest that he wasn’t a snob. They had always been the best of friends, finding amusement in each other’s differences. But he feared that Leith did not approve of Olivia. Yes, he had gotten his mother to arrange for the vouchers—using, to hear him tell it, all the filial persuasion he had—but Montaigne still knew that his friend would resist a marriage so out of step with what society demanded.
Soon, the others arrived, and they were all seated around the fire, eating a kind of indoor picnic that had been prepared by the Edington House staff. No other lady of the ton that Montaigne knew of had ever held dinners this way, but once others had found out that the new Duchess of Edington did, the trend had spread. He had been invited himself to these repasts at the homes of others. Catherine, however, always kept her indoor picnics to her closest friends and regarded the miming of her habits as absurd.
Montaigne also knew that tonight was a bit special. Henrietta had given birth last month and had thus not been enjoying the usual whirl of the season. Montaigne had met their baby, a sweet little girl, two weeks ago. The way his friend looked at his daughter and wife had sent strange pangs crawling through Montaigne’s chest. He hadn’t been sure at the time if he was jealous or merely wistful. Tonight marked Henrietta’s first true reemergence from Tremberley House after the birth.
She was currently curled up on the sofa with Trem, picking at a plate of dinner, looking tired but satisfied. Trem gazed down at his wife as if Henrietta eating her way through cold chicken and cheese was a miracle. Montaigne had never suspected that Trem and Henrietta would end up falling in love and getting married. And yet here they were. In a way, they were proof that what seemed impossible could, indeed, transpire.
The group was currently laughing, however, about an incident far removed from the matrimonial. It had happened a few weeks ago, right before the birth of Trem and Henrietta’s daughter. Leith had confused his mistress-at-the-time, a courtesan, the illegitimate daughter of an earl, for her high-ranking, legitimate half-sister. This misstep had led him into a rather grievous error. He had pinched the bottom of the half-sister, a viscount’s wife—and had nearly been called out for the offense.
“They were practically twins, on my honor,” Leith drawled.
“You have to admit,” Trem nearly howled, “that it might indicate a lack of attention to the original woman in question. I know you change them out fast, Leith, but you should at least have a general idea of what they look like.”
“I did, of course,” Leith objected, but his smile revealed there was some truth to Trem’s accusation. “Her sister was uncommonly like her. But I did, perhaps, contract a relationship with the courtesan sister on short acquaintance. It was only the second time—I thought, at least—that I had seen the lady.”
“Really, Leith,” Henrietta said, attempting disapproval but unable to suppress her giggles, “You are disgusting. If I were Lord Trevton, I would have shot you on the spot and foregone the duel completely.”
“Well, I, for one, am glad that Trevton was able to see reason on that score,” John added.
“I don’t know if I would call the man reasonable,” Leith pronounced dryly, “I had to give him my new curricle to make amends for his wife’s slighted bottom. When I saw them enjoying it in the park the other day, she seemed to have recovered. But surely I was in no place to object to his demands. I couldn’t have that story circulating. Molesting the bottom of a married viscountess—my mother would have my skin.”
“And, to think, I would have been honor bound to be your second in a duel,” Montaigne laughed. “At our age.”
Leith rolled his eyes. “I hardly think we are so ancient, Monty. Why is everyone calling us old suddenly? It is the fault of Trem and John, for getting married. Now everyone expects us to succumb to the parson’s noose, as well.”
Catherine gasped in affront. “I think you can blame the simple passage of time, Leith, for those comments, rather than the women in the room.”
“Well, Monty and I are not about to let the passage of time change our ways,” Leith said, blithely. “Say, Monty, Dalrymple told me that you were trifling with his wife’s lady’s maid and that she ran away afterward. Did you not think I needed to know about this little affair of the loins? You know I love hearing about a Monty adventure. They’ve given me inspiration over the years, I’m not ashamed to admit.”
Henrietta made a gagging noise and Leith scoffed in response.
Ah, yes, Montaigne thought, Alice. He had met her two weeks ago, before he had known Olivia was back in London, at Lord and Lady Dalrymple’s ball. She had called to him from an alcove. He had been walking between the card room and the main assembly. She was redheaded, slight, with freckles. He was not surprised to hear that she had left the employ of the Dalrymples. She had not seemed happy with her post.
“Nothing much to share, brother,” Montaigne said, hoping his smile came off as easy, not tight, “A quick tumble in the shadows at the Dalrymple crush. I know nothing of her departure from their employ, of course.”
“Actually, Leith, before you arrived, Monty was telling me that he was thinking of making a more lasting connection,” Catherine said, saving him from further questioning about Alice.
“What?”Trem bellowed.
John inelegantly spluttered on his drink. He tried, nevertheless, to draw a response from his throat. The result, however, was unintelligible.
“You are going to propose? To a lady?” Henrietta said, her tone incredulous.
“If I receive the opportunity,” Montaigne began, unsure how to explain the situation.
“Who?”John finally managed.
“Truly, Monty, I can’t think of a soul,” Catherine laughed. “You must tell us.”
“She is very recently back in London,” he began.
“No,” Leith groaned, “You can’t be serious, Monty.”
“You know who he is speaking of?” Trem cried.
Leith ran his hand through his hair. “Surely, it isn’t wise. Just a brief rekindling of an old affair, I thought.”
Montaigne shook his head and took in his friends. Everyone’s eyes were trained on him, and he wondered if, perhaps, he had erred in revealing his plan to them. But it would help if they knew his intentions. He may need them as allies, after all. Avoiding Leith’s eye, he started to speak.
“Leith knows this,” he began, “But years ago, thirteen years ago, in fact, I—well, I fell in love with a woman. A maid in my mother’s house. In my house. And I thought we would be together. Marry, and all of that. But she left without warning. Just disappeared one day.”
He raised his eyes and saw John and Trem looking at one another.
“What?” he asked.
“We had an inkling of the affair,” Trem said, coughing. “Well, Leith mentioned—”
“And then Trem mentioned to me—” John began.
“That’s amazing she has returned, Monty,” Catherine said, her face showing that she had heard whatever John knew of it.
“Really, it is,” Henrietta added.
“You all know? About Olivia?”
“I didn’t know her name,” Henrietta supplied, “But Trem told me something of it. The maid part. And the part about—well, your disappointment.”
A few years ago, he would have been irate that Leith had spilled his secret, but now, given that it made his path easier, he found he couldn’t care.
“Monty, I shouldn’t have—I was worried only—all those years ago. I told Trem when you were still—”
“Drinking myself cross-eyed every night, yes,” he said, waving his hand at Leith to show that he was not upset. “After she left, I remember.”
“But why did she leave?” Catherine pressed.
“I don’t know. And I haven’t asked her anything yet. About the past—or what might be in the future.” He needed to make that clear. “She seems to have returned to London with a rather low opinion of me, on account of the scandal sheets. It appears that, whatever happened years ago, I offended her somehow, or perhaps she thought I was not serious about our liaison. But now that she is back, I want her as much as ever. And I’m going to try and do what I can to have her accept me.”
“Not to sound like an aristocratic nightmare,” Henrietta broke in, “But she’s a maid and you are an earl. Surely she will accept you?”
“She isn’t a maid any longer. She is a companion to a Mrs. Mapperton, who has traveled from France to England with her children. Natasha, her daughter, is making her London debut.”
“Ah, we’ve heard of them!” Catherine chimed in. “They say Miss Mapperton is enchanting.”
“Not as enchanting as Olivia.”
Leith groaned. “You’ve never been able to be reasonable over this woman.”
“No,” Montaigne said, unable to keep from smiling, “Not really.”
“She ran off once before, I already said to him,” Leith put to their friends, “She isn’t trustworthy.”
“From the bottom pincher himself!” Henrietta broke out. “Perhaps you should not give advice in matters of the heart. It is an organ you never seem to have used.”
“Leith,” John said, his tone uncharacteristically sober. “I have loved a woman that I thought I could not have—there is nothing worse. But your situation is even graver, Monty. I always knew where to find Catherine. It was only my pride that deprived me of eight happy years with the woman I love. Still, I understand enough of what you have been through. It feels foolish now to know that we were both suffering from the same ailment all of those years and never discussed it. We will all do whatever we can to help you win her, no matter her station.”
John looked around for assent.
And Montaigne heard all of his friends agree.
Even Leith.