Chapter Twelve
Olivia Watson should not have laughed when the Earl of Montaigne asked to court her, but she could not help it. If Lord Brightley had been able to see Augustus asking to court such a lowly personage as herself, the viscount would have an apoplexy.
Her head was still swimming with all that he had told her about the scandal sheets. She supposed that she believed him. The story he had told her seemed too fantastic to be pure invention. If she believed him, it meant that he was not the exploiter that she had thought. Instead, he was a man who had used her badly and gone on to rakish ways afterward, but not ones that involved taking advantage of dependent women. Nevertheless, his revelation did simplify the meaning of his attentions.
She could decide to forgive him, to finish the affair that had been cut short in the past, and it was only her pride that she would be swallowing. At least her values, her sense of right and wrong, would not have to be ignored along with it.
And there was still the matter of the ten guineas. He had explained it so coolly. He clearly hadn’t remembered. He had once jested with her that he should pay her ten guineas for every time—she couldn’t even think of it to herself. It had been too sweet and wicked. And too humiliating to think of how it had been used against her afterward. That note and ten guineas, laid out for in her tinderbox, where they always left their correspondence for one another, right after he had departed for one of his jaunts to the countryside. The note had made clear she should be gone by the time he returned.
“Court me?” Olivia finally gasped. “But courtship—surely, I do not need to explain this to you, my lord, but courtship is a prelude to marriage, not the bedroom. And you cannot think that I have any marital designs on you. Surely, you must see that there is nothing I could desire less.”
His expression remained placid at these words. And then he smiled, a dimple visible in his cheek. He looked all mischief. He looked like the Downstairs Menace. “So, you would bed me, but not marry me, Miss Watson? I’m not sure I’ve ever been so scandalized.”
“Very amusing,” she said, huffing to cover the arousal that spiraled through her at his flirtatious tone. She shouldn’t be vulnerable to it. Nor the lowered gaze or the dimple or the piercing blue eyes. She knew the entire manner had been designed to slay the frailties of women like her, those who thought they’d never receive the opportunity in this lifetime to be with someone as beautiful or powerful as him.
But, of course, she realized suddenly, that wasn’t true. He wasn’t that kind of seducer, after all.
It was difficult for her to accept. It had become the central fact through which she understood him.
“Since you are not interested in marrying me,” he said, lightly, as if she had the option of such a thing—as if he would marry her—“perhaps, we can adjust the meaning of courtship in this instance.”
“What do you mean?” She narrowed her eyes at him. He might not be the Downstairs Menace or the Ten Guinea Earl, but she still did not trust him.
“That kiss we shared last night.” That wicked smile was still on his face. She tried hard to look impervious. “Did you not enjoy it?”
“How is that relevant?”
“Fine.” He grinned. “I enjoyed it. More than I’ve enjoyed anything in some time. I thought it was rather remarkable. I want you, Olivia. And I think you want me. But I understand after—what happened so long ago, you don’t trust me. I want to prove to you that you can. Let me win you. When you let me back into your bed, it will be because I have earned it.”
She bit her lip. She could not help it. It sounded so good—when he put it that way. She would be in Britain for the rest of the season, at least. She had Mr. Laurent waiting for her back in France, but she was not betrothed to him yet. If she were betrothed to him, she would feel, of course, unable to take a lover. But she had promised Mr. Laurent nothing, even though she fully intended to marry him. She knew he would wait for her. He had told her as much and she knew, in her heart, that the fellow was too indolent and set in his ways to set his sights on another lady. He was the type of man who made a decision and stuck to it. The type of man one should want as a husband, solid and dependable.
Olivia could finish whatever remained—alive and vital and distracting—between her and Augustus.
But could she admit out loud that she wanted him? That he was right? It was almost too much to bear after he had humiliated her. Agreeing to a courtship—or this sham version of it—felt like too much of a concession.
“What would this courtship consist of?”
“The usual things. I’ve never courted anyone, but I understand there is a pattern. I will take you for rides in the park, to balls, the theatre.”
“It will look like you have serious intentions. If your world raises its eyebrows at your brother and Natasha, I shudder to think of their reaction to the Earl of Montaigne courting a servant.”
“You aren’t a servant. You’re a companion to a lady of means.”
“A paid companion. And to society, there will be no difference.”
He seemed ready to gloss over her station and it irked her. She did not want to hide her past. She wasn’t anyone other than a girl from an orphanage. She wouldn’t be passed off as something else.
“It won’t matter to me. They can say what they want. My family and my friends will not care about your rank.”
“But you don’t actually intend to marry me. That’s what courtship leads to. Marriage.”
“Only if you want it to lead to marriage. In this instance.”
“I don’t understand.” Really, he was being impossible.
“I will court you. If you enjoy it, then you will decide the relationship we pursue. You can have me any way that you want me. As a lover, for however long you would like, or as a husband.”
She scoffed. He really was insulting her.
“As a husband?”
“If that’s what you desire.”
“I don’t desire you as a husband. Do you have any idea what that would mean? For me? What the papers would say? What society would say?”
“Then don’t marry me.” He flashed a grin. “I want you any way that you want me, Olivia. If marriage is important to you, it’s no object to me.”
Augustus crossed and uncrossed his legs. Only a faint tremor above his eyebrow revealed any sign of anxiety.
“I don’t believe you.”
He must want her badly, she thought. To say such lies. She could have him for breach of promise with such words once he defected. Not that anyone would give credence to such a claim.
“I have already established that I don’t care about my reputation.”
It was true that he did not seem to care. He had established that.
None of it made any sense. He had dismissed her so callously and now was speaking of marrying her, as if that were a possibility. She itched to ask him about the past, about how he squared his actions now with his actions then. But she couldn’t begin to form the words. She could not bring up her humiliation when she wanted to appear strong in front of him. And why, after all, must they speak of it? Whatever had led him to dismiss her then, it did not seem to affect his desires now. He had seen her again and wanted her. It didn’t appear any more complicated than that.
It was all madness, obviously. Once he had her and had slaked his desire, he would revolt from an alliance that could only be a degradation in his world.
Not that she wanted to marry him. In her world, with the Mappertons, with Eloisa, where conduct was more important than rank, it would be a degradation for her to accept such an unequal alliance. His infamous treatment of her was not changed by his earlier revelation.
No, it was just his desire that made him talk of marriage.
But her desire was strong, too. She studied his face. That kiss last night, on the balcony, it had been remarkable. He was right about that.
And the thought of returning to France to accept Mr. Laurent, without another adventure, without ever kissing Augustus Carrington again, depressed her beyond measure. Couldn’t it be seen as a triumph, rather than an affront to her pride, to make him her lover again? To have him begging for her favors? And wasn’t that the exact point of this makeshift courtship? To have him beg for it? The world could think what it might, it could hear that he was spending time with her, and then when nothing came of it, they would forget.
The ton was not her problem, anyway.
She would be back in France, comfortable and prosperous, as Madame Laurent.
Her association with Lord Montaigne would help Natasha, too. It was tactical, hardly even selfish, from that angle.
She closed her eyes, unable to believe that she was really taking this step.
“I accept.”
When she opened her eyes, he was beaming.
“We can try it. The courtship.”
They sat there for a second, just looking at one another. She hadn’t intended it, but her assent seemed to have thawed the air between them. She felt heat rise in her cheeks…and in other places on her body.
“Thank you,” he said, surprising her once more, breaking eye contact.
He rose and so did she. And then the Earl of Montaigne took her hand in his own, kissed it, the ardor in his expression enough to set their neat, genteel little drawing room aflame.
Then he left.
As if he hadn’t just blown her world apart.