Volume the Third
Augustus—
I do not know why I am writing to you, when you will never receive this letter. Of course, I could send you this letter, if I wanted, but I won’t. Perhaps, I should have left a response to your letter before I quit Carrington Place, telling you just how despicable I find your treatment of me, but I did not.
Besides, it does not matter now because I am leaving London, possibly forever. I have taken a job as a lady’s companion, a much better position than I had at Carrington Place, and which was offered to me some weeks ago. I never told you because I could not think of leaving then. My old friend Mrs. Fairfax wrote to me and said that she had heard of this position and recommended me for it. She had told me that I may hear from a rich lady who needed a companion and that she was soon to depart for France. When I received this woman Mrs. Mapperton’s letter, I intended to respond with a quick refusal. However, I was so caught up in you that I delayed—and good thing that I did, because, as it turned out, I would soon need a new situation. I wrote back and she has accepted me. So I sail to France.
Again, I do not know why I write to you. Not only will you never read this letter, but I must say that you have broken my heart horribly and, at this point, I fairly hate you. I suppose it is just that I cannot believe you did it. Some part of me wants to reach out to the man I thought I knew and speak to him, even though I understand now that he must have been a figment of my imagination—or, worse, a subterfuge created to hoodwink and seduce me. Still, that figment was very close to being the best friend I ever had, and I have the impulse to speak to him now. Perhaps because he, if he had been real, would comfort me.
Olivia
*
After changing intothe clothes that Mrs. Phelps had provided for her, Olivia looked at herself in the mirror. It was large and gilt-lined, an unfathomable luxury for most Londoners, but one that stood largely unused most days in Carrington Place, standing as it did in the former bedroom of Lady Beatrice.
A strange lump rose in Olivia’s throat as she remembered herself, thirteen years ago, down on her hands and knees, cleaning this very mirror. It had hardly been the most strenuous of her activities as a maid, here or elsewhere, yet she couldn’t help but feel it poignant that she now stood in front of this object as a guest in the house. No, more than a guest. As a potential wife to its heir. She no longer stooped before the mirror but surveyed herself in the glass. It was not something that she had thought possible when she was a maid here. Even after she and Augustus had begun their relationship, she had not dreamed of such a possibility. She cleaned the rooms that he himself and his sisters and family slept in; she swept and dusted so that they could have lives that involved fine clothing, parties, suitors, so that they could influence politics, art, culture. They did all of that and she cleaned their floors. Why would she have questioned the order of things? She was sure she never would have, if she had never kissed Augustus Carrington.
The girl she had been then would hardly recognize the woman in the mirror now. She and Lady Beatrice were around the same size, so she wore a gown that had once nominally belonged to her. Not that Lady Beatrice had ever worn it, Mrs. Phelps had informed her. After being ordered from the dress maker, it had been made, through some mix-up, in the wrong colors and the result had not complimented Lady Beatrice’s complexion. She had not sent it back, but merely cast it aside. Therefore, there was nothing wrong with the dress and, in fact, Olivia thought, it was quite beautiful—a blue silk, demure yet pretty, embroidered around the hem and bodice with leaves that looked like ivy.
Turning away from the mirror, Olivia sighed and tried to push thoughts of the past out of her head. She needed to keep her wits, after all. Her head was swimming with Augustus, the possibility of him. Could she really accept him? In her heart, she wanted to, but her mind still revolted from the possibility. Logic told her that it could never work, no matter how kind his sisters and mother were, no matter how many times he had been to that orphanage before she had returned.
And, yet, despite what she knew was true about herself, about the world, she was considering saying yes. She couldn’t help it. Not when he looked at her the way he did. Not when every part of her ached for more of him. He still hadn’t let her pleasure him in any way—and she still hadn’t experienced a true coupling with him. And god, but she wanted that. She couldn’t bear the thought of not having him again.
Olivia made her way out of Lady Beatrice’s room and down the hallway to the stairs. It was strange how well she knew the way and how differently she moved through the familiar space now. She remembered how it felt to scurry along, thinking only of the work ahead of her, whereas now she let herself appreciate the fine furnishing and tasteful wallpaper. She let her fingers skim over the polished banister and had to remind herself that it did not shine naturally—that someone had to labor to make it so.
When she entered the drawing room, Olivia was surprised to see that it was empty of anyone but Lady Willa.
“My mother and Augustus have gone with Mrs. Phelps to see about the dinner menu this evening,” Lady Willa supplied, “Will you take tea?”
“Yes, please,” Olivia said, seating herself in an armchair by the fire, enjoying the way the warm glow burnished her skin. “Does your brother usually see to the supper menus?”
Willa laughed. “Not usually. But I think he is unusually fastidious today.” She passed Olivia a pink teacup in a matching saucer. “I assume, with the weather as it is, that you will be staying the night with us, Miss Watson?”
Olivia nodded, knowing that any insistence that she return to Bloomsbury now was futile. She could see that it still snowed outdoors—and she knew Augustus would not hear of it even if the weather had improved.
Willa smiled at her response. “Well, then, I know why my brother all of a sudden is paying such close attention to the supper menus.”
Olivia smiled but was unsure of what to say. She supposed that Augustus had told his family about his proposal, but she couldn’t be sure.
As if her reading her mind, Willa said, “He has told us, Miss Watson, that he has asked you to marry him.”
“He has,” Olivia said, surprised that she only stammered a little. “But I am not sure it is a good idea.”
“And why is that? I will admit that I do not know you well, Miss Watson, but I have to say, thus far, I approve of my brother’s choice in every way.”
“You are very kind, Lady Willa. But you must understand the source of my hesitation. I used to work as a maid in this house. Your brother has been born to every privilege. Our marriage would sink him in the eyes of many.”
“I do not think Augustus cares about that. But I can understand how it would be uncomfortable for you. It is not always easy—well, the feeling of love can be simple, but the reality much harder.”
“You speak as if you know something about it, Lady Willa,” Olivia said, softly, meeting her blue eyes, darker and more earthly than Augustus’s, but still beautiful.
The young woman blushed deeply. “No, I do not.”
“Are you sure?”
They held each other’s gazes for a long moment. Olivia did not want to push if Willa was not inclined to share.
“Perhaps,” Willa finally said, looking down into her cup. “At least, in my case, I know that my feelings are easy enough to understand. But that does not mean there aren’t barriers on all sides to expressing those feelings. Even if the feeling was shared… I can understand what you mean about—well, practicalities.”
“I feel just the same,” Olivia said, softly. “My feelings for your brother are simple. It is how the world will receive us that gives me pause.”
Willa raised her eyes.
“I haven’t said anything, in my case, to the—person, in question. Or my family.”
“I understand. But you might confide in your brother. He sees more than you think.”
Willa blushed even deeper but nodded.
“Are you two speaking of me?”
Augustus strode into the room, closely followed by the Dowager Countess.
“Yes,” Olivia retorted, suspecting that Willa was tongue-tied. “I was wondering if you always see so closely to your supper menus.”
The rest of the hours before supper passed in amiable chat between the Dowager Countess, Willa, Augustus, and herself. Right before dinner, Elizabeth and Petunia appeared once more and joined in the light mood of the evening, which had gained a cozy quality from the haze of falling snow.
Olivia had to admire Augustus’s manner with his mother and sisters. It was hard to imagine that she had thought him so recently to be a degenerate and scoundrel. His tenderness with these women made such a thing appear absurd. She knew men were capable of great hypocrisy in such matters and yet his softness with them, his easy comfort, confirmed her belief that she had completely mistaken him upon her return from England.
When they went into dinner, Augustus escorted her. When he led her to her seat at the table, he pressed his hand, briefly, to her lower back, and she tried not to swoon. It made something wild and hapless beat inside of her. She was ashamed to say that, despite their wholesome company, it made her want to find a small, dark space in which to press against him. She wanted him, once more, completely at her mercy.
The meal was delicious. The food at Carrington Place had always been so—Mrs. Phelps and the Dowager Countess insisted on it. Even the food that Olivia had eaten as a servant here had been unusually good, she remembered. It was one of the things that made working at Carrington Place an enviable position.
Once they had finished the soup course, the Dowager Countess sighed. “I suppose it is hopeless to expect a letter from your brother. Percy would not be so cruel as to send anyone out in this weather—especially now.”
“I am sure he is staying at the Mappertons, mother,” Elizabeth said, “Or has stopped in with one of his many friends over on that side of town.”
“Elizabeth is right, mother,” Augustus said, “He is soon to be a married man with a wife of his own. We cannot worry about him as we are used to doing.”
“I know you are right,” the dowager said, biting her lip. “But I still don’t like the idea of him out in this cold.”
“I am sure that he is not,” Olivia said, “Mrs. Mapperton would have never let him leave the house under such circumstances. She would never accept it.”
“Ah, that reassures me,” the dowager said, with a kind smile, “For you really know her.”
When it was time for dessert, a mischievous smile unfolded on the dowager’s face.
“My son has requested these,” she said, nodding towards the footmen. “I believe for our guest of honor.”
A tray appeared in front of her. Olivia gasped when she saw what it contained. Caramels, each shining and golden, winked under the candlelight.
“They are Miss Watson’s favorite,” Augustus said, “Or at least, they used to be. Tell me, Miss Watson, are they still?”
“They are,” she managed to gasp out. “But I have not had them in many years.” Her throat felt strangely tight. She found it difficult to meet his gaze.
“How strange—I have not, either,” Augustus said, “Indeed, not since the very summer you left us, Miss Watson. Isn’t that curious? And yet here I am—about to have one again and you are here once more.”
A moment of heavy silence fell around the table. Olivia opened her mouth to speak, to say something, for the sake of the others, but found she could not.
Thankfully, Petunia and Elizabeth soon exclaimed over the candies.
She bit into the caramel and the sweet delight of the candy lit up her senses. She had so long denied herself this treat because of its affiliation with him. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she had to blink them back.
Olivia looked up, resolute that she would control herself, but found herself locking eyes with Augustus across the table.
He stared at her so intently that she could not glance away.
When she looked at him, she knew. His gaze right now could only mean one thing: it was, practically, an open promise. If she stayed in this house this evening, he would not obey any strictures of propriety. He would come to her.
She averted her eyes. How could she believe such a thing? She scolded herself. It was most probably just the invention of her own wanton mind. They sat at table with his mother and sisters. Only she was depraved enough, surely, to consider such things here, of all places.
After a family game of charades, in which no one could interpret any of Willa’s clues and Petunia became so exasperated with her mother’s poor guessing that she nearly lost her temper, everyone retired. Olivia had enjoyed her time with the Carringtons more than she thought possible, but she wasn’t sorry to return upstairs.
Looking at Augustus had begun to prove difficult. Everything he did seemed to pull the thread of desire in her tighter—it was an uncomfortable thrum in her, she could feel it as a heavy weight in her pelvis, wanting and far too heated for the drawing room. She could not look at the trim lines of his body, the way his blond hair fell in a sweep across his forehead and think of anything but touching him. Whenever he looked at her, these feelings were only made worse. She felt certain his gaze held a promise. But she couldn’t bear the idea that she was mistaken.
When Olivia regained her appointed bed chamber, she sat for at least twenty minutes in an armchair, telling herself that she did not wait for him and yet very much waiting for him. She ached to hear footsteps outside her door and yet all was silence. She squeezed her knees together, feeling that weight in her pelvis again, insistent and pressing. She couldn’t stop herself from thinking of his smile, that rogue dimple, and his warm hand on her lower back as he had escorted her, oh so briefly, into dinner.
She brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a moan.
After twenty minutes, she resolved that he wasn’t coming and disappointed burned inside of her, even as she felt her arousal as sharp and needy as ever. Nevertheless, it seemed clear that she needed to give up the dream that he would come to her tonight.
She undressed down to her chemise and stockings, resolving to try and sleep. However, once she was undressed, she looked at herself in the gilt mirror and saw how flushed she looked. When she saw herself like this, caught in the full-length mirror, it seemed so easy to imagine how Augustus would touch her. She let one hand steal down her body until it rested between her full thighs. She knew what Augustus would do, if he were here. He would part her with his fingers and, then, with his lips, tease her until she saw stars.
As she imagined him doing so, she slipped a finger inside of herself. She was hot and wet just from thinking of him. Unable to help herself, she began to rub her clit, watching herself in the mirror for a moment and then closing her eyes. It was easier that way to imagine he was here with her. She brushed her fingers against her clit and let out a soft moan at how good the motion felt, especially when she imagined that it was him doing it.
Just as she was about to surrender to the sensations of her own fingers, she heard a soft knock.
Her eyes flew open.
Could it be? she thought, dropping the hem of her chemise. She didn’t think it was possible. She had given up hope.
Trembling, she turned and walked towards the door.
And then she opened it.
There, in the dim light of the hallway, he stood.
He had come.