Cheryl Holt (5 page)

What scared her out of her wits was that she wouldn’t object to dallying. Once prior, she’d been kissed, directly on the lips, during her first season. It had been a total disappointment, a wet, sloppy affair that she hadn’t wanted to repeat. She’d been left to question why women fixated on such an unpleasant event, but something about Phillip told her that kissing
him
would be a new and extraordinary experience.

Why shouldn’t she have an adventure, a bit of fun and frolic? Especially if she was about to become betrothed to safe, sane Edward? She was attracted to Phillip like a moth to the flame. He made her reckless, ready to throw caution to the wind, to attempt any negligent feat without regard to the consequences.

He’d called her Livvie, the beloved nickname that only her deceased father had used. The sentiment was endearing, delightful, and if she was brave enough she might be able to—

A sharp rapping on the door had her tumbling back to reality, her introspections tripping over themselves as she strove to bury them in the remote recesses of her mind.

“Olivia!” Margaret hissed from out in the corridor. “Are you in there?”

She jumped to her feet. She couldn’t allow Margaret to find out that she’d been drawing, particularly given the subject matter! Like a crazy woman, she stuffed her supplies into her satchel and shoved it under the bed.

“Just a minute, Margaret.” She forced calm into her
voice. There was charcoal residue on her fingertips, and she hurried to the washbasin and doused away the evidence.

Olivia’s mother had died when she was a baby, and her father had wed Margaret when Olivia had been ten, so Margaret was the only mother Olivia had ever had, but they’d never gotten on. Margaret could be difficult, fussy and cantankerous, harping about everything. She was too imposing, too tyrannical, and Olivia’s placid temperament grated on her more acerbic one. They’d stumbled through the years together, no small feat with Penelope in the house.

Penelope was Olivia’s sixteen-year-old stepsister, Margaret’s sole child from her first marriage. Margaret believed Penny could do no wrong, which had resulted in Penny having had little discipline and being horridly spoiled, so much so that they’d had significant debate as to whether Penny should accompany them to Salisbury. Even though she thrived on causing trouble, Margaret had insisted she come along.

The two females created constant stress, yet they were family, the only one Olivia had.

She went to the door, and the moment she spun the knob, Margaret hustled in, closing it behind her. With a firm grip on Olivia’s wrist, she whisked them across the room so that no servant could lurk in the hall and eavesdrop.

“Where have you been?” Margaret barked, but softly so that no one could hear them. “The earl has been waiting for you for over an hour.”

“I’m sorry, Margaret.” Out of habit, her instinct was to soothe Margaret’s ruffled feathers. It was the fundamental rhythm of a relationship that had been established when Olivia was just a wee lass. Margaret was
perpetually in a dither over what she judged as some lapse or error, while Olivia tried to keep things on an even keel. “I completely lost track of the time.”

“Are you mad? How could you act so irresponsibly when we have so much at stake?”

At fifty-two, Margaret was twice widowed, a prideful countess who had not aged well. Her hair, which was regularly pulled into a taut chignon, was gray and dull, her tall, thin figure so gaunt that she appeared to have been afflicted with a vile disease. The creases on her face indicated that she wasn’t prone to smiling, and her blue eyes were icy with disdain and hauteur.

“I apologize again,” Olivia murmured, knowing it was best to avoid an argument.

“As well you should,” Margaret fumed. “Winnie has been keeping him occupied, but she can only do so much.”

“Oh, dear.”

Thank goodness Winnie had been available to entertain him! Winnie was Margaret’s thirty-five-year-old cousin, a confirmed spinster who had lived with them for years. She was friendly and charming, but as Margaret had snidely implied, she was a commoner and therefore possessed none of the traits that Edward was searching for in a bride.

He held one of the most ancient titles in the realm, his fortune was vast and secure, and according to Margaret’s gossip sources, impeccable lineage mattered to him above all else.

“He’s noticed your absence,” Margaret accused, “and he probably suspects you’re still abed! Is that the perception you want him to have?”

“No, no,” Olivia fretted.

“Our fates are riding on you,” Margaret reminded her. “If you have no concern for Penny and myself, at least have the decency to consider Helen. What will
happen to her if we’re tossed into the streets? How will you care for her?”

Olivia hung her head, ashamed that she’d been dawdling in her room, doodling and swooning over the enigmatic Phillip, while fantasizing over potentialities that could never be.

How could she have been so selfish?

From her encounters with Lord Salisbury, it was obvious that he wasn’t enamored of her, that she hadn’t made much of an impression, so she would have to struggle to win his approval. Now, he likely deemed her a laggard or a slugabed, when neither portrayal fit her in the slightest.

“I’ll go down immediately.” And she scurried out before Margaret could hurl another remark.

Winnie Stewart leaned against the balustrade of the verandah and stared across the rolling lawns of the estate. There were horses grazing in a pasture, a colt kicking up its heels and chasing after its mother, and she smiled at the sight. It was so bucolic and peaceful, like a fairy tale.

How she loved the country! How she hated knowing that she’d have to return to the city in a few weeks. She wished she could tarry in this enchanting location forever-more. There was nothing for her in London, and with their finances in such disarray, her situation was even more precarious.

Margaret had explained their plight ad nauseum, and the necessity for journeying to Salisbury so that Olivia could investigate the possibility of a marriage.

But what if the match wasn’t brought to fruition?

From the dirty looks Margaret occasionally flashed, Winnie wondered if she shouldn’t be seeking employment, though at age thirty-five, she couldn’t guess what
she could do to earn a salary. She hadn’t worked a day in her life, had no idea how one found a job. Plus, she had no skills or aptitude.

If only she could remain where she was! Perhaps she could convince Lord Salisbury that she was indispensable in some capacity. Maybe she could dredge up one of his decrepit old aunties who needed a companion!

Ruefully, she grinned. To what a pathetic state she’d descended! As a child, she’d supposed she’d follow the course of other women, that she would marry, have a home of her own, and a gaggle of children to keep her busy. How sad that none of it had occurred. With each passing year, it was more clear that she was destined to subsist through the benevolence of others, an amiable spinster with no one and nothing to call her own.

She couldn’t recollect when she’d last taken a trip outside London, and she wasn’t sure why Margaret had let her come this time. When the Hopkins family had been financially solvent, the earl active and healthy, they’d often traveled to their ancestral seat, but Winnie rarely went with them. Though Margaret had never said so directly, Winnie had been made to feel that she’d be overstepping her bounds by tagging along.

Haven’t we done enough for you?
Margaret’s eyes would seem to inquire.
Must you impose further?

It was so dreadfully humiliating to be the poor relative, and she strove to never be a burden or a bother, to never be seen as wanting more, or hoping that her lot would improve. When she’d been invited to move in with the wealthy Hopkinses, the opportunity had been a godsend, a boon she hadn’t taken for granted, and she never said or did anything that might give someone cause to believe otherwise.

Some thirteen years earlier, she’d been in a dismal quandary, and Margaret—with strong urging from
Olivia’s father—had helped her through it, then the earl had insisted she stay on. With her parents deceased and no other kin to speak of, save Margaret, she hadn’t had many choices. She’d embraced his offer and had never left.

A wave of melancholy swamped her, and she tamped it down. More and more, she was despondent and glum, and praying she could leap out of the rut into which fate and circumstance had landed her.

How was it that she—who had perpetually been a vibrant, energetic, and unflagging individual—had descended to this disappointing juncture? How had she come to be thirty-five and so alone? Why had she ended up settling for so little?

For an instant, she unlocked the door to reminiscence, to Gerald, the lord’s son who had swept over her like a gale, who had tantalized her with a taste of elegance and passion, but who’d also broken her heart, shattered her world, and left her with the tiny baby girl she’d birthed and Margaret had put up for adoption.

Rebecca
. . .

The forbidden name whispered through her head, but she shuttered it away, declining to wallow in the desolate trough where her grief deposited her. She would not be maudlin on such a glorious morning!

Behind her, a door opened, and she presumed it was a maid carrying more food for the buffet that had been laid out. A feast awaited—should anyone show up to eat it. Or it might be Margaret, having completed her search for Olivia.

No doubt, she’d want to complain about Olivia, and Winnie hoped not. She wasn’t in the mood for Margaret’s petulance or criticisms. Margaret found fault with everyone, most notably Olivia, when Winnie considered Olivia to be very fine. Winnie abhorred her untenable role of confidante,
specifically when she’d like nothing more than to give Margaret a brisk shaking and tell her to shut up.

She glanced over her shoulder, and much to her surprise, there was the earl, Edward Paxton. When she’d initially arrived, she’d been presented to him, but since then, she’d elected her customary route of being accommodating and inconspicuous, and she’d kept to herself, even taking her meals in her room, so she hadn’t seen him again.

After the scramble of introductions, she’d had a fleeting recollection of a pleasant, dark-haired gentleman, but not much else, so she was astonished that she hadn’t noticed how handsome he was.

At six feet tall, he was wide at the shoulders, thin at the waist, with long, lanky legs. He was in commendable physical condition, probably through fencing or some other activity, and though his hair was peppered with gray, he didn’t appear to be anywhere near forty-five.

He was striking, the sort who grew more distinguished with age, who turned heads when he entered a room. Raised in affluence and privilege, he’d effortlessly donned the mantle that birth and title had provided. He was satisfied, comfortable with who and what he was.

He was peering across the verandah, evaluating her as though he couldn’t recall who she was or why she was on his patio. His gaze was astute, keen, and pathetically, she wondered what he saw when he looked at her.

While she wished he would perceive her as vibrant, interesting, and fetching, she was sure he beheld her as she truly was: a stodgy, short, rather plump woman who was past her prime, whose once-bright brunette hair was sporting a few strands of gray, too.

He was advancing on her, and she watched his lengthy strides. He moved with a lithe grace, much like the enormous African cats she’d seen once in London.

As he neared, she suffered the strangest sensation, that her destiny was approaching, that her future had finally unfolded, and a ripple of gladness surged through her. Her pulse was pounding, her ears ringing, and she shook off the peculiar impression.

With her increasing age, her sentiments often gushed out of control. She jumped to outlandish conclusions, wept over the most minor developments, raged over the smallest injustices. Now, she was fantasizing in an almost hallucinatory fashion!

Spinsterhood was driving her mad!

She dropped into a curtsy. “Lord Salisbury.”

Like a benevolent king, he took her hand, lifting her to her feet.

“We don’t stand on ceremony here in the country.” His voice was low, charming, gallant, and it swept over her, causing butterflies to rumble through her stomach.

“Thank you.” She stared at his chest, afraid to look at him. She was so nervous that she was positive he would detect her confusion and yearning.

He was studying her; she could sense his appreciative regard. After a protracted pause, he admitted, “I’m embarrassed to say that we were introduced the other day, but for the life of me, I can’t remember your name.”

“Winifred Stewart,” she said. “My friends call me Winnie.”

“Winnie . . .” He rolled the word on his tongue. “How unusual. It suits you.”

The compliment gave her the courage to meet his gaze, but she hadn’t been prepared for how dazzling he would be up close.

He was smiling at her, his brown eyes sparkling with masculine curiosity.

Her heart literally skipped a beat.

“I would be honored if you would call me Winnie.”

“If
you
will call me Edward.”

“I will.”

He hadn’t released her hand, and like a pair of enamored half-wits, they gawked. She felt a powerful connection to him, their bodies seeming to tilt toward one another, and Winnie sustained an insane impulse to lean into him, to snuggle herself against his chest, comprehending that she would fit perfectly.

He felt their potent link, and he scowled, trying to deduce the reason. Stepping away, he freed her hand, severing their attachment as though she’d suddenly gotten too hot to handle.

At a loss, he grappled to reassert the smooth, urbane façade that had temporarily vanished. He cleared his throat and straightened his cravat, so disconcerted that she would have been sorry for him had she not been appalled and frightened by her own reaction.

“Would you care to join me at the table?” he asked, nimbly covering over the awkwardness.

She couldn’t think of anything more dangerous, or more enticing, than to sit down and converse with him through a leisurely meal. She endeavored to find an excuse so that she might cordially refuse, when Olivia emerged through the French doors.