Encounter with Venus (24 page)

While Harriet uselessly brushed away at the skirt of her gown, Elaine managed to get to her feet, but it took her a moment to get her balance. Not so foxed that she was unaware of the sea of faces gaping at her, she nevertheless ignored them. It was more important to examine the sogginess she felt on the shoulder of her gown. What she saw almost sobered her. Globs of thick, brown liquid, dotted here and there with bubblets of shallot, slithered from her shoulder down front and back, one rivulet slowly making its way into the cleavage of her breasts. Drunk as she was, she knew it was her life’s worst moment. In a last, desperate attempt to regain some semblance of dignity, she straightened up, lifted her chin, and glared at the stricken Felicia. “You, my once dear friend,” she announced with the thick, forced clarity of a drunkard trying to prove his sobriety, “seem t’ have a talent for s’lecting th’ mos’ boring fellows t’ dine with. This’s defina’ly the
worst
dinner party I ever ‘tended.” And in a hopeless attempt to flounce, she staggered out of the room.

But George didn’t watch her. Having, by sheer force of will, thrust his own troubles to the back of his mind, he was staring at another scene unfolding across the table. Harriet was bending over Bernard, each of them assuring the other that the incident had caused no real damage. The look in their eyes was unmistakable. “Bernard, you sly dog,” George crowed in delight, “is there something you haven’t been telling me?”

THIRTY-FOUR

With various expressions of shock and dismay, six of the party watched Elaine take her churlish departure, but George’s shout across the table caused an abrupt shift in their attention. All eyes turned immediately to Bernard and Harriet. There they were, arms about each other, caught in a frozen moment of concerned affection. The couple had no choice but to admit their betrothal.

The announcement was greeted with universal delight. The air was suddenly filled with merriment. Everyone embraced, everyone delivered spontaneous toasts, everyone basked in the glow of the happiness that could now freely shine from the lovers’ eyes. Good wishes and champagne flowed in unrestricted abundance. Even Algy and Beatrice, whom the party was intended to honor, were happy to share their celebration. Beatrice, with a sweet show of generosity, enhanced the gaiety by playing and singing a lively rendition of Harriet’s favorite song, “How Sweet in the Woodlands.” The party that the departed guest had called the “worst” had become, to Felicia’s relief, one of the most joyful.

The celebrants did not disperse until the wee hours. Most of them fell into instant and contented slumber. Three of them did not. One was Horace, who had found the evening frustrating. He was happy for his brother, of course, but it was irritating that Algy was approaching the married state ahead of him. He was fond of Algy, but he, Horace, was the older, the wealthier, and, in his view, the handsomer of the two. True, he was a bit hefty, but he was taller and stronger than Algy by far, and his hairline had not shown the slightest inclination to recede, as Algy’s had. It seemed an unfair stroke of fate that Algy was betrothed before him.

Beatrice Rossiter was, in Horace’s view, a bit addle-brained, although a perfectly suitable choice for Algy. He himself preferred a more sensible, well-grounded woman like Livy. He’d had an eye on Livy from the first. She was neither young nor a great beauty, but there was something striking in her appearance. He liked to look at her. What was even more important, she had dignity and presence, could speak cleverly on almost any subject, and she would make an excellent impression on his friends and on his banking associates. He had intended to court her in a proper, leisurely style, but perhaps he should not wait.
What would be the purpose in waiting?
he asked himself. A woman in her position would surely accept him as readily now as later. With that decided, he turned himself over on his side and shut his eyes. His last thought before sleep overtook him was that he would make the offer to her the very next day.

Livy also found sleep hard to come by, but Horace had nothing to do with her wakefulness. It was George, of course, who interfered with her peace of mind. She reviewed their brief dinner conversation over and over in her mind, but she could not interpret it properly no matter how carefully she analyzed it. There was no question that she’d hurt him when she’d said she liked him as she would a charming nephew. But why was he hurt? Was it just that he was offended at what he felt was a disparaging view of him? Or was he hoping for more affection from her? If one thought about it objectively, one would have to ask why he should care what she thought of him, unless... But she didn’t want to think of the “unless ...” She was a scrawny old maid, eight years his senior. Any romantic thoughts were completely inappropriate. With that definitely decided, she buried her head into her pillow and waited in miserable impatience for sleep to come.

The third sleepless party guest was George himself. When he tumbled into bed, he noticed that his emotions were in an unusual state of agitation. He tossed about on his rumpled bed hour after hour, unable to settle down. He tried to calm himself by concentrating on Bernard’s good fortune. He’d hoped for so long that Bernard would find happiness that he could hardly believe his wish had come true. The only troublesome thing about it, he realized guiltily, was that when he discovered that they’d come to such a happy understanding, he’d unwittingly given away their secret. Bernard might very well be annoyed with him for it. But their friendship was too deep and of too long-standing to be seriously harmed by an unwitting blunder. Bernard would get over it. The important thing was that Bernard was to wed the girl of his dreams.

Unfortunately, George had been struck with Livy’s rejection on the very same evening he’d learned Bernard’s good news. He tried to put the memory of it out of his mind, so that he could be free to savor Bernard’s happiness. But Livy’s evaluation of him—that he was nothing but a spoilt nephew to her—kept echoing in his brain. It clouded his joy. It was a drop of ink in the pure water of his delight in Bernard’s triumph. The only thing that might calm him was to push all thoughts of Livy firmly out of his mind. He’d concentrate on the happy outcome of Bernard and Harriet’s romance.
At least some of us,
he thought with a touch of bitterness,
are sleeping well tonight.

THIRTY-FIVE

During breakfast the next morning, Kelby brought in a note and handed it to Livy. “The messenger is awaiting a response,” he said.

Livy glanced at the front of the sealed paper. “It’s from Horace,” she said in answer to the curious expressions on the faces of both Felicia and Leyton. She broke the seal and read it quickly. “Oh, dear,” she sighed when she’d finished. “Must I?”

“Must you what, my love?” Felicia inquired. Livy read the missive aloud:

Dear Miss Olivia,

Not having had an opportunity to converse with you properly at last night’s celebration, I most sincerely request the honor of your company this afternoon for a ride in Hyde Park. I am quite impatient to discuss with you a matter of great import, so I beg that you will not put me off.

Yours, H. Thomsett.

“I wonder what matter of import he wants to discuss,” Leyton remarked, buttering his toast.

Felicia, remembering her private conversation with Livy on the subject of Horace Thomsett, looked across the table at her friend with sympathy. “I know you don’t wish to go,” she said softly, “but perhaps you should.”

“Certainly you should,” Leyton agreed heartily, being in complete ignorance of Livy’s feelings. “Horace is no fool. If he says it’s important, it must be.”

“Very well then, I shall,” Livy said reluctantly. “In any case, the weather is fine for a drive.” She turned to the butler. “If you please, Kelby, tell the messenger to inform Mr. Thomsett that I shall be ready at two.”

The weather, however, did not stay fine. By afternoon the sky was overcast and the wind had turned gusty, thus exacerbating Livy’s reluctance to go. But, having given her word, she dressed in a warm pelisse, tied on her bonnet with a sturdy ribbon, and let Horace help her up on his curricle with as cheerful a smile as she could summon up.

Horace was handling the reins himself. Though a liveried tiger hung on to the rear, there was no one within hearing distance. The fact that Horace had dispensed with a coachman made Livy wonder why the “matter of import” required such strict privacy.

It didn’t take long for Horace to launch into the subject. “I’ve been trying for several days to bring up a certain subject for your consideration, Miss Olivia, but...” He opened his mouth to proceed but suddenly hesitated.

“Yes?” she prompted.

He flicked the reins and threw her a sidelong glance. “Do you know, Miss Olivia, that I am forty-three years old?”

“Are you?”

“It may come as a surprise to you that after all these years of bachelorhood, I have suddenly taken an interest in wedlock,” he said, not looking at her. “And it came about when meeting you.”

Good God,
she thought,
the man does not intend to offer for me, does he? It can’t be!
“Indeed?” she asked carefully.

He glanced at her again. “You may find it an odd notion,” he said.

“Odd?”

“Well, yes. If I may be blunt, Miss Olivia, you are a woman who has for some years put aside the intention of marrying, as I had. That both of us postponed wedlock until now is what makes the circumstances odd.” He steered the carriage off the path and pulled the horses to a stop. Then, with a deep breath, he turned on the seat to face her. “I have to admit, Miss Olivia, that I hadn’t been in your company for five minutes before I realized that you were not the ordinary sort of—how shall I put this?—unmarried woman of a certain age.”

“You may say the word ‘spinster,’ Horace,” Livy said with a laugh. “That is what I am.”

“But not the typical sort,” he assured her. “Not at all. And this opinion I have of you has been strengthened by each of our subsequent meetings. Which is why, since both of us are of an age past the foolishness of youth, I have emboldened myself to ask you—”

She cut him off with a movement of her hand. She’d pushed aside her first instinct that she was about to receive a marriage proposal, convinced that it could not be true. Now, apparently, it was. She had to stop him before the matter became painful. “Not all youth is foolish, Horace,” she said gently. “I may be past the age to think of wedlock, but I assure you that there are many young women of marriageable age who would be happy to accept you.”

“But the young women you speak of do not interest me. I suppose we both are of such depth of character that the young persons we meet seem immature and shallow, is that not so?”

“In some cases, perhaps, but—”

“It was when I had the good fortune to converse with you at Leyton Abbey that I began to appreciate the— how shall I put it?—”

“The depth of my character?” she supplied dryly.

“Yes.” Warming to his subject, he reached for her hand. “I realize, Miss Olivia, that you do not know me well, but I assure you that there isn’t a member of my club who wouldn’t vouch for my character. And I have much to offer a woman. I can claim, in all modesty, that I am quite well to pass. I have an estate in Derbyshire, where I also own a bank, I have a house here in town and a solid footing in the funds. My income is better than five thousand.”

“Is it, indeed?” she murmured, trying to withdraw her hand. It was an awkward moment. Though she couldn’t refuse an offer that hadn’t actually been made, it was clear the fellow was on his way to declaring himself. Livy wanted desperately to stop him before he did. “But, Horace, I don’t think—” she began.

Instead of releasing her hand, he grasped the other one. “I know you find this unexpected, Miss Olivia, but I’m asking you to marry me.” He smiled down at her benignly. “I think we suit very well.”

Livy did not reveal by so much as the twitch of her lips that she’d felt an urge to giggle. She’d had two offers of marriage in her youth, both of which had been embarrassingly romantic. One had strewn an armload of flowers over her, and the other, on bended knee, had bombarded her with flowery words. She’d considered both excessive, but they’d both been infinitely more appealing than this pompous proposition. It was as if Horace were offering her a partnership in his bank! “Thank you, Horace,” she said, firmly pulling her hands from his grasp, “but I am not interested in wedlock.”

Horace, having convinced himself that his offer was too splendid to be refused, especially by a woman who was past her last hopes, merely continued to smile. “I hope you’re not playing coy, my dear.”

“At my age it is not fitting to ‘play coy,’ “ she assured him firmly.

Her tone could not be mistaken. She was refusing him. He could hardly believe what he had heard. “Then you are seriously refusing me?” he asked in astonishment.

“Yes. Quite seriously.”

“That cannot be!” he insisted. “Forgive me for my candor, my dear, but the fact is that all women are interested in wedlock, and women of your age are even more so.”

“Well, as you suggested, perhaps I am odd. I’m very sorry.”

Believing her at last, he stiffened in fury. “This may very well be your last offer, you know.”