Lady Olivia's Undoing

Smashwords Edition

Shore Road Publishing

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Bethania, NC 27010

U.S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
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are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any
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Cover portrait by John Singer Sargent – Mrs.
William Crowninshield Endicott Jr. 1903

London

19 December 1811

“John, do come to bed,” Olivia said, patting
the place beside her. “It is half past midnight and there can be
nothing more you must attend, sort out, or look after. The servants
are abed, the fire is stoked, and I for one am exhausted. Come now,
and tell me what troubles you.” At his raised brow, she said, “I
can see by the lines in your face that something has you overset.
You have been distant and drawn all day.” Something must be
terribly wrong. John was always so amiable.

John sat on the bed in his trousers and
shirt, his cravat loosened. His jacket and vest lay folded over the
back of the chair in the corner, shoes and stockings under it. He
shook his head.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Livvy.” He
took her hand in his.

Her stomach did a little flip. Olivia sat up.
“Pray what is it?” The soft flickering of candlelight played with
the shadows on John’s face.

“There is no easy way to tell you this, so I
will just come out with it.” He sighed. “I must away.” He patted
her hand absently.

“Away? Now? It is the middle of the night.”
Olivia pushed at the covers and wiggled closer to John.

“No, dearest, not tonight, but soon. Mayhap
the end of the week.”

Olivia didn’t need to ask. His tone spoke
volumes. There was another assignment from the Foreign Office.

“Where are you going this time? Tell me they
are not sending you to France again.” John and the Earl of
Greenleigh had gone Paris on several occasions. Olivia hated when
John went there. Upon his return, he always smelled of cheap wine,
the ocean, and doxies. Olivia couldn’t fault him for it though.
Even at six-and-fifty, John remained in service to his King and she
was proud of him for that. Still, France. It was such a
dirty
place.

John pulled a rumpled piece of paper from his
pocket and toyed with it before he said, “The Foreign Secretary
desires me to go to Spain.”

“
What
?” Olivia climbed off the massive
four-poster bed. “No, John. I will not have it. Tis too dangerous.”
She started to pace. “I will go in the morning and tell him you
cannot possibly leave England for that God forsaken place.” John
had seen battle during the First Coalition against France, and the
horrors he had told her about were once enough for any man. The
stories she had heard about Spain now were twice as dreadful.

John rubbed his eyes. “Liv, ‘tis no use. I
have already spoken to him. I am needed, and therefore I must do as
he commands.”

“Nonsense,” Olivia said. “Let him send
someone else.”

“Livvy,” John paused. “He is. I am to go with
Henry Wade.”

Olivia stopped her pacing. Henry. Hearing his
name was a dagger through her heart. What a cruel twist of fate.
The only two men she had ever loved besides her late husband
Fitzhugh – Henry, a young girl’s folly, and John, a grown woman’s
passion – were now leaving for the same mission.

She turned to John and whispered, “You cannot
go.” Olivia sat on the bed next to him. “How long will you be
away?” She gripped his fingers and brought them to her lips. “Oh,
John, I cannot bear for you to leave me. What shall I do without
you?” He could not leave her. He could not. It was unthinkable.

“I have written to Westerly Manor. Summers is
well pleased to butler for you once again.”

Olivia rose from the bed and began to pace.
“That is not what I meant. Hang the house. It can fall down around
my ears for all I may care.” She stopped in front of him. “What am
I going to do without
you
?”

John held a calming presence in Olivia’s
life. She was not the same person she had been. John was a man who,
for all his humble beginnings, was her equal in passion and
intellect. He took care of her
whole
life so completely,
Olivia never felt neglected in the way she had with Fitzhugh.
Fitzhugh had servants to do his bidding; he’d never think to give
her a bouquet of flowers himself, or ask to sew a loose button on
his shirt. She trusted John implicitly, from the house and horses,
to her heart and soul.

John stood and touched her cheek. “You will
carry on.” He walked to the window, opened the curtains, and stared
at the empty garden.

“Yes, I shall carry on. With my heart broken
wide open again. Waiting, wondering, worrying if you will ever come
back to me. Your adventures in France were torturous enough. I
cannot bear the thought of you going to Spain.” She grabbed the end
of her nightrail and wiped her eyes. “John,
I
shall die if
you do not return.” He could not leave her again. Paris had been
ghastly, but Belgium had changed John. He had become hard and
resolute, almost implacable on certain subjects. And now it seemed
his position in the Foreign Office was another topic forbidden to
discuss. Did he not care one whit for her feelings at all?

“Dearest, calm yourself.” John walked over to
the bed and folded his arms around Olivia. “I shall try, with all
due haste, to finish this obligation and come back to you as I have
in the past. You will see.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her
forehead.

“But what if you do not?” She choked on a
sob. “What will become of me?”

“You will find someone else,” John said.

A fleeting image of Henry crossed her
thoughts. Olivia shook her head. She tore herself out of John’s
arms and faced him. “I will
never
love again. Never. You are
my last chance at happiness. You are the
last
man that I
will ever love.” A life with Henry would always remain a young
girl’s wistful desire. Henry loved Catherine now.

John looked to the ceiling. “I have been
blessed with the most stubborn woman God has ever created.”

Olivia stared at him, her body trembling. “I
want to marry you.”

“Liv.” John rubbed a hand over his short grey
hair. “Do not be absurd.”

“I am not absurd. I want to marry you. Now,
tonight. Before you leave. Let us away to Gretna. I will call for
the carriage.” She walked to the bell pull. Marriage was the only
way she could bear his leaving. Spain. The thought of that hell
sent a shiver up her spine. John might never return.

“Dearest, you are not thinking clearly.” John
stayed her hand before she tugged the rope. “We cannot marry.”

“We can, and I am being perfectly rational in
my thinking. I love you. You say you love me. You are going to
Spain on a dangerous quest, the likes of which I may never see you
again. I will feel much better about your going off if I am Mrs.
John Quiggins. It will give us both something to look forward to
when you return.”

“And what would that be?” John asked.

“Time. I want to love you forever. I meant
what I said. You are the last man I will ever love.” She had given
up Henry’s love for her family’s wishes. Olivia had grown to love
Fitzhugh over the course of their marriage. But John…she had loved
John from almost their first meeting and couldn’t think of the rest
of her life without him.

John smiled. “This last year together with
you has been the best year of my life.”

“Yes, but now there is no guarantee we will
have anymore.” Olivia reached for his hand, tears slowly sliding
down her cheeks. “John, I remain steadfast. I want to marry you. I
will go myself, and seek the special license from the Archbishop.
We can be married before you leave.”

John kissed her fingers. “Olivia, darling. We
cannot marry. Not now, not ever. You are distressed and not
considering the consequences. What will happen to you if we were to
marry? You will be laughed out of Society. The great Olivia
Leighton, Duchess of Caymore… married to a
butler
? Dearest,
please. You do not know what you are saying.”

“I do know what I am saying,” Olivia said.
“And you are
not
a butler. You are a Colonel in His
Majesty’s Special Forces
posing
as my butler. I love you,
John, and I want us to marry. Tis the only way I will survive your
absence.” She cocked her head and stared at him. A stray thought
hit her like a bullet between the eyes. “Unless you do not wish to
marry
me
.”

“Livvy, please. In all my years, in all my
situations,
you
are the only woman to whom I have ever
declared my heart. But that is not the issue.”

Olivia wrenched herself away from him. “Then
what
is
the issue, John? Why do you not wish to marry
me?”

“I am protecting you, Liv. I am protecting
your name and your title. We are walking a precarious rope as it
is. Do you not think the scandal sheets would have your name
blasted across every front page if they found I shared your bed? It
is only a miracle they have not done so already. If you married me,
you would become a laughingstock in Society and I will not have
that. Do you understand? I will
not
have it. I could not
bear for you to be humiliated because of me.”

“Then we will leave. Right now, this very
instant.” Olivia strode to her armoire, pulled out a few gowns, and
threw them on the bed. “We will away to Gretna, marry, and be gone
from England. You will not have to go on this mission, I will not
have to endure the censure of Society, and we will live happy and
contented lives.” She reached for the drawer in her dresser that
held her stockings. Sobs tore from her chest. What would happen to
him? They had been blessed he had returned from France. From
reports she had heard, Spain was assuredly a death sentence.
Somehow, if she were Mrs. John Quiggins, his absence would be
easier to bear. Their bond would be strengthened, their love shared
across the continents. He had to marry her.

John placed his hands on her shoulders. “Come
now, Olivia. Come.” He kissed the back of her neck. “You are
hysterical and there is just no need for it. Where is my level
headed Livvy?” He turned her to face him. “Dearest, we will see
this more clearly in the morning and we will discuss it at length.
All right?” He kissed her gently on the lips. “All right?”

Olivia nodded and leaned her head into the
middle of his chest. She breathed in the smell of him. His arms
wrapped around her back. She choked on fresh tears.

John led her to the bed and helped her under
the covers. He returned the gowns to the armoire, shucked his
trousers, shirt, and cravat, and laid those on the chair. The
mattress dipped as he climbed under the blankets. He blew out the
candle and reached for her.

She nestled in his arms and laid her hand on
his chest. “I love you, John. I love you more than I ever thought
possible.”

“And I love you, Livvy.” He kissed her nose.
“Now go to sleep. I have a feeling it is going to be an exceedingly
long day tomorrow.” His fingers played with the ends of her
hair.

Olivia lay in the dark listening to John
breathe, a single thought racing through her mind. John was leaving
for Spain. She may never see him again.

John was as dear to her as if they had been
married all their lives. As comfortable as her old slippers. John
took care of her and made her laugh long and hard and deep at
things that no one in her present social circle could ever imagine.
He was everything that Society was not and made her realize there
was more to life than parties and balls and gossip, more than
charities and luncheons and the state of the aristocracy. John
loved
her – not because she was one of the richest women in
London, not because she was Fitzhugh’s wife, not because of her
familial ties to the great Duke of Marlborough. He loved her
because of who she was inside – plain old Livvy Churchill, a girl
fond of horses, teacups, and roses.