Once Upon a Wicked Night (2 page)

Olivia didn’t know what to say. She felt foolish and awkward. How like her, to remind her sister and brother-in-law of a moment in time they’d been trying to forget for years.

“Would you like to go up?” Serena asked her. Then, seeing the look of consternation on Olivia’s face, she gave a low laugh and spoke under her breath so that anyone standing nearby wouldn’t hear. “Honestly, it’s all right, Olivia. I think going up there again will go far in healing old wounds.”

At that moment, Olivia saw the way to give Jonathan and Serena the few moments alone they so obviously needed. “No, no, you go,” she said. “This dance will end soon, and, remember, I have promised the waltz to Lord Fenwicke.”

Stepping back from Serena, Jonathan frowned, seeming to notice the clusters of people surrounding them for the first time. “Lord Fenwicke? He’s here?”

“He is.” Serena tilted her head at him. “Why? Don’t you approve of him dancing with Olivia?”

A group of tittering young ladies approached, and Olivia, Jonathan, and Serena watched them in silence as they passed, whispering behind their fans, on their way to the punch table.

When the ladies were far enough away not to hear him, Jonathan shrugged. “It should be all right. You do know he’s married, don’t you?”

Olivia hadn’t known that. Lord Fenwicke was handsome in a dark and rakish sort of way, and when he’d asked her to dance, he’d looked at her like a wolf assessing whether a diminutive fox was plump and juicy enough to be its next meal. Then he’d smiled and relaxed, and she’d realized he
had
deemed her worthy.

He was a high-ranking lord, a handsome gentleman, an upstanding member of London society, and he’d thought her worthy. It was a compliment to her, and it had bolstered Olivia’s ever-fragile self-esteem.

But now, hearing from Jonathan that he was married, she was confused. She wasn’t familiar with the ways of the
ton
, but certainly the way he’d looked at her wasn’t the way a married man should be looking at a young female.

Or was it?

“Of course I know he’s married,” Serena said.

Jonathan turned to look at Olivia with a questioning gaze, and she smiled and nodded. The confidence that had blossomed after her last dance had withered away, and once again her stomach twisted into a knot of nerves.

She and her sisters had grown up far away in the West Indies, but their mother had always expected they would return to London. Even though she had done her best to teach them all about proper etiquette and the expectations people had of young ladies in London society, she’d failed to mention the subtleties and the intricacies of how men and women related to one another.

Jonathan let out a breath, but for some reason he still looked worried. “It will be fine,” he mumbled, as if he were speaking more to himself than to the ladies. “It’s just one dance.”

He was right. She’d already survived her first venture onto the dance floor—actually enjoyed moments of it—so she would survive this one as well. And it was a waltz. The waltz was her favorite dance, the one she considered herself most skilled at.

Nothing could possibly go wrong.

Lord Fenwicke wove through the crowd of couples, leading Olivia to the center of the congested dance floor. As he clasped her right hand with his left and settled his other hand around her waist, awareness spread under her clothing and below her skin, sensitizing it. The waltz was an intimate dance, and she’d never actually waltzed with a man before.

His hand was long-fingered, aristocratic, and warm, even through the layers of their gloves. He held her in a firm, confident grip that felt nothing like the way her sisters had held her when they’d waltzed. He was harder, taller, so much more…
masculine
.

The fingertips of her left hand pressed against his elegant black wool tailcoat just below his shoulder. His snow-white cravat was stiffly starched and tied with an expert hand, a heavy contrast to the deep black of his velvet collar. He was clean shaven, his olive-toned cheek smooth, and when she glanced down, she saw that his shoes were polished to an obsidian shine.

Swallowing hard, she looked into his face. He was gazing down at her, a smile tugging at the edges of his thin lips and his dark eyes sparkling like his shoes.

“I can tell you’re new to town,��� he said. “There’s a freshness about you that’s impossible to find in any jaded city woman.”

“Ah,” she murmured. “Oh.”

She tried not to wince at her less-than-articulate response. But how was one supposed to respond to a comment like that?

The waltz began, and he nudged her into movement, chuckling. “You see? Your reaction proves my point. You’re utterly charming, Miss Donovan.”

Olivia rather felt that her reaction had proved what a dolt she was, but if he found her monosyllabic, breathy murmurs charming, then she supposed she couldn’t complain.

He squeezed her hand, sweeping her into a wide circle. The music swelled in the familiar one-two-three tempo of the waltz.

Her skirts whooshed as he turned her in a wide arc, and she glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed in pleasure. “You are a wonderful dancer, Lord Fenwicke.”

He chuckled. “It’s a requirement of my position. When my dear father departs from this earth, I shall be a duke, and one of the many duties of a duke is to demonstrate proficiency in dancing. Fortunately, I enjoy it, so learning wasn’t a burden to me.”

“I enjoy it, too.”

For a while, they danced in silence. Olivia allowed the music to flow into her and through her. She stopped thinking about where to move her feet, and her body responded to her partner’s lead by instinct, knowing exactly how to perform the steps. Lord Fenwicke’s hands were firm on her body, directing her every motion, and because he was such a good dancer, she gave him her trust and surrendered to his lead, allowing him to whisk her around the ballroom.

He spun her in a tight circle, surprising her, then clasped his arm around her waist in a firmer grip.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, breathless, as the satin of her skirts swished around her calves before settling at her ankles.

“Did you like that?” He grinned at her. She liked the way he looked when he smiled.

“Oh, yes.”

He spun her again, and then again, and laughter bubbled in her chest and then spilled out as they settled back into the rhythm of the waltz.

He bent down to whisper into her ear, “Look. They’re all staring at us.”

Olivia’s body went tight all over, and she nearly stumbled. “Oh, dear.”

“No, no,” he assured her, quickly righting her and guiding them both back into the pattern. “It’s not that we’ve done anything wrong. It’s because they’re envious.”

“About our dancing?”

“Perhaps that’s why the ladies stare. I’m certain, though, that the gentlemen stare because they are envious of me.”

“Envious of you?” She gave him a quizzical look. Because of his title, perhaps? But that didn’t make sense.

“Mmm, yes. Envious that I am the one who has been bestowed the honor of dancing the waltz with the loveliest lady at tonight’s rout.”

She tore her gaze from his and stared at his wool-clad shoulder. “Oh.”

His words were simple flattery; she was well aware that she wasn’t the loveliest lady here—there were so many more beautiful and more elegant women present.

But Lord Fenwicke was clearly flirting with her now. And he was married. Was it a normal practice for the married gentlemen of the
ton
to flirt with unattached ladies? Truly, she didn’t know what to do, how to respond to this behavior.

“Does that embarrass you, Miss Donovan?”

“Of course not,” she said in a near whisper. She wasn’t a liar by nature, but she was too disconcerted to tell him the truth. Not to mention that the truth, in this circumstance, would make her look like the inexperienced fool she clearly was.

His arm was tight around her waist, and he kept her hand firmly clasped in his own. His body pressed against hers, and she could feel his…

A bolt of clarity swept through Olivia. She was completely out of her depth. This man was experienced, suave, and while Olivia couldn’t begin to comprehend his motivations, Lord Fenwicke knew exactly what he was doing.

Soon the waltz ended, and Lord Fenwicke gave Olivia his arm and led her from the dance floor. She glanced around, looking for one of her sisters or Jonathan and finding none of them. Jonathan and Serena were probably still upstairs, but Jessica should be nearby.

She and Lord Fenwicke ultimately ventured toward the punch table, and he disengaged her arm from his for long enough to whip his hand out and take a crystal glass filled with bubbling champagne punch from the table. He handed it to her with a little bow. “For you, Miss Donovan.”

“Thank you.” After the vigorous dance and the rollicking emotions and confusion she’d experienced during it, Olivia’s mouth was dry, and she took the glass gratefully. She put her lips to the edge and drank half of it in one swallow. It was sweet and bubbly. Delicious.

Lord Fenwicke took his own glass and offered his arm again. She hesitated, but then, not knowing what else to do and not wishing to be rude, she threaded her arm through his.

“I do see your gaze darting about.” He gave a little chuckle. “You look rather like a trapped bird, Olivia. But it seems your sister and brother-in-law have vacated the premises. Never fear, my dear. I shall remain with you until your happy family is reunited.”

She took another gulp of champagne. The drink was already moving through her veins—a tingling rush of blood just beneath her skin.

“Shall we hunt for them?” he asked, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.

It was quite all right that Jessica, Serena, and Jonathan had disappeared. She needn’t panic. Lord Fenwicke wouldn’t abandon her to the vultures surrounding them, all those society matrons and gentlemen who suddenly seemed to be observing them with speculation in their narrowed eyes.

Lord Fenwicke said they were envious. If this was envy, she’d prefer to be a poor dancer, tripping all over her partner’s feet and having them laugh at her idiocy instead.

“Yes,” she told him, ignoring them all, “let’s find them.”

“Are you sure you want to go up there?” Serena had asked in the middle of the waltz, in a voice so low no one besides Jonathan could possibly hear her.

His blue eyes blazed down at her in the way that made heat flush over her skin. “I do.” His voice was low and soft, his tone confident.

The mere simplicity of the way he said the words washed away all her doubts and fears. They were married now. Nothing could possibly tear them apart like it had so many years ago. Not even an upstairs alcove at the Dowager Duchess of Clayworth’s ball. She took a deep breath and smiled up at him.

He leaned toward her and whispered in an undertone. “Don’t look, but the dowager’s blade-like gaze is focused upon us. No doubt she believes it uncouth for a husband and wife to spend as much time together as we already have. Let’s escape her inevitable attempt to skewer us and go upstairs.”

Serena didn’t dare look. She cut a glance up to him. “No doubt she’ll march over here and bodily thrust us apart.”

Jonathan nodded sagely. “No doubt,” he said on a sigh.

God, how she’d missed him. Serena’s lips tingled with the desire to kiss him. Reuniting with him here, where they could hardly touch for fear of societal reprisal, was torturous. She wanted to take him home and to bed, where they could spend long, languorous hours together making love… But that wouldn’t be fair to Olivia and Jessica, who needed this exposure to the
ton
. And surprise of surprises, Olivia seemed to be having
fun
.

She took his arm, and together they walked up the vast, winding staircase. They were both silent as they made their way to the top. No doubt Jonathan was remembering, as Serena was.

That night… so long ago. To be so in love with someone that you lost all common sense—that was how she’d felt about Jonathan. Nothing had mattered to her. She hadn’t given a fig what anyone thought of her. Except Jonathan. He’d meant the world to her, and she’d just known he felt the same way.

She drew in a shuddering breath. It was all in the past. She loved him equally now, but with a more rational sensibility. At least, she hoped so.

They reached the grand landing at the top of the stairs and stood at the polished wooden rail near the musicians, looking down over the ballroom below. The chords of the waltz swelled clear and sweet around them.

“It’s still magnificent, but somehow… well, it seemed bigger then,” she mused.

He raised a brow at her. “Did it?”

She nodded. “I remember feeling like I was swimming in some grand, foreign ocean of elegance and beauty. Now”—she gestured at the crowd of dancers swirling in pairs below them—“it’s just a room.”

Jonathan gave a low chuckle. “Just a room filled with silk and gold and diamonds.”

She smiled at him. “You must be spoiling me indeed if I’m beginning to see all these riches as commonplace.”

“They are commonplace, Serena. What are jewels without someone to wear them?”

She didn’t need to answer. She knew what he meant. While she’d been struggling in poverty in the West Indies, Jonathan had remained among these people for years. Surrounded by riches but empty inside.

He slipped his arm around her, but she didn’t stiffen as would probably be appropriate. There were still people wandering this way and that on the landing behind them, and even though the orchestra was busy with the waltz, most of the musicians had a clear view of them.

She leaned against him and let her eyelids sink until they were half shut. She caught a glimpse of Olivia, her blonde beauty ethereal from this distance, as her partner spun her in tight circles as they spanned the breadth of the dance floor.

Serena and Jonathan stood in silence for a few moments, pressed against each other, Serena just enjoying the strength and warmth of her husband.

“Come,” he murmured finally, adjusting his hold around her waist but not releasing her. “Let’s walk.”

She didn’t answer but allowed him to maneuver her around and toward the far corridor. Not the corridor that led to the famous gallery containing the portraits of the dowager’s ancestors, but the corridor opposite. The narrower, dimly lit passageway that led to their alcove. Or, at least, the alcove Serena had, once upon a time, thought of as theirs.