The Fifth Kiss (12 page)

Nevertheless, the fact remained that only Strickland, of the three men who'd kissed her, had been able to stir her emotions so thrillingly—and by performing a physical act which had been executed in more or less the same way in all three cases. They had all pressed their lips to hers. Why was her reaction to the third instance so remarkably different from the other two?

Olivia was not so stupid as to ignore the fact that her feelings for the gentlemen involved had differed widely
even before the act of kissing
. She had therefore theorized that those preliminary feelings had adversely affected her emotional response to the kisses themselves. She had concluded that one reacted to a kiss in the same general way that one reacted to the man who performed the kissing. She'd been indifferent to Morley Crawford as a man, and her response to his kiss had been one of indifference; she'd been slightly revolted by Sir Walter Haldene, and her emotions during his embrace had reflected that.

But she
hated and despised
Strickland, yet the feelings she'd experienced when
he'd
kissed her were completely unrelated to her feelings for the man himself. How could
that
be explained? And what good were her theories now?

It was extremely puzzling. Was there something in Strickland's wide and libertinish experience as a lover that made him more expert—and thus more effective—in kissing women? Would she have felt the same if
another
libertine had embraced her? Did
Clara
feel what she'd felt when Strickland embraced
her
? (Good heavens, if she
did
, it was
no wonder
she'd married him!)

But all the theorizing, all the worrying, all the cogitation during the sleepless hours of the night had provided no answers; they'd simply multiplied the number of questions. At last she'd given up and, still wrapped in a most distressful guilt, had fallen heavily asleep, beset by dark, fearsome, half-remembered dreams of struggling to keep from drowning in a churning sea while a creature of unrecognizable visage clamped strong arms about her in an endeavor either to pull her out or to drag her under.

Now it was morning, and here she sat bathed in the incongruous brilliance of the sunlight which could not dispel the dark shadows in her mind, all the while holding his note in her hand and feeling too cowardly to tear it open.

But eventually curiosity overcame timidity, and she opened the envelope. The crested notepaper within was covered with a sharply angular, almost illegible, slanted scrawl which somehow brought Strickland's face very forcibly to mind. The note began simply with the word
Olivia
—no other words of salutation had been added. He then went on:
Lady Strickland will not permit me to leave the premises until I have penned, in her words, “a proper apology” for having quarreled with you last night. Here, then, is that apology, although probably far from “proper.” Apologizing is something I have never learned to do with good grace. I do admit, however, to behavior that was less than gentlemanly. My recollection of the occurrence is somewhat hazy, but if I manhandled you in any way, it was the result of having dipp'd too deeply into the brandy before you, barefoot and belligerent, arrived on the scene. However it may have been, you have my assurance that such behavior on my part will never be permitted to recur
.

As to the substance of our disagreement, on the other hand (that is, the dispute over the education of my son), I have nothing further to add to what I've already said. I trust you will not again question my authority in this matter. Strickland
.

Olivia read the letter in disbelief. Was
this
supposed to be an
apology
?
I do admit, however, to behavior that was less than gentlemanly
. How very decent of him! Less than
gentlemanly
? His behavior had not only been less than gentlemanly—it had been positively
depraved
! How
could
he have written, “
if I manhandled you
…”?
If
, indeed! That evasion might be a satisfactory way for him to explain the situation to his
wife
, but did he think it would fool
Olivia
? And that weak excuse about being drunk! Perhaps he
had
imbibed more than he should have, but he'd not been drunk. And his recollection was not the
least bit
hazy. She was certain of that. She'd seen his eyes when he'd released her last night—he'd been almost as shaken as
she
! And she was certain that he remembered the entire incident. He'd
assaulted
her, that's what he'd done! And he'd been in full possession of his faculties when he'd done it. If this were a “proper apology” he would have
admitted
it.

She crushed the note into a tight ball and threw it into the wastebasket. But a moment later, she hopped out of bed, picked it up, smoothed it out again and re-read every word. It made her angrier than her first reading had. She'd a good mind to show the thing to Clara! Let her
see
what a scoundrel she'd married!

But on reconsideration, she decided against it. Of
course
she wouldn't show Clara the note. In fact, she was surprised that Strickland had seen fit to tell his wife a
word
about the incident. Why had he done it? And how much had he told her? Had he mentioned the “manhandling?” She suspected that he'd told her only about the quarrel. Oh, well, it was for the best. What good would it do for Clara to know that her beloved Miles was a libertine? The same impulse that had probably guarded Strickland's tongue had also guarded Olivia's in the matter of what she'd seen a few months ago on a London street … and it was the same impulse which would keep her silent now.

She read the note through once more, shaking her head in bewilderment. Then her eye fell on the laundered handkerchief he'd so scrupulously returned. For Strickland, she supposed, this really
was
a kind of apology. Perhaps he was truly ashamed of what he'd done. Well … no matter. He'd promised that it would never happen again, and she was certain he meant it. The entire incident was best forgotten.

Carefully, she tore the paper into dozens of tiny pieces and threw them into the basket. That made an end of the incident. The matter was disposed of. She only wished that she could as easily dispose of her memory of it.

When Olivia came upon her later that afternoon, Clara was at her desk in the upstairs sitting room, writing a letter of inquiry to Strickland's business agent asking him to find a suitable tutor for Perry. When Olivia saw what she'd written, she couldn't keep back an expression of annoyance. “Do you always obey your husband's orders so meekly?” she asked in obvious disgust.

“Most of the time,” Clara admitted serenely, looking up at her sister with a warm smile. “His orders are usually meant to promote the welfare of the family.”

“Are they indeed?” Olivia asked, her voice dripping sarcasm. “Even in this case?” Without waiting for a response, she flounced away and threw herself upon the loveseat near the window.

Clara sighed and put down her pen. “He told me about your quarrel on this matter, Livie. And while I can't help but agree with your feelings—for Perry is such a
little
boy—I must admit that the child has an overly active imagination. Perhaps Miles is right in believing that the boy is too withdrawn from reality.”

“Balderdash!” Olivia muttered unsympathetically.

“No, it's not balderdash. Perry really is—as Miles claims—too closely surrounded by females. Miles says a boy should have a
man
to talk to,” Clara argued gently.

“Then let his
father
spend more time with him!” Olivia flashed back.

“But you know that isn't possible. Besides, Miles says—”

“
Miles
says!
Miles
says! I never would have believed, Clara, that you'd turn out to be the sort of wife whose every opinion is formed by what her husband says!”

Clara laughed. “Don't be a spiteful cat, love. What Miles says is often wise and good.”

“Wise and
good
?” Under the circumstances, this was much too much for Olivia to swallow. “Your Miles is a damned—!” She stopped herself from going on by forcibly clamping shut her jaws.

Clara looked at her sister with shrewd insight. “What is it, Livie?” She got up from her chair and came to sit down beside her sister. “Are you still smarting because of the altercation with Miles last night? Was he
very
dreadful to you? Please try to forgive him. I know he can be very rude, sometimes, but he truly means well.”

“He does
not
mean well … at least, not always!” she burst out, unable to help herself. “Honestly, Clara, it makes me
livid
to hear you speak of him in that … foolishly adoring way! Can't you be his wife without blinding yourself to his faults?”

“I'm not blind to his faults, Livie. Not at all. I just view them from a different perspective than you do. I know he has faults—quite serious ones. But they are not inconsistent with his being a man of strong character … or a man of honor.”

“
Character? Honor
?” Olivia looked at her sister with eyes stricken with pain. “Oh, Clara … I can't
let
you …” She paused, hesitated, and turned away. “What if I told you that … that I know Strickland is
not
a man of honor?”

Clara put a gentle hand upon her sister's shoulder and turned her back, looking at her with wistful intensity. “You've heard that he has a mistress, haven't you?”

“
Clara
!” Olivia could scarcely believe what she'd heard. “How did you …? How can you …?”

“I've known for some time. But who told
you
, Livie?”

Olivia lowered her eyes miserably. “I … I
saw
him with her … one night … on the street.”

Clara lowered her hands to her lap, her fingers trembling slightly. “I see. Was she … very beautiful?”

“I couldn't see her face,” Olivia murmured, her chest constricted in pain. She took one of Clara's hands in hers and squeezed it in heartfelt sympathy. “But I could see, even in that one glimpse of her, that she was a … a lightskirt.”

“Could you?” Clara shook her head sadly. “Poor Miles.”

“Poor
Miles
?” Olivia snatched her hand away from Clara in sudden fury. “Poor
Miles
? Clara, have you lost your
mind
? You are speaking of a … libertine! A debauched scoundrel who has been playing you false! And you say ‘poor
Miles'
?”

“Yes, my dear. For he has been forced to seek the arms of the very sort of woman he cannot abide … and it's all my fault.”

Olivia blinked at her sister stupidly. “Clara, I don't know what you're talking about.
Your
fault? How can it be?”

Clara drew in her breath and then expelled it in a slow, wavering sigh. “I'm afraid this will be difficult for you to hear, my love,” she said slowly, looking at her sister with a troubled frown. “You are very young and … inexperienced … and we have never spoken of … such matters. But there's a reason why I believe it is time that I told you the whole.”

Olivia felt her pulse begin to race. What dreadful tale did her sister wish to reveal that required so forbidding a preamble? Something in her sister's life was decidedly out of joint. But if she was to be of any help to Clara at all, she would have to be sensible and brave. She faced her sister squarely and put her hands on the older woman's shoulders. “Look at me, Clara. I'm no longer a child. And you yourself have always said that I'm not deficient in intelligence. If there's anything you think I ought to know—no matter how painful—then
tell
it to me.”

“Yes, love,” Clara agreed, taking her sister's face between her hands and giving it a long, loving scrutiny. “You are quite right. You're old enough, and bright enough, and loving enough to be brave and sensible about … about what I must tell you.” She kissed her sister's cheek, dropped her hands back into her lap and sat back against the cushions. “You see, Livie, my dearest, marriage is perhaps the most … intimate of partnerships. And Miles and I were, during the first few years, learning to become the most lovingly intimate of couples.”

“
Were
you, Clara?” Olivia asked wonderingly, trying without success to imagine her placid sister locked into Strickland's embrace, being swept away on an emotional tidal wave …

“Oh, yes,” Clara assured her, a nostalgic smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “We were very contented then. But after Amy was born, I … I was not the same.”

“Not the same? Do you mean you no longer …
cared
for him?”

“Oh, no, not that. I loved him as much as ever. But it had been a very difficult lying-in … and an even more difficult delivery … and my
body
was not the same. I was full of pain. I couldn't … I could no longer be a true wife to him. Not in the fullest sense. Do you know what I'm saying?”

“Yes, I think so. You were ill, is that it?”

“Yes, I was ill … too ill to behave as a loving wife to my husband, and more seriously ill than I wished him—or anyone else—to realize.”

Olivia's eyes widened in shock. “Clara! Why didn't you
tell
me—?”

“Wait. Let us not rush ahead with the story. We were speaking of Miles. I did not wish him to know about my illness, you see. I didn't want him to give up his political activities, to fill the house with doctors, to treat me with pity … all the things that serious illness seems to bring about. I didn't want
anyone's
pity. So I told him only that I had no more interest in … in those physical relations which are so basic to true contentment in married life. In other words, Livie, I permitted him to believe that my love had cooled.”