Lady Farquhar's Butterfly Page 15

  Actions he had long ago forgiven.

  Turning at the front door his mind was closer to the dower house in Mortlock than to Bath as he bent to peck Amelia’s cheek. ‘I’ll consider it,’ he said.

  A cocktail of emotions flooded him as he strode towards the stables. Olivia had not been married to him when she’d committed adultery.

  Lucien’s cruelty had driven Olivia into the arms of another man.

  But she had confessed that all was not as it seemed.

  Lord, it had to be the reason she’d held back from committing herself to Max time and again, when her heart and body cried out for him.

  Then he thought of Julian, the child who had usurped his birthright, and anger transcended all. For but a moment.

  Olivia had promised to write. Perhaps her letter had gone astray. Perhaps she was awaiting his direction from at this very moment.

  Odin nuzzled him as he adjusted the stirrups. Max patted his flank.

  ‘Let’s not give up on her just yet, eh, feller?’ he said softly. Excitement that started as a slow burn was quickly thrumming through his veins as he mounted. ‘Perhaps a night amidst vacuous, pleasure-seeking Bath acolytes before we see what the lady has to say for herself is just the ticket.’

  When she met him in Lady Glenton’s crowded ballroom dressed as a Roman senator, Olivia’s fears were confirmed.

  A Corinthian, to be sure.

  ‘Mr Petersham arrived in Bath a week ago and has already extended his visit.’ Lucy blushed prettily and Olivia was acutely aware of the power communicated to the young man in the gesture. His handsome mouth curved in the faintest of smiles, his eyes conveying a subtle subtext Olivia remembered from her youth: collusion; confident of his attractions.

  Oh yes, Olivia had jostled for prime position amidst the ranks of rakes like this eight years before. Burnt like a moth at a flame she knew exactly what danger the heart-palpitatingly eager Lucy courted.

  She inclined her head graciously, her smile distant. ‘Delighted to meet you, Mr Petersham,’ she murmured.

  ‘You are a visitor to these parts, Lady Farquhar?’ the young man asked, preventing her from making a gracious retreat, which would have obliged Lucy to accompany her.

  ‘My first foray into society following my mourning, Mr Petersham,’ she said. Once, the look in his eye would have thrilled her, now she was unnerved. She longed for Max’s comforting presence, his straightforward manner and wished, heartily, she had pleaded a megrim and stayed at home, gathering her strength and reining in her excitement for tomorrow’s momentous reunion.

  ‘I am an excellent dancer, Lady Farquhar. If you are afraid of being sadly out of practise, it would be an honour to partner you on the dance floor later this evening.’

  ‘Isn’t he so kind and thoughtful?’ Lucy demanded as they returned to the aunts. She tugged at Olivia’s sleeve as if she would force her to concur and sanction Lucy’s choice.

  ‘He is’ – Olivia searched for the right word – ‘a charmer.’

  Lucy seemed satisfied. After a pause, she said, softly, with a quick glance to ensure her mother was not listening, ‘He told me the other night I was the most beautiful girl in the room. Can you believe that?’ Her face shone. ‘It was after he danced with Arabella Knight who is coming out this year and who everyone knows will snare a duke, she’s so pretty, even if she has no fortune.’

  ‘Unlike you, Lucy, who, I must remind you, is set to come into quite a fortune.’ In a quiet corner Olivia stopped and gripped both her cousin’s hands. ‘Cousin Mariah told me that your Aunt Gwendolyn has made you her beneficiary. It’s wonderful you are so well provided for, but if there is one thing I’ve learnt since I was a debutante it’s to be aware of the hidden motive.’

  Lucy looked hurt. ‘You sound just like Mama,’ she accused, pulling away. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  With a sigh Olivia followed her as she joined Mariah who was chatting to the aunts. She had barely reached the girl’s side before Mr Petersham again presented himself with a bow and after a brief consultation with her mother, led Lucy on to the dance floor where a quadrille was forming.

  Olivia nodded after the departing couple. ‘Lucy seems taken with Mr Petersham.’

  ‘She’s been wearing her heart on her sleeve since he arrived a week ago.’ Mariah didn’t trouble to hide her disquiet. ‘He’s the eldest son of a baronet, comes from a respectable though impoverished family, and no one could dispute he’s handsome and dashing. I just wonder what he sees in Lucy.’

  ‘Lucy is a pretty girl.’ However Olivia knew what Mariah meant. Lucy was not the dazzling swan-like creature one would have envisaged a man like Mr Petersham seeking out when there were in the room that evening a handful of far prettier girls.

  Gazing at a couple of brunette beauties she did not fail to notice the flare of interest in Mr Petersham’s eye as he passed them, Lucy on his arm. Olivia blinked. Perhaps she had imagined it, for immediately he returned his attention to Lucy, his manner full of gallantry.

  ‘Pretty but penniless.’ Following Olivia’s look Mariah’s tone was dry.

  ‘Like you, my dear, and now I understand you have reneged on the clergyman. Was that wise?’

  Taken aback by her bluntness Olivia replied, ‘I could not commit myself to him when my heart was engaged elsewhere.’

  Cousin Mariah cast her gaze around the crowded ballroom. ‘Shall you find the object of your affections here?’ she asked. ‘Clearly, you have many admirers judging by the glances slanted your way. It is just as well my Lucy has not a jealous nature.’

  Eight years ago Olivia’s numerous admirers had fed her ego, bolstered her reckless spirit.

  She wondered how many in this room knew who she was. The scandalous Lady Farquhar would be an object of prurient interest wherever she went. It was a dampening thought. A reason to conduct herself with the utmost restraint.

  ‘A glass of orgeat?’ Mr Petersham, returning to her side, offered her a glass of the sickly refreshment and Mariah drifted away.

  Olivia wished she could do the same. Turning, she murmured, ‘I only drink champagne.’

  Poor naïve little Lucy courted grave danger if she thought this man a worthy contender for her affections and her considerable future fortune.

  He chuckled. ‘The moment little Lucy’s mama left your side I seized my opportunity.’ A head taller, he stood slightly closer to her than was decorous. ‘I knew it’d not be long before some Johnny Likely came to pay his addresses to the most dazzling creature in the room.’

  Olivia stifled the desire to take a step back. Instead she smiled, raising one eyebrow. ‘And now he has.’

  It took him a split second to digest what he could only interpret as a joke – unless he were to beat a graceful retreat.

  ‘Then I must persuade you otherwise.’ He offered her his arm. ‘I’ve told you I’m an excellent dancer. Let me prove it’ – he lowered his voice, his breath tickling her ear – ‘amongst other things.’

  As a debutante she’d revelled in being fêted as if she were a breed apart. As Lucien’s wife the interest of other men usually meant sinister designs. She couldn’t recall the number of times she’d had to bat away a man’s insinuating hand in a dark corner. Lucien encouraged the perception she was a woman of lax morals. He punished her if she appeared too prim. She’d learned to tread a fine line; had in fact developed it to the highest degree.

  Tonight she had intended to present herself a model of propriety for the benefit of those who might denigrate her.

  Lucy, she now realized, must be her target audience.

  Mr Petersham had merely to crook his little finger and Lucy would come running. One unfortunate encounter with the wrong gentleman could ruin the rest of her life.

  The sun was low in the sky when Max saw the elegant town in the distance but a pebble in Odin’s shoe forced him to stop at a hostelry two miles out.

  It was while utilizing the light that spilled from the upper rooms and a knife to
scrape out the hoof that a familiar voice made him raise his head.

  ‘Reverend Kirkman?’ The words were out before he could think better of it, for the man was disappearing into the inn and, really, Max had no desire to exchange pleasantries – or anything else – with him.

  He swung round and Max could have sworn anger crossed his face before he asked with a narrow-eyed look, ‘What brings you to Bath, sir?’

  ‘Diversion, Reverend.’ Clearly, the dislike he felt was mutual. ‘And you? Enjoying a few days’ gaiety before your nuptials?’

  The words created a frisson of excitement. Olivia was not going to marry the man. Two hours of riding like the devil had firmed his resolve.

  Kirkman grunted. ‘I’m for my bed. Perhaps I’ll see you at the Assembly Rooms tomorrow night, Mr Atherton. Good evening to you.’

  Max stared after his disappearing back. He’d thought the man had planned to deliver a sermon at Nuningford where he was to spend a few days.

  A light rain began to fall as he took the rest of his journey at a leisurely canter for Odin’s benefit. Bounding up the stairs to his sister’s townhouse he felt full to bursting with renewed enthusiasm for his future.

  As he raised his fist to knock, Amelia and Jonathon issued from their front door, resplendent in masquerade.

  ‘We’ll see you at Lady Glenton’s Midnight Masque, Max?’ Amelia asked, adjusting her feathers and plucking at her gloves. The look she slanted up at her husband was smug. ‘You said you enjoyed it last year and I’ve told her we’re expecting you.’

  His notion of pleasure-seeking had ebbed. All he could think of now was a good night’s sleep so he could be refreshed for tomorrow’s journey to Mortlock.

  Amelia wasn’t giving up. ‘Lady Glenton’s famous for her refreshments.’

  Caging Amelia’s hand upon his arm, Jonathon sent Max an apologetic look. ‘Give poor Max a reprieve for at least this evening before you start playing matchmaker, Amelia.’

  Grateful and exhausted, Max stepped across the threshold. Within half an hour he was in bed.

  Within three hours he was putting on buckled shoes and accepting that as sleep continued to elude him he might as well pass the time in congenial company rather than tossing and turning in a cold, hard bed.

  Swept through the front door of Lady Glenton’s by a jostling crowd of young bucks who had just come from a spirited game of faro, Max realized immediately what an error of judgement he had made. The clock chimed two. He was in no mood to mingle with the fabulously garbed crowd when all he could think of was hastening to Mortlock as soon as dawn broke. He felt out of place. The pretty debutantes with their shy, hopeful looks only reinforced how much he preferred Olivia with her experience and understanding of the world, pummelled into her at such cost.

  Catching sight of Amelia with Miss Hepworth at the far end of the room, he turned. Far better to make his escape before his sister saw him and pounced.

  Sidling towards the door he managed to avoid the attention of Sir John Smales, a near neighbour.

  Nearly there, he thought with relief, just as another vision intruded into his peripheral vision. One that was far more appealing than the portly squire and which sent ripples of excitement through him: an elegant coiffure of shiny golden hair above a slender pale neck.

  He’d have recognized her anywhere, though her face was half turned and she was dressed in masquerade.

  In a small group beyond, her aunts chatted to a statuesque woman in a gold toque, but, as his gaze was drawn back to the stunning waspwaisted creature sheathed in blue silk adorned with pink bows and roses, he could think only of crossing the room and leading her into some secluded arbour.

  Madame de Pompadour? A daring statement for someone who usually dressed in sober colours, but Olivia was full of surprises.

  Mesmerized, he watched as she raised her glass and spoke animatedly to her companion, a gentleman he did not know.

  Candlelight reflected off the paste ear-rings that hung from her earlobes. The elegant sweep of her shoulders carried the line of her gown in far more alluring lines, surely even than Madame de Pompadour, the late French king’s mistress. How he ached to caress the creamy length of her throat, feel the beat of her heart and murmur the words he had no doubt she longed to hear.

  Timing had favoured him. How fortuitous he’d not ridden poste haste to Mortlock when Olivia was in this very room, resigned to a future with the clergyman.

  Longing for Max’s absolution … his forgiveness….

  ‘Why Max, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!’ Dear God. It was Amelia.

  Max feasted his eyes a second longer upon Olivia before turning to his sister and her hopeful-looking companion, Miss Hepworth.

  Olivia would have his absolution, his forgiveness, before the night was over.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘THANK YOU, DARLING Olivia, I don’t think I’ll ever know how to thank you properly.’

  Lucy’s eyes shone with excitement as she drew Olivia into an alcove.

  ‘I can’t imagine what I’ve done,’ said Olivia, feeling at a distinct disadvantage. Was Lucy more cynical than she’d thought? Was she using irony as a precursor for the torrent of vitriol Olivia felt was justified?

  Lucy lowered her eyes and her mouth curved into a secretive little smile. Olivia waited while the stirrings of disquiet escalated.

  ‘At one stage this evening I confess I felt like clawing out your eyes or pulling out all your hair.’ Lucy looked apologetic as she played with her sash. ‘I shouldn’t even say such things but there must be so many girls who would feel the same. After all, you’re so very beautiful without having to work at it, and you make the rest of us feel like dowdy wallflowers while all the gentlemen clamour to ask you to dance.’

  ‘Including Mr Petersham?’ Olivia prompted, wondering where this was leading. It was unpleasant having Lucy put into words what she’d always suspected about her female rivals.

  ‘Yes, and by two o’clock I was so in the dismals that when he passed by and said: “What ails thee, my pretty” I nearly burst into tears upon the spot.’ As if galvanized by the reflection she reached up to whisper loudly, ‘Then he touched my cheek and said, “Ah, so you do care.

  You’re jealous over my attentions to your cousin? Well, let me tell you, Lady Farquhar has only your best interests at heart and she is helping our plans to be together by deflecting your mama’s attention away from ourselves, for we both know that she disapproves of me”.’

  Lucy clasped her hands and raised her eyes to the ceiling as if her thoughts were floating heavenward. Olivia stared at her, stricken, and wondered what else the young lovers had discussed in those impassioned few moments. ‘Shall you see him tomorrow?’ she asked.

  Lucy looked at her a long moment as if weighing up whether to speak then said in a rush, ‘We’re eloping, and I was going to keep it secret because Mr Petersham said not to tell anyone, but as you’ve proved yourself the most wonderful and loyal of cousins I had to tell you.’

  ‘Eloping?’ Olivia knew the disapproval in her voice was not a good idea, but she was so horrified she couldn’t help herself.

  Checked, Lucy said with a frown, ‘I believe you, yourself, eloped.’

  ‘Eloping is a very drastic measure which will scandalize society and bring you much distress, Lucy,’ Olivia counselled, sounding to her own ears very like Aunt Eunice. She took Lucy’s hands in hers as she drew her further into the alcove. The girl refused to meet her eye, staring with trembling mouth at the carpet.

  ‘Mama will never consent to my marrying him before the end of the season,’ she said, in a small voice.

  ‘Then have your season, dazzle society and in six months, if you and Mr Petersham still feel the same way and your mother still disapproves, then you can consider eloping with him.’ She squeezed Lucy’s hands, forcing her to look up at her. ‘Promise?’

  Reluctantly Lucy nodded. But when Mr Petersham appeared to lead Lucy once more on to the dance floor Ol
ivia felt little consolation from the promise she’d extracted.

  Or from the weight of her reticule with the coins that would soon transform her life. Olivia was about to embrace freedom and happiness with a man of forgiveness and compassion whereas Lucy …

  She stared after the departing couple, Lucy blushing, giggling as her companion made some apparently witty remark.

  It would take only Mr Petersham’s impassioned declaration of eternal love and a request to climb into a waiting carriage and Lucy would be halfway to Gretna Green before anyone knew of it.

  As she issued out of the alcove and went in search of her aunts she was waylaid by Mariah.

  Her initial pleasure in her cousin’s company had evaporated.

  Mariah’s hospitality did not conceal her real feelings regarding Olivia: that her scandalous past could never entirely be erased.

  Her cousin gripped her wrist, turning her in the direction of the dance floor where the young couple were positioning themselves. ‘I fear Lucy’s lost her heart to Mr Petersham and that any caution from me will do nothing but firm her resolve in his direction.’

  ‘Eighteen can be a difficult age if one is not quiet and modest by nature,’ Olivia murmured.

  ‘Quite.’ Mariah sent her a narrowed look.

  Olivia dropped her eyes. She felt uncomfortable, as if Mariah were both condemning her and needing something from her at the same time.

  ‘Cousin Mariah.’ She sighed. ‘I have told Lucy there is little happiness to be found by resorting to such impulsiveness. That a kind man makes a much better husband than a flattering buck.’ Staring at the young people on the dance floor, at smooth, handsome, Mr Petersham and awkward little Lucy with their heads bent close together, her longing for Max redoubled.

  ‘Such wisdom came to you too late, Olivia. Lucy, I fear, is similarly headstrong.’ Mariah appeared not to realize how wounding her words were.

  Olivia felt the tears forming and looked up as Mariah touched her arm.

  ‘You’ve been given a second chance, my dear,’ she murmured, ‘but only because you are a widow. My Lucy may rue this week in Bath for the rest of her life.’