Fool Me Twice (41 page)

He took her face between his hands and kissed her. She swayed on her feet; had it not been for the firmness of his grasp, she would have fallen. But his grasp could be depended upon. She put her own hands over his and kissed him back.

After a minute, when they parted for air, she said, “But
you have not said the same. And I might point out that we met when you threw a bottle at my head, and then punched a wall—so forgive me if I require assurance.”

He laughed, a giddy sound. “I will remind you,” he shot back, “that you were a housekeeper, who obeyed no order I ever gave. My frustration was somewhat justified.”

She kissed his knuckles. “It’s a very rocky foundation for love. You must agree.”

“Au contraire,” he said. “You were never afraid.”

“I knew you would never hurt me.”

“I was a perfect villain.”

“Never, not really.”

His head tilted as he studied her. “I wanted your courage,” he said quietly.

“And I, your brilliance.” She thought of all those speeches, half written, pearls that history would treasure. “Your insight.” She hesitated. “The way you look at me, Alastair. You
see
me.”

“I do,” he murmured. “Olivia, I know exactly who you are. I don’t love the idea of what you might be. It is you I love. That, I know.”

She smiled, a foolish smile that seemed to stretch wider than her cheeks. “So may we go home now? Your staff will recover from the shock eventually, I think.”

He laughed. “If they don’t, you may sack the lot of them.”

“Never,” she said, and then thought better of it. “Only, perhaps, Vickers.”

*  *  *

They were married a week later, in a private ceremony attended only by Lord Michael and Lady Elizabeth de
Grey. For one cowardly moment, on hearing Alastair’s plan to invite them, Olivia had been tempted to oppose it. Most would account this a very curious “peace offering,” as Alastair called it: to invite a woman to the wedding of her former employee, who had stolen from her, and would now be her sister. “And outrank her to boot,” Alastair had added impishly.

But Elizabeth had always been very bohemian. On the morning of the wedding, she announced her arrival by bursting into Olivia’s sitting room with Hanson, her lady’s maid, in tow. Hanson, looking beleaguered as ever, laid a glimmering gown across the sofa, which Elizabeth gestured to dramatically. “Your wedding gown, you cheeky sneak. You must dress properly, you know, for with any luck, you’ll only be married once.”

Olivia rose, hoping her own discomposure was not as apparent as Polly’s and Muriel’s. Their jaws hung nearly to the floor, and no wonder. Elizabeth was a renowned beauty, dark and voluptuous, but she made an even more magnificent sight than usual, for the pose she struck put on display her belly, which looked far too round for a woman only three months married. “Am I to congratulate you . . . ?”

“Indeed,” said Elizabeth, patting her much-expanded waist with a smile. “Now send out your maids. You know Hanson’s a hand with hair. And you have a
great
deal of explaining to do.”

Stunned, Olivia retook her seat. Hanson set about heating the curling iron while Elizabeth prowled like a cat on the hunt. “Start at the beginning,” she ordered Olivia.

Olivia took a deep breath. “That would be an apology. I—”

“No!” Elizabeth waved this away. “Skip that bit; begin with the most interesting parts. How on earth did you end up in Marwick’s house?” She looked around, wide-eyed. “A very fine house, no doubt—but
Marwick’s
? Now, I’ve had some of it from Michael, of course, but secondhand news grows so patchy. Tell me everything, and mind you, honesty is part of your atonement.”

And so, as Hanson dressed her, then pinned and trussed her hair, Olivia recounted the whole tale—or most of it. But she avoided all reference to bottles and books and pistols and libraries, and by the end, Elizabeth had fixed a very skeptical eye on her in the mirror.

“Give me that,” Elizabeth said to her maid, and shooed the woman out so she might fix the wreath of orange blossoms atop Olivia’s head herself. Once it was firmly settled and pinned—only a couple of stray stabs to mar her makeshift performance as a maid—she lowered herself to a nearby stool. “Now I suppose you can give me the
real
story? Starting with why you stole the letters from me? Michael had the news of Bertram’s bigamy from Alastair—but why on
earth
did you run away without saying a word?”

Olivia slowly turned—not only because she had dreaded this moment, but because this gown, a cream silk brocade, was far heavier than any she was accustomed to wearing. “I’m so sorry,” she said, hushed. “I . . .” She felt herself turning scarlet. “I was mad with panic, and I don’t expect you to forgive me, but—”

Elizabeth gently touched her wrist. “Mather. Or—pardon me, Holladay.” She laughed. “Olivia, I should call you—for we’re to be sisters now.” Her brows arched, a silent statement of amazement, to which her smile lent a wondering quality. “I never doubted for a moment
that you had a sound reason to take those letters. But you know me well enough, I hope, to believe that I would have helped you. Or don’t you?”

Olivia found herself blinking back tears. “I do. I should have. But Bertram . . .” She took a ragged breath. “I did not want to draw trouble on you, ma’am.”

Elizabeth grimaced. “No, no, sisters do not call each other
ma’am
.” A mischievous expression crimped her mouth. “I do hope you will feel free to draw trouble onto Marwick, at least? I cannot say I would find him the easiest man to marry.” She gave a mock shudder. “But he’s certainly able to handle a few villains. Say . . . are you
certain
you don’t wish to change your mind? We could steal away to Waterloo, you know—it’s never too late to flee!”

Olivia smiled. “He is quite fearsome, isn’t he? At first glance, at any rate. But I do believe that’s part of his allure.”

“Hmm.” Elizabeth eyed her. “Very well, we will stay. But I must ask—you have seen the morning’s papers, haven’t you?”

She nodded. News of Bertram’s resignation occupied the top headline, along with the information that he had been spotted boarding a steamer bound for New York. “Yes. It’s no surprise.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “It will keep the journalists busy for a week at least. But you must know . . . it’s only a matter of time before the rest of it makes the papers, too. The editors are beating their brains to find a way to print those letters without coming up against the obscenity laws.”

Olivia sat down. “We’re ready for that,” she said quietly.

“But aren’t you afraid,” Elizabeth said gently, “of the repercussions for you? The two of you, I mean.”

Olivia shrugged. Alastair had made a point of visiting his club yesterday. Nobody, he’d said, had dared
not
meet his eyes. “A man who would willingly distribute letters that paint him as a cuckold is a man who might do anything. That is not a man to cross.”

Elizabeth nodded, frowning. “Yes, I’m certain Marwick will find his way back into politics without difficulty. But the social consequences, my dear . . . You’ll be the center of a million stares! At least for a time. I’ll do everything I can to smooth your path, of course, but it will not be the easiest time to announce a marriage . . .”

Olivia laughed. “You mean, people will talk. They will gawk and whisper. But they would have done it anyway. In the eyes of the world, I’m a bastard, a woman who was in service. Our marriage will be a mésalliance. People would have stared regardless.”

“And will you be able to bear it?” Elizabeth hesitated. “I have endured that kind of attention. It’s a heavy weight to bear the way others stare. . . .”

Smiling, she repeated what Alastair had said to her recently: “All that matters is how we look at each other. How I look at him.” She blushed and looked down at her hands, at the pearl bracelet he’d given her. He was right, she realized wonderingly: it did match her skin.

“Well.” Elizabeth sat back; she looked impressed. “I never would have guessed you had a taste for scandal, darling.” She grinned. “But I did remember how well you look, when turned out properly.” She waved Olivia
up and turned her by the shoulders to face the mirror. Together they gazed at her reflection.

She barely recognized the look of herself—glowing, alight. The gleaming cream brocade made her pale skin look rosy, and set off her scarlet hair.

But she did recognize the way it
felt
to look beautiful. It matched the way she felt when Alastair looked at her. She finally matched in the mirror what she saw reflected in his eyes. “Shall we go?” she asked softly. Suddenly she could not wait any longer.

Arm in arm, she and Elizabeth made their way down the scrolling staircase. The servants had lined up to watch, and she almost did not let herself look into their faces, for fear that some sneer would ruin this moment. It had been very unsettling and confusing for them to receive her again, not as a member of the staff but as their future mistress.

But she steeled herself, because Elizabeth was right: the days ahead, until the scandal died, would take courage. And she did not lack it. The Kingmaker had assured her so. So here was an opportunity for practice.

But what she saw, when she looked up, were smiles and nods—and a single scowl from Vickers, who ducked his head when she met his eyes. She glanced past him and found Cook beaming at her, clutching a basket, tilting it now to display—

Startled, she came to a stop. Why was Cook showing her a load of dirt?

Cook arched a brow. “Truffles,” she said pointedly. “For your wedding breakfast, ma’am.”

Olivia remembered suddenly a certain bucket of dirt
she had once discovered in the kitchen and had tossed away, thinking it part of the filth that abounded in the unkempt household.

“What is it?” Elizabeth whispered. “Second thoughts? Shall it be Waterloo, after all?”

She felt a wisp of annoyance—very fitting for a sister-in-law. And then she laughed. “I am not jilting His Grace,” she said.

“Drat. Very well, I’ll behave.”

And they recommenced their passage without further interruption, into the formal drawing room, where Alastair stood with Michael at his side.

There was a time when he never stood in the light. But sunlight poured in through the windows now, painting him in gold. She followed the pull of his sapphire eyes across the carpet; his hands closed over hers, firm and steady, hands that would be hers to hold until the end of her days.

The chaplain began to speak. She barely heard him. It was only the two of them here in the light. And when it came time to kiss, she turned her face aside and whispered into his ear, “There’s one thing that troubles me.”

He pulled back, frowning. “What is that?”

“I found out who stole the truffles.”

His frown deepened. “What? How?”

“Rather ask who. It was
me.
I threw them out, thinking them rubbish.”

He laughed and took her face in his hand. “I suppose I’ll have to sack you as my housekeeper, then. How fortunate you found another position.”

And then, as Elizabeth and Lord Michael applauded, and the servants began to cheer, he kissed her. And she
kissed him back, though her mind did wander again to the truffles, for Doris was right: who would eat a food that looked like that?

“Pay attention,” he murmured. And then he kissed her again very persuasively, and all thoughts of Doris and truffles and dirt faded away, leaving only him.

© Shelley McGuire

MEREDITH DURAN
blames Anne Boleyn for sparking her lifelong obsession with British history (and for convincing her that princely love is no prize if it doesn’t come with a happily-ever-after). She spends her free time collecting old etiquette manuals, guidebooks to nineteenth-century London, and travelogues by intrepid Victorian women.
Fool Me Twice,
her eighth novel, is preceded by
The Duke of Shadows,
the winner of the
Gather.com
First Chapters Romance Writing Competition and enjoyed worldwide in eleven languages;
Bound by Your Touch
and its sequel,
Written on Your Skin,
chosen by
All About Romance
for its first inaugural book club meeting on Twitter;
Wicked Becomes You,
an
RT Book Reviews
Top Pick included on the
Woman’s World
list of Best Beach Reads for Summer 2010; and three consecutive
RT Book Reviews
Top Picks—
A Lady’s Lesson in Scandal, At Your Pleasure,
and
That Scandalous Summer.

Visit
www.meredithduran.com
or catch up with her on Twitter and Facebook.