Lady Farquhar's Butterfly (20 page)

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.’