Promise Me Tonight (41 page)

Aunt Kate looked up from her book to address her daughter. “Charlotte, I do believe Queenie looks a bit peaked. Perhaps you should both try to rest for a time and let your poor cousin alone.”

Charlotte was disgusted by this suggestion. “Mama, Queenie is a
doll
. How can she rest when her eyes don’t close?”

Aunt Kate sighed and peered out the window at the passing scenery. “At least we are getting close to the end. We should arrive tomorrow, provided the weather doesn’t change. . . . That child will be the death of me!” she muttered.

Livvy glanced at Charlotte, who had apparently decided to take her mother’s advice. She was curled into the corner of the carriage with her feet drawn up under her and her head pillowed against one hand. Her eyes were closed, a beatific smile on her face. Queenie lay in the crook of her free arm. Olivia smothered a laugh as she realized the reason for her aunt’s proclamation.

As the doll’s eyes did not, as Charlotte had pointed out, close, her enterprising mistress had contrived other means by which Queenie might rest. Raising Queenie’s gown up over her head
did
shield her face from light, but this action also exposed the doll’s lower half. And while Queenie’s ensemble boasted exquisitely detailed garters, stockings, and shoes, it did not apparently run to petticoats.

Ha! Petticoats! There was another way in which she was superior to Queenie
and
squirrels, too, for Livvy had never encountered a petticoat-wearing squirrel and very much doubted she ever would. The closest she was ever likely to come was the stable cat her younger sisters had caught long enough to dress in a bonnet and christening gown.

Aunt Kate leaned forward and spoke quietly, so as not to disturb Charlotte. “I feel I ought to warn you about my stepson.”

“Warn me?” Olivia’s cheeks grew warm. “I hardly think—”

Her aunt waved a hand dismissively. “Heavens, child, I’m not suggesting anything of
that
nature. No, I only mean to caution you about the welcome we are likely to receive.”

“You mentioned Lord Sheldon keeps to himself a great deal of the time. I am not expecting to be met with a grand parade. I wish to inconvenience the marquess as little as possible.”

That wasn’t precisely true.

If all went to plan, she would put the man to a great deal of trouble.

But that was her secret—one she didn’t dare share with present company. Not with Aunt Kate, certainly not with Charlotte, and not even with Queenie, who was by nature most admirably closemouthed.

“Jason—,” Aunt Kate began, then sighed. “I suppose I should call him Sheldon, but I can’t seem to get my mind round it, no matter that he’s held the title for five years now. He has always been Jason to me, or Bramblybum, though few have called him that and lived to tell the tale.”

“B-Bramblybum?” Olivia burst out laughing. She caught her aunt’s sharp glance at Charlotte and lowered her voice. “Surely you are joking.”

Aunt Kate shook her head. “The marquisate was created for the ninth Viscount Traherne who was, I gather, a great personal favorite with James the First. The viscount’s son, who went on to become the second Marquess of Sheldon, openly disapproved of his sire’s, ah, proclivities. The viscount begged the king to disregard his son, and joked how the boy had been born with nettles stinging his backside. The king’s revenge was to bestow a marquisate
and
an earldom upon the viscount. While his father was alive, the second marquess was known by his courtesy title.”

“The Earl of Bramblybum,” Livvy whispered, torn between horror and hilarity.

“Earl Bramblybum, actually, but I wouldn’t suggest you let that pass your lips once we reach Castle Arlyss. Jason always gets fussed on hearing it. He certainly doesn’t use the title for Edward. I have told you about Jason’s son, Edward, haven’t I? He’s nearly seven now and such a dear, sweet boy.”

Olivia nodded. She wasn’t sure whether Aunt Kate had told her about Edward, but she knew about him all the same. But that was part of her secret.

Unconsciously, she bent forward, reaching for the hem of her dress. Her fingers sought out the small bump of the brooch she had pinned to her chemise.

“I’ll stop nattering on and let you rest.” Aunt Kate’s eyes twinkled. “You needn’t go take the same drastic measures as poor Queenie and cast your skirts over your face.”

“I wasn’t—I mean, you weren’t—,” Livvy stammered out in protest.

“Calm yourself, my dear; I’m only teasing. I know I have a tendency to ramble, especially when I don’t have to mind my tongue.” She winked, nodding in Charlotte’s direction.

A rush of pride swept over Olivia at her aunt’s words. In the eyes of society she was an adult and had been since her eighteenth birthday, close to a year earlier. Girls her age, and even some younger, had already had their come outs this past Season. She should have come out then as well, but her sojourn in Scotland with Aunt Kate, Charlotte, and Livvy’s newly married (and freshly abandoned) older sister, Isabella, had lasted longer than expected.

Nine months longer, give or take a little.

Olivia hadn’t minded putting off her come-out. She wasn’t overly eager to put herself on the marriage mart, and besides, her sister had needed her. That last trumped everything else as far as Livvy was concerned.

Aunt Kate reached forward and patted Olivia’s knee. “I’ve grown accustomed to having you and Izzie around. I was so pleased when you asked to come along with us to Wales. I would have invited you had I known you were so interested in this part of the country.”

“I must confess, some of my interest stemmed from wanting to avoid spending countless hours trapped in a carriage listening to Mama expound on some Shakespearean heroine or other.”

For as long as Olivia could remember, her mother had been writing a critical work about Shakespeare’s heroines. Life in the Weston household was all Shakespeare, all the time, at least when her mother was present. The rest of the family bore it with equanimity—mostly because they tended to ignore her—but over the years her mother’s obsession increasingly grated on Livvy’s nerves. She adored her mother, really she did, but she could easily have done without hearing, at least once a week, as she had for her entire life: “Be not afraid of greatness: Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”

Lady Weston particularly enjoyed tailoring her recitations so that each of her children would be familiar with the plays from whence had come their names. Olivia resented having Shakespeare’s greatness constantly thrust upon her, but not for the world would she have hurt her mother’s feelings by telling her so. All in all, she felt lucky to have been named for a character in
Twelfth Night
, which, in her opinion, was one of Shakespeare’s more tolerable works, and not only because it was relatively short.

“What’s caused that long face?” Aunt Kate asked. “Have I scared you off with this talk of my stepson? You mustn’t let him upset you. He is very changed since the accident, and grief affects us all in different ways. Perhaps, given time . . .” She trailed off, her hopes for the future unspoken but entirely clear.

Olivia wanted to say she knew, or at least had an inkling, of what the marquess had been like before his wife’s death—but she could not. Instead she smiled brightly and said, “Then we must do our best to bring some cheer to both Lord Sheldon and his son this holiday season. If you don’t mind, Aunt Kate, I think I’ll read a bit while Char is quiet.”

Her aunt laughed. “Yes, living with Charlotte, one does learn to seize those rare moments of peace. They certainly don’t last long.”

Olivia nodded distractedly, already absorbed by her book. Or rather with the piece of paper hidden inside. In bold, scrawling script were the words that had prompted her seemingly impromptu journey to Wales—words penned by none other than the Mad Marquess of her dreams.