Surrender to a Wicked Spy (24 page)

She looked down at herself, but nothing had changed. She was still rumpled and barefoot, and there was a whitish stain running down the front of her skirt.

A beringed hand reached out to grasp the open door for balance. Olivia remembered her manners and dropped in the lowest curtsy she could manage without getting her face any dirtier than it already was. Oh God, was that sour buttermilk on her skirt?

It was, and worse.

"Oh, get up, girl!" The much-imitated Royal Voice was terse and strained.

Olivia rose quickly—too quickly. Her head bumped something on the way up—hard. In horror, she looked up to see the Prince Regent of all Britain rubbing his chin in pain.

"Clumsy wench!" The First Knight of the Stool pushed Olivia away, making her stumble in the gravel.

The prince flicked the man away with an impatient gesture. "Good God," he muttered, testing his jaw. "Spare me bumbling housemaids! If this is the best Greenleigh can do, I'd best get back in that thrice-bedamned arse-shattering carriage!"

Olivia's head hurt, but worse was the ache in her chest. Dane had been afraid she would fail and she was, miserably. The prince was about to leave in a well-deserved huff. And why not, when she had butted the Royal Jaw with all her might?

With horror, she felt the tears coming. She pressed both hands over her eyes, but it was all just too bloody much! The final humiliation seemed almost fitting, after all.

She burst into tears in front of Prince George.

Dane was halfway across the wood before he remembered that the Prince Regent was due any moment and he'd forgotten to explain that to Olivia. George was apt to get up to some sort of mischief if not carefully watched and Dane wanted to be ready to steer his highness toward some of the ladies he had invited to the ball.

Dane pulled Galahad to a halt. The stallion reared, protesting having his run cut short. Dane leaned down to pat the thick white neck before him.

Olivia had laughed when he'd introduced her to Galahad two days ago. "Galahad? The Virgin Stallion? Am I the only one who thinks that is odd?"

A reluctant chuckle escaped Dane. Olivia never could keep the first thing in her mind from flying from her lips.

He sat up, drawing in a deep breath. He knew Marcus would never covet another man's wife. He believed that Olivia was about as devious as a clear, blue sky. Even the ridiculous kippers incident must have been a simple mistake, not some sort of carelessness.

It wasn't them he was riding away from, he realized. It was himself.

He could not allow himself to love Olivia. There was no place for love in the Lion's life—no room for anything but duty.

His first mistake was in believing that he could attach her passions without incurring any such response within himself. Any man without worldly experience would be susceptible, especially to a woman such as Olivia.

So he simply wouldn't permit it. If he stayed away from her—if he kept from her bed for a while, avoided the warm, generous clasp of her arms—surely the feeling would fade. People fell in and out of love all the time, after all. Passions flared and then went to ash. That was the natural process of the human heart.

He would withdraw to a position of cool unconcern until the passion wore itself out. When he was sure that he could refrain from involving himself too deeply in her, he would go to her again. He wasn't sure how long it would take, but they had the rest of their lives together to iron it out.

With relief, Dane reined Galahad into a turn and urged the stallion to a gallop back across the wood to Kirkall Hall.

When Dane returned to the house, Kinsworth informed him that His Royal Highness had already arrived.

More carriages were rolling up the drive. "Where is her ladyship?"

Kinsworth blinked owlishly. "I'm sure I don't know, my lord."

"What of Lord Dryden?"

"His lordship has had a fall and is in his room recovering."

That was best not thought on.

Despite the missing mistress, it was clear that the household had the preparations in hand. Dane turned to greet the arriving guests on his own, growing more concerned about his missing wife by the moment. Where had she disappeared to?

The last guests arrived and installed in their rooms, the last servant directed belowstairs, the last carriage gone from the drive, Dane was finally able to turn his attention to finding his truant bride. His misconduct this morning should not have kept her from her duty as Viscountess Greenleigh.

Dane found Olivia in the last place he expected.

When George's manservant announced Dane, he strode into the vast boudoir that had already been set up in the east wing and saw none other than the missing Olivia comfortably ensconced on a sofa next to George, her hand in his.

The pain struck again. Fortunately, Dane was prepared for it this time. He did not send his ruler to the carpet with a blow.

"Your Highness." Dane bowed stiffly. "I see no introductions are necessary."

Olivia smiled tentatively at him, but Dane turned away from her. Cool unconcern.

George was obviously quite smitten, however. It had been Dane's goal from the outset, though he'd not foreseen this precise turn of events.

Olivia, for her part, seemed at ease with George. But then, she had a knack for being pleasing. The degree of which Dane himself had only today begun to grasp. "I see that my lady wife has everything… well in hand." At his emphasis, he saw Olivia's eyes widen with startled understanding.

Dane bowed again. "If you will excuse me, Your Highness, I must see to the other guests." He turned to Olivia. "Please continue to see to His Highness's needs," he instructed her coolly.

After all, he had been hoping to find a likely woman to throw in George's path. He might currently be distracted by his passion for Olivia, but his duty came first. If she was what George wanted, then she was what George would get, no matter the cost.

Leaving the room, Dane was stunned to realize that it all fitted quite beautifully together, now that he saw it clearly. He could control George through Olivia, for hadn't she proved herself nigh irresistible to himself? It was a perfect plan. Dane simply hadn't realized it would hurt so much.

When her husband turned and left her in George's room to "service" him, Olivia was beyond being hurt. She was furious and quite willing to let Dane stew in his own juice. George smiled at her, kindly and interested as he had been since she'd burst into tears, but Olivia put a stop to that as well.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness, but I fear my heart belongs to that insufferable horse's arse who just left."

George was disappointed but cheerful. "That young man needs to be hoisted on his own petard," the prince said thoughtfully. "Manipulative lot they are."

Olivia turned to gaze at the Prince Regent. "And yet you trust him, and his friends, do you not?" She had many questions about what Dane and his group of gentlemen were up to, but she had no doubts. She knew Dane was honorable. The question was—did Prince George?

For the merest moment, the Prince Regent wiped the lazy, foolish facade from his expression and gazed back at her somberly. "I would trust him with my life. More, with my kingdom."

Then he grinned devilishly. "That doesn't mean I have to make things easy for him. He and his cohorts believe me to be thoughtless and hedonistic, interested in only pleasures of the flesh."

He said it casually enough, but Olivia didn't think he felt easy at all about that estimation of himself. "That's ridiculous," Olivia said staunchly. "Mother took me to see Carlton House and I saw the drawings of the Brighton palace in the news sheet. You're nothing short of brilliant."

He tilted his head, giving her a pleased, rather shy smile. "Do you really think so? Are you conversant with architecture?"

She shook her head with a smile. "Only as it applies to rebuilding flour mills and such, I fear. But beauty is beauty, is it not?"

He chucked her under the chin softly, naughty invitation in his eyes. "Indeed. Are you sure you don't want to come away with me and leave that horse's arse to his own devices?"

Her eyes began to burn again and she looked away. "Thank you, but no. I happen to be very attached to that horse's arse, although currently I can't for the life of me remember why."

The prince laughed, tapping her lightly on the nose with one finger. "Mayhap because he is a handsome blond giant of a man?"

"Well, yes." She blinked. "Then again, there are many handsome men in the world. I feel nothing for any other."

George shook his head. "Lucky bastard," he said as if to himself. "If you were mine, I'd call me out, prince or no."

Olivia sniffed back her tears and smiled at him. "You're sweet."

He clapped a hand to his chest and fell back on the cushions. "A direct hit, my lady!" He grinned regretfully at her. "When a bloke hears that, he knows he hasn't a chance in hell."

Not knowing quite what to say to that, Olivia could only shrug helplessly.

George laughed at her and sat up once more. "I say we give the Dane a taste of his own medicine." He bowed playfully over her hand. "Will you be my escort to the Hunt Ball tonight? Play along with me, dear lady. I promise that His Arseness will suffer for it."

Olivia took one last look at the door, her eyes narrowed. Under her anger roiled blank desolation, for what sort of husband would turn and leave his wife in another man's hands, prince or not?

Dane had left her here to satisfy His Highness, like an unwanted lady-bird. She raised her chin and smiled at George. "It would be my pleasure, Your Highness."

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Kirkall Hall was alight with a thousand beeswax candles, their
sweetness filling the air as they lit the way for two-and-twenty couples, one
prince, one slightly bruised earl, and one rather petulant shipping heiress to
waltz the evening away at Lord and Lady Greenleigh's Hunt Ball. There was otherwise an astonishing lack of young ladies present. Olivia was beginning to have her suspicions about Dane's reasons for this event.

The musicians Mrs. Blythe had recommended were performing beautifully, Mrs. Arnold's late supper had been exquisite, the house itself gleamed with polish, and the staff stepped lively to keep every guest perfectly happy.

The Duchess of Halswick had speedily recovered when she learned that the Prince Regent was in attendance. She had even forgone her evening cup of buttermilk, confiding to Lady Reardon that it made her breath stink. Willa had professed extreme doubt at any such thing—from a discreet distance—and then quickly moved away.

Olivia gazed at the scene from her place at the side of Prince George. She'd done rather well, she decided indifferently. Even her mother seemed impressed. Unfortunately, the only person whose opinion she cared about was brooding by the refreshments, his looming black-clad figure frightening everyone away from the cool drinks and confections offered there.

George glanced her way and saw where her gaze tended to stray. He patted her hand where it rested on his arm. "Time for us to dance, my dear."

Olivia nodded and allowed him to lead her to the floor, their hands held high. The musicians immediately swung into a waltz tune, for it was well known to be the Prince Regent's favorite dance.

Thankfully, Olivia was an accomplished dancer. Dancing with her parents and Walter had whiled away many a snowy evening at Cheltenham, when nothing else seemed to keep them warm.

She moved lightly in George's arms and he raised a brow, impressed. "What a lovely partner you make, Lady Greenleigh. Now, throw your head back and laugh as if I've said something entirely amusing. It will keep up my reputation as a shameless rake and it'll make that great idiot over there jealous." He wiggled his brows suggestively.

Olivia managed a smile. "You're—"

"Sweet. Yes, so I've heard. Don't bandy it about, will you? I've a certain standing in Society as an overindulgent lecher."

Now she truly did laugh, making George swing her faster about the floor. The other couples gave way before His Highness and soon they had the center of the ballroom to themselves.

Olivia caught sight of Dane's black expression as she turned. He looked miserable. She immediately felt better. "I think he's spotted us."

"I think he's gutted and skinned us," George said after he'd checked Dane's location. "Or me, at least, in his imagination."

Olivia decided to change the subject. "Have you noticed that aside from Miss Hackerman there are no young ladies present?"

George looked at her oddly. "Yes, that had come to my attention."

" 'Tis odd, is it not?" Olivia said absently. Dane's discomfort made her realize something wonderful. He did care that she was with George, just as he had cared that she stood too close to Marcus.

Dane, her casually composed husband with the genial facade, cared very, very deeply.

A warm glow began deep within her. She smiled cheerfully at George, who grinned back, surprised. If she was correct, then tonight she would go to Dane, ready for him at last.

So the fifth rod had been lost. It made little difference. None of them had been terribly difficult to bear. She was sure she could accept Dane if they were careful and took their time.

The thought of being in his arms again made white-hot shivers go through her. As the waltz came to a close, Olivia turned to George to thank him for his great courtesy and comfort but to tell him that she needed to seek out her husband.

At that moment, the ballroom doors burst open and a barbarian army of scantily clad women danced in, bearing a litter with what looked to be a naked flower-covered virgin sacrifice aboard it.

Mrs. Blythe's entertainment had arrived.

When Dane saw his wife shiver with pleasure in the Prince Regent's arms, he couldn't bear it anymore. Tossing the drink he'd not been drinking into a potted palm, he turned to stride from the ballroom.

Marcus caught up with him in the back hall. "Dane, you're an ass."

Dane didn't stop. "How flattering. I'm so moved." Marcus grabbed Dane's arm to halt him. "I wasn't poaching. I wasn't even flirting! I was… I was only thinking. Just for a moment. A single thought, of what if she'd rescued
me
instead."