WidowsWickedWish (13 page)

Olivia made no reply, but she felt her temper rising, felt
heat racing across her cheeks. She balled her hands into fists and hid them in
her skirts.

“I blame it all on that…woman,” her mother continued. “She’s
turned you into her shadow, into a mirror for her wanton ways.”

“That woman is my sister,” Olivia replied. “I’ve warned you
to mind what you say about Beatrice.”

“Warned me?” her mother screeched, taking a step forward.
“I’m warning you to mind your behavior, to remember who you are!”

“Who am I, Mother?” Olivia asked, her temper falling away as
quickly as it had risen. “Please tell me, for I honestly don’t know anymore.”

“You are the Countess of Palmerton,” her mother answered
promptly with a regal lift of her head, an almost imperceptive softening coming
to her eyes. “You are the daughter of an earl, the widow of an earl, the mother
of an earl.”

“That’s all?” Olivia asked quietly, taken aback though she
couldn’t have said why. “That’s all I am? All I’m ever to be?”

“That is enough,” her mother replied with dignity.

“No, Mother, it isn’t,” Olivia whispered.

“It’s more than enough, more than you deserve.”

“I don’t deserve any of it,” Olivia argued. “I don’t want
any of it.”

Whatever softening had come over her mother fell away. Her
eyes flashed, her mouth drew into the tight lines Olivia had become accustomed
to seeing. She was once again the brittle woman who found fault with every
facet of her daughter’s character.

“Not want it?” her mother repeated with scorn. “You’d do
well to get down on your knees and thank your maker for it, you ungrateful
girl. Instead of mourning your husband publicly, holding your head high,
ignoring the whispers, turning the scandal around, you ran off to Sodom and
Gomorrah. You as good as announced to all and sundry that the rumors of
Palmerton’s ignominious end were true.”

“They were true!” Olivia cried in frustration. “All of it
was true. He died atop a whore, Mother! He left us with nothing but debt!”

“Rumors,” her mother grated out through clenched teeth.
“Nothing but gossip. You might have halted it, turned it around. You had only
to put on a show.”

“A show of grieving for that scoundrel?” Olivia asked in
disbelief. “A show of sorrow…of mourning my one true love—”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” her mother interrupted. “No one
cares whether you loved him, only whether you did your duty by him, whether you
showed him the respect due a peer of the realm, and whether or not he left you
solvent.”

“Don’t forget whether or not he passed the pox onto his
dutiful wife!” Olivia cried, her voice rising until she was nearly screaming at
her mother.

“You disgust me,” her mother rasped out, her bony chest
rising and falling at an alarming rate.

“I assure you the sentiment is reciprocated!”

Olivia regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.

“Mother, I apologize,” she began on a weary sigh.

“I care naught for your apology,” her mother replied without
an ounce of regret for her own words. “You have simply shown me yet again how
far you have fallen.”

“Mother, I have not fallen. You must know, you must have
seen how warmly I was greeted at your ball,” Olivia replied defensively. “No
one cut me. There was barely a whisper of gossip. My house was overflowing with
callers yesterday. And judging by the gentlemen queued up to call upon me since
my return, my reputation is intact, untarnished.”

“And do you thank me for that?” her mother demanded. “Or
your brother? Hastings and I stayed in Town after you ran away to that…that…”

“I only went to Idyllwild, Mother,” Olivia replied when it
became apparent her mother could not, would not speak of the estate where her
husband had kept his second family secret for nearly twenty years.

“Hastings and I smoothed over the talk, disabused every one
of our acquaintances of the ridiculous notion that Lord Palmerton would visit
with…with such a woman. And reminded everyone who mattered that the Palmerton
line is nearly as ancient as the Hastings line, that the Palmerton fortune is
perfectly safe and wisely invested until the seventh Earl reaches his
majority.”

“Well that last bit of the fairy tale bears a slight
resemblance to the truth,” Olivia replied.

“Do you thank me for my efforts on your behalf?” her mother
asked.

“Thank you, Mother,” Olivia offered dutifully, all the while
wondering why she bothered.

“And now I hear you have dismissed Nurse Radcliffe,” her
mother continued as if she’d never spoken the words. “Dismissed the nurse your
husband chose to care for his heir and replaced her with a baker’s wife. A
baker’s wife is to stand as nurse to the Earl of Palmerton?”

“I’ve asked you not to refer to Charlie by his title,”
Olivia replied in exasperation.

“And I’ve told you, repeatedly, that I will refer to his
lordship as his birth and rank demand.”

“He’s a child,” Olivia reminded her mother, “not a title.”

“He is the Earl of Palmerton first and foremost.”

“As I am the Countess first and foremost?” Olivia asked.

“Until you marry again,” her mother replied.

“Mother, I’ve told you...”

“The Duke of Ridgeway paid a call on me while you were
away,” Lady Hastings interrupted with a slash of one frail hand. “He is
amenable to a match between you and the Marquis of Belmont.”

“Good God!” Olivia exclaimed. “How many times must I tell
you I will not marry Belmont?”

“His father, the man you might have married, passed away
last year leaving him the heir to the Dukedom—”

“No, Mother!” Olivia threw up her hands in mounting
frustration. “I will not marry that boy.”

“Your son would be a duke!”

“I cannot be the broodmare that provides the next heir!”

“Broodmare?” her mother screeched. “I did not raise you to
spout such vulgar language.”

“Enough,” Olivia exclaimed before spinning away to grab her
reticule up and turn for the door. “I’ve had enough, Mother, I am leaving.”

“You will not leave this house,” her mother hissed, one
long, bony hand reached out.

Olivia sidestepped, evaded her mother’s grasp and marched
from the room and out of her mother’s house.

Jack had about had enough of dancing to the Countess of
Palmerton’s tune.

He’d calmly accepted her haughty butler’s assertion that the
lady was not at home on Sunday afternoon when he’d called upon her.

When he’d called again on Monday he’d clearly heard the
unmistakable sound of a novice violinist reverberating through the parlor door
when the butler had pushed it open.

Even knowing Olivia was avoiding him, he’d smiled at the
noise she’d called forth from the defenseless musical instrument.

When Olivia set her mind to a task, she certainly stuck to
her guns.

The thought had given him pause as he’d descended the steps
of Palmerton House. He’d shaken off a sense of impending doom and gone about
his business but the sensation had stayed with him throughout the day and long
into the night.

On Tuesday, when he’d wrestled an outrageous bouquet of
flowers through her front door, he’d only been mildly surprised to be told once
again that she was not at home.

He knew the euphemism for what it was.

Olivia was refusing to receive him. And he couldn’t for the
life of him figure out why. Surely she wasn’t truly offended by his backhanded
compliment at her mother’s ridiculous ball, never mind that she’d completely
ignored him while she’d danced first with her brother, then with a number of
elegantly attired gentlemen before she’d disappearing into the bowels of
Hastings House. Try as he might, he’d been unable to catch more than a glimpse
of her here and there surrounded by London’s most eminent citizens.

He was coming to suspect that she’d had a change of heart
during the months they’d been apart. But if she had decided to forego his
company upon returning to Town, why in the bloody hell had she sent around that
note asking him to call on her?

Yesterday he’d resolutely remained beyond the borders of
Mayfair, going about the task of drumming up business for the Sedgefield Mining
Company and meeting with his solicitor in regards to finding a larger house to
lease.

After all, the husband of a Countess could not be expected
to reside in Bedford Square and he had no intention of taking up residence in
Palmerton’s house after the wedding. And he was going to marry the lady, come
hell or high water.

So it was with some surprise that Jack saw Olivia marching
down the street just across the square from the cozy town house he’d rented
upon arriving in London.

He’d been on his way to Mayfair with every intention of
plowing past her overly starched butler and having it out with the stubborn
lady.

“Wait for me here,” he told his driver before taking off
across the tree-lined park that separated him from his future wife.

But Olivia was moving along rapidly, her arms swinging at her
sides, her amber skirts swirling around her. Behind her a carriage with the
Palmerton crest rumbled along the crowded street.

“Olivia!” he called when it appeared she would disappear
around the corner.

She spun around, one hand holding on to a smart black hat
perched at a jaunty angle atop her dark curls. She looked about her, finally
finding him as he pushed his way between two dawdling ladies.

She peered over her shoulder, started to turn back the way
she’d been headed, and stopped, her hand falling to her side. Even from across
the street, he saw her straighten her spine and edge up her chin.

“Olivia, what are you doing here?” he asked, darting around
a cart in the road and hopping onto the walkway beside her.

“What are you thinking, Mr. Bentley?” she demanded in a
whisper. “Hollering at me in such a fashion?”

“I’m thinking that I’ve finally got you just where I want
you,” Jack replied with a grin.

“Lower your voice, you are attracting undue attention.”

Jack peered around and shared his grin with a woman who was
unabashedly watching them. Her curious gaze dropped and she hurried on her way.

“I beg your pardon, Lady Palmerton,” he said with an overly
proper, overly solicitous bow, all the while grinning like a madman.

“I’m warning you,” she hissed, “I am not a woman you want to
trifle with today.”

Jack rose immediately to peer down into her lovely face,
surprised by the twin spots of color high on her cheeks. If looks could indeed
kill, he imagined the ferocious glint in her eyes would have slain him right on
the street.

“No,” he murmured, fighting to wipe the smile from his lips.
“You are a woman to be reckoned with.”

She blinked in surprise, and Jack nearly let loose a laugh.

“Just so,” she agreed primly before spinning about and
continuing along the street.

Jack fell into step beside her, contemplated offering her
his arm before deciding he was likely to lose it.

The Countess of Palmerton was in a temper. And beautiful
with it, full of banked fire just waiting to burst into flame. Jack felt an
unaccountable desire to strike a match.

“What are you doing in Bedford Square?” he asked after half
a block of silence.

“Walking about,” she answered without looking at him.

“Alone?”

“I hardly need a chaperone,” she replied with a huff that
spoke clearly of her battle to hold on to her temper.

“In Bedford Square?” he asked.

“It is a perfectly respectable neighborhood.”

“But why are you here, and on foot?” he persisted. “Why
aren’t you in your carriage?”

“I’m getting to lay the land,” she answered, serving only to
pull a chuckle from him.

“You find that funny?” Olivia stopped and turned to face
him, her hand once more raised to keep her hat atop her head.

“I think you mean getting the lay of the land,” he
explained.

In answer she waved her other hand about, her reticule
smacking his thigh.

A portly woman huffed as she stepped around them where
they’d stopped in the middle of the walkway.

“Pardon me,” Olivia said to the woman before starting
forward once more.

“I’ve been to call on you three times,” Jack began after
another long silence, a silence he used to study her profile, inordinately
pleased to see her brow furrowed and her lips turned down in a pretty pout.
“And three times you’ve refused to see me.”

“When did you call on me?” she asked after a pause.

“Sunday afternoon, Monday morning and Tuesday afternoon,” he
answered, ticking off the days on his fingers in what he knew was a gesture
sure to annoy.

“Not yesterday?” she asked, her gaze on his fingers.

“No, not yesterday,” he agreed.

“That explains it,” she replied, peering at him from the
corner of her eye.

Jack quirked a brow.

“I am at home on Wednesdays between eleven and two,” she
answered his unspoken question.

“Where are you the other one hundred and sixty-five hours of
the week?”

Olivia halted and spun around to face him, a look of
bafflement on her pretty face.

“If you are home only three hours each week…”

“Two actually. No one with an ounce of Town polish would
call upon a lady before noon.”

A pair of young men, clerks by their dark, poorly fitting
suits, sidled around Olivia. Jack didn’t miss the way both men eyed her.

“And the other one hundred and sixty-six hours?” he asked
while shooting daggers at the more blatant ogler.

“When I am not at home I am otherwise engaged,” she replied
with just enough starch to remind him of a governess he’d had as a boy, one
he’d bedeviled into quitting her post within a fortnight.

“So you expect me to wait until next Wednesday to call upon
you, but only between twelve and two? Am I to sit in your parlor sipping tea
with half of London looking on?” he asked.

“My parlor would hardly hold half of London.” Olivia turned
and took off down the street once more, her reticule bouncing against her leg.

“But that is what you expect?” He lingered a step behind her
just to watch the sway of her hips.

“I expect no such thing.” She tossed the words over her
shoulder without slowing her pace.

“Then what the hell do you expect?” he growled, frustrated
with her prompt reply and her refusal to slow her pace, to stop and talk to
him.

Again she spun about, this time nearly striking a gentleman
in the belly with her swinging purse.

“Did you just curse at me?” she demanded as the man sidled
out of the way. “On the street for anyone to hear you?”

Chagrined, but no less frustrated, Jack ran a hand through
his hair, praying for patience.

“I have no expectations whatsoever where you are concerned,”
she informed him, bringing her hands to her hips.

“Well I have expectations where you are concerned.

“Your expectations are hardly my concern.”

It occurred to him, rather belatedly, that he’d made more of
a muck of things than he’d thought. Olivia was truly angry at him, enraged
even. And all over a foolish comment he’d uttered about a damn gown.

“Christ, Livy,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” she replied before looking
off toward the park across the street.

“I want to see you.” The words were inelegant he knew, but
the sentiment was heartfelt.

“And here I am.” She met his gaze and held it and Jack
fancied he saw a shadow of laughter in her eyes, the whisper of a smile pulling
at her lips.

“In private,” he clarified.

“You are free to call upon me…”

“Wednesday between twelve and two,” he finished for her.

A small huff of laughter tripped off her lips before she
resolutely pulled them into a firm line once more.

“Livy, about the other night,” he began.

“The park is smaller than I remember,” she interrupted, her
gaze straying that way again.

“Shall we take a stroll?” he asked, thinking only that the
park was closer to his house, closer to the privacy he needed to set things
right between them.

“And the roads here are busier than I thought they would
be,” she continued without answering his invitation.

“Walk in the park with me, Livy,” he cajoled with a grin.

“Why?” she asked, tilting her head as if truly curious as to
his motives.

“Because I want to speak to you without every Tom, Dick and
Gladys listening in,” he replied with a nod to a couple who were none too
covertly listening to them while pretending a fascination with a window box of
geraniums.

Olivia followed his gaze, a flush creeping over her cheeks.

“It only needed this,” she murmured.

“You know them?” he asked, not in the least surprised.
London was Olivia’s town and she was London’s Darling.

“Mr. and Mrs. Oliver, how lovely to see you,” she called out
to the pair who turned to bow and curtsy before scuttling away. “My mother’s
milliner and her husband.”

“Come home with me.”

It was a toss-up as to which of them was more surprised by
Jack’s words.

“Certainly not,” Olivia answered, peering around them to
ascertain who else might be lurking in the bustling square.

“Wednesday between twelve and two it is,” he said with a
wicked grin. “I’ll sit in your parlor with all of London looking on and
reminisce of our time together at Idyllwild.”

“You wouldn’t,” she replied, angling her jaw in the air.

“Wouldn’t I?” he murmured as he leaned down until they were
nearly nose to nose.

Olivia stepped back and glared at him.

“If you don’t want me to create one hell of a scandal for
Thursday morning’s papers, come home with me,” he whispered for her ears alone.

“Fine” she replied with a huff, “give me your direction.”

Jack pointed to the park and his house just beyond.

“You live here?”

“Temporarily.” He captured her hand and tucked it into the
crook of his elbow. “My man of business is searching for a house in Mayfair.”

“But, whatever for?” she asked as he pulled her across the
street. “Won’t you be returning to Sedgefield at the close of the Season?”

“That all depends upon a certain lady.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” she replied, her brow furrowing.

They crossed the park in silence, Jack praying she would not
change her mind when they arrived at his door.

But Olivia seemed lost in her own thoughts and docilely
followed him up the short steps and into the dim interior.

“Mr. Bentley, I would have opened the door for you,”
Pendergrass, the relic of a butler who’d come with the house, admonished as he
alighted from the front parlor.

“No need, Pendergrass,” Jack assured him, careful to keep Olivia’s
hand tucked close to him lest she come to her senses and bolt at the sight of
the pompous servant.

“Would you care for tea?” the butler asked, his gaze
resolutely fixed on some point near the ceiling.

“Tea won’t be necessary,” Olivia answered before Jack could
accept the offer of refreshments.

“Very good, Lady Palmerton,” Pendergrass replied without a
flicker of his thoughts showing upon his pasty white face.

“How does Mrs. Goode fair in Bath?” Olivia removed her hat
and handed it to the man.

“Madame finds the waters invigorating,” he answered.

“I’m happy to hear it,” Olivia said warmly. “Please give her
my regards when next you correspond with her.”

“I’ll be certain to do so, my lady,” the butler replied
before bowing and disappearing down the hall toward the kitchen.

“Who is Mrs. Goode?” Jack ushered her into the front parlor,
curious to learn what she thought of the large room that was rendered miniscule
by an overabundance of gilded furniture and sentimental landscapes.

“The lady from whom you lease this house,” she replied
before stopping just beyond the threshold. “My goodness, I’d forgotten this
room was so...”

“Hideous,” Jack offered.

“Interesting,” she corrected primly.

“You’ve been here before?”