We look as if we have just come from a ball, dragged behind the horses instead of sitting in the carriage,Olivia desperately wanted to quip, but she held her tongue, remembering that her entire performance over the next week or so would rely upon her gentility and pleasantness, at least, toward her mother and the Dowager.
Olivia was about to take a refreshing sip of her own tea when a side-door suddenly screeched open and a figure strode inside, halting her with her lips upon the hot rim of the teacup. Her eyes widened, her hand still tipping the cup until it was too late, and steaming tea spilled down her chin. In a clumsy rush, she set down her cup and wiped her mouth upon the back of her gown’s sleeve, forgetting that there was a perfectly good napkin on the table in front of her.
Goodness,a sly voice in her mind whispered as she did anything she could not to stare at the gentleman who had just entered the room again.
The Marquess of Bridfield certainly had the appearance to make his reputation believable. Heroically tall, mythologically broad in the shoulders and chest, with a rod-straight posture that practically forced her eyes to admire him from head to toe. His garments were exquisitely tailored, his tailcoat a dark, forest green that strained against the muscle of powerful arms, and light-colored trousers that suffered the same struggle in containing mighty thighs. Hessian boots completed the image of a gentleman who understood just how pleasing he was to the eye.
Goodness,her mind whispered again, as a haze of sunlight caught the golden-blond of his hair, and made his eyes—the same dark, forest green as his tailcoat—glitter as he caught her eye for just a moment, before she quickly dropped her gaze.
Since departing the ball the previous night, she had wondered what the marquess might look like, for though she had attended countless balls throughout every season since her debut, she could not recall a Marquess of Bridfield at all. Now that he was standing in the same room as her, she was certain she would have remembered ever seeing such a man.
Yet, because you are a Marquess and you are unjustly handsome, you are not cast from society as a woman in your position would be,she grumbled inwardly to distract herself, deciding in that moment that it would not be difficult to hate him as long as she kept thoughts like that at the forefront of her mind. Her father had been infuriatingly handsome in his youth, according to her mother, so it seemed that her father and her “betrothed” had even more in common.
Of course, you would choose such a man for me, Father,Olivia let her anger replace her shock.I imagine you think it is fitting to punish me with someone like you, so I will be doomed to repeat my mother’s life.
“Good afternoon, ladies.” The Marquess bowed, his curly blond hair falling over his face as he did so. As he stood back up to his full, tremendous height, he swept a hand through his hair and, for a moment, Olivia could have sworn that time slowed. “I am Evan Thorne, the Marquess of Bridfield. And while I would relish the opportunity to stay and sip tea and chatter about the weather and how dainty the lemon tarts are, I thought a walk in the gardens might be less… intense for a first meeting.” His enchanting eyes fixed upon Olivia. “Miss Agarn, would you care to join me?”
Olivia blinked. “I… should like that very much,” she replied, reminding herself to be nice.
“A fine idea!” the Dowager agreed, though Olivia’s mother looked like she wanted to curl up on the comfortable settee and fall asleep. The Dowager seemed to notice, offering a fond smile. “Viscountess Agarn, it might be better for you to oversee the arrangement of your respective belongings. I shall have the housekeeper show you to your chambers, and then I shall accompany these two on their walk.”
Olivia’s mother expelled a subtle sigh of relief. “Certainly, My Lady. That is a most thoughtful notion.”
“In that case, I shall await you outside,” Evan said, bowing once more before leaving through the door where he had entered.
So, he has manners,Olivia pondered, frowning at the now-closed door. She had assumed that a notorious rake would seize upon an opportunity to be alone with a woman, particularly one he was betrothed to. Then again, perhaps a rake with manners and charm was a far more dangerous creature than an opportunist.
As she was left alone in the drawing room, she began to feel, for the first time, like she was in great peril indeed.
* * *
“Is that silk from the Orient?” Evan asked, folding his arms behind his back as he walked at his future bride’s side, through the ornamental garden to the west of the Dowager House.
Miss Agarn glanced down at her gown. “I could not tell you. It was not my choice of gown.”
“Was it a gift?”
She shrugged. “More of a demand.” She shook her head as if a fly had buzzed too close to her ear. “What I mean is, I was asked if I might like to wear it, and I am always prepared to do as I am asked. My father chose it while he was in London. It is rather pretty, is it not?”
“It becomes you well,” Evan lied, for the orange hue of the gown did nothing to complement her exceptional complexion, nor did such an elaborate gown suit the grounds of a countryside manor in the fiercest heat of a summer afternoon. The glisten upon her rosy-cheeked, angelically pale face was testament to that.
He had not shown it in the drawing room for obvious reasons, but Miss Olivia Agarn was undoubtedly one of the prettiest ladies he had ever beheld, with silky dark hair, the color of autumn chestnuts, and blue eyes that reminded him of dusk. Her lips were full and pink, matching the roses in her cheeks and filling him with a desire to know what she looked like when she smiled; but, thus far, she had not even managed the ghost of one.
“Thank you,” she replied, her gaze fixed forward.
He dipped his head. “It is my pleasure.” Fumbling for conversation, he continued, “Do you enjoy walks? I suppose I should have asked that before I invited you to join me in a turn around the gardens, but nevertheless...”
“I enjoy walks very much,” she said flatly, and Evan groaned inwardly.
She is beautiful, yes, but possesses only beauty.He supposed he should not have been surprised that she was like every other woman he had encountered in theton. She was simply a young lady, edging toward spinsterhood, in search of a husband, exactly like the rest of them. After hearing his aunt mention that Olivia had a similarly controversial reputation to him, he had expected some liveliness or intrigue at least, but merits other than beauty seemed to be as absent as her ability to smile.
He tried again. “What else do you favor? Are you fond of poetry, music, literature? Do you… like to embroider?” He grimaced, wishing the gravel pathways and blooming flowerbeds would swallow him up.
Olivia looked back over her shoulder and Evan followed her gaze absently, noting that his aunt was farther behind them than he had realized, pretending to stop and admire some hydrangeas. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes, understanding that she was being mischievous again, giving them some privacy to converse.
“Forgive her,” Evan said. “She means well.”
Olivia peered up at him, transforming before his very eyes. Where she had been placid and somewhat dull a moment ago, there was now a fire in her gaze and a coldness in her expression, as if she had just happened upon something grotesque.
