Led Astray by a Rake (20 page)

T
he following day Olivia went to a meeting of the Husband Hunters Club. Being in London, it was too good an opportunity for her to miss seeing her friends, and they gathered at Marissa’s house. The last time they’d seen each other was at the wedding, and there had been little time to talk. Now there was so much to talk about that the time flew. Each of them had scandalous tales to tell, as they’d set about hunting down the husbands of their choice. There were some surprises, too. Not everyone was enamored with the same man that she’d carefully written down in the book the night of Miss Debenham’s Finishing School ball, although some, like Olivia, had not swerved from their choice.

“Is it exciting to be married to Wicked Nic?” Tina asked her.

“I imagine there is rarely a dull moment,” Marissa added dryly.

“Lady Lacey,” sighed Eugenie. “How romantic.”

“I hope you are going to use some of the Lacey wealth for the benefit of the poor,” Averil added.

Olivia beamed at them all. “Yes, to all,” she said.

When she arrived home her head was still in a whirl, and she felt far more like her old self, as if she’d wrested some of Nic’s power over her back into her own hands.

Estelle was waiting.

“My lady,” she said, her round face looking unusually disapproving. “There’s a person to see you. A Madam Esmeralda. I told her you weren’t interested in her wares any longer, but she’s insisted on waiting and speaking to you for herself.”

“Madam Esmeralda?”

Olivia’s heart sank. She’d hoped that was over with. Nic had excused himself to her before the opera last night, saying he wasn’t used to worrying about what other people thought of his actions. It was part of his Lacey arrogance, she thought, with an inner smile. He’d shown it again over the strawberries-and-cream supper.

Olivia had believed he was seeing her as no different from the other women he’d known over the years, when in fact he was simply used to doing exactly as he wished. He was a lord, an aristocrat born and bred; that was why he acted as he did. Nic didn’t consider it necessary to consider other people’s feelings, but once he understood why she was upset he’d been keen to make amends.

“Will I have her thrown out onto the street?” Estelle interrupted her thoughts, a glint in her eyes at the thought of such excitement.

“Goodness me, no,” Olivia said. “I will see her, Estelle.”

“But, my lady…”

“Thank you, Estelle.”

Madam Esmeralda leaped to her feet at the sound of the door opening, and Olivia could see she was pale, the shadows under her eyes darker than ever. “Lady Lacey, how do you do?” she said, and curtsied.

“Madam Esmeralda.” Olivia could see that she had brought several bolts of cloth with her, as well as something wrapped up in protective coverings and laid out on the sofa under the window.

“I have something to show you, my lady,” she said quickly, before Olivia could draw breath. “If you will permit me.” And she was already hurrying over to the sofa and reverently peeling back the outer coverings on the object.

Reluctantly, Olivia came to stand by her, wanting to stop her but at the same time not wanting to crush the woman’s hopes. But, as the dress was revealed to her, she found herself watching, fascinated, until eventually she was held spellbound by its beauty.

Esmeralda said reverently, “The finest silk. And see the pearls sewn into the fabric? In the light of a ballroom you will truly shine, my lady.”

Olivia had never seen any dress so beautiful. It was the softest, palest pink, and the glowing pearls made her think of a summer dawn. Nic had said that Madam Esmeralda was the best modiste in London, and he was right. Olivia knew she’d
allowed her jealousy and her prejudices and the opinions of others sway her. She should be more like Nic—if she wanted something badly enough, she should go ahead and do it anyway.

“Thank you, Esmeralda,” she whispered. “This is truly a masterpiece. I only hope I can do it justice.”

Esmeralda bowed her head, accepting the compliment with a little smile.

Olivia took a breath, deciding to be honest. “I’m uncertain whether I should avail myself of your services. You know why, I think?”

“Yes, I know why,” Esmeralda said with a touch of bitterness. “I am known as a modiste who only works with the demimonde. But I have been waiting for a chance like this, my lady. You will set my dresses off to perfection, and you have the confidence to shrug off any ill-natured remarks that may be made. Other women will see what I have done for you, and they will come to me. A trickle at first, but soon a flood.”

“You are very certain they will overlook your past clientele, madam.”

“I am.” Esmeralda reached out to touch the dress lovingly with her fingertips. “No woman, no matter how grand she thinks she is, can resist looking better than her peers.”

Olivia smiled. “Very true. You have more to show me? I believe that if I am to make a splash, I will need more than one dress to do so.”

Esmeralda hesitated, one hand clenched at her waist, the other resting on the arm of a chair. “Do
you mean you intend to employ me as your modiste, my lady?”

“I do indeed.”

She toppled, only just catching herself from falling. Dismayed, Olivia hurried to support her, feeling the other woman’s boniness beneath her plain gray dress.

“Madam, please sit down. I will ring for tea, or…or a restorative. Brandy?”

Esmeralda shook her head. “No, but thank you, Lady Lacey. I have been working day and night since you visited me, and I am tired. That is all, merely tired. So much depended upon this meeting.”

Olivia frowned, reading the other woman’s face. “Perhaps you are not so successful as you pretend, Madam Esmeralda.”

Esmeralda gave a wry smile. “No, I am not. There have been problems with a certain lady—and I use the term loosely—with a vicious tongue. She claims I made her ridiculous and now she has set out to destroy me by driving away my customers. I have very few left, and if she has her way, soon I will have none.”

Olivia pushed Esmeralda gently down into her chair, and then seated herself opposite, after ringing the bell for tea. “Who is this person?” And, when the modiste hesitated, plainly loath to make her situation worse by gossiping: “Never fear, I know very few people in London, and I would not repeat what you tell me anyway.”

“It is the Earl of Marchmont’s mistress, Mrs.
Cathcart. The earl dotes on her and she is very spoiled. If you go into London society you will see her, because although she may be a fallen woman, she is related to so many respectable families she receives most of their invitations.”

“A dangerous enemy indeed,” Olivia said thoughtfully. “I wonder if she will be at the ball tomorrow night.”

“The Querrols’ ball?” Esmeralda’s eyes sparkled suddenly, and Olivia realized the modiste was not nearly as old as she had thought—it was her tired eyes and careworn face that made her seem so. “Yes, she will be there. I believe she is wearing yellow…”

“Then I will wear your masterpiece.”

At once Esmeralda jumped up and hurried over to a bag beside the bolts of cloth. She produced a tape measure. “I don’t think it will require a great deal of altering, but anything that does need doing can be done very quickly, I promise you.”

“Of course.”

The next few moments were taken up with measurements and then the dress was taken upstairs and Olivia tried it on. Estelle, when she arrived to help, seemed more breathless than usual, and her eyes widened at the sight of Olivia. “Lady Lacey, you look like a fairy princess,” she gasped.

Olivia thought herself rather too tall for a fairy princess, but the dress certainly suited her and she did feel somewhat ethereal. Would Nic be impressed? She hoped so. This dress was perfect for romance, perfect for love.

And therein lay the problem, because Olivia was in love with her husband, and she had no idea whether he was in love with her.

“My lady?”

Estelle and Esmeralda were looking at her curiously, and Olivia shook herself out of endless musings over Nic.

“Madam Esmeralda wants to know whether you’d like her to complete any more dresses for your stay in London,” Estelle explained.

Olivia turned again to her reflection in the mirror. “Yes, that is an excellent idea.”

Esmeralda beamed.

“And I hope you will get some sleep in between stitches, madam. You will be no good to me, and all your new customers, if you faint.”

“I have several good seamstresses I can call upon, my lady.”

It would be nice to be admired, even envied, by the cream of London society, Olivia thought, when she was alone again. But that wasn’t as important to her as the expression in Nic’s eyes when he saw her.

“I love him,” she whispered.

Speaking the words aloud released a storm of emotion inside her, and she trembled. She loved Wicked Nic Lacey. But how could she say those words to him, when she was so conscious of making him feel hemmed in and trapped by a marriage he had never wanted? Although he seemed happy enough now, well for most of the time, it was very early days. She must tread carefully.

But knowing that didn’t stop Olivia from wishing that when she looked into his eyes tomorrow night, she’d see his love for her, and her world would be complete.

“I love you, Nic,” she said again, enjoying hearing the words spoken aloud.

Because who knew when she would be brave enough to say them to his face?

N
ic couldn’t keep his eyes off her. When she appeared at the head of the stairs, ready to leave for the ball, he had simply stood and watched her descend. She was beautiful, with her cool English looks—her golden hair and blue eyes and creamy complexion. And yet she was so much more than her appearance. Beneath her calm smile lay a warm and passionate woman who believed in living life her own way, who was honest and kind, and who refused to take second best.

As she reached the last few steps, she held out her gloved hands toward him, and he moved forward in his own elegant evening wear to grasp her fingers.

“Olivia, you look exquisite. You quite take my breath away.”

Her smile made her eyes sparkle, and the pearls sewn into her dress and woven into her hair softly glowed.

“You were right,” she said. “Esmeralda
is
the best modiste in London.” She glanced away, in that manner she had when there was something
bothering her. “I hope everyone else will think so, too, when they see this dress.”

“It was thoughtless of me to take you to see her, Olivia. For an intelligent man I can be very dimwitted.”

“You apologized to me,” she reminded him quietly, squeezing his hands, “and there is nothing more to be said. I have decided to make Esmeralda my modiste after all. I like her.”

Nic laughed. “You like her? So that is all that is required for Lady Lacey to employ someone?”

“Not just that, but it helps.”

Bundled up in her fur cloak, Olivia climbed into the coach, and Nic settled opposite her.

“Do you know Mrs. Cathcart? Will she be there this evening,” Olivia began, meaning to explain to Nic about Esmeralda’s difficulties and Mrs. Cathcart’s part in them, but when she looked up from fussing with the folds of her dress, she saw that something in his face had changed.

“Why do you want to know about Miriam Cathcart?” he asked evenly, his eyes watchful.

But the change in him had made her wary. “It is a simple enough question, Nic. Will she be there this evening?”

“I don’t know Mrs. Cathcart’s movements, but I would imagine so,” he said with studied indifference. “She is asked everywhere despite her reputation.”

“She is the Earl of Marchmont’s mistress, is that so?”

“She has been mistress to so many men I’ve lost count.”

The comment was malicious, and Nic was not a malicious man. And then it occurred to Olivia that he had been one of this woman’s lovers. Of course, it made sense. Miriam Cathcart was someone who lived by her beauty and her wits, the sort of woman Nic would be drawn to. He had probably financed her, taken her to Esmeralda’s to be fitted out in the latest fashions, kissed her, held her…

The image shouldn’t have hurt—she’d told herself Nic’s past was nothing to her—she’d come to terms with it. But it did hurt, it hurt a great deal.

Olivia wished she could shrug or laugh off this revelation. She wished she had more trust and confidence in their relationship, but she couldn’t tell herself the past was gone and forgotten. Because if he’d been Miriam Cathcart’s lover once, then why not again?

Olivia looked away, hoping he could not read her thoughts in her face. Where was her direct honesty? But her pride wouldn’t allow him to see that she loved him and was terrified of losing him, so how could she ask him for the truth? How could she bear for him to feel sorry for her? What if he began making love to her because he was being kind to her, rather than because he wanted to?

She’d rather leave now and never see him again.

After a time she found the courage to glance back at him, but Nic was staring off into the distance, his face pensive. She didn’t know what he was thinking about but she had a good idea. Olivia looked down at her beautiful dress and felt sad. This was meant to be a night of triumph for her and instead it was turning into a night of despair.

They reached the Querrols’ house in Belgravia to find the square choked with vehicles and guests waiting to be admitted. It seemed that anybody who was anybody in London society was there and eager to be seen. There was no option but to join the throng and wait their turn.

Nic looked out over the richly jeweled and fashionably dressed members of the society from which he had considered him outcast. Not because of any decision by them—his birth would always give him an entrée—but because he himself had wished it so. He’d stood in the shadows for a long time, and now he could finally step out into the light and take his rightful place among the aristocracy of England. It was the role he’d been brought up to play.

Before the tragedy, his father had often spoken to him about what was expected of a man in his shoes, usually when he was scolding him for his wild ways. As a young man, Nic knew he’d pushed boundaries, seeking pleasure and adventure wherever he could find it. In the year before his father’s death he had begun to turn his back
on such youthful indiscretions, but with his father dead and the scandal turning his mother from him, he’d saturated himself in the role of Wicked Nic Lacey.

He remembered feeling betrayed and angry, and wanting to lose himself in every debauchery available to him. And soon it had become habit. Nic hadn’t planned to lock his feelings off from the world, but now he could see that was what he’d done. It had taken Olivia to open that door and set him free.

He’d turned another page in the book of his life. He was married, and with Olivia by his side, he could begin to repair the damage of the last nine years. He could take his place among his peers and strive to be a good landlord and master, just as his father was, just as he hoped his own son would be.

The Laceys would go on, just as they’d always done.

Why did she ask me about Miriam Cathcart?

The question popped into his mind, tearing a hole in the hopes and dreams he’d begun to build. Miriam Cathcart was the sister of his school friend, and he’d believed himself in love with her, for a short while. But she had used him, just as she used everyone. She’d turned a callow youth into a cynical man, and he’d sworn never to allow himself to feel like that again.

Olivia was the first woman since Miriam who meant something to him. She’d slipped by the guard he’d placed around his heart, and despite
his sworn declaration that he would never fall in love again, she’d won his heart before he’d even realized it.

I love her.

The acknowledgment didn’t shock him. Perhaps he’d known it since the moment his mother insisted he marry Olivia and he’d been only too glad to submit. He’d sworn never to love again and never to marry. But here he was, married. Nic had spent years carefully avoiding being involved with anyone, protecting his heart, and now he’d fallen in love with his wife.

“Lord Lacey!” The interruption was welcome.

He bowed, greeting his acquaintance, and introduced Olivia. She was her usual calm and beautiful self, and Nic was amazed as always how chilly she seemed, how emotionless, when he knew only too well the burning passion inside her. He watched as his acquaintance’s gaze lingered on her appreciatively.

He told himself he wasn’t jealous. Olivia had never shown the slightest preference for anyone other than him, and he knew he satisfied her. It might be arrogance, but it wasn’t jealousy that worried him. If anything were to drive her away, then it was more likely to be something he had done in the past.

He groaned softly.

“Nic?” Olivia was watching him worriedly, her fingers tightening on his arm. “Are you all right?”

Nic forced a smile. “Everything is perfect,
my dear. Did I tell you how beautiful you are tonight?”

She returned his smile, although her eyes remained anxious. “Several times, but you can tell me again. Your leg…?”

“Yes, I have two of them. Your point is?”

His voice was curt and she took the hint, falling silent and looking away. He was sorry then, thinking himself a moody bastard, knowing he’d hurt her when she was only showing her concern for him. But he didn’t want her pity. Bad enough that he was a cripple, without his beautiful wife drawing attention to it.

They moved forward again, climbing the final step, and this time they reached the front door and stepped inside the entrance hall. A great dome arched above them, colorfully painted with fat, cavorting cupids and smug-looking nymphs. The ballroom was at the far end of the hall, music and chatter growing louder the closer they came.

A servant was helping remove the guests’ coats, cloaks, wraps, and other outer garments, while another was serving champagne from a tray as they waited. Finally they reached the ballroom, and a bewigged servant in knee breeches announced them to the crush below. It was a moment to savor. The rising murmur as everyone turned to look, a tribute to both his wife’s beauty and the dress Esmeralda had made her, and to Nic’s reputation. He’d heard they were calling them the rake and the angel. Well, let them.

“Lacey, a pleasure,” drawled Querrol. “And
Lady Lacey?” He raised his monocle, ogling Olivia as she spoke to his wife. “My, you have fallen on your feet, haven’t you, Lacey? I heard you’d married a country bumpkin.”

“Olivia’s family live in the village of Bassingthorpe, but they are not bumpkins, Querrol.”

“Will we be seeing you at any more demimonde balls, Lacey? I can’t believe you’ll still be blinded by married bliss by the time the next one comes around. All mares ride the same on a dark night, as you’ve said yourself often enough.”

Nic shrugged indifferently. “Sometimes it helps to change the saddle, but I expect you’re right.”

He was sorry for it as soon as he’d said it—it felt like a betrayal of his newfound happiness—but Querrol was such a rumormonger, it was better to play the familiar game. And then Olivia appeared at his side, as calm and serene as ever, accepting Querrol’s compliments and saying all the right things.

Nic presumed she hadn’t heard his less than flattering comment, but as they moved away she disillusioned him.

“Is that how you see me, Nic? A mare?” Her voice was quiet and low.

“You weren’t meant to hear that,” he replied, equally subdued. “I’m sorry that you did.”

“Why are you sorry? Because it’s true?”

“No, it isn’t true!”

His raised tones caused a momentary ripple in the crowd around them, as though someone had dropped a stone into a pond.

“Should I believe you?” she said, her blue eyes clear and bright.

Now was the time to tell her he loved her.

“Olivia—” But as Nic drew her closer, bending his head to do so, they were interrupted in the worst possible way.

“Nic, how delightful. It has been an absolute age.”

He looked up, only just biting back a curse, as he met the calculating gaze of Miriam Cathcart. Her face was harder than he remembered, but she had the same big brown eyes and high cheekbones. She was wearing yellow, a sunbeam among the whites and pinks so prevalent this season, but neither she nor her dress was nearly as gorgeous as Olivia.

“Miriam. The pleasure is mine. May I introduce my wife, Olivia? Olivia, this is Mrs. Cathcart, an old friend of an old friend.”

Olivia did not hesitate. She really was amazing at slipping on her polite mask; he’d never have known what she was feeling if he didn’t know her so well, and understand her better than he understood any other human being. And what was she feeling? Nic knew that she was feeling hurt and betrayed and vulnerable, and it was all his fault.

“What a splendid dress, Lady Lacey,” Miriam declared, her avaricious gaze lingering. “May I ask who made it for you? I thought I knew the names of all the best modistes in London…”

“Madam Esmeralda made it. I was so pleased that I have ordered several more.”

Miriam stared at her a moment, and then gave a titter, lifting her fan to hide her mouth. “Oh, Lady Lacey,” she said, full of malice, “I’m surprised your husband hasn’t told you.” And she gave Nic a sideways glance for good measure. “Madam Esmeralda is a dressmaker to the demimonde. No respectable woman will go to her. If I were you, I would cancel your order immediately.”

Olivia’s calm smile didn’t even falter, as Nic couldn’t help but wonder if she had been preparing for this moment. “Well, now I understand, Mrs. Cathcart,” she said.

“Understand what?” Miriam asked.

“Why she knew you,” Olivia said.

Nic gave a snort of laughter before he could stop himself, and received a glittering look from Miriam Cathcart and a bland one from Olivia. But Olivia hadn’t finished with her yet.

“Besides, I’m not interested in Esmeralda’s past. She is a marvelous dressmaker, and that is all I care about. I am fussy when it comes to my clothing, Mrs. Cathcart. It is most annoying to find you are wearing a poorly sewn garment at the very moment when you want to look your best.” She smiled, but as she turned away, her gaze slid over Miriam’s yellow dress in a meaningful way.

Miriam went an unpleasant shade of red. “Well!” she huffed. “You should explain to your wife who I am,” she informed Nic angrily. “From what I’ve heard about the circumstances of your marriage, she has no right to set herself higher than me.”

Nic’s smile faded. “Why not, Miriam? My wife is worth a hundred of you.”

“You didn’t think that once,” she pouted.

“I was a child then, Miriam,” he said wearily. “Now I’m a man.”

“Then perhaps we should have supper together.” She let her gaze slide down over his tall, lean body, her brown eyes inviting. “You can show me how much of a man you are.”

Nic smiled. “I don’t think so, Miriam. Whatever we had is long past. Good-bye.”

And he walked away, following Olivia.