Her Christian name was Olivia.
Ian silently tried the name on his tongue, slowly displacing “Cat” with “Olivia.”
So then, this Olivia, Lady Stratton, was no French informant. She was a well-to-do widow, and a bit of a cipher to their present society. The latter description not unlike Ian himself.
The music concluded, and he was at once at her side. “Lady Stratton, might I have the next dance?”
She hesitated. He hung on her answer, his heart in his throat as it had been when, at age sixteen, he’d first asked a woman to dance with him.
Why am I acting like an over-eager puppy?
She silently replied with a nod, and Ian let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding.
Lord Quinn had turned aside to others, as a host must, but he’d not moved far from Lady Stratton’s side. Now he slid a narrowed glance at Ian, but his expression otherwise hid any deeper meaning. Quinn slid his arm under Olivia’s hand, an old trick, but a successful one as he led her away for the short time until the musicians were to start up again.
With a little time for observation, Ian fell back on trained pattern. The agent in him saw who had a tendency to over-imbibe, who had an eye for the women, who gave out the most cutting gossip. Too, without Cat-- Lady Stratton’s innate glow directly filling up his gaze, his eyes could see servants were discreetly scurrying as though readying for a party, though their efforts made no change in Quinn’s second floor ballroom that Ian could see. That was peculiar, for Lord Quinn had not supplied gaming or card tables, and those gentlemen who desired a cheroot were out on the balcony, in plain sight of the dancers, their need for port or cigars already seen to. He couldn’t believe Quinn was having his staff begin disassembling a party still in the making…?
The aroma of further cooking was scenting the party, and that seemed a trifle odd, too. As Ian had conjectured, the edibles that had met the attendees were all gone, with no servants replenishing the platters. As soon as that was clear to him, it was furthermore obvious that a dozen or better partygoers knew it as well as himself. They were the ones who grouped together, their eyes occasionally finding and evaluating the servants’s burdens.
He looked around the long room to find Lord Quinn, the man’s large frame bending down toward Lady Stratton, apparently making some kind of inquiry of her. She was smiling up at Quinn, and Ian wondered how he couldn’t have known her for even a moment. A rather immature dash of jealousy flashed through him; was her smile warm? What did the lady think of their host? This was at least the second time she’d been in Quinn’s company. Were they familiars? Ian frowned.
However, he was not so distracted by his conjectures that he failed to notice some of the partygoers were slipping away. Some nodded thanks over their retrieved cloaks and hats, evidence they were leaving for the evening--but others seemed to disappear further into the house, presumably to some back room.
It wasn’t until the leave-takers were bowed out that the first strains of a new tune were practiced. Ian made a direct line toward Lady Stratton. It was clear as she looked around that the busy servants had caught her attention as well. When she spotted Ian, her color deepened, and something leaped in his chest.
Was she invited to whatever was to come? Was everyone? Did the beautiful, seemingly somewhat shy young widow know what was coming next? Ian watched her tongue run between her lips, and wondered if it was a response born of appetite, or uncertainty? Was she a devotee of Lord Quinn and his ilk? Or, by way of an assumed accent, was she an innocent, accidentally caught up by in events beyond her?
Chapter 10
Olivia tilted her head, offering her ear to Lord Quinn. A polite smile framed her mouth as she leaned toward him to hear his words over the general hum of conversation around them. Truth was, though, her mind was across the room.
Lord Ewald. His name is Ian Drake, Viscount Ewald.
What she’d done with him, how they’d touched, how
alive
she’d become in those few, wonderful, impossible minutes…
Here I am, in the middle of a ballroom, and all I can think is I want to slip away with this Lord Ewald and do it all again…
She’d no more than formed the improper thought than Lord Ewald marched up and offered his hand to her.
She took it, looking up to find that his eyes searched her face. He’d brought forth a smile now. Ought she to smile back? It seemed…wayward, after her thoughts, so she kept her mouth a straight line.
See what comes of wanting excitement in this life…
She took her place opposite him, glad they were not to share a waltz this time. Glad, too, that he’d released her hand, for she’d been afraid he might feel the heavy beat of blood through her veins there. The tunings stopped, the other dancers fell into position, and the music began in earnest. It was a country line dance, involving skippings, genteel claps, and changing partners.
He knows me! That it was I who wore the cat costume. What can I possibly say to him? Ought I flee and not even face him?
When they came back together, Lord Ewald spoke. “Is all well with you, Lady Stratton?”
The question startled her. “What do you mean, my lord?”
“The last time we met, I thought you were,” his smiled widened, but somehow not unkindly, “a damsel in distress.”
Olivia considered how to answer him. Would he censure her for her misbehavior that night--or try to repeat it? He couldn’t possibly think her a decent sort. So why not the truth, since he couldn’t think much worse of her? “I was looking for adventure.”
It was a moment before he danced back before her. “It was certainly that.” He smiled again. “I normally wouldn’t question a lady, but why ‘adventure’?”
She sighed, looking down at their moving feet. “Four years of mourning. Papa. Mama.” After a moment, she added, “Stratton.”
“Ah,” he said, traces of humor dropping away. “You have my condolences. I, too, have lost family. My parents.”
“And a wife?” It was an insensitive question, but he’d started the exchange.
Lord Ewald shook his head. “I’ve never married.” It was his turn to pause a little, but then he went on. “That’s why I’ve come to England, actually. To marry. To grow crops, and children. And old.”
She gave a shaky smile at the little joke.
He’s come to find a wife…
They were silent for a few moves of the dance. Olivia reminded herself to breathe; it would never do to fall faint at the man’s feet. When his hand touched hers once more, he spoke again. “My lady, I wonder if I might call upon you at your home? If so, what days do you receive--?”
The music ended rather abruptly, and they both turned to see Lord Quinn had waved the musicians to silence. A quick glance told Olivia that only four sets of dancers yet remained in the room; all others had left, though a distant buzz of conversation and moving feet made her think not all had gone from the house. In fact, if pushed to say, she would have guessed from the expectant smiles of the others that of the eight dancers, she and Lord Ewald alone were not old confederates well known to Lord Quinn.
Their host spread his hands. “To those few of you who are unaware, let me inform you I have asked some of my close friends to stay on a bit tonight, now the dancing is come to an end.” He glanced around at the eight dancers, but his gaze settled on Olivia. “I hope I am not too presumptuous in asking you to stay?”
“Do we play cards?” she called out, a stall as she considered if she wished to stay, to have to answer Lord Ewald’s inquiry, or if a very quiet, very safe evening of tea shared with her maid held more appeal.
It certainly wouldn’t hold as much uncertainties and curiously compelling moments.
“No,” Quinn answered her. “We partake of a late-night meal.” He paused, then added, “In a manner to my preference.” The other dancers, already moving to join Quinn, tittered; yes, they were familiar with the man and “his ways.”
The taller Lord Quinn looked over their heads to catch Olivia’s eye. She nodded her agreement to stay. Pleasure wreathed his face, and he came toward her. Olivia was acutely aware of Lord Ewald at her side, his hands folded together behind his back, his expression inscrutable.
“I am most pleased you choose to stay. And you, Ewald?” Olivia didn’t see if that gentlemen nodded or not, but Lord Quinn presumed by going on, “Excellent!” He gave his regard fully back to Olivia. “But first we are to have a grand march, after which I ask that you sit at table, on my left. Do you please?”
“A grand march?”
But Quinn rushed on again, leaving her question hanging. She turned to Lord Ewald, who shrugged in answer to the dangling words, and offered her his arm instead.
They followed Lord Quinn to where some twenty others were, indeed, gathered a floor below, in a back parlor.
Crossing to a clear space before the hearth, Lord Quinn held up his arms again to gain everyone’s attention. When they’d fallen largely silent, he made his announcement. “Let us, please, assemble by twos and make our way back to the front doors.” Lord Quinn, taking Miss Lyons on his arm, smiled, his teeth gleaming in the candlelight. “Do not disdain to make a great deal of noise, for I shall consider this a poor affair indeed if tomorrow my neighbors make no complaints to me.”
Intrigued laughter rippled through the room as the crowd fell into pairs--Lord Ewald retained Olivia on his arm--and they lined up behind Lord Quinn’s advance to the doors, where a bevy of servants scurried to return cloaks to their rightful owners. She had to release Lord Ewald’s arm then, because the participants were also handed bells of various shapes and sizes, either on a handle or a length of leather, so that both hands were full.
“The church bells used to ring on this day in celebration that the House of Lords was not destroyed, so we must make enough joyous sound to rival the old custom,” Lord Quinn told them.
Really, she thought as they stamped through the city streets, Lord Quinn was quite clever. Certainly anything but boring. When had she ever gone on a grand march? It was all silliness, of course, with the gentlemen vying with one another to make the largest whoop or whistle, and the ladies ringing their bells as loudly as they may and stomping their feet. Several persons had brought champagne glasses with them, and one couple recklessly ruined their host’s property by dashing the two crystals together to create a jarring smash. One lady gave forth snatches of operatic arias, and many giggled or laughed aloud. Some of the men, a bit into their cups, waved the few lamps they’d brought in a reckless manner.
Their racket caused drapes to twitch aside, doors and windows to open, and despite the late hour a few children to emerge from the houses, begging a penny for “the Guy.” Olivia had no funds on her, at least not until Lord Ewald pressed some coins from his purse into her hands. She threw them to the children, who hooted and shrieked and scrambled after the rolling coins, and she laughed with them.
Catching the spirit of the moment even more, and once the pennies were gone, Olivia clapped her hands together in way of making her bells jingle, half to continue to make noise as requested, and half to salute the group of revelers for daring to be so vulgar in the streets of Mayfair. She marched along, finding the evening invigorating--not least because of the man she was so aware of at her side.
She slid her gaze sideways. She was not surprised to find him looking down at her, but his expression was not what she expected; any smiles gone now, he was definitely considering her, and not necessarily in a kind light.
Her amusement seeped away. “You look as though you have a question,” she said, perhaps a bit primly.
He gave a little
moue
, silently acknowledging she’d been correct. He lifted a hand, indicating the people around them. “You find this pleasurable, Lady Stratton?”
She glanced around as well, then nodded. “I do. Do you not?”
“Isn’t it all rather…pagan?”
She laughed at him then. “Oh, surely it’s harmless.”
“Are you a confidante to Lord Quinn?”
There was definitely something disapproving in that question. “And if I am?”
Someone yelled out that their celebration was flagging, so Lord Ewald absently shook one of the bells he carried. “I see you take offense. Pardon me. It is just that I am…curious. I am trying to understand you. And him.”
The words softened her a little, but she did not completely release her pique. “Are you the sort who cannot give himself over to simple enjoyment of a moment, my lord?”
He thought, and shook his head, as though to banish a thought. Then his lids lowered, and perhaps a hint of a smile came across his lips. “Why, no, my lady. I believe I’m capable of giving myself up to the enjoyment of a night.” He stepped nearer, almost touching her.
So abruptly reminded how they’d met, Olivia blushed so deeply she was sure he could see her face darken despite the meager light. Worse yet, his reminder ought to have made her angry. Instead, the woodsy scent of his soap reached out to her, washing her anew in poignant reminder of the very memory he hinted at. She could not escape the thought of his lips caressing her skin in places that had never been caressed before, not even by her husband.
“If you will excuse me?” she gasped out, telling herself she owed him nothing and need not suffer any censure from him… And telling herself that moving quickly from his side was a choice, not a defense against her own insensible inclinations.
***
Unaware of a scowl on his face, Ian watched as Lady Stratton rushed straight to Lord Quinn’s side. The large man turned to her as a flower turns to the sun, and Ian’s scowl deepened. She was speaking to the tall, broad-sholdered man, and he was bending down his head to listen, even as they both continued to ring their bells with the crowd as they walked. Lord Quinn smiled at her--a warm smile even from this distance.
Good God, I am jealous,
Ian admitted to himself, shocked to find it was true.
I don’t even know her. Except her kiss is tender. Her aspect is gentle. Everything she does is touched with poise and intellect, even when she answers my rude questions…