The Seduction of Lady X (18 page)

Was he dreaming?

“Please say something,” she pleaded.

“Is this a jest? Some sort of trickery?”

“What? No!”

Harrison folded his arms across his chest. “Then may I inquire what happened in the last three hours to bring about this stunning change of heart? How is it that I suddenly meet with your approval?”

“I never said that you didn’t,” she said weakly.

“You seemed crystal clear about that to me.”

Alexa glanced down and traced her finger along the edge of the pianoforte. “I think that I was not ready to accept that I cannot . . .
be
. . . with the person I fell in love with. But I have accepted it. And I find you entirely agreeable, and frankly, sir, I fear what will become of Olivia if I do not put my situation to rights.”

That, at least, was something they had in common.

“I hope we might find a more palatable solution for us both, but if not . . . I am humbled by your kindness,” she said.

Harrison walked across the room and sat down heavily. He could only think of Lady Carey. Not this wisp of a girl.

“No doubt this would be easier for us both if we were more familiar with one another,” she said nervously. “Perhaps we might speak of how to exist in each other’s company until familiarity takes hold?”

Harrison was dumbfounded. He no more wanted to marry this girl than he wanted to walk into the jaws of hell. But he’d put the wheels in motion by opening his bloody mouth, and now, he couldn’t even begin to think how he’d manage his way out of it. A weight of crushing disappointment and frustration settled onto his shoulders. Was there no way out of this nightmare?

A
fter that stunning, disturbingly arousing kiss in the garden, Olivia had to escape the thoughts and feelings that had flooded her, so she went to the one place where no one would look for her. The one place no one, and especially Edward, would venture: the nursery.

She hurried up the back staircase and pushed open the painted green door with both hands, then quickly shut it and turned the lock. She stood there a moment, her forehead and hands pressed against the closed door, trying to catch her breath.

But it would not come; it had been snatched clean from her lungs.

Olivia turned and surveyed the room. With windows facing north and west and the walls painted a sunny yellow, it was a bright, happy room. Snowy white brocade draperies matched the coverlet on the child’s bed. The dark cherry wood of the cradle gleamed in the sunlight streaming in. Edward had commissioned it during the two months Olivia had believed herself to be with child. It had been in the center of the room, the nurse’s bed nearby. Now, the cradle was pushed to a corner.

Near the hearth, painted yellow flowers adorned the child-sized table and matching chairs. The stuffed bear Olivia’s mother had given her was sitting on a shelf, waiting for the child that would never inhabit this room.

Olivia did not think of that today. She thought only that it was too bright and cheery for her state of mind. She began to pace the yellow and green carpet, nibbling anxiously on one thumbnail. She didn’t know what to do, what to
think.
How had it happened? How had Harrison Tolly come to kiss her—or had she kissed
him
?

Olivia hardly knew what had happened. One moment she was talking, and the next she was kissing Mr. Tolly, sinking into him and her deep-seated fantasy. “What in heaven has come over you?” she chided herself. She’d put them both at extraordinary risk, yet she hadn’t stopped because she had wanted that kiss more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

More than anything.

The weight of her longing pushed her down onto her knees, her hands braced on either side of them, dragging air into her lungs. Which was worse—the fear of discovery, or the pain of wanting more?

Olivia touched her fingers to her mouth, desperate to remember every moment, every sensation. The way he’d tasted—like cinnamon—and how he’d smelled like linen.

In all her life, she’d never been kissed so passionately, but it was also surprisingly tender. He desired her. Not just her body, but
her
.

Olivia closed her eyes, pressed the back of her hand against her mouth. She could see his face, his lips, his eyes brimming with wild desire. She could feel his mouth on hers, the tight hold of his arms around her, all his desire for her.

How unfair it is!
To receive that sort of kiss with the power and strength of a man’s desire, and feel the ache for more, all while knowing she could never have it, was heart-wrenchingly painful. Olivia slowly slid one arm across the carpet until she was lying on her side, her head resting on her outstretched arm. She closed her eyes and brazenly imagined Mr. Tolly’s hard, warm body fluidly entering hers. She imagined his hands on her skin, stroking her, caressing her, slipping into her secret folds. She imagined his mouth and tongue on her skin, and the way he would look at her as he took her, his hair falling over his brow, his arms holding himself above her, his expression filled with desire and affection.

Pain swirled in Olivia’s chest, and a tear of frustration slipped from her eye. She wanted him more than air. It was the worst torture knowing that he should be the last thing on this earth that she might have.

I am his Lady X.

How could she not have known it? With a groan, Olivia rolled onto her back, staring up at the mural painted on the ceiling, a quaint little scene of boats bobbing about a lake, rowed by bears wearing waistcoats and neckcloths. What was it Mr. Tolly had said? That he could never have his Lady X, he could never ask her to leave her husband and live in reduced circumstances with her reputation destroyed.

“Oh, yes, yes, yes, you can,”
she moaned. She would not hesitate to leave Edward and everything else behind. She’d lived too many years in her miserable little birdcage to care for circumstance or reputation. She’d live in a hovel with Mr. Tolly and pluck chickens and bake bread and grow wheat.

But what about Alexa?

She couldn’t beg Mr. Tolly to take her away; she had to consider Alexa and her child now. And as much as it pained her to admit it, Mr. Tolly was the only viable option she had for saving her little sister.

But it was more than that. Edward would never agree to set her free. He would never concede that he’d been cuckolded; he would never seek or allow a divorce. No, Edward would prefer to keep her and torment her. He was half mad, and he would never,
ever
allow his reputation to be sullied with slander. He would sooner destroy Harrison. And Alexa. And her.

Olivia closed her eyes, willing back the tears that threatened to fall.

She was trapped in a loveless marriage for the rest of her life, living in a gilded birdcage that grew smaller each day until she was pressed up against the bars, unable to breathe, unable to move. Slowly suffocating to death.

She pushed herself to her feet, tucked in the hair that had come undone, and dusted off her skirt.

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t realized the truth of her life before. But today she’d had a glimmer of hope for something different. The sooner she walled off that hope, the better.

Maybe—she took a deep breath and released it—maybe she could wall Edward in his study first. She imagined tying him to a chair, then calmly laying one brick on top of another as he shouted at her to stop, going as high as she must until she could no longer see him or hear him. What a happy difference there would be if she no longer could see him or hear him.

Olivia walked to the window and gazed down at the garden where she’d kissed Mr. Tolly. “Stiff upper lip, lass,” she murmured. She had enough problems without creating new ones.

Nancy Carthorn, a buxom ginger-haired young woman with great aspirations, had been employed as a ladies’ maid at Everdon Court for four years. She enjoyed her occupation, particularly as she spent her days in the marchioness’s private rooms amid all the finery and the gowns and the glittering jewelry. Her post was far superior to any other in the house, with the exception of perhaps Mr. Brock.

It was certainly better than what poor Lucy Krankhouse faced every day in the kitchen, working alongside a tetchy Miss Foster. Lucy was firmly under Miss Foster’s oppressive thumb—she’d been quite cross with Lucy when she thought her special ladle had gone missing—and to Nancy’s way of thinking, the girl was being unfairly treated. The lovely thing about Nancy’s post was that she could say she thought so to Lady Carey, and her ladyship would speak to Mr. Brock. She’d done it when Fred wouldn’t leave Nancy be, and now Fred was in the stables shoveling manure and not chasing her up and down the servant’s stairs.

That evening, Nancy mentioned Lucy’s unhappiness as she dressed the marchioness’s hair. But Lady Carey didn’t seem to hear her. That puzzled Nancy. Generally, Lady Carey listened politely to what Nancy had to say, and often offered her personal opinion, which, naturally, Nancy would rush downstairs to deliver at first opportunity. But Lady Carey seemed distracted, and Nancy paused. “Beg your pardon, mu’um, are you unwell?”

“Hmmm?” her ladyship said, and glanced up.

“You seem a bit pale, is all,” Nancy said.

Lady Carey looked at herself in the mirror, squinting a bit. “I suppose I am fatigued,” she said with a bit of a shrug.

Fatigued, pale . . . Nancy’s hand stilled on her ladyship’s hair. Good Lord, was it possible her ladyship was with child? That would bring a bit of lightness into this gloomy old house! Everyone knew that an heir was the only thing that would make the marquis happy.

“Nancy? What is it?” her ladyship asked, peering at Nancy’s reflection in the mirror.

Nancy instantly resumed putting up her hair. “Pardon.” She slipped a pin into Lady Carey’s hair to hold it. “I was thinking that you should have a care not to overtax yourself, mu’um. Must keep up your strength.”

“Keep up my strength for what?”

Now she’d gone and said too much. Nancy turned away to fetch more pins. “No reason in particular,” she said. “I’d not like to see you under the weather.” She turned and smiled. “That’s all.”

Her ladyship said nothing, but sat quietly brooding as Nancy finished her hair. When she was done, Lady Carey stood and looked at herself in the mirror for a long time. She was wearing a gown that looked almost as if it were spun gold. It hugged her bodice tightly, and with his lordship away, Lady Carey had foregone the bit of taffeta that she generally wore as a modest collar. Tonight her décolletage was powdered and perfumed, and a pair of diamonds dangled from her earlobes. If she’d donned a coronet, she’d look like a princess. “Very pretty, mu’um,” Nancy said admiringly.

“Thank you.” Lady Carey gave Nancy a ghost of a smile before she went out, the train of her gown trailing behind her.

Nancy smiled to herself as she began to tidy up the room. The entire estate waited on tenterhooks for Lady Carey to provide an heir, and wouldn’t it be nice to have a baby toddling about? She could scarcely wait to tell Miss Foster and Mrs. Perry what she suspected.

T
he red salon seemed empty without Edward’s oppressive presence. He had a tendency to suck the air from the room. Olivia was required to meet him here each evening before supper; Edward liked her to embroider while he read his newspapers. It did not matter to him that Olivia had never taken to needlework, or that her creations generally required some repair by Mrs. Perry, or even that neither of them had any desire to be in the other’s company. Edward believed it was what married couples should do.