Candice Hern (38 page)

"We enjoy one another's company," Mary said. "That is all. We are friends." She watched as Olivia's brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed. "Oh, please do not scowl! Truly, we are merely friends."

"But you cannot deny that he flirts outrageously with you."

Mary chewed on her lower lip in a valiant effort to suppress a giggle. She loosened the last bit of braid and shook her hair free.

"And all you ever do is laugh," Olivia said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "I do not understand how you can have such a cavalier attitude about that sort of behavior. It is most improper! Why, I have often blushed at things he has said to you within my hearing. I hesitate to think what he might be saying when he whispers in your ear."

Mary could no longer control herself and dissolved into laughter. She covered her mouth with both hands and dropped her forehead onto the dressing table. Her entire body shook as she shrieked with laughter, her eyes streaming with tears that fell onto the fine white muslin table covering. She lifted her head slightly and caught Olivia's reflection in the mirror—brows raised, trying to look serious. But one corner of her mouth twitched upward, and Mary was lost once again. She laughed until her sides hurt and she could hardly breathe.

When she finally recovered her breath, she stood up, walked over to a mahogany highboy, opened a drawer, and retrieved a linen handkerchief. "My dear Olivia," she said with a hiccup as she sat back down at the dressing table, dabbing her eyes, "how you do make me laugh!"

Olivia smiled, but there was still a seriousness about her eyes that Mary distrusted.

"I am glad I amuse you, Mary, I am sure. But I really fail to see what is so funny about Lord Pemerton flirting with you. I, for one, do not find it amusing."

"But don't you see?" Mary said as she reached for a silver hairbrush. "He is a handsome, titled gentleman and a rake of the first order. And yet he flirts with me. I laugh because it is so ludicrous—that such a man should bother to flirt with someone like
me
." She began to run the brush through her hair. "But, he cannot help it, you see. It is second nature to him to flirt with women. All women. His behavior—flirtatious, flattering, suggestive, even seductive—is so ingrained that he cannot even stop himself from acting that way with someone as unattractive as myself. He does not mean a word he says, of course. And that is why I always laugh—that he should say much things to me as a sort of involuntary reaction that he cannot control. It is too absurd!"

"No more absurd than your own pigheaded notion that you are unattractive," Olivia said with some vehemence.

"Now, Olivia." Mary turned around on her stool and fixed her companion with a stem look. "We have had this discussion before."

As she watched the scowl on her friend's face melt into a look of concern, Mary began to experience an all too familiar frustration, bordering on anger, that almost completely overwhelmed her former lighthearted mood. Why did people find it so difficult to believe that she was quite comfortable with her appearance? She had accepted from a very young age that she was not at all attractive. But she had never become obsessed with the notion. There was nothing she could do about it, after all, so why repine?

The only claim to vanity Mary was willing to admit to was her desire to increase the impression of stature. She commonly wore shoes with higher heels than was fashionable, and she kept her hair long so that she could pile it ever higher upon her head. And she was very conscious of posture, always keeping her back straight and her head high. But none of this was done in any pretense of beauty. She was simply tired of sometimes feeling like a child in a room full of adults.

Mary almost never gave into any feelings of regret for her lack of beauty. She was extremely happy with her life and her many friendships. She really had nothing to complain about. But, if she were perfectly honest with herself, she had to admit that there were times—not often, but there were times—when she wished she were not ugly. When she wished that Jack's false flattery were true. But those were rare, fleeting moments, and she dismissed them immediately. She knew better than to dwell on what could never be.

For a moment the image of her father's face—wild-eyed and furious—appeared in her mind's eye.

How glad I am that your mother never lived to see what an ugly creature she spawned.

Yes, she had learned the truth about herself at a very young age, from the one person in the world who should have loved her.

But she had overcome her father's cruelty in the end. She was a free and independent woman now. What did it matter that she was not beautiful?

She turned back toward the dressing table and continued brushing her hair. "Well, Olivia," she said in a cheerful voice, "how shall I have Sally dress my hair this evening? I must be sure to dazzle Mr. Maitland."

* * *

Olivia took one last look in the mirror and sighed loudly. She was not at all sure about the appropriateness of the pink satin dress that Mary had insisted she wear. For one thing, the bodice was much too low-cut, she thought as she tugged at it one more time. Perhaps she should ask Mary if she might borrow a piece of lace or a fichu to cover up the expanse of bosom revealed by the daring cut of the neckline. But, no, Mary would only laugh at her prudishness. Besides, she had generously provided Olivia with a lovely cream silk shawl embroidered with pink roses. She would simply keep it tightly wrapped about her, claiming she felt a chill.

It was a shame, though, to cover up such a lovely dress, she thought as she fingered the softness of the fabric. Mary had ordered it for her at the beginning of the Season, and she had yet to wear it.

"You look positively beautiful!" Mary had exclaimed when Olivia had first tried on the gown at the modiste's salon.

As she studied her reflection once more, Olivia was forced, not without some pleasure, to agree. The color gave a soft, pink glow to her complexion, and even her brown hair—with only a few noticeable strands of silver—seemed to show new auburn highlights. The cut of the skirt was less full than she was used to, displaying her still slender figure. She had put on almost no weight in all these years since Martin's death, though she seemed to have become slightly more buxom in her middle age. Or perhaps it was just the dress.

Martin would have loved it, she thought wistfully.

But her late husband would not have loved the company she would be keeping this evening—to be escorted by Edward Maitland! Poor Martin would be turning over in his grave—if only he had one. She supposed he could still be outraged in his watery resting place at the bottom of the Cape of Trafalgar. In any case, Olivia was outraged enough for both of them.

She turned deliberately away from the mirror and walked toward the bed where she had earlier laid out the silk shawl, a pair of evening gloves, a reticule, and a fan. The latter, kept for special occasions, was a memento from the days of her marriage. Her eyes strayed briefly to the table next to the bed where she kept a miniature of Martin on a tiny stand.

Dearest Martin, give me strength.

It was a petition often made before an evening out with Mary. She had grown more or less used to her employer's odd starts, taking up with one after another of Society's most outrageous rogues. But an evening practically alone with two of them! It was almost too much to bear. Well, she was paid to act as Mary's companion, and she would do her job, difficult though it sometimes was. For when all was said and done, she adored Mary.

She had been with Mary for three years, ever since Mary had established herself in Bath after her father's death. Mary had not particularly wanted a full-time companion, and had been very open about her displeasure with those strictures of Society that refused to allow a spinster to live alone.

"I take leave to tell you," Mary had said during their first meeting, "that I resent having to hire a companion at all. I will not have you trailing after me except when absolutely necessary. In fact," she had said with some indignation, "I suspect we will actually see very little of one another."

Despite their shaky beginnings, the two women had developed a fast friendship, once Mary had overcome her general misgivings about servants and employees, born of the grim years of closely guarded isolation in her father's castle. She had been especially vulnerable in those early days, so soon after leaving Castle Assheton. But Mary had quickly grown stronger and soon became fiercely independent and very private. As far as Olivia was aware, Mary never again spoke of those unhappy years in her father's castle. Though she had a passion—no, more like a hunger—for the company of people, and had friends and acquaintances by the score, Olivia doubted she opened up to any of them about her past. She kept that part of herself locked deep inside, behind a thick shell of self-protection that seemed impenetrable.

Though Olivia accepted that after years of isolation Mary craved human companionship, she could never quite comprehend that proclivity for unsuitable friendships that caused her to seek out every rascal in the land. Lord Pemerton, for example, she thought as she pulled on elbow-length gloves.

This project of Mary's to help find him a bride was very worrisome. There was something about this particular rake that made Olivia most uneasy. Perhaps, though, it was Mary and not the marquess who was the real cause for concern. She had not failed to catch the special sparkle in Mary's eye whenever she was near the marquess. Despite her apparent worldliness, Mary was really quite naive and innocent, and could easily be hurt. In fact, it was only Mary's ridiculous belief in her own unattractiveness that most likely kept her safe from harm, causing her not to develop false hopes or illusions. But at the same time, it also most likely prevented her from ever finding true love and happiness—which, to Olivia's way of thinking, meant finding a husband.

It was past time to give up all this foolishness with rakes and such, and get serious about the future. Olivia determined in that moment, as she tied the reticule to her left wrist, that she would help her friend to find the happiness she deserved by searching out a husband for her. Oh, she knew there were certain difficulties, but she did not believe they would be insurmountable with the right man. But how on earth was she to find the right man if Mary persisted in associating with that horrid Lord Pemerton?

Olivia had draped the creamy silk shawl tightly around her shoulders when a peremptory knock on her bedchamber door drew her attention. Before she could respond, the door was flung open and Mary stood there, hands on hips, slippered toe tapping furiously.

"What on earth are you doing in here, Olivia? Jack and Mr. Maitland have arrived. Are you quite ready?"

"Goodness, Mary, I am so sorry. I suppose I must have lost track of the time." With one last look in the mirror she pulled the shawl more tightly about her shoulders and turned toward the door. "I am ready."

Mary stopped her with a hand to her shoulder. "Oh, no you are not." She turned Olivia around and pushed her back into the room. "Give me that shawl," she said as she grabbed for the silky garment.

Olivia clasped the shawl to her breast. "No!"

Mary tugged harder, and Olivia pulled it tighter; but finally it fell away, leaving Olivia feeling half naked. Her hands instinctively flew to her exposed bosom. Mary shook out the shawl— now slightly wrinkled from the brief tug-of-war—and folded it neatly over her arm. "Now, let me look at you," she said as she gently took Olivia's hands, pulled them away from her bosom, and held them out in front of her while she studied the dress from top to toe. "Outstanding!" she said at last, dropping Olivia's hands.

"But—"

"No buts, Olivia. And no shawl, until you agree to wear it properly. My dear, you look wonderful. Why in the world would you want to cover up your assets? Good heavens, if I looked like you I would walk tall and proud."

Olivia laughed. "Mary, you do walk tall and proud."

"Well, there you have it, then. If a plain little thing like me can face the world with confidence, how much more so should one such as you? You are a beautiful woman, Olivia. Condescend to let the world gaze upon you with admiration." She reached over and kissed Olivia on the cheek. "Or, if not the world, then at least our two escorts this evening. Now," she said forcefully, "shoulders back. Chin up. Bosom thrust majestically forward."

Olivia dissolved into laughter upon this last instruction. "Oh, Mary," she said, impulsively hugging her friend, "I do love you."

Mary hugged her back, then released her. "Ready?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Then here is your shawl," Mary said. Olivia took it and began to drape it once again across her shoulders. "But do not wrap it about you like a shroud. Here." She pulled it away from Olivia's shoulders until it hung loosely down her back. "It should fall gracefully from your arms, just so. Do not wear it as if you were freezing to death." She took Olivia's arm, and both women headed out the door and downstairs toward the drawing room where their guests awaited.

"Suppose I do become chilled?" Olivia asked with a smile. "What then?"

"I am sure Mr. Maitland will think of something."

"Mary!"

* * *

"And so, dear lady," Edward Maitland said as he turned toward Mrs. Bannister, "you must tell me your impressions, thus far, of Catalini?"

Jack smiled as he watched his uncle continue in his attempt to defrost Mary's companion, leaning close in order to be heard over the din of voices, but never quite touching her. He would know not to take too many liberties with such a woman, but instead would use all his skill to make her feel comfortable, to make her feel as if she were the only other person in the room. Noting the wobbly smile on Mrs. Bannister's face, Jack was certain his uncle was making progress.

Uncle Edward—the younger brother of Jack's mother—was one of his favorite people in all the world. Though now in his late fifties, he was still a handsome devil, with a thick mane of silver hair and sparkling blue eyes. Never married, he had led a more or less rakehell existence for over thirty years, and had therefore been a source of inspiration to Jack. As a boy, Jack had been drawn to his uncle's enthusiastic approach to life and intrigued by overheard whispers hinting at a scandalous reputation.