Gutted, she stood staring at the closed door for an indeterminate amount of time, all the energy and life that had brought her here, draining out of her. At last, she pointed her feet homeward. And stepped through the rip in her dress. Of course.
She bent and finished what her foot had started, tearing off the bottom eight inches of muslin. She must look fit for Bedlam.
Without Jake, perhaps she was.
Chapter 31
Jake rocked forward onto the balls of his feet before settling back on his heels, his feet as restless and tetchy as the rest of him. Sweat-slicked palms clutched the package he’d brought for Olivia. He refused to think of the package as a present.
Payne had nearly gone apoplectic when he left the manse carrying the package with the intention of delivering it himself. Viscounts didn’t deliver packages. They had them sent by post or delivered by footmen.
His intention had been to hand the package over to Olivia’s butler, pivot, and leave. It had been a good plan. Except he hadn’t followed the plan. Instead, he’d stepped inside the foyer and said, “Will you inform Lady Olivia that Lord St. Alban is here to see her?”
Those had been his exact unplanned words. Now he stood tarrying in her foyer while the household staff searched the house for her. It appeared they’d misplaced their mistress.
He was, in fact, under no obligation to stand here and wait for her. He should place the package on the receiving table and leave, saving them both the embarrassment of his presence. It was what she wanted. She’d made that much clear.
He didn’t need to see her unknot the twine and pull the parchment paper apart. He didn’t need to see her face light up from what lay inside.
Rationally accepting what he didn’t need to see, he set the package down. “Right.”
Behind him, he heard a muted click and the soft creak of a hinge. His head whipped around, and his body followed a beat behind. The front door stood wide, the silhouette of Olivia framed within its opening. She resembled an angel, light and lithe, illusory.
Except, when details began coming into focus, his first impression was replaced with a different reality of her. Hair set at an odd angle . . . Dress fabric strangely heavy and frumpled . . . She was . . .Disheveled.
He took a step forward, alarm guiding him. Olivia wasn’t merely disheveled. She was nothing less than a complete mess. Hair stringing down her face, half up-half down. Feet bare on cold marble tiles, rainwater pooling beneath her. Dress ripped to shreds and translucent with wet and clinging to her body in ways that cleared all decent thought from the mind of any sousing male who happened upon her, who happened to be him at present.
She closed the door and rested her forehead against oak. Her body language spoke of defeat. Another wave of concern crested inside him.
He cleared his throat, and her body went stiff, but she remained with her back to him. “Olivia”—It was all he could do to stop himself from launching across the foyer and gathering her in his arms—“are youwell?”
She twirled around at the sound of his voice and froze in place. Startled azure eyes met his, and an involuntary, “Oh!” passed through her parted lips. Her entire person was so pale from head to toe that she nearly blended with the stark white walls behind her.
They stood like this, eyes locked, hearts racing, for the blink of an eye, for the longest moment in history to Jake’s mind.
“Have you been in an accident? Or”—His hands clenched into hard fists, ready to do battle with the world—“attacked?”
Her eyebrows drew together in bewilderment. “Of course not. But Jake,” she continued, “I have given some thought to the stars.”
He took a concerned step forward. “Would you like to take a seat? To rest yourself a moment?”
“Why? I’m perfectly well. I mean, look at me, I’m a perfect mess, but well.” She splayed her arms wide and looked slightly maniacal to his eye.
“Mayhap you’ve taken a fever?”
She shook her head, sending droplets of rain flying. “Not in the least. Getting back to the stars, you said they were orderly.”
“And you said they were chaotic,” he countered. “Shall I find you a towel, at least?”
“I don’t need a towel, Jake. I need to tell you something.”
She inhaled deeply, and he made sure his gaze didn’t stray toward her chest, for he was fairly certain he’d detected the dusky outline of a nipple through sopping wet muslin.
“Could the truth be located somewhere in the middle?” she asked, the question breathless and rushed. “Within the stars lies a capacity for orderandchaos. They quietly watch us from above until, one day, they decide to shoot across the sky in a searing blaze of light until they have nothing left.”
“Perhaps,” he drew out slowly.
“Perhaps,” she drew out equally slowly, “people are like stars in that way. Perhaps within us lie those same ingredients for order and chaos. Except, what if that searing blaze of light isn’t chaos? What if there’s an ordered catalyst that triggers a star to take to flight across the sky?”
