“Last night,” Lucy began and stopped.
Tension coiled inside Olivia. Was it possible that Lucy had seen her with Lord St. Alban? “Yes?”
“Cousin Hugh mistook Miss Radclyffe for a servant.”
Relief surged through Olivia, even as her stomach sank. “Oh, no.”
“I’ve never felt more ashamed in my life.”
“Lulu, it’s not your shame, dearest.” Olivia reached for her daughter’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
“I feel ashamed for Hugh and people like him,” Lucy said, her reticence shifting into passion with each word she spoke. “I’m ashamed that I belong to those people.”
“You can’t control the attitudes and prejudices of others, only your own. I’m certain Miss Radclyffe understands this. Besides,” Olivia continued, “anyone who has ever met you knows that you belong wholly and only to yourself.”
The beginnings of a smile hung about Lucy’s lips, but Olivia could see that her daughter’s heart wasn’t in it. Then Lucy glanced at a point to the left of her plate, and the smile that had begun, dropped. It was another letter from Percy. Lucy slid it out of sight and began buttering her toast with a bit too much force, the knife a determined, choppy scrape across its brown surface.
The Duke strolled into the room, a whistle on his lips, and took his customary place across from Olivia.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Olivia said. “Isn’t today Monday? Shouldn’t you be breaking your fast with Lord Exeter?”
“Michael needed to move our breakfast to tomorrow.” The Duke’s smile reached all the way to his eyes. “Alas, you will have to put up with me this morning.”
Olivia couldn’t help but return his smile. “You’re always welcome at our table.”
Six days a week, the Duke took his breakfast with Olivia and Lucy in their apartment in the east wing. The seventh day was reserved for his heir and Percy’s elder brother, Michael, the Marquess of Exeter, and his ever-increasing family in the west wing, which they had gradually taken over. At last count, there were five boys, the eldest of whom was Hugh, second in line to the dukedom behind his father. It was a boisterous table in the west wing, which even Lucy at her most precocious couldn’t match.
Usually, Olivia enjoyed easing into the day across from the Duke and Lucy, but not today. Today, she would feel more at ease breaking her fast in a hole in the ground.
“Still reading nonsense, I see.” The Duke picked up his serious-mindedMorning Chronicleand gave his eyebrows a waggle.
Olivia lifted her copy of theLondon Diarya notch higher. “Now and then, everyone needs a little nonsense in their lives, Your Grace.”
“Not according to Miss Scace,” Lucy piped up, her mouth crammed full of strawberry jam and toast.
Olivia was relieved to find her daughter somewhat restored to her usual ebullient self. The world could be such a foul and ugly place.
“Miss Scace says,” Lucy continued, “that every bit of nonsense one puts into one’s brain”—She now mimicked the no-nonsense Miss Scace through her mouthful of toast—“forces out ten bits of good sense.” She washed down her toast with a gulp of tea. “Or something like that.”
Olivia suppressed the impulse to laugh outright at her impertinent daughter. “I’m certain she is absolutely correct, but, at times, I enjoy taking a little nonsense with my morning brew. Now, eat up, Lulu, you’re off in five minutes.”
“Oh, Mumsy, make it ten,” Lucy whined, holding up a book, “Imustcomplete this chapter before school, or I shall expire from anticipation. Drummond will understand. He always does.”
“And what does the venerable Miss Scace have to say aboutthatbit of nonsense you’re reading?” the Duke asked, his eyes shining with good humor.
“This?” She held up Walpole’sThe Castle of Otranto. Olivia had been equally fascinated with that novel at Lucy’s age. “She says it’s the worst sort, I’m afraid. A gothic romance.” Lucy shivered dramatically and stuffed the rest of the toast into her mouth before opening her book and becoming instantly engrossed.
The Duke shook his head in silent indulgence and returned his attention to his morning paper. Olivia squelched a pang of guilt before it surfaced. Contrary to Lord St. Alban’s belief, she wasn’t acting behind the Duke’s back to secure her townhouse. She was exercising her right to pursue her future independently. She didn’t expect a viscount to understand that which he took for granted every day of his privileged, male life.
Speaking of Lord St. Alban . . .
Her pulse quickened. It was entirely possible that he could stride into this room at any moment. As the Duke’s protégé, of course. Not as her . . .
One kiss didn’t make himthat. No matter that he might have been if Mrs. Landry hadn’t done God’s work and interrupted them. Denial came in many forms.
Olivia stifled the humiliated groan that wanted release. How was she ever to face him again? How badly did she want her own townhouse? How badly did she want her independence?
She could endure the shame of facing him again. What wouldn’t she endure for a life dependent on no one for her well-being and happiness?
