“Petunia,” his mother said, “Did you just refer to your mother as anoldwoman?”
“You know what Imeanmother, older than one of us!”
“Well, I am the oldest of us,” Montaigne said, “I am three-and-thirty, if it can be believed.”
“You are positively ancient,” Elizabeth retorted, “Percy and I shrink in horror at the husk you have become. You should be thinking about a match for yourself—before you’re too old for any woman to have you.”
“Not Miss Mapperton, though,” Montaigne said. “She seemed too taken with Percy to even notice an earl in her midst.”
Percy laughed. “She is too young for you, of course, Auggie. Although you were very gallant with her, making us seem like a most welcoming family.”
God bless his brother. He truly had not noticed his attempts to flirt with Natasha Mapperton.
His family was aware, of course, of his bad reputation and, given their closeness in age, Lawrence and Beatrice had always been more attuned to the implications of having a brother termed theDownstairs Menaceand theTen Guinea Lordand aRank Rakeby the scandal sheets. But he had explained to them long ago that it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding—that the papers talked rubbish. Given how well his siblings knew him—and Leith and John and Trem—they largely disregarded the talk. With Percy, of course, it lent him a little mystique. And with the girls, they looked to him as a brother who knew about the less seemly side of the world. But they could not see him as Olivia did—as a terror who was dangerous to young women. He was sure his sisters would laugh at the notion, if anyone ever dared to say anything to their faces. Which, given his position and the power of the Carrington name, he understood no one ever did.
No, the rumors only truly distressed his mother. Once, after he had lost Olivia, and he had been drinking himself silly each evening, she had been, he knew, extremely worried about him—and it had been her intervention which had made him realize he needed to take control of his life. For the sake of his family. And his friends. His mother had asked him years ago to put an end to the rumors, to stop the implications that he seduced servants and was an abandoned rake. He had told her there was nothing he could do about the tattle. And that she had better put it out of her mind. He wasn’t interested in marrying anyway and he didn’t care what the matrons said. But he knew it hurt her to have him regarded as a paragon of vice, albeit an untouchable, wealthy, titled one, when she still saw him as “her sweet boy.”
He never could bear to tell her that any sweetness he had once possessed had been lost long ago.
“I am glad you approved of my manners, brother,” he said with a laugh. “But did you recognize the other lady at the table?”
Percy furrowed his brow, clearly struggling to recall another woman.
“The companion?” he finally said.
Montaigne nodded.
“No, should I have?”
“I don’t know if youshouldhave. But she used to work for us here. Olivia Watson. As a maid.”
Augustus had never told his mother what was wrong with him back then, although she had begged for him to speak with her about his distress. He had been only twenty, then, and he hadn’t known how to discuss such a thing with his mother. But the Dowager Countess had heard something about the relationship between he and Olivia, after she disappeared, from their long-time housekeeper, Mrs. Phelps. His mother had tried to speak to him about it and he had refused. He had asked her never to bring it up with him ever again. Now that Olivia was back, however, he wondered if that had been the right approach.
“No!” his mother exclaimed, “Olivia Watson, really? I always liked her extremely. I hope she is well.”
Montaigne felt himself blanch. “You liked herextremely? I was not aware you had an opinion on Miss Watson.”
“I can’t say I knew her well, of course,” his mother said, and he could hear some carefulness creeping into her tone, “We hired her from a rich old widow near Bond Street. I know she had come from an orphanage before then. She was a very pretty girl, with such a nice manner, and diligent, too. I was so sorry when she left. Mrs. Phelps was indignant because she left without notice, but I was worried. I am so glad to hear that she merely found employ elsewhere.”
“It would seem so,” Montaigne said, unsure of how to ask what he now burned to know. Thankfully, Percy, Elizabeth, and Petunia had turned away from the conversation and had begun arguing over whether their mutual friend, Lord Thomas Rutherland, would marry Miss Templeton. Only Willa still listened to him and his mother. “When I saw Miss Watson, I didn’t acknowledge the association. She has risen to serve as Mrs. Mapperton’s companion, you see, and I didn’t want to embarrass her by bringing up her role in our house. But I was never sure—youdidn’t dismiss her, did you?”
“Me? Dismiss Olivia Watson?” his mother said, her voice full of alarm. Then she lowered it, seemingly not wanting to attract the notice of her other children. “Not at all, darling. I wouldn’t have done that.” Her deep blue eyes met his. “Under any circumstances.”
He nodded. He hadn’t really thought his mother had done it. If he had, he would have asked her long before now. He would have begged her for information. And, yet, perhaps, some part of him had always wondered. His mother was known for her kindness, but every countess had her limits. Perhaps, she had found out about their relationship and worried he would marry Olivia. It was true that Lawrence and Beatrice had both made marriages that others had regarded as unremarkable, some would even say beneath them, but their spouses had still been people of property and respectable family.
But he could tell now, from her tone and expression, that his mother had not been the catalyst that had led Olivia to flee so long ago. Perhaps, he needed to accept that it had really been Olivia herself who had bolted of her own volition. Perhaps, she had merely tired of him and sought better fortunes elsewhere.
Or, perhaps, she had misunderstood him. It was possible she had figured he was not serious about her and had left to save herself heartache. Or that she had been offended by his lack of serious intentions. She was proud, certainly. There was no denying that. He wouldn’t blame her, if she had taken offense. He had been barely more than a boy then and he hadn’t thought of the future. He had been focused only on Olivia, having her near him, having her in his bed. And he doubted that what the papers had printed in the thirteen years since had helped to disabuse her of her misapprehension. It was ironic, really, it was. But he would fix it now. He would show her all he could give her.
He had to believe that he could convince her to give their love a second chance. If she wouldn’t have him for love, perhaps she would have him for other reasons—and her affection would grow with time. He had money, after all, and title. He could give her any worldly advantage she wanted, if only she would have him. Surely, between all he could offer and the lust he had seen flare in her eyes, she could be convinced to become his wife. He just needed to approach her carefully.
“Mother, I did want to discuss another matter with you…”
The dowager countess turned towards him and he continued to speak.
It was time to set in motion the second part of his plan.
Chapter Seven
