“But why did she leave?” Catherine pressed.
“I don’t know. And I haven’t asked heranythingyet. About the past—or what might be in the future.” He needed to make that clear. “She seems to have returned to London with a rather low opinion of me, on account of the scandal sheets. It appears that, whatever happened years ago, I offended her somehow, or perhaps she thought I was not serious about our liaison. But now that she is back, I want her as much as ever. And I’m going to try and do what I can to have her accept me.”
“Not to sound like an aristocratic nightmare,” Henrietta broke in, “But she’s a maid and you are an earl. Surely she will accept you?”
“She isn’t a maid any longer. She is a companion to a Mrs. Mapperton, who has traveled from France to England with her children. Natasha, her daughter, is making her London debut.”
“Ah, we’ve heard of them!” Catherine chimed in. “They say Miss Mapperton is enchanting.”
“Not as enchanting as Olivia.”
Leith groaned. “You’ve never been able to be reasonable over this woman.”
“No,” Montaigne said, unable to keep from smiling, “Not really.”
“She ran off once before, I already said to him,” Leith put to their friends, “She isn’t trustworthy.”
“From the bottom pincher himself!” Henrietta broke out. “Perhaps you should not give advice in matters of the heart. It is an organ you never seem to have used.”
“Leith,” John said, his tone uncharacteristically sober. “I have loved a woman that I thought I could not have—there is nothing worse. But your situation is even graver, Monty. I always knew where to find Catherine. It was only my pride that deprived me of eight happy years with the woman I love. Still, I understand enough of what you have been through. It feels foolish now to know that we were both suffering from the same ailment all of those years and never discussed it. We will all do whatever we can to help you win her, no matter her station.”
John looked around for assent.
And Montaigne heard all of his friends agree.
Even Leith.
Chapter Nine
Montaigne had seldombeen so nervous for a ball. In fact, he usually regarded balls with the utmost emotional neutrality. Yes, they could be hot and uncomfortable and the company irritating, but they had also given him a fair bit of amusement over the years. Bad or good, a ball was customarily a place where he understood his role. Don full dress, show up, ask ladies to dance, retire to the card room. Much like the dances themselves, a ball had steps and, in his experience, as long as you followed them, you had no reason to worry. Even a reprobate like himself could get by that way.
But that was before he had set up a ball for the semi-clandestine purpose of wooing one lady.
Not that he had done much work to put together said event. His mother and sisters had, of course, superintended the preparations, and now he cast an eye around the ballroom and wondered if he should have taken a stronger hand. The guests were already beginning to be announced and so he knew, intellectually, that it was far too late to change anything. And yet he couldn’t help himself from whispering to his mother,
“You do not think the pink draperies too much?” He gestured to the blush fabric adorning the upper half of the high walls.
His mother looked at him with arched brows. “Petunia picked them. And since when doyoucare about ballroom draperies?”
“I only want everything to be proper,” he scoffed.
“I’m sure,” she said, her tone close to astonished.
He lost the next twenty minutes to the greeting of guests, as he and his mother stood and received them together. Thankfully, his mother was a popular and well-liked matron, with that rare combination of kindness and social grace that drew people to her. He was far too agitated to be more than adequate as a host. Luckily, she made up for him.
He saw Olivia enter the room with the Mappertons and, for a moment, his heart stopped. He completely forgot that he was talking to Lord and Lady Dalrymple, who were already apparently vexed with him for the business with their maid, Alice. But he couldn’t help his reaction. Not when she stepped into the ballroom in a white silk of such simple beauty. Not when the bodice was an inch lower than any he had yet seen her in. Not when she looked like a goddess, Athena or Hera, perhaps, come to change some poor mortal’s life. Her brown locks were piled on her head in one of the creations favored by ladies these days—and he couldn’t stop staring at the pale, delicious skin it revealed about her neck and shoulders.
Her eyes quickly found his in the crowd. Their gazes locked.
For a moment, he felt as if he were there only with her. As if she knew that he had built this ball so that she would come. Her honey-brown eyes widened slightly, her mouth parted. And then she turned away.
And he was facing down Lord and Lady Dalrymple once more, completely unsure of what the latter had just said to him, totally adrift as to how to form a response.
Once he had dispatched the couple, he spotted John and Catherine at the corner of the ballroom. Excusing himself from his mother’s side, he moved towards his friends. Given that John and Catherine had had their own complex love story, he felt particularly heartened by their presence and support. He felt they understood something of his experience of Olivia.
“Hello, Monty,” John said, when he reached them. “So, what is your plan?”
Montaigne laughed. “Well, this,” he said, indicating the ballroom and the guests milling about them.
