When he departed from her door, he kissed her hand, all propriety, as if he had not just ravished her in a public park.
“Tomorrow night,” he murmured, “The opera.”
Olivia passed a quiet night and subsequent morning with the Mappertons. She needn’t have worried about Natasha in the park, she soon discovered; she and Percy had already returned when Olivia reentered the house. That evening, when she sat quietly with Eloisa in the parlor, when Natasha and Nathanial had already gone to bed, her friend had reassured her that she trusted her daughter.
“Are you anxious that she has set her cap at Lord Percy?” Olivia asked.
Eloisa shook her head. “Natasha is not one to give her heart without encouragement. If the boy is leading her on, it will be a heartbreak, but those can’t be helped. If he does disappoint her, he will get nothing for it. Natasha would not be so foolish as to do anything improper and ruin her prospects elsewhere. She has told me so herself.”
Olivia nodded. She was glad that mother and daughter had come to an understanding on the topic.
“Besides,” Eloisa said, “The boy may indeed be very serious about her. I couldn’t deny her a chance at happiness. And even Mr. Mapperton could not have imagined a better match for her from a worldly perspective. But enough about Natasha. She is fine, but I am not so sure about yourself. Olivia, what are you doing with the earl?”
Olivia sighed.
She knew she could be honest with Eloisa. And, so, she was. She explained about the park—with as little detail as necessary—and how confusing she found her feelings for him.
Eloisa laughed at her admission about the park. And nodded at her confusion. When Olivia had said her piece, she shrugged her shoulders.
“You will have to puzzle out how you feel about the man. There will be no easy answer.”
Eloisa was right, of course. But it calmed her to hear her friend characterize the situation so placidly.
For now, the only thing she knew for certain was that she could think of little else but Augustus. Even with her thoughts trained on Lord Montaigne, however, Olivia could not forget Eloisa’s encounter with her old friend.
“Have you seen Mr. Tombey again?”
Eloisa looked up at her and then back down at her lap. She gave a little huff of laughter.
“He has called. I’ve renewed the acquaintance.”
Olivia did not press further. She suspected that there could be more to Eloisa’s relationship with Mr. Tombey. But she knew how loyal her friend was to her late husband. She didn’t want to make her feel more conflicted than she already might. If there was more to know, Olivia knew Eloisa would tell her when she was ready.
That night, Olivia’s dreams were filled of what she and Augustus had shared that afternoon. The orgasms that she had experienced with him were unparalleled. She couldn’t remember having come that hard, well—since they had been together the first time. What she had told him, about his prowess, about his unique effect on her, it hadn’t been a lie.
And even though she tried not to, somewhere, in the back of her mind, she began to hope. Maybe, this time, their relationship could be different.
Maybe, this time, she wouldn’t walk away with a broken heart.
Maybe, this time, she wouldn’t have to walk away at all.
*
When Augustus andLord Percy pulled up to the Mapperton town house the next night, Olivia felt a shiver ricochet down her spine. Each Carrington man had come in a separate carriage.
Of course, they could hardly have done anything else, given the size of their party, but Olivia knew what it meant. She knew what being in such close quarters with Augustus would lead to.
Her gleeful anticipation stuttered, however, when, just as she gained the stairs from their apartments down to the ground floor, a young footman stopped her.
“A letter just come for you miss,” he said, pushing a missive into her palm and striding away.
From the direction and the hand, she knew immediately who it was from. Mr. Laurent. She tore open the seal and perused the contents. She gave a little huff of laughter at the hot-pressed paper that he used. In England, such paper was regarded as fussy. Mr. Laurent regarded it as a sign of his cultivation.
As she skimmed the letter, she saw, at first, nothing to alarm her. He had told her that he would write to her and so here was the letter, an indicator of that reliability in him that she so prized. He gave an account of himself, his manor, and his mother that proved that they had not varied since she left France. He inquired mildly after her activities in London, hoping that she was enjoying the sights. All in all, it was the type of letter that she had expected from him.
There was nothing in it to justify her sense that it was irksome. That the letter was an intrusion of reality onto her fantasy.
Until she reached its end.
