At first, she was confused. Then she saw the hot-pressed paper and her stomach dropped.
Mr. Laurent’s letter. It was now clutched in Augustus’s hand.
And he was reading it.
*
The next hoursat the opera were some of the most torturous Olivia had ever spent on this earth—and she counted the many she had devoted to scullery work. They were seated in the box belonging to the Duke of Edington. Augustus was on its subscription list, because of his close friendship with the duke. The box was lovely, far superior to the pit seats that they had taken two weeks ago. Nevertheless, seated next to himself and the Mappertons, with no opportunity to address Augustus about Mr. Laurent’s letter, she was in agony.
His stony expression testified that he had, indeed, read what it contained. Not that she needed such confirmation. He had handed her the letter when he had alighted from the carriage, saying nothing as he did so, his expression so grave that she had wanted to burst into tears on the spot.
If his gaze had fallen on her, she was sure she would have shrunk from it—but he did not look at her for the entirety of the show, keeping his eyes on the stage. She had hoped that, during the intermissions, that the Mappertons and Lord Percy would have reason to remove themselves from the box so that she could speak with him privately. Unfortunately, when the time came, none of them did so. The little efforts at conversation she made Augustus answered politely, but there could be no mistaking his shift in tone.
Under these circumstances, the opera meant even less to her than usual. Growing up as she had, she had never acquired an ability to appreciate the art form, although she had attended the Parisian opera many times with Eloisa, who had a real taste for it.
Instead, the hours were filled with mortification. She could only concentrate on what Augustus must be thinking of her. She found herself frightened that he would retract thecourtshipinto which they had entered. The idea that she would never feel his touch again—that she would not get to return to what they had experienced together at Hyde Park—left her bereft.
He must think her the worst kind of trifler. And, worst, he would not be completely wrong. She had, of course, still been intending to accept Mr. Laurent’s proposal. Empirically, she had no reason to feel guilty. She had still not forgiven Augustus for what he had done in the past. For how he had dismissed her, how he had discarded her. Wasn’t this what he deserved, after all?
Yet, after the park, her heart constricted at the thought of what he had read. And what he might think it meant about her relationship with Laurent—and himself.
Finally, blessedly, the opera ended. At this point, Olivia found herself frantic to speak with Augustus alone. As they waited for the carriages in the crush, the din making all talk nearly impossible, Oliva took her chance.
She pulled Nathanial aside.
“I need you to ride with your mother and sister in Lord Percy’s carriage.”
Nathanial grimaced. “Natasha and I are worried about you, Olivia. Lord Montaigne is regarded as one of the most wicked men in London. He is not to be trusted with unmarried ladies—or ladies, it seems, of any kind.”
She shook her head, so frustrated by the events of the evening that she could feel tears threatening in earnest. “You cannot take rumors so seriously. What they say of him, it is not true.”
Nathanial did not look reassured. “I am not trying to question your judgment, Olivia. But how could you know such a thing?”
“I just do, Nathanial. Please. I am asking you. Begging you, in fact. I need you to trust me.”
Nathanial appeared alarmed by the urgency of her words. But he must have seen something in her expression that made him defer to her greater years.
“Very well.” He gave her a little bow, and at just that moment, Augustus’s carriage was announced. “I will see you in Bloomsbury.”
Olivia quickly moved to enter the carriage and felt Augustus himself follow her.
Once they were both seated and Nathanial appeared nowhere, he asked, “Where is Count Mapperton?”
“He is riding with Percy.”
She saw Augustus pause and then nod. He signaled to the footman and the door closed. Relief flooded Olivia.
And then she saw the expression on Augustus’s face and felt anything but relieved.
The carriage pulled away from the opera and they sat in silence. She could bear it for no more than a minute.
“I saw that you read my letter,” Olivia broke in, “From Mr. Laurent. My—friend. In France.”
“Pardon me,” Augustus said stiffly, “I should not have done so. I did not know it was yours.”
“You do not have to apologize. I am not affronted. I only want to make sure you understand. I know how it must look.”
“How does it look, Olivia?”
