He smiled down at hers.
“It’s yours.”
She laughed. “I don’t understand.”
“I bought it for you.”
She reeled back. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Then, looking around and realizing that he was being serious, she returned her gaze to him. “I cannot accept such a gift.”
“And why is that? Did you not agree to be my mistress? Is that not what men do for their mistresses?”
“Yes, but—I didn’t think—I was proposing—” Olivia’s mind whirred. She had not considered that he would do something so extravagant. It scrambled her brain. She did not know whether to be outraged or delighted.
So, instead, she simply said, “But I live with Eloisa.”
He laughed. “And that need not change. Just because you own this house does not mean you have to live here. But your lodgings with Eloisa are temporary. I want you to have a home in London. If you won’t take Carrington Place as your home, then I want you to have this one.”
“I can’t accept it,” she said, again, mechanically, although she was not quite sure why.
“But you can.” He paused. “I promise it puts you under no obligation to me. In fact, it does the opposite. Why would you need to marry me when you are an independent woman of means? You could refuse me forever now. You need nothing I offer—at least from a worldly perspective.” He pulled her into a kiss. When he pulled back, she was breathless. “You could keep me as your lover until the day I die, Olivia, and you would be able to. And I would accept it. Because I only want you.”
He paused again, cupping her face with such tenderness, it made her want to weep.
“It is your house. But it is my hope that, here, we can be together. We need not wait for the right moment to steal away or for favorable circumstances. Even if you won’t be my countess, here, I hope, you will consent to be my queen. In this house of your own—in which you own every inch.”
Olivia looked around the rooms. She had to admit that he knew her taste well. She saw now that he had left much space for her to make the place her own, but what he had furnished was very much to her preferences. She searched her mind for a reason that she should refuse his gesture. And she came up with not a one. A house of her own was not something she ever thought would be possible for her, except perhaps in widowhood, after a practical and advantageous marriage to a man like Mr. Laurent. And a house of her own withhimin it? It exceeded her wildest dreams.
Thus, there was only one thing she could think to say.
“Thank you,” she said, pulling him closer to her. He leaned down and kissed her, sending spirals of want through her. “No one has ever done anything so kind for me.”
“You deserve this,” he said, “and so much more. And I plan to give it all to you, if only you will let me.”
And, right there, on the floor of her new entryway, he got right to the business of showing her exactly what he meant.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Augustus,
We have reached the countryside at last. Eloisa has a beautiful house here and it delights my heart to be out of the commotion of the city. I have never known anything but London. I had not known the country could be so lovely—or so healing. I would not say that I have stopped missing you yet, but it does lessen the ache.
And so does my friendship with Eloisa. She is ten years my senior, but we are quickly becoming friends. She lost her husband in London—he was very ill, it was not sudden, but still she is heartbroken. We are both quite lovelorn, only in different ways. We live a retired life here in the country, so perhaps it is not strange that we are becoming such good friends. I do think I could find a kind of happiness here. Maybe, one day, I will even be so lucky as to stop loving you.
Olivia
*
The next fewweeks were, without a doubt, the happiest of Montaigne’s existence. The only weeks in this life that could compete would have been those he spent with Olivia during that first summer—but he could see now that, even back then, a pall of secrecy had dampened what they were to each other. Now, while their relationship was not one that he could yet display to the world, he could own it to those he cared about most—and he could spend time with her without worrying about their exposure. He had never known such bliss.
He and Olivia had become integrated into each other’s lives with a speed he had not thought possible. While he still nominally lived at Carrington Place, and she still claimed Mrs. Mapperton’s lodgings as her home, the truth was that they had begun to live together at the new town house. As the weeks progressed, without even really trying, they were making it into a home of their own.
While they eschewedtonevents, where they could not present themselves as a couple without courting notoriety and scandal, they were far from lonely. Montaigne dined with her, Mrs. Mapperton, and Nathanial, multiple times a week, as if all present hadn’t once thought him the most notorious rake in London. And Olivia came nearly every day to Carrington Place to take tea with his mother and sisters. Between her and Willa a particular closeness had sprung up which gladdened his heart. While Montaigne could never have said he had a favorite sister, Willa was extremely dear to him—and if he could have chosen one sibling for Olivia to be close with, it would have been her.
Even Olivia and his friends fell into an easier rapport than he expected. Of course, it was not perfect. She viewed him so differently than his friends did. He had to admit that she knew him better. Sometimes, when he thought of the gulf between how Olivia now saw him and how his friends thought of him, it filled him with a piercing anxiety. Even what his friends called him—“Montaigne” or “Monty”—was so different from how Olivia addressed him, always as “Augustus,” all vowels and gentleness.
But, as of now, even Leith and Olivia seemed to get along. Given Leith’s skepticism about their relationship, Montaigne had been worried how he would react to this latest development, particularly when he explained that, as of yet, Olivia had refused to marry him. Thus far he had worried for naught. After Catherine and John had hosted one of their private picnic dinners in Olivia’s honor, Leith had begun to come by the townhouse by himself some evenings, taking a glass or port and engaging them both in amiable chat. It gave Montaigne unspeakable delight to see his oldest, dearest friend and Olivia on such good terms, even if she was still getting used to Leith’s quirks, especially his rather strange attitudes towards his own erotic life.
“You should bring Mrs. Porter with you next time,” Olivia said to Leith one evening, referring to his mistress of the moment, a courtesan who was regarded as one of the most fashionable women of thedemimonde.
