Leith laughed, swilling the port in his glass. They had just had a very fine meal which Olivia had coordinated with more real elegance than Montaigne had seen in most of the finest homes of theton.He had provided her with a small staff when he had set up the townhome and he had expected them to be adequate. What he had not expected was his lover’s acuity with domestic arrangements. Every dinner, every detail of the house, transformed under her guidance into something unusually lovely. He was sure Leith, who was sensitive to such nuances, had noticed, and that it was not a small part of why he came to see them so regularly.
“I thank you for your generosity, Miss Watson, but I am not at all sure that Mrs. Porter and I will be on such intimate terms for much longer.”
Montaigne watched Olivia’s brow furrow. “Has she done something to displease you?”
Leith shifted in his armchair, casting a glance at Montaigne, as if asking for help in his explanation. Montaigne knew that Leith seldom stayed with a mistress for longer than two weeks. He was notorious for it. But the truth was that he didn’t necessarily understand his friend’s logic himself. If he enjoyed a woman, why not keep their liaison for longer? When they had been younger, he hadn’t been too interested in the answer to that question, wrapped up as he was in his own heartbreak. Back then, he could have asked. But sometime in the past few years, as their friends had married, Montaigne realized that he didn’t understand why Leith behaved the way he did with his mistresses—and, all of a sudden, asking for an explanation felt impossible. The question would have been, somehow, judgmental. Hostile, even.
“No, of course not,” Leith said, adjusting a cravat that was already more than straight enough, “It is merely that…Well, Monty knows I don’t go in for long-standing connections.” He smirked. “In fact, not too long ago, that was something Monty understood very well himself.”
He tried not to visibly wince at this statement. Both because of how callous it must sound to Olivia, so like her old idea of him, and also because she now knew how untrue it was.
Out of discomfort, Montaigne cleared his throat. “Leith doesn’t care for a long liaison, as a rule, it’s true.”
“And why is that? What is your fear?” Olivia asked, her tone delicate. “Do you worry about becoming responsible for someone?”
Leith crossed his arms, clearly not enjoying this line of questioning.
“It is not that, exactly. I just prefer…” He drifted off, uncrossing his arms again and gesturing as if searching for the word, “…order. And if a liaison goes on for too long, it becomes messy. Untidy. I hate untidiness.”
Montaigne looked at his oldest friend, with his high-starched cravat and his impeccable waistcoat. It was true that he had become only more rigid with the years. He hadn’t necessarily noticed it happening, but the result was now plain before him.
“Well,” Olivia said, her tone kinder, Montaigne realized, than his friend probably deserved, “Mrs. Porter—or any of your other paramours—are always welcome here. If you ever feel that it would not be too complicating.”
Not long after this exchange, Leith left the townhouse, and he and Olivia lounged, as they often did in the evenings, on the sofa. He loved this part of the evening with her especially. He knew that, once they went upstairs, they would be intimate, and it enhanced the pleasure of this time together before sleep. It was as if they had something very delicious they would soon enjoy but, in putting it off, they savored it. In these times together, they would often simply talk, filling in the blanks of their years away from one another, or they would share an after-dinner sweet, a box of chocolates or a glass of wine, and read aloud from a new novel. Sometimes, they would read the newspapers, always making sure to skip the scandal sheets. Montaigne dreaded encountering anything about themselves—anything that would puncture their nest of security and happiness.
One night, when they were sitting in this way, Olivia revealed that she had written to Mr. Laurent and told him that she could not marry him. He had felt himself exhale, not realizing how much he needed to hear the words.
Tonight, however, the conversation soon turned to Leith.
“I hope he did not mind my questions about Mrs. Porter,” Olivia said, “But it does seem odd that he is so reluctant to have a relationship with a woman that lasts any length of time, despite always having a mistress. Is it just for my sake? Does he ever bring his mistresses to meet you?”
“He used to,” Montaigne said, realizing that there had been a time when Leith had been less fastidious, “But he has done so less and less over the years. And now I can’t even think of the last time. He has become more…mechanical. His arrangements seldom last longer than two weeks. I can’t keep track, truth be told, of which courtesan he is with.”
“Does he treat them poorly? The courtesans?”
Of course, Montaigne thought, she would be concerned about his treatment of his mistresses. It occurred to him that he should probably have beenmoreconcerned about it before now.
“No,” he said, truthfully, “I believe they know the arrangement. He has a certain reputation—I am not sure how to explain it.”
“Please try.”
“Well, it is my impression that the courtesans regard him—not as a rite of passage, exactly, but as a way for a woman to garner…a certain distinction at the beginning of her career. If she is known to have been the Marquess of Leith’s mistress, other men will become interested, as well.”
“So, Leith is a courtesan tastemaker?” He could tell from Olivia’s expression that the idea was not completely savory to her. And, indeed, the truth was that it was, rather, an unsavory business.
“Essentially. I do not think the women expect constancy or hope for anything more. He is a stepping stone for them—to more lasting arrangements with other men. And he treats them, lavishly, of course, during their time together. Jewelry, gifts of money, that sort of thing. It is undoubtedly more, all told, than if he kept one woman.”
Olivia nodded, her head on his chest. The weight of her body against his was so comforting. Their intimacy felt like a ballast against the spring chill that Leith had departed into.
“Even if the women understand what to expect from him, it still seems a curious life for a man to lead,” she said, tentatively, “I don’t mean to judge him harshly. It only seems rather sad.”
“I agree,” Montaigne said, putting his arms around her and pulling her closer. Right now, his friend’s life, which had never before struck him as particularly unusual, appeared positively hellish. When he had this woman beside him, warm and loving and radiant, Leith’s orderly existence seemed stripped of all comfort.
“Do you ever think of telling your friends the truth about yourself?” Olivia said, startling him with her new tact, “I am not suggesting that you should—but does it feel strange to you, that they think of you as this rake, this seducer, when that is not what you are at all?”
“Not at all?” Montaigne teased her, amused by her characterization of him. “I wouldn’t say not at all. I seduced you, didn’t I? Can you not be a rake for one woman?”
“Perhaps,” she laughed, “But that is not usually what is meant by the term.” She sighed. “I just think it must be lonely for you. To not have your friends really understand you.”
