He frowned, not because she was wrong, but because he didn’t like to admit that she had a point.
He sighed. “I will admit that at times—it has been challenging.”
“And itishow they see you, Augustus. Leith said tonight that, until recently, you didn’t like a long-standing association yourself. Or John the other evening, referencing your affair with a servant girl at Edington Hall years ago.”
“John shouldn’t have said such a thing in front of you.”
“It’s not that,” Olivia said, “I wasn’t offended on my own behalf, especially since I know it is not true. But I couldn’t help but feel that for you it must be very uncomfortable. How did you keep such a rouse going? They are your closest friends and yet they have an idea of you that is completely wrong.”
“Not completely,” he said, feeling defensive. “When I was younger, I reallywasthat way.” Olivia turned and leveled him with a gaze, her brows rising towards her hairline. “Alright, not quite, exactly. But I was a young rogue—a rake, even, before I met you. I was not as bad as I seemed, later, but I was quite…I enjoyed myself.”
“That is true,” Olivia said, “I had not thought of that. You seemed full of good humor and mischief when I met you.”
“My friends and I, when we were at Eton, and at Oxford, before I met you, we had many adventures. Leith was even then more fastidious and orderly about his attractions and John and Trem and I were wilder. I had no one to rein me in, really, and no reason to deny myself pleasure.”
“But that was more than thirteen years ago now. You haven’t been that boy for a long time.”
He sighed. It was true. He had been lying to his friends for so long that it had stopped seeming like a choice. Now that he had told her the truth, what his friends thought of him did feel worse.
“Before you came back,” he said, wanting her to understand, “there was no reason, I felt, to tell them the truth. It didn’t even occur to me. The lie was so convenient. But I will admit, now, because of you, it is strange. That you have such a different view of me than they do.”
When he thought about it, as she was forcing him to now, the discrepancy became unbearable. But the idea of his friends finding out the truth, that he had been lying to them for years about his sexual endeavors, was too uncomfortable to contemplate. That he had lied to them for so long about how he spent his time, who he was as a person…They would, of course, be bewildered if he were to reveal it.
“I would never say anything to them,” Olivia said, seeming to sense his anxiety, “I just can’t imagine it is pleasant for you.”
“They would feel betrayed,” he said, knowing it was true, “I used to tell myself that, if they discovered the truth, it would be a trifle. What could they care about what I did or did not do in the bedroom and with whom? But the truth is, if I told them now, after so many years, I know they would feel tricked. How could they not? I would in their position.”
“Surely, they would forgive it.”
“John and Trem would. Leith—I am not so sure.” He couldn’t explain why, but the lie in Leith’s case seemed bigger somehow. Perhaps it was because he felt that his best friend had always used his supposedly scandalous exploits, which were more notorious than Leith’s, as justification for his own proclivities. And Montaigne had always let him do so, even when he knew that, in truth, such solace was completely illusory.
Montaigne sighed. He did not want to think any more about his friends and the many lies he had told them over the years.
Instead of lingering on these unpleasant thoughts, he put his mouth to Olivia’s ear.
“Let’s go to bed, my love.”
She smiled up at him. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Olivia had neverbefore understood the meaning of true happiness. Not even when she had loved Augustus all those years ago had she really understood it. That had been joy, surely, their moments stolen from the normal drudgery of life, but it had not been this feeling of solid, bright happiness. For the first time ever, she could expect her contentment to continue from day to day. She did not worry about the prospect of it vanishing.
One evening, a few weeks after Augustus had given her the townhouse, Eloisa pulled her aside in the Mapperton drawing room. She and Augustus had dined, as they did frequently, with Nathanial and Eloisa. Nathanial and Augustus were discussing the latest play at the Royal Theater in the corner, which they had both enjoyed greatly, despite it being universally panned, and thus they were paying no heed to her and Eloisa.
“Olivia,” Eloisa said to her, “I must say that I have never seen you so happy.”
“I know,” she replied, keeping her voice low over her coffee. “It is true. I am.”
“Has it made you think differently? Of marriage?”
Marriage—of course, she had thought of it. She knew Augustus was happy with her now, happier perhaps than he had ever been. He still wanted to marry her. And when she was so happy with things as they were, it seemed foolish to not consider it. It was not that anything had changed in regard to her station or his in the broader world. However, such storms seemed easier to weather when she felt so sure of their love for each other.
“It has, a bit. Not that I think it will be any easier in terms of how society will see us. But Iamhappy, Eloisa. And I do find myself—well, I would like to be his wife.”
Her friend reached across and squeezed her hand. “I once made a very similar calculation.”
“You always say you never regretted it.”
