Oh heavens!As if the evening couldn’t get any worse.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” she said, her voice wavering. Through the mist of tears, she saw him raise his eyebrows, then hold the tray toward her.
“Take a glass, miss.”
She took one, mumbling her thanks. The tears that she’d kept at bay spilled onto her cheeks, and she glanced about the ballroom for a means of escape. Then she caught sight of a door and rushed toward it, exhaling with relief when it swung outward at her touch, and slipped through the doorway.
A rush of cold rippled across her skin and she drew in a sharp breath, then let out a sob.
Would she never escape the stain of her birth? She’d have been better off living in obscurity, enjoying the simple life of a village schoolteacher. Montague had done what he believed to be an act of kindness by recognizing her as his sister. But, in reality, he’d taken her from the life she belonged to and thrust her into a world in which she did not fit—a world where her validity would always be questioned.
Don’t let them win, Olivia. Don’t let them see you upset, or angry.
Eleanor’s words whispered in her mind, and Olivia drew in another breath. Her sister-in-law was right, of course. Any bully relished the prospect of seeing their victim in distress. The best way to fight Sir Heath, Miss Peacock, and everyone who sought to torment her was to show them that she cared nothing for them and their taunts.
But first, she needed to give vent to her anger.
“Bastards,” she whispered. Then she took another sip, letting thebubbles burst on her tongue. “And…bitches!”
She drained her glass, coughing as the bubbles ticked her throat, and paced across the terrace toward the balustrade and back.
“Bastards!” Gripping the empty champagne glass, she paced to and fro, drawing in lungfuls of cool night air. But the anger failed to dissipate. Instead, a tide of despair rose blackly in her heart. She bit her lip to stem the tears. The last thing she wanted was for Eleanor, or Montague, to suspect she’d been crying.
She cast her gaze about the terrace, her eyes growing accustomed to the darkness. The thin sliver of moon in the sky cast a faint blue light, picking out blurred shapes—the tree line in the distance, broken by the occasional chimney pot, the stonework of the balustrade, and the more solid shapes of the shrubs and bushes at the far end of the terrace. She blinked, letting her gaze wander over the shrub in the shadows that moved slightly in the breeze. Then she froze.
There was no breeze.
“Wh-who’s there?”
She paused, and the silence seemed to stretch across the air.
You fool!
Montague had admonished her over her overactive imagination during soirées and parties when she could have sworn she heard whispered taunts from the company. She’d dismissed his admonishments as the words of a loving brother seeking to protect her from the derision of Society. But perhaps he’d been right. For what purpose would a ruffian, or otherworldly creature, be prowling Lord Fairchild’s terrace in the center of London?
Then she heard it—an intake of breath.
“C-come out! I can see you!” she said, forcing a note of boldness in her voice that belied the terror rising in her throat.
The shape moved—a dark form among the shadows, swelling in size, towering over her, and she stepped back as the blurred lines solidified into the shape of a man.
No, not a man, agiant, with broad shoulders and thick arms that showed the faint bulge of tensed muscles. With slow, steady breaths, he moved closer, seeming to glide across the ground, and a whimper escaped her lips as two luminous eyes materialized as if by witchcraft.
Then the form stepped out of the shadows and his face came into view—features sharp as if cut from marble, strong cheekbones, a straight nose, and full lips set in a firm, angry line. He stared at her, his eyes glittering with fury beneath a furrowed brow, topped with a head of thick, dark hair—the mane of a lion approaching his prey ready to tear out its victim’s throat.
Then he curled his lips into a snarl.
Olivia caught sight of a set of teeth, gleaming and white in the moonlight, and opened her mouth to scream. She lifted her hands to fend him off, and the glass slipped from her grasp and shattered on the ground.
Chapter Nine
Crash!
Charles winced at the sound of splintering glass. The interloper raised her hands and let out a cry.
Bloody woman!It served her right for disturbing his peace. Why wasn’t she inside, simpering over the young men she sought to entrap? Or perhaps she’d ventured out for a tryst with some unsuspecting young fool.
He raised his hands in a gesture of appeasement and stepped toward her. She let out a whimper and her eyes widened, two dark pools in a face made pale by the moonlight.
