She cursed herself. How many times had Montague told her that she was no longer to engage in activities best left to the staff? What must the beast think of her?
His exchanged a glance with his companion.
“My master is of the opinion that an understanding of how a household is run is a quality required of a wife,” the other man said. “That understanding will naturally include the practical application of household duties.”
The beast frowned, then gestured with his hands. Olivia watched as they moved in a fluid motion, as if engaging in a dance.
The young man let out a sharp sigh. “My master wishes to convey his regrets that he’s otherwise engaged this morning. However, he has a gift for Miss Whitcombe.”
Olivia cringed.
Miss Whitcombe. Not Lady Olivia. So, he knew she was a bastard. They both did.
And yet he’d still agreed to marry her.
The beast thrust his hands into his jacket pocket then pulled out a small box. He hesitated, meeting Olivia’s gaze, then offered it to Montague.
“I think, Devereaux, any young woman receiving a gift from her betrothed would rather he gave it to her than to her brother,” Montague said. “You’re marrying my sister, not me.”
“N-no, brother,” Olivia stammered. “If he doesn’t want to…”
“Sir?”
The beast glanced at his companion, then stiffly offered the box to Olivia.
She took it, and as their fingers touched, her skin tightened at the spark of need. He drew in a sharp breath, the first sound he’d made, and she glanced up and met his gaze. Then he withdrew and gestured toward the box.
She opened it and let out a low cry. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a ring bearing the largest ruby she’d ever seen.
“I-I couldn’t possibly…” she began, then hesitated as Lord Devereaux raised his hand.
“What do you say, sister?” her brother said.
“Montague!” Eleanor said. “Leave her be.”
Her cheeks warming, Olivia plucked the ring from the box and flicked her gaze to her betrothed. He nodded, and she slipped it on the third finger of her left hand, where it met resistance at the knuckle before finally settling at the base of her finger as if it belonged there.
But it didn’t. It was a ring for a countess, whereas she was only…
She caught sight of Lord Devereaux moving his hands again.
“My master wishes to know if you like it,” the young man said.
“Y-yes, though it’s too grand for me. I don’t know if I should…”
“It was the late countess’s ring, and as you’re soon to be the countess, it’s yours by right.”
Olivia lifted her gaze to her betrothed. “It was your mother’s?”
He narrowed his eyes, and she caught a flicker of pain in their dark depths.
She turned the ring on her finger and ran her fingertip over the stone. As she moved her hand it seemed to pulse with life, the facetsreflecting the light in differing shades of red, from light pink to deep crimson, as if the stone were alive.
“Thank you,” she whispered, meeting his gaze, striving to conquer the need to look away and hide from his scrutiny. “I-I’ll do my best to deserve it.”
His frown deepening, he gestured with his hands.
Olivia swallowed a knot of shame. He had every right to object to her owning such a precious heirloom. Perhaps he considered her so unworthy that there was nothing she could ever do to deserve the ring—or deserve him.
