Page 47 of Managing the Major

He caught a flash of emerald green, and he recognized Lucy, or Lady Crawford, as he should think of her now, on the arm of some young buck. With her light red hair and pale complexion, she was beautiful as ever, but he felt nothing. He preferred Octavia’s natural glow and soft curves to all the Lucys in the world. For a moment, he feared she might approach him, but Lady Crawford and her companion found a place at the far end of the generously laden table.

A moment later, Octavia appeared at his elbow. “The library is around the corner from the drawing room,” she murmured as he handed her a glass of ratafia. “I think this would be a good time for you to slip in; there were only one or two people to pass in the drawing room. I’ll join you presently.” He nodded and put down his wineglass as she turned to greet some acquaintances. If he didn’t know better, he would think her quite adept at secret trysts.

Alastair reached the large drawing room without incident and found it nearly empty, as she had said. Quietly, he passed by and slipped into the library two rooms down, leaving the door slightly ajar. His heart beat faster at the subterfuge involved, but also at the prospect of privacy with Octavia. It might be possible to steal a kiss if he could leave it at that.

He lifted a volume of Marcus Aurelius from the bookshelf, skimming a few pages before the door opened and then clicked shut.

“I think we should leave it ajar, Octavia, in case—” He turned to see Lucy Crawford standing in the middle of the room.

“Alastair…” She took a step forward, and he held out his hand to stop her.

“Lady Crawford, you need to leave immediately. You’ve put yourself at risk for a scandal that neither one of us needs.”

“Do you think I care?” Her voice wavered on the verge of tears. “You’ve avoided me dreadfully, and I am desperate to speak to you. How can you, Alastair? After everything we meant to each other, you could at least hear what I have to say.”

He kept his voice low and spoke as coldly as possible. “My avoidance sends an obvious message, Lady Crawford. I have no desire to talk now or at any other time. Go, please—your husband will wonder where you are.”

“Lord Crawford did not come tonight—he means nothing to me. Oh, I must be mad…but Alastair…you consume my thoughts since my return, and have always done so. You and only you. Oh, God…if you knew how much I regret—”

“Leaving me for another man three days before our marriage?” He knew he’d made a mistake as soon as the words came out, but years of repressed anger rose like bile in his throat, and he couldn’t stop.

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you. What happened to your first husband, Lady Crawford? Did you tire of him? Or perhaps he just wasn’t rich enough for your taste…”

Perversely, she took his anger as encouragement, moving closer. “I discovered too late that my marriage was a terrible mistake. As soon as Jonathan passed, I wanted desperately to come home and find you, to admit my mistake, but I was alone in Paris with no means, no protector—Lord Crawford was the only way to be with you again, Alastair.”

“And that is supposed to endear you to me? Quite the opposite. If you won’t leave, Lady Crawford, I will.” As he stepped around her, she astonished him by throwing herself at his feet and covering his hand with kisses. He froze in distaste, taken entirely by surprise.

“Alastair, please don’t leave! You must remember all the times you held me in your arms and swore eternal love—I won’t believe you don’t feel something—that your kisses meant so little—”

Before he could push her away, there was a gasp at the door. He hadn’t even heard it open, but Octavia stood at the entrance, a look of horror on her face.

“I—I—excuse me…I didn’t mean to—” She turned and fled.

He felt the blood drain from his face. Lucy slowly rose, a small smile of satisfaction on her lovely lips.

“Well, my love, it seems that if I can’t have you, no one will.”

*

It took everything within Octavia not to run from Lady Willoughby’s house and go home immediately, where she could cry freely or have a tantrum in her own chamber. She ducked into the drawing room, praying no one heard Alastair call out her name as she rushed down the hallway.

A middle-aged couple shared the settee in the corner, and two ladies chattered by the fireplace. She tucked in a stray curl and took a deep breath, sinking into a vacant chair, numb with shock. Alastair obviously had a past with Lady Crawford. Was there still something between them? When Nerissa explained the family’s relationship to Lady Crawford, Octavia assumed she had been a childhood friend, but that was obviously not the case.

It hurt that Alastair had not mentioned someone so important in his life, and that his sister had deliberately misled her. Perhaps she was naïve to think Alastair had no attachments; he was a handsome man and not in the first bloom of youth, after all. But if he had been in love with someone in their circle—that was important to disclose, wasn’t it?

Anger, hurt, and doubt swirled in her mind. What should she do? Certainly, not hide here and feel sorry for herself—she’d go back to the party and show Alastair just how little she cared about his liaisons.

As she walked out of the drawing room, they practically ran into each other. He stepped back, obviously distressed.

“Octavia, we must talk.”

Must? He needed to beg for her forgiveness, not make demands.

“There is no need to explain, Alastair, so please don’t spoil what’s left of the evening. I intend to enjoy myself, and you are perfectly welcome to do the same.”

She left him standing there, looking distraught. When she entered the ballroom, of course, Edward Redfern stood in the archway. The gentleman plagued her to dance at most events, though she tried to avoid him.

“Miss Merrick, will you do me the honor of this waltz?”