Never.
Shivering, Olivia pulled her silk wrap snugger. Though late May, she’d been nigh on to freezing since the ship docked last week.
A few curious guests turned to peer in their carriage’s direction. A lady swathed in gold silk and dripping diamonds, spoke into her companion’s ear and pointed at the gleaming carriage. Did she suspect someone other than Aunt Muriel sat behind the distinctive Daventry crest?
Trepidation dried Olivia’s mouth and tightened her chest. Would many of the ton remember her?
Stupid question, that. Of course she would be remembered.
Much like ivy—its vines clinging tenaciously to a tree—or a barnacle cemented to a rock, one couldn’t easily be pried from the upper ten thousand’s memory. But, more on point, would anyone recall her fascination with Allen Wimpleton?
Inevitably.
Coldness didn’t cause the new shudder rippling from her shoulder to her waist.
Yes. Attending the ball was a featherbrained solicitation for disaster. No good could come of it. Flattening against the sky-blue and gold-trimmed velvet squab in the corner of her aunt’s coach, Olivia vehemently shook her head.
“I cannot do it. I thought I could, but I positively cannot.”
A curl came loose, plopping onto her forehead.
Bother.
The dratted, rebellious nuisance that passed for her hair escaped its confines more often than not. She shoved the annoying tendril beneath a pin, having no doubt the tress would work its way free again before evenings end. Patting the circlet of rubies adorning her hair, she assured herself the band remained secure. The treasure had belonged to Aunt Muriel’s mother, a Prussian princess, and no harm must come to it.
Olivia’s pulse beat an irregular staccato as she searched for a plausible excuse for refusing to attend the ball after all. She wouldn’t lie outright, which ruled out her initial impulse to claim a megrim.
“I ... we—” She wiggled her white-gloved fingers at her brother, lounging on the opposite seat. “Were not invited.”
Contented as their fat cat, Socrates, after lapping a saucer of fresh cream, Bradford settled his laughing gaze on her. “Yes, we mustn’t do anything untoward.”
Terribly vulgar, that. Arriving at a haut ton function, no invitation in hand. She and Bradford mightn’t make it past the vigilant majordomo, and then what were they to do? Scuttle away like unwanted pests? Mortifying and prime tinder for the gossips.
“Whatever will people think?” Bradford thrived on upending Society. If permitted, he would dance naked as a robin just to see the reactions. He cocked a cinder-black brow, his gray-blue eyes holding a challenge.
Toad.
Olivia yearned to tell him to stop giving her that loftier look. Instead, she bit her tongue to keep from sticking it out at him like she had as a child. Irrationality warred with reason, until her common sense finally prevailed. “I wouldn’t want to impose, is all I meant.”
“Nonsense, darling. It’s perfectly acceptable for you and Bradford to accompany me.” The seat creaked as Aunt Muriel, the Duchess of Daventry, bent forward to scrutinize the crowd. She patted Olivia’s knee. “Lady Wimpleton is one of my dearest friends. Why, we had our come-out together, and I’m positive had she known that you and Bradford had recently returned to England, she would have extended an invitation herself.”
Olivia pursed her lips.
Not if she knew the volatile way her son and I parted company, she wouldn’t have.
A powerful peeress, few risked offending Aunt Muriel, and she knew it well. She could haul a haberdasher or a milkmaid to the ball and everyone would paste artificial smiles on their faces and bid the duo a pleasant welcome. Reversely, if someone earned her scorn, they had best pack-up and leave London permanently before doors began slamming in their faces. Her influence rivaled that of the Almack’s patronesses.
Bradford shifted, presenting Olivia with his striking profile as he, too, took in the hubbub before the manor. “You will never be at peace—never be able to move on—unless you do this.”
That morsel of knowledge hadn’t escaped her, which was why she had agreed to the scheme to begin with. Nevertheless, that didn’t make seeing Allen Wimpleton again any less nerve-wracking.
“You must go in, Livy,” Bradford urged, his countenance now entirely brotherly concern.
She stopped plucking at her mantle and frowned. “Please don’t call me that, Brady.”
Once, a lifetime ago, Allen had affectionately called her Livy—until she had refused to succumb to his begging and run away to Scotland. Regret momentarily altered her heart rhythm.
Bradford hunched one of his broad shoulders and scratched his eyebrow. “What harm can come of it? We’ll only stay as long as you like, and I promise, I shall remain by your side the entire time.”
Their aunt’s unladylike snort echoed throughout the carriage.
“And the moon only shines in the summer.” Her voice dry as desert sand, and skepticism peaking her eyebrows high on her forehead, Aunt Muriel fussed with her gloves. “Nephew, I have never known you to forsake an opportunity to become, er ...”
She slid Olivia a guarded glance. “Shall we say, become better acquainted with the ladies? This Season, there are several tempting beauties and a particularly large assortment of amiable young widows eager for a distraction.”
Did Aunt Muriel truly believe Olivia don’t know about Bradford’s reputation with females? She was neither blind nor ignorant.
He turned and flashed their aunt one of his dazzling smiles, his deeply tanned face making it all the more brighter. “All pale in comparison to you two lovelies, no doubt.”
Olivia made an impolite noise and, shaking her head, aimed her eyes heavenward in disbelief.
Doing it much too brown. Again.
Bradford was too charming by far—one reason the fairer sex were drawn to him like ants to molasses. She’d been just as doe-eyed and vulnerable when it came to Allen.
“Tish tosh, young scamp. Your compliments are wasted on me.” Still, Aunt Muriel slanted her head, a pleased smile hovered on her lightly-painted mouth and pleating the corners of her eyes. “Besides, if you attach yourself to your sister, she won’t have an opportunity to find herself alone with young Wimpleton.”
Olivia managed to keep her jaw from unhinging as she gaped at her aunt. She snapped her slack mouth shut with an audible click. “Shouldn’t you be cautioning me not to be alone with a gentleman?”
Aunt Muriel chuckled and patted Olivia’s knee again. “That rather defeats the purpose in coming tonight then, doesn’t it, dear?” Giving a naughty wink, she nudged Olivia. “I do hope Wimpleton kisses you. He’s such a handsome young man. Quite the Corinthian too.”