A hearty guffaw escaped Bradford, and he slapped his knee. “Aunt Muriel, I refuse to marry until I find a female as colorful as you. Life would never be dull.”
“I should say not. Daventry and I had quite the adventurous life. It’s in my blood, you know, and yours too, I suspect. Papa rode his stallion right into a church and actually snatched Mama onto his lap moments before she was forced to marry an abusive lecher. The scandal, they say, was utterly delicious.” The duchess sniffed, a put-upon expression on her lined face. “Dull indeed. Hmph. Never. Why, I may have to be vexed with you the entire evening for even hinting such a preposterous thing.”
“Grandpapa abducted Grandmamma? In church, no less?” Bradford dissolved into another round of hearty laughter, something he did often as evidenced by the lines near his eyes.
Unable to utter a single sensible rebuttal, Olivia swung her gaze between them. Her aunt and brother beamed, rather like two naughty imps, not at all abashed at having been caught with their mouth’s full of stolen sweetmeats from the kitchen.
She wrinkled her nose and gave a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Bah. You two are completely hopeless where decorum is concerned.”
“Don’t mistake decorum for stodginess or pomposity, my dear.” Her aunt gave a sage nod. “Neither permits a mite of fun and both make one a cantankerous boor.”
Bradford snickered again, his hair, slightly too long for London, brushing his collar. “By God, if only there were more women like you.”
Olivia itched to box his ears. Did he take nothing seriously?
No. Not since Philomena had died.
Olivia edged near the window once more and worried the flesh of her lower lip. Carriages continued to line up, two or three abreast. Had the entire beau monde turned out for the grand affair?
Botheration. Why must the Wimpletons be so well-received?
She caught site of her tense face reflected in the glass, and hastily turned away.
“And, Aunt Muriel, you’re absolutely positive that Allen—that is, Mr. Wimpleton—remains unattached?”
Fiddling with her shawl’s silk fringes, Olivia attempted a calming breath. No force on heaven or earth could compel her to enter the manor if Allen were betrothed or married to another. Her fragile heart, though finally mended after three years of painful healing, could bear no more anguish or regret.
If he were pledged to another, she would simply take the carriage back to Aunt Muriel’s, pack her belongings, and make for Bromham Hall, Bradford’s newly inherited country estate. Olivia would make a fine spinster; perhaps even take on the task of housekeeper in order to be of some use to her brother. She would never set foot in Town again.
She dashed her aunt an impatient, sidelong peek. Why didn’t Aunt Muriel answer the question?
Head to the side and eyes brimming with compassion, Aunt Muriel regarded her.
“You’re certain he’s not courting anyone?” Olivia pressed for the truth. “There’s no one he has paid marked attention to? You must tell me, mustn’t fear for my sensibilities or that I’ll make a scene.”
She didn’t make scenes.
The A Lady’s Guide to Proper Comportment was most emphatic in that regard.
Only the most vulgar and lowly bred indulge in histrionics or emotional displays.
Aunt Muriel shook her turbaned head firmly. The bold ostrich feather topping the hair covering jolted violently, and her diamond and emerald cushion-shaped earrings swung with the force of her movement. She adjusted her gaudily-colored shawl.
“No. No one. Not from the lack of enthusiastic mamas, and an audacious papa or two, shoving their simpering daughters beneath his nose, I can tell you. Wimpleton’s considered a brilliant catch, quite dashing, and a top-sawyer, to boot.” She winked wickedly again. “Why, if I were only a score of years younger ...”
“Yes? What would you do, Aunt Muriel?” Rubbing his jaw, Bradford grinned.
Olivia flung him a flinty-eyed glare. “Hush. Do not encourage her.”
Worse than children, the two of them.
Lips pursed, Aunt Muriel ceased fussing with her skewed pendant and tapped her fingers upon her plump thigh. “I would wager a year’s worth of my favorite pastries that fast Rossington chit has set her cap for him, though. Has her feline claws dug in deep, too, I fear.”