“They’ll get over it if you end up married to a duke,” said Lady Charles. “All the world will get over it.”
“That isn’t likely at this point. The Duke of Ashmont—”
“Needs you,” the lady said. “It’s perfectly obvious.”
“Not to me,” Olympia said.
“That’s because you don’t understand him as well as some of us do,” Lady Charles said. “I heard about your encounter near the Clarendon Hotel. The metaphor was obvious to me. Ashmont desperately needs to be pulled back from the brink. Like most men, he may have some idea he’s unhappy, but like most men, he doesn’t examine his feelings. As a result, he has no notion what the problem is. But some part of him must be weary of the life he lives and the chaos he creates.” She paused. “I wondered if Ripley was weary—of Ashmont or of that life—and if that was what sent him abroad without his friends.”
Neither man struck Olympia as weary with anything, but then, she didn’t know them as well as this lady did.
“But that is neither here nor there,” Lady Charles went on more briskly. “The point is, you weren’t having any of Ashmont’s nonsense, and that got his attention.”
“He decided to marry me because I made him go home and change his boots?” Olympia said.
“Your manner made him take notice of you. After that . . .” The lady considered for a moment. “I strongly suspect that someone told him he hadn’t a prayer of attaching you. That’s what I would have done had Ashmont mentioned to me a girl I approved of. He’s competitive to a fault. He’ll soon realize he’ll have to work to win your respect and love. And when he does—”
“If.” Olympia couldn’t help interrupting. She’d managed five younger brothers. She couldn’t look forward to playing nanny to a grown man.
“Not if,” said Lady Charles. “When. I know him as well as I know my nephew and the other idiot. Where one goes, there go the other two. They’ve been inseparable since they met at Eton. I should never have expected Ripley to go abroad without them, and stay for a full year. But as I said, it’s possible he was tired of that manner of life. And I do think he must have matured—not much, to be sure—but enough to do what he could to . . . well, not make matters worse today.”
Matters would have been better if Olympia had not seen him naked.
And if he had not kissed her in that not-friendly way.
But he was wild and had always been wild. A practical joker as well as a rake. The trouble was, she’d been exposed to more disreputability than she was used to, it had happened in the course of a few hours, and this had thrown her off balance.
When she wasn’t drunk or off balance, she was a practical girl. This was why she’d agreed to marry the equally disreputable Ashmont in the first place. Nanny or not, his failings aside, if she got a second chance, she’d be a great fool not to take it, because, after this debacle, it would be her last chance, absolutely.
Had Aunt Delia been at home to take her in, the scandal would have been muted. Now Olympia’s reputation must be in ruins. Ripley said otherwise, but he was a man—and a duke. He had no idea how quickly and harshly women could be judged. She’d traveled all day and into the evening in a closed vehicle with one of Their Dis-Graces. The world would soon get wind of the scenes enacted en route. She was descending into despair, horrific satirical prints filling her mind, when Lady Charles spoke.
“Listen to me,” the lady said. “Don’t underestimate Ashmont. It may take some time, but when he wins your respect and love, you’ll be happy you married him. I speak from experience. Charles was not my first choice. I confess, in fact, that I married him in resignation, if not despair. But he was determined to make me happy, and the testimony to my happily married life is my unhappy widowhood. Still, time heals all wounds,” she added more cheerfully. “Everybody says so, and I’m sure I’ll come to my senses eventually. But we can talk more later, if you like. For now, I recommend you try to rest.”
She went out, and a servant came in and collected the tea things.
Lady Charles had given Olympia a great deal to think about, as though she hadn’t enough already. Her mind racing, she was sure she hadn’t a prayer of resting. She began to pace the room, instead, trying to sort and catalogue everything that had happened to her today.
She didn’t remember lying down, and was very surprised when Pickard woke her to dress for dinner.
Though he wore to dinner a set of his uncle’s clothes, which didn’t fit, Ripley carried it off, as he’d done with the garments he’d acquired in Putney. He looked ducal and upsettingly attractive.
After an argument, Olympia persuaded him to keep his foot up on a chair. He did this with a lot of grumbling. But after a while, he forgot about the indignity, stopped grumbling, and became entertaining.
He talked mainly about his travels on the Continent, and he was a fine storyteller, like the writers of romance he was so fond of. He made both women laugh, again and again—and he looked so disarmingly mischievous and pleased with himself for accomplishing this.
This was good, because it took Olympia’s mind off family and scandal and Ashmont. It was bad because she could have listened to him all night. When last had she wanted to listen to a man who wasn’t talking about books? Why did it have to be him, of all men?
Still, she let herself enjoy the respite from inner turmoil. With servants going in and out of the dining room, private matters had to wait until after dinner.
They didn’t wait long.
After dinner, Lady Charles and her guests adjourned to the library.
As soon as the servants had settled His Grace upon a sofa, finished fussing about this and that, and gone out, Lady Charles rounded on her nephew.
“Did you have any sort of plan?” she demanded. “Or did you come here expecting me to sort everything out?”
“It’s complicated,” Ripley said.
“Lady Olympia has told me—not everything, knowing you—but the relevant portions,” said his aunt.
Face hot, Olympia left her chair and went to examine a set of books at eye level. Not that she saw what they were. She was too busy telling herself that Lady Charles couldn’t possibly have imagined a naked duke scene as one of the parts of the journey her guest had failed to mention.
“My plan was to leave Lady Olympia safely with you and Alice,” Ripley said. “I would then return to London and encourage Ashmont to try again.”
“Really?” said Lady Charles. “Why would you suppose he’d remain quietly in London? That isn’t like him at all. It’s far more likely he’s hunting you down.”
“That’s the complicated part,” Ripley said. “He was already half-seas over when Lady Olympia and I set out. When he didn’t catch up with us in Putney, I gambled that he’d kept drinking, and Blackwood would put him to bed, as we always do. Since Ashmont hasn’t turned up yet, the odds seem to be in favor of that theory. Still, if he does turn up now, I’ll deal with him. You may leave it to me.”
Olympia turned away from the books. “Leave it to you! I’m the one who ran away. If he does come—which I very much doubt—I ought to be the one to deal with him.”
“Not a bad idea. When he comes, attack first and make him defend himself,” Ripley said.
“If he comes,” she said.
“He’ll come,” Ripley said. “I merely laid odds he wouldn’t arrive today. Still, we might allow for the possibility, remote as it is, of Blackwood sobering him up. In that case, and if Blackwood’s with him, helping him put two and two together, he’ll find us soon enough. We didn’t exactly pass unnoticed. The problem is, I should have preferred to talk to him before he came here to carry off his bride.”
“Since that is not going to happen, you’d better make an alternate plan,” Lady Charles said. “If, for instance, those two scoundrels turn up at three o’clock in the morning.”
“You assume he wants to carry me off,” Olympia said. “If I were he, I’d come only to tell me good riddance. Actually, I wouldn’
t bother to come at all.”
“He’ll come,” the aunt said with the same unshakable certainty as Ripley.
“It’s only a matter of when,” Ripley said. “You may have six brothers, Lady Olympia, but that doesn’t make you an expert on Ashmont. He’s competitive to an extreme. As well as used to having his own way and getting what he wants.”
“And which of you isn’t?” Olympia said. “What male isn’t? What about his masculine pride? I deserted him. In front of everybody.”
“You’re looking at this the wrong way,” he said. “You’re a woman. His woman. His pride will tell him to vanquish whatever made you run away. What you need to keep in mind is, he can’t resist a challenge.”
Remembering what Lady Charles had said, Olympia looked from her hostess to him. “A challenge.”
“Ashmont’s always had it too easy with women,” Lady Charles said. “This may have something to do with the kinds of women with whom he associates. But the fact remains.”
“And so my appeal is that I’m difficult,” Olympia said.
“And different,” Ripley said. “You’re nothing like what we’re used to.”
“Different and difficult,” she said.
“Exactly.”
Such irony, she thought. Being different and difficult was what had got her banished to the Wallflower, Chaperon, and Elderly Department. If only she’d known these qualities appealed to rakes—but no, it wouldn’t have made any difference, because good girls kept their distance from men like Their Dis-Graces.
“It isn’t exact at all,” Lady Charles said. “Ashmont’s a man. The first thing he notices is not her personality.”
“Oh, that goes without saying,” Ripley said.
Olympia couldn’t think of what else men noticed first, apart from looks, which was perfectly obvious. Since they failed to notice hers, she clearly wasn’t up to par. “No, it doesn’t,” she said.
Ripley rolled his eyes. “Use your head—the one with the big brain inside. If you weren’t pretty and shapely, he wouldn’t have courted you, challenge or no challenge.”
He said it as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Pretty and shapely.
Right. That was why she had to fight the men off with a stick. Never.
Seven years. One offer, from an elderly scholar.
Pretty and shapely.
But only look at who said so: the Duke of Ripley, a famous libertine and ne’er-do-well. And here she was, going hot and fluttery, when everybody knew rakes were completely undiscriminating.
“What he won’t want you for is your mind,” Ripley said. “He won’t realize you have one, and that’s probably for the best. He’ll think he’s the clever one, and you can wrap him about your finger.”
Lady Charles smiled. “Of that I haven’t the slightest doubt. Listen to my nephew, Lady Olympia. He knows whereof he speaks.”
Olympia gazed at His Grace, who half reclined on the sofa, like a pasha in the harem. Instead of a hookah, he held a glass of wine in his hand. He was swirling it, his dark head bent as he peered into it, as though he read her future there.
The thought came into her mind, and then it was too late, because she couldn’t un-think it:
Ashmont isn’t the one I want to wrap about my finger.
And that was when she realized, finally, how much trouble she was in.
The lady balked because you didn’t woo her thoroughly. All I did was try to persuade her to come back. When she wouldn’t, what else could I do but make sure she didn’t get into trouble?
That, or something like it, summed up what Ripley had intended to tell his friend. He had a good deal of advice to supply as well, on the care and handling of Lady Olympia Hightower, though it would be no small labor, getting Ashmont to sit still long enough to pay attention.
First, he’d want to punch Ripley in the face.
Then Ashmont would want to sweep the bride off her feet.
The two likelihoods still held.
The trouble was, Ripley wasn’t going to get to Ashmont ahead of time.
The trouble was, here was the intended bride, dressed fetchingly if not quite as dashingly as before. She wore a blue dress Ripley supposed had belonged to Georgiana or one of his other cousins, or perhaps even Alice. Not Aunt Julia’s, though. These days her wardrobe ran to dull greys and browns and boasted little in the way of ornament.
This evening, Lady Olympia was as prettily ornamented as one of his French cook’s fine pastries.
Though her neck and shoulders weren’t bare, they might as well be, because the embroidered lace chemisette, being nearly transparent, could not hide the smoothness of her fine shoulders and the soft swell of her breasts above the dress’s neckline. The maid had put her hair up in a fashionable style, with braided loops along the sides of her head and large twirls of hair on top, and ribbons twining through.
Ripley was a man. This meant that, even while he was trying to decide what could be done about Ashmont, he was thinking in greater detail about the process of undoing ribbons and letting the soft, thick, brown hair fall about her shoulders, and undoing the rest of her ensemble, bit by bit. He tried staring into his wine, as though an oracle lived there, but he was aware of her all the same.
He should never have had a taste, because a taste was never enough. He was a man always greedy for pleasure—of the table, of bed, of everything—and he was too much in the habit of getting what he wanted and too little in the habit of resisting temptation.
He reminded himself that this wasn’t the usual temptation. He wasn’t competing with Ashmont for an actress, ballet dancer, courtesan, or merry widow. Ripley wasn’t allowed to compete this time—and this wasn’t one of those tedious social rules he had no compunction about breaking. Ashmont was his friend and she was Ashmont’s betrothed. Heaps of legal documents had been signed. Half the world had been invited to the wedding.
And Ashmont wanted to marry her. He’d made that more than clear.
He’d simply failed to persuade the bride she wanted to marry him.
“Ripley?” His aunt’s voice jolted him back to the moment. “If you have no further marital advice for Lady Olympia, perhaps you’ll turn your mind to preventing mayhem if your partners in crime come roaring to the house in the small hours of morning.”
“You don’t allow mayhem,” he said.
“This is an exceptional circumstance,” she said. “You’ve never made off with one of your friends’ brides before.”
“To be strictly accurate, I made off with the duke,” Lady Olympia said.
“I went willingly,” he said.
“No, you didn’t,” she said.
“Not at first,” he said. “But you won me over by degrees.”
He watched her color rise. She’d blushed before, when he mentioned her figure, and then of course he’d had to emphasize her shapeliness, in order to watch the blush deepen.
Well, what was he to do? She was pretty and shapely and she tasted good, and when sainthood was mentioned, his name would not come up.
“Ashmont will have to understand that,” he said. “You ladies make much ado about nothing. It’s quite simple: If he and Blackwood turn up in the middle of the night, the servants are not to let them in but to come and get me. If my friends grow obstreperous in the meantime, set the dogs on them.” His aunt might have given up on house pets, but every estate had men and dogs guarding the property. “Either way, I’ll deal with them, as I’ve done a thousand times before. And, Auntie, if you don’t mind being roused from your bed, you might glare at them as you do so beautifully.”
“And I’m to do what?” Lady Olympia said. “Cower in my room?”
“Read a book,” he said.
The look she sent him over her spectacles! It made a man want to pick her up and—
And nothing.
This was very bad. He’d better deal with Ashmont very soon.
“And speaking of dogs,” he went on, “Ashmont knows th
e house. In the event he proves sneakier than one expects, you might want Cato with you this night.”
“Cato!” she said. “For all we know, he’ll welcome intruders and lick their faces. We’ve no indication he’s a guard dog.”
“He’s a hunter,” Ripley said. “You saved him from a shocking beating. He’ll protect you.”
Even from me.
Not that he’d do anything improper. Out of the question. She was Ashmont’s betrothed. She was an innocent. There existed a few rules even Ripley didn’t break. And so he would not make up excuses to check on her after she’d gone to bed.
Yes, he would very much like to see her in her nightdress. And out of her nightdress.
And what a bloody waste of fantasy!
No wonder he and his friends kept away from virgins and respectable matrons. Can’t do this. Can’t do that.
“I won’t have that dog in the house until I know I can trust him,” Lady Olympia said. “He should have come when called. We should not have had to chase him. If he’d behaved as he ought, you wouldn’t have stepped into a rabbit hole. He’ll remain in the stables or wherever they’ve put him until—” She broke off, frowning.
“Aye, there’s the rub,” Ripley said. “Until Ashmont comes and carries you off? Or your parents?”
“Nonsense,” said Aunt Julia. “Lady Olympia will remain here for as long as she likes. I’ve written to promise her parents I’ll look after her, and I shall. She’ll be perfectly safe, and nobody will carry off anybody. You, meanwhile, will manage your fool friends. Tomorrow we’ll see about the dog. Lady Olympia, you need more rest than you think you do. Let’s make an early night of it. If those two ridiculous men arrive this night, I’d rather be upstairs, where I can prepare myself for the encounter. With boiling oil, if necessary.”
Once more she took Ashmont’s bride away.
All for the best, Ripley told himself. He was doing too much thinking and he couldn’t keep his waste-of-time thoughts in order. There was nobody nearby to cure the celibacy that made them so difficult to subdue, and he was incapable of going out to find a cure.