Meanwhile in the drawing room of Camberley Place
Lord Frederick stood at the window, looking out. “The storm’s let up. They ought to be back by now.” He turned back to Lady Charles. “I don’t like this.”
She refilled her glass. “It isn’t up to you.”
“It has to be up to somebody.”
“Ashmont isn’t a child. It’s time he took responsibility for his life. You can’t protect him forever.”
“And you?” he said. “You kept Ashmont’s fiancée from him when he came here.”
“I did nothing of the sort. She wasn’t here at the time.”
“You didn’t tell him the whole truth. Whom were you protecting?”
“Olympia. From marrying the wrong man. Because the right one was too slow-witted to see what was under his nose.”
There was a short, taut pause. Something passed between them. Unseen, unspoken. But felt.
Neither of them acknowledged it. They were both old hands at concealment.
If something flickered in her ladyship’s eyes, it might have been a trick of the light. If a faint red tinged his lordship’s cheekbones, it was from the same cause.
He said, coolly enough, “And you thought you’d give him a little time, and he’d come to his senses.”
“Yes.”
“And what if it takes years?”
The words as it did me might have hung in the short silence. Or maybe not.
Lady Charles laughed and said, “Until it’s too late? In that case, I shall comfort myself with the knowledge that I tried.”
“You put your oar in, you mean.”
If only someone had done so then . . .
“Habit,” she said. “I’ve been doing it for most of his life. You and I have that much in common.”
“Yes, and I’m too old to break the habit now,” he said. “This is the last, best chance that wretched nephew of mine has. I won’t see him make the same mistake . . . so many others do.”
“If he doesn’t make mistakes, how will he learn?”
“That’s a chance I’m not going to take. I’ve waited long enough, I think. For all I know, they’ve gone.”
“Why would they go?” she said. “All they’ve done is take shelter from the storm, separately or individually. You’re jumping to conclusions. That isn’t like you.”
“You don’t know what I’m like,” he said. “But we both know what Ripley’s like. And I have a good idea what he’s going to do.”
What I should have done when I had the chance.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re too late to change anything. You were too late before you came.”
“We’ll see.” He bowed. “I bid you good day, my lady.”
She didn’t curtsey in turn but moved swiftly to the doorway and stood, blocking his way. She smiled. “Ah, no, not quite yet, sir.”
“Woof!” said Cato, behind her.
Chapter 15
As they made their way to the stables, Ripley was more aware of the infernal ankle than he had leisure to be. He was cursing it in his mind when he saw Olympia move off the path and pick up a stout branch.
She held it out to him. “Walking stick,” she said. “Use it.”
“I don’t need a bloody crutch.”
“Is it possible, or do I ask too much, for you to set aside your manly pride for a moment and approach the matter in a calm and logical fashion?”
“I’m perfectly calm,” he lied.
“Let’s take this in steps, then,” she said, much in the same way he’d talked to her when she was drunk. “We are proceeding as quickly as possible to the stables because we have to get to London, you told me, as soon as possible.”
“To get married as soon as possible.” He mimicked her patient tone. “To do this, we need a special license. Which means I must pay a visit to Doctors’ Commons. And hope they don’t keep me there for hours while the word goes round the place that the Duke of Ripley is frantic to marry Lady Olympia Hightower, and the Archbishop of Canterbury himself summons me to explain. Because, you see, he might remember that he recently granted the Duke of Ashmont a special license to marry the same lady.”
“I understand,” she said. “What I should like is for you not to break your neck before we’re married. Because, you see, if you die, you can’t marry me, and then I shall be in rather a pickle, don’t you think?”
“A pickle?” He laughed.
“I had a good idea how babies were made,” she said, and he stopped laughing. “Thanks to you, I now know precisely how human beings make them. I don’t know what the odds are of our having started one. I do know that the practical and sensible thing to do is to be married to its father before it’s born.”
It was like a kick in the gut. Yet he had no business to be startled. He knew how babies were made. He should have had the courtesy to withdraw, a courtesy he’d extended how many times to other women?
“I won’t break my neck,” he said, face hot.
She held out the stick. She wore a look he recognized.
It was the same look she’d worn in the courtyard at the White Lion in Putney. With the blusterer who refused to back down from a ridiculous position.
Ripley took the stick and used it.
When they got to the stables, he did the practical and sensible thing and ordered the landau instead of the curricle. This meant an eternity of waiting for the horses to be put in harness and everything inspected and the coachman, John, to ensconce himself upon his throne.
But the shock she’d administered cleared Ripley’s mind wonderfully.
Only a reckless halfwit would travel with Olympia in a small sporting vehicle, when the weather was changing every minute. A curricle’s hood wasn’t enough to fully keep out the wet. And the wet and the bumps of the less luxurious vehicle would make her fret about his ankle and his needing a comfortable seat on which to rest it. He’d be suicidally foolish not to give the ankle as much rest as possible, considering what lay ahead. More important, in the landau, with the hood closed, he’d enjoy the added benefit of four or five hours’ privacy with Olympia while somebody else drove.
Though it took forever, they did set out at last, unhindered.
Lord Frederick’s horse hadn’t yet been sent for. He must still be busy quarreling with Aunt Julia, which meant there was a reasonable chance of his not traveling too close behind them. An encounter would be awkward, and Ripley was in no mood to explain matters to Ashmont’s manipulative go-between. It had to be face-to-face, friend to false, traitorous friend.
Ripley had told the stable men to keep mum and not answer questions until they were asked. With luck, word wouldn’t travel from the stables back to the house too soon. With luck, nobody would start asking soon. With luck, it’d be assumed he and Olympia had, either separately or together, taken shelter from the storm. Since the skies hadn’t cleared, it might be a while before anybody decided to come looking for them.
In order not to trust entirely to luck, though, he told the stable men to take their time about sending Lord Frederick’s horse to him.
Luck was with them for the journey, at any rate.
Though it rained from time to time, the thunderstorm didn’t seem to follow them.
They reached London before nightfall.
Then it was on to Gonerby House.
Where they encountered a mob of family, including the Newlands, all swarming in within minutes of Olympia and Ripley’s entering the vestibule.
After the first cries had died down somewhat, the swarm bore the travelers into the drawing room, where an odor of fresh paint prevailed and a set of steps blocked a door. Renovations still ongoing, in other words.
There the uproar began to swell again.
Ripley said, “Enough.”
He was a duke. The tide of noise receded.
“Thank you for the thrilling welcome,” he said. “Thing is, not helpful to talk to everybody, all at once. Only Lord Gonerby. Ah, and Lord Newland.
Your counsel would be appreciated.” Unlike his brother-in-law, the Marquess of Newland kept both feet planted firmly on the ground. “If we three might adjourn to another room. A matter of business.”
All about Ripley, eyes widened. Gazes went from him to Olympia and back again. Confusion reigned for a moment. Then the two older ladies, at least, seemed to begin to form a picture in their heads. Judging by their expressions, they found the picture perplexing.
“Your study, Lord Gonerby?” Ripley said. “The library? Not here, in other words. Gentlemen’s business to see to. As soon as is convenient.”
“Yes, yes,” Lord Gonerby said. “But—”
“Papa, the duke is famished,” Olympia said. “We’ve been on the road for several hours, with only the shortest stops. Moreover, as I mentioned in my letter, he is injured. It would be a good thing if he could put his foot up. Perhaps the buts could wait until you take him to a quiet room and he’s been given some refreshment and allowed to rest his ankle.”
It wasn’t the Voice of Command she’d used on the bully at the White Lion. Nonetheless, it was a voice that got things done and had a remarkable subduing effect on the listeners.
Ripley had grown up in a very small family, and he’d spent the bulk of his youth at school, away from his parents and sister, or in the peace of Camberley Place. He wasn’t used to so much . . . family. Voices. Chaos. At Gonerby House, everybody had something to say. Even the little boys.
He realized Olympia must have had to do this for most of her life: create order where there was chaos. No wonder she put books in categories and subcategories. Books were easier than people.
Still, it could be done with people. To a point. As she’d demonstrated.
If Lord Frederick had goaded Ashmont into courting her, Ripley had no trouble seeing why. What other girl had a prayer of managing him?
Lord Frederick was not going to be happy about the change of bridegroom. The marriage had better take place before he got wind of it.
Fortunately, Newland took over from his rather vague brother-in-law, and in very short order, considering the state of the house, which seemed to be half coming down and half going up, the three men were in Gonerby’s study.
Ripley ignored the chair offered him. He braced himself on the mantelpiece. Aware of the long night ahead, and what lay ahead, he went straight to the point. “Lady Olympia and I wish to be wed.”
“To each other?” Gonerby said.
“To each other, sir, yes.”
“Erm . . . but she’s engaged to the Duke of Ashmont. Supposed to be married the other day.”
“Yes, that was the other day and this is today. Her ladyship has changed her mind. That is a lady’s prerogative. We wish to be wed.”
“And the Duke of Ashmont?” Newland said. “Is he aware of this change of plans?”
“He will be.”
“In that case, perhaps we should wait until such time—”
“Since it’s quite impossible for him to marry Lady Olympia—she being unwilling to marry him—and since we are rather in a hurry, it would be best we have the settlements drawn up as soon as possible,” Ripley said. “I’ll send my solicitors to you tomorrow.”
After he had them make certain changes to his will.
“The wedding will take place no later than tomorrow evening,” he added.
“Tomorrow,” Lord Gonerby repeated. “Well, this is all very gratifying to be sure. Two suitors for my Olympia. Not that I’m surprised. She—”
“Is incomparable, and any number of men would wish to be suitors,” Ripley said. “However, as far as Lady Olympia is concerned, there is only one, and that would be me. She ran away from Ashmont. I caught her. She didn’t object to being caught. In fact, she’s keen to marry. Me. Not Ashmont. I trust this is clear.”
Judging by Lord Gonerby’s expression, nothing was clear to him.
His brother-in-law was another matter. His grim expression told Ripley that the marquess had put two and two together—for instance, Ashmont + Ashmont’s temper = duel—and quickly understood what the hurry was about.
Gonerby began, “Well, I am not at all sure that we ought—”
“Quite clear, duke,” Newland said firmly. “Olympia was to have been married a few days ago,” he told his brother-in-law. “The more quickly matters are resolved, the more quickly scandalous rumors will dissipate.” Before giving Gonerby a chance to respond, he went on, “Since time seems to be of the essence, one assumes that settlements like those arranged with the Duke of Ashmont will be acceptable.”
“That will make a starting point,” Ripley said. He paid his lawyers well to fuss over details. “However, I mean to have my solicitors add a few conditions, to do with the Gonerby Hall library. I doubt you’ll find them onerous. And now, gentlemen, I must be off.”
A servant appeared then, with a tray of food and drink.
Ripley left the other two men to refresh themselves.
He found Olympia pacing in the corridor.
“I thought you’d be with your mother, deciding what to wear to the wedding,” he said.
“I don’t care what I wear,” she said. “And I strongly doubt you will.”
“Something easy to get off,” he said. “Without a lot of buttons, preferably.” The image appeared in his mind of Olympia unbuttoning the endless line of buttons . . . the look on her face when she was done. “On second thought, lots of buttons. Hundreds of them.” But, no, he couldn’t think about buttons now. He needed to keep his head clear. “You’re right. I don’t care what you wear. Apart from the wedding ring.”
“The thing is, I should like there to be a wedding,” she said.
“There will be.”
“And a marriage,” she said.
Ah, well, that was a horse of a different color.
Olympia knew that facial expression. She’d seen it at one time or another on every male in her family.
Ripley was going to be a man.
Of course he was. He was a man.
She hid her despair, reminded herself it was Dominate or Be Dominated, and said, firmly, “I know it’s absurd to ask you not to do anything foolish or reckless. Not to mention, you’d be another man altogether if you weren’t foolish and reckless. But I will ask you—no, I will tell you—that you are to give Ashmont this note from me.”
She held out the note. The neat folds had become somewhat crumpled as she paced, waiting for Ripley to emerge from Papa’s study. She’d suspected he’d try to slip out without saying goodbye.
He looked at it.
“Ripley.”
He shook his head. “I’m going to see him tonight,” he said. “I’ll tell him, face-to-face. What I won’t do is hide behind your skirts.”
She didn’t roll her eyes. She didn’t grab him by the throat and shake him. She didn’t draw back her hand.
She looked at him in the way she’d look at one of her brothers when he was being stubbornly wrongheaded.
He sighed and took the note.
“You are not to burn it,” she said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Or destroy it in any way. You will give it to Ashmont.”
“Olympia, we discussed this.”
What they had done was argue, for a good part of the way to London. Then he’d given up arguing and started kissing, and from there, matters had taken an enlightening turn.
“It was not a discussion,” she said. “You told me it wasn’t my responsibility to write notes. You’re the man and you would deal with your friend, one man to another. But you were wrong, and if you hadn’t used unfair tactics—”
“All’s fair in love and war.”
Love.
Neither of them had uttered the word. She was still operating under the assumption of infatuation, possibly fatal infatuation. But then, he mightn’t be using the word love in the strict sense.
“That’s a handy phrase,” she said. “Useful but not strictly true. The fact is, I broke my promise to As
hmont. A betrothal, after all, is a sacred promise. In times past—”
“Don’t really have time for splitting historical and legal hairs, you know. A great deal to do and not much time to do it in.”
“Ashmont deserves an apology,” she said. “From me. I was wrong to invite him to release me from the engagement instead of telling him it was over and I wouldn’t marry him. I was wrong to run away, instead of showing some backbone—or my true colors—and telling him I didn’t want to marry him.”
“But if you hadn’t done all those things, you’d be a good girl,” Ripley said.
She was still getting used to the idea of being a bad girl. At first, it had been a dreadful shock. Now, a great deal that hadn’t used to make sense about her life had begun to make excellent sense.
“Men can behave badly yet still do the honorable thing and apologize,” she said. “I can be a bad girl and do the honorable thing, too. Which I’ve done. In the note. Which you will give to Ashmont.”
“You’re presuming he’ll be sober enough to read it.”
She wanted to cry. She wouldn’t let herself.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if it will do any good. All I know is, I owe it to him.” She paused, and told herself again she would not cry. “And I don’t want you to fight.”
She managed to get it out without her voice breaking.
“For all we know, he’ll wipe his brow in relief, clap me on the shoulder and say, ‘Better you than me,’” Ripley said.
“If he has any sense, he will.”
“None of us has any sense, m’dear. You know that.”
“Oh, Ripley!” She flung her arms about his neck. “You are not to fight him,” she said, her cheek against his chest. “I won’t have it. You tried to do the right thing. I made it impossible.”
“I’m glad you did,” he said. He lifted her chin and kissed her. It wasn’t gentle or kindly or even affectionate. It was strong and determined and it ran roughshod over her qualms and shame. She answered fiercely, and melted against him.