Lady Olivia And The Infamous Rake

‘Mama. Looking as beautiful as ever, I see.’

Hugo kissed her cheek, then gave her a hug, feeling his heart lift.

‘But what is this nonsense? You? Escort me to church? Stape must be mistaken about that.’

‘There is no mistake, Mama. With Sir Horace away, I thought to offer my services, that is all.’

His stepfather had been called back to his estate near Brighton and was not expected to return until Tuesday. Mama tilted her head to one side, making her look more than ever like a bright-eyed, inquisitive bird.

‘Well, I am delighted to accept, my dear. In fact, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to walk into St George’s upon your arm, but...’ her eyes narrowed ‘...I know you. You are up to something. And I shall be watching you.’

She smiled, wagging her forefinger at him, and Hugo—who was already wondering how on earth he might contrive a private word with Lady Olivia Beauchamp without setting the gossips of the ton on fire—knew that his own mother, with the sharpest eyes of anyone in his acquaintance, would be the first to notice any particular attention. And, worse, she was the only person with enough nerve to interrogate him about it.

‘Watch all you like, Mama. If a son cannot do his mother a service without an ulterior motive, then what is the world coming to?’

Mama smiled serenely as she pulled on her gloves. ‘As you say, my dear. Come then. Shall we walk, as it is such a lovely day?’

Hugo bowed and proffered his arm.

As they crossed Hanover Square on their way to St George’s he saw her, alighting from Cheriton’s town coach. She was with her aunt, Lady Cecily, as well as her eldest brother, Avon, Freddie Allen—the Duchess’s brother—and the Allens’ stepsister, Lady Helena Caldicot. She and Olivia made a striking pair, both tall and willowy, but as different in colouring as it was possible to be, with Lady Helena’s silver-blonde locks contrasting with Olivia’s raven-black hair. No sooner had the pair set foot on the pavement than a pack of eager young pups clustered around them: bowing, proffering their arms, clearly striving to be the favoured one. Hugo bit back a derisive snort at the sight. At least he had never made a complete cake of himself over a woman like that.

No. You have made very certain never to risk your heart.

He dismissed that snide inner voice as he watched Olivia laughingly refuse all offers, instead linking arms with...Nell, she had called the other girl last night. They sashayed up the few steps to the church door—two young ladies with the world at their feet: beautiful, well connected and no doubt with generous dowries. It was what the ton...the Season...society...was all about. He stared at the pups dogging their footsteps. At least they were a better match for her than a cynical, world-weary man about town such as Clevedon. Or himself.

Which of them will she favour?

He wrenched his attention from the group, irritated by his random thoughts, the last of which he mentally amended to Which of them will they favour?

Last to emerge from the town coach was Lady Glenlochrie, handed down by Avon. She leaned heavily on her stick as the remainder of the party made their way slowly into church.

‘Hugo?’

Startled, he looked down at his mother. Saw the interest in her small, dark eyes. And cursed his inattentiveness that had slowed their pace to a near crawl as he had become absorbed in watching the Beauchamps’ arrival.

‘My apologies, Mama,’ he said smoothly. ‘I found myself wondering why Lady Glenlochrie was with the Beauchamps, but then I remembered her connection with the Caldicot chit.’

Mama’s lips thinned. ‘Chit? Really, Hugo, I do wish you would not use such words. It is most ungentlemanly.’

At his nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, he saw the interest in his mother’s expression fade into one of disappointment. She had made her ambition very clear. Since his brother, Lucas’s, nuptials at the end of last year, her one wish was that Hugo would meet a nice young lady and settle down. He huffed a silent laugh. Never. He wasn’t the marrying kind and, besides, no nice young lady would ever consider him as suitable husband material. But their exchange had reminded him...

‘I came across young Alex Beauchamp last night at Vauxhall. He struck me as being an unhappy man. Any idea why?’

His mother’s eyes twinkled. ‘It amuses me to hear you describe him as such, my son. He is not so very different from you at that age.’

‘I am aware of that. I, however, had good reason with the father I had.’

Guilt and pain fused in Mama’s expression. ‘You did and I am more sorry than you know for not protecting you and Lucas more.’

‘Mama.’ He put his arm around her shoulders for a quick hug. ‘You did everything you could to protect us and we’re both more than grateful for that.’ The memory of his mother taking the blows intended for her sons reared up and impotent rage raked his gut. His father had been dead three years and was way beyond any revenge or retribution. Hugo hauled his thoughts back to the Beauchamps. ‘Someone hinted at something in the past that affected young Beauchamp. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard the story.’

‘It was his mother. She was murdered and Alex discovered her body. He was only seven years of age and it affected him really badly. And for some reason—no one quite knows why—he seems to blame his father.’ Mama shot a quick look around, then lowered her voice. ‘Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but it was a release for both the Duke and his children. Their mother had no time for them...they were far better off being raised by Lady Cecily. She is like a mother to the three of them and has devoted her entire life to them. They are very fortunate to have her.’

So that was what Olivia had alluded to in her jumbled tale of the night before. To know your mother had been murdered—even if she wasn’t the perfect mother—must have affected Olivia as much as Alex.

They continued on into the cool interior of St George’s.

* * *

Olivia squeezed her eyes tight shut as soon as they settled into the Beauchamp family pew at St George’s and prayed for a flash of inspiration. She waited, but none came and, finally, she opened her eyes to find her aunt frowning at her.

‘Are you unwell, Livvy?’ Aunt Cecily took her hand. ‘You are very pale. Are you in pain?’

As Olivia opened her mouth to protest her good health, she was distracted by the sight of a tall, dark-haired gentleman walking up the aisle with a tiny, older woman upon his arm. He turned his head, scanning the congregation already seated in the high-sided box pews and, even though she was seated furthest away from him, his gaze lingered on Olivia, a smile tugging at his mouth. She felt her eyes widen.

What is he doing here? What does that look mean? What is he doing with Lady Tod—?

Her thoughts stumbled and tripped over one another as Lord Hugo Alastair handed Lady Todmorden—his mother, who had been Lady Rothley before, Olivia now recalled—into a pew. Never had she seen Lord Hugo attend the church, although Lady Todmorden attended every week and, as she and Aunt Cecily were on friendly terms, they often exchanged a few pleasantries if they met at a function, or in passing on the street, or—and Olivia’s heart gave a racketing thump before it began to race—after church.

‘Livvy? What is it? You look as though you have seen a ghost.’ Aunt Cecily now chafed Olivia’s hand between hers.

‘I am perfectly all right.’ Olivia forced her gaze back to her aunt, praying she hadn’t noticed her interest in Hugo. She elevated her nose. ‘I was merely indulging in pious reflection. This is a church, is it not?’

The bells ceased ringing just as Aunt Cecily tutted and it sounded extraordinarily loud in the sudden, solemn hush inside the church. Olivia cast a sidelong look of reproach at her pink-cheeked aunt because that is precisely how Aunt Cecily would expect her to react, but inside she was a mass of seething conjecture. Alex rarely attended church—he claimed to prefer the services at St James’s Church, on Piccadilly, but Olivia was certain he had never set foot in the place. So Hugo was not here today to see Alex, which meant he had come to speak to her. Hope blossomed. Had he recovered her necklace already? She had prayed for a miracle; perhaps this was it.

And, in among that hope was...another emotion she did not recognise. She could put no name to it, but it prompted the frequent urge to slide her gaze sideways until she could just see, from the corner of her eye, his lordship. And, every time, a little jolt of...something...sped through her, making her feel, somehow, more alive. Excitement. But not just any ordinary, everyday excitement. This was...fizzing, bubbly, high—the feeling she always got at her first sip of freshly poured champagne. It made her heart feel somehow hollow and yet full at the same time. She could hardly bear to sit still as the vicar droned on or as she bent her head in prayer. She snatched another glance at Lord Hugo among the kerfuffle as they all stood to sing, drinking in his tall, broad-shouldered frame and the firm line of his jaw.

Olivia waited in a fever of impatience for the service to end, even though she could not see how she could snatch a private word with Lord Hugo. She might enjoy occasional acts of rebellion, but she was not reckless enough to talk openly to a man of his dubious reputation. She was well aware of the behaviour expected of a young lady and she took care to behave with perfect propriety in public.

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