It was a gentlemanly offer, one she should have immediately accepted. The problem was that she didn’t want to touch him. Her skin itched as if she had spent too long in the bath and the closer she came to the marquess, the more the feeling intensified. He was the cause of her problems. If it were not for him, she wouldn’t have suffered such embarrassment.
“What is it?” he asked, frowning.
“Nothing of importance,” she said. Then she forced a smile and placed her fingers on his sleeve.
They strolled down the hall, past closed doors, and paintings with silver etched frames. The stern faces of Lord Lowell’s ancestors, judging her from the past.
When the marquess and the dowager countess entered Lord Lowell’s office, a silver-haired woman in a severe black dress stood from a chair and faced them.
“Constance’s governess turned lady’s maid, Mrs. Quill,” Lord Lowell said. “Mrs. Quill, this is the matchmaker I mentioned, the Countess Dowager Allen.”
The woman dipped into a deep curtsey. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Allen.”
Olivia murmured something appropriate before crossing the room to the collection of crystal bottles next to the wall. Her nerves were scattered, her face was hot, and her hands were sore from clenching them all morning. In sum, she was well in need of alcohol.
Lord Lowell met her at the sideboard and poured two fingers of bourbon into a glass from a crystal decanter. “What happened?”
She downed the liquid. It had a sickly-sweet taste like overripe cherries and clung to the inside of her mouth. “The articles happened. Every modiste in London has seen them.”
“I see.” He grimaced. “Then there is no choice. We must put a stop to the articles immediately.”
She clenched her teeth to keep a snarl from bursting from her lips. “Nowyou’re willing to negotiate? You might have saved me a day of embarrassment.”
He paused in the middle of removing a cork from a bottle of wine. “P-Pardon?”
She folded her arms over her chest so that he would not see how they trembled. “Cease these games, my lord. I agreed to your ridiculous terms. There is no reason for you to continue your attacks. If you don’t stop, I cannot promise that I will beable to find an appropriate match for your daughter. The rumors have already spread farther than I expected.”
He poured himself a glass of red wine. “You’re accusing me of contributing to those articles about you.” Then he went silent, staring at his glass for so long that her temper began to rise again.
“Yes. Well?” she asked. “Do you intend to do something?”
He grimaced. “I was considering taking the blame, but I suspect it would not be long before you discovered the truth. Perhaps it is best that we decide what to do together.” He removed a bundle of envelopes wrapped in a ribbon from his pocket and handed them to her. “I found these in Constance’s room. Mrs. Quill has already reviewed them.”
She stared at the bundle. “What’s this?” Her role as matchmaker did not require her to read her charges’ private correspondence. Doing so would be a violation of trust.
He sipped his wine. “They aren’t what they look like.”
She reluctantly untied the ribbon and unfolded the first of the envelopes. As she read, the room seemed to close around her.
“There must be some other explanation,” Mrs. Quill said. She had resumed sitting but was perched at the edge of the chair. “I know Constance’s handwriting and it doesn’t match what’s in the letters.”
“She could have had someone else write them,” Lord Lowell said.
Mrs. Quill shook her head. “No. She could never… I cannot believe she would use your name to do such evil, my lord. What reason would she have for attacking Lady Allen?”
Olivia felt as if she were floating out of her body. Mrs. Quill transformed into her mother, pacing in front of the fireplace while her father nursed his third glass of whiskey.
“This cannot be happening,” her mother had said. “There must be some other explanation. What did he promise you, Olivia?”
“He’s bedded her,” her father had replied. “What other reason can there be?”
That statement had been wrong, but her denials had not stopped her parents from punishing her as if she had ruined herself.
She licked her dry lips and opened the next envelope in the packet with numb fingers. There was no letter inside, but a collection of newspaper clippings, starting with the very first article that had attacked her. A dawning realization settled over her as she flipped through them.
The writing, the cadence, the cowardice. How had she not seen it before? It was as if her late husband were speaking the words in her mind.
Only a man was capable of such cruelty.
