Page 18 of This Marquess of Mine

Longing, sharp and poignant, gripped Olivia’s heart until her chest ached with it. “What happened between Sophie and James is wonderful, and I am very happy for them,” she said, forcing a small smile. “But their love is a rarity, a happy accident. A miracle, really. And miracles are scarce.”

Aunt Augusta’s eyes softened. “I disagree. I believe miracles happen every day.”

Olivia lifted a shoulder, working to keep her smile in place. “For other people, perhaps. But not for me. And so”—her tone brightened—”if I am lucky enough to receive a proposal of marriage from the duke, I shall accept it, and spend the rest of my days as England’s most grateful duchess.”

Aunt Augusta smiled and, though it was a little sad, she said no more on the subject and the two resumed their stroll up the path.

Olivia drew in a breath, relieved to quit the conversation. It was a lovely day and she wanted to enjoy it. Shoving all thoughts of love and miracles from her mind, she focused on the warm spring sunshine, the scent of wet grass, the breeze brushing her skirts against her legs.

The path ahead was crowded, teeming with the top hats and twirling parasols of lords and ladies dressed in their finest, all out to see and be seen.

A young couple caught her eye, the lady’s arm looped through his, their heads bent together in conversation, clearly very much in love.

The lady’s bright green shawl suddenly slipped free of her shoulders and took to the skies, a jungle bird in the middle of London. The winds were temperamental today, calm one moment and the next whipping trees and skirts around like flags on Naval ships.

The lady’s escort took off after the escaped garment, narrowly missing it not once but twice before finally snatching it up in his fist. He carried the shawl back to his lady, draping it around her shoulders, lingering over the task as if he cherished her, as if he couldn’t help but keep her close to him.

Envy knifed through Olivia. She wanted that for herself. She wanted a husband who would look at her like that, who adored her for her, a man who would walk the streets of London with his hand curled protectively over hers, a man who would chase down her favorite shawl on a blustery London afternoon.

The image floated through her mind, of a strong, strapping gentleman walking toward her, a tender, sheepish smile curving his lips…and she realized it was Griff’s smile she had conjured, Griff’s gray eyes gazing at her so lovingly.

“Idiot,” she muttered to herself, dropping her gaze to the ground at her feet.

“Did you say something, dearest?” Aunt Augusta asked.

“No, it was nothing, Auntie.”

She tipped her head back, letting the sun touch her face for a moment, as if it might burn away Griffin’s image from her mind. Why did she still harbor these feelings for him? Why could she not let them go and forget him?

The idea that the Marquess of Keswick might bestow such a smile on her was absurd. More than absurd. It was impossible.

He didn’t even like her, for pity’s sake.

The duke, on the other hand, did. He liked her very much, in fact, and she was rather fond of him, as well. And why shouldn’t she be? He was young and rich and sweet. And rather handsome, too, with his auburn hair and warm brown eyes.

A comforting warmth settled over her as her aunt’s earlier question flashed in her mind. Yes, she thought, the Duke of Paxton was precisely the sort of man with whom she wished to share her life. Even if she didn’t love him.

Love was an indulgence, a luxury only those with time could afford to seek. And time was one thing Olivia did not have.