Page 32 of This Marquess of Mine

Chapter Eleven

Aunt Augusta’s sigh filled the carriage as it crawled its way up the gravel drive, one of many in a long queue of carriages following the torch-lined path leading to Lord and Lady Henley’s front door.

Turning from the window, Olivia gazed at her aunt’s frowning face, her pinched brow illuminated by the oil lamp burning above her head. “Are you all right, Auntie?”

“Oh, I’m fine, my dear,” she said. “I only wish Lady Keswick could be here tonight. She was so looking forward to showing off her costume.”

Guilt threaded her voice, and Olivia reached over to pat her knee. “I know she was. But there will be other costume balls.”

“Exactly,” her aunt said. “Which is why I should have stayed with her tonight—”

“No, you shouldn’t.” Olivia shot her a scolding look. “Lady Keswick will survive without you tonight. She wanted you to come. She said so herself.”

“I know she did,” she replied, but her voice suggested she didn’t quite believe her.

“Besides, you had to come,” Olivia said. “For me, if no one else. I spent far too much time on your costume not to see you wearing it tonight.” She swept her gaze over her aunt’s colorful gown and smiled. “And I must say, there has never been a more glorious Queen Mab. You look magnificent, Aunt.”

“I do, don’t I?” She patted the sparkling crown circling her head and grinned.

Olivia had fashioned the crown herself, adorning a simple gold circlet with paste jewels and flowers of every color until it sparkled. She’d even designed her aunt’s gown, as well as her own, and she couldn’t help feeling proud of how their costumes had turned out.

She only wished she were in better spirits tonight. She adored costume parties, and had been anticipating this evening for weeks, but her thoughts were focused elsewhere, on the letter from her father that arrived earlier today.

Three lines. He’d told her he needed to economize, that his growing family meant this Season must be her last, and yet he’d wasted an entire sheet of new paper to pen her three silly lines.

I hope this letter finds you well on your way to a proposal of marriage. Do write back and tell me how your search is progressing, so I can determine when I should begin my own. Your stepmother and I are eager to see you wed.

Olivia dropped her gaze to the mask in her lap and studied her work, thinking of Paxton as she stroked the beautiful peacock feathers she had so painstakingly attached to the demi-mask. She hoped he liked her costume.

She’d apologized for her forwardness the other night, and he’d forgiven her without preamble, but his disinterest in kissing her was a blow to her pride, not to mention her confidence. Her father’s letter certainly hadn’t helped.

All she could do now was continue on as before, waiting patiently, praying fervently that Paxton’s love for her would win out in the end. She’d designed her costume with just that purpose in mind, and while she had to admit the bodice was a bit low, a bit daring, she felt no shame.

A daring bodice could further a lady’s cause as well as anything.

“You look beautiful,” Aunt Augusta said, breaking into her reverie, and Olivia realized she’d been fidgeting with her gown. “Your costume is a work of art.”

“Thank you, Aunt.” Olivia gave her a smile and rubbed a gloved palm on the bench seat, the slide of velvet on velvet oddly calming.

“Are you unwell, dearest?” Aunt Augusta asked, her brows drawing together. “You’ve been rather quiet today.”

She hadn’t told her aunt about her father’s letter. It would only upset her, and why should they both be agitated tonight?

“I’m fine,” she replied, though she could see her aunt did not believe her. Instead of the truth, she gave her a fib. “I suppose I am feeling a little pensive tonight. My costume has me thinking about my mother. Do you think she would have liked it?”

“Of course she would,” Aunt Augusta said without hesitation. “She would have lovedit.”

Olivia nodded, her gaze lowering to the mask again. Her inspiration for the costume had come from a collection of children’s stories which had belonged to her mother, a gift she had apparently received from her own mother when she was a little girl.

The book was stained and well-worn, and one of Olivia’s most prized possessions, a rare remembrance of her mother, and one she could actually hold in her hands.

“She would be proud of you, you know,” Aunt Augusta said softly, reaching over to give her hand a squeeze. “Very proud.”

Olivia met her gaze. “Do you think so?”

How nice it would have been to have a parent who was proud of her.

“I know so,” Aunt Augusta said firmly, drawing a smile from Olivia’s lips. “I only saw your mother once or twice during her confinement, but her excitement was obvious. She couldn’t wait to meet you.” Her eyes gentled with the memory. “She was an excellent woman. I wish you had known her.”