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Olivia turned again to her reflection in the mirror. “Yes, that is an excellent idea.”
Esmeralda beamed.
“And I hope you will get some sleep in between stitches, madam. You will be no good to me, and all your new customers, if you faint.”
“I have several good seamstresses I can call upon, my lady.”
It would be nice to be admired, even
envied, by the cream of London society, Olivia thought, when she was alone again. But that wasn’t as important to her as the expression in Nic’s eyes when he saw her.
“I love him,” she whispered.
Speaking the words aloud released a storm of emotion inside her, and she trembled. She loved Wicked Nic Lacey. But how could she say those words to him, when she was so conscious of making him feel hemmed in and trapped by a marriage he had never wanted? Although he seemed happy enough now, well for most of the time, it was very early days. She must tread carefully.
But knowing that didn’t stop Olivia from wishing that when she looked into his eyes tomorrow night, she’d see his love for her, and her world would be complete.
“I love you, Nic,” she said again, enjoying hearing the words spoken aloud.
Because who knew when she would be brave enough to say them to his face?
Chapter 28
Nic couldn’t keep his eyes off her. When she appeared at the head of the stairs, ready to leave for the ball, he had simply stood and watched her descend. She was beautiful, with her cool English looks—her golden hair and blue eyes and creamy complexion. And yet she was so much more than her appearance. Beneath her calm smile lay a warm and passionate woman who believed in living life her own way, who was honest and kind, and who refused to take second best.
As she reached the last few steps, she held out her gloved hands toward him, and he moved forward in his own elegant evening wear to grasp her fingers.
“Olivia, you look exquisite. You quite take my breath away.”
Her smile made her eyes sparkle, and the pearls sewn into her dress and woven into her hair softly glowed.
“You were right,” she said. “Esmeralda is the best modiste in London.” She glanced away, in that manner she had when there was something bothering her. “I hope everyone else will think so, too, when they see this dress.”
“It was thoughtless of me to take you to see her, Olivia. For an intelligent man I can be very dimwitted.”
“You apologized to me,” she reminded him quietly, squeezing his hands, “and there is nothing more to be said. I have decided to make Esmeralda my modiste after all. I like her.”
Nic laughed. “You like her? So that is all that is required for Lady Lacey to employ someone?”
“Not just that, but it helps.”
Bundled up in her fur cloak, Olivia climbed into the coach, and Nic settled opposite her.
“Do you know Mrs. Cathcart? Will she be there this evening,” Olivia began, meaning to explain to Nic about Esmeralda’s difficulties and Mrs. Cathcart’s part in them, but when she looked up from fussing with the folds of her dress, she saw that something in his face had changed.
“Why do you want to know about Miriam Cathcart?” he asked evenly, his eyes watchful.
But the change in him had made her wary. “It is a simple enough question, Nic. Will she be there this evening?”
“I don’t know Mrs. Cathcart’s movements, but I would imagine so,” he said with studied indifference. “She is asked everywhere despite her reputation.”
“She is the Earl of Marchmont’s mistress, is that so?”
“She has been mistress to so many men I’ve lost count.”
The comment was malicious, and Nic was not a malicious man. And then it occurred to Olivia that he had been one of this woman’s lovers. Of course, it made sense. Miriam Cathcart was someone who lived by her beauty and her wits, the sort of woman Nic would be drawn to. He had probably financed her, taken her to Esmeralda’s to be fitted out in the latest fashions, kissed her, held her…
The image shouldn’t have hurt—she’d told herself Nic’s past was nothing to her—she’d come to terms with it. But it did hurt, it hurt a great deal.
