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Olivia wished she could shrug or laugh off this revelation. She wished she had more trust and confidence in their relationship, but she couldn’t tell herself the past was gone and forgotten. Because if he’d been Miriam Cathcart’s lover once, then why not again?
Olivia looked away, hoping he could not read her thoughts in her face. Where was her direct honesty? But her pride wouldn’t allow him to see that she loved him and was terrified of losing him, so how could she ask him for the truth? How could she bear for him to feel sorry for her? What if he began making love to her because he was being kind to her, rather than because he wanted to?
She’d rather leave now and never see him again.
After a time she found the courage to glance back at him, but Nic was staring off into the distance, his face pensive. She didn’t know what he was thinking about but she had a good idea. Olivia looked down at her beautiful dress and felt sad. This was meant to be a night of triumph for her and instead it was turning into a night of despair.
They reached the Querrols’ house in Belgravia to find the square choked with vehicles and guests waiting to be admitted. It seemed that anybody who was anybody in London society was there and eager to be seen. There was no option but to join the throng and wait their turn.
Nic looked out over the richly jeweled and fashionably dressed members of the society from which he had considered him outcast. Not because of any decision by them—his birth would always give him an entrée—but because he himself had wished it so. He’d stood in the shadows for a long time, and now he could finally step out into the light and take his rightful place among the aristocracy of England. It was the role he’d been brought up to play.
Before the tragedy, his father had often spoken to him about what was expected of a man in his shoes, usually when he was scolding him for his wild ways. As a young man, Nic knew he’d pushed boundaries, seeking pleasure and adventure wherever he could find it. In the year before his father’s death he had begun to turn his back on such youthful indiscretions, but with his father dead and the scandal turning his mother from him, he’d saturated himself in the role of Wicked Nic Lacey.
He remembered feeling betrayed and angry, and wanting to lose himself in every debauchery available to him. And soon it had become habit. Nic hadn’t planned to lock his feelings off from the world, but now he could see that was what he’d done. It had taken Olivia to open that door and set him free.
He’d turned another page in the book of his life. He was married, and with Olivia by his side, he could begin to repair the damage of the last nine years. He could take his place among his peers and strive to be a good landlord and master, just as his father was, just as he hoped his own son would be.
The Laceys would go on, just as they’d always done.
Why did she ask me about Miriam Cathcart?
The question popped into his mind, tearing a hole in the hopes and dreams he’d begun to build. Miriam Cathcart was the sister of his school friend, and he’d believed himself in love with her, for a short while. But she had used him, just as she used everyone. She’d turned a callow youth into a cynical man, and he’d sworn never to allow himself to feel like that again.
Olivia was the first woman since Miriam who meant something to him. She’d slipped by the guard he’d placed around his heart, and despite his sworn declaration that he would never fall in love again, she’d won his heart before he’d even realized it.
I love her.
The acknowledgment didn’t shock him. Perhaps he’d known it since the moment his mother insisted he marry Olivia and he’d been only too glad to submit. He’d sworn never to love again and never to marry. But here he was, married. Nic had spent years carefully avoiding being involved with anyone, protecting his heart, and now he’d fallen in love with his wife.
“Lord Lacey!” The interruption was welcome.
He bowed, greeting his acquaintance, and introduced Olivia. She was her usual calm and beautiful self, and Nic was amazed as always how chilly she seemed, how emotionless, when he knew only too well the burning passion inside her. He watched as his acquaintance’s gaze lingered on her appreciatively.
He told himself he wasn’t jealous. Olivia had never shown the slightest preference for anyone other than him, and he knew he satisfied her. It might be arrogance, but it wasn’t jealousy that worried him. If anything were to drive her away, then it was more likely to be something he had done in the past.
He groaned softly.
“Nic?” Olivia was watching him worriedly, her fingers tightening on his arm. “Are you all right?”
Nic forced a smile. “Everything is perfect, my dear. Did I tell you how beautiful you are tonight?”
She returned his smile, although her eyes remained anxious. “Several times, but you can tell me again. Your leg…?”
“Yes, I have two of them. Your point is?”
His voice was curt and she took the hint, falling silent and looking away. He was sorry then, thinking himself a moody bastard, knowing he’d hurt her when she was only showing her concern for him. But he didn’t want her pity. Bad enough that he was a cripple, without his beautiful wife drawing attention to it.
They moved forward again, climbing the final step, and this time they reached the front door and stepped inside the entrance hall. A great dome arched above them, colorfully painted with fat, cavorting cupids and smug-looking nymphs. The ballroom was at the far end of the hall, music and chatter growing louder the closer they came.
A servant was helping remove the guests’ coats, cloaks, wraps, and other outer garments, while another was serving champagne from a tray as they waited. Finally they reached the ballroom, and a bewigged servant in knee breeches announced them to the crush below. It was a moment to savor. The rising murmur as everyone turned to look, a tribute to both his wife’s beauty and the dress Esmeralda had made her, and to Nic’s reputation. He’d heard they were calling them the rake and the angel. Well, let them.
“Lacey, a pleasure,” drawled Querrol. “And Lady Lacey?” He raised his monocle, ogling Olivia as she spoke to his wife. “My, you have fallen on your feet, haven’t you, Lacey? I heard you’d married a country bumpkin.”
“Olivia’s family live in the village of B
assingthorpe, but they are not bumpkins, Querrol.”
“Will we be seeing you at any more demimonde balls, Lacey? I can’t believe you’ll still be blinded by married bliss by the time the next one comes around. All mares ride the same on a dark night, as you’ve said yourself often enough.”
