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Bentling looked slightly to the left of Oliver’s eyes and straightened his stooping shoulders. “Her ladyship has become indisposed, my lord. I am afraid she will not be accompanying you to the opera after all.”
Oliver frowned. “Oh?” But still Bentling would not meet his eyes.
“Miss Greentree will be attending, however,” Bentling went on, showing signs of strain under Oliver’s steely stare, “and her ladyship says that you should call upon her at Queen’s Square and collect her forthwith. She wishes you to give Miss Greentree these”—he held out a pair of opera glasses—“with her good wishes.”
“Does she, now?”
Bentling swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”
Oliver sighed. “Tell my aunt…I hope she is better soon, although I doubt she needs my good wishes for a speedy recovery.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Oliver knew the signs well enough, and knew he should be angry with his aunt for her obvious machinations. He wasn’t, though, he thought, as he went back down the steps to his coach. He and Miss Greentree would be alone together at the opera—not exactly proper, he supposed, but not exactly improper, either. The front of Lady Marsh’s box, at least, would be well within view of other patrons, and what was wrong in asking a woman to accompany him to the opera? Other men did it all the time. But Miss Greentree was young and attractive and unmarried; her reputation might suffer. Perhaps that was his aunt’s plan, that he be forced to propose to Miss Greentree?
Oliver grinned to himself as he climbed back inside the coach.
It would be a brave man who married an unwilling Vivianna. She would make his life a misery. And a joy. He closed his eyes at the sudden image of her, here in this very coach, in his arms. Perhaps being alone with her was not such a good idea after all—she was a complication and he didn’t need any more of those. He would call upon her and explain that his aunt was ill, and suggest another night.
Regret filled him, but he ignored it. A few weeks ago he had never heard of Vivianna Greentree; how could he suddenly be feeling her loss? As if…as if she were a part of him, he thought suspiciously.
The house in Queen’s Square was lit up and waiting for him. “Miss is just coming now, my lord,” the maid who answered the door informed him.
“I am afraid that—”
“Montegomery, how do you do?”
He felt the skin at the back of his neck bristle. Toby Russell, the sort of man he despised and usually avoided. Toby’s handsome face was deeply lined, as though his vicious ways had caught up with him at last, and there was a calculating air to his smile.
Oliver bowed politely. “Russell, I have come to collect your niece.”
“I know, I know. Lovely girl, isn’t she?”
Oliver did not allow the other man to see what he was feeling. “My aunt thinks so. It was her invitation.”
“Ah, nice to know she is looked upon favorably in that quarter, eh?”
Oliver wondered whether it would be very rude of him not to answer at all. “My aunt is an invalid and does not get out much,” he said neutrally.
“Of course, of course.” Toby eyed him cautiously, as if he were a firework that had fizzled out and yet still might go off.
Oliver heard the sound of steps on the stairs. Vivianna’s. He knew her step. He knew the rhythm of her movements. He could smell her soap and the scented water she used in her hair. It took all his willpower not to hurry to meet her.
“Here she is!” Toby said unnecessarily.
Vivianna came down the last flight of stairs. She was wearing a cream shot-silk dress that caught the lamplight and gleamed and shimmered as she moved. The full skirts rustled about her and the fitted bodice was lower than any he had yet seen her wear, disclosing the opulent swell of her breasts—he remembered those breasts, naked in his hands…. He blinked, took in the dark green lace-trimmed shawl that was arranged to display rather than hide her charms, and the cream lace mittens that reached almost to where her short sleeves ended. Her hair was simply dressed in long, loose ringlets at the sides, the remainder fastened in a heavy knot at her nape.
She gave him her beautiful smile, as if she were truly pleased to see him. And then she saw her uncle. Vivianna’s eyes turned wary, and the smile less brilliant. “Lord Montegomery,” she said politely. “Your aunt said eight o’clock.”
“Eight o’clock, eh? Well, it’s near enough to it, isn’t it, Niece? Why make a fuss over a few minutes?” Toby asked her testily, thinking he was being amusing.
Vivianna fiddled with her shawl, enduring him until he had finished, and then she glanced to Oliver for her answer.
“The opera starts at eight. My aunt does not mind being late—she finds missing the first act a blessing, I think. But in actual fact I—”
She was watching him inquiringly, her hazel eyes honest and warm, that smile curving her mouth. He had been about to tell her that they were not going after all—that his aunt had tricked them into a situation he did not feel comfortable with—but suddenly he knew he didn’t want to say that. Toby Russell was standing listening, so smug and awful, and Oliver wanted to take her away from the man. More than that, though. He wanted her company, he wanted to be with her, even for a short while.
“Are you ready, Miss Greentree?” Oliver said quietly. “The coach is waiting outside.”
