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She rolls her eyes ever so slightly. I should correct that, but I might like it. “Not long. I heard a blast coming from the cellar and ran toward it,” she bites out.
“He was a bad man, Olivia. A horrible man.” I grit my teeth and slam my fist into the wall again.
She pulls her brows in and looks up at me, curling her lip. “So are you.”
“And I bet you want to kill me, don’t you?” I ask, though the comparison blisters my skin. “Imagine how you’d feel about him if I told you what he’s guilty of. I’d look like a saint!” Pushing myself off the wall, I walk toward the banister, leaning over it, gripping the wood, and pulling on it. If the fixture were weak, it’d rip apart.
“I very much doubt that. The part about you ever looking like a saint. That’s impossible.”
As I look at her over my shoulders, I’m surprised she hasn’t taken off running back to the room. I’m no longer stealing her air and trapping her with my body. She’s free to walk away. It doesn’t do me well to flatter myself that she cares enough to want to hear what I have to say. It’s possible she’s just awaiting her order, afraid to upset me. And it strikes me that I’m using it to my advantage so that I may enjoy the pleasure of her company. Swearing under my breath, I pivot away from her and hurry down the stairs.
“You’re dismissed,” I shout over my head. “Go back to the room, Olivia! Don’t make me have to put a guard outside the door.”
For sard’s sake. I need a bottle of brandy and a nap. But if I head back to the room with her, there’s only one thing I’ll want to do. My head is still swimming from the triggered memory of my childhood, hearing of that man’s crimes and blowing his head off while seeing my father’s face. Yeah, I’m not in the ‘fucking’ mood. Damn this Lancelot for sullying everything. Damn my father for still being some kind of looming fixture in my life, regardless of his passing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Olivia
Whoisthatwomanin the mirror? The beast might be enticed to touch me tonight.I run my hands against the lightweight fabric as my insides flutter from the embarrassing thought. Why should I want him to touch me? It’s suited me well that he’s avoided me over the past couple of days. He’s come in at night and without a word, stripped naked and gotten into bed.
Despite myself, I’ve suffered an unquenchable need watching him sleep next to me in the massive bed, at first wondering whether he would make a move to touch me, and soon realizing that he wants nothing more of me. Was it so terrible for him the last time that he now wishes not to look upon me again?
Though, that must not be it. I’ve seen his hardness before he hid it beneath the covers. I’ve stared at his muscled shoulders and his tempting back, glowing beneath the lantern lights. I’ve listened to his heavy breathing, knowing it took him just as long to fall asleep as it did me. In my aching need, I’ve even contemplated scooting across the three feet of space between us and asking for his touch, for his kisses.
But I would betray myself in doing so, in throwing myself into the arms of that mad man, giving him more claim over me. On the contrary, if he were to give himself to me, I wouldn’t refuse him, for he would be the one driven by an uncontrollable madness, and I would be the one basking in the knowledge and pleasure that he couldn’t resist me. As I look at my breasts pushed up on my chest by the corset, spilling over the square neckline of my gown, I blush. Certainly, he couldn’t ignore me in this.
“Olivia, I dare say you’re suited for this look!” Gloria steps back with her eyes wide and a huge smile on her face, admiring her handiwork. “And your natural curls must be the envy of everyone at that party!” She sighs while fussing with the tendrils she pinned to frame my face and fall around the nape of my neck. “All those upturned noses who’d no doubt mock you in the streets before won’t know what hit them.”
I gasp. “How’d you know they’ve mocked my hair?” I ask, touching the updo ever so gently. As if I’m afraid it’ll fall apart again, poofing out and revealing the truth about my identity, that despite all the jewels and pearls in my hair, around my neck and dangling from my ear, I’m only a pauper who doesn’t belong at a fancy ball.
She rolls her eyes. “Women like them always do, with their judging nostrils and their strained necks. You have the one thing their money can’t buy: the natural curls they imitate, beauty beyond their scope of understanding, golden skin, and the most delightful character. So, they’ll pick at things about you to make them feel better about themselves. It happens to everyone, my dear, especially the ones they feel threatened by,” she says, before turning to look at the mirror.
“I don’t know if I believe all that.” I blush. “But if what you say is true, why can’t they all be content with their own beauty and the beauty of others?”
“Because no one is truly secure,” she says, adjusting the waist of the white and gold dress so that it sits perfectly on my breastbone. “And it’s all about competition. The floor will be swarmed with eligible bachelors and women competing for their attention. Now that you have a dowry, I have no doubt you’ll be the subject of conversation tonight and have many of those bachelors vying for your hand. Of course, they might not get the chance to approach you with Mr. Molotov playing the guard.” She giggles.
“Well, he doesn’t…” I’m about to say he doesn’t own me but technically, he does, and I bite my lip, unwilling to cater to the ugly emotion overriding my joy. I clear my throat. “Well, I have no interest in competition or games. I’m just excited to dance tonight,” I admit, smiling. Sure, my stomach is in knots, looking in the mirror is like staring at someone else, a phantom of sorts, but as the light dress swishes across my body, and I press the sole of my feet in the even lighter slippers, how can I want anything else but to dance?
“Oh, you have to tell me all about it when you return.” Gloria’s eyes glow as she twirls on her feet. “I wish I could go dancing,” she says. Grinning, I take her hand and pull her into a waltz. She bursts out laughing. “Oh, Olivia. You’re so strong.”
“I know. It’s from all the hard work I do, lugging about wood and such,” I say in a gruff bass, and she snickers. “I must say that dress flatters you.”
“It does? Why thank ye. It’s of the highest quality lawn fabric, of course,” Gloria replies, ignoring the grey woollen maid’s dress and apron on her body. I grin as her attempt at a proper accent falters.
“Ah, a woman of wealth,” I return in the same heavy voice as before.
“Certainly, My Lord,” she responds, batting her eyelashes in exaggeration as we move across the room.
“Well, that settles it then, doesn’t it? You’re wealthy, I’m wealthy; that’s all that matters. We should get married now, I think. What do you think?” I ask.
“Oh, that sounds like an incredible idea. Oh, thank ye, Lord What’s-your-name, I should certainly be most fulfilled with you now that you are to be my husband even though I know nothing about you.” She smiles.
“Just wait until you see the ten estates I own, the hundreds of cattle, and my fat pockets. All your concerns about knowing me will melt away. We’ll live happily together,” I say, rolling my eyes as I recall Heath.
Gloria grins, slapping my shoulder. “You’re too much, Olivia. Come on, you’ll mess up your dress. Although, it warms my heart to hear you laugh so freely. I haven’t seen you this light since we met.”
“Well, can you blame me?” I ask, and she gives a reassuring nod. “But tonight, I’m not Olivia Primrose, a prisoner of Adam Molotov. That’s not who I see as I look in the mirror. This woman in the mirror deserves a name. I’ll call her Jane.” I smile at my reflection. “Yes, that’s right. Jane is unattached, wealthy, and free. She isn’t falling over herself to acquire a husband. In fact, she’s perfectly satisfied with being considered a wallflower. Tonight, she’s going to the ball to do nothing else but have fun. And Adam Molotov will just be an annoying little fly who keeps buzzing around her that she’d love no more than to swat away.” I grin.
