Page 27 of Ambition (The Chaplain’s Legacy #6)

L ord Grayling went off to find out if the cold collation he had ordered was ready, leaving Olivia sitting quietly at one end of the long gallery. At the other end, the punch-fuelled billiard players were becoming rowdy, but she hardly noticed, for there was a far more interesting sight nearby.

Lord Embleton was examining the paintings on the gallery walls, a guide book in his hand, with a gushing Miss Grayling in tow.

She chattered away unstoppably while he made the occasional abstracted remark and otherwise ignored her.

It was most entertaining to watch and when, after some minutes, Osborn and Effie appeared, Olivia waved them over to the bench where she sat, and indicated the object of her attention with the slightest tilt of her head.

Osborn chuckled. “I am enjoying this visit tremendously,” he said affably, folding his arms and stretching out his legs, neatly crossed at the ankles. “What a fascinating house this is, with interesting sights in every room.”

Effie laughed, too. “Shall I rescue him, do you think? He does not seem amused.”

Without waiting for an answer, she strode across the gallery to where her brother continued to ignore his persistent admirer. “Miss Grayling, did I hear your brother mention a secret room? If there is one thing I adore in a house, it is secret places. Do, pray, show me where it is.”

Startled, Miss Grayling turned to her uncertainly. “The secret room? Oh, yes… but perhaps you would care to see it, Lord Embleton?”

“Th-thank you, but I p-p-prefer to examine the p-p-paintings.”

“Oh. Very well. This way, Lady Euphemia.” She then spotted Osborn and Olivia watching interestedly. “Would you like to come, too?”

“No, thank you,” they said in unison.

The two ladies went down the stairs to find the secret room, and Lord Embleton wandered further up the gallery, but Osborn and Olivia stayed where they were.

For a while they were silent, watching Lord Embleton’s slow progress down the gallery, as Olivia pondered Effie’s revelation that he had no intention of marrying.

Yet she thought he had not been in love with Bea Franklyn, and his sister ought to know the truth.

So why had he offered for her? It was a puzzle.

She rather liked the idea that his heart had been broken by that thoughtless minx.

It made him more interesting, and aroused all her sympathy.

She would not break his heart. To take a poor, lonely, unhappy man and make him happy — that would be something!

Nor did she mind the stutter, now that she had grown accustomed to it.

He was a good, honourable man who did not deserve to be rendered miserable.

She would love to help him forget Bea Franklyn, and his rank had nothing to do with it.

After a while, Osborn unfolded his arms and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Are you not going to follow him? There he is, your quarry, all unattended. An opportunity for you.”

“Do not call him that!” she said, quite unjustly for had she not thought of the marquess in just such terms, as prey? “But it is hopeless. He has no intention of marrying. He has told his younger brother to prepare his son to inherit, in time.”

Osborn looked startled. “Has he so? That does seem very final. I am sorry for it, if so, for every man needs a wife eventually.”

“Does he?”

“I believe so, yes, especially a man of high estate. A wheelwright, perhaps, can rub along well enough as a single man, but the more responsibilities a man has, the more he needs a true companion by his side, to be his adviser, his helpmeet and comforter through the trials and adversities of life.”

“And to share the joys of life, too,” she said.

He smiled at her. “That, too. It is no different for a woman, is it? She needs a husband just as much as he needs a wife.”

“But for different reasons. A woman has no independent life, so she needs a man to support her financially. Whereas all a man needs is food put before him two or three times a day, and enough coals to keep him warm. He needs a housekeeper more than a wife.”

“Ah, Olivia,” he said gently, taking her hand in his.

“Is that why you harbour hopes of the marquess? You see marriage as a practical arrangement, so you may as well have as much wealth and rank as you can manage, is that it? But marriage is so much more than that… or it can be. My sister Anthea… she and John were so happy, so absorbed in each other. Nothing touched them, for they existed in a protective bubble of joy. Even when the first baby died, they recovered from their grief because they were together. Even now, John is content because he had those three years of perfect happiness.”

“What happened to her?”

“The second child… she died. They both died.” He fell silent, his expressive face unusually serious.

Olivia squeezed his hand. “And your brothers died, too. But you are here, and that must be the greatest comfort to your mama and your sisters. There is some value in being a foolish rattle, you see, for at least your nonsense makes everyone smile.”

He gave a little laugh. “Ah, you see? That is how it works — when I am sad, you manage to cheer me up.”

“By insulting you?” she said, although she could not help smiling back at him. He was a hard man to dislike!

“By teasing me,” he said, leaning back and folding his arms again.

“You have no idea how refreshing that is. Everyone in my family seems to be so serious all the time. When I was merely the little-regarded youngest son, they ignored me, but now that I am an earl— Livvy, you cannot imagine how much I hate being an earl. My family, my stewards, my lawyers, my bankers, even my fellow peers talk to me of duty and responsibility and obligation, and I understand that, truly I do. I accept my fate, however unworthy I am for the great honour that has come to me. But deep inside me, buried but not forgotten, is the free-spirited young man I once was, who set out to make the world laugh. It gets harder and harder to remember him, but you bring him to life again, my pretty ghost. You make me young and lighthearted again.”

“That is because I remind you of Izzy,” she said crisply, rising to her feet and smoothing her skirts.

“In your mind, you are back in those days when you courted Izzy and had nothing else to think about but pleasure and amusement. But I am not Izzy, my lord, and you are not Robert Osborn any longer.”

He jumped to his feet too. “No, no, no! Give me no ‘my lords’ , Livvy, I beg you. Ah, I should not have said so much, for now that delightful dimple is hidden away and who knows how much nonsense I shall have to shower on your head to reveal it again. Do not hide your dimple from me, sweet apparition.”

What was it about this man that charmed her so much? After such a speech, she could not help smiling again, whereupon he cried out in delight.

“Ah, there it is!” He caught up her hand again and dropped a kiss on it. “You see? You are so good for me, my lovely Livvy. If ever you decide to abandon your main project, you could do worse than marry me, you know. We would deal extremely well together, you and I.”

“Oh, tush! What nonsense you talk,” she said, but she felt herself blushing all the same. “I wish you would not flirt with me. It is not kind.”

“Whatever makes you think I am flirting?” he said, looking surprised.

She had no opportunity to reply, for Lord Grayling reappeared just then to invite everyone to the dining room for a cold collation.

It was only later that she remembered that Osborn had used her Christian name.

Olivia. Livvy, even, which no one had ever called her.

And if he was not flirting, had he just proposed to her?

How strange! He was an odd sort of man, but so easy to get along with.

Not like the marquess. However was she ever to get to know him better? And was there any point?

***

R obert watched Livvy walk away down the gallery with Grayling, scooping up the marquess and the noisy billiard players on the way.

As they disappeared down the stairs, he stood, hands on hips, rather shocked.

What had just happened? Had he proposed to Livvy?

And how did she become Livvy, all of a sudden? What had happened to ‘Lady Olivia’?

It was madness, complete madness, and yet…

What a wife she would be! So lovely and funny and quick-witted — he never had to explain his jokes to her, and she had given him some excellent advice on managing his estates.

Imagine the delight of a wife with whom one might discuss crop rotation or woodland management, who would listen and then offer sensible suggestions.

A wife who would always be on his side, who could put his mother in her place and order life around his wishes and not his father’s.

All that, and an enchanting dimple, too — it would be paradise.

And yet… there was still the niggle of concern at the back of his mind that she was right, and he was reliving his courtship of Izzy all over again, and that would hardly be fair to Livvy… Lady Olivia.

In the dining room, Robert took a glass of wine, and retreated to a window seat.

He had no desire for food. The only interest for him in the room was sitting composedly at the far end of the table, eating something creamy with a spoon.

Beside her, the marquess sat, his face solemn, listening as she talked to him between mouthfuls.

There was no dimple, he noticed sadly. Indeed, she looked as serious as the marquess.

Where was Grayling, who was supposed to be keeping her away from Embleton?

He was at the other end of the table beside Lady Euphemia, their two heads bent together in intimate conversation.

What was that all about? Still, better that he should turn his flirtatiousness in that direction.

He did not want Grayling working his way into Olivia’s heart, which by rights should belong to Robert.

And yet…