Page 14 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Olive’s gaze snapped upward, her ears warming at his assertiveness.

Emil’s narrowed eyes were trained on Mrs. Linwood, the blue irises dark as an approaching storm.

Surely…surely he wasn’t annoyed for her?

She mentally shook herself. More likely, he was still bothered by the comments about his father.

But still…why would he come to her aid at all?

“Well! That's wonderful,” Mrs. Linwood said with a relieved smile. “It was lovely seeing you again, Miss Becket.”

“Likewise,” she murmured.

As soon as Mrs. Linwood tugged her husband away, Olive let out a slow breath.

She should be used to it by now—the way people looked at her, the careful distance they placed between what she once was and what she had become.

But somehow, moments like this always seemed to find their way beneath her skin, settling into the quiet spaces of her ribs to declare: She wasn’t one of them anymore.

“Don’t do that.”

Emil’s sharp words brought her hurtling back. “Don’t do what?”

“Act like a timid lamb.”

She stiffened. She knew her friends sometimes referred to her as a lamb, but on Emil’s lips, the endearment sounded like an insult. “I’m doing no such thing.”

“You are. What happened to the woman in the pawn shop?”

“Hush,” she hissed, glancing around them.

“You had no trouble standing up to me then. Surely you can tell a couple of old classists to leave off.”

She scoffed. As if he had any idea what she should do. “Oh, why don’t you…”

He stepped closer, and her words careened through her head, tangling into an impenetrable bramble.

Even in the crowded foyer, she could feel the heat emanating from his body.

Could inhale his scent, a mixture of tobacco, polished leather, and musk.

It was the scent of man, strong and virile.

It swam through her, dizzying in its potency.

It was wonderful. Terrible. Confusing. She took a deep breath and held it, hoping, vainly, that he would leave and she could exhale again.

“Go ahead, little lamb. Give me your most ferocious baa.”

The breath exploded out of her, ripe with resentment. “Why don’t you go—go—go find another pair of chickens!”

His brow furrowed. She wanted to run, but she was pinned by the storms in his eyes, all dark clouds and crashing waves.

They stared at each other, time stretching until she was as taut as a piano string.

Waiting, waiting for the hammer to fall.

To strike and hurt. He could so easily hurt her.

But then the storms cleared, as if a mighty wind had dismissed them with a careless flick. And he smiled.

“Well, now that was just adorable. ”

No, no, no. “I’m not adorable, you—you slug.”

But her insult only expanded his grin.

And she realized, with a confusing mixture of shock, dismay, and something dangerously close to pride, that it was a genuine smile.

Not the hollow, false one he’d given Trudy.

Her breath came in shallow pants. His smile was wonderful.

Warm and crooked and unguarded. Worse than the storm.

It threatened to soften her, to pull her under his command.

Make her want things she had no business wanting.

She wasn’t prepared for it. Had no idea how to protect herself against it.

So she tucked her chin and fled.

“Olive, dear, I think you’ve hidden in here long enough.”

At the familiar voice, Olive lowered the embossed program she’d been intently studying for the last half hour.

“Hello, Mrs. Godfrey. I know.”

Her former mentor, a slender, graceful woman with hair so silver it glittered, sank into the chair beside her.

She folded her hands on her lap and gazed calmly around the ladies’ parlor as if the musicale wasn’t about to start.

Olive did the same, noting what had and hadn’t changed since the last time she’d been invited to the Blount residence.

The large bay windows had new drapery, the lace sheers allowing soft light to filter through.

More porcelain figurines were in the curio cabinet than she remembered, and the tufted armchairs had been reupholstered in burgundy velvet.

On the small tea table near the fireplace, a cut-crystal vase held an arrangement of pale pink camellias and white narcissus, undoubtedly coaxed into bloom in the Blount hothouse.

Mrs. Blount had always loved her flowers.

“It’s a lovely room for a respite,” Mrs. Godfrey finally said.

“Yes.”

“But not when there’s a gentleman out there asking questions. Questions that will eventually lead back to you.”

Olive sighed. “He isn’t subtle.”

“Not a whit.”

“Did you speak with him?”

“I did. But not to worry. I feigned senility, and he quickly abandoned me for Miss Rinker.”

Olive smiled gratefully. Mrs. Godfrey had always been kind to her, no matter her circumstances.

It was she who had nominated Olive for a junior position when she turned sixteen.

She, who had encouraged Olive to be brave and perform whenever possible.

She, who had recommended Olive to wealthy families once it became clear she must teach, despite having little teaching experience.

And it was she whom Olive had turned to when her madcap scheme had seemed like a good idea.

“Who else knows about your sister’s printing press?” she whispered.

Mrs. Godfrey’s lip twitched. “Not many, considering what she normally prints with it.”

“I’m grateful for both your help. And your silence. I realize now it was a mistake—”

“Olive, hush.” Mrs. Godfrey swiveled and placed a warm palm over hers. “You’ve always been too hard on yourself. Do you know what I think?” Olive shook her head, her throat thick. “I think you deserve to have a little fun. Your young man is clever and exceedingly handsome—”

“He’s not mine! It’s only that he needs me to talk to other musicians.”

“He’s the one doing all the talking out there, with or without you,” she pointed out. “And that still doesn’t explain why he hovers at the doors behind us, waylaying anyone who tries to enter. I rather think he’s watching over you.”

“Oh no. That’s not possible.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s Emil Anderson and I’m—” she waved a hand in the air to encompass herself “—I’m me.”

“Olive Becket, don’t you dare diminish yourself. You have risen to every challenge set before you, and you will not stop now.” Mrs. Godfrey rose to her feet. “I’m going to claim my seat, and I expect you to do the same.” She squeezed Olive’s shoulder kindly, and then she was gone.

Olive blinked back tears. She hated disappointing Mrs. Godfrey.

But what was she supposed to do? If she was a lamb, then Emil was a bloodhound.

He wouldn’t stop until he’d gotten what he wanted, of that she had no doubt.

Eventually, he would ask the right person.

Someone who knew about Mrs. Godfrey’s sister.

Someone who might recall that long-ago summer when Olive had improvised little tunes to entertain the other bored junior members during their endless recitals.

Someone who owed Olive no favors, who wouldn’t know how catastrophic the information could be.

What was worse, she knew Emil would continue to trail her. To try to catch her in compromising situations and manipulate her into helping him. He seemed to enjoy it, the fiend. How she would love to make him feel even a fraction of her discomfort!

Her memory flitted back to that time at the New Year’s Eve party, when she’d dared to unsettle him. It had worked, at least momentarily. Given her time to plan her next words.

She gasped and sat up straight.

She’d been so busy reacting to Emil’s railroading that she hadn’t had time to act.

A planner like her needed time to consider all the possible ramifications before making her next move.

The only way that could happen—the only way she could make it through the campaign without being discovered—was to take back control.

Turn their game on its head before he found something.

Make him go exactly where she wanted him to and waste his time while she was at it.

Her pulse was steady as she rose and made her way to the French doors.

As Mrs. Godfrey had said, Emil stood in the hallway outside, one shoulder propped against the wall as he chatted with a man she had never met.

He looked up when she appeared, then pushed off the wall and abandoned his conversation as if the other man no longer existed.

No acknowledgement, no farewell. Only the swift shift of attention to herself.

That…that had never happened before.

Emboldened, she stopped moving and let him come to her. She launched into it before he could speak and somehow gain the upper hand.

“Let’s make a deal.”

One brow rose. “What sort of deal?”

“My deal.”

A flicker of something crossed Emil’s face, but it was gone before she could name it. “Do tell.”

“First, you must stop questioning the guests.”

“Why?”

“I was listening from inside the ladies’ parlor.” She hadn’t been. “It’s as if you don’t know the first thing about music. Or suffrage.” She doubted he did. “So you should let me work while you simply take in the performances.” Beginning with her own.

“And what if I prefer to do things my way?”

“I do understand your hesitance,” she assured him. “It must be exhausting, always running full-steam ahead, always trying to escape your father’s long shadow.”

He considered her long enough to make her wonder if she’d miscalculated. If she’d played her hand too forcefully. Oh, it was so difficult to wield someone’s insecurities against them when she didn’t know the details! Nothing in his cocky, unwavering body language hinted that her barb had landed.

“At last, the lamb learns how to fight.”

There. The faintest edge beneath his mockery, like a note just lightly out of tune. She’d done it. She’d hurt him, even if it was the tiniest amount. She wanted to laugh. To weep. To apologize. But she wasn’t yet done.

“You want to find the suffrage anthem writer, don’t you? Well, you can waste more time, or you can let someone who understands this world show you the way.”

“That someone being you.”

“Yes.” She blew out a breath. “Obviously.”

“Strange turn of events, what with you doing your utmost to avoid me these last couple of weeks.”

She didn’t flinch. “I changed my mind.”

“Because you feel sorry for me, my bumbling skills, and my long shadow.”

“Sometime like that, yes.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. If I help you,” she paused and gave him the sternest look she could muster. “You must promise to stop following me. I don’t like it. It’s invasive. And…and it makes you a liar. You said you’d stop.”

He rocked back on his heels, his lips tugging up on one side. “All right, Miss Becket. I accept your terms.”

Relief poured through her, making her limbs feel light and airy. She held out her hand, which trembled only slightly. His hand clasped hers and shook it gently, firmly. For several seconds too long.

“Oh, and Miss Becket?” He waited for her to meet his eyes once more. “Well done.”

She gave her best approximation of a regal nod, tugged her hand free, and swept down the hallway toward the strains of music. Her heart pounded, her stomach leapt, and her skin itched. But she’d gotten what she wanted.

She could do this.

She could outsmart him.

She could have fun doing it.

And, by God, she could make him dance to her tune.