Page 3 of Scoundrel at First Sight (Love at First Sight #2)

Part II

“ W hatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”

~ Emily Bronte, English novelist and poet

The nerve of some men.

No, Olivia corrected silently as she stuffed her foot into a dancing slipper and yanked the silk ribbon around her ankle, not some men.

Just one.

Hoyt Culpepper.

She didn’t recall her mother mentioning that an American would be in attendance at this year’s house party. To the best of her knowledge, her parents had no affiliations, personal or otherwise, with any Yankees.

Yet here he was.

Six feet of brawny muscle, black hair pushed back from an annoyingly striking face, and breathtaking swagger.

She’d judged him to be around her age, mayhap a few years older.

The emerald green waistcoat that had hugged his broad shoulders and fell in a straight line away from his waist revealed that he had an excellent tailor, and thus likely had money.

She may not have paid as much attention to fashion as her two sisters, but even she knew the difference between gold buttons and tin.

The way he’d worn his pomposity like a well-fitted glove had also been revealing.

Hoyt was obviously a man accustomed to women throwing themselves at him, and his flabbergasted expression when she’d done the exact opposite had almost - almost - made up for him ferreting out one of her best hiding spots.

Because of him, she’d have to find somewhere else to conceal herself after she made a brief appearance at Jane’s recital.

Her mother had stationed a scullery maid at the entrance to the attic stairwell, so that was out unless she wanted to attempt to scale a four-story trellis.

So was the garden shed and the stables. The Duchess of Abercorn had eyes everywhere, and they’d all been told to immediately report any sightings of her wayward daughter.

Leaving Olivia with a limited number of places to hide, especially given the sheer size of the manor and surrounding estate.

The labyrinth had been a stroke of sheer genius.

It was so obvious that her mother never would have looked for her in there.

But then he’d followed her.

Stalking her to ground as if he were a hound and she one of her beloved foxes.

The nerve!

Sitting up, Olivia cast her appearance a withering glance in the mirror propped against her dressing table before she sprang to her feet and hurried out of her room.

After being late for the receiving line and skipping the tea party altogether, she knew she was already running the risk of straining her mother’s patience beyond its tolerable limits.

The duchess was an understanding woman, but she wasn’t without her temper.

After all, that was who Olivia had gotten hers from.

Scratching her scalp where her lady’s maid had jammed in a series of pins in a desperate attempt to tame her defiant curls into something vaguely resembling a coiffure, she fell into line with the rest of the guests making their way toward the music room, an elegant space in soft blues with matching armchairs lined up in neat, orderly rows facing a raised dais where Jane was already seated in preparation for her performance.

She made sure to catch her mother’s stare before melting into the second-to-last line of chairs, choosing the one closest to the doorway to expedite a silent retreat after the first musical number was over.

At the same time, the majority of the crowd, including her family, flocked to the front seats.

With one notable exception.

“Pardon me, my lady,” a familiar male voice drawled and Olivia caught her breath on a hiss of incredulity as Hoyt Culpepper slid in front of her and then sat directly beside her, completely ignoring the empty row to his left.

Stretching his legs out in front of him and lacing his fingers together over the flat plane of his abdomen, he shuttered his gaze. “Let me know when I should applaud.”

“You’re not even going to watch? ” she said, conveniently forgetting the fact that she’d had her exit planned since before she’d even entered the music room.

“It’s a recital,” he said without opening his eyes. “I believe you’re supposed to listen.”

“You’re supposed to pay attention,” she snapped.

The edge of his mouth curled in a smirk. “Oh really? Is that why you’re all the way back here?”

“Where I’m sitting is none of your concern.”

“It’s not? Because you seem awfully concerned about - you .” Finally, Hoyt cracked his eyes open and they momentarily went wide before narrowing to thin, suspicious slits of icy blue. “What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that?”

“Like what?” she asked, ignoring a foreign twinge of self-consciousness as she grasped a handful of her skirts.

Her mother had selected the violet gown for her.

Never in a thousand years would she have chosen such a soft, frilly dress.

It had lace on it. She hated lace. She’d also hated sitting still while her lady’s maid had gone at her hair with a pair of hot tongs and an army of pins.

Left to her own devices, she’d have made do with a plain braid and the pair of breeches she’d paid a stable boy for and kept hidden under bed less her mother find them and burn them, as she’d done the last pair.

She even had a corset on. Although she preferred to call it what it really was: a torture device.

Meant to squeeze the air from a woman’s lungs so that she couldn’t contradict a man when he said something idiotic.

“Like the daughter of a duke.” Hoyt twisted toward her, resting his elbow on the top rail of his chair. “This isn’t what you were wearing this morning.”

“People have a special ability you may not have heard about before. It’s called changing their clothes.”

His rich laugh turned a few heads from two rows in the front of them and created an odd fluttering in her belly.

Likely indigestion from the corset.

“Are you always this sarcastic?” he asked, grinning at her.

“Do you find me sarcastic? I’ve always been told that I am a delight.” Pointedly, she turned her head to the stage. “Quiet, if you please. My sister is about to begin.”

“Your sister?” The hand he’d placed on the back of his chair inched toward her own and she nearly jumped a foot in the air when his fingertips casually glided across her exposed nape before settling on the rail of her chair.

“The program said the recital was being performed by the duke and duchess’s eldest daughter. ”

He was too close, she thought crossly. Even worse, he smelled divine.

Like pinewood with an underlying hint of the soap used to clean leather.

And she hated that she’d noticed. Hated even more that she found his scent pleasing when she didn’t want to like anything about him.

Not his face, which was also quite pleasing.

Not the color of his eyes. Not the crease of a dimple that had flashed high on his right cheek when he’d chuckled.

Especially not his accent, with its flat vowels and husky undertones.

“Yes,” she said in a clipped tone, keeping her gaze pinned straight ahead. “My sister, Jane. The eldest. Tomorrow, Bethany, the middlest, will be performing an original song.” Her chin lifted a notch. “I am the youngest.”

“Then that would make you Lady Olivia.” The way he spoke her name - like a velvet caress - had her toes curling in her too-tight slippers. “Aren’t you full of surprises. And what talent will you be gracing us with, my lady?”

“Hopefully, the ability to make arrogant Americans disappear with the snap of my fingers,” she retorted, bringing her thumb and middle finger together. “Pity. I’ll have to work on it.”

He chuckled again, angling his head so that she felt his breath against her neck as he murmured, “Do you want to go practice somewhere else?”

Was this it, Olivia wondered as the edges of her vision grew hazy and the butterflies in her belly went mad.

The it that she’d heard other ladies, including her own sisters, giggle about behind open fans and closed doors.

The thing that made them act all sorts of peculiar, like when Bethany, who was terrified of heights, had snuck out her bedroom window to meet Thomas in the moonlight.

Or when her friend Elizabeth, otherwise sensible and of sound mind, had gone for a stroll with an earl and married him six months later.

Olivia wasn’t sure.

She’d never felt it before.

She’d never felt like this before.

Warm and flushed, almost as if she was about to come down with fever.

Except she wasn’t ill, she was tingly. From head to toe, her entire body was a mass of tiny little vibrations.

Every sound was louder than it should have been.

She could hear her own pulse roaring in her ears.

She could discern the thrum of her heartbeat.

And even though hair had no feeling at all, she could have sworn she felt Hoy’s fingers gliding along the edge of a rebellious curl that had already escaped the confines of her coiffure.

“I…” Her throat was dry. She swallowed, then tried again. “I would very much like if you would leave me be so that I can give my full attention to my sister.”

Hoyt’s shrugged. “As you wish, my lady.”

“Thank you.” Pinching her lips together, Olivia stared unwaveringly at the stage where Jane was about to begin her first sonata.

And she tried. She really did. For the first piece, and even the second, she didn’t look at Hoyt.

She didn’t even breathe in his direction.

But she couldn’t help but be aware of him. He was simply too large to ignore.