Lady Be Reckless (Duke's Daughters #2)(31)

“It’s very good,” the same boy said, his eyes bright. “Miss Saunders read it to us, but we wanted you to read it too.”

Olivia smiled, a warmth stealing over her at the praise. She was wanted and needed here, more so even than at the society, where she could help but wasn’t as directly engaged with the children. Anybody could throw money at something, and she did plenty of that, giving away as much of her spending money as she could to help, but it was something else to give her time, and she found it far more rewarding than just donating a check. Certainly more rewarding than sewing shifts, given how terrible she was at needlework.

She’d never forget that her funds were essential to helping these children, but she also wanted to feel as though she herself—Lady Olivia—could do something more.

She opened the book and began to read.

Laura and Harry Graham could scarcely feel sure that they ever had a mama, because she died while they were yet very young indeed; but Frank, who was some years older, recollected perfectly well what pretty playthings she used to give him, and missed his kind, good mama so extremely, that he one day asked if he might “go to a shop and buy a new mama?”



And then she had to stop to wipe her eyes because the book, of course, reminded her of him. Of Edward, who didn’t remember his mother at all. But he had Mr. Beechcroft, and these children—thus far—had her, so she couldn’t allow her sentiments to affect what she was doing for them right now.



“Mr. Wolcott,” Olivia’s mother began. Olivia felt herself freeze in place, hoping her mother wasn’t going to say anything embarrassing. “I am so delighted to find you to be so . . . well, you know,” she finished, gesturing toward him.

Please don’t ask, please don’t ask, please don’t ask, Olivia chanted to herself. She had to admit now to feeling sympathy for Pearl, who was often clearly regretting that Olivia had said something.

“So . . . what?” Mr. Wolcott said, raising one of his exceedingly attractive eyebrows. That is, if eyebrows could be considered attractive. Which on Mr. Wolcott they most definitely could.

But he had asked, so she couldn’t be thinking about his eyebrows.

The family, the Marquis of Wheatley, Lord Carson, Mr. Beechcroft, and Mr. Wolcott were seated at the duke’s dining room table. So far there had been desultory discussion of the weather (damper than one would like), the wine (better than one could expect—it was Spanish, after all, and you know the Spanish), and how crowded the next Society party would be (very).

Olivia was seated beside Lord Carson, as she’d begged her mother. But Mr. Wolcott was seated opposite, and she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off him, even though the presumed love of her life was on her left.

Mr. Beechcroft was on her right, with Ida next to him. The two of them had spent the entire time at dinner speaking of books and such without paying attention to any of the topics. Not that Olivia could blame them; there was only so much one could speak on the weather and the likelihood of rain before one wanted to screech aloud.

But even screeching wouldn’t keep her mother from replying to Mr. Wolcott.

“So acceptable!” She spoke as though she were delighted to discover he wasn’t using his hands to cram food into his mouth. “One would think that you were just another gentleman. I mean, look at you!” she exclaimed, pointing toward him.

Olivia heard Pearl gasp from across the table. She was seated next to Mr. Wolcott, and Olivia had noticed—not without feeling a twinge of something, no it wasn’t jealousy—that he had been scrupulously polite to her twin, ensuring she was part of the conversation and making certain she was served.

“I am pleased I have met your criteria for what makes ‘just another gentleman.’” Olivia closed her eyes as she heard the bite in his tone.

“My son is more than just another gentleman.” Mr. Beechcroft had roused himself out of his conversation with Ida to join the discussion. From the way he spoke, it didn’t sound as though he’d registered his son’s acerbic tone.

Whether this would all end up with Mr. Wolcott tossing thinly veiled barbs at the duchess, who wouldn’t understand them, was still possible, but at least Mr. Beechcroft’s wading into the fray might lessen the chance.

“He is not only a fine gentleman, he also is my business partner.”

Olivia winced even more. Discussing business at a social event was the height of crass behavior. What would her parents have to say after their guests were gone? Likely her father would grunt disapprovingly, and her mother would dissect every single thing that was said in order to belittle Mr. Wolcott.

Olivia opened her eyes warily, startled to see Mr. Wolcott looking directly at her. What was even more surprising was that his lips were curled into an almost smile. Was it possible he was amused by all of this?

What else might amuse him? Perhaps she should show him her skill in sewing. That might make him chuckle. Or maybe only if she pricked her finger. Or maybe she should make some offhand remark about how magazines were infinitely more readable than books, and step back as Ida’s fury emerged in full force.

And then, as her mind was frantically casting about for something to say, he winked at her. Winked. At her.

“I do congratulate myself on having some acumen for business,” he said. She was unable to figure out how he might rescue himself and his father without the use of hypnotism. And then wondered if he cared about any of that.