A Season of Hope (Danby #2)(4)

“You know, dear,” her mother began, gently, “this will not change what is to come in a fortnight. You know you’ll return and Father will see you wed to the earl.”

Olivia managed a nod. “I do. I know.”

But, all she knew for now was that there was a reprieve. It fueled Olivia’s hope.

Anything could happen at the holidays.

She smiled. Danby had proven that on many scores.

“When do we leave?”

Mother brushed her hand along Olivia’s cheek. A tremulous smile on her lips. “He didn’t summon me, Olivia.”

Olivia frowned. “But surely…”

Mother pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her words. “He didn’t summon me. One does what the duke requires and he requires your presence. If he’d wanted me to accompany you, then the note would have indicated as much. Just as your sister’s note had.”

Olivia remembered back to the summons her sister Alexandra had received some seven years ago. The missive had required Olivia, Mother, and Alexandra be present at Danby Castle. Father had been ordered behind. In no uncertain terms. At that time, the duke had been playing matchmaker.

Her lips quirked. It was rather an unlikely image of the staid, frowning duke—matchmaker. Ultimately that is what he’d been and Alexandra had found her happy ever after with the Earl of Pembroke.

Olivia’s smile died. She folded her arms across her chest and tried to rub warmth back into them. There’d be no matchmaking for Olivia. The only man she’d loved…well, Danby was all powerful but he was not God. He could not bring a man back from the grave.

“I should begin packing.”

“I already instructed your maid.”

Of course she had. Olivia did something she’d not done in many, many years. She threw her arms around her Mother and held on tight much like she’d done as a small girl who’d had night terrors.

Mother smoothed small circles across Olivia’s back. “Oh, dear. My sweet, beautiful child.”

Tears flooded Olivia’s eyes. She’d not been a child for more than a lifetime. It felt like the simplicity of cherry tarts and dolls and carols at Christmas all belonged to another woman. No, life had proven hard and ugly and unfair.

They’d not printed that in any of the Gothic novels her mother so loved.

Olivia blinked back the salty drops. She’d not cry. She’d shed her last tear five years ago when she’d been an innocent girl of eighteen. She took a step back.

“Do you believe I’m in trouble with the duke?”

Mother arched an elegant brow. “Why? Have you done something to earn the duke’s displeasure?”

Oh, outside of deliberately scaring off every and any respectable lord, oftentimes with antics well-beyond scandalous? She crossed her fingers behind her back. “I’m certain I can’t imagine anything I’ve done that would be considered untoward.”

Mother snorted. “Don’t go repeating that to your father.”

They shared a smile.

Olivia studied her mother for a long moment. The elegant arch of her cheeks, the pale hue of her creamy skin, the narrowness of her waist all marked her as a woman far, far younger than her five and fifty years. She was the counter opposite of Father’s balding, rotund frame. Not for the first time, Olivia wondered at their match.

“Do you regret having wed him?”

Mother’s glance slid away, past Olivia’s shoulder, and to the warm fire that crackled in the hearth. She said nothing for a long moment and Olivia believed she might not respond. “How can I regret having wed him when I have such beautiful daughters?” She gave Olivia a gentle nudge. “Now, hurry above stairs and oversee the packing. As it is, the snow is going to delay your travels.”

Olivia placed a kiss on Mother’s cheek and all but flew from the room, filled with the first real excitement she’d felt in a very long time.

Talks of marriage to Ellsworth had been silenced.

That had to be enough.

For now.





Chapter 3


Seated behind the mahogany desk, the Duke of Danby glowered. “You there, I’m waiting for a visitor. Anyone arrived yet?”

Marcus Wheatley, steward to the Duke of Danby, looked at his employer from across the room. Even with the eye-patch that concealed his empty socket, Marcus could see the displeasure creasing the old codger’s face.

“Not to my knowledge, Your Grace.”

The duke waved at the leather-winged back chair across from his desk. “Sit. Sit. You know, first bring over a decanter of brandy and two glasses.”

Marcus hesitated, but only a moment, before he fetched the brandy and glasses. He pulled the stopper bottle and poured two generous glasses full of the brown brew. He glowered at the shimmery liquid. He’d sworn years ago he’d never touch anything French but had made an exception in terms of brandy. When a man had to deal with the physical pain and secret demons that haunted Marcus, well, then partaking in bloody French liquors was a minor betrayal of his promise, really.

He slid into the comfortable folds of the seat.

The duke took a sip of brandy and frowned back at him. “Must you always wear that nasty scowl? I’m the only one who's supposed to scowl in this household.”

A partial grin tilted the corner of Marcus’s lips until he flinched. Even after five years, the scar tissue still ached.