Olivia Twist(14)

Violet poured as Francesca rattled on about the wonders of her dressmaker. Like a hawk sensing prey, Fran turned her assessing stare on Olivia. “You must accompany me to Madame Fanchon’s shop this afternoon, Olivia. The woman can do miracles with even the dullest coloring.”

Ignoring her cousin’s not so veiled insult, Olivia glanced down at her pale yellow frock without much interest. As with all her dresses, Vi had helped her make the selection, and it suited her as well as any other. Image was important to her uncle, or she’d likely be wearing the same three dresses in perpetual rotation.

“You ought to wear colors that play down that ghastly tint to your skin.” Francesca’s eyes swept over Olivia’s face and neck. It was true that Olivia loved the sun, its warmth too delicious to resist. “I mean really, Olivia, you ought to use a parasol. You look as if you have been working alongside the gardener!”

Francesca paused in her tirade to nibble a pink-frosted petit four, and all Olivia could think about was how Chip’s face would look if she managed to smuggle some of the square-shaped cakes to the Hill. But there weren’t enough for each of the children, and in any case they’d be smashed beyond recognition if she stuffed the remainder in her small reticule. But if she stopped off at the kitchen before she left, perhaps they would have enough.

“Olivia Brownlow! Are you listening to me?” Francesca demanded as she set her cup on the saucer with a resounding clink.

Olivia blinked at her cousin and dropped her hand from the egg-shaped locket around her neck, not wishing Fran to notice her nervous tic. “Of course, Fran. I’ll accompany you to your modiste. I haven’t purchased a formal gown in ages. In fact, I’m in need of something to wear to the Grimwigs’ ball.”

“Well, that doesn’t give us much time, does it? The ball is in less than a fortnight.” Francesca tapped a fingernail against her lips. “But I’m certain Madam can come up with something suitable, even if it is not custom.”

That settled, the conversation shifted to various subjects that didn’t involve Olivia’s inadequacies as a properly turned-out lady. Topics that only required her occasional nod or monosyllable agreement, until a single word pulled at her attention.

“. . . MacCarron.”

Olivia froze, the dollop of Devonshire cream meant for her scone landing on her plate with a plop. She’d been unable to get more than a few hours’ sleep since he’d snuck into her room and deposited the cap on her bed. Her trepidation forced her up multiple times during the night to ensure the window and door were locked tight.

Francesca’s face flooded with color as she continued, “He’s quite glorious. And those eyes! Good gracious, he stares as if he can see one’s deepest, darkest secrets.” The throaty giggle that followed scraped across Olivia’s brain like a knife against china.

“Last week at the Dells’ musicale he shed his coat, took the stage, and played the most haunting melody on the violin.” Francesca propped her chin on her fist with a heavy sigh. “I thought I would swoon at the sight of his strong hands so expertly manipulating that delicate instrument.”

Olivia choked, almost spewing the tea from her nose. After several moments of Vi pounding her on the back with enthusiasm, Olivia regained her ability to breathe. Dodger’s skills with a beat-up fiddle had driven away the cold and boredom many nights on the Hill, but Francesca’s recollection implied quite a different type of warming.

“Honestly, Fran!” Violet exclaimed, her freckled cheeks flushed red. “Mr. MacCarron is quite handsome, but . . . but . . . he is not in the least suitable,” she sputtered. Olivia had to agree, considering what she knew of Jack’s background and his current penchant for attending high society events with the sole purpose of robbing the family blind.

“Don’t be such a prude.” Francesca waved her hand as if dismissing her cousin’s concern. “Whoever said what I have in mind is suitable?”

“How perfectly revolting,” Olivia remarked in her most blasé tone.

Francesca narrowed her gaze at Olivia in challenge. “You’ve never thought about a dalliance with anyone? Isn’t there some gentleman who makes your blood boil? A man who could compel you to throw caution to the wind?”

Violet, her eyes wide as green saucers, sat straight up in her chair.

Olivia met Francesca’s stare. “I am not dead, Fran. But there is such a thing as duty. Not to mention morality—”

“You can’t tell me,” Francesca’s words trampled over Olivia’s, “that flop Grimwig makes butterflies dance in your belly?”

Memories of the one disappointing kiss she’d shared with Maxwell filled Olivia’s mind, followed swiftly by visions of Jack’s warm body surrounding hers in the alley. An odd heat spread low in her stomach as she recalled how close his lips had come to hers. Olivia cleared her throat. “It’s nearly four. Oughtn’t we be off to Madam Fanchon’s?”

A tiny smile curved the corners of Francesca’s mouth. “Of course. I want to commission a gown that will ensure Mr. MacCarron’s unrelenting attention.”

Olivia set her napkin on the table and stood abruptly, prompting her cousins to follow suit. But Francesca wasn’t finished. “He simply could not take his eyes from me at the musicale.”

Ha! Her jewels, more like. Francesca never left the house without some form of extravagant bauble. The sapphire earbobs she wore now would be worth her life to someone like Dodger. But a tiny doubt niggled through her mind; Jack would be drawn to the challenge her gorgeous, well-to-do cousin presented.