Olivia Twist(17)

For the tenth time, Olivia wished her aunt Becky could be her chaperone that evening. But Violet and her mother were on the other side of town attending a party Aunt Becky proclaimed would result in Violet’s imminent betrothal. Poor Vi. Her mother carted her out in front of every eligible young man like a pony at auction. With a sigh, Olivia smoothed her peach-colored skirts and followed Aunt Katrina out of the carriage.

Olivia viewed the moment of arrival at a dinner party as if it were a brightly wrapped package. Each guest was handpicked by the hostess for either optimum equanimity or maximum drama, and not knowing the mix created a moment of salacious anticipation. The instant she walked into the Prices’ drawing room and spied the widow, Lois March, she knew what sort of party this would be, and the knowledge sparked a flutter of excitement in her chest. Harmony was overrated, and deadly dull.

With a lift of her chin, she began to mingle. She exchanged inanities with several acquaintances before pausing in a cluster of Francesca’s friends. “Then, I told him he was quite the wittiest thing in all creation.” Frannie’s voice, half a pitch higher than normal, cut through the chatter around them, drawing the attention her cousin craved.

Not wishing to contribute to her narcissism, Olivia turned and searched the room to find Mrs. March laughing with a young, blond gentleman with whom Olivia was not acquainted. Tall and thin, but broad of shoulder, he wore his black-and-white formal attire as if he had been born in it. Their eyes met across the room, and the young man raised his pale brows and nodded in her direction before he turned back to the still guffawing older woman.

“That’s Topher March, Lois’s only grandson,” said Francesca’s plump, brunette friend, who Olivia thought might be named Marcie or Maggie, or perhaps Mildred. Something with an M, she was quite sure. But having met the girl more than once, she simply could not ask. This sort of conundrum was exactly why she needed Violet by her side.

“Yes, and Mr. March is the sole heir to not one but two fortunes. I simply must be seated with him this evening,” Francesca asserted.

“Must you, Fran?” Olivia arched a single brow at her cousin. “Are you quite certain he is the most eligible bachelor in the room? Perhaps you ought to wait and see who else will be in attendance before staking your claim.”

Francesca’s lips stretched into a tight smile before she replied, “How very thoughtful, Olivia. You are absolutely right. I shall await all of the arrivals before pressing my case with Mrs. Price.”

Olivia met Fran’s dark eyes and accepted the unspoken challenge. “Whomever your escort is this evening, dear Frannie, I’m quite sure he will be infinitely . . . appropriate. Now, if you will excuse me.”

With a nod, Olivia turned and made her way across the room, smiling along the way, but not pausing in her quest to reach the Marches. When she glanced over, she noted that Mr. March tracked her progress. Barely resisting the urge to check and see if Fran had noticed the gentleman’s attentions, she completed her rounds, and when she finally reached Mr. March’s side, he greeted her with a short bow.

“Mrs. March.” Olivia bobbed a curtsy to the hunched, yet somehow regal, old woman.

“Why, Miss Brownlow, how very lovely to see you, dear. You are looking quite . . .” She paused, her faded, hazel eyes flowing over Olivia from head to toe then returning to her face with a twinkle. “. . . trim.”

A short laugh burst from Olivia’s throat at the woman’s subtle reminder of their first meeting, when she’d commented Olivia ate like a pregnant cow. “Yes, I’ve been somewhat negligent in my culinary pursuits of late.”

Mrs. March’s cheeks lifted as she met Olivia’s eyes, a new appreciation glowing there. “Miss Brownlow, may I present my grandson, Mr. Christopher March.”

“Mr. March, I am so pleased to make your acquaintance.” Olivia curtsied to the attractive gentleman, all the while watching out of the corner of her eye for Francesca. When she met Mr. March’s gray gaze, she lifted her brows and quirked her mouth in an attempt at flirtation. “Why is it we have never met?”

“Topher’s just completed his education at Oxford. Isn’t that right, my boy?” Mrs. March spoke several decibels above normal conversation, the feathers on her puce hat trembling in response.

“Yes, my certification was a dual focus in finance and business. Top of my class.” Mr. March clutched his jacket lapels and leaned in as if he spoke in confidence. “Rather necessary when one will soon be managing two landed estates.”

“Yes, quite.” Obviously, Mr. March’s wealth had been recently gained, otherwise he would not find it necessary to proclaim it. New or old money was of no consequence to Olivia, but if this braggart was the most eligible bachelor at the party, she’d rather sit with the butler. She began to search the room for her cousin’s dark head in earnest, hoping to arrange an introduction.

“My mother’s family estate, Woodcreek Park, is over a hundred acres in Hampshire. She is planning a lavish house party during Christmas. I’d be glad to add you to the guest list, Miss Brownlow.” Mr. March’s odd, pale eyes swept over Olivia’s face, one corner of his mouth curling. “If you’re so inclined, that is?”

The invitation was clear, but Olivia had no desire to spend any length of days confined with this gentleman. “I—”

“Being inclined would imply the lady had an interest, Toph.” Jack’s cool voice caused an instant heat across Olivia’s skin. “And it is clear she does not.”