Olivia Twist(18)

Propriety forgotten, her head swiveled in search of the speaker. Jack, handsomely turned out in a navy blue coat, appeared at Mrs. March’s side as if out of thin air.

“Oh, Jack!” Mrs. March practically yelled. “I am so pleased you changed your mind about attending.”

With Jack’s presence, the room brightened, as if several more candelabras followed him into the room. A smile that seemed to originate deep in Olivia’s chest stretched her lips without her consent. And froze there as revelation stopped her breath. She’d been searching for him—for Dodger—all these years. In every dirty face, every outstretched hand and orphan she helped, she’d searched for her childhood mate, the boy who’d taken her under his wing when she’d had no one. But why?

She watched his left hand where he rubbed his thumb across the pads of his fingers in a nervous tell he’d had since childhood. His shoulders straight, his lips pressed into a casual smirk, it was the only indication of the vast emotion brewing inside him.

It was true he’d left her to her fate that long-ago day. But as a result, hadn’t she been taken in by her uncle, whilst Jack had been left to muck out a living on the streets?

Perhaps she’d been the one who had left him behind, not the other way around.

Ridiculous. Before he could see, she straightened her spine and flattened her expression, but her external control did nothing to calm the galloping of her heart.

“Jack, old man.” Topher punched Jack’s upper arm with a bit too much force to be considered companionable. “Your plans at the gaming hell fall through?”

“Something like that.” Jack dismissed Topher’s barb and turned to Olivia. Barely restrained ferocity lurked beneath his ice-blue eyes as they fixed on her face. “Miss Brownlow, how very good to see ye again.”

“And you, Mr. MacCarron.” She sounded breathless as she dropped into a rigid curtsy.

Jack cocked his head to the side, his eyes narrowing on Olivia’s head. Without thinking, she touched a gloved hand to the green and coral garland of flowers woven into her hair, hoping the elaborate coiffure had not fallen.

“What a flattering hair ornament, Miss Brownlow. But I do believe I prefer that ruffled cap ye wore the other day.” Jack paused as if searching his memory. “Cream with green ribbons, I believe?”

Olivia sucked in a breath. Would he give her away? Accuse her of stealing? He couldn’t possibly confront her without the risk of implicating himself. Could he? She should have anticipated this moment.

Fighting to regain her polite countenance, she quipped, “Why, Mr. MacCarron, how observant of you. I had no idea you had such a burning interest in fashion.”

“Nor I,” said Topher with relish. “But it explains quite a lot.”

The two men exchanged heated glares, and Olivia worried that they might come to blows.

“Excuse me, Mr. MacCarron.” The hostess, Mrs. Price, rushed to the edge of their little group with Francesca hovering by her side. “I believe you have met the lovely Miss Lancaster. Would you mind terribly escorting her to dinner this evening?”

Fran directed a smug grin at Olivia before her face fell back into its usual pouty, yet enticing mien. The transformation from spoilt brat into sensual temptress almost made Olivia laugh. Almost.

“Indeed.” Jack turned and bowed over Francesca’s hand, his lips lingering a moment too long on her gloved knuckles. Something bitter rose in Olivia’s throat as Fran curtsied to Jack, a pretty flush pinkening her cheeks before she took his arm and he led her away.

“Dear Miss Brownlow.” Mrs. Price bustled forward, fanning her blotchy face. “I’ve been informed Mr. Grimwig has been detained. Which is good, since Mr. MacCarron’s arrival would make an odd number. But I think Mr. March shall suit as your dining partner, yes?”

“Yes, of course.” The words had not finished leaving Olivia’s lips before Mrs. Price flitted off to organize another pairing.

Olivia glanced at Topher March and then over at her cousin, who stood so close to Jack that her dark curls brushed the midnight blue of his coat. Jack leaned into her with a chuckle, clearly amused by their conversation. Fran’s wishes for a “dalliance” with Jack fresh in Olivia’s mind, she turned away from the couple and set her jaw.

It would seem her cousin had won this battle after all.



Jack watched the amethyst-and-diamond earbobs wink from between Miss Lancaster’s dark curls, teasing him like a can-can dancer’s ankles. The chit had babbled nonstop between every bite of the last seven courses. But all Jack could think about was getting her alone, quieting those chatty lips, and slipping her jewels into his pocket. Well, that and the atrocity occurring at the other end of the table—his blasted “cousin” charming the devil out of Miss Olivia Brownlow.

Jack leaned back and shot a glance down the table. Topher was making a clownish face and wiggling in his seat, presumably doing some sort of impression, while Olivia grinned, a single round dimple appearing in her right cheek. Something about her face tugged at long-buried memories of his youth, stealing his breath. But how could that be? Anything reminiscent of his childhood would find him living in the streets, far, far from Olivia’s glittering world of privilege.

“. . . MacCarron? Mr. MacCarron!”

The air returned to Jack’s lungs in shallow degrees. He turned to the woman batting his arm as if she were trying to kill an insect and snapped, “Yes, Miss Lancaster?”