Olivia Twist(45)
“I know you don’t have an aversion to rich, beautiful women, so why the reluctance?”
Jack ran his thumb over the pads of his fingers in contemplation. He wanted to tell her no, that he wouldn’t do it. But in this case, the ends more than justified the means. “I know Miss Lancaster rather well. It won’t be a problem.”
“Good. Because I invited her to the theater on your behalf, and she’ll be sitting in our box tonight.”
The woman worked fast, he had to give her that.
CHAPTER 13
It occurred to me, Miss Brownlow,” Maxwell said as he led Olivia to her seat in the second-tier balcony, “that I have been neglectful in my courtship duties.” He spoke the words as if rehearsed. Or, more likely, prompted by his mother.
“Tonight qualifies as a courtship outing, does it not?” Olivia placed her gloved fingers on Max’s dark coat sleeve and met his eyes.
He blinked down at her hand, his cheeks darkening. “Perhaps this courtship business isn’t so bad after all.” His solicitous comment made Olivia’s throat constrict with guilt as she removed her hand from his arm and sat, fingering the small knot of string beneath the fabric of her glove, a reminder that her heart was divided.
Flustered, she raised her opera glasses to glance around the packed theater. They were seated in the Grimwigs’ private box with his parents. The perch gave them an optimal view of not only the stage but the colorful crowd as well.
Movement in the box directly across the theater caught her eye, and she swung the glasses around until she landed on a couple, just in time to see the dark-haired man leaning over to kiss the extended hand of a petite brunette. As the glasses brought the couple into focus, the blood drained from Olivia’s head and landed with a lump in her stomach. It was none other than Jack MacCarron and her blasted cousin Francesca. Lowering the glasses, she sucked air in gulps, the stricture of her stays stifling.
“What is it, Miss Brownlow?” Max lifted his glasses to follow the direction of her gaze. “Is that MacCarron?”
“Why, yes,” Martha Grimwig commented from the other side of Maxwell. “And Miss Lancaster. What a lovely couple they make. Don’t you agree, Miss Brownlow?”
Olivia couldn’t open her mouth for fear she might vomit. What was he doing here with her? Fran knew she was going to the theater this evening and hadn’t mentioned a word of her plans to attend. It must have been a last-minute invitation following her meeting with Jack on the street that morning. What was it Fran had said? Those evocative blue eyes didn’t leave my face the entire conversation. Olivia had dismissed it as her cousin’s over-inflated opinion of herself. Apparently, she’d been wrong.
Like a spectator unable to resist the macabre pull of a bloody accident, Olivia lifted her glasses and watched Jack and Fran’s dark heads tilt together in intimate conversation. She couldn’t make out their expressions in the dim light, but it was clear by their body language that they were enjoying each other’s company.
“Whyever did you ask me not to invite him to the ball?” Mrs. Grimwig asked Max in an annoyed tone.
“Mother, please. Let’s not discuss this here,” Max replied in a hiss.
Olivia forced herself to lower her glasses and focus on the conversation.
“He is always perfectly charming, and if Miss Lancaster deems him suitable then I shan’t exclude him.”
“Mother, you don’t—”
The orchestra’s discordant tuning swelled into organization, the smooth woodwinds melding with soaring strings and a roll of percussion, cutting off further conversation. Ushers garbed in gray from head to toe swarmed in like a flock of jays, extinguishing the lamps in formation. This dramatic prelude was Olivia’s favorite part. But not even a rainbow of gypsies twirling across the stage, tambourines jingling, could distract her when her gut was churning with such violence.
She knew she had no claim on Jack and no cause to feel this jealousy, but that didn’t change the fact she longed to be the one sitting beside him—his leg brushing hers, his breath stirring the tiny hairs by her ear, the very air around them pulsing with expectation. She glanced over at Max, his long legs crossed, his posture erect, very properly not touching her person. This was her fate and her future.
But who said it had to be? Why couldn’t Olivia add excitement to her relationship with her betrothed? Shifting closer to Max, she placed her hand on top of his and pressed the length of their arms together. He didn’t appear to notice, so she gave his fingers a squeeze. His brows scrunched as he tore his gaze from the stage and looked down at their joined hands. He pressed his lips together, his eyes shifting over to his mother. He gave Olivia’s fingers a pat before extricating his hand from hers and resting it on his knee, directing his attention back to the performance.
A flush rose to heat Olivia’s cheeks as she shifted away from the man beside her, ensuring that not even their clothing touched. Olivia was quite certain Jack and Francesca were not inhibited by such antiquated strictures of propriety, especially in the dim intimacy of the auditorium. A jittery energy coursed through her, her legs itching to move.
But she sat through what seemed like an endless number of songs, the dancers blurring before her eyes. Then all the frenetic movement stopped, and a lone woman stood center stage, singing lyrics that cut to Olivia’s heart: “The secret of my birth, to him is only known. The secret of a life whose worth perchance he will disown, disown . . .” Would Max disown her if he knew all the secrets of her scandalous past? Her present?