Mesmerized

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name is Stephen. Surely if we know each other well enough for me to invite you to a house party, you should call me by my given name.”

“Oh!” Olivia felt a flush start on her cheeks, and she was embarrassed that such a simple thing should discombobulate her so. “Stephen. Of course. And my name is Olivia.”

“Olivia.” He reached out and took her hand, bending a little and brushing his lips against it in a courtly fashion. “Thank you. I shall look forward to your arrival. My mother will write you an invitation posthaste.”

Olivia firmly squelched the little flutter in her insides that his words caused. He wanted her help, that was all. “What—who are you going to tell her that I am?”

“A friend,” he replied, and his mouth crooked up into a grin. “Mother will be so delighted that a duke’s daughter is coming that I am sure she will not inquire too deeply into it.”

Olivia said nothing, but she had her doubts. Mothers, in her experience, rarely required so little elaboration as that.

Her own family, predictably, reacted to her announcement of her intended journey with a plethora of questions. She told them at the supper table, feeling that it was easiest to get it over with all at once.

Her mother, naturally, narrowed her sharp green eyes and said, “St. Leger? Who is he? How does he feel about the women’s vote?”

“I don’t know, Mother. I haven’t actually asked him.”

“Well, what could be more important to know about a man?” her mother countered. Tall, with flaming red hair now somewhat tempered by streaks of gray, she was a commanding woman, and Olivia generally felt inadequate when talking to her.

“Some would say the condition of his pockets,” Kyria put in lightly.

The duchess favored her red-haired daughter, so much an image of her in looks, with a grimace. “Honestly, Kyria, one would think you were frivolous, the way you talk.”

“Yes, Mama, I am afraid so.”

“Who is this chap?” the duke put in mildly. “Lord St. Leger? Do I know him?”

“He’s back from the United States.” Olivia’s brother Reed spoke up. “Younger brother. Inherited his title from Roderick St. Leger. He died some time back in a hunting accident.”

“Didn’t know the fellow,” the duke said dismissively.

“I knew Roderick somewhat,” Reed added. “He went to my club.” He shrugged. “An ordinary sort, I would have said. I don’t know the present earl.” He looked at Olivia. “What I am wondering is how you know him. I heard he’d been at his estate ever since he came back to England.”

“He is here now,” Olivia replied, adding, “I met him at a social gathering a few days ago.”

“Social gathering?” Thisbe’s husband Desmond asked, looking surprised. “You went to a par—ow!” He broke off and cast a wounded look at his wife, reaching down surreptitiously to rub his leg.

“Yes, Olivia told Kyria and me about him the other night,” Thisbe said airily. “We were discussing the, um, party where she met him.”

“You mean you barely know the man?” Reed asked, frowning.

“Oh, don’t turn big brother on us,” Kyria said, shooting him a loving but teasing glance. “As if Olivia doesn’t know what she’s doing! If Olivia feels that it is all right to attend this house party, then that is all we need to know, isn’t it, Mama?”

“Quite right, Kyria.” The duchess leveled a stern look at her son. “Reed, dear, Olivia is a grown woman and quite capable of deciding what she should or should not do without having to answer to the men of the family.”

“Yes, of course, Mother.” Reed sent Kyria a disgruntled glance. “If it were Kyria, of course, I would not say anything.”

“Liar,” Kyria stuck in.

“Kyria, don’t be disrespectful,” the duchess told her.

“But Olivia is not as sophisticated as Kyria,” Reed said.

“Yes, but I’m not stupid, either,” Olivia flared. “I think I can tell whether a man is a villain or not.”

She would have liked to tell them that she was going in a professional capacity, not attending a social function, but, mindful of her promise to St. Leger to keep the matter quiet, she felt she could not. She could trust Reed, of course, not to tell anyone, but she wasn’t as sure about the rest of them. They were not gossips, but such social matters held little interest for her mother, and her father was rather vague; there was no surety that they would remember that they were supposed to keep the matter quiet. They would all be likely to talk about it among themselves, too, and servants soaked up the gossip. It would soon be all over town. So she kept quiet. Besides, it was, she thought, rather pleasant to have them think that she was actually the object of a man’s interest.

“I did not mean that, Livvy,” Reed protested.

“I’ve never heard they were villains,” Great-uncle Bellard piped up suddenly, surprising them all. They all turned to look at him as he continued. “Old family. Title goes back to Elizabeth, or maybe it was Henry VIII. Unbroken line, I believe. There are a few legends surrounding them. I’m not sure offhand...I think one of them hid King Charles I from the Roundheads. I’ll have to look them up.” He smiled at the prospect of doing some research. “Their ancestral home is something oddly named. Bleak—no, Blackhope! That’s it. Blackhope Hall.”

“Ooh,” Kyria said, wiggling her eyebrows. “That sounds ominous.”

“Really, Kyria, you read far too many gothic novels,” the duchess said disapprovingly. “I am sure there is nothing ominous about the place. Old houses frequently acquire the most peculiar names. Isn’t that right, Uncle Bellard?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” the old man agreed, nodding happily.

“Well, I think it sounds romantic,” Kyria said decisively. “You know, the sort of place where one might get swept off one’s feet.”

“I should hope not!” the duchess exclaimed, and turned to give her youngest daughter a worried look.

“I am not going to get swept off my feet,” Olivia retorted firmly, casting her sister a dark look. “I promise.”

“I suppose not,” Kyria admitted with a sigh. “Still, there’s nothing to say you can’t make a conquest. Let’s go to your room after supper and look through your wardrobe. Surely we can find something that Joan can give some spark to.”

“My wardrobe!” Olivia squeaked. “But why? I don’t want a spark.”

“Nonsense. Whether you want one or not, you deserve one,” Kyria retorted firmly.

Olivia suppressed a groan. She had no desire to have Kyria exclaiming in horror over her clothes all evening, but she knew that she hadn’t a hope of stopping her strong-minded sister. She gave in with ill grace, trailing up the stairs after Kyria when the evening meal was over.

“I don’t see why I can’t wear what I always do,” Olivia complained, even though she knew it was useless.

Kyria turned and cast an expressive look at Olivia’s plain brown skirt and bodice. “Olivia, this is a party. You can’t go looking as though you are the family governess.”

“I am not trying to ‘catch’ Lord St. Leger,” Olivia retorted huffily.

“Then why are you going?”

Olivia looked into her sister’s clear green gaze, and her own eyes fell. “I—well, that is, Lord St. Leger and I are friends. That is all.”

“Then it is up to you to change that.” Kyria yanked on the bellpull and, when one of the maids popped in a moment later, sent the girl to fetch Joan, Kyria’s personal maid.

“I don’t understand why you are always trying to set me up with someone when you yourself are so set against marriage,” Olivia said feelingly.

“I am not set against marriage,” Kyria told her. For a flickering moment, sadness seemed to shadow her face, then was gone as she said, “It simply isn’t for me, you see.” She went to Olivia’s wardrobe closet and threw open the door, continuing, “But for others, it’s exactly right. Look at Thisbe, for instance. She’s happy as can be with her scientist.”