The Makings Of A Lady

All it needs,she thought, a little wistfully, is for a romantic hero to appear. That was what would happen in the novels she and Lizzie delighted in reading.

The river was shallow and perfectly clear. Olivia and Adam and Harry had paddled here often as children—once she was old enough to be allowed to accompany them. Her adored big brothers had played games of dragons, and giants, and knights—much more exciting than the Greek and mathematics that her governess insisted on. At first Olivia had been content to be the damsel in need of rescue, but eventually she had insisted on being a knight, like them. When her brothers laughed, she had tried to box them. In the end, they had allowed her to be a squire.

Olivia had allowed herself to be persuaded, until she discovered her role was limited to carrying wooden swords and crudely made arrows, and fetching the arrows after they had been inexpertly shot at targets on trees.

And now, they were all three grown up and Adam and Harry were married. Olivia loved their wives—Charlotte and Juliana truly were like sisters to her—but she could not shake the feeling that everyone else—everyone but her—had their lives in place.

She felt stuck in a place between girl and woman—too old to be a girl, yet not permitted to be a woman. At twenty-two, yet still unmarried, she had no place. She had no responsibilities, no cares—but nothing to challenge her either.

Chadcombe was run efficiently by Charlotte, ably assisted by the household staff, while Adam managed the estate. Great-Aunt Clara, who had struggled for many years keeping house for Adam, had settled into retirement with obvious relief. Juliana was mistress of Glenbrook, wife to Harry and mother to darling little Jack.

Of all of them only Olivia had no role, no task, no purpose. I am a shadow person, she thought. I am aunt, sister, great-niece. But I wish to be Olivia!

The small river marked the edge of Chadcombe’s lands, forming the boundary with their neighbours at Monkton Park. As children, Olivia and her brothers had been wary of Monkton Park’s grumpy old gamekeeper, who did not, apparently, approve of children. When they had dared each other to venture across the stepping stones to pick blackberries or find conkers on the far side of the river, they had done it in fear he would catch them, and give chase, and shout in a purplish fury that was half-comical, half-scary. He had died a few years ago, but Olivia still carried the fear that, somehow, he would return from the grave to glower and glump at her.From here, Olivia could see a mass of white flowers on the far riverbank. On impulse, she stood and gathered her skirts. Leaving her stockings and boots with the small pile of bluebells, she ventured across the stepping stones barefoot, lifting her petticoats to make sure she was putting her feet in the right places. Reaching the far side safely, she began plucking handfuls of sweet-scented lily-of-the-valley—they would be the perfect foil for the bluebells.

Monkton Park’s owners, Mr and Mrs Foxley, were Olivia’s friends. Indeed, Mrs Foxley—Faith—was Charlotte’s cousin. Olivia had nothing to fear from being on the wrong side of the river. Or so she thought. Old fears run deep, so when a man’s voice suddenly spoke nearby, Olivia’s heart leapt in alarm.

‘“The summer’s flow’r is to the summer sweet,”’ the voice intoned.

Olivia whirled around to face the speaker.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘a rose indeed!’

His cultured accent—and his knowledge of poetry—proclaimed him to be a man of information and learning. She took in his appearance at a glance. My, she thought, he is handsome!

He looked to be a few years older than her—possibly around Harry’s age. He had expressive brown eyes, thick, dark hair, and an unfashionably swarthy complexion—as if he had been in a warmer climate than England. His clothing proclaimed him the gentleman—a crisp white shirt open at the neck in a way which Adam would have abhorred, well-fitting unmentionables, boots that gleamed with a polished shine, and a well-cut Weston coat. He was, in every detail, the embodiment of a romantic hero.

Olivia’s jaw dropped. Just moments ago, she had been wishing for just such a man to appear. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck spring to attention. Fate had never yet noticed her, or interfered in her life. Was this to be a turning point? Was this, in fact, the beginning of a story that would be truly hers?

‘George Manning, at your service, ma’am—or miss?’ He bowed gracefully, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on hers.

She bobbed a curtsy as gracefully as she could, given her bare feet and the inconvenient way in which her heart seemed to be racing. ‘I am Lady Olivia Fanton.’ Her voice sounded breathless—she hoped he would assume it was because he had startled her.

‘Ah! You are the Earl’s younger sister, then!’

She inclined her head. ‘I am.’

‘I am a guest at Monkton Park and my hosts have naturally informed me of the various neighbours I am likely to meet. I admit I have had some difficulty in recalling who is who, so at least now there is one person whose name and face has already seared itself indelibly into my memory.’ His gaze held hers, causing a slow blush to warm her cheeks.

‘I have been gathering wildflowers for my great-aunt. She adores bluebells.’ Her words came out in what she felt must be a jumbled rush.

‘England’s bluebells are delightful at this time of year,’ he agreed. ‘Er...how far are you from home? I understand the estate is large.’

She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘It is, I suppose. I have not pondered it overmuch. My horse is nearby.’ He looked at her levelly and her nervousness increased. ‘I must go back—they will be wondering why I am not yet returned.’

He inclined his head, but there was a knowing look in his eye. ‘May I accompany you back to your horse?’

She paused for a second. This was all highly irregular! But she could think of no reason to turn him down. ‘Very well.’

He offered his arm and turned towards the stepping stones. Ignoring it, she skipped ahead of him as far as the water’s edge. Now she was faced with a new problem. It would be entirely inappropriate to lift her petticoats to cross the stepping stones—for then he would see she was barefoot and might even see her bare ankles! She blushed at the thought. Heaven knows what he might think of her!

Turning to face him, she tilted her head on one side. ‘Please would you mind going first? That way I can perhaps take my balance from you.’

His eyes narrowed, but he murmured politely, ‘Of course.’ He stepped on to the first stone, then the second. She followed, lifting her skirts carefully, trusting he would not turn. They moved carefully across the river, she always a step or two behind him.

So intent was she on keeping her skirts as low as possible, that she nearly missed a step when they were almost there. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, putting a hand out towards him to steady herself. Her hand touched the warmth of his coat. He paused immediately and made as if to turn, Then he half-twisted, his eyes meeting hers. She removed her hand from his back.

‘Do please continue,’ she implored breathlessly. ‘I have my balance again.’

He turned fully and eyed her seriously. Her heart was fluttering like a trapped bird, and her hand wished nothing more than to touch again the warm solidity of his firm frame.

‘I am perfectly steady now,’ she insisted. ‘Please continue.’

He didn’t move and she was conscious of the still-frenzied beat of her heart. He could probably hear it, the throbbing was so loud in her chest. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then slowly, allowing her to draw back if she wished, he bent his head and pressed his lips to hers.

Chapter Two (#u6b6745d4-e95b-5eba-b3e8-a3b42271db71)

His lips were surprisingly cool and the kiss was gentle, questioning. Before she even had the chance to understand what she was feeling, he was gone again, mild amusement in his expression—perhaps at her lack of response.

‘Apologies! I do not know what came over me.’ She raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Well, perhaps I do. I am overwhelmed by your alluring beauty.’

‘Or maybe you are simply an opportunist and an adventurer!’

‘Ow!’ He clutched his chest dramatically. ‘She wounds me with cruel words!’

She snorted. ‘You are fortunate I did not push you into the water.’

‘But a lady like you would not do such a thing, surely?’

‘Oh, wouldn’t I? I’ll have you know I often gave my brothers a ducking on these very stones.’

‘Touché,’ he said lightly. ‘I shall make a tactical retreat on this occasion.’ He turned away, then twisted back immediately, as if a sudden thought had struck him. ‘Will you promise not to push me from behind?’ His eyes were dancing with laughter.

‘Will you promise not to kiss me again?’

‘Ah! Anything but that!’ He became serious. ‘No. I will not.’

‘Mr Manning, I grew up with two older brothers and I am aware of the ways in which words can be twisted. Now, explain. Are you saying you will not kiss me again, or that you will not make the promise?’

He only laughed and skipped ahead quickly. Reaching the safety of the river bank, he turned to smile a challenge, displaying white, even teeth. ‘That is for you to work out, Lady Olivia.’

Olivia tossed and turned, desperately trying to quiet her mind enough to fall asleep. Mr George Manning had disturbed her equilibrium and, really, she could not say why. Of course it was not fate that had brought him to the river at the same time as her! It was merely coincidence. Gothic novels were simply the product of someone’s imagination and, much as she and Lizzie enjoyed reading them, she must not be as foolish as to allow such notions to influence her in matters of importance.

Despite this, her mind insisted on playing out every detail of her encounter with Mr Manning—his handsome form and features, the expression on his face as he had taunted her, that kiss... Perhaps, she thought, I should marry. It would take me away from Chadcombe and would certainly be an adventure. A handsome, interesting husband and being mistress of my own home...

Do not allow foolishness to overcome you! she told herself. Others might sometimes forget it, but you are no longer a schoolroom miss. You are a grown woman of two-and-twenty and should know better than to be thrown off balance by a handsome face and a few clever words. You have been taken in before. It must not happen again.

She smiled into the darkness of her room. Perhaps she should have knocked George into the river! For a few moments she enjoyed the thought of him, dripping and astounded, sitting in the river, his beautifully polished boots ruined...