The Makings Of A Lady

Or had she, like he himself, remembered their time together afterwards with rather more intensity than expected? She was, of course, unaware of the foolish devotion that had stayed with him all the way to Australia and had lingered for a long time afterwards. Raising the topic of their old friendship—and his abrupt departure—might give him an inkling of whether she had ever thought of him afterwards.

Yes, he thought. I do want to know the truth.

Mental excuses about apologising or being gentlemanlike were simply that—excuses. He felt compelled to know how she would react if he mentioned their former friendship. He refused to consider why that might be.

Without further deliberation, he decided to throw caution to the four winds. ‘Olivia!’ he said. ‘There is something I wish to say to you.’

Olivia studied his face carefully. He looked unhappy—slightly cross, even. She could not recall ever seeing him like this. How he had changed! She swallowed. What was he about to say? Was it something to do with Lizzie?

Whatever it was, she would remain polite, friendly and serene.

She sat on the edge of the small pool at the base of the fountain, folded her hands in her lap and waited. He looked at her, his jaw set, then looked away. Having paced up and down for a moment, he seemed to gather himself, then turned to her again. His blue eyes seared into hers.

‘I debated whether to speak to you at all. To be a gentleman is difficult at times—knowing the right thing to do or say may not be obvious.’

Olivia was lost. What on earth is he talking about? ‘Whatever it is, Jem, you need not fear me. Although we have not seen one another for many years, I feel as though we have been friends through Lizzie for a long time.’

He stilled, then ran a finger around the inside of his neckcloth, as if he found it too tight. ‘Friends. Yes.’ He frowned. ‘Friends. And therein lies my difficulty. For how could I—?’ He broke off and completed another bout of pacing. ‘Olivia, do you remember when I first came to live with you all in London, after Waterloo?’

She swallowed, but managed a bright smile. ‘Of course! Harry did right to insist that you convalesce with us. And frankly, I am glad of it, for otherwise we should not have met and I would never have known Lizzie, who is now my greatest friend. And I hope we can also be friends.’

‘Again, friends!’ Sitting beside her, he picked up her hand. Olivia felt a familiar thrill go through her at his touch—a thrill that only he had ever caused. Stop it! she told herself. Jem is trying to tell you something important to him. Now is not the time to be distracted by an old attraction that cannot be.‘When we met,’ he said earnestly, ‘you were but eighteen and the sister of my commanding officer. I was a wounded junior officer with no real prospects and little money. Harry had done me the honour of offering me hospitality at a time when I was in desperate need of it. Without him and Juliana, I might have been billeted in a tent or hotel in Brussels for months after the battle.’

‘I remember.’ Olivia shuddered. ‘That would have been terrible, for you might not have recovered so well.’

‘I am sure of it,’ confirmed Jem. ‘Although the journey to London was difficult, I am glad Harry insisted on it. You and the rest of the family were so welcoming, taking a stranger in and treating me with such kindness.’

‘You became part of our family, Jem.’ Olivia was trying to sound reassuring. Was he, four years later, still feeling guilty about their hospitality towards him? She tried to think of how best to comfort him, without reminding him of her old infatuation. ‘Why, for all that we have not seen each other, you are like a brother to me, and Lizzie a dear sister!’ The warmth of his hand was making her nerve-ends tingle and causing all manner of distracting feelings in her stomach, so Olivia gently extracted her hand, under cover of patting his arm reassuringly, in a sister-like manner.

He looked down at her hand on his arm. When his eyes returned to meet hers, the expression in his was guarded.

Olivia was overcome by confusion. Why was he talking about four years ago? Did he—did he know he had broken her heart? Lord, she hoped not! She summoned the old anger, that sense of betrayal she had felt at the time. But, now that he was beside her, a full six feet of gorgeousness, it was hard to be angry. Instead she knew only confusion and uncertainty, and the compulsion of his blue, blue eyes.

She gathered all her strength. ‘I am listening, Jem. Whatever it is, you can tell me.’

He stood, raking his hand through his thick, dark hair. ‘I think that is debatable.’

Olivia waited, all her attention focused on him.

How fine he looks! she could not help thinking.

His strong, muscular frame gave no hint of the serious injury he had sustained, which could have resulted in him being permanently crippled. Now he moved fluidly, pacing again before her. Through her eyelashes, and trying not to be obvious about it, she studied his striking form—slim, muscular legs encased in fine pale breeches and gleaming Hessians, a lithe, wiry torso hinted at beneath an elegant waistcoat and a form-fitting blue jacket. Oh, but he was a joy to behold!

He stopped now and looked at her again. Disconcerted, she blushed slightly, hoping there was no way he could read her thoughts. She looked up at him in mute question. He sighed and shook his head. ‘I apologise, Olivia. I am wool-gathering today and it seems I have nothing to say to you after all.’

She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Are you certain? You seemed agitated before—I would hate to think you were distressed, when I could help...’

He smiled broadly. ‘Not at all!’ His tone was jovial. ‘Never felt better! Perhaps I need to simply stop thinking about things overmuch. Clearly long carriage rides can make me maudlin. Now, shall we walk back to the house?’

She smiled back, relieved to hear a more typical tone in his voice. ‘Of course!’ He offered his arm and she slipped her hand into it, relieved that near disaster had been averted and normality had reasserted itself.

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

‘Do not speak to me!’ declared Lizzie, with fervour. ‘It is not yet noon and I am forced into polite company.’ She smiled to soften the words. ‘Why, I shall not be fit for conversation for at least another hour!’ Lizzie had just joined Olivia, Jem, Clara and Charlotte in the morning room. She had brought her sketchbook—Lizzie was a talented artist and often worked on her drawings and paintings during the afternoon.

‘Have you eaten?’ asked Charlotte solicitously.

‘I have, thank you.’ Lizzie leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I confess one of your wonderful housemaids brought rolls and chocolate to my bedroom. I truly appreciate Chadcombe’s hospitality—even if you do keep inconveniently early hours!’

Charlotte was just explaining that Adam was with his steward and Juliana and Harry—who also loathed country hours—had not yet emerged from their bedchamber, when the sound of a carriage approaching up the drive alerted them to the fact they were to have visitors. ‘Oh, dear,’ said Lizzie, patting her hair, ‘and I am not long risen!’

‘You look charmingly,’ said Olivia reassuringly. Lizzie beamed at her. Oh, it was good to have her friend at Chadcombe! Already life seemed less flat. And now, it seemed, they were to have visitors as well. She peeped discreetly through the lace curtains as five people emerged from the coach. ‘Two men and three women,’ she announced. ‘Although they are too far away for me to distinguish who they might be.’

‘Do sit down, Olivia,’ said Charlotte, ‘for they might see you looking through the window!’ Olivia complied, sitting beside Jem on a satin-covered couch. She hoped Jem and Lizzie did not think Charlotte was telling her off, as though she were a child. That had not been Charlotte’s intention—dear Charlotte would not do such a thing—but, still...

They all rose when the footman announced their guests. ‘Mr and Mrs Foxley, Mrs Buxted, Mr Manning, Miss Manning,’ he intoned, his final introduction slightly muffled by the scrape of Lizzie’s chair as she stood.

Mr Manning! Olivia’s heart began to race. She stood, maintaining what she hoped was a neutral look on her face. The ladies dipped into a curtsy, the men bowing politely, then Charlotte stepped forward to greet her guests.

‘My dear Faith!’ she said warmly, embracing her cousin Mrs Foxley. ‘Aunt Buxted!’ She embraced Faith’s mama next, though with rather less enthusiasm. However, her words were warm and genuine. ‘It is so good to see you! And where is little Frederick?’

‘We have not brought him, I’m afraid.’ Faith spoke in her usual gentle tones. ‘We have left him with his nurse.’

Her husband explained. ‘We recall the last time he was here, he managed to break not one, but two tea cups and we decided that, on this occasion, we should sacrifice his company in the interests of our sanity—and your china!’

They all smiled at this. Master Frederick Foxley was just past his second birthday and had recently become, as his doting father suggested affectionately, a tyrant.

Olivia could barely follow the conversation. Her attention was fixed on Mr George Manning and her foolish heart was still pounding wildly, and in complete defiance of her wishes. She was wondering if it was obvious to everyone in the room that she and Mr Manning had met before. Oh, how she wished she had mentioned it!

He stood a little to the side, awaiting formal introduction, and Olivia’s eyes were compulsively drawn to him. How elegant he looked! His tall figure equalled Jem’s—both were handsome, imposing men. Mr Manning had a peculiar stillness that spoke of assurance and composure. His handsome face looked relaxed, though his eyes were busy, observing everyone with keenness and intent.

By his side stood a beautiful woman, with fair hair smoothed into an elegant chignon, pale blue eyes, and the most stylish silk morning dress Olivia had seen outside London. She wore a delicate lace cap, proclaiming her status as a married lady, and, unaccountably, Olivia’s heart sank. Had the footman said Mrs Manning? Was George Manning, then, married?

She was conscious of a strong feeling of disappointment. She and Lizzie had often moaned in private about the fact that so many young men’s lives had been lost in the war and that there were usually three young ladies to every eligible gentleman at the balls and routs they attended. And even then, like as not, the most handsome ones were invariably already married. With Jem here, she needed the distraction of an eligible man.

She caught Lizzie’s eye. Her friend sent her an impertinent look, arching her eyebrows to signal the presence of an interesting new acquaintance. Olivia suppressed a smile and stood still, awaiting the introductions.

Mrs Buxted obliged. ‘My dear, dear Charlotte! Lord Shalford! Permit me to introduce to you my treasured friend Miss Manning, who is lodging in Albemarle Street, and her brother, Mr George Manning.’

Her brother! Olivia’s eyes flew to Mr Manning’s face. He was watching her intently and was clearly amused by her reaction. She flushed and looked away. Jem was looking at her, a crease in his brow. Everyone else, she noted, was surreptitiously studying Miss Manning.

Olivia had erred. Seeing Miss Manning’s cap, she had assumed the woman was married. Instead, she was clearly wearing it to indicate she was no longer of marriageable age. Now aware that Miss Manning had to be older than she first appeared, Olivia looked for the signs. And there they were—subtle lines at the corners of the eyes, between her delicate brows and at the corners of her mouth. Still, Miss Manning was a remarkably beautiful woman. It was difficult to estimate her age—perhaps she was in her early forties, thought Olivia. At least ten years older than her brother.

‘...and this is my sister-in-law, Lady Olivia Fanton.’ Charlotte’s voice intruded into Olivia’s musings, but, thankfully, years of social schooling meant she had reached out automatically to touch Miss Manning’s pale, white hand.

The woman’s grasp was weak, but she murmured something appropriate with cool politeness. ‘I am happy to meet you,’ Olivia replied cordially, though, in truth, she scarcely knew what to make of Miss Manning. Briefly, an intent look flashed in those pale blue eyes and Olivia was put in mind of a swan on a lake, sailing serenely by, but with webbed feet pumping furiously beneath the waterline.

‘My brother, George,’ said Miss Manning, gesturing to him, then pausing to watch as George bent over Olivia’s hand to kiss it.