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.
‘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.
Olivia flushed and pulled her hand away, wishing she could wipe away the feeling of his warm lips on her skin. Her skin tingled pleasantly where he had kissed her hand, but it angered her that she should feel pleasure when