Be calm, she thought. Be gracious. Be twenty-two.

Lady Olivia Fanton is eager to prove she’s no longer a child. However, just as she thinks she’s found a suitable match in suave Mr. Manning, charismatic Captain Jem Ford walks back into her life, bringing with him all the embarrassment of her infatuation four years before!

She’s determined to appear mature, distant, friendly. But dare she hope he’ll notice her as the lady she’s become?

The Chadcombe Marriages miniseries

Book 1—Waltzing with the Earl

Book 2—The Captain’s Disgraced Lady

Book 3—The Makings of a Lady

“I love this book and that I cannot recommend this enough, this is a must read... Outstanding!”

—RT Book Reviews on The Captain’s Disgraced Lady

“Cannot express how highly I can recommend this book...a must read.”

—Goodreads on The Captain’s Disgraced Lady

CATHERINE TINLEY has loved reading and writing since childhood, and has a particular fondness for love, romance and happy endings. She lives in Ireland with her husband, children, dog and kitten, and can be reached at catherinetinley.com, as well as through Facebook and @CatherineTinley on Twitter.

Also by Catherine Tinley

The Chadcombe Marriages miniseries

Waltzing with the Earl

The Captain’s Disgraced Lady

The Makings of a Lady

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

The Makings of a Lady

Catherine Tinley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07412-4

THE MAKINGS OF A LADY

© 2018 Catherine Tinley

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

For all my McCoy, Talbot, Sloan, Ferris, Tinnelly and

Hemingway relatives—it’s a privilege to be part of

this big, warm, supportive, close family. Love you all.

And for all midwives—co-mothers, wise women,

mothers of light. You who protect the gateway to life,

hold two lives in your hands, and stand or sit or kneel

With Women. We mothers salute you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue
London—September 1815

‘Will you marry me?’

Olivia said the words aloud, thrilled by the way they flowed. She tried it a different way. ‘Lady Olivia, will you marry me?’

Oh, that sounds wonderful! She grinned at herself in the bedroom mirror, glad no one was present to witness her giddy foolishness.

Perhaps he would kiss her instead. She dearly hoped so. Thoughts of kissing him had been uppermost in her mind for many weeks. Her heart skipped as she imagined the sensation of his strong, handsome face approaching hers, his lips on her lips, his arms wrapped around her. She closed her eyes, savouring the image. Oh, how wonderful it would be! Could it happen? Perhaps all this time he had been developing warm feelings for her, too. He might say ‘Lady Olivia, I love you. Ardently, truly, deeply. Will you marry me?’

And she would reply Yes. Of course she would. She wanted nothing more than to be his wife. Now, should she offer a shy yes, or an enthusiastic one, or perhaps a coquettish one?

Honestly, at this point, she cared not. The important thing was that she adored him and he had said it was important that he speak with her. He had said so, in that solemn way of his, and so she had agreed to meet him in the garden after nuncheon.

Quite when she had fallen in love with Jem Ford, she was not certain. Was it the first time she had seen his crooked smile, the day they had met? He had been carried into the Fanton townhouse by two of the footmen, the leg injury he had sustained at Waterloo still healing. Having made the long and tiring journey from France, he had then faced the entire Fanton family who were waiting to greet him, including the Earl of Shalford, Olivia’s eldest brother—an ordeal for any stranger. But how much harder must it have been for him? Olivia reflected. Unable to walk, exhausted and clearly feeling uncomfortable about the number of people waiting to receive him, he had nevertheless behaved impeccably. He had thanked his commanding officer, Olivia’s other brother Harry, for the invitation, but insisted he would remove to a hotel on the morrow.

Harry, of course, was having none of it. ‘Having resigned from the Army, I am your Captain no longer,’ he had said, ‘and so I cannot command you. But I do hope you will stay with us until you are recovered.’ They had agreed to discuss the matter later, but even then—having known him for all of two minutes—Olivia had been conscious of a strong wish within herself for him to stay.

She had looked at him closely, noting the dust of travel on his clothes and the lines of pain and tiredness etched on his face, yet her thought had been, ‘My! How handsome he is!’ Surely the beginnings of love had sprung into life in that moment? Like a trickle of water on a hillside in spring, it had begun almost silently. But, during the months of his convalescence, as she had spent more and more time with him, the trickle had grown slowly and steadily, until now a flood of love for him consumed her. He was her first thought in the morning and her last at night. She lived for the times they spent together, especially the precious moments when they were occasionally alone.

He had been ever the gentleman, but she hoped he might love her the way she loved him. She had sometimes sensed something from the expression in his eyes. There was also, she reminded herself, the fact that he sought her out and seemed genuinely interested in all of her thoughts and feelings. There was hope!

And now, he wished to speak to her. Alone.

Heart pounding, she made her way downstairs, through the townhouse and out to the garden beyond. And there he was! Seated on the usual bench, waiting for her. No stick today, she noticed automatically. It had been over a week since he had used the stick to aid with his walking. His crutches had been dispensed with over three weeks ago and it was wonderful to see him healed further.

She smiled instinctively, gladness sweeping through her just on seeing him. Her eyes swept over him, noting the polished boots, the well-tailored breeches clinging to his muscular thighs, the smart military coat that suited him so well. How handsome he looked in his uniform! This was only the second time she had seen him fully attired in his dashing regimentals. She strongly approved.

Her eyes scanned upwards to his beloved face. No smile. He looked serious, grave, solemn. Of course he did! This was an important moment.

They exchanged greetings and he invited her to sit next to him. She did so, all the while her mind racing in anticipation of what he would do and say next.

‘Lady Olivia,’ he began, his deep blue eyes trapping hers. ‘I wanted to see you as there is something important I must say to you.’

She nodded. She was not normally tongue-tied, but the enormity of the moment had taken from her the power of speech.

‘I am lately returned from Horse Guards Parade. As you know, I was also there two days ago, to report my leg is now fully healed.’ Olivia frowned—this was unexpected. ‘I returned today, to some surprising news.’ He paused, seemed to gather himself, then resumed. ‘I am to be posted to Australia.’

‘Australia?’ What on earth was he talking about? He couldn’t possibly be going to Australia! ‘For how long?’

‘For at least two years.’ He looked pale, she noticed absently, even as she felt the blood draining from her own face.

‘Two years?’ She echoed him mechanically, barely able to take it in.

‘At least. In reality I am likely to be gone for longer. I am transferring to the Forty-Eighth and am promoted to Lieutenant.’

‘Lieutenant?’ She swallowed. ‘But that is wonderful news! And well deserved. But—must it be Australia?’

He nodded grimly. ‘You know my situation. Although there is no shame in my lineage, my father died penniless. Thankfully he had paid for my army commission before his gambling debts overwhelmed him, and my sister Lizzie has a small income from our mother’s family. But—’ his eyes blazed into hers ‘—I have no choice. This is a chance to make something of myself. Today, I am nothing. I am no one. A young ensign, half-crippled, with no fortune, no position in society, nothing. I am truly grateful to your family for offering me a home here these past months, but it has only served to underline my determination to improve my station.’

‘But, no!’ she protested. ‘That does not matter! Money and station are not what is truly important!’ Her eyes were filling with tears as shock turned to a dawning realisation. He was leaving her. ‘You cannot leave—us!’ Almost, she had said ‘me’. They both knew it.

He stood. ‘I am truly sorry. I have allowed a...friendship to develop between us, even though I knew this parting must come. I had no intention of causing you hurt, Lady Olivia.’

She could not speak. Her heart was breaking. She looked up at him in mute appeal. His jaw hardened. He bowed, wished her farewell and was gone.

Chapter One
Surrey —May 1819

‘Why must Adam be always telling me what to do? Life is so dreary here at Chadcombe!’ Olivia sat down heavily on an ornate French chair, uncaring that the mud along the hem of her petticoat was transferring itself to a gilded wooden leg. ‘Everyone thinks I am still ten years old!’

Great-Aunt Clara set down her knitting. ‘Oh, dear, Olivia—I did not know you were so unhappy here with us!’ Her lined face was filled with distress. ‘But, yes, how tedious you must find us all!’

With a startled expression, Olivia jumped up and moved to sit beside the elderly lady. ‘Oh, no! Darling Great-Aunt Clara, I did not mean you are dreary!’ She took her great-aunt’s hand. ‘You know I love you dearly, and I love Adam and Charlotte, but I have spent most of my life here at Chadcombe and sometimes I just feel—oh, I don’t know! You will think me foolish!’

‘Who is being foolish?’ Charlotte, Olivia’s sister-in-law, entered the morning room. ‘Olivia? But you could never be foolish!’ Charlotte leaned over and kissed Olivia’s cheek. ‘Good morning!’ she added cheerily.

Charlotte’s elegant morning gown, Olivia noted, had no trace of mud anywhere on its green-silk folds. Its gently draped skirts revealed that Charlotte was expecting a child. She had suffered in the early months with tiredness and the indignity of being frequently sick. Yesterday she had declared she was much better. Olivia was not convinced.

‘Charlotte! You are up already—how did you sleep?’

‘Perfectly well, thank you!’ Charlotte brushed off Olivia’s concerns with a wave of her hand. ‘Now, what is this about you being foolish?’

Olivia struggled to answer. Suddenly her frustrations seemed churlish. She knew she had what others would view as a perfect life, in a beautiful house, with a loving family. It was just—she felt as though she needed to escape. She needed adventure!

‘Our poor Olivia finds it dull to be always at Chadcombe,’ offered Great-Aunt Clara tentatively.

Charlotte eyed her keenly. ‘Are you moped, love? Remember, Miss Ford and her brother will arrive tomorrow for their visit. You have been looking forward to that, have you not?’

Olivia sighed in frustration. ‘I am always happy to see Lizzie, and it will be good to meet—’ she choked a little on his name ‘—Jem again. I cannot say why I am feeling so unsettled. It’s just—I feel as though everyone still believes me to be a child!’

‘Poor, dear Olivia!’ Great-Aunt Clara’s knitting slipped to the floor. Olivia retrieved it for her and the old lady patted her hand kindly. ‘I can quite understand how it must be frustrating. After all, you must be nearly twenty now.’

‘I had my twenty-second birthday last December, Great Aunt-Clara. Don’t you remember?’

‘Twenty-two? Really?’ Great-Aunt Clara looked astonished. ‘Well, bless me! I do think of you as properly belonging in the schoolroom! I am so sorry! But, yes, I remember you had your Season in London last year, or was it the year before?’

Olivia exchanged a brief glance with Charlotte. ‘I made my debut four years ago, if you remember.’ She spoke gently, hoping her elderly relative would recollect. ‘After Charlotte and Adam were married? It was the time Juliana came to stay with us—and she and Harry got married soon afterwards.’

‘Of course! Was that really four years ago? Yes, I suppose it must be—because we got the new oven and Charlotte was such a help... And then that dreadful Napoleon and the battle... I was never so relieved as to see Harry home safe after Waterloo, and married, and now he and dear Juliana live so close by with their dear little son—it all worked out so well...’ Great-Aunt Clara almost lost herself in a tangle of recollections. ‘So, yes,’ she concluded firmly, ‘it was three years ago. Or possibly four. So how old are you again, Olivia?’

‘I am two-and-twenty,’ said Olivia patiently.

‘Twenty-two? Twenty-two already!’ Great-Aunt Clara became animated. ‘Lord, I remember you when you were so little and your dear mama would sit here, in this very room, cuddling you...’

If Clara had wanted to divert Olivia, she was successful, at least temporarily. Olivia could never resist hearing tales of Mama, who had died giving birth to Olivia’s baby sister when Olivia was a child. No one would tell her what had happened that day and bewildered eight-year-old Olivia had just wished to know when Mama would be returning. Now that she was old enough to ask for the truth, she had never found the courage. To this day, Olivia felt the aching hole in her life caused by her mother’s death and had never fully come to terms with the sense of abandonment she had experienced.

And then, when she was eighteen, she had been abandoned again by someone else she had loved.

Quickly, she diverted her thoughts from that old wound. The past was done, finished, gone. She was a different person now—older, wiser, less naive.

After Mama’s death, she had been raised by her grieving father alongside Olivia’s two big brothers and Great-Aunt Clara, but it was never the same. So now, she plied Clara with prompts and questions, and her great-aunt dutifully obliged, retelling stories Olivia had heard a hundred times before. Olivia had many clear memories of Papa, who had died only a few years ago, but she tried hard to keep alive her hazy memories of her mother.

Today, though, after a time, the old stories did not satisfy Olivia. She could not settle to any task, and eventually Charlotte sent her away. ‘Olivia, do please go for a walk, or take Dahlia out and ride! I declare your fidgeting is making me nervous. I have restarted this list for Cook three times!’ Charlotte was smiling, but she looked a little concerned.

‘I have already walked this morning.’ Olivia indicated her mud-stained hemline. ‘I shall go for a ride. At least yesterday’s rain has stopped—it is a relief to have some sunshine.’ She rang the bell and within minutes a housemaid arrived. ‘Please, can you send a message to the stables to have Dahlia saddled and ask Susie to come to my room?’ The housemaid bobbed in assent and Olivia left the morning room, murmuring her goodbyes.

Charlotte’s head was bent to her housekeeping before Olivia had even left the room. She seemed calm, but Olivia knew how much her sister-in-law missed being able to ride since she realised she was expecting again. Riding was one of the ways in which Olivia and Charlotte had forged a friendship—both were excellent horsewomen and liked nothing more than to gallop neck-or-nothing through the fields and lanes—much to the disapproval of Adam and Harry.

There was, of course, no question of a pregnant lady riding and Charlotte, after two miscarriages, a stillbirth, and yet no living child, was being extra-cautious this time. Thankfully, all seemed well so far, but Olivia shared the concern felt by the whole family about Charlotte’s plight.

Olivia’s bedchamber was a beautiful room, overlooking the deer park in front of the house. It was decorated with delicate wall hangings and curtains in shades of lilac. Right now, Olivia could not appreciate the comfort or beauty of her surroundings. This restlessness within her had been building for an age, but it was particularly strong today.

She was quiet as Susie, her personal maid, helped her don a fashionable blue riding habit complete with military-style silver buttons, a white muslin shirt and riding pelisse.

Olivia stared at her own reflection. Stormy grey eyes, dark curls, fashionable habit. What is the point of wearing fine things, she was thinking, when no one ever sees me but my own family? I could wear my oldest muslin and nobody would care.

Rejecting the matching hat, she stated firmly that she would ride today with her head uncovered. Someone will see you tomorrow, an inner voice murmured. Jem will be here. After four years, you will see him again.

Ignoring the thought, she focused instead on her current frustration. This year they were not in London for the Season, because of Charlotte’s condition. Oh, but it was hard to be two-and-twenty and stuck in the country! At least in London there were balls and routs, and trips to the theatre, and people who realised you were a grown-up young lady. Not a child. And there were ways to avoid seeing certain people, if you did not wish to spend time with them. A house guest in the country could not be avoided.

Olivia absent-mindedly thanked Susie and made her way to the stables, enjoying the feel of the May sunshine on her shoulders. As always, she felt a rush of love when she saw her fine looking mare, Dahlia.

‘Hello, my beauty!’ She nuzzled the horse’s delicate cheek and slipped her a treat. Dahlia pranced impatiently and had to be told to hold still while the groom handed Olivia up and into the side-saddle.

‘I shan’t need you, Joseph!’ Olivia waved away the head groom, who was just about to offer to accompany her. ‘I won’t leave our lands, I promise!’ He looked disapproving, but refrained from chastising her.

‘Where do you plan to go, miss?’ He was always concerned when she rode alone, though why he should be, Olivia could not fathom. Nothing ever happened here. Well, she recalled, apart from that one time when poachers had entered the Home Wood. But that was almost five years ago.

Still, maybe she wouldn’t go to the Home Wood.

‘I’ll go to the river,’ she said decidedly, ‘and the Bluebell Woods.’

She could feel the groom watching her as she trotted out of the stable yard. She really felt it today—how much she was watched and protected, and imprisoned. It was an itch between her shoulder blades and it seemed as though it had been there her whole life. Her brothers. The servants. Great-Aunt Clara. Her sisters-in-law. Why could they not see she was no longer a child? And how was she supposed to appear different to—to other people—if her own family treated her as though she was still a debutante?

Stop it! she told herself sternly. This is no prison and they all care about you. That is why they do it—they are just trying to protect you.

The words failed to quell the burning inside her and so she did the only thing she could—she let Dahlia build from a trot to a canter, then to a full gallop through the deer park. She steered Dahlia eastwards through the fields and lanes of the estate farms, until at last she reached the Bluebell Woods. At this time of year, bluebells were everywhere—along the hedgerows, around the estate workers’ cottages and there was a good sprinkling of them in the Home Wood. But here, at the most easterly edge of the Chadcombe estate, here was where they grew in abundance.

Olivia directed Dahlia into the woods. Slowing to a walk, she savoured the coolness of the air, the smells of luxuriant foliage and fertile soil, and the magical colours of the woodland. Sturdy browns and greys mingled with lush green, and everywhere the indigo-purple beauty of the nodding bluebells. The canopy of ash and elm, oak and maple filtered verdant sunlight to warm the ferns and flowers on the forest floor. To her left, a startled squirrel raced up a tree, its tail a flash of rich bronze. Birds chirruped and called, and small creatures rustled in the undergrowth.

Olivia felt the tension leave her shoulders. This place never failed to calm her.

She made her way to the river and allowed Dahlia to drink. She dismounted, leaving her overskirts tied up, and tethered the mare to a nearby sapling in the cool shade. The horse promptly tilted one hind hoof and rested, her tail twitching at flies.

The next half-hour was delightful. Olivia wandered through her favourite part of the woods, up and down along the riverside, gathering bluebells as she went. Clara would love them. The day was warm, so, greatly daring, she removed her half-boots and silk stockings and sat down, dabbling her feet in the coolness of the sparkling river. She allowed the idyllic peace of her surroundings to soothe her, and—briefly—put tomorrow’s worries to one side. The sun gently warmed her shoulders, the river babbled to itself, and the woodland whispered and swayed, oblivious to its own beauty.

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

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...

That was better! Now she felt more certain, less confused, less...powerless.

Anyway—there should be no doubt in her mind. Any man who would surprise a kiss on a maiden he had just met had to be of dubious character. He had taken advantage of her, knowing her to be alone and unprotected. She was right to be wary of him.

Yet, she recalled, he had given her time to turn away from his kiss. And afterwards he had behaved perfectly civilly as he walked her back to the shady area where Dahlia waited. He had even turned his back while she donned her stockings and boots.

At least, she thought, George Manning is a distraction from the fact that he will be here tomorrow.

Jem.

Jem, who had disappeared from her life suddenly and completely.

Jem of the handsome face and the crooked smile. Memories flooded into her mind and her heart turned over.

Stop! she thought. Remember what he did. He allowed you to hope, to expect a proposal, when all the time he had no serious intent.

At the thought, her old anger began to resurface. How dared he behave so callously towards her? He had rejected her, then walked away without a backward glance, uncaring of the devastation he had caused.

She squeezed her eyes tightly closed and turned over. This was all her own fault. She had wished for something different, something out of the ordinary, and Fate had sent her George Manning and Jem Ford. At the same time. She was not sure she approved.

Olivia’s two brothers had settled perfectly well into married life. Olivia enjoyed the fact that, with the acquisition of two sisters-in-law, there were many more females in her life than before. Great-Aunt Clara was a darling, of course, but Olivia felt she could not talk to her in the way she could talk to Charlotte and Juliana.

So why, when she returned from her ride yesterday, had she not mentioned her encounter with Mr Manning? She could not account for it, since she had always been open with Charlotte and Juliana about her admirers.

She pondered. Perhaps that was it. She was not sure if Mr Manning admired her, or not. Mr Manning—despite his flirtatious words—had not, she felt, revealed his true self. Instead he had unbalanced her with cryptic words and inscrutable expressions. She looked forward to meeting him again, if only to better understand her reaction to him.

Today Juliana and Harry, with their young son, had travelled the short distance from their home at Glenbrook to await the arrival of Lizzie Ford and her brother Jem to Chadcombe. Juliana and Charlotte had both offered to take Lizzie under their wing during Jem’s long posting to Australia and had been true to their word. Lizzie, though under the care of her mother’s elderly cousin, had been a frequent visitor and she and Olivia had become firm friends in the four years they had known each other.

Lizzie, of course, had no notion that Olivia and Jem had enjoyed a particular friendship during his convalescence and Olivia had become accustomed to commenting politely on those occasions when Lizzie would talk of her brother and his trials and achievements in Australia. He had made Captain a year ago and Olivia had found it in her heart to be pleased for him. It was a sign, she thought, that her heart had healed from the blow he had dealt it.

‘I cannot wait to see Lizzie again,’ Juliana said with enthusiasm, as the ladies sipped tea in the morning room. ‘I confess I have missed her. We have not seen her since last autumn, remember?’ She did not mention Jem, which was something of a relief. Olivia did not wish to even think about Jem—especially that last day she had seen him, four years ago. Yet his arrival was imminent. Olivia’s palms were suddenly damp with fear, anticipation and anxiety.

‘Would you not have preferred for Jem and Lizzie to stay with you at Glenbrook, Juliana?’ asked Charlotte.

‘Oh, no, for I would not subject you to the journey to Glenbrook every time you wished to see them,’ countered Juliana. ‘Not while you are in the family way. Besides, you have more space here at Chadcombe.’

They all laughed at the old witticism. Everyone regularly teased Adam and Charlotte for having the largest house in three counties. Harry and Juliana’s home was perfectly adequate, but Chadcombe was easily four times larger. Despite her laughter, Charlotte clearly remained unconvinced. ‘I confess it troubles me a little, Juliana, that they are not staying with you. While Lizzie and Olivia are firm friends, we all know Jem and Harry fought together at Waterloo—there is a special bond between them. I know they have seen each other in London recently, but this is the first time Jem has come to Surrey to visit the family. I am sure they will wish to spend plenty of time together.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Juliana, ‘but we all wish to rekindle our friendship with Jem. Besides, Harry and Jem will see plenty of each other here at Chadcombe. Harry and I shall stay here at least this week and very likely longer. You will be wishing us gone before long—especially if Jack becomes tiresome!’

‘Of course I shall not!’ retorted Charlotte, smiling. ‘You are always welcome. Why, this is Harry’s family home!’

Juliana tilted her head to one side, considering. ‘There is, I think, a special bond between all of us. I will never forget how Jem arrived from Brussels with his crutches, just a couple of weeks after Harry and I were married. He looked fragile, but was so brave. Do you remember how much pain he was in and the courage and determination he showed in trying to walk again?’

Charlotte nodded. ‘Yes, and how you tormented him and wheedled him, Olivia, so that the poor man did not know whether to thank you or berate you!’

‘As I recall,’ added Juliana, ‘he did both!’

Charlotte agreed. ‘You were an excellent nursemaid, Olivia. You seemed to know exactly when to be patient and supportive, and when to be challenging. I confess I could not have done it.’

‘Fiddlesticks!’ said Olivia, blushing a little. ‘Anyone could have done it.’

‘No,’ Juliana insisted, ‘they really couldn’t.’

Olivia lowered her head. She had indeed cajoled and challenged Jem, who had been entirely frustrated at his lack of mobility, and frequently short-tempered with pain. Somehow, they had sparked off each other in ways that had motivated him to keep practising his walking—if only to prove to Olivia that he could. She had helped him heal and then he had left.

No one had suspected at the time how deeply attached to Jem she had become and she had explained away her lowered spirits afterwards with excuses about head colds and stomach upsets. Concerned, they had brought a doctor to investigate. He had concluded that she was suffering no serious ailment, but had prescribed a disgusting tonic, and cupped her.

No serious ailment. Not of the body, anyway. It was her heart, her mind, and her spirit which had been suffering. It had been so hard at first. She had cried herself to sleep for many months and everything in her life had somehow reminded her of Jem and the loss of him. Never again would she allow someone that sort of power over her.

Gradually, over the course of four long years, she had learned to push thoughts of him away, to build a wall of numbness around that part of herself. Until now. Finally, today, she was to face him. She prayed the wall would hold.

And what of Mr George Manning? Was he also destined to cut up her peace? She squared her shoulders. At least, if she felt those same early flutterings for another handsome stranger, she would know better than to listen to them. She did not wish to risk her heart being broken again—by Jem or by George Manning. A light flirtation with Mr Manning was acceptable, but she was determined to protect her heart from both men. It would be best to be wary.

‘And here is the Chadcombe gatehouse!’ Lizzie’s voice almost squeaked in excitement as the carriage entered the gates of the Chadcombe estate.

Jem steeled himself to remain impassive. He was not now a wounded young ensign, grateful for the patronage of a noble family. As a man of substance in his own right, he could no longer be prey to the worries of his youth. He was genuinely grateful for everything the Fantons had done for him, and for Lizzie, and counted himself fortunate to be aligned to such a generous family. But he was visiting them now not as a casualty of war, to be protected and supported during his recovery, but as an independent gentleman of means and status.

Making Captain had been a proud moment, but the discovery that he had inherited a neat estate and a respectable fortune from a third cousin had been shocking. He had been, just a few years ago, fourth in line, with no thought of such good fortune ever coming his way. But a combination of circumstances—two younger sons killed at Waterloo and the eldest then losing his life in a carriage accident—meant the lawyers had confirmed Jem as the new heir.

It had seemed not quite real, reading the letter in Australia. Having risen through the ranks on his own merits he was now forced to abandon the army career that he had assumed would be his fate for life.

On his return from Australia, he had been pleased to meet Harry again and they had picked up the threads of their old relationship without much difficulty. Jem genuinely liked his former Captain and was pleased to find the old friendly warmth still present in their recent encounters.

He could not, he knew, expect the same warmth from everyone in the family.

He both dreaded and anticipated seeing Olivia again. During his years overseas, hers had been the face in his mind when he’d reminisced of home. She had been but eighteen when he had known her before and she had likely forgotten their former friendship, long ago. This visit—and particularly seeing her again—would help his transition from the romantic foolishness that had comforted him through the long loneliness of his posting. He was old enough now to be past such things. He was certain of it.

‘They have arrived!’ Juliana jumped up and moved to the window, her sharp ears detecting the approaching carriage.

They all rose and went outside to greet their guests, Olivia’s brothers joining them. Adam and Charlotte stood forward, as protocol demanded, with Great-Aunt Clara, Harry, Juliana and Olivia behind them. The footman let down the step and opened the carriage door for the passengers to alight.

Olivia had only a moment to notice Lizzie’s stylish pelisse and her bonnet (topped with three dashing feathers) when her attention was taken up by Jem. His eyes sought hers immediately, it seemed, then moved on to the others.

He was smiling—that familiar lopsided grin—and her heart turned over. Jem. How wonderfully terrifying it was to see him again. She schooled her features into warm politeness. You are no longer a lovesick eighteen-year-old, she reminded herself. Be calm. Be gracious. Be twenty-two.

Lizzie enveloped Olivia in a warm hug. ‘Olivia!’ It is such a joy to see you again!’

‘I am so happy to see you, too! And you, Jem,’ said Olivia, as Jem finally reached her.

He took her hand and held on to it, saying warmly, ‘We were urging the horses on these past five miles, for the nearer we got to Chadcombe, the more impatient we became!’

Olivia’s heart was beating rapidly. Seeing him again was odd—his features so familiar and yet so strange. Thank goodness she was now a confident young lady, and one who had learned to hide her feelings.

Charlotte spoke to Lizzie again and Jem let go of Olivia’s hand. She was conscious of a feeling of loss. No! she told herself. It is but a memory—it is not real. Remember how he hurt you.

She looked closely at him. He looked older—more assured, somehow. It was strange, she thought, how he could look so familiar, yet at the same time so different. Her eyes swept over him. The same wiry frame, but his shoulders were much broader than before. He looked bigger, more self-possessed. Gone was the thinness of the convalescent. He was all man now.

Her eyes moved again to his face. Still handsome, but his features were somehow stronger now. She could find in his face very little of the young man she had known. There was a slight crease in his brow and he looked tired, she noticed. Had the journey been too much for him? Lizzie had told her the doctors had no major concerns about his old injury, but that it did still trouble Jem occasionally.

Olivia had heard this with mixed feelings. She was determined to keep him at a distance and had not forgotten or forgiven him for hurting her. At the same time, her instinctive compassion meant she did not wish to see him—or anyone—in pain.

In the old days, he would never admit it when his leg ached—his pride would never allow it—but Olivia had always known. There would be a tightness along his jaw or in his shoulders, a slight pallor, or occasionally beads of sweat on his forehead.

Today, she had taken the precaution of arranging for a bathtub to be brought to his room and now she nodded significantly at the second footman, who bowed and disappeared towards the kitchens to procure the pails of hot water needed for Mr Ford’s bath. Olivia hoped the footman would remember to add the oil of lavender and marjoram she had pressed this morning—Jem had hated taking laudanum for the pain, so she had found other ways of helping him through the days when he had overreached in his attempt to recover.

Perhaps he would not need the bath, but she had thought it best to be cautious. She had agonised over how it might seem to him—she wanted to give him no opportunity to assume she still felt a tendre for him, but in the end, had decided that to arrange a bath for an honoured guest was not too particular.

Twenty minutes later, the second footman entered the parlour where they were all enjoying tea and conversation, and reported that Mr and Miss Ford’s belongings had now been unpacked and their rooms were ready. The footman smelt strongly of lavender and Jem, sensing it, threw Olivia a quizzical look. She raised her eyebrows in innocent enquiry, determined not to understand him. He then glanced at Charlotte who, as hostess, would be the obvious source of such a luxury. Charlotte, however, was busy with Great-Aunt Clara, who had requested more tea.

Olivia was conscious of a strong feeling of danger. She should not have ordered the bath. He must not assume she was still lovesick for him! It was vital that he understood she was not the person she had been. Ignoring the knot of anxiety resting just below her ribcage, she continued to chat with Lizzie, though she struggled to take in what her friend was actually saying. She must get through this with a calm demeanour. It was imperative.

Chapter Three

Jem relaxed in the now-cooling bath, the scent of lavender and marjoram filling his senses and easing the throbbing in his old wound. He had dismissed the footman, needing solitude to relax and think. His leg rarely pained him now, but being stuck in a jolting, leather-slung carriage for most of the day had brought back the old ache.

Other old aches had been reawakened this day, and with unexpected force. Olivia—Lady Olivia—had blossomed into a stunning woman. He closed his eyes. There she was, in his mind’s eye, serene and elegant. Her beautiful face, glossy dark curls and intelligent grey eyes were just as he’d remembered, but there was a new quality about her that he assumed could only be self-assurance gained in the years since he had last seen her.

He had not expected to react so strongly to her but, he reasoned, it was perfectly logical, given the way he had made her the focus of his dreams these past four years. Those dreams were not and had never been real—they were fantastical only, designed to help him cope with the loneliness of his overseas posting.

He had spent most of his time in Australia with soldiers and outlaws and, surprisingly, he had not taken long to adapt to the basic—and hard—life in one of the remotest parts of the world. Their fort, which included a prison for outlaws along with the village that had sprung up nearby, was surrounded by fifty miles of emptiness in all directions. Living conditions were basic, diversions were few, and they had all been relieved when occasionally called to one of the settlements further down the coast to take their turn at ensuring public order and supporting the local government officials.

Jem had gradually been offered more and more responsibility, as his commanders had come to appreciate his qualities as a leader. They had genuinely been regretful at his decision to sell out of the army, following the news of his inheritance. They had, of course, understood and wished him well, but he had been pleased to discover that, had he stayed, they had seen in him the potential for high office in the future.

He stood, allowing the cool, herb-scented water to run off him for a moment, before stepping out of the bath and reaching for the soft towels provided by Chadcombe’s staff.

Did Olivia arrange this bath for me? he wondered, as he towelled himself dry. Or was it Lady Shalford?

He was still getting used to the blessings of civilian life, but being able to bathe in warm water, and with privacy, was a profound luxury.

Or perhaps they do this for all their guests?

Chadcombe was a huge mansion—more like a ducal seat or a royal palace than an earl’s establishment—and Jem was struck anew by the gap in station between him and Lizzie, and the Fanton family. Yes, he himself was a gentleman, like Harry, and, yes, he had come into a sizeable inheritance. But there the comparisons ended. He was not sure any gentleman’s residence could compare to Chadcombe, and his lack of title was also a crucial point of difference.

Although Harry and the Earl had both married heiresses, their fortunes had apparently not been known about at the time. He was sure the Earl would encourage Lady Olivia to make an advantageous marriage—that she was twenty-two and yet still unwed was telling. During those long four years, each time a letter had arrived from Lizzie, he had unconsciously expected it to detail Lady Olivia’s betrothal, or her marriage. Most young ladies were betrothed by the end of their second Season, so when Olivia remained unwed after four years, he had gradually hit on the most likely explanation. Quite simply, he reasoned, no one was good enough for her.

The young girl he had known had not been prideful or self-important but, equally, she had been blithely unaware of the privileges she enjoyed. No door was closed to her. She made friends everywhere she went. At eighteen, she had enjoyed all the advantages of wealth, position and connections.

For her to accept a betrothal, no doubt her suitor would have to pass a number of tests set by the Earl and unconsciously endorsed by Olivia herself. For how could she be expected to consider someone who had neither title nor fortune? Such was, he knew, the way of the world. He understood this without rancour or bitterness. Although his situation had improved a hundredfold in four years, yet still he was beneath her touch. He must not forget it.

Not that he had any particular designs on the lady. He had enjoyed her company during his convalescence and had—not unnaturally—developed some warm feelings towards her. They had, after all, been thrown into each other’s company on a daily basis. He laughed a little as he recalled actually believing he had been in love with her. He had been so young back then!

His task now was simply to find ways to be unperturbed in her company, without the undercurrents of old memories or the fantasies of a soldier starved of female company. He would be polite and warm, and at ease.

‘Would you do me the honour, Lady Olivia, of showing me some of these beautiful gardens?’ Jem waved a hand towards the window, where indeed the prospect was delightful. ‘If you are not otherwise engaged, that is?’

They had just breakfasted and Adam had left them to begin his work for the day. Most of the household were still abed—both Jem and Olivia were renowned early risers. Even as Olivia politely agreed to Jem’s request, part of her was, with some sadness, remembering their habit of walking together in the garden in London immediately after breakfast.

Olivia had come to love those walks together during his convalescence—he struggling but determined to master his mobility, she cajoling and challenging him, bearing his frustration and elation with equanimity. As the time went on and his walking became easier, they had talked of many things—his childhood in the north of England, his sister Lizzie, who was to visit him in London, some of his experiences in the army, his hopes for advancement once his injury had healed.

He had not discussed Waterloo, the horrific leg injury he had suffered during the battle, nor how it had come about. Harry must know, but he never talked of it either. Adam had hinted her away from questioning them and, ever sensitive, Olivia knew better than to push either of them into reliving experiences they were trying to forget.

During those weeks, Olivia felt she had come to really know Jem and to feel comfortable in his company. Well, she recalled ruefully, as comfortable as one could feel with someone for whom one had developed such strong feelings.

But had she ever truly known him? She had not for a moment anticipated he would reject her so comprehensively, or that he would disappear so completely, uncaring of the devastation he was leaving behind.

He had been ever the gentleman, she acknowledged. Never had he spoken of love, or tried to kiss her. But his eyes had warmed when he looked at her and she foolishly had believed he had cared for her. How wrong she had been!Afterwards, she wondered if he had seen her as a child, which had of course offended her eighteen-year-old dignity. But I was a child, she reflected now.

Again her mind returned to that last day. Through a haze of tears she had watched him walk away, unable to fully comprehend that he was really leaving. Little did she know then that would be the last she would see of him for four long years.

It was for the best, she reminded herself fiercely, because now I am free of my old feelings and can be easy in his company. Perhaps—maybe—I could even be his friend. After all, he is Lizzie’s brother and I shall no doubt be forced to see him from time to time. Yes, I can be friendly, she decided. I must put aside my girlish foolishness and the anger that came from hurt pride.

Chadcombe had extensive gardens, from formal squares and ponds laid out in the French style to contrived wildernesses and a well-developed rose garden behind the ballroom terrace. She and Jem wandered through the archways and walks of the garden, the early flowers budding and unfurling in a promise of the glories of colour yet to come. Olivia had taken particular care with her dress today, opting for one of her favourite embroidered muslins, this one with a pretty yellow taffeta ribbon. She told herself she had done so because of Lizzie’s visit. There was no other reason.

‘I see Lizzie is just as much a night owl as ever!’ offered Olivia politely.

‘What? Oh, yes, yes, quite!’ said Jem. Olivia frowned. What was wrong with him? Unable to account for his distractedness, Olivia lapsed into silence, unsure of what to say.

This was unexpected. Having successfully passed the test of seeing him again, of spending an evening in his company and enduring an entirely restless night—or so she believed—she had emerged this morning with a determination to maintain a distant, friendly air with him. It was vital that he understood she was no longer an infatuated girl. But she had not thought properly about the fact that, as much as she had changed in four years, so also would he. Gone was the open, friendly youth who had so enjoyed her company four years ago. In his place was a stranger and one whom she could not read. At all.

They walked on a few yards more and found themselves at the Fountain of Eros in the centre of the garden. The air was still and the sky cloudy and dull. A wren called sweetly from a nearby branch. Jem stopped walking and turned to face Olivia directly.

His expression was grave, worried. Olivia’s heart sank. It reminded her of his appearance in the London garden, when he had said the words that had broken her heart.

Jem was in a quandary. His plan to be calm and easy in Olivia’s company had fallen completely flat. Last evening, and earlier at breakfast, he had been intensely aware of her, compelled to keep looking at her, and frustrated by his own lack of self-control. This old passion was proving difficult to conquer!

Give yourself time! he had told himself, even as he’d invited her to walk with him. Familiarity will help you see her differently.

As they walked, he was conscious of memories of those other days, in that other garden. The feelings from back then were once again flooding through him, like a Pandora’s box of unwanted emotion. His mind, too, was awhirl. In particular, he was wrestling with a topic that had occupied his mind obsessively during his long voyage to the Antipodes and for quite some months afterwards. What if I was wrong about her?

Soon after his arrival in the Fanton townhouse, Jem had heard Harry tease Olivia about a tendre she had had for a poet a few weeks earlier—just before Harry had left for Waterloo. The poet, it seemed, had professed his undying love for Lady Olivia, expressing his passion via some excruciating verse, and Olivia had, it seemed, quickly outgrown her infatuation. Harry—then a master in the game of flirtation—had advised Olivia on how she could gently discourage the young poet while avoiding unnecessary drama.

Blushing a little at Harry’s teasing, Olivia had confirmed that her feelings for the dashing Mr Nightingale were not what she thought they had been and that, yes, he had gradually responded to her gentle hints by transferring his attentions to another young lady. This lucky damsel had that week received a sonnet to her Glorious Shoulders.

They had all laughed, not unkindly, but Jem had been left with the impression that Olivia was extremely young and untried, and that it would be a long time before her heart would engage in anything deeper than a passing notion.

She will fancy herself in love a dozen times, he had thought.

So when she had, soon afterwards, occasionally looked at him with admiration in those beautiful grey eyes, he had known not to refine too much upon it. Especially when he himself had been struggling to resist an unlooked-for and inconvenient attraction to her.

But what if he had been wrong? What if she had actually developed a deeper attachment to him at the time? His heart leapt in the old way at the thought.

Be sensible! he told himself. These were the same agonies that had haunted him throughout his stay at the Fanton townhouse. Knowing she was not for him, yet helplessly obsessing about her, while continually reminding himself that she would forget him as quickly as she had forgotten the poet. Around in circles he had gone, day after day, night after night.

He shook himself. Even if her tendre had, in fact, been deeper at the time than her feelings for the unfortunate poet, after four years he would have been long forgotten.

His dilemma, however, was this: Should he apologise to her? He had done nothing to discourage her girlish regard at the time. He had continued to enjoy her company—in truth, he was unsure how well he would have managed his recovery without her encouragement and challenge. He had selfishly taken advantage of her healing company and had failed to discourage her attentions. He was only slightly older in years, but even then, he had been much more worldly-wise than she. And then he had vanished with sudden finality.

If his actions four years ago had caused her any hurt, then to apologise would be the gentlemanly thing to do. On the other hand, if he was wrong, it might cause awkwardness or confusion. And—did he really wish to know the truth? Had she forgotten him instantly, moving on to the next handsome suitor that caught her girlish fancy? How much of her warmth at the time had been fuelled by pity, or foolish romantic notions of a wounded soldier?

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

‘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 she did not choose it.

They all sat, Jem returning to his place by her side. He was still frowning. He turned as if to speak to her, but Olivia’s attention was taken up by the new arrivals. By the time she realised he wished to say something, he had already subsided and indicated with a slight shake of his head that whatever he had intended to say was of no matter.

Relieved, Olivia returned her full gaze to George Manning and his sister. Looking at Jem was altogether too confusing. It was easier to avoid it. It was difficult enough being seated beside him and being so conscious of his nearness.

Once again, she reached for that old sense of betrayal. Jem was nothing to her now. An acquaintance. Possibly a friend. No more than that. Having George’s admiring gaze on her helped soothe the Jem-related anxiety.

Mrs Buxted was explaining the friendship between them was of recent date, as the Mannings had lived in London for only the past few months. ‘We met, would you believe, in Rotten Row, during the evening perambulation,’ declared Mrs Buxted. ‘We struck up a conversation and Miss Manning was most obliging. She was quite willing to listen to me nattering on about my daughters and my dear niece Charlotte, who is now, of course, a countess!’

Olivia squirmed a little at Mrs Buxted’s vulgar words. Charlotte, always ready to say exactly the right thing, diverted her by asking about her other daughter.

‘Oh, my dear Henrietta is well, though suffering from great tiredness. She has just written to tell me her fifth petit paquet will be delivered in the winter!’ Since Henrietta’s fourth child had been born last November, and her firstborn had just turned five, this news, naturally, caused some exclamations. ‘Oh, never worry about Henrietta,’ said Mrs Buxted, in a confiding manner, ‘she always wanted a large family.’

Faith, Henrietta’s sister, looked dubious at this assertion.

‘You will be wondering, I am sure,’ continued Mrs Buxted serenely, ‘why Miss Manning and her brother look so little alike!’ Olivia almost gasped. She had met Mrs Buxted many times, yet never failed to be astonished by her impropriety. ‘And why should you not, for I wondered exactly the same thing myself!’ She patted Miss Manning’s arm affectionately. ‘You are so fair, my friend, and your brother is so dark in his colouring, so everyone who sees you must wonder at it!’

Miss Manning’s expression did not change, apart from a slight hardening of her lips.

Perhaps, thought Olivia, the friendship with Miss Manning is not so firm as Mrs Buxted says it is.

She glanced at George Manning. He looked decidedly uncomfortable and as she watched he drummed his fingers on his strong thigh. Olivia sympathised. How uncomfortable the Mannings must be, to have Mrs Buxted talk about them as if they were not present!

‘George favours his father,’ said Miss Manning coolly, ‘while I am like our mother in looks.’

‘Are your parents also staying in London?’ asked Charlotte politely.

‘Our parents died many years ago,’ said Miss Manning calmly. ‘Smallpox.’

Great-Aunt Clara, who had a morbid fear of the disease, gasped. ‘Oh, dear, how unfortunate! I am so sorry you lost your parents, Miss Manning.’

Miss Manning shrugged slightly. ‘It was a long time ago.’

Another silence ensued. This time, even Mrs Buxted seemed aware of the tension. She looked from face to face uncertainly.

George Manning spoke. ‘We are delighted to have been included in the invitation to stay at Monkton Park. Mr and Ms Foxley are generous hosts, indeed, to have included people they had never met. We are exceedingly grateful.’

Olivia could almost feel the tension ease. George’s speech struck a perfect note, diverting attention from Mrs Buxted and the topic of the Manning parents’ unfortunate demise. Mr and Mrs Foxley both responded enthusiastically, declaring that, of course, they were happy to welcome Mrs Buxted’s friends and that visitors enlivened their common routine.

Olivia could not resist sending a thankful glance in the direction of Mr Manning. The look he returned her was half-amusement, half...something darker.

He is interested in you.

He was still looking at her and she, as if turned to stone, was returning his gaze. Becoming aware, she blushed and, breaking her gaze, wriggled slightly in her seat. Beside her, she noticed, Jem’s back was ramrod straight. She stole a glance at him. His face was rigid, impassive. Despite George’s intervention, Jem was probably still uncomfortable with Mrs Buxted’s rudeness. She hoped he would feel at ease soon.

Tea was served and they all supped politely. Charlotte, Faith, George and Clara carried the conversation, while the others remained largely silent—even Mrs Buxted. Charlotte promised to call at Monkton Park tomorrow, which made Olivia sit up straighter. She must go, too!

She was still unsure what her opinion was of Mr George Manning, but one thing was certain—she very much wished to see him again so that she could find out.

Monkton Park was a pretty estate bordering Chadcombe to the east. Since the Foxleys had wed and taken up residence, the friendships between them all had deepened. Olivia had visited many times and had enjoyed seeing how Faith had adapted to her new roles as wife and mistress of Monkton Park. The birth of little Frederick had added to the happiness of the young couple and Olivia always looked forward to seeing how he had changed since she saw him last.

Today though, Olivia’s thoughts were not on Frederick, or Faith, or indeed any of Monkton Park’s permanent residents. Foolishly, her preoccupation was solely with only two people: Jem and the enigmatic George Manning.

The carriage lumbered on and Olivia let the lull of voices wash over her. Lizzie and Juliana were engaged in some frivolous talk about Juliana’s new fan, while Jem and Harry remained silent in the facing seats. The others were travelling in the new carriage, which gave more comfort and safety for Great-Aunt Clara’s old bones and Charlotte’s delicate condition. This could well be Charlotte’s last excursion away from home, as her confinement was only weeks away.

They had completed their courtesy call earlier in the week, staying for less than an hour. Olivia had enjoyed no further conversation with Mr Manning, as he had been seated with Lizzie during their call. However, Faith had invited them all to a dinner party tonight, in honour of her guests. They would all stay the night, as there was to be no moon, which would make it too dangerous to travel the road home.

‘Lord, I am hungry!’ announced Lizzie. ‘I deliberately took no nuncheon, as I knew we were to dine out tonight, but now I wish I had indulged myself. Even some thin gruel would be welcome for my present distress, for I declare I shall faint if no one feeds me soon!’ They all chuckled at Lizzie’s pronouncement—even Jem, who seemed generally more taciturn than he used to be.

Encouraged by this sign of animation, and under cover of Juliana and Lizzie’s speculation about what food might be offered by the Foxleys tonight, Olivia leaned forward and spoke to him.

‘It will be good to spend time with the Foxleys together, as we did that summer when you stayed with us in London. Do you remember? We went for a picnic.’

‘Of course I remember!’ he retorted. ‘You wore a yellow dress and I gave you a yellow flower that matched the colour exactly.’

She smiled, surprised he had remembered. She still had that flower, had treasured it. She could still recall the thrill that had gone through her when he had handed her the flower.

Finally, she had thought, here is a sign he is interested in me!

How wrong she had been. She had read too much into the situation, had been wilfully blind. He was looking at her expectantly, so, in a rush, she responded.

‘As I recall, I told you my dress was a perfect shade of jonquil, not yellow. A high-class dressmaker would never make anything in a colour as common as yellow!’

‘Yellow,’ he repeated and there was a definite twinkle in his eye. ‘It did not suit your complexion. You were decidedly sallow that day.’

She took this in good spirit. ‘Sallow? Sallow? I did not look sallow! Why, did not Charles Turner tell me I looked beautiful that day?’ Her eyes danced with merriment.

‘“Angelic”, I believe, was his epithet.’

‘Angelic, then. He certainly did not call me sallow!’

Jem rubbed one long finger thoughtfully along his jawline. ‘He may not have said it aloud, but—’

‘But nothing!’ She decided to enlist Lizzie’s assistance. ‘You remember my jonquil dress? I wore it to the picnic in London when you visited Jem that summer. Now, did I look sallow in it?’

‘I cannot remember the particular dress, I’m afraid,’ Lizzie admitted, ‘but I am certain of one thing. You could never look sallow, Olivia!’ She glared at her brother, but with a smile lurking in her eyes. ‘Jem, you should show some discretion when talking to ladies about their looks. Why, we are sensitive creatures, easily crushed by criticism!’

Olivia glanced at the other ladies. Both Juliana and Lizzie wore similar expressions of mock outrage—mirroring her own. She decided to test the men.

‘So then, Jem—and you, Harry!’

Harry flung his hands up. ‘This is nothing to do with me and I will not engage with you!’

‘Coward!’ muttered Jem.

Olivia ignored this. ‘What would you say about our appearance tonight?’

The men exchanged glances. ‘You expect, I suppose,’ drawled Jem, ‘a dozen outrageous compliments on your dresses and your hair, and no doubt any further attributes, possessions and qualities.’

‘At least a dozen!’ confirmed Olivia, her eyes brimming with mischief.

‘A dozen and no more!’ He eyed Olivia from head to toe, then quickly scanned Juliana and Lizzie. ‘I can affirm,’ he said theatrically, ‘that you each have beautiful dresses and hair, and—er—’ his eyes scanned them again, a hint of theatrical panic mixed with his amusement ‘—gloves!’ he said triumphantly. ‘That is surely a dozen things!’

‘It is only three and well you know it!’ challenged Juliana.

He shook his head. ‘There are three of you and I named four items, so that is twelve!’ He nudged Harry in the ribs. ‘Wouldn’t you say so, Captain?’

His former commanding officer smiled broadly. ‘I heard only three for each lady, so that is nine.’

Jem clutched his heart. ‘Betrayed by my comrade! But none of you can count!’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Lizzie.

‘I know exactly what he means’, said Olivia, dimpling. ‘He is counting the gloves as two separate items!’

Jem nodded, smiling indulgently. ‘You always understood me, Olivia.’

Jem’s tone was entirely familiar to Olivia—it was exactly how he always had spoken to her when she was eighteen. She sighed inwardly. How often had she wished he would see her as a woman, not a girl? She frowned, her thoughts returning full circle to the realisation that no-one, including Jem, saw her as an adult, even now.

Yet, as they travelled on to Monkton Park, Olivia recognised with some surprise that she felt the glimmerings of peace. To her right the sky was colouring up for what promised to be a glorious sunset—glowing purple and gold and orange-red. Although the same frustrations dogged her, at least here, in this very carriage, were people with whom she felt at ease.

Jem sat back, enjoying the sensation of simply looking at her. She’d blossomed into quite a beauty. While she had been striking at eighteen, at twenty-two she was simply exquisite. As to her character, it was too early to tell, but he suspected her nature was basically unchanged.

Yet some changes were apparent. Gone was the naive girl who had glowed in his company. In her place was someone more reserved, less easy to read. It surprised him just how much he desperately wanted to get to know her all over again.

Who knew what experiences she’d had in the intervening four years? Had she fallen in love? Four years ago, he had foolishly allowed himself to become lost in her company, knowing it was destined to lead nowhere. The Earl, Olivia’s brother, had barely been aware of his existence.

And why should he? As a family they regularly hosted guests and the Earl had been busy with Parliament, his duties to the estate and his new marriage to Charlotte. He had spent little time with Jem and, although unfailingly polite, had showed no particular interest in him. Any suggestion of a relationship between Ensign Jem Ford and the sister of the formidable Earl of Shalford had been unthinkable.

Knowing he was a guest in their home and that he was trusted by her brothers to behave appropriately towards Olivia, he had acted the gentleman throughout and never so much as kissed her.

I was a damned fool! he thought now, as the realisation of the lost opportunity washed over him anew. I should have kissed her while I had the chance—while she might have wanted me to.

Desire flooded through him at the thought.

Or perhaps not, he thought a few moments later, as his rational mind reasserted itself and he pictured the ramifications. Olivia might have responded with enthusiasm and his heart skipped at the notion of the joy that would have brought to him then, but had the Earl discovered them Jem would undoubtedly have been banished from the Fanton home—and from Olivia’s life.

How might it have changed her feelings for him? Could he have secured her deeper affections, if he had breached the boundaries around them? Eighteen-year-olds were not normally renowned for constancy. Even if he’d tried to fix her interest—which would have been madness—it would not have survived four years apart.

Which brought him right back to the present, sitting opposite her in a carriage, desire and yearning confusing his senses. He glanced at her again. She was looking out of the window at the beautiful sunset, calm and serene. Certainly there was no awkwardness in her dealings with him—she was friendly, warm and gracious. Equally, there was no indication of any warmer feelings.

We had our chance, he thought, and we let it pass us by. The opportunity was lost.

The realisation hit him like a blow to the stomach.

Chapter Five

‘Lady Olivia, your seat is here.’ Olivia thanked Faith and moved to the table. The footmen were already bringing dishes into the dining room and the smells were wonderfully appetising. Faith continued to seat the ladies according to her plan and soon the men, too, were moved into position. Olivia had Charles Turner on her right and George Manning was placed on her left. Jem was opposite, between Amy Turner and Mrs Buxted.

During the first course, Olivia chatted easily with Charles, whom she had known all her life. His sister Amy, she noted, was being gently entertained by Jem. As she watched, Jem spoke softly to the girl, who was just seventeen and not long out. Poor Amy tended to still be tongue-tied at formal events.

Knowing how anxious Amy was likely to be tonight, Olivia could not help but be glad she was seated next to Jem. He had sensed—without anyone having to prompt him—that Amy would need kindness and reassurance tonight.

And, she reflected, perhaps it is best for me to have a break from the confusion Jem causes in my heart.

Was it inappropriate to feel interested in Jem’s actions? After all, she and Jem had not seen each other for years. Why, then, did she feel it was natural and right for her to think of them having some sort of special connection? Looked at from that perspective, she could not justify it. She was making assumptions based on something that existed only in her own imagination. It had not even been real in the past. She looked across the table again, this time focusing on Amy. ‘Your sister looks beautiful tonight, Charles!’

Charles snorted in response, glancing across the table. Amy’s fair hair was drawn up into a high topknot and her pretty face was framed by elegant side curls, emphasising her delicate features. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her eyes sparkled.

Her elegant gown, as she had confided to Olivia while they had been assembled in the parlour, awaiting the call to dinner, was new and specially made for tonight. Formal dinners did not come along very often and Squire Turner must have been persuaded by his wife that on this occasion Amy required new finery. The dressmaker had outdone herself. Amy’s gown was of rose silk, trimmed with lace, and was perfectly suited to her age and her complexion.

‘Hard to believe she is now out,’ said Charles. ‘I still think of her as no more than twelve and suited to the schoolroom.’

‘Oh, Charles, you sound like your papa!’ Squire Turner had long bemoaned the fact that his little Amy was making her debut this year and that she scarcely seemed old enough to be out. Olivia was not the only one to suffer from an over-protective family. ‘Amy is perfectly ready for company. Why, just look at her, conversing so easily with Mr Ford.’

Her brow creased. When she was eighteen, Jem had been kind to her in just the same way. And she had blossomed under the warmth of his attention, misinterpreting his kindness for something deeper. She swallowed as the realisation sank in. She had spent four years feeling angry with him, alongside her heartbreak. Yet now, she suddenly wondered if perhaps it was she who had been at fault, for assuming feelings on his part that had never existed.

Charles grimaced. ‘I see them,’ he muttered.

‘What? Don’t you like Jem?’ Olivia was puzzled. Years ago, Charles and Jem had met in London and always seemed at ease with each other.

‘Jem is the best of fellows, I am sure,’ said Charles. ‘But one does not like to see any man flirt with one’s sister.’

Olivia laughed. ‘He is not flirting! He is simply conversing with her to make her feel at ease. Why, you sound like my brothers when I first came out! Every man who spoke to me was watched and criticised!’

‘It is a brother’s fate, I suppose,’ he said morosely. He glanced back at Jem and Amy, who were talking quietly, their heads close together. ‘I know what I see,’ he growled. ‘Perhaps I shall become accustomed to it in time.’

The footmen moved in to clear away the soup and the fish course was served. At the head of the table, this was the signal for Faith, as hostess, to turn the conversations. With relief—for the conversation with Charles was creating unexpected anxiety—Olivia saw Faith turn away from Adam, who was seated on her right as guest of honour, and strike up a conversation with Harry, to her left. With the table now turned, everyone else now ended their conversations and turned to the person on the other side. For Olivia, that meant speaking directly to George Manning for the first time this evening—apart from the formulaic greeting on their arrival. Even then, she had noted how his gaze had swept over her face and her form, before his dark brown eyes had pinned hers in an intense gaze that had made her reach for her fan.

Now, she was conscious of bracing herself for the encounter, but also that she felt alive having him beside her. She was grateful to have the distraction of his company. He had Lizzie on his other side—Faith had seated him between them deliberately, Olivia was sure.

‘Good evening, once again, Lady Olivia,’ he growled. ‘May I offer you some salmon? You look stunning by the way.’ He tagged on the compliment as if it were an afterthought, leaving Olivia unsure of his sincerity. Such a contrast with Jem and Harry’s laughing repartee earlier!

‘Er...yes, thank you.’ Olivia had not felt so uncertain for a long time. Why, she was as tongue-tied as Amy! She forced herself to speak. ‘And some of the potato pudding, please.’

Soon her plate was laden with all her favourite dishes and she and George tucked in. ‘Tell me, Lady Olivia,’ said George, eyeing her intently, ‘do you visit Monkton Park frequently?’

His innocuous question was clearly designed to put her at ease. Although she was half-aware he was using all his social charm on her, Olivia could not resist gradually relaxing as they made small talk. They chatted of Surrey, the families who lived hereabouts and his impressions of the countryside. It reminded him, he said, of parts of northern Spain. He had also previously lived in Salzburg, Venice, Brussels, and, most recently, Paris.

‘Have you travelled in Europe, Lady Olivia?’

‘Er...no. I have been to London, many times. And I have visited friends in Lincolnshire.’

Lord, had she really just said Lincolnshire? It was a perfectly good part of England and she had had an enjoyable time visiting her friends there, but it did not begin to compare with the exotic places he had seen.

He was nodding politely. ‘Alas, I have not yet visited Lincolnshire. In fact, there are many places in this, my homeland, that I have not yet had the pleasure of seeing. But, for now, I am content to gaze on the beauty of Surrey.’ His eyes blazed into hers and her colour rose. He leaned forward and spoke into her ear. ‘I noticed at Chadcombe you did not mention the fact that we had met before.’

Now she was totally flustered. He smiled at her confusion. ‘Never fear! It will be a secret between us.’

She frowned. She did not keep secrets from her family! Thankfully, the servants moved in to replace empty dishes with full ones and she was given a brief respite from his focus as she turned back to Charles.

When it was time to turn once more, she felt more ready for him.

‘You mentioned you lived in Brussels, Mr Manning.’ Her tone was polite, not too interested. Good. ‘Was this before or after the great battle?’

‘Waterloo.’ He frowned, then grimaced slightly, as if struggling with his own thoughts. ‘I will never forget it as long as I live.’

She caught her breath. ‘You were there?’

He nodded grimly. ‘I was. I fought that day. Longest day I’ve ever spent.’ His eyes grew distant. ‘We lost some good men.’

She swallowed. ‘I apologise. I did not wish to distress you.’

He caught her gaze. Helpless, she could not break free. ‘I am glad you mentioned it. I feel I could tell you things—things I could not normally say.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Oh.’

Do not act so scatter-witted, she told herself. Say something meaningful!

‘What things?’

He seemed not to notice her tongue-tied stupidity. ‘We men are changed by war. The things we saw, the experiences we went through...’ He shook his head.

Much moved, she was tempted to reach out and touch his strong hand. She resisted. Instead, she said softly, ‘There were good tales told about that day, too. Tales of heroism and bravery.’ The conversation was making her feel decidedly uncomfortable. Oh, why had she mentioned the battle?

He looked at her keenly. ‘You are right.’ He hesitated, then spoke in a lower, quieter voice. ‘There is something—a thing I have not told many people. But it makes me feel better about that day.’

‘Yes?’ She could not resist encouraging him, for now she really wanted to hear his tale. He leaned forward, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

‘It was during the battle. We were under attack from all sides. We had already lost dozens of men from our section. Beside me, a horse was killed—its throat cut by one of those French monsters.’

Olivia, thoughts of her beloved Dahlia in her mind, immediately recoiled in horror. Raising her hand to her mouth, she gasped.

‘Oh, dear! Pardon me, Lady Olivia, for I did not mean to distress you. It is just—that day will stay with me...’ He shook his head sorrowfully.

Olivia immediately felt guilty. Here she was, upset at even hearing his tale, when he had been forced to experience these awful events first hand. Though Harry and Jem had both been soldiers, they had never spoken to her in depth about the horrors of their soldiering days. Frankly, she preferred not to think of the details. Now, here was a man who had chosen to confide something to her. It was, no doubt, a privilege that he should do so. She must be brave and grown-up about it.

She rested her hand on his arm. ‘Please, continue.’ Dinner was forgotten. She would focus only on him.

He smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you.’ His eyes became distant again. ‘One of my colleagues became trapped underneath the horse. Despite the fact that we were fighting hand to hand at that point, I knew I had to do something.’ He was sitting straighter and his hand gestures had become quite animated. Still, his voice remained low. ‘Ignoring the danger to myself, I pulled him out from underneath.’

Olivia was fascinated. He told the tale so simply, but it was compelling. ‘Why, Mr Manning, you are a hero!’

He brushed away her words with a gesture. ‘Never say so! I only did what anyone could have done.’

This she could not accept. ‘I think not! Others did not do it. You did. That means something.’ Her eyes were shining. Suddenly she saw him in a whole new light.

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