Twelfth Night
by Lily White LeFevre
Smashwords edition
Copyright 2011 by Elena Wolf.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is a coincidence.
Cover art: public domain: “Pierrot’s Embrace” by Guillaume Seignac. Image courtesy of the Art Renewal Center database.
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This book is dedicated to my mother, who loved it even more than the first one when she thought she could love nothing better than that one.
London, 1818
Miss Olivia Bellatrix Gardener was in the mood to behave badly. It was a mood she knew well, for she was a fickle creature of mercurial temper. That was a known fact of her character.
In fact, it was part of her charm. And she was quite charming. Everyone thought so. With rare exception, none of them notable, people liked Olivia. Well. Men liked Olivia. Some women found her antics amusing and some found them inspiring, while others were jealous of her admirers, her beauty, her confidence, her…impunity.
Olivia did not much care for the opinions of those women. They could not control her entrée into the drawing rooms and salons of London so long as she did not step beyond the bounds of acceptably high spirits. Olivia knew that line within an inch, and she walked it about that closely. But as long as she was on the right side of it, the women did not matter. The men mattered. They had the titles. They had the power. They had the right to choose—and they chose her. They liked her. They liked the heavy blonde hair she knew how to toss just so, and the green eyes that glowed with enthusiasm or mischief, because Olivia had only two moods: delight or bedevilment.
She was never sure what brought about the latter, but it had ruled her since she was a child. She was helpless to deny it and rarely tried.
Olivia could not, in point of fact, remember ever trying to resist misbehaving once the mood to make trouble struck her. Surely there must have been times when, as a child, she had thought better of one or another of her schemes…but she could not recall the occasion now. What she remembered instead were the innocent capers of a high-spirited girl—taking her father’s hunter for a ride and leading half the grooms he employed on an hour-long chase. Stealing a jug of hard cider before Twelfth Night and spending her twelfth birthday getting roaring drunk. “Falling” out of the boat on a lazy lake outing because she’d accidentally seen Viscount Mabry’s son, Francis, swimming the day before and had wanted to try it for herself.
Her punishments had never been severe enough to curb her behavior. They had taken the form of extra lessons, usually, so Olivia was set to reading books her twin didn’t have to and plunking at the pianoforte for hours more than Viola played her harp. But their governess had to discuss the books with Olivia to be sure she had read them, and extra music lessons meant extra praise when she played well. She hadn’t been allowed to ride for three months after the hunter incident, but when the privilege was reinstated it came with a new horse, one energetic enough to keep her busy during a ride so she wouldn’t feel the need to take out one of her father’s horses because her own placid pony “bored” her.
Between the lack of significant consequences and the almost compulsive grip of her mischievous moods, Olivia had never found a reason to fight them. Perhaps if she had any real notion of what caused them, even, she might have resisted better. But the smallest things could cast her into that hell-bent mindset.
Tonight, for example. Olivia had no idea what had turned her mood. There she was, on her way downstairs, excited and glowing with enthusiasm for the Twelfth Night masquerade—also her nineteenth birthday celebration—the first one dressed and mad with impatience for the festivities to start. Then she had heard her father’s voice, and after just a few eavesdropped words she had noticed how much her shoes pinched and how the edge of her domino cloak was scratching her arm and how a pin was digging into her scalp intolerably. Suddenly she almost hadn’t even wanted to go to her own party. Her delight in the evening ahead vaporized under the heat of discomfort and petulant dissatisfaction, and it sent her back up the stairs in a pout over her hair.
“What is it, darling?” her mother asked when Olivia burst into her dressing room. Anne Gardener sat at her vanity while her abigail coiled and twisted her hair into a dozen or more ropey strands. Mrs. Gardener was masquerading as Medusa, complete with fake snakes that attached to her headband and kohl-darkened lips.
“There is a pin stabbing into my scalp most distractingly. Millie will need to re-dress it,” Olivia lied. Exaggerated. There really was a pin stuck a bit too hard into her hair. It was just one that she likely could have adjusted herself without damage to her coif…but if she had done that, then she’d have had to stay downstairs.
“Francis, you know we have discussed this before, and we both thought it best to wait a bit longer. But I no longer see the need for delay. Viola has not shown a particular interest in any man this year. She has not shown a particular interest in men, period. I see no reason for you to put off your suit any longer. It is my hope, in fact, that you will make your offer presently.”
Her father’s words of but a few moments past.
Olivia did not want to be downstairs for their consequences.
“You’ll have to wait until I am dressed,” her mother decreed. “Arthur was expecting me down—” She turned her head just slightly, just enough to read the clock out of the corner of her eye. “—five minutes ago.”
Olivia sulked, exactly as her mother expected her to for being made to wait. Anne had no idea, of course, that Olivia had reasons for wanting to wait. For dragging her feet about attending her own party.
Olivia tried to think about why that was as she watched Millie’s deft hands tie off yet another braid of Anne’s long, light brown hair. Olivia and Viola’s hair, too—fine and slightly waved, too golden to be a true brown and too dark to be a true blonde. Perfect English hair, to complement the creamy perfection of their rosy skin. His English rose garden, Arthur liked to call them.
Why his pronouncement to Viscount Mabry should have soured her mood, Olivia did not know. It was nothing she hadn’t expected since she and Viola came out last spring. Francis had been expected to marry Viola for two years or more, after all, waiting only her formal debut and a nominal chance to peruse her options.
Not that Viola had taken the chance. She was a veritable wallflower, while Olivia was the reigning queen of the debutantes. In truth, Olivia felt a little bit sorry for her sister. She hadn’t really become acquainted with any other man, which meant she would marry Francis without knowing if there might be someone else she would prefer. And Francis was—well, Francis was Francis. It was a little difficult for Olivia to judge him as the world must, because she had known him her whole life, or close to it. He was the family friend, older, wiser, and childhood hero to both girls. Olivia had looked up to him just as Viola had—but he had only ever tried to play that part for Viola. It was a heroism that came at the cost of painting Olivia as the villain. In his eyes she had been too reckless, too rash, too headstrong, and Francis had wanted to protect her sister. From her.
Viola had never complained about where Olivia led her. Francis was the only one who seemed to mind.
Her father called him sensible, and her mother called him thoughtful, and what they meant was that he was a bore. So quiet. So dutiful. So lordly. Yawn.
So, yes, Olivia supposed she could be forgiven the slight pity she felt for her twin, for not at least trying to discover if someone else might suit her better.
Sympathetic condescension was hardly what was spoiling Olivia’s mood, though, was it? She was jealous. Absurd as it sounded—because, really, what was there to be jealous of?—she clearly was. And it came as a surprise that she was.
Why, she also did not know. Whatever Olivia had expected to feel when the announcement was finally made, it was not this sullen churlishness. Then again, perhaps she had never really dwelled on the question, never tried to imagine the feelings. There had been no point, after all, when the betrothal was only a haphazard possibility cooked up by two old friends years ago, years before one of them had died too young. So her father was now pushing that old friend’s son to move forward with a formal connection. Why should it matter to Olivia if her sister were to get betrothed, even married, first? Olivia was only the elder by thirteen minutes; she was hardly going to be left to look like an awkward old maid.
Besides, Olivia didn’t exactly lack for choices—there were half a dozen men who would make her an offer tomorrow if she gave them serious encouragement tonight. Her problem, really, was that she had too many options. Olivia could not choose between them.
Viola’s engagement did set a certain bar, however, which narrowed Olivia’s options considerably: Viola had snagged a viscount. Olivia could now settle for nothing less. It was a matter of pride. But Olivia didn’t know why that standard should bother her so much. She ought to take it as a challenge.
Millie finally finished with Anne’s hair and stepped back so her mistress could view the complete effect. Anne looked dark and mysterious, perhaps even sinister, in her cosmetics and faux serpents. She nodded at her appearance before she stood and shook out her blue Grecian-style dress. Then she hurried from the room to join her husband and open the house for the evening. On her way through the door, she gave Olivia a breezy “don’t be long, darling,” as though it didn’t enter her mind that Olivia might actually be long.
Millie gestured to Olivia to come sit in front of the mirror. Olivia complied, and without comment Millie unpinned her hair completely and started over with its arrangement. Olivia gazed idly at the maid’s flashing hands as she sat docilely.
No doubt Millie wondered why Olivia hadn’t told her about the offending pin in the first place. But Olivia was known for being impulsive and a little vain, so perhaps the maid simply assumed Olivia had found some flaw invisible to anyone else. Olivia didn’t much care. She had other matters on her mind.
Among them how she had ended up so much more conservatively costumed than her sister. She looked at her reflection in the mirror as Millie expertly pulled and pinned her long hair back into place. She wore a new ball gown in pale gold silk, covered almost completely by the double-layered scarlet cloak over it. The outer layer of the domino, covering her shoulders and arms, fell to her elbows, while the under-layer was full-length.
Olivia had no intention of making herself as anonymous as the traditional style demanded. Yes, she would wear a half-mask to hide most of her face, and, yes, she could pull up the voluminous hood of her domino to cover her hair. She could tie the front of the cloak closed to render her shape ambiguous…but she wasn’t going to behave like anyone except herself. And she probably wasn’t going to tie her cloak closed, because her new gown was simply exquisite, and she wanted to show it off.
And, if she were being truly honest with herself, because she didn’t want to look dowdy when Viola was looking so lush.
When Viola had described what she wanted to the mantua maker, their mother had carefully admonished the woman to make it modest. Anne Gardener had also, however, failed to discuss what modest meant to them both, and the resulting costume made Viola look downright naughty. Olivia was ashamed of herself for being so uncreative with her Twelfth Night costume. She had seized the opportunity for a beautiful new gown; Viola had jumped into the spirit of the masquerade and obtained a disguise that made her look…more. Everything more. More beautiful, more daring, more interesting—
Olivia cut off that waspish thought. She didn’t harbor ill feelings for her sister. Of course she did not. Viola was her twin, her mirror, her other half. What Olivia lacked in patience, Viola lacked in ambition. What Viola lacked in confidence, Olivia lacked in humility. Between them they made one complete, balanced person. Apart, they were polar opposites. It was no wonder their parents had not matched them interchangeably with Francis; if he wanted a wife like one of the twins, the other could not possibly satisfy his hopes.
Millie stepped back, and Olivia reexamined her appearance. Her lips showed the pout of her displeasure, and she carefully wiped that away, lest Millie think herself at fault. Olivia forced her best smile, as if charmed with the improvements in her appearance, and said, “That was just the thing. Thank you.”
When she slid her red- and gold-painted mask into place to shield her upper face and surround her eyes, the fabricated gratitude became indistinguishable from the real thing. Olivia’s smile grew genuine as she observed her armor.
It would do.
It would do for all manner of undertakings. Some of her earlier enthusiasm resurfaced, pouring energy and resolve into her malaise until it coiled into a spiteful sort of recklessness that pressed down as if she wore a cloak of leather and not silk. She was in the mood to behave badly. It was a mood she knew well, and she saw no reason to curb it tonight.
After all, it was Twelfth Night, and her birthday, and a masquerade. If no one was surprised when she misbehaved at an ordinary ball, she must be downright expected to do so tonight.
* * *
Francis Cartwright, Viscount Mabry, was in a quandary. He had known for years now that the Gardener family expected him to marry one of their daughters, and he had suspected for almost as long that they foresaw Viola being the one. But suspecting was different from knowing. Now he knew that Arthur expected him to ask for Viola’s hand.
Francis had long ago come to be certain marrying one of the Gardener girls would bring him every happiness. There was just one problem—Viola was the wrong sister.
He liked Viola, truly, he did; they had much in common, and he had spent a lifetime looking out for her and helping her out of the trouble Olivia led her into. He and Viola were much alike, quiet and rational and sensible of their duty. If they married, they would marry from mutual respect and be staid and comfortable together all their days.
Francis didn’t want comfortable. He didn’t want staid. The thought of marrying Viola felt distressingly near to the thought of marrying his own sister. Strange, then, that the thought of marrying Olivia was so gut-clenchingly exciting—she was, after all, Viola’s twin. The girls were identical, and it was the most frustrating question of Francis’s existence: why did his sexual and emotional obsession with Olivia not translate to her twin? But it didn’t, and that made him certain his infatuation was borne from a fascination with her personality, rather than her looks. She was a very beautiful girl, it was true; but so was Viola, and there was only one of them he could imagine himself taking to bed.
Unfortunately, their father had just made it unambiguously clear that he wanted Francis to marry the one he didn’t want.
Francis had hoped Viola would meet someone during her come-out Season who would secure her hand and free his to pursue her sister. He had never felt quite comfortable bestowing attentions on Olivia when he was all but betrothed to her sister. Unfortunately, Viola had faded into the background while her sister had taken London by storm. Francis had felt honor-bound to refrain from attempting to stake any claim on Olivia, because Viola had not met someone special—in truth, he sometimes wondered if she had met anyone at all, she disappeared from social events so thoroughly—and it had been hell to watch Olivia acquire a coterie of devoted admirers all through the spring. She was his, he always thought when he saw her; but, of course, she was not his. The worst fate he could imagine would be if Olivia found someone special before her sister; then he would have no choice but to offer for Viola, and spend his life in a twisted ménage a trois with his wife and the specter of her identical twin in his heart.
At least Olivia had not developed feelings for anyone in her retinue.
And Francis had never directly spoken to Viola about the expectations of her parents. It had been cowardly of him, to be sure, to simply wait and put it off and hope that she would take care of things for him by falling in love with someone else.
But now here he was, waiting to face her after her father had essentially ordered him to propose. There was the possibility that Viola felt about him as he felt about her, he reminded himself; he was not necessarily about to dash her hopes and her pride in one fell swoop. Perhaps she had made a wallflower of herself because of the understanding their families had, and perhaps she would be grateful if he offered her an out. It was a slender hope, but the only hope he had, now. Arthur Gardener expected him to make an offer to one of his girls tonight. Francis prayed he had the opportunity to make an offer to both.
He prayed for it fervently enough to be ashamed of himself when Viola smiled at him in guileless welcome as she finally entered the room.
Francis could tell it was Viola even before her father greeted her by name, because he had known the twins for fifteen years and knew all the subtle differences in their appearances. Olivia’s hair was a little lighter, because she favored riding and spent more time in the sun, but Viola’s was a little wavier. Olivia’s eyes were almost a true green, while Viola’s were a more ambiguous mingling of green and blue. Their lips were just slightly different shapes—Olivia’s were fuller but Viola’s turned up more at the corners to make her always appear to have a smile hovering. Viola was a shade thinner than Olivia and had proportionately smaller curves.
He also knew it was Viola because he felt nothing at the sight of those curves stuffed into a shockingly provocative costume. She was dressed as a courtier from the court of the last King Louis, God rest his soul, and did not look as innocent as he knew she was. She was dressed in a way that befitted a married lady—or, at least, an engaged one—and not a demure unmarried girl. Another subtle nudge from her parents.
Francis offered Viola a bow and swept off the mask from his face and the tri-cornered had from his head.
Arthur gave a satisfied nod and excused himself to dress for the masquerade. Francis wondered how long Anne would keep Olivia upstairs in order to prevent her interfering with his proposal. Just a couple minutes, which was all he would need, given the unvoiced expectation of the past two years? Or would they give him time for a bit of romance? Not that he intended to use the time for either end; but he wondered.
“You’re looking ominous this evening, Francis,” Viola said lightly, referring to his choice to wear a full mask instead of a fashionable half-mask, as she had donned.
He replied with equal levity, “And you look quite dashing.”
“Dashing?” Viola laughed. “That’s the best you can do?”
“It is all that I dare do,” he returned, smiling. “That dress is a walking scandal.” Perhaps it would take some other man by storm, Francis thought suddenly. Someone who had never noticed her before just might, in a get-up like that. He grinned at the possibility of a secondary escape route. “I like it.”
Viola blushed a little, and Francis was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Viola. That was too much. Although, decidedly less than most of the men tonight will give you. Are you sure you’re up to it?”
“Did you mean it? Or were you just saying it because the dress would require some such comment, no matter who was in it?”
“Er…”
Viola laughed again. She had always laughed easily, once engaged in conversation. He hoped his rejection would not take that out of her. “It was only too much if you really meant it,” she told him, and he understood that she knew he had not spoken with the force of any desire.
That realization on her part was as good an opening for him as any. “You know our families expect me to make you an offer,” he began, watching her face carefully.
Her expression became guarded in an instant, and that gave him hope that she would not be walking away from this meeting with a broken heart.
“Yes. After all, we are both the quiet ones. The responsible ones. The dutiful ones.”
She did not sound delighted at the prospect. She sounded resigned, at best, and possibly even embittered. Better and better.
“Not to mention the long hope your father holds and my father held, to see their children united in marriage.” Francis had to drop his eyes to keep his expression serious. It would not do for Viola to see how eager he was to thwart that hope—with herself. But he had to see her eyes when he actually asked it, that one un-retractable, unforgivable question. It was a gamble; he could be about to crush the last person in the world he wanted to see hurt. He captured her blue-green gaze and asked as neutrally as he could manage, which, of course, was very neutral, indeed—“Will you be very offended if I do not ask?”
“I want to be more than a duty to my husband,” Viola retorted tartly.
Well, that alone guaranteed he wasn’t going to ask her now. She meant those words. She would rather have him break her heart today than every day of their marriage, and Francis loved her the more for it. In a brotherly way.
“So you will not be hurt?” he pressed.
Viola did not answer at once. “No,” she said after a few moments, calmly. “I know you do not harbor a tendre for me, and I think you know I do not pine for you. So, no, my feelings will not be hurt if you pass me over.”
Francis believed her. She could be dissembling, he supposed, to save her own pride, but he did not think so. There was something in her voice…something that sounded like relief. He could not contain his smile. “Excellent. Are we agreed, then?”
She cocked her head, making her ridiculous pile of curls jog and bounce. “Can you bear to disappoint my father?”
“Let me worry about your father,” he assured her, waving his hand to dismiss the matter. After all, Arthur would hardly be unbearably disappointed with Francis as long as he offered for one of the girls. “Mostly I am worried about disappointing you,” Francis added, honestly.
Viola’s answer, in turn, was almost insultingly credible. “You will not disappoint me. It is a relief, in fact, to know that you will not ask. If you did, I might feel obliged to accept, and I cannot think it would be the best thing for either of us.”
She smiled ruefully, and Francis picked up both her hands and brought them to his lips. He kissed each one with a flourish and hoped she saw the gratitude in his face.
“Thank you. You have made this easy on me.”
“You may thank me by being the one to tell my father.”
Francis chuckled at her quip, content that she would not be shattered by his defection. Perhaps she would even feel freed by it. If she had made herself scarce in society because she had thought herself bound to him, then tonight would be almost like a second come-out ball for her. A true coming out ball.
For the sake of his dear friend and, with luck, future sister, Francis hoped so.
* * *
After her secondary primping, Olivia went from the first one dressed to the last one to come down for the party. Anne as Medusa and Viola as Mademoiselle du Verte had joined Arthur the triton. Olivia had not yet seen her father’s costume, or even heard what name he had decided to use—“Mermidon” was his rather uninspired decision, and his costume was a likewise perfunctory toga of green linen with blue trim that matched Anne’s dress, and a miniature trident to carry instead of a mask.
It suited his aggressively practical demeanor, however. Arthur Gardener was a bluff man of direct personality, with presence more from his breadth than his height. He wasn’t gone to fat, or even over-large; he was simply a very solid man. His unrefined appearance was matched by a mindset that was more bourgeois than gentry, despite being the son of the son of a gentleman, with a knighthood somewhere up the family tree too high for anyone to remember.
Olivia’s father certainly didn’t trade on it, even though he owned a modest estate after his father and had married wisely with Anne, who came with thirty thousand pounds to be divvied up between her daughters when they married. It gave him some caché in Society, having two heiresses to dispose of, but Arthur didn’t trade on that much, either. He had never brought the girls to London until they were ready to make their debut—several years after they had been out in the country. He’d taken a house in London for a full year and gotten most of the cost back by letting Grensham House for the same period. The move meant he was able to bring his girls out for a regular Season and then continue to let them shop the ton’s marriage mart during the fall’s Little Season.
The lease was up in two months. Olivia wondered if that ticking clock had prompted her father to put this sudden pressure on Francis to make his connection to Viola official. She also wondered if he had a similar back-up plan in mind for her, with no idea who the prospective groom might be.
The young viscount was there with the others, of course, dressed even more anonymously than Olivia in a highwayman’s costume made more menacing than was proper by a full black mask that obliterated his entire face. His dark blue eyes glittered in the candlelight, but Olivia could not read their expression. The effect was disconcerting, and she was glad of her own mask when he bowed to her and presented only that frozen façade. Her own relative inscrutability allowed her to curtsy back with a smile and show him nothing of her discomfiture or her discontentment.
There was no time for conversation, not for Olivia, anyway, for the hour had struck eight and the first carriage wheels could be heard upon the drive.
Since Arthur and Anne were both masquerading without any actual disguise, they had decided to receive their guests as at a normal ball. Olivia and Viola had the choice to stand with them or wait in one of the parlors for enough guests to arrive to theoretically blend in with them. But neither girl was particularly trying to hide her identity, either, so they had opted to stand with their parents, at least for a little while. Francis remained in the parlor when they left with a glass of Arthur’s best brandy in hand and a head shake to refuse being one of the hosts.
The implicit offer said Arthur and Anne were aware of his imminent joining of their family; his refusal implied he had hadn’t asked yet.
Olivia wondered if he planned to do so tonight, or to wait for a few days in order to plan a romantic outing. There wasn’t a great deal of obvious romance between Francis and her sister, which could be attributed to them both being of reflective and private nature—or to the fact that there simply was none. It occurred to Olivia, for the first time, that she did not actually know. Viola had never offered, and she had never asked. The prospect had never seemed real enough to prompt Olivia to inquire, and now she did not dare for fear of ruining Francis’s grand surprise, if he was, in fact, planning to ask Viola with any sort of style. Olivia hoped so. Viola might not know the difference, but Olivia wanted her sister to have a proper proposal. She deserved nothing less.
But that meant Olivia would have to wait to talk to her about it. She supposed it was for the best that the next few days were likely to be busy, even over-busy, between the masquerade tonight and the inevitable flurry of visits it would prompt for the next se’ennight.
When the front door finally opened, the stream of guests queued up to enter the masked ball seemed never-ending. In ones and twos, then spates of fives and sixes, the guests arrived, resplendent in their finery and inspired in their whimsy. There were the usual stand-bys for people like her parents, who couldn’t stir themselves to reach further than Classical references for a character, but there were others who had let their imaginations—or their costumers’—run wild. An Indian pasha, a Knight Templar and a medieval queen, the West Wind and the Snow Queen, a tree and a swan and a cow all paraded past in between several Roman senators and Greek goddesses. A peacock and a horse came in together, and glittering nets of silver over ice-blue silk dresses on the d’Auberigne girls suggested the four were a school of fish. Orion tried to bring his mastiff in with him, and the Pleaid with him laughed loudly when Arthur stuck his trident in their path and shook his head. They disappeared for a couple minutes and returned, sans dog, presumably after putting it in the care of their coachman.
Everyone coming in seemed full of mirth and in high spirits (some of them obviously already into their spirits), and Olivia’s mood stayed high.
At first. But as she greeted guest after guest—most of them people she had met many times over the last eight months and most of them easy to identify either by their lack of real disguise or by the company they kept, when not everyone in a party wore a truly anonymous costume—Olivia began to feel…almost bored.
Which was odd, because she lived for parties.
Yet something about tonight, about hosting her first party since her come-out ball, was opening her eyes to something that had long been festering in her subconscious.
Exchanging the same commonplace greetings with everyone who arrived, and knowing she would have the same conversations with all of them later—“Let me guess who you are,” “Let me bring you a drink,” “Let me dance with you and pretend we haven’t danced together at every ball since last April”—made her feel hollow and a little sad. She had come to London with the intent to triumph in Society here the way she had been the local belle at home, and she undeniably had. But…was this really all there was to it? What had seemed exciting in the beginning, or even earlier this evening, now seemed hackneyed and worn. When had she become cynical? Was greeting a hundred members of the ton consecutively really all it took to make her realize they were all the same, and their interactions were all superficial and prescribed? Or did this still have to do with her peculiar disheartenment from earlier, her jealousy over the fact that her sister was about to marry a solid, respectable man of good family and unfailing loyalty, while Olivia was still casting out her lures for an equally good catch?
Olivia truly did not know, but the boredom only exacerbated her restlessness.
When a trio of her favorites arrived together, she gratefully repaired to the ballroom with them, with a nod from her father to indicate she might initiate the dancing as soon as she wished.
Olivia wished it immediately. Dancing had the power to distract her, to make her forget for a few minutes her discontentment. She had always loved to move, to spin and dip and glide in time to music. Something about the combination of physical movement and mental engagement with the music, counting the time and following the melody to push out her thoughts, left her feeling light and free.
Jackson Winthrop, youngest son of the Duke of Sussex, received the honor of being her first partner. She could do worse, Olivia supposed, though Lord Jackson was in reality just Mr. Winthrop now that his eldest brother had sons. He was still fabulously wealthy and easy to look at, even if he wasn’t especially handsome, and charming. Too charming, really. He had been charming to Miss Hestia Danforth until Olivia had stolen him away, and that had made Olivia think him an insincere man. Either that, or a fickle one, and either trait did not spell success for a marriage.
But, oh, he was an easy and gracious dance partner, and he lavished compliments on her every time the dance drew them together until Olivia began to feel her masquerade choice had been the right one, after all.
“You should always wear red. It makes you bloom like an exotic flower. And it gives us poor men fair warning of your inner fire.”
“It is a good thing your dressmaker could not quite match your silk to your hair. I’d have been struck blind by the brilliance of so much true gold in one place.”
“You dance like one of the Muses. I wish you had come as Terpsichore, so I’d be able to see your lovely visage.”
Lord Jackson, himself, was arrayed as a dragon (his friend Baron Tolliver, Olivia had been amused to see when they came in, was St. George). He had a green jacket and pants with a gold waistcoat, a wig of dyed green horse hair that stood off his head in spikes, and an intricate gold-dusted green mask with a lizard snout covering him from the nose up. It made Olivia notice for the first time that his teeth were almost over-sharp, and she wondered if it was an intentional or unfortunate dovetail.
“You outshine the candles tonight, Miss Gardener. You should always dance.”
“You have a wild heart. It’s like a bird, fluttering about the room, and raising the spirits of everyone who sees it.”
The last piece of flattery made her sad. Birds were only ever inside when they were captive or trapped. Winthrop was right; Olivia did have a wild heart. So she must be a trapped bird. The image would not leave her mind.
His timing was beyond unfortunate. Any other night she’d have forgotten the words as soon as she had laughed at them, but tonight? Tonight, they resonated. She felt like a trapped bird. The thought was strong enough that the joy she usually found in the movement of the dance could not drown it out. When the song drew to a close, Olivia curtsied to Mr. Winthrop and did not remain in line for the second half of the set. Instead she had him take her to the refreshment tables.
For now, few enough people had entered the ballroom that they could still walk freely across it. Olivia smiled to see that such would not be the case in another hour. Apparently even London over Christmas had enough bored residents to fill a ballroom for Twelfth Night.
The holiday, as well it should be, was the unabashed theme of the masquerade. The ballroom hadn’t been covered in false wall panels to recreate Venice or Greece or a midsummer night in the forest, the way most themed balls did. Instead, the same Yule decorations that had graced the family rooms had been transferred to the ballroom, which now rang with bells and dripped with ivy and holly and ribbons. The only addition was a dais with a throne for the Lord of Misrule, a servant or social pariah who would have the run of the party tonight. Olivia didn’t even know whom her father had tapped for the part—if anyone; perhaps the set piece was merely a reminder of the old tradition.
If so, that, too, made her a little sad, the sight of that empty throne presiding over the revelries.
She picked up a flute of champagne from the table, as did Mr. Winthrop. When he moved to turn away, Olivia laughed, which stayed his progress. She drank an entire glass in a few long swallows, and to hell with being dainty and ladylike tonight; his eyes widened a bit, but he merely toasted her and followed suit. They each picked up a second flute to carry with them back to his friends.
* * *
Being honorable was a damnable thing, Francis thought as he walked into the ballroom perhaps an hour after the Gardeners had opened the house. He had planned to wait simply until he heard music to join the party, but by the time he had, his second glass had been poured. Poured, but hardly touched. For all his thrifty ways, Arthur Gardener appreciated fine spirits, and such a glass was not to be abandoned—nor was it to be rushed.
So Francis hadn’t.
It wasn’t like he had anything to rush into the ballroom for, anyway. Now that he had freed himself from his obligations to Viola, his only desire was to go to her sister and see what might be salvaged of their old fondness…or kindled fresh between the man he was and the woman she had become. But he could do nothing about her tonight.
The constraints of honor that had kept him from pursuing Olivia any time these last two years still shackled him. He had not yet told Arthur that he would not marry Viola, and blatant flirtation with her sister would make him appear insincere, insensitive, and ingrate. Moreover, if he proceeded to cry off with Viola and the next hour pay court to Olivia, it would hurt Viola. Even if she did not want a husband who saw her as a duty, she would be stung to realize he didn’t view her twin that way. That the entire time he had been selected for Viola, he’d been thinking of Olivia. Francis might as well have slapped Viola in the face, if he behaved with such callousness.
He could not do it.
Francis had been raised to be conscious of others’ needs, and of how his actions impacted them, by a father who had witnessed too much cruelty among his peers. The late viscount had, perhaps, meant the lessons strictly in the sense in which they were presented—landholder to tenant, peer of the realm to those souls under his protection, steward of the next generation to the land in his care—but Francis had always over-thought everything, so he extrapolated from those chains of lordly honor a matching set for his behavior as a man. He was always polite and fair and considerate. A dull dog, perhaps, but he could not break the long habit of self-awareness.
He was not and never could be, for instance, his friend Lord Carrick. Carrick rarely stopped to think before anything he said or did, because slurs and insults alike rolled off his back like water from a duck. He was too blithe to consider that others might not disregard his words so easily.
No, Francis could never be Leighton. He could not un-think how his defection straight to Olivia would affect Viola. Because he could not ignore the effect, he could not effect the cause—he could not go to Olivia.
Which meant he had no real reason to be at this ball. Or to stick around till the unmasking at midnight, now that he was here. Or to be in the ballroom, since he did not enjoy dancing except with someone he knew well, like Viola, and would probably not be dancing with her, tonight.
Yet here he was, anyway, Francis thought as he entered the ballroom.
His eyes, as they always did, went first on a search for Olivia. The crowd was still thin enough that he spotted her almost at once.
Not that spotting her even in a larger crowd would have been difficult. Her red cloak was shockingly bright, almost garish, even amidst the myriad colors of other costumes. The only place she’d not have stood out would have been an Army officers’ ball. The color suited her, though, as did its flamboyant hue. Olivia looked beautiful and charismatic.
Unignorable.
Francis tore his eyes from her and pretended not to notice the smile she had cast his way. Even if the greeting had been for him, and it likely hadn’t, he had no desire to join the group of men clustered about her. Already the number was up to five or six, and it would surely swell before the end of the night. Lord Carrick was not among them, though he often was. None of her other admirers were friends with or, in some cases, even personally known to Francis, for which he had always felt grateful. Bad enough that his closest friend pursued her, too.
His next scan, also as always, sought Viola. Her costume would not stand out from the crowd, despite its shock value up close, and Francis did not see her. Which could mean that he had not been able to pick her out from a knot of ladies standing together, or could also mean that she was not in the ballroom yet. Viola often withdrew to quieter parts of a ball, either the edges when there was nowhere else to go, or the rooms other than the ballroom when the hosts had opened more of the house.
The third pass was for anyone whom he ought to greet, such as one of his cousins or a particular friend. Finding no one—not that it mattered, given his current anonymity—Francis decided to explore the other open rooms of the party.
He knew Arthur would have a card room for gentleman, because Arthur himself would spend most of the night in it. Francis suspected it would be the billiards room on the second floor and proceeded to test the theory.
He was correct, he discovered, when he walked in and found the room crowded with three square tables in addition to the two billiards tables. There were four card players in the room so far, filling only one of the three tables, and they all appeared to be older men. Men who had long since earned the privilege not to dance by marrying off all their children or outliving their wives. One of the billiards tables was in play by Arthur—who had obviously abandoned the receiving line before Francis left the drawing room—and one of his friends, dressed as a satyr with such an enormous false beard and eyebrows that Francis could not determine his identity. One of the Rawley brothers, perhaps, but Francis could not tell which.
“Ah, Francis,” Arthur boomed, rendering his mask and tri-corn irrelevant, at least to those five men in the room, “why don’t you join us? Or are you in too much of a hurry to dance with my daughter to linger?”
Francis smiled, even though he knew Arthur could not see it. He was fond of Mr. Gardener; the man had been closer to Francis’s father than the late viscount’s own brothers, and more of an uncle to Francis than they ever had been, even before his father’s death. Perhaps especially, after it. Francis had always enjoyed the raucous visits to the Gardener house and considered himself part of their family already. He had since he was a boy, long before any talk was made—in his hearing, at least—of his marrying one of the girls. It would be a damn shame not to join the family in truth, he reflected, as he stepped toward the billiards table. Aside from the pain he’d feel if he lost Olivia, he would genuinely regret losing Arthur and Anne as his parents-in-law.
“I’ve time for one game, I’m sure,” he replied, as Arthur expected him to, the smile evident in his voice.
“Shall we team up against the young one, then?” Arthur asked his companion.
“Experience and guile win every time,” came the reply; Francis still couldn’t identify him further than a Rawley, though by his voice he clearly was one of the three.
The older men re-racked the balls and indicated Francis could split. He dropped two balls into a pocket and missed his first shot.
He would have been an indifferent billiards player, he reflected, if not for Arthur. His father hadn’t kept a table, and the game itself didn’t grab him. But Francis had learned to play from an expert, enough to enjoy it a little and enough to not embarrass himself…but nowhere near enough to compete with two men who loved the game and had been playing it since before he was born. The match was over in less than a quarter-hour, and Arthur didn’t ask if Francis wanted a second game. He just grinned at him in a way that might as well have been an order to go downstairs and flirt with his daughter.
As he went, Francis wondered if Arthur might actually be upset with him for switching out the sisters. If all he wanted was the connection, to have Francis as a son in truth and not just in spirit, then surely which daughter he married did not matter.
But was that the case?
Francis had long been curious why Arthur had never asked which daughter he would prefer, and why Viola had been the one he paired with Francis. Was it that Arthur assumed they would be the more compatible match?
Or was Viola Arthur’s favorite and for that reason the one he preferred to see with “the son he never had”?
Pointless to speculate now, Francis reminded himself as he walked. He’d cast his chips already. Now he had no choice but to play them as they fell.
* * *
Olivia saw Francis come into the ballroom, looking dark and dangerous in his black mask and highwayman’s garb. Most of her usual admirers had already joined her. As a group they were mostly young and irreverent, none of them over five and twenty, and the original trio a scant three years older than Olivia herself. In addition to Mr. Winthrop, Baron Tolliver, and Sir John Finch, Esquire, who had arrived with the other two, there was Allain Randolph, a poet related to the Marquess of Stere; Tolliver’s cousin, Mr. Lumley; and Reid Alexander, Viscount Leeds. They were all charming, wealthy, and mostly handsome, but her gaze lit on Francis as if he were a magnet and she possessed of iron eyes.