His Wicked Heart by Darcy Burke Page B

suit?”
    “You needn’t sound so shocked. I am heir to your dukedom.”
    “Isn’t her father angling for some Flemish
lord?”
    Jasper had heard that rumor, but until an
announcement was made, Lady Philippa was fair game, particularly
since she was clearly on the hunt for a husband. “I’ve given you
the name, so I believe we’re finished.”
    Holborn’s lip curled, but he said nothing,
merely sipped his whiskey. After a long moment during which Jasper
contemplated how it might feel to face Holborn in the room at the
back of the Black Horse, the duke waved his hand, effectively
dismissing Jasper.
    Jasper briefly thought of staying, just to be
contrary, but such games were for lads with far less experience
than him. He turned and left, exhaling in an effort to release the
tension roused by the duke.
    As he returned to his table, he contemplated
visiting Olivia later in the evening. She’d had time to reflect and
was now, hopefully, ready to spend the night with him.
     
     
    OLIVIA stood in the center of her new
dressing room at Lady Merriweather’s—Louisa’s—house on Queen Street
in Mayfair. If she were barefoot, she was certain the thick, plush
carpet would cushion her toes like the softest bed. Pale yellow
paint brightened the walls of the windowless room. A wide oak
armoire devoured an entire corner, while a dainty, turned-leg table
with a small, slipper chair and a long, cushioned bench with a rose
and cream pattern completed the furnishings. Olivia had never seen
such fine things, let alone for her to use.
    Her meager wardrobe filled a scant fraction
of the armoire, but Louisa had promised a plethora of new clothes
as soon as they could go shopping, which she’d indicated would be
tomorrow.
    In a daze, Olivia staggered back into the
main bedchamber, a massive room that would easily hold her entire
apartment with space to spare. Though she’d slept here last night,
she’d wondered this morning if the entire previous day hadn’t been
a dream.
    Her maid—her maid!—finished tidying the bed.
Perhaps a decade older than Olivia, Dale seemed capable and
intelligent—worldly almost. Her costume was made from finer fabric
than most of Olivia’s clothes. Olivia crossed her arms over her
chest and fidgeted with the sleeve of her gown, feeling as if she
didn’t belong.
    “Oh, I see you’re already dressed. I could’ve
provided assistance, miss.” Dale offered a warm, friendly
smile.
    Olivia had never had help dressing. The
notion was novel, if not frivolous. But then, much of everything
she’d seen since arriving at Queen Street might seem frivolous
compared to what she was used to. “That’s quite all right. Thank
you.”
    “Very good. Lady Merriweather has requested
you meet her in the Rose Room.”
    The Rose Room? Olivia had seen precisely
three rooms last night: the entry, her bedchamber, and the dining
room. Four, she supposed, if one counted the dressing room and,
really, how could she not count it? Must she also count the grand
staircase with its gleaming marble and the gallery leading to her
bedchamber with its numerous paintings and sparkling sconces?
    Why was she counting rooms at all? Because
the townhouse made her feel small. Awkward. Insignificant.
    Dale gestured to the doorway. “I’ll show you
the way.” She smiled so pleasantly, so helpfully that Olivia
couldn’t help but relax just a bit.
    Olivia nodded, letting her arms fall to her
sides. A moment lapsed before she understood she ought to precede
Dale. Goodness, this would take getting used to.
    They returned much the way they’d come last
night, but upon reaching the entry made their way to the rear of
the house to a large room with two bow windows overlooking a
manicured garden. Olivia caught sight of roses, herbs, and some
sort of climbing vine before Dale indicated she should go through a
door to the left.
    This had to be the Rose Room. Every bit of
its décor was pink or red or cream in color, and the focal point, a
large