Nic shrugged indifferently. “Sometimes it helps to change the saddle, but I expect you’re right.”
He was sorry for it as soon as he’d said it—it felt like a betrayal of his newfound happiness—but Querrol was such a rumormonger, it was better to play the familiar game. And then Olivia appeared at his side, as calm and serene as ever, accepting Querrol’s compliments and saying all the right things.
Nic presumed she hadn’t heard his less than flattering comment, but as they moved away she disillusioned him.
“Is that how you see me, Nic? A mare?” Her voice was quiet and low.
“You weren’t meant to hear that,” he replied, equally subdued. “I’m sorry that you did.”
“Why are you sorry? Because it’s true?”
“No, it isn’t true!”
His raised tones caused a momentary ripple in the crowd around them, as though someone had dropped a stone into a pond.
“Should I believe you?” she said, her blue eyes clear and bright.
Now was the time to tell her he loved her.
“Olivia—” But as Nic drew her closer, bending his head to do so, they were interrupted in the worst possible way.
“Nic, how delightful. It has been an absolute age.”
He looked up, only just biting back a curse, as he met the calculating gaze of Miriam Cathcart. Her face was harder than he remembered, but she had the same big brown eyes and high cheekbones. She was wearing yellow, a sunbeam among the whites and pinks so prevalent this season, but neither she nor her dress was nearly as gorgeous as Olivia.
“Miriam. The pleasure is mine. May I introduce my wife, Olivia? Olivia, this is Mrs. Cathcart, an old friend of an old friend.”
Olivia did not hesitate. She really was amazing at slipping on her polite mask; he’d never have known what she was feeling if he didn’t know her so well, and understand her better than he understood any other human being. And what was she feeling? Nic knew that she was feeling hurt and betrayed and vulnerable, and it was all his fault.
“What a splendid dress, Lady Lacey,” Miriam declared, her avaricious gaze lingering. “May I ask who made it for you? I thought I knew the names of all the best modistes in London…”
“Madam Esmeralda made it. I was so pleased that I have ordered several more.”
Miriam stared at her a moment, and then gave a titter, lifting her fan to hide her mouth. “Oh, Lady Lacey,” she said, full of malice, “I’m surprised your husband hasn’t told you.” And she gave Nic a sideways glance for good measure. “Madam Esmeralda is a dressmaker to the demimonde. No respectable woman will go to her. If I were you, I would cancel your order immediately.”
Olivia’s calm smile didn’t even falter, as Nic couldn’t help but wonder if she had been preparing for this moment. “Well, now I understand, Mrs. Cathcart,” she said.
“Understand what?” Miriam asked.
“Why she knew you,” Olivia said.
Nic gave a snort of laughter before he could stop himself, and received a glittering look from Miriam Cathcart and a bland one from Olivia. But Olivia hadn’t finished with her yet.
“Besides, I’m not interested in Esmeralda’s past. She is a marvelous dressmaker, and that is all I care about. I am fussy when it comes to my clothing, Mrs. Cathcart. It is most annoying to find you are wearing a poorly sewn garment at the very moment when you want to look your best.” She smiled, but as she turned away, her gaze slid over Miriam’s yellow dress in a meaningful way.
Miriam went an unpleasant shade of red. “Well!” she huffed. “You should explain to your wife who I am,” she informed Nic angrily. “From what I’ve heard about the circumstances of your marriage, she has no right to set herself higher than me.”
Nic’s smile faded. “Why not, Miriam? My wife is worth a hundred of you.”
“You didn’t think that once,” she pouted.
“I was a child then, Miriam,” he said wearily. “Now I’m a man.”
“Then perhaps we should have supper together.” She let her gaze slide down over his tall, lean body, her brown eyes inviting. “You can show me how much of a man you are.”
Nic smiled. “I don’t think so, Miriam. Whatever we had is long past. Good-bye.”
And he walked away, following Olivia.