“Thank you, my lady.”
Olivia didn’t have long to enjoy the sanctuary of her bed before Marcus came striding into the room.
“Wake up,” he said unceremoniously.
While Olivia was contemplating feigning sleep, her brother moved closer.
“I see Sarah has failed in her duties,” he said from directly above her. “I suppose I shall have to dismiss her.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Olivia said as she flung back the covers. She looked around, ready to stop her maid from leaving. But Sarah was already gone.
Marcus smiled. “I could, but I won’t. I just wanted to prove you were awake.”
“Hateful,” she muttered.
“So you say.” He picked up her cup of chocolate and handed it to her. “You had best hurry or we’ll not make the service in time.”
“I have a headache,” she said, trying to convince him to let her stay home.
“Convenient.” He dismissed her imaginary illness without another thought. “Now get out of bed. I shouldn’t have to fight with you as though you were still twelve.”
Olivia pursed her lips. “Fine, I’ll be downstairs shortly.”
“Sarah will return to help you dress,” Marcus said on his way out of the room.
Two hours later, Olivia sat between Marcus and the Marquess of Huntsford on the church pew. If there were a God, surely He was laughing at her now.
Both men barely noticed her presence once the minister began his sermon, but every other eye in the building was firmly fixed on the back of their heads. The congregants were, of course, used to seeing the earl and his sister, but this new visitor was something altogether different. Olivia didn’t have to turn around to know nearly every woman eyed the marquess speculatively. It didn’t help that Lord Huntsford walked in the chapel as though it were something he had been doing every Sunday of his life. His self-confidence and total lack of discomfort were aggravating.
Almost as aggravating as his cheery facade first thing in the morning.
“I trust you rested well,” he had greeted her with a beaming smile once she descended the stairs.
She had inclined her head, but nothing more.
And now, nearly two hours later, she was irrevocably stuck with him. Lord Huntsford was planted firmly on her right, Marcus on her left. Olivia wished she had sat on the aisle, so she wouldn’t feel so confined by the two large men. Not that either of them was aware of her distress.
The congregation stood, singing one last hymn, and Olivia, as usual, only mouthed the words. The marquess’s voice, however, sang loud and true—his clear baritone rising high into the chapel. She tried not to listen to him, tried not to think about how inevitably soon her voice would fill this very space as she pledged herself to Baron Finley as his wife.
It had been years since church had symbolized any sort of refuge for her, but now it seemed to represent the trap she’d fallen into that would bind her for the rest of her life. The very idea made her feel truly ill. So instead of dwelling on the horrible future that awaited her, Olivia devoted her attention to the meticulous counting of panes in the glass windows.
By the twelfth pane, she could barely hear the singers through the suddenly shrill ringing in her ears. The noise was so deafening she almost clapped her hands over her ears to stifle it. Olivia stopped herself when she realized that probably wouldn’t help at all.
At twenty-eight, her stomach roiled, and she forced herself to resist the urge to sit back on the pew.
At fifty-seven, she swayed, luckily catching herself in time before she pitched forward into the people in front of her.
Something was sitting on her chest, cutting off her air sup ply. The pressure was a vise. Her heart beat an irregular rhythm, and Olivia tried to ignore the thump, thump, pound sensation. Her lips were still moving, still attempting to appear as though she were singing, but Olivia doubted anyone, if he were to look closely, would be fooled.
“Are you feeling unwell?” Lord Huntsford leaned over and whispered in her ear.
She shook her head.
He grunted in disbelief, and while she didn’t dare venture a look at his face, she knew he’d look skeptical.
Olivia hardly cared to try and convince him. She was still trying to hold the impending feeling of panic at bay—and was failing miserably.
Lord Huntsford might have still been singing, but Olivia could feel his eyes firmly on her. And when she swayed—just the smallest bit of unnatural movement—his hand reached out to steady her.
“Come with me” was his whispered order. He set down his hymnal and took her by the elbow.
Her protests were irrelevant, and Marcus, so engrossed in his singing, didn’t notice the two of them leaving.
Olivia held her head high as they exited toward the rear of the sanctuary. Her eyes were trained ahead, avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze. She could hear the whispers as she walked by, but the man at her side didn’t seem to mind them, so she supposed she could stand the scrutiny for a few seconds.
Lord Huntsford led her outside, guiding her to a stone bench nestled in the church’s garden.
She resisted the urge to take large, gulping breaths once outside in the fresh air. The gasping would only confirm Lord Huntsford’s suspicions. She couldn’t even thank him for his help without admitting that she’d needed the escape he’d offered.
“Are you unwell?” he asked gently, kneeling beside her.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, but her voice was breathy.
She sank back farther into the bench. Outside the walls of the church, the ache inside began to abate. And now, inhaling deeply the scent of roses and gardenias, her heart wasn’t pounding so fiercely.
“You looked quite ill in there,” he persisted. “Are you certain you’re feeling better?”
“The closed space made it hard to breathe,” she said, hoping he would let the matter rest. Olivia concentrated on the pace of her breathing, trying to steady the gasps so he’d not have any further reason to be suspicious.
“Sometimes I feel that way when I’m hiding, too.” His voice was barely a whisper, and he could easily have been speaking solely to himself.
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” But she tried to offer a smile in gratitude so the words didn’t sound harsh. He was being very conciliatory, after all. And she had the oddest feeling that he did understand. That he sympathized with her struggle and disillusionment. But surely that was just a cruel trick of her imagination, fooling her into believing she wasn’t quite so desperately alone. “Feel free to return inside—I just need a moment.”
“I’ll sit here with you…if you don’t mind,” he added as an afterthought.
But
