The Makings Of A Lady. Catherine Tinley

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