Mesmerized. Candace Camp

glance. “As if Olivia doesn’t know what she’s doing! If Olivia feels that it is all right to attend this house party, then that is all we need to know, isn’t it, Mama?”

      “Quite right, Kyria.” The duchess leveled a stern look at her son. “Reed, dear, Olivia is a grown woman and quite capable of deciding what she should or should not do without having to answer to the men of the family.”

      “Yes, of course, Mother.” Reed sent Kyria a disgruntled glance. “If it were Kyria, of course, I would not say anything.”

      “Liar,” Kyria stuck in.

      “Kyria, don’t be disrespectful,” the duchess told her.

      “But Olivia is not as sophisticated as Kyria,” Reed said.

      “Yes, but I’m not stupid, either,” Olivia flared. “I think I can tell whether a man is a villain or not.”

      She would have liked to tell them that she was going in a professional capacity, not attending a social function, but, mindful of her promise to St. Leger to keep the matter quiet, she felt she could not. She could trust Reed, of course, not to tell anyone, but she wasn’t as sure about the rest of them. They were not gossips, but such social matters held little interest for her mother, and her father was rather vague; there was no surety that they would remember that they were supposed to keep the matter quiet. They would all be likely to talk about it among themselves, too, and servants soaked up the gossip. It would soon be all over town. So she kept quiet. Besides, it was, she thought, rather pleasant to have them think that she was actually the object of a man’s interest.

      “I did not mean that, Livvy,” Reed protested.

      “I’ve never heard they were villains,” Great-uncle Bellard piped up suddenly, surprising them all. They all turned to look at him as he continued. “Old family. Title goes back to Elizabeth, or maybe it was Henry VIII. Unbroken line, I believe. There are a few legends surrounding them. I’m not sure offhand...I think one of them hid King Charles I from the Roundheads. I’ll have to look them up.” He smiled at the prospect of doing some research. “Their ancestral home is something oddly named. Bleak—no, Blackhope! That’s it. Blackhope Hall.”

      “Ooh,” Kyria said, wiggling her eyebrows. “That sounds ominous.”

      “Really, Kyria, you read far too many gothic novels,” the duchess said disapprovingly. “I am sure there is nothing ominous about the place. Old houses frequently acquire the most peculiar names. Isn’t that right, Uncle Bellard?”

      “Oh, yes, indeed,” the old man agreed, nodding happily.

      “Well, I think it sounds romantic,” Kyria said decisively. “You know, the sort of place where one might get swept off one’s feet.”

      “I should hope not!” the duchess exclaimed, and turned to give her youngest daughter a worried look.

      “I am not going to get swept off my feet,” Olivia retorted firmly, casting her sister a dark look. “I promise.”

      “I suppose not,” Kyria admitted with a sigh. “Still, there’s nothing to say you can’t make a conquest. Let’s go to your room after supper and look through your wardrobe. Surely we can find something that Joan can give some spark to.”

      “My wardrobe!” Olivia squeaked. “But why? I don’t want a spark.”

      “Nonsense. Whether you want one or not, you deserve one,” Kyria retorted firmly.

      Olivia suppressed a groan. She had no desire to have Kyria exclaiming in horror over her clothes all evening, but she knew that she hadn’t a hope of stopping her strong-minded sister. She gave in with ill grace, trailing up the stairs after Kyria when the evening meal was over.

      “I don’t see why I can’t wear what I always do,” Olivia complained, even though she knew it was useless.

      Kyria turned and cast an expressive look at Olivia’s plain brown skirt and bodice. “Olivia, this is a party. You can’t go looking as though you are the family governess.”

      “I am not trying to ‘catch’ Lord St. Leger,” Olivia retorted huffily.

      “Then why are you going?”

      Olivia looked into her sister’s clear green gaze, and her own eyes fell. “I—well, that is, Lord St. Leger and I are friends. That is all.”

      “Then it is up to you to change that.” Kyria yanked on the bellpull and, when one of the maids popped in a moment later, sent the girl to fetch Joan, Kyria’s personal maid.

      “I don’t understand why you are always trying to set me up with someone when you yourself are so set against marriage,” Olivia said feelingly.

      “I am not set against marriage,” Kyria told her. For a flickering moment, sadness seemed to shadow her face, then was gone as she said, “It simply isn’t for me, you see.” She went to Olivia’s wardrobe closet and threw open the door, continuing, “But for others, it’s exactly right. Look at Thisbe, for instance. She’s happy as can be with her scientist.”

      “I can’t imagine why you think that I am right for marriage. I have never had the slightest success with men.”

      Kyria looked at her. “Being an accomplished flirt and being a good wife are entirely different things. Trust me. You are exactly the kind of person who makes an excellent wife, someone whose life is completed by having a husband and children. You are sweet and kind and generous, utterly loyal and enormously loving.”

      “But so are you,” Olivia protested.

      Kyria let out a light laugh. “That you think so, my love, is an indication of your sweetness, not mine.”

      Kyria went through Olivia’s clothes, sighing now and then or shaking her head. “Honestly, Livvy, must you always choose such plain things? Where is that shawl I gave you last year?”

      Olivia opened a drawer and pulled it out, caressing it as she handed it to Kyria. It was a beautiful silk shawl, patterned in golds and browns, with brown tassels hanging from it.

      “Now, this will dress up your brown silk,” Kyria told her, draping it over the aforesaid gown.

      “But, Kyria, I won’t be needing anything so—so fancy.”

      “Why not? You will need nicer than this, my dear.”

      “But it will not be a—a festive gathering,” Olivia said. “I—he—we merely have common interests. And it is a small group. His brother, you know, died not long ago.”

      “A year. They are out of mourning by now. I’ve seen the girl at parties—small ones, of course. I suspect there will be a party or two, at least. There always is. And there is supper every evening. You have to dress for that, after all.”

      “Well, yes, I suppose....” Olivia cast a look at the gown and shawl. It warmed her a little to think of wearing them, of looking, well, if not beautiful, at least not drab. After all, this was an occasion where she really did not have to look professional. They were hiding what she was doing under the guise of a house party. She was supposed to look like nothing other than a woman enjoying a social occasion.

      “This gown will do, as well, I think,” Kyria went on, taking out an emerald-green evening gown, “though Joan will have to pull out all this lace in the bodice.”

      “But the neckline will be far too low!” Olivia protested.

      “The neckline will be fashionable,” Kyria countered. “And you have a very nice bosom. It’s time you showed it off a little.”

      Kyria’s maid, Joan, a thin, plain girl with a haughty manner, came into the room. She was, according to Kyria, a jewel, having an excellent sense of color and style and being handy with a needle, as well as possessing a deft hand when it came to arranging one’s hair, and Kyria was much envied by other young women and matrons for having her. However, there was little chance