Chapter 130
Along the Current
Olivia opened her eyes.
Soft sunlight slipped through her fluttering lashes.
It felt as though she had dreamed. As though she had cried until her chest ached—but perhaps even that had only been a dream. Her mind was hazy.
After a sleepless night, Olivia had only dozed off briefly after dawn broke.
When she lay down on the bed that still carried his lingering presence, unwanted memories surged up like an overflowing river.
Olivia Blanchet’s moans of ecstasy and Johann’s ragged breathing shook her in the darkness.
If it’s love only now… then is that not love at all?
Over the blazing memory of their lovemaking, the man’s whisper bled through—his sighs bursting as though right at her ear, tangled with heat and climax.
In the end, Olivia had slipped out of bed and fallen asleep on the sofa, sleeping in late. It was the beginning of a day heavy with fatigue, as if she had stayed up all night.
“Madam.”
Along with a knock came an unfamiliar form of address. Hearing the housekeeper’s voice, Olivia quickly straightened the bedding and moved back to the bed before replying calmly.
“Come in, Bessie.”
The door opened. The housekeeper entered with Anne and a young maid.
While Anne set down a cup of strong coffee on the table, the other maid placed a tray stacked high with letters beside it.
Olivia’s eyes widened.
It was clear that the salons of Raiden’s high society were fiercely competing to invite her to their tea parties.
“This is a letter from the royal palace.”
The housekeeper presented one letter separately. It bore the crimson seal of the Rondois royal family—the sender was Princess Irene, the crown princess-to-be.
“And this afternoon, someone from the dressmaker’s is expected.”
“The dressmaker?”
“The master has ordered all of Madam’s previous dresses to be disposed of.”
“Ah…”
Olivia sighed softly. It was clear he had been conscious of Diane Brook.
“And here.”
The housekeeper respectfully held out a velvet purple box.
Olivia slowly opened it. A golden key, carved at the top in the shape of a lily, gleamed in the sunlight.
It was the token of the lady of the house, which Diane Brook had once held in custody.
The pink diamond necklace.
She had all but forgotten its existence, until now.
After dismissing the maids, Olivia opened a trunk with Anne.
Anne carefully snipped the stitches in the lining with small scissors.
At last, beneath the brown cloth, a smooth leather case appeared.
Taking a deep breath, Olivia slowly opened it. Despite the arduous journey from Greythill, the necklace still shone brilliantly in pale pink light.
It was a relief it had returned safely.
Life as the mistress of Greythill kept Olivia busy.
It let her forget her troubling thoughts for a while.
But whenever she faced Johann, her memories inevitably seized her again.
When night fell over Greythill, Olivia found herself unconsciously watching the bedroom door.
And whenever she realized the footsteps echoing in the hallway were just passing by—mere meaningless steps—her chest loosened with a sigh of relief… or was it something else?
Thus a week passed in Greythill.
One day, the household accounts and overall management of Greythill, formerly handled by the steward, were handed over to Olivia.
Checking the ledgers, reviewing expenditures, and processing the servants’ wages posed no great challenge.
But there was another problem.
“These are today’s letters.”
The ever-growing pile of invitations was overwhelming. She knew none of these people truly wished for her friendship.
Replying with polite refusals was exhausting.
“If you wish to arrive in good time, Madam, you must begin preparing now.”
The housekeeper respectfully reminded her of the hour.
Only after writing twenty-three perfunctory replies could Olivia finally begin preparing for her outing.
The duchess of Leopold’s first public appearance in Raiden since her return would be at the tea party hosted by the crown princess-to-be. All of society’s eyes were fixed on the Rondois palace.
Since Olivia knew little of Rondois fashion, Princess Irene had sent her a letter with personal advice for her outfit: Splendid, but with dignity. That was the final emphasis.
Together with the designer, Olivia carefully chose a dress and jewels that matched the princess’s guidance.
The wine-colored taffeta gown overlaid with black lace, paired with a black hat adorned with gray pearls, seemed bewitching even to her own eyes.
After gazing at them a moment, Olivia began to change.
“The tea party is at 2 p.m. Here is the guest list.”
Maurice laid down a sheet of paper he had struggled to obtain before Johann.
Life after reconciliation was much the same as after divorce—Johann still received reports of his wife’s every movement.
Yet, far from basking in newfound happiness, Johann only grew more gaunt with each day.
After another sleepless night, he rubbed his heavy eyes and skimmed the list with a narrow gaze.
His gray eyes, drifting downward, stopped at one name. The expressionless line of his brow creased slowly.
Chase Andrew MacLean.
Johann’s gaze sank darkly into that name.
If Olivia Blanchet had debuted earlier, Miss Sarah would have been second place.
The unpleasant voice from the Doherty Club echoed in his mind. That man with the red curly hair—grandnephew of the late Queen Brit of Britain, cousin to Anneblin.
Whether by coincidence or design, it boded ill.
Just as Olivia finished dressing for the tea party, commotion stirred through the mansion. The housekeeper signaled the maid adjusting her gown’s hem to go check.
Before she could leave, a knock sounded.
“Come in,” called the housekeeper.
The steward hurried inside.
“The master has returned.”
He announced Johann’s early return.
“At this hour?”
Startled, Olivia checked the clock. It was only one o’clock.
“He seems unwell.”
“Is it serious?”
“According to Mr. Maurice, his condition has worsened suddenly, Madam.”
If she left now, she would just make it to the palace tea party.
But unlike the quiet tea they had shared in Litton, this was an official affair.
How sick was he, truly?
Hesitating, Olivia finally turned toward Johann’s rooms. Her footsteps quickened down the corridor until she stood before his door.
She knocked softly. Maurice opened it.
“He just fell asleep.”
Olivia nodded slightly and entered.
Johann lay straight upon the bed. His unconscious form and shallow breathing overlapped in her mind with the image of him in Litton’s sickroom.
Her heart sank.
“Why all of a sudden?”
“A man who should be hospitalized has been overexerting himself. It’s all my fault.”
Olivia gazed down at him silently.
His face, which she had avoided looking at closely, was sharp and gaunt from the weight he had lost.
“No. That isn’t your fault, Maurice. Don’t blame yourself.”
Instead, it was Olivia who felt a pang. After all, wasn’t his injury because of her? And she had been the one who had mercilessly driven him from her bed.
After watching Johann a while, Olivia returned to her study and sat at her desk.
She would have to write a letter declining the invitation she had accepted.
Night fell over Greythill.
Johann still had not awakened.
Olivia remained at his side throughout. Even in the dim light, the shadows on his sculpted features held her gaze.
Unconsciously, her hand reached out. Her fingertips hovered over his smooth cheek.
Don’t waver.
Olivia withdrew her hand. But in that instant, her wrist was seized.
Johann’s grip tightened, pulling her toward him. She stumbled onto the bed. Their eyes met instantly.
“You won’t forgive me, but you worry for me anyway?”
He pulled her closer still, his voice low.
Even feverish, his grip on her wrist was firm.
“…”
Olivia stared blankly down at him.
She had worried for this man. She had wanted to see him. She could no longer deny her feelings as she faced him now.
His crushing grip gradually softened. His fingers trailed up her wrist…
The large hand that brushed her cheek slid to cradle her nape, his warmth seeping into her skin.
His fingertips pressed gently below her ear, where her pulse throbbed sharply.
“Or did you come to forgive me?”
Johann’s lips curved faintly. Moonlight spilling into the shadowed chamber traced his smile.
Olivia did not turn away from the gray light of his eyes. Smiling, his hand slipped through her hair and cradled the back of her head.
He applied the faintest pressure. It was strength she could easily resist—if she wanted to. Yet she did not.
Their lips met.
Her grandmother had always said one cannot survive by drifting with the current. To live, one must swim against the flow.
But perhaps, just this once, it was all right to follow the water’s course.
His deepened gaze pierced her as their lips parted slightly.
Johann kissed her again.
This time, carried along by the current, Olivia tilted her head and parted her lips softly.
