Page 16 of Anastasia and the Duke
"Your Grace," if Miss Blackmore was startled, she did not show it. Instead, she smiled politely and levelled him a coolly indifferent green-eyed stare. It was far more reserved than the gazes she had sent Captain Edgeworth's way earlier, and Oliver's inner beast roared with annoyance.
"Miss Hannah Blackmore," she added, with a dipped curtsey, her eyes searching over his shoulder for her means of escape.
Oliver stiffened with irritation; a woman had never visibly been so displeased to be in his company. Clearly, the woman was aware that he was onto her ruse, he thought, bolstering his dented ego. Her indifference had nothing to do with him...
"I hear you have found yourself quite the cosy position," Oliver continued, allowing a slight note of derision to mar his tone.
Miss Blackmore frowned, once again turning her green eyes towards him, though this time they were narrowed in dislike.
Oliver felt momentarily discombobulated, as their eyes connected. A shiver ran down his spine, and he was once again put to mind of the thief whom he had kissed. Was it possible it was her?
Ridiculous, Oliver, chastised himself; no one could be so brazen.
Despite his suspicion of Miss Blackmore, Oliver could not help but be dazzled by her. The dowdy dress she wore could not hide her sumptuous figure, her lips were plump and inviting, and, up close, her hair was a delightful mix of burnished bronze and gold underneath the lamplight.
Given the opportunity, he realised, he would very much like to run his hands through it, to feel its silky touch.
"Lady Lansdowne has been most kind to me, your Grace," Miss Blackmore finally replied, turning her gaze away from him toward the countess. Her expression turned soft--almost affectionate--as she watched Lady Lansdowne battle with Lord Picklehurst. Though the act appeared to be unconscious, Oliver was not about to fall for the tricks of an actress. Miss Blackmore might have fooled his grandmother, but she was not about to fool him.
"I'm sure she has," Oliver kept his voice low, "She is a very kind woman, who has suffered greatly. If I find out that she has been exploited in anyway, my dear, you shall have me to answer to."
His threat hung heavily in the air for a moment, as Miss Blackmore flushed with indignation.
Her lips parted to offer a response, but before she could speak, she was interrupted by the return of Lady Lansdowne, who had managed to extricate herself from Lord Picklehurst's attentions.
"I shall need a bath after that," Lady Lansdowne shuddered theatrically, before looping her arm through Miss Blackmore's, "Come, Hannah, it is time to depart. Though you might have to roll me out to the carriage after that fine fare. Hawkfield; please offer your grandmother my thanks--I hope we shall see you again soon."
"Oh, you shall," Oliver answered, though his eyes were on Miss Blackmore. She would be seeing a lot more of him than she desired, he would make sure of it.
Chapter Five
Waking up in number thirty-three Grosvenor Square was like waking up in a dream, Hannah thought, as she blearily blinked her eyes open.
The room, decorated in shades of pink, was warm and toasty, for an unseen chamber-maid had already been in to set a fire in the grate. The lush velvet drapes, which hid the morning from sight, kept out any draughts which might disturb the room's occupant. Not that the windows allowed a draught in; unlike in Hannah's own room in Henrietta St, the glass panes here were fully intact, with no need for wadded up newspapers to plug holes and cracks.
From the hallway outside, Hannah could hear the sound of servants bustling to-and-fro, as they began their preparations for the day. She stretched out her arms in a yawn, reluctant to leave the comfort of her feather mattress.
There was no rush to get up; Lady Lansdowne kept town hours--that is she rose late in the morning--and Hannah need not stir until she did.
Still, old habits were long to linger, and after a quarter hour luxuriating in the four-poster bed, Hannah became restless.
Doing nothing did not come naturally to her.
She washed quickly, using the water from the basin upon the wash-stand, before dressing into one of the sombre gowns that Nancy had packed for her. She then brushed her hair and tied it into as neat a bun as she could manage, before covering the offending sight with a mob-cap.
There, she thought with satisfaction, as she surveyed her reflection in the mirror; she looked every inch the dull, respectable miss.
It had been a week since Hannah had arrived at Lady Lansdowne's home, clutching a batteredportmanteauand feeling nervous. Her nerves had quickly subsided as she had realised that not only would the countess fall for Sidney's plan, but that she would do so with ease.
During their first meeting, instead of Hannah trying to convince Lady Lansdowne that she was the long-lost Anastasia, it was the countess who had spent the morning trying to convinceher. The coincidences were too many for it not to be possible, Lady Lansdowne had insisted, while Hannah had nodded vaguely in return.
After a few quick questions about her early years in France, which Hannah honestly informed her she could not recall, the countess had brought Hannah to the entrance hall, where she had shown her a portrait of her dear Giselle.
And for the first time, Hannah had understood why Sidney had been so certain that the plan would work; the resemblance between Hannah and the latecomtessewas uncanny. Had Hannah been more fanciful, she might have believed the whole ruse herself. But the shame at what Sidney had once hinted--that Hannah was base-born, and worse besides--had not allowed her to indulge such a fantasy.
"Can you see it?" Lady Lansdowne had whispered, glancing between Hannah and the portrait, "The resemblance? Tell me, what did you feel when you looked at it?"
The true answer, that Hannah had felt as though she was falling through an abyss of loneliness and grief at her base origins, had not been the most fitting, given the excitement which the countess had radiated.
