Never Mix Sin with Pleasure

by Renee Ann Miller

  One side of Anthony’s mouth lifted into a lopsided grin. She had a feeling he knew exactly why his grandmother was there.

  The old woman turned away and started down the corridor again.

  Anthony winked at Olivia, and her stomach did a slight flip. She turned to follow the dowager.

  “Olivia,” Anthony called after her.

  She pivoted back. “Yes?”

  “I hope you are feeling better today.”

  Better? She’d almost forgotten that she’d told him she had a megrim. Another flash of guilt swept through her. “I am, my lord. Thank you for inquiring.”

  He nodded and returned his attention to the man of affairs.

  When they arrived back in the blue drawing room, the dowager didn’t return to her desk; instead, she lowered herself into the stiff chair she usually sat in. Her brows were pinched as if in deep thought.

  Olivia wanted to say something, but what more could she say? The scene they had just witnessed proved that Lord Anthony was taking his responsibilities seriously.

  The dowager lifted her novel off the chair-side table and opened it to where she’d placed a green ribbon.

  Olivia glanced at the clock. Were they to sit here all day in silence? If so, she wished the woman would allow her to help Anthony. Almost unable to help herself, Olivia cleared her throat.

  The dowager glanced up.

  “Do you intend to receive callers today?”

  “No,” the dowager said, returning her gaze to her book.

  The fact that the dowager wasn’t receiving callers didn’t seem as detrimental to Olivia’s plans as it had when she’d first taken the position, since during meals, the servants had proven to be a plethora of information. It seemed nearly every member of the staff had a relation at another Mayfair household. But sitting in silence with the dowager seemed a waste of time, especially when she could be helping Anthony.

  Was that truly the only reason she wished to go back to his office? She feared not. She had come to enjoy her time with him. Almost cherish it.

  Several minutes later, Olivia tried not to tap her foot, but when the dowager flung her an agitated look, she realized she was strumming her fingers on the armrest of her chair.

  “Madame Renault will be bringing your gowns over shortly to be fitted.” Without glancing up, the dowager flipped another page in her book.

  As Olivia recalled the lovely gowns she would soon call her own, her stomach fluttered as if there were bubbles popping in it. She had never owned such finery. She tried to keep her lips in a straight line, but they tugged upward into a pleased smile.

  “Thank you.” The words slipped out of Olivia’s mouth a bit raspy, as if her voice was dry or rusty from disuse.

  The dowager glanced up; her thin gray brows pinched together as if she didn’t understand the emotions sweeping through Olivia.

  Olivia swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked away the burning in her eyes. Of course, the dowager didn’t understand. She had most likely been born into wealth. Always bought her clothes from a modiste and not secondhand shops or from the carts of used clothes at Petticoat Lane Market. She’d never added an additional piece of fabric to a hem or cuff to hide the frayed edge.

  The elderly woman stroked her finger down the leather binding of her book as if contemplating Olivia’s words. “After the modiste leaves, you might as well go and help my grandson.”

  Olivia didn’t know which she was more excited about: that she would have new gowns or once again be able to spend the afternoon with his lordship.

  Chapter Eighteen

  At the exact moment the mantel timepiece in the drawing room chimed ten o’clock, the butler stepped into the room. “Madame Renault and her assistants are here, Lady Huntington.”

  The dowager nodded her regal head. “Show them in, Menders.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  The gowns are here. Olivia didn’t want to care about such things, but excitement exploded in her stomach.

  No more than five minutes later, the modiste and two other women, whom Olivia remembered from the shop, stepped into the room with dresses draped over their arms, along with several garment boxes.

  Olivia’s gaze settled on the yellow ball gown one of the assistants carried. For a minute, she believed her breath stopped. Even from where she sat, she could see the sheen of the costly fabric and the canary-colored beads sewn into the hem. The cut glass reflected the sun streaming through the tall windows, causing prisms of light to sparkle like stars. It was the type of gown a member of the nobility would wear, not someone of her station. She subdued the urge to bounce out of her chair and run over so she might get a better look.

  Stay seated, you silly fool, or they will think you gauche.

  She glanced at the dowager. There was no expression of awe on the elderly woman’s face. She was used to such finery.

  “Well, stand up,” the dowager said, but the normally sharp tone of her voice was subdued a fraction.

  “Yes, we must see if the gowns need alterations.” Madame Renault fluttered toward Olivia, smiling broadly. “Louisa,” she said to one of her assistants, “we will try on the sapphire taffeta day dress first.”

  “Oui, madame.” The assistant opened one of the sizable white boxes and withdrew the dress.

  Olivia’s breath caught. It had cloth buttons in a lighter shade of blue and ruffles on the cuffs and hem in the same subdued hue. There were several swags and appliquéd roses. Surely this was not a day dress.

  But the modiste smiled as the other woman brought it over, betraying that the gown was indeed meant for her. “Now, we must remove your dress if we are to try this one on. We are all women. Do not be shy.”

  She wasn’t shy, per se. She had spent most of her life undressing in front of other girls. It was more that she didn’t wish to show her undergarments that were more worn than her dress.

  Why should you care? a voice in her head asked. But she did care. She tipped her face downward, averting her eyes from the onlookers, and unfastened the buttons lining the front of her simple cotton dress.

  When she slipped it off, she noticed the modiste examining her yellowed corset and chemise. But the woman said nothing.

  Olivia didn’t dare look at the dowager, for she could just imagine her expression of disgust.

  “Louisa.” The modiste turned to her assistant. “Bring me the new satin corset.”

  The woman nodded, then darted to where she’d set several boxes on a chair, and opened the top one. She withdrew a cream-colored corset with satin ribbons on it.

  So she wouldn’t gasp at the beauty of the garment, Olivia pinched her lips together.

  The modiste begun unfastening Olivia’s corset. “We must take off this one. It does nothing for the line of your breasts, while this one will lift them.” Madame Renault took the new one from Louisa.

  Up close Olivia could see there were small roses embroidered into the fabric. As the modiste secured the clasps, Olivia ran her hand over it. “It looks too pretty to cover up.”

  The modiste grinned. “But we must, mustn’t we?”

  “Of course,” the dowager snapped, thumping her cane as if she wished everyone to know she remained to oversee what was going on.

  Even the woman’s vexed expression could not dampen Olivia’s mood.

  Louisa pulled a pair of silk, opalescent stockings from the same box and handed them to Madame Renault.

  The modiste asked Olivia to sit and instructed her on the proper way to roll them onto one’s legs so the delicate material wouldn’t snag.

  She’d just put them on and stood when the door opened.

  Olivia’s gaze shot to the door, as did everyone else’s.

  Lord Anthony stood on the threshold. His regard traveled over her body then down her silk-clad legs so slowly, one would think they were a mile long. His gaze settled on her face—his warm-colored eyes intense.

  Heat blossomed on her cheeks. The warmth on her face nearly as scorching a
s the sensations shooting through her body.

  “Forgive me,” he said, and closed the door.

  “Is that your husband, madam?” Louisa asked. “He is si beau.”

  “Oui.” The other assistant nodded and blushed.

  She swallowed. “No. That is Lord Anthony. We are not related.” She didn’t dare look at the dowager to see her expression. She could only imagine the appalled look on her face over such a notion.

  * * *

  After the modiste left, Olivia made her way to Anthony’s office. She tried not to fidget with the cuff of her sleeve on the old cotton dress she’d slipped back on, but after being fitted for those lovely gowns, she felt like a pauper in her navy day dress.

  “Just a few alterations, and I will deliver them back to you,” the modiste had assured.

  Perhaps her anxiousness was not solely due to that. While being fitted for the gowns, she couldn’t stop thinking of Anthony’s heated gaze as he’d perused her body. The intensity in his regard had left her stomach fluttering. No man had ever looked at her like that—as if she were as stunning as his last mistress, Signora Campari.

  While he’d taken her in, standing there in that lovely corset and silk stockings, she’d not even felt the desire to cover herself up. No. His hot regard had felt like a warm blanket on a cool autumn night. Comforting.

  Ha! Comforting was a benign word for what she’d experienced. Lust. Desire. Want. All were better suited.

  She smoothed her chignon with her restless hand and stepped into the office.

  Anthony glanced up and stood, while motioning to her chair across from his. “Forgive me, Olivia, for intruding earlier. I was unaware that the modiste had arrived.”

  “Understandable, my lord.”

  She glanced at Atticus. The bird was sleeping.

  Anthony folded his tall frame into the chair. “I need to dictate a letter to you.”

  As she sat, she searched his countenance for the hungry look she’d witnessed in his eyes earlier. Maybe she’d imagined it. She removed a piece of paper, picked up one of the self-feeding pens, and waited for him to begin.

  Silence.

  She glanced up, and there it was. An unguarded look. One that seemed to say something. Convey some emotion. A frisson moved through her, causing the delicate hairs on her nape to stand up. A sense of jubilance shifted through her, like the elation she experienced after returning from one of her midnight rendezvous over the roofs of Mayfair.

  No. It was more fulfilling.

  As if realizing he was staring, he blinked, like one pulled from deep thought by the intrusion of a cough. “Are you pleased with your new gowns?”

  Pleased? The word was too tame to describe her feelings. “They are beyond lovely. Madame Renault has to make some alterations but will have them delivered in a few days.”

  His gaze remained on her for a long moment. Was he thinking of how her body had looked in those garments? Did he know how much she’d thought of him after he’d left the room?

  She glanced at the fraying cuff of her sleeve. Why did she continue to torture herself with wild thoughts of this man whose station far exceeded hers?

  Plus, she wasn’t what he thought. He believed her sweet. He believed her innocent. What would he say if he knew the truth? That he harbored the thief known as the Phantom? The thief who stole from members of his class. When he’d talked about Lord Hamby and how he’d won the parrot from the man, Anthony’s expression had clearly revealed his disgust for his lordship, but that would not mean he would approve of her actions—that she’d robbed the man.

  “I’m glad you are pleased,” he said, pulling her from her thoughts. He picked up a letter from the pile on his desk. “I need to send a letter to Mr. Warren regarding the work Mr. Armstrong is doing.”

  She knew both men’s names. Mr. Warren was the land steward at the family’s Essex estate. And she’d seen several invoices with Mr. Armstrong’s name. Not for Victory Pens, but for repairs to the tenant farms at their country home.

  As Anthony dictated, he stood and roamed around the room. His long fingers picked up a paperweight from his desk, and he tossed it from one hand to the other.

  He appeared so serious. Different than the scapegrace she’d met in front of Madame Lefleur’s dress shop. Like most days when he worked in the office, he’d discarded his coat and rolled up his sleeves to a point just below his elbows. As he shifted the heavy weight back and forth, the muscles in his forearms flexed.

  She swallowed and forced her gaze back to her dictation.

  “Add the same valediction as the last business correspondence.” He turned around, facing her once again.

  She nodded and walked around the desk to set the letter on his blotter so he could approve it at his leisure. His muffled footfalls on the thick carpet revealed he’d stepped behind her. The masculine scent of his shaving soap wafted to her nose and the heat of his body radiated over her back.

  “Excellent,” he said. His breath ghosting across the back of her ear, exposed by the way she’d styled her chignon.

  If she turned around their faces would be close.

  Don’t do it, the sensible voice in her head warned.

  Go on, you want to, the less circumspect part of her urged. She turned, bringing their mouths into proximity.

  Only a few inches separated them. His minty breath touched her lips. He shifted fractionally closer.

  Her heartbeat ratcheted up.

  She recognized the look in his eyes. It was the same heated look she’d witnessed earlier in the drawing room. If it wasn’t one of desire, then she was a misguided fool. She held up the pen in her hand. “It’s ready for your signature.”

  “I see.” His voice sounded deeper, raspier.

  Not moving back, not taking his gaze from her face, he took the pen from her. Their fingers brushed.

  The contact, so simple, so benign, should not have caused the tingles that moved from the point of contact to shift through her whole body, even reaching her toes.

  “Are you trying to tempt me, Olivia?”

  “No,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper. But she knew it for the lie it was. The look in his eyes said he knew it as well.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “No. Not in the least.”

  She thought his mouth might quirk up into that smile he usually flashed at her, but his expression remained steady. Intense.

  His body shifted closer as if pulled by gravity. As if she were the moon and he the ocean. The scant air between them evaporated, leaving the warmth of his chest pressing into her shoulder, yet he still did not lift his hands to touch her.

  Was he waiting for her to make the first move? Without thought, she turned more completely toward him and skimmed her hands over his chest, slowly, allowing her mind to memorize the contours of his body beneath it.

  His eyes drifted closed, then opened again. “This isn’t a very wise move on either of our parts.”

  The ability to stop the desire rushing through her seemed a monumental task, but Anthony was right. She started to shift backward, but his hand skimmed up her arm, halting her movement.

  And she knew without a doubt what he was about to do.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I want to kiss you, Olivia,” Anthony said.

  Anticipation caused a delicious warmth to travel through Olivia’s body. She wanted that as well. Desperately. But forming the words proved difficult. Instead she tipped her face up to his and shifted her right hand until it rested directly above his heart. The rhythm not only excited her but brought a sense of comfort.

  Why? She didn’t know. Perhaps because her life at the orphanage had been fraught with uncertainty and her recent actions only added to the sense that she was dangling from a loosely tethered rope. She wasn’t sure where she belonged. A feeling of limbo followed her no matter where she was. She felt present but distant. But being close to Anthony seemed to chase away her fears and demons, leaving her experiencing a sen
se of home. A sense of belonging.

  Foolish, woman, she scolded herself. It was beyond reckless to think such thoughts. Cruel to disillusion oneself with thoughts of them attaining anything more than an exploration of the desire that sparked between them. They lived in different worlds.

  Nothing can come of this, the rational voice in her head whispered, but her body was already falling too deep into a state of want to heed the niggling.

  His intense gaze dipped to her lips. Slowly, as if unsure if she would bolt like a scared rabbit, he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Anticipation swirled through her. She let her eyes drift closed and centered every bit of her mind on the feel of his warm lips brushing against hers. Light. Delicious. Teasing.

  He made a noise—a growl of sorts—and the contact shifted. Became stronger.

  She kissed him back. Answering with the same hunger he gave. Answering the inner desire that clawed at her like a caged animal who wished to be released from the confines that held it.

  Anthony’s hand shifted to her waist, skimmed upward, leaving an indelible warmth and pressure in its path. His lips parted, causing hers to do the same. Their breaths mingled, then his tongue touched hers.

  She stroked her tongue against his. The sensation was pure carnal delight.

  He pulled her body tighter to his.

  Olivia moaned—a noise of pleasure. Contentment.

  His hands slid to her bum, lifting her slightly. Enough for her to feel the hard length under his trousers. She should think it wicked. She should pull back, but her own physical response to the contact was like a potent elixir, possessing the ability to leave her head a bit foggy. Like the feeling when you first wake up—when your body and mind lay somewhere between sleep and consciousness. Unburdened. When the weight of the day ahead is distant, and your limbs are almost weightless. That was what kissing Anthony was like. Yet, all her senses seemed fine-tuned to the feel of his lips, along with the pressure of his large hands. It was as if they were waking her body with every movement. She could even feel the tips of his fingers as they glided up and over her ribs.

  If his one hand didn’t stop it would soon find her breast. Was that where he wished to touch her?