He reached out and touched her wrist, where a strip of bare flesh lay between the hem of her sleeve and the fastening of her glove. Her skin was warm and soft, and a tingle ran all the way up his arm. Vivianna seemed to feel it, too. She gasped and turned to him with wide, startled eyes.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Making you shiver.”
He lifted her wrist—she did not resist. Bending his head, he placed a light kiss upon the inside of it, where the blue veins ran close to the skin, and appeared so fragile. He smiled to think that Vivianna should seem fragile, and his mouth opened against her flesh, tasting her.
“Oh.”
He looked up at her through his lashes, and now there was more than just a tingle between them. Her eyes had darkened, her lips were parted, and there was a faint flush along her cheekbones.
“Stop it,” she said in a strangled whisper.
“Why? You are enjoying it, aren’t you?”
“That isn’t the point—”
Oliver tried to see past her hazel eyes. As well as the green and brown there were flecks of gold. Her pupils were large and black, and he could see his own reflection there. She blinked, her lashes sweeping down.
“There are more important matters to discuss,” she said primly.
Were women all so irrational, or was it just her? One moment she didn’t seem to care how far he went, and the next she was untouchable. Oliver shrugged and slumped back into his corner. She could please herself, he didn’t want to be here anyway, and once he had visited the bloody shelter he could go home to his own “more important matters.” Lord Lawson, for instance. What would his brother’s murderer do next? Lawson could never be underestimated. No, Oliver really didn’t have time for Vivianna Greentree and her orphans….
Gradually he became aware of a rustling sound coming from Vivianna’s side of the coach. He glanced curiously in her direction and saw that she had taken a piece of correspondence from her bag and was reading it, holding it close to her eyes in the swaying vehicle. His gaze slid over her, observing her tense shoulders and the pulse jumping under the fragile skin at her neck, and he wondered what it was she was reading that made her so edgy. She was delightful, but he couldn’t let her know he felt that way. She was insufferable enough as it was.
“A note from some grateful and worthy charity?” he drawled sardonically.
She sniffed, and stuffed the paper back into her bag, not caring if she creased it. But she did not seem herself, and the tension had not left her shoulders. Oliver’s gaze sharpened. She knew he was watching her, but she did not return his gaze. Her breasts rose and fell on a deep, quiet breath, and the red shawl slipped from her shoulders and pooled about her on the seat.
“Have I displeased you in some way, Vivianna?” he mocked, trying to invoke her temper. “I can’t help it if I have a weakness for beautiful, bossy reformers. Perhaps if you were to let me kiss you more often I might begin to recover from this most worrying malady.”
He was enjoying teasing her. At any moment he expected her to give him a look from those brilliant eyes, or unleash her tongue on him, and he was looking forward to it. Instead she did something utterly astounding.
Vivianna glanced down and smiled a small, secretive smile, and smoothed her hands down over her skirts.
But it wasn’t the same as when she had smoothed her skirts a moment ago. This was different, so different that it made his heart rate double. She ran her hands over the silk in a manner so sensual that he forgot to breathe. Her gloves glided over the shiny cloth slowly, and he could tell she was thinking about her body underneath. One hand rested momentarily at her waist, and then brushed upward, her fingers barely touching the tight boned bodice, brushing across the full curve of one breast, and lingering there. Almost, but not quite, cupping herself.
He felt light-headed. Her fingers began stroking idly against her skin, as if she were enjoying it too much to stop, and his imagination went wild, and then she lifted her hand to her face and fiddled with a curl of hair that had freed itself from beneath the straw hat.
She was watching him, her hazel eyes fixed on his. Could she see the state he was in? Probably. If she dropped her gaze to his groin she’d realize he was almost beyond thought, unless she was too innocent to know what the heavy swelling pressing to his trouser buttons meant.
Oliver let out a relieved breath. But of course. She was an innocent—a spinster and a virgin. She did not know what she was doing, she did not understand how he was…
Vivianna licked her lips. Just a brief flick of that delectable little tongue, and then again, as if she had some particularly sticky toffee adhering to the plump, sleek surface.
It was amazingly erotic. He almost groaned aloud, and he was certain that his cock grew another inch. Two, maybe.
“Oliver,” she said, her voice low, and leaned forward slightly. His eyes slid to the shadow of her cleavage, and he was so busy enjoying the curves of her breasts swelling over the top of her dress that when her hand pressed his knee he swore and nearly leapt through the window.
Vivianna jerked back, blushing. “I—I’m sorry,” she managed stiffly. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I wanted to say how grateful I—I was that you had agreed to come with me to Candlewood. How much I—I appreciate it.”
Oliver wondered if he had heard right. It crossed his mind to puzzle what had had this amazing effect upon her, but then she was licking her lips again and he found he couldn’t think straight anymore, and he really didn’t care anyway.
“You appreciate it?” he asked, watching her through narrowed eyes. His blood was pulsing through his veins and he had the urge to loosen his cravat so that he could breathe properly again.
“Oh, I do. I do.” She smiled, her mouth curved in a pink bow, her eyes slanted and mysterious, promising him…things.
Bloody hell!
She wriggled a little in her seat, and he felt a bead of sweat gather on his temple, picturing that curvaceous bottom beneath her petticoats, and then she pouted as if she could not get comfortable. Vivianna reached up and began to undo the red satin ribbons that held her straw bonnet in place. It slid down from her chestnut hair, slowly over her back, the ribbons trailing across her breasts. She placed her bonnet on the seat beside her.
“That’s better,” she said.
Today she had coiled those thick, wavy locks into braids and wound them around her head. His fingers itched to unwind her hair and rub his face against the silky strands. To take in her womanly scent.
He was watching her, he realized, with a mixture of fascination and suspicion. She could be a viper ready to strike, but although somewhere deep in his brain he knew the danger, he lusted after her too much to care.
Oliver watched, his body rigid, his throat dry, as she leaned forward again and slowly, carefully, began to remove her gloves in front of his unblinking gaze. She peeled them down and eased out each finger with exquisite care. Such a simple procedure—he had seen it hundreds of times—and yet she turned it into something so sensual, so stimulating he was nearly panting.
Vivianna had placed the gloves upon her straw hat, smoothing them, petting them, as if they were alive.
“Ah, that’s better,” she said again.
He cleared his throat. “Much better,” he drawled, but she wasn’t fooled. There was a glitter in her eyes now that told him she knew she had him in the palm of one of her soft, white hands.
“I believe that when you are not playing the black sheep you are a very nice man. I believe that, deep in your heart, you really want to give me Candlewood. Don’t you?”
He laughed; he couldn’t help it.
Chagrin filled her face and she turned away, but this time he wasn’t having it. His hands snaked out and he grasped her fingers and held them tightly.
“I am not a nice man at all,” he said in a low, husky voice. “I am a very bad man, and I give you fair warning.”
“If you were a ‘very bad man’ you
wouldn’t give me a warning, fair or otherwise,” she retorted, her hazel eyes a little bright as she tugged against his grip. “Let me go!”
“I don’t think so.”
And Oliver did what he had been wanting to do ever since she climbed into his coach. Claimed her mouth.
For a moment she was still, too surprised to protest, and then her lips seemed to melt against his, all trembling and soft and eager. He refused to let reason enter his head, and deepened the kiss.
Her mouth was sweet, warm, and willing. She was heavy against him, and he realized that she had tumbled forward into his arms, and all he had to do was hold on to her as he moved back, and she would be in his lap. He burrowed his nose into her neck, breathing in the scent of her, feeling that pulse, and then gently tugged her earlobe with his teeth. She gave a little shriek, and then groaned as his mouth nibbled its way across her cheek to her mouth again. Her hands clung to his shoulders, gripping the dark cloth as if she would never let him go.
He slid his arm around the curve of her waist and cupped her breast in his palm, or what he could feel of her breast beneath her undergarments. Often he found the lacings and fastenings of such garments tantalizing and erotic, but not today. Today they were simply in the way of what he really wanted.
His skin against hers.
She wriggled against him, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing as he. He paused a moment in his kisses to lean back and gaze into her face. Her mouth was reddened and swollen, her eyes glittering and half closed, and she was breathing quickly. Whatever game she had been playing with him a moment ago, he did not believe she was pretending now. There was true passion in Vivianna, and not just for her orphans. This was passion for the pleasure to be had between him and her.
He wanted to claim her, to possess her body with his. But more than that—he wanted her heart and soul. He wanted the essence that was Vivianna Greentree, although he didn’t know what he would do once he had it. The realization was so strange and dangerous that a voice in his head spoke a warning.
Oliver knew he should stop—Anthony would have told him to stop. A true gentleman would stop. But, just as he had almost convinced himself that he was still a gentleman and here was his chance to show his better side, Vivianna spoiled it.
She licked her lips again.
With a groan, Oliver bent again to kiss her, pulling her against his chest so that as much of her was touching him as was possible. He didn’t care she might feel how aroused he was, the hard length of him straining against his trousers. He wanted her to know. Oliver reached down and caught the folds of her skirts, drawing them up until his hand touched her petticoats and then, blissfully, the stuff of her stocking. Fingers sliding up, he found ribbons, and then the plain calico of her drawers. He edged his fingers beneath the loose cloth and, at last, touched bare flesh. Soft and warm. Trembling, he caressed the curve of her knee.
In Oliver’s experience this was often the moment when women drew back. They might kiss and touch, but if a man put his hand beneath their skirts, on bare flesh, the game was up.
He waited for Vivianna to pull away.
She was combing her fingers through his hair. Her mouth was against his jaw, his throat, nibbling above his cravat.
His fingers slid higher, caressing, enjoying the tender flesh of her thigh. Now she would tell him to stop, he thought, panting. Now she would slap him, and berate him, and…
Vivianna gasped and her head dropped back, her throat stretched out to his mouth, as if her strength had deserted her. He made her a necklace of kisses, and then pressed his face into the swell of her breasts through the cloth of her bodice. She held his head and kept him there, her chest rising and falling violently, as if she couldn’t find enough air in the close confines of the coach, or her corset.
His hand stroked against her hip, beneath her skirts, and then he pressed his palm to her soft belly. She didn’t stop him, and his head was light as air. There was an opening running from the front to the back of the drawers, between her legs. Oliver took advantage of it now. His fingers slipped within and found warm, soft curls.
Vivianna went still.
Oh God, please don’t let her stop me now…not now….
Shaking, his fingers tentatively trailed through her silky hair, and found that warm, female opening. She was hot and moist—just like her mouth after all. He stroked her.
Vivianna moaned, a soft sound of absolute surprise and absolute pleasure. It was then that Oliver realized she wasn’t going to stop him. In fact, she had stilled because she was concentrating so hard on what he was doing to her. Lost in the touch and feel of him, as he was in her.
Boldly, lovingly, he stroked her again, trembling as much as she. She moved against him, opening to him. He felt her warm breath against his temple, and lifted his face blindly for her mouth. She found him, her tongue hot against his. Somehow his seduction of her had become something far more. He felt, almost, as if she were seducing him.
“Don’t stop,” she gasped.
He laughed.
“Is this what women are meant to feel?” she asked. “All women?”
“Yes. Although sometimes they deny it, or deny themselves….”
“You mean because they are respectable wives and daughters? I do not believe it is only courtesans who feel this way. All women are made equally, surely, and—”
He groaned, and kissed her to stop her damned talking. Her hands were fastened upon his shoulders, and she moved against his fingers, without shame, without embarrassment, completely lost in sensation. Oliver could feel her weeping against his hand, her body urging him on. He needed no urging. He had never felt anything more exquisite. Her breath was coming quickly now, and he stroked harder, leaning back so that he could watch her face. There was something very erotic in watching Vivianna come to her peak. Or perhaps it was the arrogant conquering male in him that made him want to celebrate his victory.
Her eyelids fluttered shut, her lips were slightly parted, her cheeks bloomed with the flush of sexual desire. She rocked against him, faster and faster, until finally she let out a sweet, soft cry. Her whole body arched, her braids tumbling down her back, her hands clutching at his jacket, and then she went limp in his arms.
Reluctantly Oliver withdrew his hand from beneath her skirts. His cock was hard and aching and he wanted nothing more than to push inside her and give himself release. But now was not the time. A quick glance toward the window showed him that they were well on their way to Candlewood. At any moment they would be turning through the ornate gateposts.
Gently, with particular care and attention, he rearranged her petticoats and skirts back over her stockinged legs and, shifting her into the crook of his arm, he smoothed and straightened the remainder of her clothing. She lay complacent against him, as trusting as a child. When he was done, he lifted her, both hands firm around her waist, and placed her back on to her seat on the opposite side of the coach.
Vivianna sat there and stared at him with an expression of growing and absolute horror.
Oliver was tempted to laugh, but he guessed she would not appreciate levity. Instead, he said, “We are nearly there. If we had half an hour more, Vivianna, I would not stop. I would take you right here, right now. And I will have you. I have just marked you as mine.”
His voice was so low and fierce, he thought he had frightened her, until he saw the flash of anger in her eyes.
“How can you say such a thing?” she managed. “Have you no sense of what is proper?”
He grinned. Proper? After what they had just done? “I have your scent,” he said. “You’re mine.”
She opened her mouth as if to retaliate, but it seemed she could find nothing to say, and she closed it again. She picked up her bonnet and put it on, tying the ribbons with fingers that trembled violently.
Oliver did his best not to remember the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her on his fingers, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as his body throbbed and burned. But
he promised himself that he would have her, and if he was any judge of women he did not think she would put up much resistance.
Chapter 9
Vivianna could not believe what had just happened.
After ignoring him seemed to have run its course, after he had put his warm mouth against her wrist and made her feel dizzy and strange, she had taken out Aphrodite’s letter and read the last part of it. The final instructions.
When you have his attention then you must put it to good use. Lick your lips and imagine kissing him. Remove your hat and gloves slowly, as though you are undressing just for his pleasure. Brush your hands over your clothing as though you are naked. Rest your hand upon his knee and flatter him. Be assured, he will respond, but it is important that you keep him at arm’s length. You are in charge, mon chou, remember that.
She was in charge? Well, she had been for a time. As she smoothed her skirts and licked her lips, Vivianna had found she was enjoying herself. It might be wicked, it might be shocking, but it was also the most exciting and daring thing she had ever done.
And, astoundingly, Oliver had responded, watching her as though she were the most fascinating creature in London. Were men really such simple creatures? she had asked herself with a new and growing awareness. She had him in her power. She really, really did.
And then it had gone wrong. Suddenly he was kissing her and touching her, and she had forgotten the instructions and everything else but the sensation of his hands on her body.
She had failed.
If she wasn’t so terribly embarrassed—and so terribly aware of him—she would have asked to be set down. She would rather have walked along the roadside like a journeyman than be seated here with him. Her body tingled and ached—especially the place he had touched and rubbed and plucked like a violin string, until…good Lord, he had made something happen to her! A great wave of heat and pleasure had rippled through her and she had cried out. Her skin felt as if the top layer had been taken off; so sensitive that even the still air in the coach abraided it.
Sara Bennett Page 13
