Deeper Than Desire

by Cheryl Holt

  He smirked. "Yes, I watched how stunned you were after you'd studied it for ten or fifteen minutes."

  "I did not!" Wild horses could drag her to her death, and she wouldn't admit to doing any such a thing. "I was aghast—simply aghast!—and I was just about to put it away when you barged in."

  Shrewdly, he scrutinized her, recognizing her prevarication. After a lengthy pause, he gallantly replied, "Have it your way, milady. But in case you're curious, Edward has an extensive assortment of erotica. I'd be more than happy to show you the rest of it."

  "The earl has more?" She gulped, dozens of turbulent considerations swamping her. The first was that Edward could only be the Earl of Salisbury, her potential betrothed, which meant this villain knew the nobleman well enough to refer to him by his given name.

  The second was that the man she might wed hoarded a collection of the risqué. Why would he? What did it forebode?

  The implications terrified her, and as she peered down the extensive shelves of the earl's library, her stomach churned. Through the flicker of her candle, she estimated that there were hundreds of books, perhaps thousands, neatly grouped in rows from floor to ceiling.

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  What secrets were hidden in the dusty multitude? How many were licentious? What kind of person owned such lurid albums? What did that say about his morals and preferences?

  The various titles appeared so innocent, so benign, but then so had the tome she'd retrieved. It had been deceptively placed with the others, and she'd assumed it would be in the same vein, a boring, uninspired series of replications that would hastily have her nodding off.

  Well, she'd never get to sleep now. Not after this discovery!

  "I'm not curious in the slightest," she fibbed. "You needn't indicate any more. In fact, I don't need any reading material. I'm off to my bed. If you'll excuse me ..."

  She started toward the door, but unfortunately, the path to freedom was past the wretch who was wedged between the table and the wall. She couldn't walk by without brushing up against him; her conundrum amused him, and he didn't budge.

  As if daring her, he tried—with the force of his attention—to compel her to peek at him, but she wouldn't.

  Scowling, she advanced, determined to plow through, and just as she would have slipped by, he clasped her wrist. The gesture wasn't threatening, but unexpected, intimate. She halted.

  Their sides were merged. Arms, hips, thighs, feet, they were forged fast, and she fit perfectly. His fingers, where he clutched her wrist, were warm, electrifying. They singed through to the bone.

  "I won't tell him you were here," he vowed in a whisper, his lips by her ear, his sweet breath rustling her hair.

  "Swear it!" she pleaded.

  She spun toward him. He was so near, and his eyes— luminous, enigmatic—gleamed at her With splendid intensity. She could lose herself in those eyes, could be

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  swallowed up into them, and there was something lusciously magnificent about having them focused on her.

  "I swear it," he said.

  "Thank you."

  He confirmed her courtesy with an indifferent shrug. "You're prettier than the others he's invited."

  The statement induced another swirl of confused rumination. It was common knowledge that the earl had interviewed several candidates in his search for a bride, so she wasn't surprised that others had visited. But she was surprised that her companion was adequately conversant with them to feel he could comment.

  And he thought she was pretty. Prettier than the others.

  The compliment settled deep inside, and her foolish heart skipped a beat. Though she knew she was fetching, no man had ever told her so. Especially not a man who looked like him, like a prince, or an angel fallen from heaven.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  "Does it matter?"

  "Yes." She waited, but maddeningly, he furnished no answer. "I have to go."

  She tugged her wrist from his grasp, and he released her. Almost at a run, she sped to the door. When she would have hurried into the hall, he spoke.

  "I'll be here tomorrow evening. Come again. At midnight."

  She didn't turn around. "I never would."

  "I can't see you in the day. Just here."

  "No ... no ..." She rushed out, wondering why she was thrilled by the suggestion, why her spirits soared, her emotions reeled. She bolted toward the stairs, glad to have escaped, but his chuckle followed her, echoing down the corridor with his certainty that she wouldn't be able to resist.

  Chapter Two

  Phillip Paxton sipped on a glass of brandy and tipped back in his chair, balancing on the two hind legs.

  It was just before the hour of one, and his eyes were glued to the door of the library. As if he could conjure up the petite blond beauty through sheer force of will, he stared into the dark corridor, but soon he would have to admit that she wasn't coming.

  He'd been so sure that she would! But then, it wasn't the first time he'd been wrong about a female, and it wouldn't be the last.

  He was situated behind the table where he'd stumbled upon her the previous night. The book of naughty pictures lay open to his favorite drawing, that of a pixie flitting through the grass, her fairy wings drifting behind. She was attired in a dress of gossamer fabric that was so diaphanous it revealed most of her feminine form, hinting at detail and making him want more.

  As with all the illustrations in the book, it was designed to titillate and arouse, and it certainly did, though he didn't care as much for the artificial stimulation as another man might He preferred the genuine article to nude portraits. Still, you couldn't blame a chap for looking.

  Poor Lady Olivia! She'd gotten an eyeful. She'd been aghast, but also fascinated, and he was tickled by her pluck and had enjoyed teasing her. Though an innocent, she was no swooning girl. She'd been blatantly interested,

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  her inquisitiveness so apparent that her faltering denial of any curiosity had been comical.

  An insomniac himself, he'd intruded into the manor, planning to grab a volume on horse breeding Edward had purchased during his latest bride-seeking jaunt to London. With honest purpose, he'd sneaked in, but upon espying her, his innocuous excursion had been dramatically altered.

  He'd been pleasantly surprised to find her up and about, and he'd been intrigued by her choice of reading material. He'd tarried in the shadows, watching her, and he'd had a jolly adventure counting how often her brows had risen—twenty-eight!—as she'd flipped from one lewd page to the next.

  Instantly, he'd realized who she was—Olivia Hopkins, special guest and spousal candidate of the exalted Earl of Salisbury—just as he'd known that he wasn't supposed to he within a hundred yards of the house while she was in residence. In fact, Edward would have his head if he ever learned of Phillip's accidental encounter with the comely noblewoman, and he couldn't begin to guess what Edward might do should he discover that Phillip had solicited a second rendezvous.

  But where Lady Olivia was concerned, he couldn't behave himself.

  It was Edward's fault, really, that Phillip was dawdling in his library, sipping his expensive liquor, and hoping that the potential fiancée would arrive. Edward had demanded that Phillip stay out of sight while the quartet of Hopkins women were visiting, which, of course, made him want to be as visible as possible.

  A pox on them all! As if members of the nobility had never before heard of illegitimate children!

  Phillip was used to being Edward's dirty little secret.

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  As a youth, Edward had dabbled with Phillip's mother, an attractive housemaid. With the sort of abandon that only a wealthy, spoiled aristocrat could manage, he'd sired two children on her—Phillip and his sister, Anne—but when he'd married a woman of his own social class, they'd been hustled off the estate, so as not to dishonor his new wife.

  Phillip's mother had acquiesced to their displacement, though she'd refused an annual stipend from the Paxton coffers.
They had settled on a small farm on the other side of Bath, where his mother had worked as a nursemaid and companion to an elderly widow. They hadn't starved, but their life hadn't been easy, either.

  Though he'd sporadically quizzed her, she never talked about his father, and Phillip suspected that the foolish woman had loved Edward, that she'd been crushed over their banishment.

  What had his father thought of his mother? When they'd been sent away, had Edward been relieved? Saddened? Upset? Had he tried to annul the eviction instituted by Phillip's grandfather?

  Phillip didn't know and wouldn't inquire. He and Edward had a strained relationship, and it didn't lend itself to confessions.

  Phillip's sister, Anne, had never returned to Salisbury, had never seen Edward again, but Phillip had. At his request when he was fourteen, his mother had demeaned herself by writing to Edward to ask if Phillip could have a job. With an unanticipated eagerness, Edward had replied affirmatively, and Phillip had been hired on in the stables under the old stablemaster.

  As the only son of the lord, he'd occupied an odd position. Everyone knew who he was and paid him extensive deference, but no one mentioned his paternity. Frequently, he'd gazed at the mansion, pondering Edward's

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  cruel, bitter wife who'd hated that he was on the premises and gainfully employed. He'd gloated that his mother had birthed Edward two children while his highborn, patrician wife had birthed him none.

  It seemed so frivolous now. Edward's wife was dead, his father a lonely widower. After her demise, Edward had struggled to make amends for some of the damage she'd wrought. He was forever thinking of tasks they could do together, such as hunting or fishing, that might repair their bond, but it was too arduous for Phillip to pretend they were close.

  Yet Phillip was enthralled by Edward, and continued to embrace his attempts at a greater familiarity. He'd even accepted Edward's offer to buy him a commission in the army, with Edward being positive that soldiering was exactly what Phillip should do. Like a lad in need of parental approval, he'd trotted off to war, when all he'd wanted was to remain at Salisbury and tend the horses.

  Because he'd followed Edward's advice—advice that Phillip had judged to be asinine—he'd ended up enduring the trials of the Peninsular War and the horrors of the battle of Salamanca. He'd been wounded for his efforts, but luckily, he'd made it home. Edward had been so bloody thankful, so pleased with Phillip's valor, that it had been difficult to be angry.

  Phillip had reestablished himself at the estate, had resumed his post as stablemaster, and though his father had suggested he move into the main house, he'd opted for a cottage behind one of the barns.

  They'd been making halting progress toward becoming friends, until Edward had blundered into the embarrassing statement that Phillip should be hidden away from the four women of the Hopkins party. Edward acted as though Countess Margaret, along with her daughter Penelope, stepdaughter Olivia, and cousin Winnie Stewart, would

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  have a collective fit of the vapors if Phillip's existence was admitted.

  Edward's insulting remarks had rekindled Phillip's animosity. He'd been hurt and resentful, but he was aware of his father's station, and the hypocritical moral tenets that ruled high society. Ultimately, he'd agreed, and he'd meant to avoid Olivia Hopkins.

  In a peculiar fashion, he loved his father and wished him content. If a new bride was so important, Phillip didn't want to ruin Edward's chances, but after he'd run into Lady Olivia, his good intentions had flown out the window.

  Immature as it sounded, there was nothing he'd like more than to instigate some mischief by sabotaging his father's plans. Phillip was a proud man, and Edward had pricked his vanity.

  While it was inappropriate for him to toy with Lady Olivia, or to engage her in a brief flirtation, he couldn't help himself. He'd oft been told he was a bastard, the epithet having naught to do with his birth status and everything to do with his character. He could be irksome, overbearing, intolerable; in truth, very much like Edward, and he could skew his father's matrimonial prospects with nary a flicker of his conscience.

  He glanced at the clock as it struck one. When he'd tossed out the invitation for her to meet with him, he couldn't have predicted if she'd dare, so he'd given her plenty of time to muster her courage. But she hadn't, so he'd have to provoke another rendezvous.

  What man in his right mind could pass up the opportunity for an assignation or two? Not himself, certainly. He'd never been a gentleman, and he wasn't about to change his tendencies at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but his machinations with the lady would have to wait for

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  another day. In the morning, he had an abundance of chores on his plate, and he needed sleep.

  Downing his libation, he replaced the book on the shelf, blew out his candle, and started toward the door when furtive footsteps echoed in the hall. He paused.

  The treads grew nearer, and he smiled. Lady Olivia was slinking in, obviously hoping to ensure that he was absent. After all, it was a full hour past midnight, and she likely presumed he was gone, or that he hadn't been serious and had never arrived.

  He smirked with satisfaction. However the episode played out, whatever the impetus that had brought her to him, the tryst would be a grand lark. Hurrying to a window, he slithered behind the drape, shielding himself from view.

  She halted outside the door, peeking around the frame, holding her candle to survey the room and guarantee it was empty. Then, she crept in, her path taking her by the spot where he was lurking in the curtains.

  To his immense disappointment, she had on more clothes than she'd been wearing before, but they were in a casual disarray that he found charming. She'd felt the need to dress before descending, but it wasn't as if she could ask her maid for assistance, so she'd done the best she could by herself. Her gown was partially buttoned down the back, her hair messily braided into a thick, lengthy strand.

  Since she had no petticoat on underneath, her skirt dragged and she had to lift the hem when she walked, providing him with the information that she was bare-footed.

  He was most delighted to note that she hadn't been able to don her corset. Her breasts were unencumbered, and they shifted enticingly. Her pulse rate was elevated

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  from her dangerous trek down the stairs, and that, along with the cool temperature, had raised her nipples. He could detect the alluring nubs through the bodice of her gown.

  What a fetching piece of baggage! Why had no man snatched her up before now? Why was she still single at twenty-three, and sniffing after stuffy, tedious Edward?

  She was carrying a leather satchel, and she centered it and her candle on the table, then she marched to the bookshelf and yanked down the erotic book, opening to the page with all those slippery, sexy mermaids. For a few minutes, she examined it, then she reached in her satchel, pulled out blank papers and pencil, and... and ... began to draw?

  He couldn't believe what he was witnessing! He narrowed his focus, wanting to be sure that his eyes weren't deceiving him, but his initial impression had been correct: She was dissecting the various nudes, then sketching her own version!

  Was she practicing?

  How odd! How thrilling!

  For a protracted period, he spied on her, until she had many samples strewn across the table. Then, he strolled from behind the drape.

  "Good evening, Lady Olivia." He moved toward her, blocking her in so that she couldn't escape unless he was inclined to let her. "How nice to see you again."

  At the sound of his voice, she leapt to her feet, shocked by his sudden appearance. As with their previous encounter, she'd been absorbed by her task and hadn't been alerted to his presence.

  Much like a skittish colt, she was nervous and fidgety, frightened by his presence, then she straightened, seeming to administer a mental shake. Her pert nose stuck up in the air, she confronted him.

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  "You!"

  "You're late," he m
entioned. "I'd given up on you."

  "Must you continue to sneak up on me?" She was simmering with ire.

  "It's already a habit, I'm afraid."

  "Didn't anyone ever tell you that it's simply proper manners to announce yourself?"

  "I've never cared much for courtesy or etiquette." He chuckled. "I've heard it said that I'm an unconscionable boor."

  "You won't catch me arguing the point."

  She was more intrepid than any individual he'd ever met. Though she was surrounded by dozens of ribald illustrations she'd created with her own hand, she was gathering them up and cramming them into her satchel, determined to keep him from perceiving what was in plain sight.

  As if he'd fail to note those pages and pages of breasts! What kind of woman skulked out of her bed in the middle of the night to sketch nudes?

  "How did you know my name?" she demanded, as •-he hid the last picture in her portfolio.

  "Everyone is aware of who you are."

  "And why I'm visiting?"

  "Yes."

  "Who are you?" she snapped. "You've accosted me here twice, and I'm growing weary of it."

  "/ have accosted you?"

  "Without a doubt!"

  "Phillip," he replied, eager, for some reason, to reveal ;t. "My name is Phillip." But he didn't add the surname of Paxton, and luckily, she didn't ask for it.

  "What is your position at the estate?" She questioned him with the sort of conceit that only the pampered daughter of an aristocrat could display. He'd begun to

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  think they'd all been born with that snotty tone imbedded in their tongues.

  "I work in the stables." He'd vastly distorted a situation where he was the boss, in charge of the lads, and exercising free rein over the administration and breeding of the animals.

  "I don't believe you," she proclaimed.

  He frowned. "Why wouldn't you?"