by Cheryl Holt
"She doesn't have any support, then?"
"No."
Mrs. Graves didn't elaborate, and Jane could barely dissuade herself from voicing the dozens of questions she had.
How could such a girl be disposed of with no stipend? Was there no one to fret about where she'd gone?
Maybe her wealthy relatives were ashamed of her abnormality, and they had wanted to hide her from the world. But didn't they comprehend what the orphanage was like? Hadn't they checked?
What would become of her?
That she could be sent here—dumped here, really,
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with only the precious clothes on her back—was the saddest tale Jane had ever heard, and as she stared down at the impassive, serene child, a wave of protectiveness swept over her.
Jane rarely bonded with any of the orphans, for it was too depressing when they left or died. But for some reason, Helen was different. Nothing bad would happen to her while Jane was around.
Jane held out her hand, and Mrs. Graves didn't notice when Helen reached out and grabbed for it.
"Daft, indeed!" Jane grumbled indignantly, as they strolled out. The child might be mute, but she was smart as a whip. Whoever had labeled her as stupid had no idea what they were saying.
As they passed the front door, Mr. Sawyer entered to begin his evening shift. He was the new attendant Mrs. Graves had hired. Jane avoided him and started up the stairs.
When they were at the landing, she paused, peeping down to where he was removing his hat and coat. She turned Helen so that the child could clearly view him.
"Don't ever speak to that man," she whispered. "And don't ever go off alone with him."
Helen made no comment, but she scrutinized Sawyer, and Jane could tell that the warning had registered. As if they were magically bound together, she felt she could discern the girl's droughts.
"You understand me, don't you?" Jane mused, as though Helen had communicated aloud. "Well, I don't care about the others. I'll always call you Helen."
Helen flashed a brilliant smile that lit up the dim corridor. Jane said nothing and continued to climb.
Chapter Five
Olivia tiptoed down the darkened hallway, convinced she'd lost her mind.
She'd spent the entire day doing what was required of her and keeping herself occupied.
From the moment she'd risen—grouchy and exhausted from another night of restless sleep—she'd told herself that she would not think about Phillip, would not consider the indiscreet discussions they'd had, or his request that she join him in the library.
She was very good at focusing herself, and for lengthy periods, she'd managed to forget about him, until Penny had coaxed her out for an afternoon stroll. They'd sat on a bench, sheltered from the manor by a thick hedge, when she'd noticed that she could observe the rear of the stables.
Phillip had been there, covered with dust and sweat As she'd spied on him, he'd yanked off his shirt. It had been the first time she'd beheld a man's chest, so she had no examples with which to compare it, but she was positive his was an excellent specimen.
His shoulders were broad, his arms muscled and strong, his waist thin. Tanned and hale, he'd glistened in the bright sunlight, and the vision jostled her innards, making her crave and yearn for things she didn't understand.
There was a coating of hair across the top that had narrowed to where it disappeared into his trousers, and
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her hands had itched and tingled as she'd wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers through it.
Would it be scratchy? Or soft and velvety?
She hadn't known that men had hair on their chests. She, who deemed herself a proficient artist! Avidly, she'd analyzed him, scouring for every detail she could glean in the short interval she'd had to watch.
He'd been loitering next to a water trough, and he'd dipped his soiled shirt and used it as a cool cloth to smooth over his heated skin. Then he'd immersed his head, after which he stood shaking it as the water cascaded down his front.
At the sight, her heart had begun beating so hard that she'd been afraid Penny, who had been perched beside her, might have heard it. Luckily, Penny hadn't perceived anything to be amiss, hadn't seen the mostly naked Phillip strutting in the yard. But, as though she'd sensed turmoil, she'd kept her gaze glued on Olivia.
"What's the matter?" she'd asked. "You seem distraught."
Olivia had leapt to her feet and hurried her stepsister inside, ushering her into the music salon, where they'd performed faltering duets on the pianoforte until Olivia had calmed sufficiently to go upstairs and dress for supper.
She'd forced herself through the rituals of the evening, had dawdled through the interminable repast, had politely conversed with the earl—even though it was increasingly apparent that they had nothing in common—had dealt cards and chatted until it had grown late enough that she could plead fatigue and go to bed.
But once she was sequestered in her room, she could concentrate on naught but Phillip.
Though it was risky and wrong, though it went against all she believed and had ever been taught, though
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it could wreck any slim prospect she had of securing her family's finances, she had to be with him again.
Like a thief, she crept to the library, frantic and crazed and praying that he was expecting her.
She stopped outside, took several deep breaths, trying to steady her nerves, then she peeked around the corner.
He was there!
Her relief was so great that her knees were wobbly, and as she crossed the threshold, she suffered the strangest impression: it was as if she were leaving her old life behind. If she progressed, the person she'd been for twenty-three years would cease to exist. With a staggering certainty, she felt he was her destiny, that she'd been waiting for their paths to collide, and that after this rendezvous, she would never be the same.
The sentiments were so powerful, and so vivid, that she couldn't disregard them. They induced a wave of gladness and exhilaration, and whatever transpired, now or after, she would never regret what she was about to do.
He was slouched on a sofa, a single candle flickering on the table next to him. Shadows played across his face, making him look dangerous. Cradling a libation, he hoisted it and sipped, and as he drank it down, he didn't take his eyes off her.
For an eternity, they stared at one another, then he motioned with his glass.
"Shut the door, Livvie. And lock it."
The notion of barring the door, of being secluded with him, was so improper, and so thrilling, that she shivered even though she wasn't cold.
She hesitated, and he scrutinized her, speculating over what she would do, if she would have the courage to proceed. As she vacillated, he smirked, sure she'd never comply, that she was a weakling or a coward, and she hated that he would presume her to be so irresolute.
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Never timid, she wasn't about to allow any ambivalence to ruin the glorious encounter. She found the key and did as he bid her.
"Come here," he ordered.
His voice was low and quiet. He was changed from how he'd been previously. Before, he'd laughed and spoofed, his demeanor merry, but now he was in a very different mood. Something distressing must have happened.
Though he appeared to be relaxed, he wasn't at ease. He was restive, impatient, like a predator about to pounce on its prey.
A wiser woman might have declined to approach him under such conditions, so she was pondering her sanity, but he was reeling her in like a fish on a hook, and she couldn't halt her advance.
He seemed angry, acrimonious, ready to lash out at the world, and as she was the only one there, she worried that his ire might fall on her. But she discounted the idea.
He would never hurt her. She knew it as completely as she knew the sun would rise on the morrow.
She kept walking until they were toe to toe. He didn't stand, as courtesy and civility demanded. With their proxi
mity, she could detect the odor of alcohol hovering about him. He'd had too much to drink, and she was nettled by the discovery.
For years, Margaret had railed about the mischief caused by men and their liquor, but Olivia had had scant experience with the situation. Her father and brother were the sole men with whom she was familiar, and she couldn't remember either of them overimbibing.
What would an excessive amount do to Phillip's temperament? Would he be more aggressive? More hostile? More imperious? More amorous? Or would it have no effect?
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Insolently, he perused her, his torrid attention lingering—on her lips, her bosom, her legs—and the strength of his inspection was so extreme that she felt as if he could peer through her clothes to the naked skin beneath the fabric.
She was tempted to squirm and fidget, to shudder in maidenly affront and clasp her arms across her torso, but she didn't. While she blushed, her cheeks glowing crimson, she showed no other reaction. Although she couldn't decide why, it was obvious that he was hoping to rattle her, or chase her away. But that confused her. If he wanted her gone, why had he invited her in the first place?
She was no shrinking violet, and never had been, and she wasn't about to slink away. Surprising him, she sidled nearer, just when he'd assumed he'd offended her to the extent that she would stomp out in a huff.
"If you're trying to frighten me," she said, "it won't work."
He raised a brow, neither denying nor admitting that he'd been endeavoring to alarm her. "Would you like to draw some erotica?"
The leather-bound volume A Feast for the Senses lay on the table, filled with romping pixies, fairies, and the Arabian sheik who could be his twin.
"Not tonight."
"Then why are you here?"
A more sophisticated female might have flirted around the answer, might have teased or vamped, but she'd never been one to circumvent an issue. "To see you. I couldn't stay away."
"If you're caught with me, you'll never be able to marry your precious Edward."
"Suddenly, it's a chance I'm willing to take."
"Why?"
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Would he think she was mad if she confessed what she'd been contemplating all day? Or if she alluded to the perceptions that had swept over her when she'd entered the library? She couldn't account for them to herself, so she couldn't explain them to him.
"I had to come."
It was the best she could do, the lone justification she could provide without sounding like a lunatic.
"Sit with me."
He held out his hand, and she took it, lacing her fingers with his, but he applied no pressure to pull her down. If she was to join him, it would have to be of her own accord.
Almost as if it were actually there, she could envision a line painted between them. It was the line between right and wrong, morality and vice, virtue and wantonness. If she crawled onto the cushion next to him, she'd be stepping over the line to the side of iniquity, and she could never get back.
Appallingly, she didn't care. Not about Edward, or Margaret, or Helen, or the family, or the vow she'd made to rescue them. Only Phillip mattered.
Despite all, she had to be with him. There was no other choice, and she was prepared to commit any imprudent act, so long as they could be together.
It occurred to her that this was the reason girls were chaperoned, that they were protected and sheltered. Others understood, as she had not, that for every woman, there was a man like Phillip who could rout all discretion.
In the stark light of morning, she would locate plenty of excuses to chastise herself, to rue and lament, but not now. Not when they were isolated, and he was watching her as if he could set her afire with the intensity of his gaze. She'd never felt so magnificent.
"You're upset," she mentioned.
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"What makes you say so?"
"I can tell."
He shrugged. "I was fighting with my father. It was nothing."
The frank admission had him visibly disconcerted, and a thousand questions flitted by: Who was he? Who were his people? Had he always resided at the estate? What was his position in the stables? How had he earned it?
She was eager to discern his favorite color, his favorite food. Did he love to read? Could he strum the lute or dabble at the pianoforte? Did he like to dance? To sing? What garnered him joy and pleasure?
Knowing her, perhaps?
"What were you fighting about?" she brashly probed. With anyone else, she'd never have dared inquire.
"My life; his women."
His father's women! It was such a curt, strange reply that she wasn't certain where to go next. "Does your father live at Salisbury?"
He chuckled. "Yes."
"And your... mother?"
"Died ages ago."
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged again, then he altered the configuration of their hands, so that he could stroke his thumb across her palm.
"I don't want to talk about my parents."
"What would you like to talk about?"
Tired of waiting for her to make a decision, he tugged on her wrist, and the slight tension spurred her to do what she couldn't accomplish on her own. She clambered onto the sofa, just to her knees, her skirt trailing behind and dangling over the edge.
He gripped her waist and tipped her forward so that she would fall against him. The intimate contact was
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coming too soon, too fast, and she braced herself on her arm to prevent it.
"Have you ever dallied with a man before?"
"No."
"There are things I yearn to do with you," he proclaimed. "I want to touch you and kiss you. Will you let me?"
A vivid picture from the erotic book flashed into her mind—of the stranded sailor with the mermaid snuggled between his legs so that he could fondle her breasts.
Was that what he proposed? Was he inclined to that sort of outrageousness? Did he want to view her in the nude? Maybe massage her private parts?
The notion was so beyond her ability to process, and had been dropped so speedily and so early in the conversation, that she was paralyzed. She couldn't move or speak, but apparently, no reply was required.
He leaned toward her, and she yelped with astonishment as she thought he was going to kiss her, but he didn't. Instead, he dipped down and nuzzled at her nape.
His chin rasped her, and her stomach tickled as she realized it was rough from his whiskers, that he needed to shave. A man's face could feel rugged? What a fascinating fact to mull over!
She tried to calm herself, to focus on what he was doing. Bizarrely, he was tasting her, as if absorbing her very essence.
He bit her! His teeth latched on to the most tender area of her shoulder, and he nipped. She jerked away, glaring at him and rubbing the spot. Though it throbbed, it didn't ache.
"Why did you do that?" she snapped.
"I like the way you smell," he asserted, which wasn't really a clarification.
He studied her, and there seemed to be a confidence
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he wanted to share, a secret he wanted to divulge, but he said nothing.
"What do you want from me?" she finally asked, when she couldn't bear the silence.
His response was to drape her across his lap. Her hip was pressed to his groin, her bottom burrowed onto his thighs.
Her breasts were flattened to his chest, her nipples growing hard and erect, and poking into him like shards of glass. Whenever he shifted the tiniest amount, they abraded in a fashion that was exciting and sublime.
"You shouldn't be here." He forced her breasts closer. "Where you're concerned, I haven't a single honorable intention."
"I don't care."
"You should."
He reached for the erotic book and balanced the spine on his palm. The pages fell open to one of the lewd scenes, but she didn't glance down, terrified of what she might see, of what he might say.
"Look!" he commanded. "Look at it.
"
Her eyes darted to the side, then widened. It was an illustration she didn't recall from her prior review. A satyr—half man, half animal—had snared a woodland nymph. He was clutching her back to his front and restraining her against her will.
The female was frantic, fearful, while the satyr was arrogant, undaunted, satisfied with his pursuit.
"Do you have any idea what he's doing to her?"
"No, no ..."
"He's mating with her; rutting with her from behind."
"I don't know what that means."
"He's raping her." With a flick of his wrist, he slammed the book shut and tossed it on the floor. "That's what I want to do to you. I want you—even if you don't
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agree. I want to hold you down and pilfer all that I can never have. What if I did, you reckless girl?"
"I told you: I'm not afraid of you. You'd never hurt me."
He tightened his grip, making it explicit that she couldn't escape unless he allowed her to. "What if you're mistaken? What if I proceeded? Right here. Right now. How could you stop me?"
"I wouldn't want you to stop."
"Well, I wouldn't, either, you little fool. So where does that leave us?"
For another agonized moment, they stared each other down, lovers in a fierce quarrel, when she wasn't even sure about what they were arguing. Then, he narrowed the distance between them, his mouth capturing hers in a torrid kiss.
For a brief, idiotic instant, she resisted, but she promptly recovered and relented. She'd trekked to the library, praying that something of this magnitude would occur, and now that it had, she didn't want him to think she wasn't receptive.
His lips were warm, his breath sweet, and he tasted of the brandy he'd been drinking. Though he was tense, and seemed to be angry, he was cradling her gently, prudently, as if she were made of fine porcelain and should be handled delicately.
Her hands rose to slip around his neck, her fingers going to the queue that bound his hair so that she could explore the lush, dark locks. Shiny and luxurious, it descended past his shoulders, and she reveled in the palpable delight of sifting dirough the strands. The simple gesture was decadent, thrilling.
