by Diane Farr
She relaxed a little, leaning lightly against the bowl of the fountain. “No, alas! I have no talent for polite dissembling. And there is something about you. . . . You have a very strange effect on me. I don’t know how to describe it.” She rested one elbow on the wide lip of the fountain’s pool and tilted her head to one side, studying him as if his face would provide the answer.
He strolled forward to join her. “I bring out the worst in you?” he suggested.
She chuckled. “Oh, I hope that’s not it! But perhaps you do. A little.”
He smiled. She was such a pretty sight, leaning gracefully against the fountain, that damnably alluring gown glittering as if her naked body had been sprinkled with diamonds. “If this is the worst of you, Olivia, I would hate to see the best.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember what you told me earlier? Heaven is not for mortals.” He took her gloved hand in his and gallantly kissed her knuckles.
She laughed uncertainly. “I think you are flattering me, but I am not precisely sure,” she remarked, pulling her hand out of his. “Never mind! The orchestra is striking up again. I would like to begin the lesson, if you please.”
“Very well. Shall we begin with the German style, or the French?”
“I don’t know one from the other.” She gazed steadily into his eyes. “Begin with whatever you like.”
She sounded a little breathless. The atmosphere had subtly altered. He looked down into her upturned face and felt himself tighten with desire.
“I like it all.”
“Then teach me everything.”
Her voice was husky with a meaning he could not mistake. He felt his blood begin to pound. She knew she was treading on dangerous ground. She knew it, and still she placed herself in his power.
She wanted it, then. She wanted him.
She wants something, he reminded himself, fighting for control. Part of what made this woman so damned exciting was the contrast she offered to the jaded flirts he knew. Unlike the bored wives who sought his company, Olivia might not know what it was she wanted.
Desire was not permission. To earn this prize he would have to show her her own desire. Make her name it. Win her consent before he plundered her. George was too experienced a gambler to tip his hand this early in the game.
The night was on his side. He had lured her to the most romantic of settings. The fountain splashed and sparkled beside them; the heady scent of crushed leaves and the rich fragrance of woodsmoke heralded the approach of autumn; the night was fair and cool. Best of all, sweet music swelled and filled the air, seemingly played for them alone. Mother Nature and Lady Luck had joined forces to deal him a winning hand. All he had to do was play it.
Olivia seemed to be holding her breath, waiting, spellbound, for his first move. Inspiration struck. “Take off your gloves,” he commanded softly.
There was just enough light to read her expression. Her eyes widened, but she did not back away. “Wh-what?”
“It will be easier to teach you if you can feel my hand.” Would she believe him? It was worth a try. He would risk a great deal for a chance to touch that gorgeous skin of hers. He held her eyes with his, willing her cooperation, as he matter-of-factly stripped off his own gloves and laid them on the lip of the fountain. “Come here,” he invited. “I’ll help you.”
She hesitantly held one hand toward him. He took it as gently as if he were holding a baby bird, trying not to break the fragile bubble of Olivia’s trust. His ungloved fingers made swift work of the tiny pearl buttons. Then he drew the long glove off her unresisting arm with a sort of reverence. Beautiful. Her pale skin glowed like foxfire in the moonlight. Uncovered, her arm appeared almost as white as it had when gloved—but infinitely softer.
He placed the discarded glove beside his own, and, careful not to brush against her ungloved arm, took her other hand. Not until that glove had joined its mate did he dare to touch her newly bared flesh with his. The shock of contact, skin against skin, would surely have broken the spell. She might have forbade him to go further—and he meant to go much further than this.
All gloves were off. It was time to begin.
He took her hand, sliding his fingers intimately across her palm. Olivia’s lips parted in shock and he heard the tiny intake of her breath as they touched. Yes. He felt it, too. It surprised him almost as much as it surprised her. Such a small thing, the touching of two hands; such an everyday contact. But this touch was different. Momentous. Charged with temptation and danger.
He had known that touching her bare skin would pleasure him, but it clearly pleasured her as well—and the rarity of such a sensation to Olivia must double its importance to her. Knowing that, and knowing how seldom she had been touched by any man, added unexpected fuel to the fire blazing within him. The mere taking of her hand was charged with sensual electricity.
This was going to be even better than he had imagined.
A smile played across his features as he studied her face. “Step a little closer to me,” he murmured.
She was as transparent as water. He read alarm in her eyes, and doubt, battling with desire. He made no move. He knew which of those emotions would prove the strongest, and waited for desire to win. When it did, as he knew it would, she took a tiny step forward. Her breasts nearly touched his coat buttons now. Each could feel heat radiating from the other.
“Place your left hand on my shoulder.”
“Like this?”
“Yes.”
He placed his right hand on her waist. God help him—she wasn’t wearing stays! The fact had been painfully evident to him all evening as he fought to keep his eyes off her breasts, but he had concentrated so hard on that task that he had forgotten what it would mean when he danced with her. Hell’s bells! No wonder society demanded that a gentleman wear gloves when dancing with a lady.
No gloves. No stays. One thin, clingy layer of material, insubstantial as gossamer and warmed by her skin, was all that separated his flesh from hers. It was too much; he could not resist. His hand traveled, as if of its own volition, to the small of her back and pulled her body tightly against his chest.
A tiny sound escaped her and her eyes closed for a moment. She looked dazed, completely overwhelmed. Since this was exactly how he felt, seeing her arousal magnified his. He now knew, without a doubt, that if he managed to actually seduce her it would be the best sexual experience of his life—if getting there didn’t kill him first.
Her starry black lashes fluttered briefly, then her eyes opened and stared into his. “Close your eyes,” he whispered, and she instantly obeyed. Her head fell back, her lips parted as if expecting his kiss, but his gambler’s instincts urged him to wait. He inwardly cursed the necessity, but knew his instincts were right.
Not yet. But soon.
“Listen to the music,” he murmured. “Do you feel it?” While Olivia’s eyes were safely shut, her head tilted back, he stared drunkenly at her throat, exposed and gleaming, pale in the moonlight. A tiny pulse beat beneath her ear, just where a slender line of diamonds hung trembling from her earlobe and fell back against the dark mass of her hair. “One, two-three. One, two-three,” he whispered, mesmerized by her visible, vulnerable heartbeat. “Do you feel it, Olivia?”
“Yes,” she breathed, and the movement of her lips pulled his gaze to her mouth. Before he could tear his eyes away, hers unexpectedly opened.
She had caught him staring at her mouth. He was too drugged with lust to smooth the moment over; all he could do was gaze wordlessly at her with everything he wanted written plainly in his face.
She neither shied away nor blushed. Her eyes drifted shut again and—God save the mark!—he felt her body soften and mold itself to his in blatant invitation.
A haze of pure heat seemed to cloud his vision. He tried to gather the shreds of his cool detachment, and failed. All thought of actually teaching her to waltz fled. Against his better judgment, and still holding her tightly against him, he let her
hand go and trailed his fingertips sinuously up the inside of her arm, savoring the feel of her delicate flesh. The sensation caused her to shiver in his embrace, cracking his control still further. He had both his arms around her now.
A crazy impulse to warn her held him off for one last moment. “I’m going to kiss you,” he muttered thickly.
“Yes,” she whispered.
That was all the encouragement he could stand. He took a ragged breath and covered her sweet, warm mouth with his. Her response was immediate, and staggeringly erotic. He kissed her, and kissed her, and kissed her, until he could no longer hear the music for the roaring of the blood hammering in his ears. She matched his every move. She followed his every lead, matching his ardor with her own. She fit the very contours of his body. God in heaven, she was perfect. It was unbelievable.
Finally, inevitably, his greedy hands strayed too far. For a heartbeat of time she sighed and clung closer, maddening him with lust, but then she caught herself and stiffened in panic. He immediately brought his hands back to her waist, inwardly cursing his idiocy, but it was too late. She broke the kiss and pressed her forehead against his chin, struggling to catch her breath.
“Sorry,” he gasped. Since her lips were denied him, he kissed her forehead, then her hair. “Olivia.” It felt good just to say her name. “Olivia. Kiss me again.” His voice was hoarse with passion.
He moved to claim her mouth again, but she moaned and collapsed limply against his shoulder. “Oh, I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.” He tightened his arms around her and laid his cheek against the crown of her head. Amid the raging fire of arousal he was aware of something new to him: joy. When had he ever found joy while kissing a woman? Silent laughter shook him as he marveled at it. The answer was simple, he supposed. It was only natural to rejoice when discovering that one’s intended bride was passionate about something other than orphans.
She felt him chuckle and moved back to look at his face. “You promised me that nothing untoward would occur,” she said, in a small, flustered voice.
“Nothing untoward has occurred.” He lifted a hand and gently smoothed a stray lock of hair that was ready to tumble into her face. “I told you my intentions were honorable. And they are.”
For an instant, she looked confused. Then her features froze in a shuttered expression. “I see,” she said quietly. She pulled out of his arms and walked away, crossing her arms in an instinctive gesture of self-protection.
George frowned. He had obviously made a misstep. He studied her, trying to guess her train of thought. She must have known he was hinting at marriage. A stupid thing to do, when he knew her opposition to it—and how many reasons she had to distrust him. He toyed with, and discarded, various ideas for retrieving his false move, then decided it was time for a real gamble. He would risk honesty.
“You know what I want from you,” he said quietly. “What is it that you want from me?”
She stood quite still and would not look at him. There was a perceptible pause before she spoke. “Friendship,” she said at last. She ventured a glance at him, evidently saw the sardonic expression her response had evoked, and looked away, blushing in the darkness. “It’s true,” she said defensively.
“You were closer to the truth when you said you wanted—what was it? Spice.” He strolled forward and put his arm around her, drawing her back to the fountain, where the light was better. She tried halfheartedly to resist the intimacy, but he shook his head at her. “Come along; I won’t hurt you,” he said, in the firm tone one used when addressing a child. She gave a resentful sniff, but did not pull away.
He leaned his back against the fountain and locked his hands behind her waist, studying her face. She placed her hands against his chest and stared stubbornly at his cravat, still very much on her guard.
“If you want my friendship, you may have it. You have it now. But I think there is something more between us.”
She gave a tiny shrug. “Perhaps,” she said carelessly. Her pathetic attempt to sound like a woman of the world failed adorably.
“There’s no doubt about it.” He tilted his head playfully, trying to force her eyes to meet his. “Do you kiss all the gentlemen of your acquaintance?”
Turning her head this way and that to avoid his eyes, she bit back a laugh. She still would neither look at him nor reply.
“Well? Do you?”
She sighed, and finally glared directly at him. “I am acquainted with very few gentlemen,” she said with dignity.
“If you hand out kisses with such abandon, that will soon change,” he remarked. “They’ll be swarming like bees by the end of the week.”
She looked stricken. “Oh! Surely you wouldn’t—” but she stopped as if the words were strangling her.
“Spread the word? Don’t be ridiculous,” he said roughly. “I was joking.” His hands tightened behind her. The image of men swarming around Olivia was oddly disturbing. “I was trying to point out the absurdity of your remark.”
She looked relieved, but only slightly mollified. “Hm! I was trying to keep you from puffing up too much in your own esteem.” She glanced slyly at him from under her lashes. “Too late for that, I suppose.”
He grinned. “Much too late.” She was willing to joke with him a little; this was progress. But she grew serious again almost immediately.
“George. I do want your friendship. And only your friendship.” She clutched at his lapels now, her expression earnest, her words sounding urgent. “I never meant for this to happen tonight. At least—” She hesitated, then bravely finished her sentence. “At least not all of it.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “Really? I meant for it to happen. All of it.” And a good deal more, actually—but he needn’t tell her so. He leaned toward her teasingly. “Which part did you want to happen? Whatever it was, I will be happy to repeat it. As many times as you like.”
She looked both pleased and embarrassed. “No, thank you,” she said primly. “I have had quite enough.”
She may as well have thrown down a gauntlet. All of George’s predatory instincts immediately rose to the challenge.
“Have you?” he murmured provocatively. “Are you certain?” He leaned forward and gently touched his chin to her forehead, then her temple. She appeared too startled to move. He placed his cheek very close to hers, barely grazing it, and whispered in her ear. “I think I need a little more.”
Her cheek was so soft. He slid his cheek against hers and bestowed the lightest possible kiss on the edge of her ear. She pulled away, trying to laugh.
“George—” she began, but got no further. He bent to quickly, gently, kiss her lower lip. And stayed there.
“Just a little,” he murmured. His whispered words were half promise, half plea. “Just a little more.” As he spoke, his lips moved against her skin in the delicate valley between her lower lip and chin. Miraculously, her lips parted. He had not really expected that they would, but they did. This mark of acquiescence sent a rush of power clear through him.
He did not claim those sweetly offered lips immediately. He hung back a little, his mouth hovering over hers, tasting her warm breath, savoring the feel of her submission. Her parted lips and half-closed eyes inflamed him. She must want him badly, to capitulate so quickly. Olivia’s desire was headier than opium—and just as addictive. He wanted more. He wanted her to want more.
He would go slowly this time. He would ignore the fact that he had her permission, and coax her a bit. So at first he kissed only her lower lip, running his lips lightly and slowly along the very edge of it, barely sampling her. He felt her body go limp and cling to his, and her arms creep up and around his neck. Yes. God in heaven, when had mere kissing felt this good?
Want me, Olivia.
He kissed her mouth now and she responded eagerly—but as soon as he felt her response he gently pulled away. He barely kissed just the cupid’s bow of her upper lip, then the corner of her mouth. She wa
s trembling in his arms, a soft whimper coming from somewhere in her throat. He could not let this gratifying development go unrewarded, so he returned to leisurely kissing her entire mouth. Slowly, slowly. He kissed her as if he had the entire night just to kiss her—nothing more.
Her response was everything he could have wanted. Her bones seemed to melt. And then her lips shifted and clung to his, achingly, with a mixture of tenderness and sensuality he had never experienced.
Against all odds, this green and untouched girl was showing jaded Lord Rival something new. It was a revelation. Reeling, he held her and kissed her and wallowed in the novel sensations washing over him.
Kissing her like this was such a total experience that it was nearly enough. The two of them seemed to be intimately joined, the strange connection he had previously sensed powerfully completed in their kiss. Time had no meaning. The world retreated. He no longer heard the music surrounding them or felt the chill of the night air. He floated with Olivia, linked to her and dreaming, in a silent communion as spiritual as it was physical. For a measureless time, he felt as if he could never get enough, and almost as if he could never want more.
Almost. But he did want more, and not just physically. Drugged with kissing her, he opened his eyes and looked at her, holding her face in his hands. Her eyes were wide and dreamy, their silver depths fathomless. Her mouth was soft and relaxed, her entire face subtly altered and infinitely beautiful.
“Marry me, Olivia,” he heard himself say. He hardly recognized his own voice, hoarse with passion, cracking with emotion. “You must marry me.”
13
She must have lost her mind. That was the only possible explanation for allowing matters to get so out of hand. Olivia tensed in George’s arms, trying to catch her breath, fighting her way back to sanity.
“No,” she said, in a strangled voice. And then, more strongly, “No.”
