by Diane Farr
“Oh! Yes.” She rummaged in a drawer and unearthed a satchel similar to the one Culpepper had been carrying. “You needn’t carry the money in your bare hands.”
Bare hands. She wished she hadn’t spoken of his bare hands. She watched as he packed the money neatly in the satchel, mesmerized by the movements of his long, strong fingers as he worked. What beautiful hands he had. So masculine. It was sinful to take this much pleasure in looking at a man, but she couldn’t help it.
Her reverie was broken by the sound of Lord Rival’s chuckle. She glanced inquiringly at his face and was mortified to see his eyebrow climbing and his mouth pursing slyly, as if he had guessed the direction of her thoughts. She blushed and looked defiantly away. But he placed his fists on the top of her desk and leaned on them, looming over her where she sat.
“Olivia, my dear,” he murmured teasingly. “You will miss me when I am gone.”
“Gone?” She looked up, startled. “Wh-where are you going?”
His face was very near to hers. As always when she was close to him, her idiotic heart began to flutter and pound, and she had to remind herself to breathe.
His eyes flicked to her lips, then back to her eyes again. “If you will not marry me, Ivy,” he said softly, “I must look elsewhere for a bride.” His eyes burned; she imagined she could feel them scorching her. “And you, I think, will miss me.”
He was right. Dear saints in heaven, he was right. His words forced her to picture losing him, picture the dark days when George would be some other woman’s husband and she would be alone, back in her safe little world, a world of good women doing good deeds. She had loved that world! She had created it herself and taken pride in its creation. Now her haven of safety and contentment would feel like a prison.
She stared helplessly into his dark, dark eyes, and knew despair. She had told George that he wanted something he could not have; now she knew what a pathetic bluff that had been. It was she who longed for impossible things.
15
“I make it thirty pounds.” George tossed his cards lightly onto the table before him and smiled. “My dear Nellie, if you could only see your expression! Should I apologize?”
Mrs. Beauchamp’s discontented little face managed to pout and smile at the same time. “La! How absurd you are! After all, it was I who wanted to play.” She batted her eyes flirtatiously. “I mustn’t complain, must I? I know how dangerous you are. But I can’t resist you, George,” she cooed.
Her fawning had grown irksome. George, bored, scooped up the scattered cards and riffled them into a deck. “Remember, I told you this would be our last hand.”
Her pout intensified. “Yes, but why? I suppose it bores you to win so often. But my piquet is improving, is it not?” Her eyelashes came back into play. “It’s not fair for you to deny me my revenge. Another week or two and I shall start winning it all back from you.”
“You said that a month ago.” He smiled to take the sting from his barb. “You should have more pride, Nellie. I’m enriching myself at your expense.”
“At Hugo’s expense,” she retorted, correcting him archly. “He can well afford it.” She leaned forward across the narrow table and placed her soft little hand over his. “George,” she said coaxingly. “Pray do not withdraw from me. How will I ever amuse myself again?”
“Easily, I should think.” He allowed his gaze to travel lazily over the plump cleavage she displayed by leaning deliberately forward into the candlelight. Nellie was a tempting little morsel. “There must be a dozen chaps eager to replace me.”
“I don’t want them,” she complained. “I want you. Why must you be so difficult?”
“I’m turning over a new leaf, my dear.” He lifted the hand she had left on his and ironically kissed her wedding ring. “No more trespassing on another man’s property.”
She lifted one of her delicately drawn eyebrows. “Forsaking your evil ways? You, George? It seems hard to believe.”
“Even the worst sinner can repent.”
She tilted her head, looking at him through half-closed eyes. “We shall see,” she purred. “Come visit me tomorrow morning and test your resolve. Hugo will be at his club any time after ten o’clock.”
He tried to hide his annoyance. “You don’t take no for an answer, do you?”
Nellie smiled prettily. “In a word? No.”
He frowned and pushed back from the table, but her hand reached quickly out and grasped his sleeve. “Oh, George, don’t be cross! I can’t bear it. You know you must come by to collect your winnings—I don’t have thirty pounds with me.”
“Very well,” he said curtly. “I shall call upon you in the morning, Nellie, and we shall bid each other farewell and good fortune. Forgive my abruptness, but I see Daventry in the other room and must speak to him tonight.”
She pulled back, sulking. “Go, then.”
He rose and bowed. “I thank you. Good night—Mrs. Beauchamp.”
He felt her resentful eyes upon him as he left the little anteroom where they had been closeted for their game and reentered the noisy salon. It was unlike him to break off his alliances so crudely, but Nellie had been an irritant in his life for some time. “Thanks be to God and Aloysius Beebe,” he muttered to himself as he headed for the door. What a difference a little money made. He was free of her—her, and all the women like her.
Whatever the outcome with Olivia Fairfax, he vowed, he would not return to fleecing the bored and lonely wives of rich men. At least, not permanently. He had to admit that if his courtship of Olivia ultimately failed, it might not be possible to hang about and earn Beebe’s annuity. He might need Nellie Beauchamp and her ilk to tide him over while he sought a different bride. But he would cross that bridge when he came to it. In the meantime, he must not entertain the possibility that he could fail. All his energy, all his drive, must be concentrated on winning.
Olivia did not trust him. She had good reason not to. Earning her trust bit by bit might take years, and she was only giving him months. Very well; he would abandon the attempt.
She would marry him, by God, whether she trusted him or no.
If there was one thing Lord Rival knew, it was women. Many of his conquests had been reluctant—initially. Women, in his cynical opinion, generally underrated their capacity for lust. That made them easy to astonish. Many a female had fallen for him, and fallen hard, simply because he had tapped into some overlooked well of desire. Make a woman want you badly enough and she would ignore her own common sense. A man could rely upon that, like summer following spring.
Olivia Fairfax was a woman of uncommon strength of mind, and it would take a great deal to make her ignore her better judgment. But Lord Rival was not one to shrink from a challenge. After all, he reminded himself, the mistrustful, suspicious women had eventually tumbled into his bed just as the dupes had. A marriage proposal couldn’t be that different from his usual proposition. Could it?
Rake Rival was experiencing uncharacteristic doubts.
It was tricky to accomplish this delicate seduction while grappling with his own headlong rush of desire. So far, the strength of his attraction to Olivia, welcome as it was, was more of an impediment than a help. It clouded his judgment. His usual trick of backing off, feigning disinterest, and distancing himself from his intended target was meant to drive the woman mad with longing. This time, it was George who seemed to be going round the bend. It was George who paced the floor, a prey to feverish fantasies. It was George whose every thought seemed to revolve around Olivia, and with no clear idea whether his obsession was reciprocated. He longed so intensely to see her again that, when he finally did, he fought an urge to crush her in his arms the instant she came into view.
Now, this happened to be the very effect he was trying to create in Olivia—but he was so distracted by his own overpowering reaction to her that he had little attention to spare for her reaction to him.
He was actually rather disgusted with himself. The only explanation he could di
vine for his bizarre loss of control was the heightened significance of the connection he was trying to form. Marriage was naturally more important than a liaison. Perhaps it was normal to lose a little sleep, get a bit keyed up, when contemplating such a step.
His impatience to see her drew him to her home one fine morning in October, ostensibly to show off the curricle he had just purchased. Olivia’s housekeeper had fallen into the habit of treating him almost as one of the household, so she beamed and bobbed and shooed him upstairs to announce himself. George ran lightly up the stairs, hat in hand, feeling an almost boyish flutter of anticipation. He knocked on the door of Olivia’s morning room, then entered.
His sense of anticipation was rewarded. She was alone, writing at her desk, and greeted him with a flush of delight that could not have been feigned. “George!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet in pretty confusion. “I did not expect to see you today.”
He set down his hat and moved to shake her hand. “How do you do? I hope you will forgive the intrusion.”
“Nonsense, I’m always happy to see you. Besides, I was trying to write my brother—a shockingly difficult task! I’m glad of the interruption.” She seemed to notice that he was touching her rather longer than necessary, and turned a most becoming shade of pink. “Won’t you sit down?”
“If you will sit with me.”
She tried unsuccessfully to pull her hand out of his. “Don’t be absurd. George, for heaven’s sake! The door is open.”
“That’s easily remedied.” Pulling her by the hand, he returned to the door and audaciously closed it. Olivia stared at him as if he were a madman. He grinned at her dumbfounded expression. “How long has it been since I’ve kissed you?”
Her jaw slackened. “What?”
He answered his own question. “Too long.” He leaned in and ambushed her by kissing her soundly. She responded—briefly—then pulled her face away, laughing and holding him off, her palms flat against his chest.
“George, you’ll be the death of me. Only think of the scandal, should anyone come in!”
“Yes, how shocking. You would have to marry me.” He bent to take her lips again, but she placed one hand over his mouth.
“You may stop right there, sir,” she said firmly.
He kissed her palm; she snatched her hand away. “I may,” he said teasingly. “And, then again, I may not.”
Her eyes widened in amusement as she recognized her own words flung back at her. “Rogue! Have you no shame?”
“Very little.” He smiled down at her, rosy and laughing in his arms. “You know, you’re really rather adorable.”
“For an heiress,” she murmured provocatively.
“For anyone,” he averred, his arms tightening around her. “On any terms. I’m a lucky chap.”
Now she looked cross. “You take too much for granted. I am not yours.”
“You will be.” He saw anger sparking in her eyes and stole it from her by whispering, “And I will be yours.” Then he bent his head and really kissed her, his mouth lingering tenderly on hers. She went limp and pliant, picturing, as he knew she must, a life where he belonged to her. A life where their kisses did not need to be furtive affairs, stolen in moonlit gardens or behind closed doors.
He ended the kiss and looked at her. Her eyes were shut and her face had gone soft and dreamy. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that marriage to Olivia would offer him more than mere monetary gain. It would, in fact, be extremely pleasant to kiss her like this whenever he wanted to. “Marry me, Olivia,” he urged her softly, “so I can kiss you in the daylight.”
Her lips curved in a smile. “That would be lovely,” she sighed. Then her eyes opened and some of the laughter returned to her face. “You’re a persuasive rascal, George. Well! I can’t say I wasn’t warned.”
“I warned you myself, as I recall. What a wooden-headed thing to do.”
“Yes, it wasn’t very clever of you,” she said, with mock sympathy. “Poor George! But I expect you’ll do better next time.”
“Next time?”
“The next time you court an heiress.”
“Ah.” He tapped her nose with his fingertip. “There won’t be a next time, minx, because I am going to marry you.”
The challenge glinted in her silver eyes. “You won’t marry me, George, so you had better consider your options.”
She slipped out of his grasp and pointedly opened the door, then walked sedately back to her rosewood desk. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit? You couldn’t have come all the way to Chelsea just to kiss me.”
He suddenly realized that that was exactly what he had done. The new curricle was just an excuse. He grinned ruefully; if he told her the truth she’d think he was joking. Or worse.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “It’s a very fine morning, and I do have a new curricle. I thought you might like to see one of the items on which I’m squandering Beebe’s money.”
“A curricle!” She looked impressed. “My word. How extravagant.”
He grinned. “You’ve lived in the lap of luxury all your life, my dear girl. You don’t know the difference between an extravagance and a necessity. A vehicle, I’ll have you know, is a necessity—one that I have done without for far too long.”
“A sporting vehicle is hardly a necessity.” She tried to look severe, and almost succeeded.
He placed one hand on the back of a chair and leaned forward, addressing her in the whispered tones of a conspirator. “If you must know, I had originally looked no higher than a humble whiskey.”
Her lips twitched. “Very proper.”
“However, I am happy to say, this particular curricle cost no more than the whiskey. I was able to purchase it dirt cheap from a crony of mine who was, er, strapped for cash.”
Her smile warmed. “Oh, I’m so glad! That is—well, of course it’s none of my business, but—”
“But you are glad I’m not the wastrel you thought me.”
“Yes. Oh, dear!” She bit her lip, laughing as if vexed at herself. “As if any of this were my affair! It’s also not my business to feel glad that you were able to purchase something you wanted. I beg your pardon! I’m not usually such a busybody. My only excuse is that—”
“You need no excuse.” He gave her a sly smile. “A lady naturally wants to understand the character of the man she is about to marry.”
“Humph! I suppose you think that is funny.”
“Not at all. But tell me—have I tempted you sufficiently? Will you leave your writing desk for half an hour and let me tool you about? It would give me great pleasure.”
She did, indeed, look tempted. “I wish I could. But—”
“Let me show it to you.” He walked boldly up behind her desk and placed his arm around her waist, drawing her to the window where they could see his carriage being led up and down. “There. That handsome black equipage with the brass trim. Now, how can you resist being seen in such a stylish turn-out? You’ll be the envy of Chelsea.”
“Gracious. Indeed I would. That curricle is beyond stylish; it’s—it’s practically decadent.”
“Suits me, doesn’t it?” he agreed.
She chuckled and relaxed a little, leaning so slightly against his body that he might have imagined it. “But I don’t need to be the envy of Chelsea.” She turned her face up to his. He had to fight the urge to kiss her again. Her eyes were as soft and silvery as the sea mist that drifted through the trees of Rye Vale. “Thanks to you, I now have everything I ever wanted,” she said, her low tone blending amusement and warmth. “I have everything I had before, plus your company to enliven my humdrum existence. My life lacks for nothing.”
“Then I need to make you want something more,” he said huskily. “I need to make you a little less contented, my sweet. For there is something I want, something only you can give me. And I want you to want it, too.”
Heedless of the open door behind them, he pulled her body tightly against his and pressed
his mouth hungrily against hers. Her response was swift and instinctive. How could she not want more? He wanted more. Damn her innocence! She must not know what she was missing.
“Olivia.” He held her face between his hands. “Can’t you feel it, sweetheart? Can’t you tell that there is more to want, so much more than you ever dreamed of? What we have together is rare—this spark, this fire.” He kissed her again, passionately, but she struggled to break free.
“No,” she moaned. “No. Don’t you see, George? It doesn’t matter what I feel—”
“Then you don’t feel enough. Yet.”
It was confoundedly hard to let her go, but holding her against her will would serve no purpose. He dropped his hands to his sides. She appeared confused, struggling, but it was impossible to say what she struggled against, or why. He was too close to her. That was the chief difficulty. He had no perspective; his own emotions loomed too large. He could not see past them.
She lifted a wavering hand to straighten her hair and gave him a tremulous smile. “You certainly know how to interrupt a lady’s morning.”
Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw movement. He swung round to look at the open doorway. Whatever it was, it had whisked out of sight.
Olivia walked back to her desk as if retreating to a safe harbor, and seated herself a bit shakily. “I really must decline your obliging offer and finish my letter. Perhaps—another time?”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Very well. I would be glad to drive out with you tomorrow.”
“Early.”
Some of her sparkle returned. “As early as you like.”
He placed one hand on her desk and leaned teasingly over her. “Wear your bonnet to breakfast, my dear. I’ll be waiting on your doorstep when you awaken.”
He then picked up his hat and sauntered out, her soft laughter following him.
George was halfway down the stairs when he heard a rustle in the darkness behind him. He whirled, his well-honed instincts bringing up his fists without conscious thought. His pursuer gave a terrified gasp and ducked, falling to a sitting position three or four steps up.
