The Fortune Hunter

by Diane Farr

  Time passed unnoticed. Eventually a log fell in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks and momentarily brightening the light. Olivia blinked as if waking from sleep, and looked round her in surprise. The dinner had been cleared away and the fire burned low. She had a sudden sense that the hour had grown late. “How long have we sat here?” she asked, surprised.

  “I don’t know.” He smiled. “Are you going to withdraw now, and leave me to drink my port in solitary state?”

  “Oh, dear! I have the most lowering suspicion that I should have done that long ago.” She started to rise, but his hand shot out and his long, strong fingers closed around her wrist.

  “Don’t go,” he said softly.

  She froze in place. Their hands were ungloved and, in her dinner dress, her arm was bare. His grip was light, but the contact of his skin with hers was so precious to her that she could not force herself to break away. She stared down at her wrist covered by his hand, savoring the feel of his touch—and knowing it must end.

  “I must go,” she whispered, but she did not move. A tiny, rebellious voice inside her cried No! when he broke their contact and removed his hand—then sighed with relief when he rose and walked around the table to her. He was going to try to make her stay. Joy warred with panic. She stood and lifted her eyes to his, terrified of what she would see there, dreading his desire—but dreading his indifference even more.

  Whatever she saw in his eyes, it was not indifference. He regarded her with great seriousness, as if her decision to leave the room was a matter of importance. “Do you want to go?” He reached out, gently, and closed his hands around her upper arms. He held her lightly, his touch caressing. The warmth of his hands against her cool flesh made her shiver with longing.

  “I don’t know what I want,” she blurted. Her voice was ragged with pain. She bent her head weakly and rested the top of her head against the hollow of his shoulder, as if butting him away. “Don’t torture me,” she said to the floor between his boots. “Please, George. Don’t.”

  “Never, sweetheart.” He pulled her gently into his arms and cradled her like a child. “Never that.”

  Her arms slipped around his back and she sighed, pressing her cheek against his lapels. Bliss. She could not refuse this chaste embrace. It was heaven to feel George holding her close to him, folding her in his arms. She closed her eyes and listened to his heartbeat, strong and slow. But the sweetness of the moment was tinged with sorrow. Her throat tightened with the threat of tears. She ought to enjoy this. What was this strange, stupid heartache she felt?

  But she knew what it was. It was the ticking of the clock that made her sad. It was the knowledge that these halcyon moments were numbered. This sweetness was only borrowed; it was not hers to keep. How long until Candlemas? Four months? She had struck a fool’s bargain. She would have George just long enough to spoil her. The empty years that yawned before her would seem drearier than ever once these few months in paradise were over and gone.

  His arms were so strong. His body was so powerful. It was ironic that his touch made her feel secure and protected, as if she had somehow come home, when reason told her that the opposite was true. It was irrational to feel that George’s arms were the safe harbor she had secretly longed for all her life, when she knew perfectly well that her feelings for him were putting her entire future at risk.

  A fortune hunter, she reminded herself listlessly. It’s not Olivia Fairfax he is holding so tenderly. It’s her money.

  Ugly, agitating memories stirred. Useless memories. She fought to repress them. She did not need to remember Luke. She remembered the lesson he had taught her, and that was enough. Her wealth was the only thing she had that might attract a man as desirable as George Carstairs. The humiliating phrase hobgoblin eyes whispered evilly in the back of her mind.

  George’s voice broke in to her chaotic thoughts. “You fit perfectly in my arms,” he murmured. “As if you belong there.”

  He sounded so sincere! Just as Luke had. The thought stiffened Olivia’s spine. She pulled back from him, smiling tensely. “Prettily said, my lord,” she said brightly. “I almost believe it.”

  He looked startled. Then his expression went blank and shuttered, as if she had hurt his feelings. My word! What an actor. Still, the impression that her words had caused him pain—even as she reminded herself how impossible that was—cost her an answering pang. She couldn’t bear to hurt George.

  Before she could stop herself, her hand automatically fluttered up to caress his cheek. His eyes darkened with some emotion she could not fathom, and his hand reached up to cover hers and hold it there against his face.

  “Believe it,” he whispered. “There’s something more than friendship here.” He turned his head and kissed her palm. The feel of his warm mouth against her flesh sent a rush of heat clear through her. She closed her eyes, struggling not to succumb to it.

  “Don’t fight it, Olivia.” His mouth moved lower and kissed her wrist. Her pulse leaped and hammered in response. “You know it’s true. You can feel it for yourself.”

  “I don’t know what I feel,” she whispered, agonized. “I don’t know what is true.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  She opened her eyes, confused. They met his. His eyes were so close to hers, so compelling, so filled with certainty that she felt her own will wavering. His lips curved in a half-smile. “You don’t want to feel what you are feeling. But we both know you feel it.”

  A tiny frown creased her forehead. She pulled her hand out of his. “You don’t know what I’m feeling,” she said crossly. “And whatever I’m feeling, it doesn’t matter. Feelings can’t be trusted.”

  An arrested look crossed his features. “Interesting.” His hands came up to cup her face. “Another fascinating insight. What opposite lives we have led, you and I.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “You deny your desires. I live entirely for sensation. You immerse yourself in serving others. I quell every good impulse—when I can.” Mocking devils danced in his eyes. “We have much to teach each other.”

  “What you intend to teach me, I do not wish to learn.” Even in her own ears, her protest sounded more stubborn than noble.

  George’s smile softened. “Oh, Olivia,” he murmured. “You are crying out for it.” His mouth hovered over hers. “I hear you,” he whispered, “even in my sleep.”

  Irresistible. He was irresistible. She could no longer even rail against her own helplessness. Her mouth reached up to answer his whether she consciously willed it or no. He was her drug and she a mindless addict, wallowing in the very sensations that threatened to destroy her. Her eyes drifted shut.

  But he didn’t kiss her. She felt his breath quicken and her bones melted in response to this mark of his desire, but still he did not kiss her. Olivia’s wits had completely fled, taking her willpower with them. She heard a soft, pleading moan and knew it had come from her own throat. Shameless, shameless. She didn’t care.

  “Please,” she whispered, lifting her lips to touch his.

  His voice was low and rough, ragged with strain. “Tell me I’m right.”

  “Yes.” Anything. Yes, you are right. Yes, I will marry you. Yes, the world is flat and I’m a kangaroo. Anything, anything you say. “Just kiss me.”

  This time the groan came from him. But he was laughing, too, either at her or himself. Instead of kissing her, he nuzzled his face against her cheek, her nose, her forehead. “I’ll kiss you, sweeting,” he teased her. “I’ll kiss you senseless. But not if I’m wasting my time.”

  “What?” She opened her eyes, dimly aware that if she weren’t so intent on that wicked mouth of his, she’d be seriously annoyed by now.

  He grinned at her. “It seems to me that I have no trouble awakening your—er—primal instincts. The difficulty I face is in getting you to acknowledge it, once the moment has passed.”

  If he only knew! The moment never passed. She wanted him every minute th
ey were together, and every minute they were apart. Thank God he had not tumbled to that fact. She rallied her senses and managed a haughty sniff. “What nonsense you talk.”

  “There. You see? You are already doing your best to forget what you felt ten seconds ago.” The corner of his mouth turned down. One eyebrow flew up. “I suppose I will have to remind you.”

  He leaned in again, but this time Olivia was ready. She placed her hands hastily against his shoulders before he could get close enough to steal her wits again. “I remember very well, thank you. But what I feel, or whether I feel, is not the point. Feelings lie.”

  “Only people lie.” The arrested expression returned, and he straightened, studying her face keenly. “Just as you expect me to lie.” He said it as if it were a revelation. “You dissect my every statement, hunting for the lie you believe it contains.”

  She gave him a rather wan smile. “Yes, I suppose I do.” It was a dreary thought. It was also an insult, she realized, feeling rather ashamed of herself. But it was true. “Does that disturb you?”

  “A little.” The mocking gleam returned to his eyes. “But not much.”

  His admission startled a laugh out of her. “Really? We are different. I would be distressed if someone thought I was untrustworthy.”

  “Naturally. You aren’t accustomed to it. I, on the other hand, am mistrusted by nearly everyone.” He said this without a touch of rancor. He even smiled in that self-mocking way that made her go weak in the knees. “Mind you, I do find it ironic that you, of all women, expect the worst of me, since I have made a fairly valiant effort to behave honorably—for once. But you have very good reasons not to trust me. And I’m not the sort of sapskull who expects to change your mind in the twinkling of a bedpost.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” she said primly, trying to feel glad. “You told me at the outset that you sought to marry money, and all the world knows your checkered past. I like you very well, George, and I admire you on many levels. But you cannot earn my trust merely by befriending me for a few short months.”

  “Quite right. Only a fool would trust me on so little evidence. And you’re no fool.”

  Olivia felt a little disoriented. He sounded perfectly calm and reasonable. But, surely, he was telling her that the game was over—and that she had won. She cocked her head, puzzled. “Are you withdrawing your suit?”

  He linked his hands behind her waist and flashed her a wicked grin. “By no means.”

  “But . . . but . . . we have just agreed that I do not trust you—and that you do not even expect me to trust you.”

  He touched her nose playfully with the tip of his index finger. “You may not trust me wholly, my pet, but you trust me in some respects. That will have to suffice. For you will marry me, my sweet Ivy, whether you trust me or no.”

  “You’re daft,” she said, with conviction. “Why would I marry a man I do not trust?”

  “This is why,” he said softly, and bent to take her lips.

  It was absurd for him to think he could change the subject so easily. It was ridiculous, and insufferably arrogant, that he believed he could turn her from skeptic to slave by merely kissing her. But he could. Heaven help her. The instant his mouth touched hers she was lost.

  She knew she was proving his point, and still she could not rebuff him. She wanted him too badly. The long day of emotional ups and downs, the cumulative effect of all the little touches they had shared, the excitement of knowing how many of those tiny contacts had been secret and stolen, the hours of intimate conversation, everything she had felt and thought and experienced today seemed to culminate in this moment, making the effect of his kiss, too long postponed, electric.

  A soft moan rose in her throat, desire and despair sounding with one voice. His arms tightened, sliding behind her back to hold her closer while his kiss deepened, demanding more. And she responded despite herself, with a wanton eagerness that proved to both of them—had any shred of doubt remained—how much she wanted him. Oh, it was terrible. It was wonderful. It was humiliating. It was heavenly. Tears stung the back of her eyelids and still she kissed him, aching with need.

  20

  She was so sweet. He held her close, kissing her with all the gentleness he could muster, given the raging lust he was battling. Did she know what she did to him? Probably not. The needs that drove men were completely beyond her ken. And besides, she was preoccupied with her own confusion. He understood that. The innocent ones were always bewildered by their first taste of passion.

  He forced himself to slow down. The last thing he wanted to do was frighten her. Nothing must distract her from the discoveries she was making. Luck had favored him once again, and he was determined not to waste the opportunity. Against all odds, in an almost incredible stroke of good fortune, he had her all to himself. They were shut up together in an inn, for God’s sake. If he couldn’t win her tonight, he never would.

  He softened the kiss, pulling back to a series of light, cherishing movements against her lips. She shifted slightly in his arms, pliant and sighing with unmistakable longing. This evidence of her desire maddened him. He wanted her badly. A sound escaped him, half groan, half laugh. How badly did she want him? Enough? He dared not miss his timing. He had to know. He tested her, lifting his mouth from hers and hovering there, suspended above her lips. She immediately followed, reaching up to press her mouth against his, mutely asking for more.

  Excellent.

  He gave her more. And more. And then he swept one hand down behind her thighs and lifted her. She gasped, startled, and pulled her face back to stare at him. Her silver eyes were huge, but she neither struggled nor objected. She clung to him, arms around his neck, and he carried her to a low sofa that faced the fireplace.

  He set her on its velvet surface and slid down onto it beside her, sweeping her into another kiss before she could protest—just in case. But protest seemed to be far from her mind. He pulled her knees across his lap, nestling her body snugly against his, whispering encouragement.

  She shivered, pulling her face away. “We mustn’t. The landlord—”

  “Won’t come in.” Since her mouth was denied him at the moment, he buried his lips in her hair, then moved down to kiss the side of her neck. She gasped when his lips touched her throat, and arched her neck instinctively to give him better access. Dear God, she was sweet. He’d been dying to kiss her throat for weeks. The delicate skin beneath his lips felt warm and soft and . . . untouched. Just as he had imagined it would.

  “How do you know?” Her voice sounded strained and breathless. Hallelujah.

  “Greased him in the fist,” George muttered thickly. He moved his mouth against her throat, kissing his way down and around it, glorying in the feel of her. She panted and squirmed in a very gratifying way, but still pressed her palms against his shoulders as if trying to hold him off.

  “What?” she managed to utter.

  He lifted his head and looked at her. His senses cleared briefly and he realized she had not understood his cant expression. “Tipped him,” he croaked. “Told him not to disturb us. He won’t come in, sweetheart.”

  He saw consternation in her expression and kissed it away, guessing that she was worried, womanlike, about what the innkeeper thought. But there was something else disturbing her. She kissed him back as if she could not help it, but he sensed that her enjoyment was tempered with anxiety.

  He could not ignore her fears. He wanted her wholehearted. Eager. Taking her maidenhead—if it came to that—would profit him nothing unless he shattered her world along with it.

  Inwardly cursing the necessity, he ended the kiss and looked at her, cradling her face in his hands. “I told you once that I do not cheat at love. Do you remember?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. Her silver eyes were wide and vulnerable, completely opened to him.

  “Do you know what I meant by that?”

  “No.” She swallowed. “Not—not exactly.”

  He studied her face, pushing a
wayward tendril of her dark hair off her forehead and tucking it gently behind her ear. Olivia was too intelligent to believe he might force himself on her, but she might, nevertheless, be frightened of the act itself. Or she could be worried about the consequences. One never knew, with virgins. If what he had in mind was a brief liaison he could have treated the subject delicately, but this was the woman he intended to wed. He did not want to spend a lifetime talking in circles to protect her sensibilities. He decided to err on the side of frankness.

  “I’ll give you an example. I will not compromise you. That would be cheating.” He found another strand of escaped hair and carefully replaced it among those bunched at the base of her neck. “Whatever we choose to do together, no one will know. Miss Fairfax and Lady Badesworth will surmise that we have dined together, but that is all they will surmise. No one outside this inn will learn even that much. You won’t be forced to marry me to save yourself from scandal. There will be none.”

  She gave a brief, tiny nod. He returned his eyes to hers. “You may think that getting you with child would serve my ends. It would, but I won’t do it.” He returned his hands to her face and placed his palms gently against her cheeks, smoothing the delicate arch of her eyebrows with his thumbs. “I want you,” he told her softly, “but I want you willing. Not compelled.”