by Diane Farr
She closed her eyes under the soothing strokes of his thumbs. “I wish I could make you understand,” she whispered. He felt her brows contract. “Whether you win by fair means or foul, the result would be the same. Marriage. And it is marriage itself I am avoiding, not specifically marriage to you.” She opened her eyes. The expression in them was troubled, almost pitying. “I honor your forbearance, and I’m grateful for it. But if you will not take unfair advantage of me, George—you cannot win.”
It sounded almost like a dare. His brows climbed. “My dear, you underestimate me.” He slid one arm behind her and pulled her closer, locking his eyes with hers. “No matter the game,” he murmured, “you should always bet on the more experienced player.”
Anger sparked in her platinum eyes, but she veiled them swiftly with her lashes. “Have you never heard of beginner’s luck?”
He chuckled. “That’s the dandy. You go ahead and rely on your beginner’s luck.” He leaned in and nuzzled her neck. “In fact, let’s raise the stakes. What do you say, Ivy? Double or nothing.” Whatever that meant.
“The stakes are already high enough, thank you,” she said a little shakily.
“Higher than you know.” He lifted her hair and leaned further in to kiss the nape of her neck. He felt her tremble at the sensation his lips evoked. What power. What power she gave him. Her immediate response to his every touch was intoxicating. “Come here,” he whispered against her neck, and pulled her all the way onto his lap. She uttered a weak protest but he stilled it, murmuring soothingly and nestling her against his chest. She sighed and snuggled, resting her head on his shoulder.
He needed one more piece of the puzzle before he could proceed—even if it meant wasting additional minutes in conversation. He kept his voice low, inviting intimacy. “Tell me what you have against marriage.”
“I should think it was obvious.”
He pondered this for a moment and concluded that it wasn’t. “Are you going to make me guess?”
She blinked up at him in what seemed like genuine surprise. He grinned. “Most women are, if anything, eager to tie the knot. What makes you different?”
She uncoiled herself from his arms and sat up indignantly. “I can’t believe you are asking me this. You’re a sensible man. Think! You know me well, do you not? What do you suppose I value most in life?”
George studied her tense face, the blaze of intelligence and anger in her eyes contrasting oddly, wonderfully, with the softness of her. She really was a remarkable creature. He had no idea how to answer her, so he resorted to cheek. “Me?”
As he had hoped, her features relaxed and lit with laughter. “Wretch! You have it backward—that is what you value most.”
“Ah. I knew one of us did.”
But she was not so easily distracted. Some of the earnestness returned to her face, sobering it. “I value my independence. Freedom is a blessing enjoyed by very few women, even women of my station. I order my days as I see fit. I answer to no one. I am the unquestioned head of my household and my business. How many females can say that?”
“Not many. Few men can say it, either.”
“I would be a fool to relinquish my precious freedom to a husband.” She gave him a rather crooked smile. “It isn’t only that I don’t trust you. I don’t trust any man enough to make him a present of myself, my fortune, and my future. Marriage confers upon the husband absolute authority over the wife. A woman must be desperate, I think, to agree to such a bad bargain.”
“Desperate for what?” He smiled at her puzzled expression. “I am perfectly serious. Approach the question intellectually. The way you have stated it presents a logic problem. After all, women agree to marry men every day. Why do you suppose they do it? Theoretically.”
“Most women require financial support. I do not.”
“Very well. But you are not the only rich woman in England. It seems to me that rich women marry as readily as poor ones. Why?”
She looked thoughtful. “Perhaps they act without thinking. We are forever told that marriage is our destiny. I suppose many women come to believe it, and simply follow like sheep.”
“Not all rich women are stupid.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“No? Then some rich women are clever. Why do the clever ones marry?”
She frowned. “To please their families. Or simply to do what the world expects of them.”
His brows climbed. “What! Marry to please others? These rich, clever women must be morbidly devoted to their families, to sacrifice themselves like so many lemmings! Which leads to another question: Why would a loving family press a daughter into the slavery you describe?”
She tilted her chin at him. “You know very well why. Marriage brings children.”
Something in her voice made him look at her more closely. She appeared flustered and resentful, but he detected a vulnerability beneath it. He was hitting a nerve.
Of course! Olivia had devoted her life to helping orphans. Her choice of charity was a clue to her heart’s desire. It told him what was missing in her life.
He reached to cup her cheek in his palm. She did not pull away, but there was wariness in her eyes. “Are children a boon only to their grandparents?” he asked her softly.
Her eyes filled with pain. She pulled her face away from his hand, blinking rapidly. “No,” she said in a muffled tone. “I suppose women sometimes marry because they—because they want children.”
“Then marriage does have its compensations. Even for rich, clever women.” He pulled her roughly against him, startled by a fierce wave of unexpected emotion. When he spoke again, his voice was husky with it. “My darling girl, I’ve tempted you at last.”
Her arms went round him and she uttered a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “I suppose you have. It’s not fair,” she told his waistcoat. “I do wish a single woman could bear a child without ruining her life.”
He smiled against the top of her head. “It is typical of you, my dear, that the prospect of a lonely old age leaves you unmoved, that my kisses fail to bring you round my thumb, that you have no real need for my advice, my assistance, my protection, or my company, but one mention of children and you crumble like an overbaked biscuit.”
She sniffled and sat defiantly upright, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Not quite,” she said bracingly. “For I do have children. Plenty of children. Dozens of them.”
“They are not yours,” he said quietly. “They are not ours.”
Ours. A burst of pure wonder shot through him, an emotion he had not felt in so long that he had almost forgotten its power. It startled him. He had been so concentrated on the task at hand, so busy attuning himself to Olivia’s reactions, so preoccupied with besting his opponent, he hadn’t entertained this obvious thought: If he won, Olivia would bear his children.
George had spent twelve years adroitly dodging his memories and his dreams. He had become a master at avoiding both. Neither the past nor the future had any place in his hedonistic existence. Now, suddenly, his past and future rushed together and met in this moment.
His arms went swiftly round Olivia and a dizzyingly vivid picture of Rye Vale, lush with grass, fresh with sea wind, flashed before his eyes. Home. This particular woman at his side. Dark-haired, fair-skinned children, innocent and wild, faceless but infinitely dear, running, laughing, through the sweep of windblown grass. Home.
Olivia would make it all possible. Olivia and her heaven-sent money. And he would be so grateful that he would care for her and protect her all her days. He would do everything he could to make her happy. It would, he realized, be a pleasure to make her happy.
He knew he was holding her too tightly, but he couldn’t help it. He kissed her hair, hard, then turned and pressed his cheek tightly against the top of her head. “Olivia. Marry me. For God’s sake, marry me.” He felt her sob, just once, and couldn’t wait for her answer. He knew it would be no, and he didn’t want to hear it. He turned up her
face and kissed her ferociously, willing her to not say no. Not yet. He wanted to hold the dream a little longer.
Those were tears on her cheeks. He tasted salt and groaned with frustration. He had done it again. He had lost sight of his goal and overshot the mark. Hell and the devil confound it, the wench was weeping! Fighting for control, he ended the kiss, breathing as raggedly as if he had just run a race. He pressed his head to hers and gasped out an apology.
She shook her head, then tucked herself down to bury her face in his neck. She had somehow ended up back on his lap, twisted in his arms and plastered against his chest. She mumbled something into his cravat.
“I can’t hear you, sweetheart.”
She lifted her head. “Don’t call me sweetheart,” she said with dignity. “It muddles me.”
“Good,” he muttered, making a mental note to call her sweetheart as often as possible. “I want you muddled. I need you muddled.” His cravat had worked itself loose and seemed to be resting mostly on his shoulder. He tugged it impatiently away and tossed it onto the sofa beside them. “Tell me again what you said a moment ago.”
But Olivia seemed temporarily to have lost the power of speech. Her eyes widened as she leaned back and stared, fascinated, at the bare skin revealed by the removal of his cravat. He bit back a laugh. It was enough to make a man vain to see the look on her face. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Haven’t you seen a man’s throat before?”
Her eyes slowly lifted to his, wide and luminous. “Not your throat,” she whispered.
His heart lurched. “Look your fill,” he said hoarsely.
She did. Her eyes traveled slowly, dazedly, over his neck and throat. Her innocent amazement was both touching and arousing. When her eyes reached the juncture where his skin met his shirt, they stayed there.
Did she want to see more? Well, George was always happy to oblige a lady. He reached up and unbuttoned his waistcoat.
She watched his fingers move, apparently mesmerized by the sight of each button working loose. When the waistcoat was unbuttoned he dropped his hands passively to his sides and waited. Your move, Ivy.
Olivia slowly slipped her hands inside his unbuttoned waistcoat, parting it. And still she stared, drinking in the sight of him in the clean linen shirt he had bought from the landlord that day. She ran her hands worshipfully over his chest, seeming only half-aware that she was breaking every rule of propriety and decorum. Her eyes, wide with wonder, followed where her fingertips led. Under her exploring hands the shirt’s wide neck fell open nearly to his waist. He was careful not to move. He lay passive, half-reclining while she stared and touched at will.
“Gorgeous,” she murmured reverently. She sounded drunk.
He chuckled. “Spare my blushes, sweetheart. I think you need more light.” He sat up, kissed her lightly, and rose, casually discarding his waistcoat as he did so. He walked to the fireplace and added another log to the dying fire. If his intended bride liked to look at him, she was welcome to do so. He hoped to be looking at her soon, so he wanted light for his own selfish reasons.
He turned and straightened, letting the fire back-light him and reveal his form through his shirt. The effect must have pleased her; he could see the quick rise and fall of her breasts as she sighed.
“I’ll be happy to remove anything else that is in your way,” he offered teasingly.
She seemed to return to her senses somewhat. “Oh! I’m—I’m sorry,” she blurted, shamefaced. “I don’t know what came over me. I shouldn’t stare at you.”
“If it gives you pleasure, I’ve no objection.” He leaned one hand on the mantelpiece, letting the light outline the muscles in his arm for her. “But, I would remind you, turnabout is fair play.”
The leaping firelight revealed her blush. “Oh, dear. No. Please. I hate being stared at.”
He strolled back to the sofa and stood smiling down at her. “You won’t hate it,” he promised softly. “Not if I look at you the way you are looking at me. And I will.”
He stood over her for a long moment. She was beautiful. The dark blue silk of her dinner dress set off the pale perfection of her skin; her silver eyes were complemented by the gleam of silver at her neck and earlobes. He smiled, reveling in the sight of her, knowing that it would only get better. “I suggest we start with the jewelry.”
21
He never spoke of love. Had he said the words, she knew she would not have believed him. Even so, their omission hurt her heart.
He did say other things. Oh, he was good with words. He whispered things that set her on fire, touched her and teased her and whispered to her until she writhed, gasping, in his arms, panting out mad words of her own.
And one thing he had promised turned out to be true—she did not mind him looking at her. Strange, that. Inhibitions evaporated under the heat of his gaze. He made her feel beautiful. Seeing herself through his eyes, her modesty transformed into a glorious excitement. She could not mistake what she saw in his face, what she heard in his voice. If it was not love, it was something nearly as wonderful. He desired her—her, the woman—and for once she was absolutely sure that money was the farthest thing from his mind. Had she been wrapped in ten-pound notes, he would have torn them off and flung them aside without a backward glance.
She had not intended to give so much of herself when she dared not trust her heart to his keeping. But it did not seem possible to deny him aught he asked. Since she did not know what she herself wanted, and he seemed confident of both his desires and her own, it was easy, it was natural, to relax her guard and follow his lead. It was almost like dancing. The dance was new to her, but her partner was very sure of his steps. So she clung to him and he commanded—and she followed, followed, followed.
At times, the intensity of what she felt, of what he made her feel, frightened her. He would sense her bewilderment and find some way to reassure her, then goad her into further madness. After a time, she lost the ability to think. Her rational being splintered and scattered to the winds. Language itself seemed to leave her. He was the center of the world, the only thing that mattered, and she was frantic with some nameless need. It was all bound up in him, the desire to please him, the desire to be pleased, a growing urgency for she knew not what. He was touching her in places she had never been touched, places she never knew existed, igniting her. She was on fire. She wept and gasped and arched her back, straining toward his touch.
And then his face loomed over hers, filling the universe. His eyes burned like coals—as dark, as hot. “Marry me,” he urged her. “Say it. You will marry me.”
For a moment she could not understand him. Then inarticulate rage filled Olivia, fury that he would intrude this command upon her at this moment, fury that he would force her to think at such a time. She could not think! She could not even form the words to tell him what she thought of him. She twisted her head from side to side, panting, agonized. Wanting. Angry. Adoring.
His head dipped lower. His mouth touched her skin, moving sensuously, driving her to the brink. “Say yes,” he crooned against her body. “Say yes, Ivy. Say it now.”
She couldn’t. Dear God, what was he doing to her? She would die of it soon. He lifted his head and his eyes held hers, compelling. Understanding. Promising impossible things. Promising release. “Trust me,” he urged her softly. “Let go and trust me. Say yes, sweetheart.”
Desperate, she closed her eyes and did exactly as she was told. She trusted him. It was a terrific relief to trust him. “Yes!” she sobbed, and immediately the world turned upside down, tumbling her over the brink and into rapture.
“Was that . . . everything?”
He chuckled, deep in his chest. “Not by a long chalk.”
She had thought not. There must have been little reward for him in what they had done; all the pleasure had been centered on her. She pondered this, and realized that had the tables been turned there would have been reward, of sorts, in pleasuring him without sparing a thought for herself. Interest
ing.
But then, she loved him. And that was doubtless the essence of love. Since he did not share her feelings, selfless devotion to her pleasure must leave him feeling cheated. She raised herself on one elbow, studying him. “You are not satisfied,” she said gravely.
He smiled. There was heat in his smile, but no loss of control. “I am satisfied enough. I have long suspected that a superbly passionate woman lurked beneath that proper facade of yours. I was right, and that’s satisfaction enough. For this night.”
Desire still burned in the depths of his eyes, but he was keeping the fires carefully banked. She could scarcely imagine the power such an effort must require; surely she would never have that much strength. She had failed the test miserably. His touch instantly reduced her will to rubble. Why did her touch not have a similar effect on him?
Perhaps it could. She reached out, experimentally, and ran her fingers caressingly over his body. To her delight, she felt his muscles tighten and heard his breath hitch.
“You told me, earlier, that turnabout was fair play,” she reminded him softly, and was thrilled to see that her fledgling efforts were crumbling the edges of his control. The flames leaped and danced in his eyes and he gave her a slow, hot smile that reawakened her own slumbering senses. A knot of fierce desire suddenly formed in her belly and the game became deadly serious. “Teach me,” she whispered, and lifted her mouth to his again. “Teach me how to please you.”
Had she agreed to marry him? Had she really agreed to marry him? They were in her bed now. She had agreed to that much, at least, and that in itself was madness. But surely she had never said she would marry him. Not in so many words.
Perhaps she should clarify that point.
“George.”
“Mm.”
“I didn’t say I would marry you.”
