by Diane Farr
He opened one eye. There was just enough light from the low-burning candle to see the arch of his eyebrow. “Yes, you did.”
She frowned. “But—”
Quick as thought, he rolled over and pinned her to the bed with his powerful arms, growling playfully in his throat. “Stop right there, madam. You gave me your word.”
“I certainly did n—”
“You said yes. Yes is a word.”
She stared at him, nonplussed. Was he laughing? “You can’t be serious. You won’t hold me to—to words spoken in the heat of the moment.” She knew she was blushing. She glared at him. “I would have said yes to anything. You could have asked me to stand on my head, or mew like a kitten, or cut off my hair and join the army.”
He was definitely laughing now. “How gratifying! You were putty in my hands, in fact.”
She tried to keep a straight face, but failed. His grin was too infectious. “You know I was. Wretch.”
“Was?” he murmured teasingly. He relaxed his body against hers, inch by inch, and she sighed in surrender at the delicious intimacy.
“Am,” she agreed, too happy to pretend otherwise. He rewarded her with a kiss that, incredibly, stirred her desire for him yet again. She moved beneath him in instinctive invitation and he paused, lifting his head from hers.
“Shall I take you this time, Olivia?” he asked her huskily. “Would you like that?”
Hazy with longing, she wasn’t sure what he meant. Then she thought she knew. She opened her eyes and looked dreamily into his. Oh, yes, she believed she would like it. She would like it very much.
Before she could marshal her wits enough to answer him, he slid one hand between their bodies and touched her in a way that entirely robbed her of the ability to speak. “You are a virgin, sweetheart?”
She nodded, gasping. His fingers stilled. For a moment he seemed to be wrestling with a decision. Then he rested his forehead against hers for a second and, with a sigh, removed his hand and rolled away from her. “We’ll save that, then. For our wedding night.”
Bereft, she lay still for a moment. Then his words sank in. Wedding night! She caught the sheet around her and sat up, blinking as if startled out of sleep. “George, no!” she blurted, anguished. “I don’t want to be married. And neither do you.”
She seized his hand and looked earnestly into his lazy, mocking, dangerously seductive smile. Words suddenly tumbled out of her. “You have been thinking that marriage to me would put an end to all your worries. But money isn’t everything, George. Your troubles would have just begun.”
Both his eyebrows flew up. “Oh, are you a shrew?” he inquired mildly. “This is news.”
“I would be no complaisant bride, willing to put up with all your vagaries,” she warned him. “I would make your life a living hell. Don’t doubt me, George! Because I am a woman you may think me powerless, but I have powerful friends. I’ll not endure the mortification of a faithless, straying husband.”
He looked startled. Good. She was making him think. She dropped his hand and pressed her palms together beseechingly. “Do you see? You have not thought beyond the financial rewards. You have not pictured what it would be like to tie yourself to one woman for the rest of your days.”
He raised his arms and linked his hands behind his head, staring thoughtfully at the low-beamed ceiling. “No, I suppose I hadn’t,” he admitted. “But I’m picturing it now.”
Judging by his expression, the picture was a surprisingly pleasant one. But Olivia dared not leave it at that. “Well?” she demanded, trying not to look at the breathtaking display of muscles his position revealed. “What, exactly, had you been picturing? Going directly from our wedding to my bankers, no doubt, and blithely spending my money while I waited in vain for you to remember my existence.” She gritted her teeth. She was working herself into a fine rage. “Marriage to a man like you would be a life of loneliness—and, all too soon, poverty. Forgive me if I speak too bluntly, but what I am saying is true. There is not enough money in the world to keep a hardened gamester rich.”
She was annoyed to find that a quaver had crept into her voice. But this sign of her vulnerability was not what was causing that arrested look on George’s face. He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “I see,” he said slowly. “No wonder you’ve resisted the notion of marrying me. What a grim life you’ve been imagining.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “As for my character and my motivations, I’ll pass over the unflattering portrait you have drawn and cut to the crux of the issue.” He reached over with one strong arm and pulled her, despite her halfhearted resistance, on top of him. He held her there, smiling lazily at her ruffled expression. “Item one: I have no intention of gambling your precious money away.”
“No,” she said bitterly. “A gamester never intends to lose.”
“That’s right,” he said equably. “But I am not, despite every appearance to the contrary, a true gamester. It is a matter of complete indifference to me whether I ever play another hand of piquet, and I don’t care if I never see the inside of another gaming hell. Ssh!” He held a warning finger over her lips. “Don’t tell a soul. You’ll ruin me.”
She tossed her head crossly, dislodging his lean fingers. “Do you expect me to believe that? You’re a peer of the realm. You can’t be jailed for bankruptcy. What do you need the money for, if not to pay gambling debts?”
“Oh, I do need it to pay gambling debts. But not my own. Once paid, no more such debts will be incurred. But we digress.” His mouth was serious but his eyes were laughing at her. “Item two: I intend to be a faithful husband.”
Her heart gave a queer little lurch. Speechless, she could only stare at him. He chuckled. “Surely you’ve heard the old adage. A reformed rake makes the best husband.”
“The catch is,” she informed him tartly, “that there is no such thing as a reformed rake.”
He scooped his hands, splay-fingered, into the dark hair that tumbled around her face and cradled her skull in his palms. “Olivia,” he said gently. “I do not make light promises.”
It was true. Her own honesty compelled her to recognize it. George did not, in fact, make light promises. Had he been willing to say easy words, he would have told her that he loved her. And that was just the first example that occurred to her.
Her anger faded as she struggled with this new thought. It did not square with her picture of him as a hardened gamester. Any gamester—hardened or not—knew how to hide the truth. She had every reason to believe that George would make a convincing liar. Yet he had had any number of opportunities to win her with lies, and still had spoken nothing but truth to her. Even when lies would have served him better.
She hesitated, searching his eyes, and saw no evasion there. He met her gaze levelly. But she dared not trust it; he might mean what he said and still fail. The temptations thrown in his path, especially after a period of practicing humdrum virtue, might prove stronger than even George’s iron will.
“Can the leopard change his spots?” she whispered, forcing the words past a lump in her throat. “I think not.”
He seemed to choose his words carefully. “I would say it depends upon the leopard. I am one leopard who no longer feels comfortable in his own, lamentably spotted, skin. I begin to wonder whether nature truly intended me for a leopard after all.” His eyes lit with humor. “A bit late for this soul-searching, you may say, after I have savaged half the village.”
“Let us speak English! Are you saying that you would change your ways if you married me?”
“Not if. When.” He swept her firmly into a bear hug and rolled her onto her side, where their eyes met at an equal level. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“Yes,” said Olivia frankly. “Why would you?”
“Ah. You think I lead an exciting life.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That is, certainly, what one hears.”
“You should never listen to gossip.”
“Gossip, indeed!” said Olivia indig
nantly. “Why, you told me yourself that you are a rake and an adventurer, and you boasted of your skill at piquet. Among other things.”
“Yes, but the life of a rake and an adventurer is highly overrated.” He raised himself on one elbow and looked down at her. The candlelight edged his face with warmth. Had she not known better, she would have thought his expression tender. “Olivia, sweeting. There is nothing duller than sin. You may trust me on this, for I know whereof I speak. I am intimately acquainted with sin. I have wallowed in it for years. Whatever thrills it once held faded long ago, and lately I have continued my way of life only because I did not know how to stop. It finally occurred to me that there was nothing stupider than to waste one’s life simply because one could not think of anything better to do.”
She pretended to look thoughtful. “So you thought you would try something a little different, and marry an heiress. Just for a change of pace.” Her voice was sharp with hurt.
He frowned. “That’s what I planned,” he admitted. “But I had good reasons. And my reasons were not entirely selfish.”
“Spare me your reasons!” she flashed. “You have humiliated me enough for one night.” She buried her face in her hands, furious to think he might see the naked emotion there. “Go away. Try your tricks on some other heiress.”
“No,” he snapped. She felt his arms go around her. She stiffened, fighting the urge to respond. She was so damnably weak where he was concerned! She kept her hands over her face and refused to budge, even when she felt his lips in her hair.
“You have said you will marry me, and I am holding you to your word,” he said. His voice was quiet, but implacable.
“You tricked it out of me!” Her voice was muffled in her hands. “For shame! You said you would not cheat.”
“I didn’t cheat.” Laughter rumbled in his chest. “I said I wanted you willing. You were more than willing.”
She gave an inarticulate cry of frustration, muffled against his chest. He hugged her to him, laughing, then pulled her hands away from her face. She glared at him. His eyes were still twinkling. “It is you, Olivia, who has not thought what marriage would mean,” he said softly.
“I have given it a great deal of thought!” she exclaimed, stung.
He raised a warning finger, then lightly tapped her nose with it. “You have accused me of considering only the financial aspects of marriage. I say that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
She stared at him. He smoothed her hair back from her brow and caressed her shoulders soothingly, smiling his mocking, maddening smile. “As you so wisely pointed out not so long ago, money isn’t everything.” He kissed her to make sure she understood his point.
She pulled away, incensed. “That is the most cold-blooded insult you have handed me yet. Are you proposing to trade your—your sexual prowess for my money?”
His brows rushed together in a quick frown, but he did not seem to feel nearly as insulted as she did. “I am merely pointing out that marriage is something more than a contract. The rewards it offers are more than monetary, and they are not altogether one-sided.” He nuzzled her cheek, whispering. “We will share a home, my sweet. And a bed.” He kissed her ear, making her shiver. “And children.”
She closed her eyes, awash in sensation. His mouth was wreaking havoc once again with her common sense. But he was right, she told herself weakly. Oh, dear. He was right. The prospect of sharing a home, let alone a bed, with this impossibly desirable man was enough to turn any woman’s head.
And children. The tantalizing, terrifying hope, borne on his whispered words, danced on the edges of her consciousness. She quashed it automatically, from long habit. Then she realized she need not repress that longing anymore if—
—if she married.
And for the second time that night, Olivia Fairfax, mistress of her own fate, queen of her own destiny, careful and commonsensical creature that she was, looked danger directly in the face and smiled. This time she even said it with her eyes wide open.
“Yes.”
22
Sunlight poured across the table linens and flashed and sparkled in the water glasses. The little coffee room looked surprisingly beautiful in the clear light of morning. Olivia hadn’t slept much that night, but she felt remarkably well and wide awake. It was, in fact, a glorious morning, and she was in a mood to notice it and rejoice. Humming under her breath, Olivia spread jam on her toast and waited for her announcement to sink in.
Bessie dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter. “What did you say?”
But Edith flew from her place with a shriek and pounced on her sister-in-law, throwing her arms round her neck. “Oh! Oh! Oh, I think it’s wonderful!”
Olivia laughed and coughed and tried to push Edith away. “Thank you, but pray do not choke me! It can’t come as that much of a surprise.”
Edith bounced back into her chair, chattering merrily. “Oh, but it does! It is! Why, you have always insisted that you would never marry. Everyone says that of you, and I have heard you say it with my own ears! I don’t know how many times you have told me how glad you were to be single. Oh, you sly thing!”
“I wasn’t being sly,” Olivia began, but Edith was still speaking.
“And all the time, you were setting your cap for Lord Rival! I never guessed. Especially since he seems the last man on earth you would choose! Although, I must say, he has certainly seemed attentive—and in a respectable sort of way, which, considering the tales one hears of him, makes this doubly surprising. Of all the unlikely matches! What a seven-day wonder it will be! The town will talk of nothing else. Rake Rival and Lady Olivia Fairfax—the most confirmed bachelor in London and the most dedicated spinster!”
Edith broke into a peal of laughter which Olivia found herself unable to share. She set her toast back down on her plate. Her appetite had unaccountably diminished. She stole a glance at Bessie, who looked as if she had been turned to stone. A shadow crept across Olivia’s bright morning.
But then the door opened and George walked in. The sight of him shot a swift, visceral flutter of nerves through Olivia, making her feel almost lightheaded. The combination of weak-kneed desire and giddy fear clashing within her was, to say the least, unsettling. He looked as beautiful as a jungle creature, and every bit as lethal. Her agreement to marry this powerful, dangerous man suddenly seemed impossible. Deranged! Had she lost her mind?
Then he smiled at her, and she knew she would do anything to keep him at her side. She had not only lost her mind, she had lost her heart. He hadn’t tricked her into saying yes; she had been dying for an excuse to say yes. Too late now, too late, hammered mournfully in her brain as she extended her hand to him, blushing and smiling like any other bride. She would save her regrets for later. With George bowing over her hand, all she could feel was idiotic happiness.
He shot her a secret smile that intensified her blush. “Good morning,” was all he said, but the way he said it cast her into confusion.
“Good morning,” chirped Edith. “And congratulations! Or is it felicitations we should offer?”
“To me? Congratulations, I think.” He bowed. “I am a lucky man.”
Edith beamed. “Well said, my lord. I daresay that wishing you happy would be redundant.”
He gave Edith an amused glance as he seated himself beside Olivia, not waiting for an invitation. “I had thought, Lady Badesworth, that you would have a rather jaundiced view of marriage at the moment.”
“Oh, no! Not I. Despite my own troubles, I approve of marriage in general.” She giggled as her gaze slid from Lord Rival to Olivia. “It was my sister-in-law whose opinion of matrimony was poor. I’m glad you have been able to change her mind.”
“So am I,” said George agreeably, reaching for the coffeepot.
Olivia felt as if she were suffocating. “My opinion of marriage has not changed,” she said, as firmly as she could. “It’s just that . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she gazed helplessly round
the table. All eyes were on her, and she could not find a way to finish her sentence. George looked amused, Edith surprised, and Bessie still had that queer, stonefaced expression. George spoke smoothly into the silence, finishing her sentence for her.
“You and I will be the exception that proves the rule.” He took a calm sip of coffee. “Unlike the majority of husbands, I shall not dominate my wife.”
Olivia choked at this patently false assertion. George dominated every room he entered, simply by the force of his personality! The thought of him dwindling into a meek and deferential husband was ridiculous. She shot him a fulminating glare, which he met with his blandest smile.
Bessie spoke at last. Her voice was thick with suppressed emotion. “I do wish you happy, Ivy. I do.” She whisked a handkerchief out and blew her nose fiercely. “It comes as a bit of a shock, but if it must be—”
“It must,” said George.
“Then I wish you happy. I wish you both happy. There!” She gave a last sniff and began nervously wadding her handkerchief. “I am sorry to be so—so overset. The news has taken me by surprise, is all. I never dreamed—but never mind. I shall come about.” She straightened in her chair and assumed the determined expression of a soldier resolved to do his duty. “I’ve a high opinion of you, my lord,” she announced unexpectedly. “I didn’t care for you at first, as you may have surmised. But I’ve come to see that you are a man of honor. After yesterday’s events, I am inclined to think that the world has painted an undeservedly black picture of you, and I mean to correct it if I can. You have the makings of a hero in you, my lord, and I shall tell whoever will listen.”
George looked both surprised and touched. “Thank you, Miss Fairfax. But pray do not imagine that the world has wronged me. I earned my sordid reputation, and you were quite right to view me with suspicion.” The glimmer of a smile lit his features. “You are also right to abandon that view now, however, and I hope we will be friends.”
Bessie gave a brisk nod. “Very good, my lord. I hope so, indeed.” She looked from George to Olivia and back again. “What are your plans?”
