His arm was tight around her waist, and he kept her hand firmly clasped in his own. His body pressed against hers, and she could feel his…
A bolt of clarity swept through Olivia. She was completely out of her depth. This man was experienced, suave, and while Olivia couldn’t begin to comprehend his motivations, Lord Fenwicke knew exactly what he was doing.
Soon the waltz ended, and Lord Fenwicke gave Olivia his arm and led her from the dance floor. She glanced around, looking for one of her sisters or Jonathan and finding none of them. Jonathan and Serena were probably still upstairs, but Jessica should be nearby.
She and Lord Fenwicke ultimately ventured toward the punch table, and he disengaged her arm from his for long enough to whip his hand out and take a crystal glass filled with bubbling champagne punch from the table. He handed it to her with a little bow. “For you, Miss Donovan.”
“Thank you.” After the vigorous dance and the rollicking emotions and confusion she’d experienced during it, Olivia’s mouth was dry, and she took the glass gratefully. She put her lips to the edge and drank half of it in one swallow. It was sweet and bubbly. Delicious.
Lord Fenwicke took his own glass and offered his arm again. She hesitated, but then, not knowing what else to do and not wishing to be rude, she threaded her arm through his.
“I do see your gaze darting about.” He gave a little chuckle. “You look rather like a trapped bird, Olivia. But it seems your sister and brother-in-law have vacated the premises. Never fear, my dear. I shall remain with you until your happy family is reunited.”
She took another gulp of champagne. The drink was already moving through her veins—a tingling rush of blood just beneath her skin.
“Shall we hunt for them?” he asked, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.
It was quite all right that Jessica, Serena, and Jonathan had disappeared. She needn’t panic. Lord Fenwicke wouldn’t abandon her to the vultures surrounding them, all those society matrons and gentlemen who suddenly seemed to be observing them with speculation in their narrowed eyes.
Lord Fenwicke said they were envious. If this was envy, she’d prefer to be a poor dancer, tripping all over her partner’s feet and having them laugh at her idiocy instead.
“Yes,” she told him, ignoring them all, “let’s find them.”
“Are you sure you want to go up there?” Serena had asked in the middle of the waltz, in a voice so low no one besides Jonathan could possibly hear her.
His blue eyes blazed down at her in the way that made heat flush over her skin. “I do.” His voice was low and soft, his tone confident.
The mere simplicity of the way he said the words washed away all her doubts and fears. They were married now. Nothing could possibly tear them apart like it had so many years ago. Not even an upstairs alcove at the Dowager Duchess of Clayworth’s ball. She took a deep breath and smiled up at him.
He leaned toward her and whispered in an undertone. “Don’t look, but the dowager’s blade-like gaze is focused upon us. No doubt she believes it uncouth for a husband and wife to spend as much time together as we already have. Let’s escape her inevitable attempt to skewer us and go upstairs.”
Serena didn’t dare look. She cut a glance up to him. “No doubt she’ll march over here and bodily thrust us apart.”
Jonathan nodded sagely. “No doubt,” he said on a sigh.
God, how she’d missed him. Serena’s lips tingled with the desire to kiss him. Reuniting with him here, where they could hardly touch for fear of societal reprisal, was torturous. She wanted to take him home and to bed, where they could spend long, languorous hours together making love… But that wouldn’t be fair to Olivia and Jessica, who needed this exposure to the ton. And surprise of surprises, Olivia seemed to be having fun.
She took his arm, and together they walked up the vast, winding staircase. They were both silent as they made their way to the top. No doubt Jonathan was remembering, as Serena was.
That night… so long ago. To be so in love with someone that you lost all common sense—that was how she’d felt about Jonathan. Nothing had mattered to her. She hadn’t given a fig what anyone thought of her. Except Jonathan. He’d meant the world to her, and she’d just known he felt the same way.
She drew in a shuddering breath. It was all in the past. She loved him equally now, but with a more rational sensibility. At least, she hoped so.
They reached the grand landing at the top of the stairs and stood at the polished wooden rail near the musicians, looking down over the ballroom below. The chords of the waltz swelled clear and sweet around them.
“It’s still magnificent, but somehow… well, it seemed bigger then,” she mused.
He raised a brow at her. “Did it?”
She nodded. “I remember feeling like I was swimming in some grand, foreign ocean of elegance and beauty. Now”—she gestured at the crowd of dancers swirling in pairs below them—“it’s just a room.”
Jonathan gave a low chuckle. “Just a room filled with silk and gold and diamonds.”
She smiled at him. “You must be spoiling me indeed if I’m beginning to see all these riches as commonplace.”
“They are commonplace, Serena. What are jewels without someone to wear them?”
She didn’t need to answer. She knew what he meant. While she’d been struggling in poverty in the West Indies, Jonathan had remained among these people for years. Surrounded by riches but empty inside.
He slipped his arm around her, but she didn’t stiffen as would probably be appropriate. There were still people wandering this way and that on the landing behind them, and even though the orchestra was busy with the waltz, most of the musicians had a clear view of them.
She leaned against him and let her eyelids sink until they were half shut. She caught a glimpse of Olivia, her blonde beauty ethereal from this distance, as her partner spun her in tight circles as they spanned the breadth of the dance floor.
Serena and Jonathan stood in silence for a few moments, pressed against each other, Serena just enjoying the strength and warmth of her husband.
“Come,” he murmured finally, adjusting his hold around her waist but not releasing her. “Let’s walk.”
She didn’t answer but allowed him to maneuver her around and toward the far corridor. Not the corridor that led to the famous gallery containing the portraits of the dowager’s ancestors, but the corridor opposite. The narrower, dimly lit passageway that led to their alcove. Or, at least, the alcove Serena had, once upon a time, thought of as theirs.
And there it was. The second closed door on the left. Pausing in front of it, Jonathan glanced at her, the question as clear as cut crystal in those deep blue eyes. She gave a nearly imperceptible nod.
“Yes.” The word came out on the merest breath of air.
He turned the brass handle and pushed the door open.
It was exactly as it had been before. A small balcony room that looked out over the ballroom. Curtains on either side of the balcony were tied back with heavy, tasseled golden ropes. A thick Persian carpet covered the floor. Two chairs, upholstered in the same red velvet as the curtains, furnished the room.
Jonathan’s fingers slipped from the door handle. The two of them stood there, mute, staring at the place where their lives had taken a turn both of them had regretted for so long.
Serena swallowed hard. “It hasn’t changed,” she said, her voice rough with emotion.
Jonathan shook his head. “No.”
His hand moved down to hers, enclosing it in his firm grip, his warmth passing through the layers of their gloves. Slowly, he stepped inside, tugging her along with him. Serena took a quavering breath and followed. Behind them, seemingly of its own accord, the door swung shut on silent hinges.
They were alone. Jonathan released Serena’s hand and turned to her.
“I remember that night,” he said, his voice low. “I wanted you so much…”
“I felt the same way.”
“I cou
ldn’t get enough of you, Serena. I still can’t.”
She gazed at him. She couldn’t get enough of him, either. She was older now. Calmer, and more mature. But her desire for this man was a living thing within her. It would never go away.
The kiss was as inevitable as her next breath. His lips came down on hers, featherlight and seeking at first. Soft and warm, and on simple instinct, her lips opened to him. She gave a little gasp as she tasted him, dark and warm and masculine. His hands slid around her body, drawing her so close she felt like she was a part of him.
The touch, the soft intensity of him lit a slow simmer in her belly that spread to her nerve endings, tightening the tips of her breasts and heating her between her legs.
Someone moved outside. Someone spoke. Footsteps sounded in the corridor. And memories of that horrible moment of discovery flooded back into Serena, cold and bitter. Her heart surging, Serena placed her palms on her husband’s chest and pushed him back.
“Stop!” she whispered, the sound emerging more like a sob than a command.
He let go of her instantly and simply gazed at her for a long moment, his eyes narrow but glittering with heat and need.
Then, he said in a low, angry voice, “It doesn’t matter.”
She gulped in a breath, still terrified by the fear of discovery. “What doesn’t matter? What do you mean?”
“It never mattered. We were so stupid to believe everyone who told us it did.” He shook his head, his lips—his beautiful, soft, full lips—turning downward in disgust. “We let them convince us that what we did here was wrong and unprincipled… But it was just us, together, exploring all those newfound sensations, learning about each other…”
And she understood exactly what he meant. If it hadn’t been for the intrusion of others who’d condemned them for their actions, Serena and Jonathan would have remembered what they’d done in here as special. As a symbol of how they felt for each other—then and now. Instead, they’d been persecuted—and that wasn’t too harsh a word, considering what both of them had been through, she thought—for years over it.
Their punishment had far, far outweighed their crime. Except love, in the way that she and Jonathan loved each other, should never be considered a crime.
Serena reached up and cupped her husband’s face in her hands. He must’ve shaved before coming here tonight because his cheeks lacked the roughness she could usually feel under her gloved hands this time of day.
“You’re right,” she told him, her voice no longer shaking with fear of discovery but with the certainty of conviction. “It should never have mattered. We were both so wrong to let others’ judgments get in the way of that.”
Jonathan closed his eyes, then reopened them. They shone dark, like the deepest stretch of sea between England and the West Indies.
“I love you,” she whispered. And, truly, nothing else mattered.
She drew him into a kiss. His warmth and his strength enveloped her as his tongue brushed over the seam of her lips, softening them, coaxing them to open. When they did, she touched her tongue to his, and his taste became a part of her. They fell into a kiss so deep and so warm that she sank into it like the softest blanket. It wrapped around her luxuriously, sweetly, deeply. His hands stroked down the curve of her waist, then to her front, brushing over her breasts, over her nipples that were so wildly sensitive she gasped as pleasure rocked her, the sensation powerful even through the layers of her clothing.
“Serena,” he whispered. The rigid length of his arousal pressed against her hip, just like it had that night before he’d opened his falls and set her over him on one of those red velvet–upholstered armchairs. She’d lowered herself over him, and, oh, the pleasure…
The memory sent longing pulsing through her, and she bit back a low moan.
He bent his head, pressing soft kisses on the delicate skin of the swell of her breasts peeking out above her bodice. She threaded her hands into his hair, closing her eyes as the silky strands whispered through her gloved fingertips.
And Serena knew that if her husband wanted to take her now, on the chair as he had seven years ago, she’d have him. With pleasure.
Chapter Three
Olivia and Lord Fenwicke made a slow circuit around the ballroom, peering into each adjoining room as they passed, nodding and greeting people they knew. It seemed Lord Fenwicke was acquainted with everyone, and though everyone they encountered was polite and outwardly congenial, Olivia felt a strange undercurrent in the conversations, something dark and dishonest that she couldn’t begin to comprehend.
She was glad that none of the people lingered to talk—they all made her uncomfortable. Instead of joining in the brief conversations, she sipped at the remainder of her champagne, feeling positively languid as she drifted along on Lord Fenwicke’s arm. When they’d gone in a complete circle, Lord Fenwicke stopped at the punch table and plucked up two more glasses.
Olivia shook her head when he held one of them toward her. “Oh, no, thank you.” She felt odd enough already—tingly and light; another glass and she’d likely be doing somersaults across the ballroom.
Although that might not be such a bad idea. What was so wrong with somersaults? At the moment, she couldn’t remember. She used to watch her sisters have so much fun leaping about and doing somersaults. Mother had never let her join in.
She shook off the thought and steeled herself. Regardless of whether she could remember why it was inappropriate, somersaulting across the ballroom was a bad idea, a very bad idea. She pressed her hand to her hair and felt that, despite her many tight turns with Lord Fenwicke on the dance floor, her bandeau was still pinned firmly to her head.
Lord Fenwicke handed the glass he’d offered her to a passing servant and took a sip of his punch. “Well, it appears your family has disappeared.”
Gnawing on her lower lip, Olivia glanced around one last time, though she knew the effort would be futile. “I don’t know where Jessica’s gone, but my sister and Jonathan—Lord Stratford—had mentioned going upstairs.”
“Ah. Have you been upstairs yet?”
“Not yet.”
“There are several lovely rooms up there. I’ll be happy to show them all to you.” His dark eyes gleamed at her. He was teasing her, but why? No, it felt like more than teasing; it was something predatory, a suggestion… but of what?
Her inexperience was bad enough, but topped with the glass of champagne… oh, dear. She needed to focus.
She did just that as he took her arm again and led her along the edge of the dance floor to the massive, curving mahogany staircase. At the top, they stopped on the large landing, near where the orchestra had begun another quadrille, and looked down into the ballroom.
Olivia couldn’t find any words to describe the enormousness of the scene below her from up here. The ballroom resonated with luxuriousness the likes of which she had never seen in Antigua. The ladies wore stylish gowns with large, puffed sleeves and wide skirts of every color imaginable, and the men, in their black waistcoats, white shirts and cravats, and shiny black shoes, were regal and elegant. Dozens of crystal chandeliers illuminated the scene, and their lights sparkled off the jewels in the ladies’ ears and chests and headdresses.
“Welcome to London,” Lord Fenwicke said in a low voice.
She turned to him, wide-eyed. “It’s… marvelous.”
“It certainly is.” He gave a low laugh, but it seemed to be tinged with bitterness. How odd, Olivia thought. He didn’t seem like a bitter man.
He took her arm again. “Come. I want to show you something.”
He led her around the orchestra and down a long gallery, the walls of which were covered with portraits from front to back and top to bottom, all, no doubt, of the Dowager Duchess of Clayworth’s esteemed family members. Couples and small groups were scattered here and there along the gallery, admiring the portraits. But Lord Fenwicke didn’t linger. He hurried her along until they came to a tall, narrow door at the end of the gallery.
“In here,” he murmured, opening the door for her and gesturing her inside.
Curious as to what could possibly be so interesting that he’d rush her through the gallery and past so many other rooms, she went inside. He followed her in and closed the door behind them.
The small space wasn’t really a room. It was an alcove with a balcony overlooking the ballroom. Olivia had never been to the theater, but she imagined a box at the theater would look something like this, though she figured there must be chairs in a theater box, and this room was devoid of furniture. Red curtains tied back with golden ropes draped both sides of the rounded balcony, allowing the light from the ballroom below to give the room a soft glow.
Olivia looked up at Lord Fenwicke, her brows drawn together in a questioning expression. Keeping his thin lips pressed together, he smiled at her. “What do you think? This is one of four rooms overlooking the ballroom, but since it is at the far end of the gallery, it is the most private.”
Her confusion deepened. She didn’t really want to be “private” with Lord Fenwicke.
“Is it?” she asked, not knowing what else to say. Her eyes cut toward the door, but Lord Fenwicke was standing between it and her, and she couldn’t push past him and exit from the room without seeming utterly rude.
Lord Fenwicke stepped toward her, and she took a corresponding step back.
He cocked his head to the side. “This is what you want, isn’t it, Olivia?”
She blinked at him, at the presumptuousness of him calling her by her given name. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you wanted to be alone with me, here. That’s why you danced so close to me tonight, rubbing your provocative little body against mine. That’s why you asked me to lead you up here.”
She swallowed hard. “I’m afraid—”
“I can give you what you want. I can give you an education you’ll find entirely worthwhile. You’re hungry for my touch, Olivia. I can feel your hunger. Sense it. I’ll give you what you need. Everything you need.”
Once Upon a Wicked Night Page 2
