His arms snaked around her, and he dragged her close. So close, she could feel the ridge of his erection through her skirts, pressing against her belly.
“No!” she whispered. Terror swept through her, paralyzing her. But he’s married. He’s married! The thought kept running through her mind, over and over, a steady drumbeat of denial.
But there was no denying his lips coming toward hers, ever closer. His breath smelled of oysters and champagne. At the last second, she turned her head, and his mouth, wet and hard, collided with her jaw, leaving it wet as his lips trailed down her neck to her shoulder, sucking and licking and nipping.
“I’ll take your clothes off and lay you down,” he murmured against her skin. “I’ll take you. Hard, Olivia. So hard, you’ll feel me for a week.”
Uncontrollable whimpers emerged from her throat. She was shaking so hard. She was frozen with shock and terror. He was touching her in an intimate way she’d never been touched before, and it was wrong, so wrong.
He’s married!
His fingers skimmed along the edge of her bodice, and then his whole hand plunged inside, his knuckles scraping over the top of her breast. He found her nipple, captured it between two of his fingers, and pinched.
She opened her mouth to scream, but no more than a gasp emerged. She couldn’t scream. If she screamed, people would find them. Even though he should be blamed, even though she’d never intended for this to happen, she was the one who’d be shunned, ostracized, branded a whore. She knew that much from her mother’s teachings.
Forcing her limbs to obey, she reached up and placed her hands flat on his chest.
“Oh, yes.” He blew into the hollow between her shoulder and neck. He ground his pelvis against her lower stomach.
She gathered her strength. Then, with all her might, she pushed.
Her thrust surprised him, and he stumbled back a step. She ducked under his outstretched arm and sprinted for the door. It was only a few steps away, but just as she reached it, he grabbed her, his long fingers curling around her arm in a grip so hard, she gave a low cry of pain.
“I’m a marquis, if you recall,” he snapped at her, as if it were unthinkable she’d reject the amorous advances of a man of his status regardless of whether the advances were welcome.
And then rage erupted within her, a hot, red burn, and she couldn’t stop the flow of bitter words. They spilled out of her forcefully, painfully, full of acidic bile, but she could do nothing to stop them. “I don’t care one bit if you’re a marquis.”
His eyes widened with surprise, but she wasn’t finished. “I don’t want any man, ever!”
It was the truth. She didn’t ever want a man’s mouth—his saliva—on her again. She didn’t want anyone breathing oysters and champagne, hot and moist and heavy, onto her skin. She didn’t want someone’s arms trapping her, imprisoning her in such a tight web of limbs that they stole the breath from her lungs. She heaved in a great breath and released it on an angry sob.
“Not a wretched London rake,” she choked, “not a marquis, and especially not you!”
With that, she turned on her heel, wrenched her arm from his grasp, and yanked open the door. She hurried into the gallery, slamming the door behind her so hard, the boom resonated in the floorboards under her silk slippers.
Chapter Four
Olivia rushed down the portrait gallery, her head down, not seeing anything beyond the blur of her tears. She could think of nothing besides getting as far away from that horrid man as possible.
The gallery opened onto the landing, where the orchestra played the quadrille, the music like a blaring scream in her head. She passed the top of the stairs, but instead of descending them, she went down the opposite corridor, which appeared to be deserted. Perhaps she could find somewhere to give herself a moment of quiet and privacy in which to settle herself before she returned downstairs.
When she’d turned a slight bend in the passageway, she slowed, rubbing briskly at her eyes. She couldn’t be seen crying, not at the Dowager Duchess of Clayworth’s ball. Not in front of everyone who mattered to Serena and their mother. She’d cry later, alone in her bed.
Deep in the empty corridor where there were only scattered wall sconces to provide the dim light, she slowed her steps and took several deep breaths, bit by bit regaining her composure. There was a closed door to the left—but it wasn’t completely shut, so she pushed it a little farther open, stopping abruptly when she heard a soft sound—like a sigh—coming from inside. Now that the door was ajar, she could see by the thick red drapery and balcony that the room was an alcove similar to the one she’d just left.
She heard another feminine murmur coming from inside, and this time the voice sounded familiar. Serena? After a moment’s hesitation, Olivia peeked around the edge of the door.
It was Serena… and Jonathan, in an intimate embrace not dissimilar from the one Olivia had just escaped from. Jonathan was pressing fervent kisses above her sister’s bodice, and Serena’s head was thrown back, her eyes closed. “I missed you,” she was murmuring, “so, so much.”
“My love,” Jonathan whispered.
And to Olivia’s shock, he moved down farther, kissing the tip of Serena’s breast through her gown. Serena gasped—but it wasn’t a gasp of horror or pain like Olivia’s had been when Lord Fenwicke had pinched her. It was a gasp of pleasure, and her hands reached behind Jonathan’s neck to pull him closer. Color rose on Serena’s cheeks until they flushed scarlet, fingers of redness traveling down her throat.
Was that the color of passion, Olivia wondered, staring at them in awe. It just seemed so… different from what she’d just run from.
Jonathan trailed kisses over Serena’s collarbone and her jaw, eventually returning to her lips. She wrapped her arms around him, and they kissed as if nothing else mattered in the world but their love for each other.
It was how making love should be, Olivia thought. Their caresses were mutually exciting, a give-and-take, with both partners’ consent. It was… beautiful.
With a jolt, Olivia realized she was staring, and she had been staring at what was clearly meant to be a very private moment between husband and wife. She jerked her body back behind the door and leaned against the frame to gather her wits.
Closing her eyes, she listened for a moment. Both Serena and Jonathan were breathing heavily now, and fabric swished as they moved against each other.
She was still eavesdropping—listening was nearly as wicked as watching, after all. But she didn’t dare go back into the ballroom and face the world alone. She needed to be with her family right now, and she had no idea where Jessica might’ve flown off to—hopefully to a safer perch than Olivia had.
She scrubbed at her face again to ensure no lingering trace of tears remained. Then she steeled her back, turned once again to the door, took a breath in hopes that Serena and Jonathan would forgive her intrusion, and knocked.
Silence. The rustle of fabric stopped as Serena and Jonathan went still. Their breathing stopped, too—they were obviously both holding their breath. Seconds after a brief scurrying sound, Serena called, “Yes?”
Olivia took a final, strengthening breath. “Serena, is that you?”
Her voice hardly wavered.
She heard her sister’s sigh of relief—obviously she was glad it was just Olivia and not their hostess who had discovered them this time.
“Come in,” Jonathan said.
Olivia pushed the door farther open, but she hesitated before stepping inside. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I—”
“Oh, you didn’t interrupt anything,” Serena said, but Olivia didn’t miss the look she exchanged with her husband. “We were just…” Her voice trailed off as if she was unsure how to finish the sentence. Olivia couldn’t blame her.
“Just remembering,” Jonathan said softly. He moved closer to Serena and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. She leaned into his embrace.
“Yes. This is the room where…
where we…”
Olivia didn’t need her to finish. “Is it?” she breathed, looking around the alcove with new eyes, trying to imagine a seven-years-younger Jonathan and Serena, half clothed, in an erotic embrace, being “discovered” by the dowager, whose shrill scream had brought half the ton running up the stairs and down the corridor to see what was the matter.
The room was identical, down to the carpet, to one Olivia had fled from. But this room was different. This was the room that had caused Serena to lose so much of herself for so long.
“I thought I couldn’t come back here,” Serena said softly. “But it’s all right. It’s just an innocent little alcove. It’s not at all the horrible place I remember it to be.”
Olivia wondered whether she’d remember the alcove at the other end of the gallery as a horrible place. Probably not. More likely, as much as she already wished she could whitewash it from her mind, she’d remember the horrible Lord Fenwicke and what he’d tried to do to her.
Jonathan gave Serena a crooked smile. “Perhaps, though, it’s best that your sister found us when she did. Otherwise, we might have risked a repeat performance for the poor dowager.”
The heat of embarrassment rushed into Olivia’s cheeks, and a long moment passed, awkward for Olivia but not for husband and wife, for they were sharing a smile and laughing under their breath.
She couldn’t tell them what had just happened with Lord Fenwicke, she realized. Not now. They were both so content. They had healed some long-festering wounds tonight, and Olivia would not ruin this moment for them.
Instead, she blurted out, “Have you seen Jessica? I looked for her after the waltz, but she was nowhere to be found.”
“Oh, yes,” Serena said. “She and Mr. Cannon began the waltz rather too vigorously, and she tore her dress at the hem after the first few steps. She went upstairs with a maid to have it mended.”
“Oh, good,” Olivia said, relieved.
“Were you worried?”
Olivia managed a smile. “Don’t we always worry about Jessica?”
Serena grinned. “That we do. We’d best go find her and make sure she hasn’t tumbled into any mischief.”
And she laughed, the sound pure and happy, causing a reactionary contentment to blush through Olivia’s chest.
Her sisters’ happiness was enough. Olivia could ask for nothing more than for her sisters to be settled and content, to see them begin to embrace joy as they always had before their father’s death.
It had to be enough, because even though Olivia had already suspected it, she knew it now. She was destined for spinsterhood.
She followed behind her sister and brother-in-law as they returned downstairs, smiling through her sadness, wondering what else the night might bring.
As a child, Jennifer Haymore traveled the South Pacific with her family on their homebuilt sailboat. The months spent on the sometimes-quiet, sometimes-raging seas sparked her love of adventure and grand romance. Since then, she’s earned degrees in computer science and education and held various jobs from bookselling to teaching inner-city children to acting, but she’s never stopped writing.
You can find Jennifer in Southern California trying to talk her husband into yet another trip to England, helping her three children with homework while brainstorming a new five-minute dinner menu, or crouched in a corner of the local bookstore writing her next novel.
You can learn more at her website: www.JenniferHaymore.com. You can also follow her on Twitter @jenniferhaymore or find her on Facebook at http://facebook.com/jenniferhaymore.
More Jennifer Haymore
Read Confessions of an Improper Bride
Available Now
After five years in the West Indies,
Serena Donovan is back in London.
But so is the one person she never
expected to see again…
Jonathan Dane—her very own original sin.
Prologue
Off the coast of Antigua
1822
Serena Donovan had not slept well since the Victory had left Portsmouth. Usually, the roll of the ship would lull her into a fretful sleep after she’d lain awake for hours next to her slumbering twin. Her mind tumbled over the ways she could have managed everything differently, how she might have saved herself from becoming a pariah.
But tonight was different. It had started off the same, with her lying beside a sound-asleep Meg and thinking about Jonathan Dane, about what she might have done to counter the force of the magnetic pull between them. Sleep had never come, though, because a lookout had sighted land yesterday afternoon, and Serena and Meg would be home tomorrow. Home to their mother and younger sisters and bearing a letter from their aunt that detailed Serena’s disgrace.
Meg shifted, then rolled over to face Serena, her brow furrowed, her gray eyes unfocused from sleep.
“Did I wake you?” Serena asked in a low voice.
Meg rubbed her eyes and twisted her body to stretch. “No, you didn’t wake me,” she said on a yawn. “Haven’t you slept at all?”
When Serena didn’t answer, her twin sighed. “Silly question. Of course you haven’t.”
Serena tried to smile. “It’s near dawn. Will you walk with me before the sun rises? One last time?”
The sisters often rose early and strode along the deck before the ship awakened and the bulk of the crew made its appearance for morning mess. Arm in arm, talking in low voices and enjoying the peaceful beauty of dawn, the two young ladies would stroll along the wood planks of the deck, down the port side and up the starboard, pausing to watch the sun rise over the stern of the Victory.
What an inappropriate name, Serena thought, for the ship bearing her home as a failure and disgrace. She’d brought shame and humiliation to her entire family. Rejection, Defeat, or perhaps Utter Disappointment would serve as far better names for a vessel returning Serena to everlasting spinsterhood and dishonor.
Serena turned up the lantern and they dressed in silence. It wasn’t necessary to speak—Serena could always trust her sister to know what she was thinking and vice versa. They’d slept in the same bedroom their entire lives, and they’d helped each other to dress since they began to walk.
After Serena slid the final button through the hole at the back of Meg’s dress, she reached for their heavy woolen cloaks hanging on a peg and handed Meg hers. It was midsummer, but the mornings were still cool.
When they emerged on the Victory’s deck, Serena tilted her face up to the sky. Usually at this time, the stars cast a steady silver gleam over the ship, but not this morning. “It’s overcast,” she murmured.
Meg nodded. “Look at the sea. I thought I felt us tossing about rather more vigorously than usual.”
The sea was near black without the stars to light it, but gray foam crested over every wave. On deck, the heightened pitch of the ship was more clearly defined.
“Do you think a storm is coming?”
“Perhaps.” Meg shuddered. “I do hope we arrive home before it strikes.”
“I’m certain we will.” Serena wasn’t concerned. They’d survived several squalls and a rather treacherous storm in the past weeks. She had faith that Captain Moscum could pilot this ship through a hurricane, if need be.
They approached a sailor coiling rope on the deck, his task bathed under the yellow glow of a lantern. Looking up, he tipped his cap at them, and Serena saw that it was young Mr. Rutger from Kent, who was on his fourth voyage with Captain Moscum. “Good morning, misses. Fine morning, ain’t it?”
“Oh, good morning to you, too, Mr. Rutger.” Meg smiled pleasantly at the seaman. Meg was always the friendly one. Everyone loved Meg. “But tell us the truth—do you think the weather will hold?”
“Aye,” the sailor said, a grin splitting his wind-chapped cheeks. “Just a bit o’ the overcast.” He looked to the sky. “A splash o’ rain, but nothin’ more to it than that, I daresay.”
Meg breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, good.”
&n
bsp; Serena pulled her sister along. She probably would have tarried there all day talking to Mr. Rutger from Kent. It wasn’t by chance that Serena knew that he had six sisters and a brother, and his father was a cobbler—it was because Meg had crouched on the deck and drawn his life story out of him one morning.
Perhaps it was selfish of her, but Serena wanted to be alone with her sister. Soon they would be at Cedar Place, everyone would be furious with her, and Mother and their younger sisters would divide Meg’s attention.
Meg went along with her willingly enough. Meg understood—she always did. When they were out of earshot from Mr. Rutger, she squeezed Serena’s arm. “You’ll be all right, Serena,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll stand beside you. I’ll do whatever I can to help you through this.”
Why? Serena wanted to ask. She had always been the wicked daughter. She was the oldest of five girls, older than Meg by seventeen minutes, and from birth, she’d been the hellion, the bane of their mother’s existence. Mother had thought a Season in London might cure her of her hoydenish ways; instead, it had proved her far worse than a hoyden.
“I know you will always be beside me, Meg.” And thank God for that. Without Meg, she’d truly founder.
She and Meg were identical in looks but not in temperament. Meg was the angel. The helpful child, ladylike, demure, moral, and always unfailingly sweet. Yet every time Serena was caught hitching her skirts up and splashing at the seashore with the baker’s son, Meg stood unflinchingly beside her. When all the other people in the world had given up on Serena, Meg remained steadfast, inexplicably convinced of her goodness despite all the wicked things she did.
Even now, when she’d committed the worst indiscretion of them all. When their long-awaited trip to England for their first Season had been cut sharply short by her stupidity.
“As long as you stand beside me,” Serena said quietly, “I know I will survive it.”
Once Upon a Wicked Night Page 3
