Ripe for Seduction

by Isobel Carr

While Olivia picked her way across the stream, Roland attempted to pull off his boots. He hooked the heel of one under the arch of the other and wiggled his foot out. The other one was a bit more trouble, but after a bit of a struggle, it finally slipped off.

  He’d stripped down to just his shirt and breeches before Olivia noticed. As he yanked his shirt over his head, he heard her indignant gasp.

  “What are you doing?”

  Roland tossed his shirt aside and thumbed open the first button on his breeches. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m going for a swim.”

  Olivia blinked at him, clearly prepared to protest such a plan but unable to find the right words. Roland grinned at her, shucked off his breeches and drawers in one motion, and leapt into the water. When he surfaced in the middle of the pool, Olivia was shaking droplets of water off her petticoats, laughter bubbling out of her.

  “You could join me, you know,” Roland said as he moved to lounge on a submerged shelf of stone. Her eyes traced over him, pausing at his groin. His cock began to stiffen, undeterred by the cold water.

  “I think not,” Livy said before turning to make her way back down to the pool. She kept her gaze carefully averted as she went, her attention given over entirely to the rocks and roots beneath her feet.

  “What, no interest in playing naiad to my Hylas?” Roland said from his perch. Livy didn’t strike him as the kind of woman to throw herself into an al fresco encounter, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make a little headway.

  “No time,” she said, with a dramatically sorrowful expression. “Hylas never left the naiads’ spring, and to the best of my recollection, we’re due back at the Abbey for your grandmother’s birthday celebration this evening. And it would appear from our positions, that it’s you who’s cast in the role of naiad.”

  Roland found himself grinning. “You’re too well-read for a woman.”

  Olivia lips twitched as though she were trying to prevent herself from smiling back at him. “Consequence of being the only child of a scholarly father. As well as the fact that there’s nothing else to do in the country really. Read and ride. And I spent ample time doing both.”

  “There’s fancy needlework.” That earned him a glare from between narrowed eyes. “Or plain if you prefer to make something useful. Margo used to amuse herself decorating boxes and frames with shells. And there’s always knotting a fringe or tambour work.”

  “And there you have it, everything wrong with being a lady of leisure.” She sat down on a rock beside the pool and pulled off her gloves. She dangled her fingers in the water and splashed it onto her wrists before patting damp hands on her neck. Droplets raced down her chest, disappearing into the bodice of her gown. Roland swallowed thickly as his erection grew almost painful.

  “At least dip your feet in.” Roland pushed off his rock and swam back to the center of the pool. “You can’t really mean to forgo such a small pleasure?”

  Olivia eyed him as he treaded water.

  “Shall I promise not to look at your naked feet?”

  She burst into laughter, shaking her head as though she herself couldn’t believe she was about to give in. “I’m afraid I’ll have to allow you to do a great deal more than look.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Devere stared up at her, clearly not understanding. Yet another privilege of being male. Livy extended one foot and gestured toward it. “My stays don’t allow me to unlace my own boots.”

  He struck out toward her, and Livy simply stood and stared. The water didn’t obscure much of his powerful form as it sluiced over him. Wide shoulders, arms as finely muscled as those of the laborers who scythed the lawns at Holinshed, and what she couldn’t see now, she remembered all too well from watching him greedily as he disrobed. Long legs, a taut stomach, and a member that even at rest was larger than those she’d seen depicted on ancient statues or pottery. She’d never seen her husband naked in the light as she just had Devere, but she was sure Souttar hadn’t looked anything like the man before her.

  Devere stopped at the water’s edge and reached for her, fingers dripping, skin glistening in the light. When Livy didn’t move, he propped his chin on his fist and simply watched her.

  “I didn’t say I was going to let you play abigail.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  Livy let his question hang in the air. This was a mistake. She could feel it. But the excitement pulsing through her urged her closer to the water. Devere’s hand snaked out and wrapped around her ankle. He pulled himself partially out of the pool as he unlaced her boot. Rivulets of water ran down his back, defining every line of muscle and bone.

  This was what it felt like to be wanton. She was sure of it. Her skin burnt where he touched her. The dull ache that pulsed in her womb intensified until it almost hurt. She’d never anticipated her husband’s touch the way she did Devere’s, had never wanted him to come to her so badly that her hands shook as they did now.

  Devere unhooked her garter with a skillful flick of his thumb and slid her stocking down. She lifted her foot, and he pulled the length of silk free. Livy swallowed hard, ignoring the clamor of alarm that sounded dimly inside her. He might be the predator, but she still held the whip. He’d go only as far as she let him.

  The rock was rough and warm beneath her foot. Devere leaned forward and removed her other boot. The stroke of his hand on her thigh as he loosed her remaining garter nearly sent her crashing to the ground.

  Devere yanked her stocking free and tossed it atop her boots. Panic fluttered in her stomach, and she pushed it back down as he retreated into the pool, his gaze, hot and full of desire, flitting up to meet hers before returning to her feet. He was waiting to pounce, circling warily as though she might still take flight.

  Livy stepped to the edge of the pool and sat down, careful to keep her skirts dry. Devere moved in again as she dipped her feet into the water. The pool was deep, right from the edge, no wading in. It was all or nothing.

  Hands encircled her ankles before sweeping up her calves. Devere hooked his fingers behind her knees and tugged her to the very edge of the pool. Livy held him off, pushing against his chest with her toes. “Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she warned him. “I won’t be bedding you here on this rock.”

  He chuckled as if he’d known she was going to set terms. One hand, cold from the water, then hot as it met her skin, slid up her leg, and Livy jumped. Devere steadied her. “Today is about nothing but your pleasure.”

  Livy nodded, ignoring the implication that some future date would be about his. He could imagine it, dream of it, but that didn’t mean he could bring that want to fruition.

  His thumb circled on the inside of her knee, a slow, seductive caress. His head disappeared behind the curtain of her petticoats, and Livy gasped as his mouth trailed up her thigh. A hand slid up the opposite leg and ran aground on her mons. She was slick and swollen with excitement. Fingers explored her, spread her open, and then Devere’s thumb found the sensitive peak at the apex of her thighs. Livy bit back a whimper.

  The slightest hint of a bite on her inner thigh was followed by Devere pushing her legs wide and replacing his thumb with his mouth. He sucked and lapped, filling her with his fingers. His wet hair was cold as it trailed across her overheated skin, the sensation almost painful.

  Livy clutched her skirts, raising them, beyond embarrassment as Devere pushed her toward her climax with his mouth and hands. Her thighs gripped his shoulders, and Livy held on for dear life as he slid a third finger into her and moaned into her flesh. Her body clenched around him in response, the first flutter of her climax singing through her veins.

  So damn close. As close as she’d been on the boat when she’d made him stop. Livy arched, scraping herself on the rock beneath her. Devere braced her as she began to slide down toward the water, his shoulders holding her up now, his mouth locked over her, drawing hard.

  Livy climaxed with a cry that seemed loud even to her own ears. Devere drew his tongue up the full swo
llen length of her as she tried to piece herself back together.

  He dropped a hot, open-mouthed kiss on her quaking thigh and lifted her, setting her back far enough that she wouldn’t spill bonelessly into the water when he let go of her.

  “You’re not the slightest bit in love with me yet?” Cold water splashed over her exposed legs as he fell back into the pool.

  “Do you wish you were dead yet?” Livy closed her eyes and simply lay there, savoring every small pulse and quiver as her body recovered. She heard the slosh of water as Devere climbed out of the pool and opened her eyes when a spray of droplets fell across her chest.

  He was standing beside her, looming really as was his typical wont, wringing out his hair. Livy found herself staring up in slightly awed appreciation. He was fully aroused, shaft hard and full, dusky head engorged. It was all she could do not to reach out and touch him.

  Devere caught her looking, and his confident smile widened into a grin. “Like an old dog, he’ll go back to sleep as soon as he realizes you’re not going to pet him.”

  “What?” Livy sat up, dizzy for a moment as she did so. The leaves and dappled light swirled, like a painting purposefully smeared before it dried. Livy wiped a hand over her eyes.

  A deep somewhat rueful laugh rumbled out of Devere. He turned and retrieved his drawers, long lines of muscle moving under olive skin. He pulled them on and fastened them shut, the clear line of his erection still more than obvious through the linen but thankfully more easily ignored when veiled.

  “Let’s get your shoes on,” he said, still smiling, “and then you can play valet.”

  Devere helped her up and knelt down before her, hair swinging loose over his shoulder and beginning to curl at the tips as it dried. He carefully pulled her stockings on, fingers lingering as they smoothed the silk into place. He pushed her skirts up and hooked her garters, circling them as though checking that they were properly in place. Livy’s blood heated anew. She could feel each beat of her heart repeat between her thighs like a secret entreaty: Appease me, take me, fill me.

  Devere held out a boot, and Livy slid her foot into it after he dusted off the bottom of her stocking. He did the same with its mate, holding her foot on his thigh, just below his still-evident erection, as he laced it. When her boot was laced and tied, Devere patted her foot as though she were a horse whose shoe he’d picked before he stood and went to his own pile of discarded clothing. He yanked it on with brutal efficiency: stockings, breeches, shirt, waistcoat.

  He sat to pull on his boots, and Livy picked up his coat and began dusting it off. Little bits of dried bracken clung to the heavy linen. Livy brushed them away. His coat smelled like him. Like bergamot and brandy. The heady rush of scent did nothing to distract her from the bulge straining beneath the fall of his breeches or the heavy rush of desire pumping through her veins.

  She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to look at Devere in quite the same way again. How could any woman look at a man who’d touched her in such a way and not be drawn back to those moments of intimacy? Shocking enough to have had his hands and mouth on her, to have given herself to him in such a way, but she simply couldn’t get the image of him naked and rampant beside the pool out of her head. Couldn’t stop imagining what came next.

  With a fluid motion, Devere plucked his coat from her grasp and shrugged into it. Livy ran her hands over his shoulders, smoothing it down. He felt good. Better than any man had a right to. It was all she could do not to lean in and bury her nose in his neck. She contented herself with buttoning up his waistcoat.

  Devere scooped up his cravat from where it lay draped in surrender over a large frond of bracken. He looped it over her, winding the length around his fists, and dragged her to him. His mouth came down on hers as he trapped her against his chest, but where she’d expected something hard, something punishing, his lips were soft, a gentle exploration.

  Livy worked her arms free and wrapped them around Devere’s neck. This she could do for hours. No one ever spoke about the simple wonder of a kiss. They were too busy warning where it might lead.

  A crackle in the woods brought Devere’s head up with a snap. Livy turned to follow his gaze. A small spaniel stood not ten feet away, eyeing them with enormous brown eyes. Devere’s grip on his cravat loosened momentarily, and Livy took a step back. At the sound of her shoe scraping across rock, the dog barked once and raced off into the woods.

  Devere unwound one hand from his cravat, freeing her. He shook out the crushed length of linen and tied it in a haphazard knot around his throat before thrusting the ends through a buttonhole like a postillion.

  His hair was nearly dry already and seemed curlier than ever. She knew women would kill for such hair, for a life free of curling papers and tongs. Livy held out the plain black ribbon he’d used to bind his queue, and Devere scraped his hair back and bound it up. “Nuncheon?”

  CHAPTER 24

  The look on Olivia’s face as she sampled The Pig and Whistle’s homebrew was priceless. Her eyes watered and blinked rapidly, her mouth screwed up with distaste, and she swallowed with obvious reluctance.

  “You could have spit it out.” Roland took a sip of his own ale. A bitter nut brown, it was perfect on a hot afternoon. As late in the day as it was, they had the inn’s small outdoor garden entirely to themselves. It was little more than rough-hewn tables and benches spread out under a cluster of trees, and it usually played host to local laborers and the occasional lost traveler.

  “I’ve never had an ale.” Olivia pushed the tankard away from her as though the beverage might leap out and force its way down her throat. “And I don’t think I ever shall again.”

  Roland chuckled and took another sip of his own. “That’s probably just as well. Wouldn’t want your father thinking I’m corrupting you.”

  Her eyes widened and color stained her cheeks. He loved her blushes. They gave away the simple fact that she was out of her depth when it came to flirtation, no matter the front she put up. It was endearing in its own way. She had so many little quirks that he was going to greatly miss when she sent him packing.

  Old Thomas, who’d owned and run The Pig and Whistle for as long as Roland had been alive, came out with a large plate loaded down with the same simple fare he served the laborers: apples, sharp cheese, and hearty bread.

  Roland reached for an apple. “Thomas, can you bring Lady Olivia a cider? Thank you.”

  She smiled at the ancient innkeeper apologetically as the man wiped his hands on his apron and nodded. “Of course, Master Roland.”

  He could see the laughter in her eyes at his being addressed as if he’d yet to be breeched. As Old Thomas disappeared back into his inn, Roland shook his head and made a reproving sound with his tongue. “Don’t start,” he warned.

  “Having always been Lady Olivia, how I’m addressed hasn’t changed, but yes, there are certainly servants—and tenants—at Holinshed who still treat me as though I were five years old.”

  Before he could respond, Thomas reappeared with another clay tankard, which he set before Olivia with an expectant air. “It’s pear cider, my lady, very sweet and cold from the root cellar.”

  “Thank you, pear is my favorite,” Olivia said before picking up the rough pottery mug and taking a drink.

  Thomas beamed, and Roland bit into his apple, letting the sweet juice flood his mouth. He’d bet a monkey she’d never tasted cider before today either, but it was more likely to please a palate used to sweet wines and orgeat punches than ale.

  “Coffee?” he said as Thomas left them.

  “Coffee?” Olivia cocked her head, her expression uncomprehending.

  “Yes, coffee. Do you drink it? Or do you prefer cocoa or tea in the morning?”

  “Cocoa and a muffin with ginger preserves.”

  “Though you had tea and toast this morning.”

  Olivia took another sip of cider. “It’s rude to demand something other than what’s offered.”

  “I feel exactly the
same way.”

  She raised a brow, challenging him. “I find that somewhat surprising given your behavior since our bargain commenced.”

  Roland nudged the plate at her, and Olivia began to eat. “I’m yours to command, my lady. At any time you may snap your fingers and call me to heel.”

  “You’re no dog.” Olivia took a bite of bread and cheese and chewed thoughtfully. “Dogs live to obey. You live in the hope of an opportunity to do as you like.”

  “Perhaps I am more of a tom,” Roland said with a dismissive shrug. “I imagine most men are, but be assured, whatever opportunities I might take, I go only as far as you allow.”

  Olivia nodded and reached for her tankard with an unsteady hand. “That’s what frightens me.”

  When they returned to Croughton, Devere’s brother called him into the library, and Livy continued upstairs to her room with a grateful sigh. She had several hours in which to compose herself and dress, and she felt in need of every minute.

  Devere had been charming and gentlemanly for the rest of the afternoon, walking her back by a circuitous route that took them down to the Thames and then up through the garden, mimicking their arrival. The roving spaniel, Devere’s sister-in-law’s pet he’d said, had returned and attached itself to them, scampering off toward the stables when they reached the house.

  Her maid appeared with a ewer of hot water, and Livy gratefully stripped down to her shift and washed the sheen of sweat and dirt off her exposed skin. When Frith disappeared into the adjoining closet to shake out her gown, Livy hurriedly washed away the incriminating stickiness between her thighs.

  She was still tender to the touch. The fine linen of the towel felt abrasive on her sensitive flesh. Visions of Devere’s dark head between her thighs made her pulse waver and her hands shake. Her husband had certainly never done anything like that. She hadn’t even known such a thing was possible, let alone that it would bring pleasure a hundred times more intense than simply letting a man get his hand up her skirt.