Tempted by the Viscount

by Sofie Darling

  Clearly, Nick and Mariana didn’t, their bodies flat up against each other, the entire length of her body pressed full length against his. Mariana, feline and sensual, stretched up to whisper into his ear. A quicksilver smile flickered across Nick’s lips, and his eyes glowed with promise.

  “It looks like the prelude to a coupling,” Miss Fox whispered.

  Olivia ripped her gaze away and stared down into her champagne glass. It wasn’t only yearning that was turning her stomach into knots. It was jealousy, pure and primitive. She wanted what her sister had.

  She wanted the carnality and the passion . . . the love and the ease . . . She wanted it all.

  And it wasn’t possible. Not for her.

  What Nick and Mariana shared was unique to them. Olivia would wager her new townhouse that no other couple in this room experienced that sort of love, singular and true. During their courtship, she’d thought she had it with Percy. Their marriage had shattered that particular illusion. But she now understood she could have it with the right man. And in her very soul she knew who the right man was.

  But she couldn’t have him. She was the wrong woman.

  The music ended on an upbeat flourish, and the couples cleared the floor to make way for a new set. Nick and Mariana melted into the crowd.

  “That was quite an elucidating experience,” said Miss Fox, a bewildered smile belying her sardonic tone. “Is it only me or has this room warmed by a few dozen degrees?”

  A wry chuckle escaped Olivia. “I’m afraid my silk fan may not be up to the task of cooling me sufficiently after that display.”

  Miss Fox’s familiar vulpine smile spread across her face, even as an unfamiliar warmth reached her eyes. “Lady Olivia, I rather like you.”

  With that, Miss Fox departed on a shush of silk skirts, taking the moment of levity with her. Olivia closed her eyes and exhaled a sigh on the hope that her breath could force out the horrible feeling gnawing at her stomach.

  “You should be dancing.”

  Her eyes startled open on a surprised gasp. “Jake?”

  Could it be? She blinked. It could.

  He bowed. “In the flesh.”

  Flesh. The word caught between the chinks of her armor, and her heart hammered in her chest. It was possible that her heart would break free of her ribs and reveal itself to him. “It’s really too bad that yours is—”

  She stopped herself from finishing that sentence. So thoroughly covered.

  Had she been about to speak those words aloud?

  The smile that curled about his lips and reached all the way up to his eyes told her that she didn’t need to. He’d done it for her in his head.

  A flurry of anticipation shivered up her spine. She liked that he had. The way he was looking at her . . . She liked that, too. It was entirely possible she liked everything about this man.

  On a reckless wave of abandon and desire, she stepped forward, a slight wobble in her step. From two glasses of champagne? Lord, she was light as a titmouse when it came to wine. He likely noticed, but she cared not. She lowered into a deep curtsy that might have listed left. She steadied herself before rising and extended her hand. “Lord St. Alban, would you do me the honor of the next dance?”

  The arctic blue of his eyes warmed, and the distance between them melted. He reached out and wrapped his gorgeous, capable fingers around her hand. “It would be my utmost pleasure.”

  He led her onto the dance floor just as a quadrille struck up. Tittery, gossipy shock rattled the air around them, its silky sibilance ascending into a soft buzz, continuing to rise in volume until it crescendoed into a roar, excited and delighted. The music ceased on a jarring and discordant note, eliciting disgruntled rumblings from everyone eager for a little scandalous drama. What could be more delightful at a ball?

  Two familiar-looking young bucks brandished what appeared to be a bundle of bank notes at the musicians. Next, a violin bow swept across strings, and the quadrille transformed into another waltz. The ton wanted a show, and she and Jake were to provide it.

  She moved with him on a wave of champagne bubbles. She’d never felt so light, so free, as when she placed her hand onto his shoulder, felt the sinewy flex of hardened muscle, and their feet glided into motion to the buoyant one-two-three rhythm of the waltz.

  His warmth enveloped her in a cocoon at once safe and precarious, and she was absolutely lost. It was dangerous to be here with him, to expose her vulnerability to the ton, but she couldn’t help herself. Her entire being pulsed with the particular joy that sprang up from one’s heart when its desire was fulfilled. She was powerless beneath its sway.

  She should set her gaze over his shoulder. She should keep her posture rigid and her arms stiff. She should keep him at a proper distance. But, oh, how she didn’t want to be—

  Safe.

  The word jolted her out of this sugar-spun fantasy borne of want and ache and unbridled joy. What was she doing? This waltz, this night, would end, reality would reestablish itself, and what would she have done?

  She had no business dancing the waltz the way Nick and Mariana had. A mortified blush crept up her décolletage, and she aligned her spine into an upright rod and set her arms at a stiff angle.

  How close to the edge she’d come. How close she still wanted to come.

  Oh. That sounded wrong.

  And true. Oh, so true.

  And wrong. Utterly wrong.

  Champagne.

  Tomorrow, she would blame it all on champagne, bubbly and bright, seductive and beguiling temptress.

  Next to them, a couple danced too close and brushed Olivia’s skirts. A usual occurrence at a ball. It was somewhat odd, however, that this was the first such occasion during this dance. She glanced around, and her heart jumped into her throat. They were one of only four couples dancing. Of the two hundred or so guests, at least half formed a loose circle around the dance floor, watching . . .

  Her and Jake.

  How had she forgotten them?

  Abandoning her arm’s length distance, her erect posture, and her stiff arms, she gathered into him, pressed full-length into his body, and strained toward his ear. “Do you see how they watch us?” she asked, keenly aware of the ton intently, delightedly observing Lady Olivia Montfort make a spectacle of herself with the Right Honorable Viscount St. Alban.

  “Of course.” His warm breath tickled the fine hairs of her neck. “The haiku.”

  How had she forgotten the haiku? She spoke her next words before they stuck in her throat. “They assume we are lovers.”

  “We are lovers.”

  “Were,” was her automatic reply. But she wasn’t certain there was enough conviction in that word to give it the weight of truth.

  As if scalded, she pushed away from him, their only points of contact where their hands rested on necessary stretches of clothed skin. She resolved to ignore the side of her that longed to luxuriate in the long length of him flexing and moving beneath his form-fitting superfine. He was long in more ways than one . . .

  Oh. Where had that come from? She could blame it on the champagne, but it was no use.

  Soon, not soon enough, she recognized the final bars of the waltz. It was finally, blessedly, coming to an end. She made to step backward, to separate from him, but he pulled her in, reducing her physical rectitude to bits. Again, his body pressed against hers, his mouth brushing her ear. “Meet me in the center of the Duke’s labyrinth thirty minutes hence.”

  She opened her mouth to reply that she had other plans for the evening. Plans that involved at least two more glasses of champagne and no trace of him.

  “Say yes, Olivia,” he said, his voice low, raspy, a masculine rumble in his chest that sent shivers racing across her skin, down the length of her spine, threatening to reduce her to jelly right
here in front of the ton.

  She couldn’t think of what to say, her mind wiped clean by him. So she nodded her acquiescence once, a light brush of her soft cheek against the rough stubble of his, imperceptible to the avid crowd hemming them in.

  The music ended on a stirring flourish, and the two young bucks alone shouted a raucous cheer that the rest of the assembled indulged with rolled eyes and inflexible smirks.

  Jake walked her to the edge of the dance floor, bowed, and strode in the direction of the billiard room. Refusing to give the ton what they wanted by watching him walk away like a love-struck girl, Olivia turned to seek out another servant bearing the nectar of the gods. Ever more and more champagne would be needed if she was to survive this night intact.

  But he’d been correct: they did have a few matters to unravel between them.

  And the tight center of an elaborate labyrinth seemed the perfect setting.

  Chapter 26

  Jake rounded yet another leafy corner and found himself facing a hedgerow identical to the one he’d just left behind. He was late, not having accounted for the fact that he hadn’t the faintest idea how to find the labyrinth’s center. Olivia would know it like the back of her hand.

  A memory from last night stole in: her hand feathering across his bruised chest before pressing her lips to it. That kiss had penetrated all the way through to his heart, and he still felt it there, filling him to bursting. No longer was there room for the hurt, shame, and regret that had plagued him for years. Before him lay a future different from the one he’d envisioned since setting foot in London.

  And he was free to pursue that future. If he could ever find her.

  Fifteen minutes ago, he’d watched her duck out of the ballroom, champagne flute in hand, wobble in her step. Since it wouldn’t do for them to leave together, he’d stood in affable silence for a full five minutes while a lively matron extolled the virtues of her daughter, who stood quietly to the side, eyes cast down to the tips of her white satin slippers. The girl couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Mina. The idea of selling Mina off to a man old enough to be her father churned his gut.

  He’d offered the pair a succinct bow and excused himself, taking a different exit from Olivia, in case curious eyes tracked their movements. One couldn’t be too sure with these people.

  He snorted and shook his head to clear it. Here he was: a formerly capable man reduced to prey for the ton. He made a sharp right, and stopped dead, the breath frozen in his chest. Suddenly, he stood inside the labyrinth’s center, his future laid out before him.

  Awash in moonlight, luminous and sublime, lay a supine Olivia stretched atop a marble bench, gazing up at the night sky, champagne flute lolling gracefully at the end of an outstretched arm. A vision of aristocratic elegance, her ball gown cascaded toward dewy grass that stretched across the space between him and her. The statue of a long-forgotten saint stood vigil, poised to grant a special indulgence only for her, this Aphrodite.

  He stepped forward, snapping both a twig and Olivia out of her reverie. She shot up and swung her legs around, eyes flashing, lips drawn in a straight line just turned down at the corners. She resembled less amorous Aphrodite than vengeful Hera.

  This wasn’t at all the mood he wanted, or expected, for the question he would ask.

  “In the excitement of the ball, I forgot to ask you a question that has been bothering me since this morning.” The glare beneath her furrowed brow intensified. “Why were you really at Jiro’s studio?”

  Her question struck him like a swift left hook to the jaw. An inauspicious beginning to say the least, but one he must address if he was to salvage a night that had begun to slide away from him. “Jiro”—The name came unstuck from his throat—“knew of Mina from Japan.”

  Olivia’s head canted to the side. “Knew of Mina from Japan? I thought she was a few days old when she left.”

  “She was.”

  “Then what would it matter to Jiro that Mina is in London? Were you acquainted with him in Japan?”

  Jake stilled, body braced for a blow from a larger opponent. “I’d never spoken to the man until today.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Either you’re talking nonsense or the champagne is dulling my mental faculties. And, for the record, while I think it could be the latter, I’m leaning toward the former.”

  “I didn’t know he was here until I saw the sketches.”

  She leaned forward until she perched on the very edge of her seat. “What sketches?” she asked, her voice a low and hard mirror of the cold stone beneath her. Dread stole into the air and hung about her in heavy waves.

  He must speak the words aloud. “The ones I knocked from your hands.”

  “What is it to you that either the paintings or Jiro are in London?”

  “Have you ever noticed the group of young women in the final painting of the set?”

  “Bottom left corner.”

  “One girl stands slightly apart, reading.”

  “A book.”

  “Pardon?”

  “A Western-style book.”

  Olivia’s eyes widened. She knew.

  Her eyes narrowed. She knew.

  “If she looked anything like she does in the painting, Clemence was really quite lovely.”

  “Quite.” It was possible the moment could go soft and pliable, and he might be able to slip inside it.

  “Then what?” Olivia asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “After you saw my sketches. Then what?”

  “How do you mean?” Sometimes in the ring, it was necessary to shuffle around, to avoid an opponent’s blows, to regain one’s bearings and devise a way forward.

  “What incredible serendipity that you and I travel in the same circles.” Sarcasm laced her every syllable. “What fantastical serendipity that our needs happened to align so neatly.”

  The moment closed with a snap, firm and definite. He shifted on his feet, absorbing the impact of her words.

  “The Duke’s mentorship”—She began ticking items off a list, finger by finger—“The house hunt. Seeing Mina placed at school. Those were all secondary to . . . what?”

  “I needed to get closer to you.”

  “You needed to get closer to me? Well, you certainly succeeded on that front.” Her sharp laugh sliced through the air. “What is so important about Jiro and the paintings?”

  “They were stolen from the most powerful family in Nagasaki, the Kimura.”

  Her eyebrows knit together. “And Jiro—”

  “Stole them.”

  Sudden understanding dawned across her face. “He could know the truth about Mina.”

  Jake nodded. Again, he felt that the moment could grow soft, that opportunity, fragile and skittish, was presenting itself.

  “Why didn’t you simply ask me for his direction?”

  He inched forward, his footsteps muted by springy grass underfoot, encouraged by the direction of their conversation. “I couldn’t risk anyone connecting him to Mina. I didn’t yet know the sort of man he is.”

  A loaded heartbeat passed. “Or the kind of woman I am?” she asked, steady and controlled.

  Too steady. Too controlled.

  Jake stopped cold. Separated by a few feet, the chasm that opened between them spanned the boundless sky.

  “Did you think I would betray her?” A note of hurt ribboned through the question.

  “I couldn’t risk her.”

  “I wouldn’t have risked her.”

  He knew that. But he couldn’t say it. Not now. It would only sound like so many manipulative words.

  “Jiro wouldn’t have risked her. He’s not that sort of man.”

  “Olivia,” he began, anxiety curling through him. The sort of anxiet
y when it sank in that he’d lost a fight, but must stay in the ring and take his pummeling like a man. “His name isn’t Jiro. He is Kai, Mina’s—” He hesitated, the next word twisting his throat into a hard knot. The truth would become more definite, final, spoken aloud.

  Olivia’s pupils flared, pushing her irises into thin, blue rings. “Father,” she spoke for him.

  Another layer of betrayal slipped between them and pushed the chasm wider. She glanced at the half-empty glass in her hand as if wondering how it got there. She lifted it to her lips and downed the champagne in two great swallows. With a simple flick of her wrist, she tossed the empty glass into dense shrubbery. She cleared her throat. “You used me.”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Thoroughly.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now”—She heaved a great sigh and came to her feet—“Jiro isn’t even Jiro anymore. He is Kai.” A mirthless laugh escaped her. “Mina’s father.”

  She closed the remaining distance between them. Fortunately, she wasn’t required to travel far or in a straight line. She tipped her head back to hold his gaze and poked a finger into his chest. Despite the fact that she was undeniably three sheets to the wind, her eyes held his with clarity and control. He would take whatever punishment she chose to dole out, anything she threw at him until she was finished.

  “But there is one question that remains unresolved.”

  “Ask.”

  “How did you find Jiro . . . Kai?”

  There would be no use in hesitating. So he didn’t. He ripped the bandage off in one swipe, swift and sure. “I followed you.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Her body went numb at the confirmation, even as her heart doubled its erratic beat. “Followed me?” Betrayal and exposure blossomed, robbing her of breath.

  He’d used her. He’d lied to her. He’d followed her.