by Mia Marlowe
His voice was resonant and deep, with a slightly ragged edge that sanded away at the sharp angles of Olivia’s soul. The sound shivered over her like liquid seduction. She took the gilded envelope from him and broke the wax bearing the Duke of Clarence’s ornate seal. She ran her gaze over the flowery script but found it difficult to focus on the words.
Every time she glanced up, the man was looking at her.
Granted, the other emissary had given her an unhurried perusal upon their first meeting as well, taking in her slight frame. His lips had pursed in a disdainful expression that declared her unremarkable in the extreme.
But this man’s gaze was focused on her face, not her figure. A faint smile played about his lips that invited her to smile back at him.
Against her better judgment, the corners of her mouth turned up. He bared a set of dazzling teeth in return.
Olivia’s belly fluttered as if she’d swallowed a bee. She’d never been so undone by the mere sight and sound of a man before.
This is ridiculous, she told herself crossly. She refolded the letter and tried to stuff it back into the envelope. No matter what she did, the foolscap wouldn’t cooperate despite the fact that it had all fit neatly in there only a few moments before. She finally tossed the whole thing on the tea table in exasperation.
“Please have a seat, my lord, and I’ll ring for refreshments.” Olivia’s hand shook a bit when she gestured toward the settee, so she rang the bell for tea louder than required. She perched opposite him on the blue damask seat of one of the Hepplewhite chairs, folding her hands in her lap to still them.
“That’s not necessary,” Lord Rhys said. “I’m not here to be entertained.”
“It’s no trouble. No doubt you’ll need a spot of tea to revive you once you begin regaling me with the excellencies of His Royal Highness, the Duke of Clarence,” she said, feeling more sure of herself once a maid brought in the tea things and she had something to do with her hands. Olivia was ready for the conversation, and thus the battle was to be enjoined. There was little chance she’d be allowed to say no to the duke’s suit should an actual offer be forthcoming, but she didn’t intend to make things easy for his representative. “Your predecessor waxed long and often over the duke’s…virtues. I feel as if I already know his character well.”
One of his dark brows arched, indicating he caught her hesitation and the unspoken disdain beneath her words. “Extolling His Highness’s…virtues is not my purpose.”
“Oh?” She raised the sterling creamer to offer him milk for his tea, but he shook his head. “But the letter of introduction…”
“While it’s true that I’m here on behalf of the duke’s suit, I’m not here to sing his praises. In truth, that would be a rather short song.”
Olivia nearly dropped the creamer in surprise.
“And as you say,” he went on, “someone else has already done that. No, I’m here to become acquainted with you in the duke’s stead, Miss Symon.”
“Oh.” The other emissary hadn’t asked a single question about her. It was assumed she should be overjoyed with His Royal Highness’s attention and not miss being courted in the usual sense. “Isn’t that something the duke should do for himself?”
“One would think so, wouldn’t one?” Lord Rhys chuckled pleasantly. “However, as I understand it, a royal courtship is almost always accomplished by proxy. I come before you today to stand in his royal shoes, as it were. Thanks to the duke’s previous representative, you know a good deal about him. But I’d wager he knows very little of you.”
Except that I’m an attractive-enough-for-ordinary-purposes virgin who just happens to be worth forty thousand pounds per annum danced on her tongue. Remembering her mother crouched at the keyhole, Olivia bit back the words.
“It’s wicked to wager,” she said primly and wished she hadn’t. For heaven’s sake, I sound like a Puritan, at war with every conceivable pleasure.
His smile was more potent than a pilfered jigger of whisky. “Gambling is the least of my sins, I assure you.”
She added a dollop of cream to her tea, set down the creamer, and stirred furiously. His frank admission shocked her to her toes. And sent a strange little thrill coursing through her belly. To be wicked and willing to admit it. Now, that was an accomplishment. She burned to ask about his greater failings, but her eavesdropping mother would want her to stick to the main topic of conversation.
“What sort of things would the duke like to know about me?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure,” Lord Rhys said. “It’s hard to say what such lofty persons might find of interest. You see, like you, I am technically a commoner. The ‘Lord’ affixed to my name is merely a courtesy. My older brother will inherit my father’s marquisate, and I’m left to make my way in the world however I may.”
His openness was surprisingly refreshing. “Such as serving as the duke’s proxy.”
“Exactly.”
“Have you always been part of the Royal Court?” She knew the Prince Regent liked to surround himself with pretty women, but she doubted he’d suffer such a remarkable male specimen in his entourage.
“Lord, no. That’s for much more exalted folk than I.”
Just when Olivia thought he couldn’t be more appealing, a devastating dimple appeared on his left cheek. But even more than his charming appearance, she liked his self-deprecating directness. A commoner, he’d said.
Just like her.
“Let me hazard a guess then,” she said, surprised to find she’d relaxed enough to enjoy this interview. “As a second son, your options are somewhat limited. You don’t seem the sort to go for the church.”
“One lump, if you please,” he said, though she’d quite forgotten about the tea. “Why do you say that?”
Olivia wished she’d stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth before she allowed such a foolish thing to spill out. She couldn’t very well admit he’d lead his female parishioners into sinful thoughts during each Sunday sermon simply by virtue of his handsome face and deep, whisky-tinged voice.
“You don’t seem the scholarly sort,” she said, grasping at any reason but the real one as she dropped a brown lump into his teacup using her mother’s elegantly filigreed tongs.
“Surprisingly enough, I did graduate top of my class, but you’re right about me and the Church,” he admitted. “I have no calling to become a country parson. When all else fails, too many gentlemen in my situation turn to that living without the requisite passion for it, and I would not be one of them.”
Just hearing him say the word “passion” brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. She added two more lumps of sugar before she remembered he’d only asked for one.
“A man of action, then,” she guessed, handing the cup and saucer to him and hoping he wouldn’t notice the additional sweetness. She wasn’t usually so addlepated. What on earth was wrong with her? “You’ve borne arms for the sake of our king, I’ll wager.”
A shadow seemed to pass behind his eyes, but it was gone so quickly Olivia decided she’d imagined it. He leaned forward, elbows balanced on his knees. “I thought you said it was wicked to gamble.”
Olivia knotted her fingers together. “A figure of speech. I didn’t mean anything by it. There is no true wager unless stakes are agreed upon.”
“An important distinction.” He nodded. “I’ll bear that in mind. But you’re right. I was a captain in His Majesty’s forces but have since resigned my commission.”
“Now that we have settled matters with the French, I suppose there was little to keep you thus engaged,” she said, liking him even better for his military service. “And now you meet prospective brides for royal dukes for a living.”
“For the moment, though it should please you to know that I am not being compensated for my service. I…volunteered,” he said. “I don’t wish to shock you, Miss Symon, but I believe honesty is the best foundation for a friendship. Given your abhorrence for gambling, you may despise me for this, but I
must admit that I usually do support myself by being lucky at cards.”
Her mother would have had to whip out her smelling salts at such an admission, but Olivia was more struck by his suggestion that they might become friends.
Was it possible that a man and woman could form such an unusual bond? She’d never heard of the like. Men befriended men at their clubs. Women exchanged social visits in their homes. The sexes rarely interacted except for courtship, and then once the wedding took place, it was an extraordinary marriage that could also count itself friendly. Even her mother and father addressed each other as Mr. or Mrs. Symon instead of by their Christian names.
“I’ve heard plenty of cautionary tales about people who’ve squandered their living at cards, but never of anyone who kept body and soul together with it,” she said, anxious to keep this unusual conversation going. “Surely gambling isn’t your sole occupation?”
“Not at all. I also drink and carouse and engage in any number of questionable pursuits,” he said with a crooked grin. Then he took a sip of his over-sweetened tea and the grin became a grimace. “I am, in fact, an incurable rake. A dedicated libertine. You may ask anyone.”
“Since you’ve been so forthright, there’s no need for me to ask, is there?” She ought to have been scandalized, but instead, she was intrigued by his confession. “It’s one thing to be wicked. Another to be unabashedly so. I shall consider myself duly warned of you, sir.”
“Good. You should be.” Something flashed in the depths of his dark eyes that she couldn’t decipher, then it dissolved when another winning smile made the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Now it’s my turn to guess about you.”
“Very well, though I warn you there’s nothing in my life remotely as interesting as being an incurable rake and dedicated libertine.”
As soon as the words were out, she clamped a hand over her mouth. They were unladylike in the extreme. She expected to hear a dull thump on the other side of the door at any moment. If her mother truly was listening at the keyhole, she’d undoubtedly faint dead away.
Lord Rhys merely laughed. “You’ve made my task too easy. I perceive that you, Miss Symon, are a woman of strong opinions and do not hesitate to express them.”
“Guilty as charged.” She buried her nose in her teacup.
“You also have a consuming interest in something that takes you outdoors, even on blustery January days.”
“How could you know that?”
“A charming smattering of freckles on your cheeks,” he said. “Plus, there’s a smudge of dirt on your right sleeve near the elbow. Potting soil?”
“Yes.” She set down her teacup and rubbed vigorously at the offending smudge. So he had looked at more of her than her face, though she hadn’t caught him at it.
“An excellent gardener then,” he said, leaning back and cocking his head at her quizzically. “But I sense your interest runs even deeper than most.”
Did this man have a way to tap into her private thoughts? “Again, you are correct. I love green growing things, but I also study them. I’m fascinated by the way they flourish and by the multitudinous variety of them.”
“What are your favorite types?”
“Orchids,” she said quickly.
“Aren’t they parasitic? You don’t strike me as the type who’d champion an organism that survives by taking from others.”
“While it’s true some orchids thrive anchored to the bark of trees, most merely cling to their host without taking nourishment from it. Rather like a sparrow alighting on a twig, actually,” she said. “There are a few species that are parasitic, but they grow below ground. And I’ve read that they smell like something rotten. Not at all the type I’d choose to cultivate.”
His mouth twitched, and the smile she’d found so engaging no longer reached his eyes. “Very wise of you not to cultivate types who prey on others.”
Olivia had heard that conversations at court were often laced with double meaning, but she couldn’t imagine what cryptic message he might be trying to send with this one.
“Nevertheless, I find raising orchids most agreeable,” she said, taking up her cup and saucer again. It was a very small shield, but she sheltered behind the fine Limoges. Until she figured this man out, it seemed safer.
“I’d imagine so, all that pollinating and germinating and whatnot. And I find it most agreeable that a young lady such as yourself isn’t put off by such close acquaintance with reproduction.” A hint of sin returned to his smile. “Is it true that orchids take their name from the Greek word for a certain part of male anatomy?”
Olivia choked on her surprise.
And her tea.
Lord Rhys was on his feet in a trice, thumping her back and lifting her arms over her head. She sputtered for a good half-minute, then finally caught her breath. Olivia pulled her hands away from him and bent to retrieve the cup and saucer that had landed in a damp puddle on her mother’s Aubusson carpet.
“Thank you, my lord.” Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “I’m quite recovered.”
“I can see I’ve shocked you,” he said as he returned to the settee. “Forgive me. I naturally assumed your familiarity with plants and their procreation would cause you to take a liberal view of what constitutes acceptable topics to be discussed between friends.”
“That presupposes that we are friends.”
“Do you think we’re not?” he said, leaning back and hooking an ankle over his knee, clearly at ease. He spread his arms across the back of the settee, filling the space and the room so completely Olivia had difficulty drawing breath. And not just from choking on the tea. “I’d hate for that to be true. I can’t tell you the last time I enjoyed a conversation with a young lady quite so much. Do you find me irksome?”
Despite his inappropriate comments, she couldn’t find him so. She almost wished she did. In addition to the fluttering in her chest, the hair on the back of her neck prickled. If she’d been a wild creature, she didn’t know whether she’d be drawn to him like a moth to flame or run like a hind that catches wind of hunting dogs.
“No, my lord,” she said. “I doubt any lady of your acquaintance finds you irksome.”
“I’m gratified to hear it. In that case, would you do me a favor?”
“If I can.”
“Oh, you can. The question is whether or not you will.”
She shifted on her seat, wishing she could rise, but then he’d have to stand as well. He dominated the room while merely sitting. How much more commanding would he be if she had to crane her neck to peer up at his handsome face? “You’ve made this favor sound rather wicked, my lord.”
“Not at all. It’s just that when you call me ‘my lord’ it seems so stuffy, especially since I don’t truly deserve it,” he said. “I was wondering if you’d consider calling me Rhys instead.”
Olivia couldn’t remain seated after that. She rose and wandered toward the window to put a bit more distance between them. “That’s a rather unusual request.”
The sharp clack of his boots on marble announced that he had followed her. She plopped down in the center of the window seat, trying to claim all the space.
“And here I thought you were a rather unusual girl.” His knowing look dared her to flout convention.
Agreeing to such familiarity was the sort of thing that would turn her mother’s complexion an unhealthy shade of puce.
Of course, that only made the notion harder to resist.
“We would have to make a pact. It could only be when we are alone, you understand,” she said, considering the idea so seriously she wasn’t immediately aware of when he sat down beside her. “And I suppose to be fair I would have to give you leave to call me Olivia as well. But there could be no slips in public.”
“Perhaps we should wager on it in order to insure that we keep the pact,” Lord Rhys said. He wasn’t touching her at all. There was a good inch separating them, but his heat radiated toward her, sending a tingle up her thigh. “The o
ne who uses a Christian name in public owes the other…what?”
“Not money,” she said, forgetting for the moment that she held wagers of any kind to be morally wrong. Besides, she wasn’t likely to call him Rhys unless she was absolutely certain no one was about. If she couldn’t lose, surely it wasn’t really gambling. “My family has buckets of it, and you support yourself by the turn of a card, so wagering money doesn’t seem particularly fair.”
“Very well, let us leave it that the offending party would owe one as yet undetermined favor, which we would be honor-bound to fulfill, whatever it is.” He cocked his head slightly. “Do we have an accord?”
“We do.” She nodded, wondering what an undetermined favor from a confessed libertine and incurable rake might entail. If the roiling in her belly was any indication, it promised to be wildly diverting and probably more than a little sinful.
A secret part of her burned with curiosity.
“Well, this has been most enjoyable, Olivia,” he said, caressing her name with his silky baritone. Then he consulted his pocket watch. “I fear I’ve monopolized far too much of your time this afternoon, and a friend shouldn’t impose. I must be going now, but I wonder if I might return on the morrow to continue our discussion.” He closed the pocket watch face with a snap and stowed it away. “Perhaps at that time you might show me your orchids.”
Unlike the duke’s previous representative, this man had made Olivia sorry to see him go, even if he had made her choke on her tea and was sitting too close for her comfort. “Of course, my lo—I mean, Rhys. But my plants aren’t much to see at present, it being wintertime. My work now amounts to merely laying the groundwork for blossoms in the spring.”
“I understand. I’m undertaking a project of a similar nature. One that requires careful planning and strategy so the going may seem slow at first. But one must walk before one runs.” He stood. “Then perhaps instead you might show me over the grounds. The estate here at Barrowdell has many lovely features, I’m told. Do you ride?”
Olivia nodded and rose to her feet. She felt far more at home on the back of a horse than in a parlor exchanging niceties. Especially slightly wicked niceties with a man who didn’t realize the window seat should have only accommodated one.
