by Mia Marlowe
“So we are no closer to finding the murderer than when Molly first bolted.”
Murderer. The word slipped out of her mouth and made her situation real.
But each time she thought the word murderer, it seemed more and more like nonsense syllables, a meaningless growling in her mind. She couldn’t let the truth that she was the target sink in. If she did, she’d never be able to sit sedately at her mother’s long table and make banal small talk with those around her.
And wonder about the gracious smiles and sparkling conversation at the long table. Which of her father’s friends from India was duplicitous enough to hide their secret disappointment at seeing her alive and well?
Chapter 16
Babette hadn’t been her usual cheerful self all evening. The maid was pensive and distracted. While she helped Olivia dress for dinner, requests had to be repeated several times before Babette leapt to do her bidding. Her maid usually wasn’t the least clumsy, but she ham-handedly knocked over the bottle of expensive scent that had arrived earlier that day with a note declaring it came from the Duke of Clarence. The whole room smelled of spicy jasmine—a perfume Olivia thought too heavy for her to wear, in any case, so it was no great loss.
After supper, Babette was even more uncharacteristically quiet and fidgety as she brushed out Olivia’s hair to prepare her for bed. Finally, Babette met her gaze in the vanity mirror.
“May I make to ask a question, mademoiselle?”
“Of course.”
“Do you wait for—how you say?—the other shoe to drop?”
“What do you mean?”
“Disasters, they always come in threes, non? First, your horse, it bolts and you are nearly killed. Then your helper in the hothouse, poor Monsieur Weinschmidt, he dies most unexpectedly.” Babette started to do up Olivia’s long tresses in a braid.
“No, leave it for now.” Olivia pulled her hair away from Babette’s clever fingers and turned to face her directly. “What are you trying to say?”
“I am saying the third evil thing, it is bound to come.” Babette’s pale brows nearly met in a frown over her fine straight nose. “What will happen next?”
“First of all, disasters do not come in threes. That’s nothing but an old wives’ tale,” Olivia said, her tone testier than she would have liked, mostly because the thought had occurred to her as well. Having Babette say it only made the threat more real. “And second, your theory requires there be a connection between my mare bolting and Mr. Weinschmidt’s death when there is none.”
“There is you, mademoiselle. It was your horse. And the old gardener, he was doing your bidding, non?”
“If you’re afraid to serve me, I’ll have you reassigned first thing tomorrow—”
“Non, you must not think such a thing. It is my honor to be your abigail. Do not make to send me away. If I am afraid, it is not for myself.” Babette crouched beside Olivia’s chair so she could face her directly. “I fear for you, mistress.”
Looking into Babette’s wide eyes, Olivia was tempted to spill everything she and Rhys had discovered together, but he’d warned her to trust no one. So far, Rhys had focused on the houseguests, but he hadn’t ruled out the possibility that the culprit had a willing ally below stairs. If Babette gossiped with even one of the other servants, news that the two tragic incidents were connected by some exotic thorns would circulate through the great house before Olivia snuffed out her lamp for the night.
And the guilty party might be warned.
“I’m not afraid,” she lied. “Please ignore anyone who indulges in gossip or pointless speculation. You may leave me now.”
“As you wish, mademoiselle,” Babette said as she straightened the tortoise-shell comb and silver brush set on the vanity table before Olivia. She swanned across the room, imperturbable as always. But then she stopped at the door and turned back.
“If something makes a change and you do feel afraid, I wish you to know you may trust me.”
“I know that, Babette.” She hoped it was so.
“Bien.” She reached for the doorknob but stopped again. “Before I am come to this house, I have another…employment which required…certain other skills.”
“Besides being a lady’s maid, you mean.”
“Oui, just so.” She shot Olivia a pointed look. “Skills that will help keep you safe, mademoiselle.”
Olivia swallowed back her surprise, wondering what Babette could possibly mean. La Belle Perdu, Babette’s former employer, was rumored to have been a French spy. Had she taught her maid some of the craft? “Thank you. I’ll remember that.”
As Babette slipped out of the room, Olivia wondered about her abigail.
Not many lady’s maids had…certain other skills.
If Babette was afraid for her, it meant the folk below stairs had considered Olivia’s riding accident and her assistant’s sudden demise, put together the scraps of evidence, and arrived at the correct sum. None of the Symon’s houseguests bothered to connect events.
Of course, Olivia and Rhys had taken pains to make sure they wouldn’t. She could only imagine her mother’s rants if Beatrice Symon suspected Olivia had been deliberately targeted both times.
For once, she considered that her mother truly did care for her, even if her means of showing it were overblown. Olivia turned down the lamp and wandered to the window. The frosty hills were bright under a three-quarter moon. But even with pinpricks of light sparkling on the skiff of snow, Barrowdell presented a stark vista in the dead of winter with its barren meadows and naked woods shivering in the wind.
She wished her father would come home.
The cavernous rooms and long corridors of Barrowdell never seemed as empty when his booming voice echoed in them. And Olivia’s mother wasn’t nearly as difficult to deal with when her “dear Mr. Symon” was in residence.
If her father was home, things would be different. When Horatio Symon was there, the children all had free run of the house. There was laughter in the halls. The entire family dined around the long dining table along with the guests, no matter who else might be visiting. No one worried that one of them might commit a breach of etiquette that could hamstring the family’s entire future.
When her father came home this time, he’d have the Duke of Clarence with him. If the reason Olivia had been targeted was her impending betrothal to royalty, would the person who was determined to hurt her be even bolder then?
Her gut clenched in anxiety. She’d lied to Babette. She was afraid. Very afraid.
There was no true safety in her father’s return, only the hazy illusion of it left over from her cosseted childhood. It was time she faced facts. Life would never go back to the way it used to be.
The snick of the door latch startled her, and her hand lurched involuntarily to her throat.
“Don’t worry,” came a deep, familiar voice. He spoke softly to keep from being heard beyond the confines of her chamber. “It’s only me.”
Relief flooded over her. She knew it shouldn’t be so, but Rhys Warrington made her feel protected.
“I thought you’d never come.”
She gave him a quick hug, but when she started to pull away, he caught her and tugged her closer. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help melting into him. He was so solid and big and…safe.
“If I’d known being late would mean such a friendly welcome,” he murmured into her ear, his warm breath spilling down her neck and teasing beneath her wrapper and nightrail, “I’d have stayed away longer.”
She rolled her eyes at him. Her partner in this misadventure. Her protector. Her friend.
Was it workable for him to be all three?
Or even a fourth? What about…her lover?
The shocking possibility took root in her mind when he bent to kiss her. If she was destined for a loveless match with an aging roué like Clarence, shouldn’t she have at least one shining moment when she shared herself with a man she truly liked and admired? Short of surrendering her ma
idenhead, why shouldn’t she enjoy the lessons in lovemaking Rhys wanted to give her?
She’d never liked change, but that was all she saw in her future. Since someone had targeted her, her basic trust in others was shattered. It was yet another way her life would never be the same.
If and when she married the duke, it certainly never would be. And after Rhys Warrington, her life would never go back to the way it used to be either.
And of all the changes, only that last one had her thinking perhaps that would be no bad thing. She pulled his head down and deepened their kiss.
***
Over the years, Rhys had been with some accomplished bed partners, but Olivia kissed him back with more fervor than any of them. She nipped his lower lip. She met his tongue and suckled it in welcome. She groaned softly into his mouth.
When he was with other women, he often thought their sighs and moans were merely play-acting to enhance his pleasure, as if pretending the encounter meant something would make it more enjoyable. He always made it clear at the outset of any new dalliance that nothing beyond their body parts would be involved. Any evidence of ardent feeling made him suspicious.
But there was no play-acting in Olivia. This kiss was all too real.
She wasn’t experienced enough to feign passion. This was unfiltered, uncensored lust in a newly awakened virgin. Her hitched breath, her shuddering sighs, the way she pressed herself against him went right to his heart.
She made him feel something, damn her. A hot, tight lump of something unnamable in his chest.
He didn’t want to feel it. He couldn’t afford to feel it. He was supposed to be here to ruin her, not fall in love with her.
Where the hell did that come from?
He shoved the unwelcome thought aside and concentrated instead on the soft give of her breasts beneath the thin muslin and the tautness of her lovely nipples, hard little buttons, against his chest.
He started to reach for them, but she surprised him by shoving his jacket off his shoulders without breaking their kiss. If she wanted him less clothed, who was he to protest? Then she tackled the buttons on his waistcoat with no gentleness at all. One popped off and rolled toward the fireplace.
“Mr. Clyde will be cross with you,” he said as he kissed his way along her clavicle. He gave her soft skin a little nip and she shivered but didn’t object. “A grumpy valet is a terrible thing to behold.”
“Mr. Clyde doesn’t frighten me.”
She let him slide her wrapper and nightrail to the side to expose her shoulder to more kisses. Her skin smelled so sweet, so fresh compared to the cloying fragrance emanating from her vanity table, that he wanted to eat her up.
“I’ll set my abigail after your Mr. Clyde,” Olivia said, continuing to work the buttons on his waistcoat. “Babette claims she has ‘certain skills’ that will keep me safe.”
He caught both her hands and held them still so he could concentrate on what she’d just said. The way she seemed intent on undressing him threatened to shove other matters aside, but the prickle on his nape warned him this might be important. “What do you mean—certain skills?”
Olivia told him about the cryptic conversation with her maid. It bothered Rhys that the help had speculated so accurately what was really going on at Barrowdell.
“She’s French, you say?” He stopped kissing her shoulder and straightened to his full height.
“Very.”
That alone made him disposed to mistrust Babette. He longed to continue to kiss Olivia all over, but if he was going to keep her safe, he needed to know more about those who surrounded her daily.
“How long has Babette been with you?”
“A few months,” she said. “Since her previous mistress drowned in the Thames.”
He snorted. “That’s not much of a commendation.”
“No, you don’t understand.” She slid his waistcoat off and let it drop to the floor. “She had nothing to do with the drowning. She worked for La Belle Perdu.”
“The French spy.”
“That was the general consensus about her,” Olivia conceded. “But Babette assures me her mistress was no such thing. The courtesan couldn’t bear the thought of being arrested, so she leaped into the water in despondency.”
“Someone who’s willing to die rather than be interrogated by the authorities generally has plenty to hide. Sounds like a spy to me,” Rhys said. “I don’t like the idea of this Babette being so near you.”
“But you can’t hold her accountable for her mistress’s actions.”
Olivia started to untie his cravat but tugged the wrong end of the starched fabric. It tightened around his neck instead.
“Allow me,” he said, gentling her questing fingers away and quickly undoing the elegant waterfall of linen. “Before you garrote me with my own neckwear.”
She pulled a face at him. “Pardon me for not understanding the intricacies of a gentleman’s wardrobe.”
“Before tonight, I would have said there is no wrong way to undress a man. Apparently there are a few,” he said with a laugh. “But the ends justify the means, I suppose.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“I’d never do that,” he assured her. “But I do want to have fun with you. If I teach you nothing else, I want you to know a man and woman should laugh together. But back to your Babette—”
“She’s never given me reason not to trust her,” she said as she unfastened his shirt, frowning at each button in concentration.
“Still, I don’t like her being close to you.”
She smiled up at him. Blast, if it wasn’t as coquettish a smile as any courtesan’s. Where on earth had she learned that? Since Eden, he supposed, women had been gifted with the means to distract a man. Olivia had come fully into her birthright as a daughter of Eve.
“Right now,” she said, letting her fingertips slip inside his open shirt, “you’re the only one close to me.”
“And that’s how I like it.” He gathered her into his arms. “Not to complain, but it’s not often a man is greeted by a beautiful woman who seems intent on undressing him.”
“Surely, given your reputation, it must happen to you with regularity.”
“Not as often as you might think.” He smiled down at her. “And never as memorably as this time.”
“Really? And what makes this so memorable?”
“Because you’re doing it rather badly.”
She huffed and pulled away from him. “What do you mean I’m doing it badly?”
“That’s maybe not the best way to put it. If the goal is simply to see a man naked, you’ll accomplish it, but you could reach the same end by asking me to strip. It would save time. And my wardrobe,” he said with a grin. The topic had been officially changed, and he was in no mood to go back to the old one. “However, if your aim is to seduce a man beyond bearing, there are other ways to go about it besides ripping off his buttons.” He cocked a brow at her. “Not that that can’t be fun on occasion.”
“I assumed the most direct route is best. What other ways are there?”
“So seduction is your aim?”
“To seduce you beyond bearing? You flatter yourself, sir,” she said as she flounced into one of the wing chairs. “But last night you showed me something about me. Tonight, I want to learn about you.” She tugged her sagging wrapper back up to cover her bare shoulder. “Or are you no longer interested in giving me lessons?”
Come here. Go away. Beg me to stay. Where had she learned those essential bits of the seductress’s art?
“I’m interested.” Definitely. His body was already primed and ready.
“Then how should I undress you?” she asked, innocently unaware that just those words dropping from her sweet mouth were blissful torture for him.
“You should undress a man in the same way you’d explore a pleasure garden. Slowly. Deliberately. Tarry to see the sights. Touch. Taste,” he said. “Take all the time you need.”
“All rig
ht.” She stood and walked over to him. “Let’s take it turn and turn about. I allowed you to disrobe me without interference last night. Will you trust me enough to stand perfectly still?”
“I’m at your command.”
“Good,” she said with a feline smile. “But I don’t think you need to stand before a mirror. You already know what a fine-looking fellow you are. Let’s see what you have hidden under your shirt.”
Chapter 17
She finished undoing the row of buttons with agonizing slowness. Then she parted the front of his shirt and stepped back to view his bare chest.
After giving him a satisfied smile, she undid the button on one side of the flap front of his trousers. Olivia tugged at his shirttail. Then her breath hitched. The sound was slight, but it registered surprise. And, he hoped, delight.
“You’re not wearing any smallclothes,” she observed.
“I usually don’t under formal wear, and your mother does require her guests to dress for dinner,” he said. “Brummell always says they spoil the line of good trousers.”
“Hmm. Not having them spoils my chance to help you out of them.”
He smiled. She was determined to push this lesson to limits beyond his dreams.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said.
“Oh, I’m not disappointed. I expect I’ll find not unraveling the mysteries of masculine undergarments will fade compared to what else I’ll learn tonight.”
She touched the slight indentation at the base of his throat and then slid her fingertips down his chest. She circled each brown nipple, and then ran her knuckle from his breastbone to the waist of his trousers. Anticipation tightened his gut.
He’d never been so undone by such a simple touch.
Then she tugged the rest of his shirttail out of his trousers, took hold of one side of the shirt, and walked around him, slipping the garment down one arm. It snagged at his wrist.
“Cufflinks,” he said. She was so endearingly awkward. That strange lump in his chest glowed, but he tamped it down. He’d never complete his mission to upset her match with the duke if he allowed himself to have feelings for her. He had a job to do. He had to keep reminding himself of it.
