by Sara Bennett
“Your favorite,” Nic replied. “You told me when we feasted in my bedchamber, the day after I brought you back from the ball.”
And we made love before and afterward, and it seemed like time stopped for those brief, exquisite moments.
But he didn’t say that.
Olivia lifted one of the ripe, juicy fruits between her finger and thumb, and bit into it. The pink syrup ran down her chin and she dabbed at it with her napkin, smiling at Nic like one of the urchins she loved so much.
“Wonderful,” she sighed.
Nic helped himself to the next strawberry, popping it into his mouth whole. The juice oozed from the corners of his mouth, and Olivia laughed as he tried to catch the trickles with his tongue. She reached across the table to him and used her finger.
“What will Abbot say if you stain that neck cloth?” she teased, and sucked the strawberry juice from her fingertip.
Nic’s eyes went hot.
Olivia felt her body begin to heat up in response. Slowly, she slipped her finger from her mouth and licked it with her tongue. He followed her movement. She reached for another strawberry, biting into it, and he leaned over the table, taking the remaining part of the fruit in his own mouth, so that for a moment they were face-to-face. And then he severed the strawberry in half and his mouth closed on hers.
The sweetness of the fruit, the warmth of his lips, were somehow all the more delicious. Olivia found herself arching across the table, following his mouth. As he moved back, she moved forward, and suddenly he’d grasped her about the waist, and she was sprawled across the table and the strawberries and cream, her arms about his neck.
“Nic,” she gasped.
He ran his hand across her décolletage, and then chose a strawberry. The next moment he’d slipped the ripe fruit down into her cleavage. Olivia’s eyes widened as she watched him settle it comfortably between her breasts, then he smiled and began to try to tease it out with his tongue.
The sensation made her toes curl.
The strawberry slid farther down between her breasts, lodging there, and Nic pushed down her bodice, finding first one nipple and then the other.
Olivia arched against him, lying half across the table, her fingers in his hair. He ran his tongue over the swell of her breasts, lapping at the strawberry juice.
But Olivia wanted to be more than Nic’s dessert.
She reached up, clinging to his neck, and he lifted her into his arms and sank back into his chair with her cradled in his lap. She tried to catch her breath, but her stays were tight beneath her evening dress. He seemed to understand her difficulty, and ran his hand down over her waist, splaying his fingers.
“Will I take it off?” he said.
“What if someone comes in?” She glanced anxiously at the door.
“No one will come in, my sweet. They know better than to come into one of these rooms without making a great deal of noise.”
Olivia’s desire began to fade, leaching out of her like water from a wrung-out rag. “You’ve been here before?” she asked carefully.
“Yes.”
“With other women.”
“Of course.”
She went still, and then she pushed herself to her feet, turning her back as she dealt with her bodice and the sticky juice smeared across her chest. The napkin, dipped in a glass of drinking water that had somehow survived her tumble on the table, helped to remove most traces of her debauchery, and when she was finished, she turned to face him. He was still reclining lazily in his chair, but there was something watchful in his face that belied his easy manner.
“You’re jealous,” he said, but it was a question rather than a statement.
“No. I don’t think so. Not in the way you mean.”
He waved an impatient hand. “Then what?”
Olivia sighed. “I don’t want to be another one of your women, Nic.”
He looked into her eyes. “You’re not.”
“Perhaps. At least, not yet. But I’m afraid that before long I will be. Just another in a long line of companions you hire for a year and then set free. Like—like caged birds.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Nic stood up and he looked angry, his hair untidy from her fingers, a swath of it hanging over his eyes, his lean cheeks flushed. “You’re my wife. I don’t hire you, and I’m hardly likely to set you free, as you call it. That won’t happen.”
“How do I know? You bring me here and I feel as if—as if—”
As if I am no more special than the others.
And Olivia knew with heavy certainty that she wanted to feel special when she was with Nic.
Nic knew he’d done something wrong again.
A moment ago Olivia had been writhing in his arms, a woman in the throes of undeniable passion, and the next moment she was looking at him as if he were a stranger.
He wanted to please her, and he’d thought this was the way to do it. Now he didn’t know what to do. Apologize? Or give up on understanding her altogether?
“I want to go home,” she said, in a voice that trembled on the verge of tears.
Nic groaned. Not tears. Women’s tears were the invention of the devil, designed to force men to grovel in an effort to make them stop. He’d have to apologize then…
“Olivia, please, if I’ve done something wrong, forgive me. I only wanted to make you happy. I didn’t intend to upset you.”
She stopped at the door and turned to look at him.
“Yes, I have brought other women here, but I can’t even remember their faces let alone their names. I wanted to bring you because I knew you loved strawberries and I knew we would have some privacy. When I’m with you I have trouble behaving myself, you know that. I don’t want to cause another scandal, so I thought—”
She was smiling. Devil take it, she was smiling! Nic wondered what part of the rambling sentences he’d just spoken had made her smile. And then he decided he didn’t care, as long as she was happy again.
“Come home, Nic,” she said huskily, holding out her hand. “We can be private there, and I can even ask for strawberries to be served in our bedchamber, if you like.”
“Aren’t you worried the housekeeper will tell you that isn’t the way things are done?” he teased, moving toward her, and clasping her fingers firmly, possessively, in his.
“Do you know, I think I am getting braver where the housekeeper is concerned, because I don’t care. Whose house is it, anyway?”
He bent to kiss her lips, keeping her a moment longer, before he opened the door onto the world outside.
“I do, you know,” he said in a low, quiet voice.
Olivia gave him a puzzled look. “You do what?”
“I do want a child.”
Tears filled her eyes but she said nothing, wiping them away with her fingers. Nic wondered at himself, that he could make this woman cry and smile, that his actions were capable of controlling her emotions. It should have felt like a burden, something to avoid, but it wasn’t.
He’d avoided engaging himself emotionally with women because he didn’t want to make any connections with them other than the physical, but it was different with Olivia. With her, he couldn’t live without the emotional ties.
Nic was surprised at how much he’d changed, and it was she who had changed him.
Chapter 27
The following day Olivia went to a meeting of the Husband Hunters Club. Being in London, it was too good an opportunity for her to miss seeing her friends, and they gathered at Marissa’s house. The last time they’d seen each other was at the wedding, and there had been little time to talk. Now there was so much to talk about that the time flew. Each of them had scandalous tales to tell, as they’d set about hunting down the husbands of their choice. There were some surprises, too. Not everyone was enamored with the same man that she’d carefully written down in the book the night of Miss Debenham’s Finishing School ball, although some, like Olivia, had not swerved from their choice.
“Is it exciting
to be married to Wicked Nic?” Tina asked her.
“I imagine there is rarely a dull moment,” Marissa added dryly.
“Lady Lacey,” sighed Eugenie. “How romantic.”
“I hope you are going to use some of the Lacey wealth for the benefit of the poor,” Averil added.
Olivia beamed at them all. “Yes, to all,” she said.
When she arrived home her head was still in a whirl, and she felt far more like her old self, as if she’d wrested some of Nic’s power over her back into her own hands.
Estelle was waiting.
“My lady,” she said, her round face looking unusually disapproving. “There’s a person to see you. A Madam Esmeralda. I told her you weren’t interested in her wares any longer, but she’s insisted on waiting and speaking to you for herself.”
“Madam Esmeralda?”
Olivia’s heart sank. She’d hoped that was over with. Nic had excused himself to her before the opera last night, saying he wasn’t used to worrying about what other people thought of his actions. It was part of his Lacey arrogance, she thought, with an inner smile. He’d shown it again over the strawberries-and-cream supper.
Olivia had believed he was seeing her as no different from the other women he’d known over the years, when in fact he was simply used to doing exactly as he wished. He was a lord, an aristocrat born and bred; that was why he acted as he did. Nic didn’t consider it necessary to consider other people’s feelings, but once he understood why she was upset he’d been keen to make amends.
“Will I have her thrown out onto the street?” Estelle interrupted her thoughts, a glint in her eyes at the thought of such excitement.
“Goodness me, no,” Olivia said. “I will see her, Estelle.”
“But, my lady…”
“Thank you, Estelle.”
Madam Esmeralda leaped to her feet at the sound of the door opening, and Olivia could see she was pale, the shadows under her eyes darker than ever. “Lady Lacey, how do you do?” she said, and curtsied.
“Madam Esmeralda.” Olivia could see that she had brought several bolts of cloth with her, as well as something wrapped up in protective coverings and laid out on the sofa under the window.
“I have something to show you, my lady,” she said quickly, before Olivia could draw breath. “If you will permit me.” And she was already hurrying over to the sofa and reverently peeling back the outer coverings on the object.
Reluctantly, Olivia came to stand by her, wanting to stop her but at the same time not wanting to crush the woman’s hopes. But, as the dress was revealed to her, she found herself watching, fascinated, until eventually she was held spellbound by its beauty.
Esmeralda said reverently, “The finest silk. And see the pearls sewn into the fabric? In the light of a ballroom you will truly shine, my lady.”
Olivia had never seen any dress so beautiful. It was the softest, palest pink, and the glowing pearls made her think of a summer dawn. Nic had said that Madam Esmeralda was the best modiste in London, and he was right. Olivia knew she’d allowed her jealousy and her prejudices and the opinions of others sway her. She should be more like Nic—if she wanted something badly enough, she should go ahead and do it anyway.
“Thank you, Esmeralda,” she whispered. “This is truly a masterpiece. I only hope I can do it justice.”
Esmeralda bowed her head, accepting the compliment with a little smile.
Olivia took a breath, deciding to be honest. “I’m uncertain whether I should avail myself of your services. You know why, I think?”
“Yes, I know why,” Esmeralda said with a touch of bitterness. “I am known as a modiste who only works with the demimonde. But I have been waiting for a chance like this, my lady. You will set my dresses off to perfection, and you have the confidence to shrug off any ill-natured remarks that may be made. Other women will see what I have done for you, and they will come to me. A trickle at first, but soon a flood.”
“You are very certain they will overlook your past clientele, madam.”
“I am.” Esmeralda reached out to touch the dress lovingly with her fingertips. “No woman, no matter how grand she thinks she is, can resist looking better than her peers.”
Olivia smiled. “Very true. You have more to show me? I believe that if I am to make a splash, I will need more than one dress to do so.”
Esmeralda hesitated, one hand clenched at her waist, the other resting on the arm of a chair. “Do you mean you intend to employ me as your modiste, my lady?”
“I do indeed.”
She toppled, only just catching herself from falling. Dismayed, Olivia hurried to support her, feeling the other woman’s boniness beneath her plain gray dress.
“Madam, please sit down. I will ring for tea, or…or a restorative. Brandy?”
Esmeralda shook her head. “No, but thank you, Lady Lacey. I have been working day and night since you visited me, and I am tired. That is all, merely tired. So much depended upon this meeting.”
Olivia frowned, reading the other woman’s face. “Perhaps you are not so successful as you pretend, Madam Esmeralda.”
Esmeralda gave a wry smile. “No, I am not. There have been problems with a certain lady—and I use the term loosely—with a vicious tongue. She claims I made her ridiculous and now she has set out to destroy me by driving away my customers. I have very few left, and if she has her way, soon I will have none.”
Olivia pushed Esmeralda gently down into her chair, and then seated herself opposite, after ringing the bell for tea. “Who is this person?” And, when the modiste hesitated, plainly loath to make her situation worse by gossiping: “Never fear, I know very few people in London, and I would not repeat what you tell me anyway.”
“It is the Earl of Marchmont’s mistress, Mrs. Cathcart. The earl dotes on her and she is very spoiled. If you go into London society you will see her, because although she may be a fallen woman, she is related to so many respectable families she receives most of their invitations.”
“A dangerous enemy indeed,” Olivia said thoughtfully. “I wonder if she will be at the ball tomorrow night.”
“The Querrols’ ball?” Esmeralda’s eyes sparkled suddenly, and Olivia realized the modiste was not nearly as old as she had thought—it was her tired eyes and careworn face that made her seem so. “Yes, she will be there. I believe she is wearing yellow…”
“Then I will wear your masterpiece.”
At once Esmeralda jumped up and hurried over to a bag beside the bolts of cloth. She produced a tape measure. “I don’t think it will require a great deal of altering, but anything that does need doing can be done very quickly, I promise you.”
“Of course.”
The next few moments were taken up with measurements and then the dress was taken upstairs and Olivia tried it on. Estelle, when she arrived to help, seemed more breathless than usual, and her eyes widened at the sight of Olivia. “Lady Lacey, you look like a fairy princess,” she gasped.
Olivia thought herself rather too tall for a fairy princess, but the dress certainly suited her and she did feel somewhat ethereal. Would Nic be impressed? She hoped so. This dress was perfect for romance, perfect for love.
And therein lay the problem, because Olivia was in love with her husband, and she had no idea whether he was in love with her.
“My lady?”
Estelle and Esmeralda were looking at her curiously, and Olivia shook herself out of endless musings over Nic.
“Madam Esmeralda wants to know whether you’d like her to complete any more dresses for your stay in London,” Estelle explained.
Olivia turned again to her reflection in the mirror. “Yes, that is an excellent idea.”
Esmeralda beamed.
“And I hope you will get some sleep in between stitches, madam. You will be no good to me, and all your new customers, if you faint.”
“I have several good seamstresses I can call upon, my lady.”
It would be nice to be admired, even
envied, by the cream of London society, Olivia thought, when she was alone again. But that wasn’t as important to her as the expression in Nic’s eyes when he saw her.
“I love him,” she whispered.
Speaking the words aloud released a storm of emotion inside her, and she trembled. She loved Wicked Nic Lacey. But how could she say those words to him, when she was so conscious of making him feel hemmed in and trapped by a marriage he had never wanted? Although he seemed happy enough now, well for most of the time, it was very early days. She must tread carefully.
But knowing that didn’t stop Olivia from wishing that when she looked into his eyes tomorrow night, she’d see his love for her, and her world would be complete.
“I love you, Nic,” she said again, enjoying hearing the words spoken aloud.
Because who knew when she would be brave enough to say them to his face?
Chapter 28
Nic couldn’t keep his eyes off her. When she appeared at the head of the stairs, ready to leave for the ball, he had simply stood and watched her descend. She was beautiful, with her cool English looks—her golden hair and blue eyes and creamy complexion. And yet she was so much more than her appearance. Beneath her calm smile lay a warm and passionate woman who believed in living life her own way, who was honest and kind, and who refused to take second best.
As she reached the last few steps, she held out her gloved hands toward him, and he moved forward in his own elegant evening wear to grasp her fingers.
“Olivia, you look exquisite. You quite take my breath away.”
Her smile made her eyes sparkle, and the pearls sewn into her dress and woven into her hair softly glowed.
“You were right,” she said. “Esmeralda is the best modiste in London.” She glanced away, in that manner she had when there was something bothering her. “I hope everyone else will think so, too, when they see this dress.”
“It was thoughtless of me to take you to see her, Olivia. For an intelligent man I can be very dimwitted.”
