Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  Then he tore his mouth from hers, staring at her with such a smoldering gaze that Olivia backed up into the side table. After giving her another look, one male and promising and lacking any possibility of compromise, he turned, snapped his fingers, and pointed at the bed. Olivia’s mind began to function as the setter jumped up and lay down on the mattress beside her sleeping daughter.

  Hannah. What if she awoke?

  To her dismay, she was so feverish with wanting him, she hardly cared.

  “Stay,” De Vere said harshly.

  “She’ll wake up,” Olivia began weakly.

  “And she will be very happy,” he finished, gripping her elbow tightly. Olivia found herself being propelled from the room. Her feet lagged behind her body. She looked back over her shoulder. Hannah remained nestled in the bed beside the red setter, whose tail was thumping slowly.

  He clamped an arm around her waist as they entered the unlit hall.

  “Garrick,” Olivia began. She was torn. Her body demanded a physical union with him. But her mind refused, demanding a protest, demanding resistance. For lurking in the shadows, on the periphery, was an image of her husband, an accusing expression on his face.

  “No,” he said, pushing open the door to an empty guest room. He nearly shoved Olivia inside, then closed and bolted it behind them. He set the taper on the mantel, regarding her.

  And Olivia looked at him. His expression was ruthless, the outcome of this evening already decided in his mind. The sheer force of his will was overwhelming. But hadn’t she known from the beginning that it would come to this?

  If she did give in to her desire for him, would it be the end of the world? She had never wanted to be with a man before, especially not like this. As Garrick had said, most women in her position had lovers; it was routine and eminently acceptable. It was not considered dishonorable.

  But he was affianced to Susan Layton, her new friend. And not only did she not believe in adultery, she was not like other women. There was Arlen to consider.

  A night like this could very well be the end of her world.

  “Now is not the time to think,” he said in a hard voice, unbuttoning his shirt.

  Olivia’s mental rampaging died. She watched him open his shirt inch by inch. Her breathing became constricted, and she clutched the folds of her nightgown. His dark skin was stretched taut over hard muscles, and his movements slowly revealed his chest, his rib cage, his abdomen. Olivia was mesmerized. It was almost impossible to think now, especially as her loins remained shamelessly swollen and aching. He tossed the shirt aside. His nipples were erect. Then Olivia took one closer look at him and inhaled loudly.

  His manhood was fully erect, a massive length pressing up and out against his breeches.

  He stepped to her, reaching for her. Olivia thought he was going to touch her, embrace her, kiss her—or even say something. Instead he pushed the wrapper off her shoulders and to the floor. Olivia was clad now only in the thin, white sleeveless nightgown. Two narrow lace straps held it up.

  He looked. He looked at her throat, her shoulders, her upper chest. Then he looked at the hard pink points of her breasts. “I want your hair down,” he said thickly. His own chest was heaving as if he had run a long distance.

  Olivia started. Removing the pins took time, and shamelessly, she no longer wanted to wait for what he offered her.

  He reached up and began removing pins. Olivia felt fainter than before, her heart speeding. No man had ever done this for her before. Even his fingertips, grazing her hair and scalp, were intensifying the desire. “What are you thinking, Olivia?” he asked softly.

  “You know,” she whispered. She had been imagining them naked and entwined, in the bed that was behind them. She caught his hands, stilling them, her own hands trembling. “I’ll do it,” she finally said, her tone shocking in its huskiness. And it was a statement of final acquiescence.

  “Tell me,” he returned as Olivia finished the task of removing the pins, hardly more adept than he.

  She refused to answer him. She threw the braid over her shoulder and began to unravel it. Her cheeks felt feverishly hot. She knew he stared. She felt his impatience. And as she fumbled with the braid he moved behind her, embracing her. She froze. His palms covered her breasts, and his manhood jutted urgently against her buttocks.

  He kissed her neck, at the nape.

  Olivia moaned.

  “I want you,” he said, sliding his hands down her belly, lower and lower still.

  “Yes,” she cried.

  He palmed her, hard, then began caressing her gently. Olivia gripped his forearms, almost clawing him.

  “Gentle,” he murmured, his mouth still nibbling her neck. Then he crushed her hard, rocking his hips against her, and held her still, for a long moment.

  Olivia felt him throbbing against her. “I cannot wait,” she heard herself gasp.

  Abruptly he turned her around so they faced one another. His eyes, seeking hers, were fire. And he slid the straps over her arms, pushing the gown below her breasts. He cupped one breast, and his mouth found the nipple. He began to suck.

  Olivia’s mind ceased final functioning at last. Her hands were in his thick hair as he nuzzled her and licked her, and then her palms were on his shoulders, his back. His skin was like silk. Silk stretched over rock. She imagined the sight of his manhood freed of his breeches and shivered, her nails skidding over his skin.

  He was raining kisses down her torso, he was licking her navel. He was greedy with his hunger. His tongue was firm, strong. Olivia gripped his head, aware of having lost control of some vital part of herself. She should stop him, for surely he could not continue on this downward path. But she did not want to stop him. Every flick of his tongue was sending red-hot pleasure through her. And he was kneeling now. His face was on a level with her heated loins. And he looked up. His golden eyes caught hers, gleaming.

  Olivia felt something in her heart, an instantaneous jolting, as their gazes locked. She knew she must ignore it. That she must not identify it.

  But she wet her lips. “I’ve never felt this way before.”

  “I know,” he said, and then his tongue slid over her lower belly, just inches above the thick, curly hair guarding her pubis. Olivia was shaking. And he said, “Neither have I.”

  Olivia barely heard, because he was pulling the nightgown down now, exposing her sex and her thighs, finally letting it fall around her ankles. His knowing fingers stroked up against the lips of her sex, opening her. And then his tongue was there.

  Olivia could not breathe. She could not stand it. “Oh, God,” she heard herself cry, a sob. He was standing, embracing her, his mouth on her ear, his hard, long phallus thrusting against her still throbbing loins. His hands cupped and held her buttocks. “Come to the bed.”

  She allowed herself to be guided there in the darkness, not trusting herself to speak. As she sat down, she realized he was stepping out of his breeches. He was a magnificent sight. She did stare.

  “When you look at me like that, you will undo me,” he said, pushing her slowly onto her back, his hands gripping her wrists, one knee on either side of her thighs.

  “You are a stunning man,” she managed to whisper, aware of desire rising so swiftly again.

  “Am I?” He bent and nipped her lips, then boldly moved one knee between her thighs, then a second one, pushing them far apart. Holding her gaze with his, he dipped from the pelvis and brushed the tip of his huge phallus against her loins. Olivia cried out.

  When she tried to move, wanting to embrace him and pull him closer, she realized she could not. He continued to grip her hands, holding each one firmly over her head. He slid himself over her wet, swollen flesh several times, and then he paused. “Tell me that you want me, Olivia,” he demanded.

  She met his gaze. “Yes. I want you, Garrick De Vere.”

  Olivia saw his eyes turn opaque with lust. “I cannot wait,” he cried, and pushed his huge length into her. Olivia gasped.

&n
bsp; Eyes closed, he strained inside of her, hard, heated, tight. Olivia had never enjoyed intercourse before; now she was in shock. The pleasure, the heat, the hardness, was far more than right; it was the greatest moment of her life. She found and met his thrusting rhythm eagerly. The explosive pressure was building, that bridge to ecstasy. Olivia realized she was making soft, whimpering sounds, that she was panting his name. He had yet to release her hands, but she knew she was about to become one with comets and shooting stars, and she wanted to hold him. She moaned, thrashing beneath him helplessly. She was ready to beg.

  “Now, now, please!” she heard herself cry.

  His eyes flew open, he released her hands, and their gazes locked. Olivia flung her arms around him; he lifted her leg and wrapped it around his waist, driving into her. Olivia felt the explosion then, bursting inside of her, a huge shower of fire and sparks.

  Garrick cried out, surging deeply, wetly, inside her. A tremor seized his body, and then he collapsed on top of her, his arms going around her.

  Olivia could not move. She doubted she had a muscle that might work. Then she realized that the fingers of her right hand were stroking over his left shoulder, and she smiled, eyes closed. Nothing had ever been this right.

  It was there, inside her heart, a joyful, joyous emotion she must not harbor or identify. It was so strong, so powerful, it felt like a spring bubbling up and gushing inside of her. It felt as if it must soon erupt.

  He slid to his side, facing her. His words made her eyes fly open. “I want to make love to you all night.”

  Olivia stared at him, searching his expression for an inkling of his feelings and his emotions. She thought she saw something flickering in his golden eyes, something deeper, more profound, than mere lust.

  But he only said, wryly, reaching for her, “Do you object?” knowing full well that she did not. She had proven that already.

  Then Hannah’s image, and Arlen’s, flashed through her mind. Not far behind were the Laytons’ accusing faces. Olivia’s ready response died unspoken.

  With one palm, he cupped her face. “Do not think now,” he said. But his brow was furrowed. And Olivia knew that he was thinking about the future, too.

  Olivia was awoken by Garrick. She felt his fingertips first, stroking tendrils of hair away from her eyes and face. She smiled, eyes still closed, knowing full well whom she was with. She had not slept more than a few hours that night, which had begun late to begin with. She had slept lightly and was instantly fully awake.

  Her heart felt as though it were singing.

  He was leaning over her now, whispering in her ear, his breath warm and sensual—as warm and sensual as the man himself. “Olivia. I must go. As it is, the staff is surely up.”

  Olivia tensed, eyes wide, their gazes meeting. Garrick was already dressed. She sat up, shoving off the covers, last night fading as reality took over. Disaster, she thought, staring at him. This could become the disaster awaiting them all.

  She nearly jumped off the bed, diving for her nightgown, which she shrugged on in great haste. “What time is it?” The heavy velvet draperies were drawn.

  “The sun is rising. It is probably half-past five,” he said evenly, his gaze sliding over her.

  Olivia had been reaching for her wrapper, and now she whirled, clutching it to her, afraid. “Everyone will know,” she said hoarsely. This was the hour when household servants rose and began to prepare for the day.

  His reply was not what she wished to hear. “I imagine so.”

  Olivia’s impulse was to strike out at him, but this was not solely his fault—it was her fault, too—she had wanted him desperately, and somehow, in spite of the uncertain future, she could not regret last night. He had taught her passion. She had never dreamed that she was such a sensual woman. And what about the song in her heart? Perhaps she was, for the first time in her life, falling in love.

  The thought was terrifying.

  “Perhaps, if you hurry, you can return to your rooms without being seen,” Olivia said quickly. “And I must prepare to depart as planned, right after breakfast.” She was already belting her wrapper firmly.

  “I agree,” he said, staring. His gaze was extremely penetrating.

  Olivia stared back. In spite of her rising hysteria, she had one extremely powerful and lucid thought. When would she see him again?

  He said, “When can I see you again?”

  She tensed. “I don’t know. We must think. This isn’t right.”

  He cut her off before she could ramble on. “This is very right,” he said. “And you know it, too.”

  Olivia shook her head, terribly confused, turning away. She unbolted the door, but before she could open it, his hand slammed down on hers, forestalling her. “I can see you tonight at Ashburnham. I’ll stay at an inn. You need merely come to me when the household is asleep.”

  Olivia was frozen, facing the door, her back to him. Her pulse raced, but not with the anticipation of an illicit rendezvous. Dread consumed her, and with it an appropriate companion—a sickly guilt. “Is this the future, then? I cuckold Arlen, and you, your fiancée?” Her tone sounded bitter even to her own ears.

  “Damn them both, yes,” he said, again a near shout in her ear. He turned her so that she faced him. His thighs pressed hers against the door. “I never intended for this to be one single night, and I have little doubt that you feel the same way.”

  “I do not know how I feel!” she cried, a half-truth.

  He jerked, his expression twisted. Olivia wanted to explain, for clearly she had hurt him, but she did not dare. It would only deepen their involvement—which should have never happened in the first place. After a long moment passed, he said, “Return to London. It will be easier for us to rendezvous there.” His jaw was flexed and ticking visibly.

  She shook her head, near tears. “I cannot. Arlen will not allow it.”

  “He is your keeper?” he asked, incredulous.

  She hesitated and said, “I cannot defy him without suffering the consequences.”

  “I’ll kill him,” Garrick said.

  Lionel’s image flashed through her mind, a laughing golden-haired boy. But what her mind was trying to conclude was insane. Garrick had not killed his brother, and his last words had been an impassioned and common enough form of speech.

  He read her mind yet again. “God! I meant that if he hurts you, I would kill him—I hardly meant that I am a murderer!”

  Very clearly Olivia heard a cock crow. Dismay and fear overcame her. She turned, pulling at the door. “I cannot think about anything now, other than returning to Ashburnham.” Then she looked at him over her shoulder. “Do not follow me there, Garrick, not after what happened tonight. It is too dangerous. I …”

  “You what?”

  “I have a sense of doom,” she said, choking on the last word.

  “A sense? Or a feeling?” he demanded.

  Olivia shook her head and pulled open the door. Somehow he was close to guessing the truth about her—and he had already guessed the truth about Hannah. Olivia was shaking. What was happening to them all? And how was this happening? Just a few days ago she and Hannah had been at Ashburnham, happy and alone.

  The cock crowed again.

  Olivia glanced into the hall and thanked God, for the corridor was empty and silent and cast in early morning shadows. Not a soul—or a servant—was about. She stepped into the hallway, her pulse rioting now. She had only a dozen steps or so to go in order to return to her own bedroom, where Hannah slept with the Irish setter. She started forward. It was possible that their liaison might not yet become public knowledge.

  Garrick fell into step beside her. She did not dare look at him. If she did, she might weep or give in to his impossible demands.

  Olivia reached for her door. As she did so, she heard a series of footfalls coming up the stairs. She turned, dismayed, her heart thumping.

  Mrs. Riley appeared at the end of the corridor. If she was surprised to see Garrick and Oli
via standing outside Olivia’s bedroom door, Olivia in her nightclothes with her long blond hair flowing about her hips, Garrick still half dressed from the evening before, both of them barefoot, she gave no sign. She approached swiftly.

  Olivia sank against the door, trembling. This was, she had no doubt, the beginning of the end of her life as she now knew it.

  “My lady, my lord, good morning,” Mrs. Riley said. Her tone was taut with uncharacteristic tension.

  Olivia looked at her and saw the excited sparkle in her eyes. Garrick was saying, “Good morning, Mrs. Riley. Are you looking for the countess?”

  “Actually, my lord, I was looking for you. When I realized you were not in your rooms, I assumed you were checking in on the little girl,” the housekeeper said. It was a gracious explanation for finding Garrick where he had no right to be.

  He smiled slightly. “You thought correctly.”

  She handed him a sealed envelope. “This just came,” she said, excitement filling her tone.

  He stared at the seal. Even Olivia recognized it as belonging to his father. She also thought that Mrs. Riley somehow knew the contents of that sealed missive.

  “Thank you,” Garrick said. He broke the seal and opened the single piece of parchment. Within seconds he had lost every single ounce of his coloring. And his eyes were nearly bulging. He was impossibly pale for a suntanned man.

  “My lord?” Olivia asked. When he stared at the letter, not responding, she took his arm. “Lord Caedmon!”

  Finally he looked at her, still in shock, not speaking.

  “I will bring His Lordship a brandy,” Mrs. Riley said, and she fled back down the stairs.

  Garrick leaned against the wall, reading the letter another time. “Oh, my God,” he said. “Oh, my God.”

  “What is it? What has happened? Why are you so white? Did someone die?”

  He lifted his gaze to hers. “No. To the contrary.”

  “I do not understand!” Olivia shouted.

  He shoved the parchment at her, leaning now against the wall, still absolutely stricken. And he said, “Is this a poor joke?”