by Julia Donner
Because she didn’t know how to express all that she needed, she released her grip on the coverlet and dug her fingers into the long column of muscles down his back. She feared her nails might bruise and clutched the shirt linen in her fists.
He lifted up, braced his hands on the coverlet by her head, and began to move with fierce concentration. She twisted his shirt tighter with each thrust. Every lunge pushed her higher, stretched every muscle tighter. Panting breaths turned to shared groans, frantic reaching, then the shock of a piercing end that left her gasping and stunned.
Return from oblivion came slowly. She stared up at the ceiling, vaguely noting a cobweb, while absorbing the shivering aftermath of a spectacular release. She blinked at the dusty, abandoned web—what an odd thing to take notice of at a time like this. The common and mundane were so far removed from what had just occurred.
Pleasure continued to simmer in her shivering body and gradually slowing pulse. Harry’s heartbeat pounded against her chest, his breath ruffled her hair. His fingers speared through her tangled hair, held her still. His lips pressed a tender kiss in the hollow of her cheek that felt like a benediction.
Had it been worth it—this interlude of wild and supremely satisfying abandon?
His rich baritone voice banished all thought, when he murmured against her ear, “Ma’am, would you deem it terribly presumptuous of me,” he paused to nuzzle, “to take the liberty of now addressing you as Olivia?”
She couldn’t stifle a snort of mirth. Then she couldn’t stop laughing. Happiness came bubbling out of her from deep inside, rising up in choking waves of laughter. He rolled off her and they both started to laugh uncontrollably. When they calmed, Olivia realized that she sprawled on the rumpled bed, her frock gaping open, her breasts exposed to the blazing light of day. With a muffled groan, she came to her senses and started to push down the material bunched at her waist. A strong grip stopped her.
His fingers immediately gentled around hers. His thumb caressed her wrist. “Olivia, don’t. Please don’t mar the beauty of the moment with shame or embarrassment.”
She looked away, rubbed her cheek against the coverlet’s quilted surface. “But what we’ve done is not…was not…seemly.”
He gently turned her head to face him, lifted and kissed her palm. “Pish-tosh, as my beloved Lizzie is wont to say. We’re adults, neither encumbered by attachments that would cause hurt to others.”
Still not meeting his gaze, she withdrew her hand from his light clasp and brushed the hair off her brow. “I will try.” She paused, searching for something to say. “Did you hear something a moment ago? It sounded like a door closing.”
“No prevaricating, no changing the subject, and no regretting what we’ve done. Come on, Livie. Very well, since you won’t look me in the eye, close them. Now, tell me how you feel. Your body, not the dictates of your mind or conscience.”
She did as asked, which wasn’t’ easy with him leaning over her. His lips grazed her brow and temple then glided down her cheek. The pulse that had returned to normal began to pick up again. Her voice sounded odd and breathy when she complied. “There’s a deep indentation in the mattress. It will have to be turned.”
He laughed a soft chortle that made her insides quiver, then nipped her chin. “Not that. This. Here.”
She inhaled when his palm skimmed up her bare thigh and settled between her legs. Her heart began to thump, Her entire body jerked when he pressed a sensitive spot.
He chuckled, deep and dark. “You’re not talking, Livie. Tell me.”
“You’re distracting me.”
“On purpose. Talk.”
“There’s a burning tingle. At the same time, I feel like a dish of melted caramel.”
He hummed a pleased sound against her neck. “That sounds promising. What else?”
“Afterward, I felt so wonderfully complete. It’s why I started laughing. I’ve never felt so free afterwards. So…relieved. Although, what you’re doing now is making the nervousness come back.”
“Excellent. You have the most delicious skin, Livie. Flesh like silk. It reminds me of ripe peaches and apricots. Are you going to let me have a bite?”
She gasped when he ran the tip of his tongue across her collarbone. He nosed aside her gaping bodice, first a tender nip followed by a licking kiss. She had to sink her fingers into the tumble of his golden curls to keep herself intact. She teetered on the edge. The alternating tingle and tickle—streaks of pleasure followed by caressing rewards—sent her mind reeling and body reaching for more. Her muscles involuntarily clenched from the intense draw of his mouth, the pressure and rub of confident fingers. The wildness that lived inside raised her hips and stole her breath. Frantic, she grabbed his wrist to show him, but he knew exactly what to do, what she needed. She couldn’t master or prevent the sounds issuing out of her. He kept guiding her, forcing her to move with him with whispered instruction and praises against her ear, urging her on until the piercing ache broke free.
The first thing she noticed when sanity returned was the comforting weight of his palm on her stomach. He’d tucked his hand under the skirt bunched up around her waist. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She bit into her lower lip to slow panting breaths. Her eyes felt too heavy to open when she dared to look.
Propped on an elbow, he smiled down, his gaze soft and dreamy. “My, but you are magnificent, Mrs. St. Clair. How will I ever get enough of you?”
With her sense of decorum and modesty in disarray, she said the first thing that came into her head. “I’m not a box of bon-bons.”
Not in the least discouraged by her grumpy sounding response, he chuckled, and planted a swift kiss on her mouth. “No, you taste better. What I’ve had so far. And I can scarcely wait to get to the best tasting bits. Look at you, coloring up like a schoolgirl.”
Everything within her stilled when the schoolgirl remark made him pause. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. She whispered, “What is it?”
He gave his head a brief shake. “Nothing. Merely one of those aggravating memories that won’t come into focus. Not important. Let’s go back to your tasty bits. Much more interesting.”
“I’m sorry to have cried out.”
“What a silly creature you are, Mrs. St. Clair. Those lovely whimpers and moans are music, a grand ovation. I’ll wager that I can have you howling like a banshee. Yodeling from the rooftops. You don’t believe me? Perhaps a demonstration.”
“Harry, stop!”
“Ticklish, are you?”
“No.” But she couldn’t hide the fact when his fingers found her ribs. She let out a squealing laugh.
He relented, gazing down at her with an expression of shining adoration. Her muscles softened. Everything within melted. No wonder women succumbed to vapors when he entered a room. She’d never again think of them as ridiculous.
He tucked an arm under her waist and hoisted her matronly plump self higher on the bed as if she weighed nothing. He lifted the mess of her hair out of the way and tucked a pillow under her shoulders. He didn’t close up the front of her bodice and gently stopped her when she tried to refasten the buttons.
Trailing a finger around the curve of her right breast, he murmured, “I haven’t finished looking at these beauties, and it’s my decided opinion, Mrs. St. Clair, that you are in need of a nap, but were in much greater need of something else. How long has it been since you…laughed?”
Her face tingled from his obvious appreciation of a figure that had always caused her embarrassment. She cast off her worries. She was acting ridiculous, like the insecure schoolgirl from a past never fully understood. He was right. It was foolish to mar the beauty of the moment.
“Oh, Harry, you are so wonderfully perceptive. And naughty. Thank you for…making me laugh.”
She placed her hand alongside his cheek, cupping his strong jaw, and gently brushed her thumb over a healed cut. A sad, little ache pinched her heart when he closed his eyes and pressed into her caress. The
world stilled while she absorbed the fleeing moments of sweet peace and languid contentment, then his eyes slowly reopened, no longer twinkling and merry.
Her breath caught, because she knew his intent before he murmured, “And now for the tasty bits.”
Chapter 11
While Olivia napped, Harry took a bracing walk then made a trip to the chicken coop. He carried the fresh-laid, warm eggs to the antiquated kitchen and went to the small receiving room by the front door to wait for Olivia to come down. He’d offered to help her prepare dinner, an offer that had made her stare, then laugh.
Due to the lack of funds—often no money whatsoever throughout most of his childhood—his mother helped in the kitchen and with housework. She made use of anything and everything to get by. He felt the corners of his mouth lift with the recollection of how Lady Asterly had to be checked for flour smudges and grease spots before greeting any visitors.
Their mother’s beguiling expressions and merry temperament bewitched both of her boys. Harry’s grin broadened with the memory of how she kept them from the most decrepit portions of Marshfield by insisting the wine cellar and shadowy corridors were infested with trolls.
Their nurse, who often went without pay, helped cook. He and Perry did household chores and took care of the one horse they kept at Marshfield. The rest of the cattle were needed on the home farm. The meager income they got from rents usually went directly back into repairs and the rare treat. If someone unexpectedly came to visit, the boys were hurried off to change out of their torn, patched leathers and into clothes stitched by Lady Asterly.
A close friend of the late Baron Asterly sponsored their education, since there was no money for schools. He and Perry hated leaving their mother alone in the crumbling house in Kent. She pooh-poohed them and pushed them out the door. Harry had gripped his brother’s hand throughout the journey away from their beloved mama. Both knew she put a brave face on and waited to weep until they were gone.
It wasn’t until they went away to school that they learned how different she was from other mothers. Their classmates rarely saw their parents and only knew them through portraiture, where their mother played with them and took them on walks in the parklands. She sat on the stream bank and showed them how to fish. Without a father or money for tutors, she sold bits of her stash of jewelry to give them fencing lessons and educate them in what she could not. She taught them music, dance and literature. She was everything to Harry. Part of him died when she did. The empty space left by her passing eventually became an odd yet cherished companion.
The last days with Olivia St. Clair made him realize how desperately lonely he’d been, how incomplete. He’d assumed that he was meant to live with that empty aloneness, even while there were so many who professed to care for him. He knew that Ravenswold, Cass and Freddy Bates were sincere. He and Lizzie doted on each other, but still the loneliness lingered.
Then he discovered the missing thing about his life could be filled to overflowing by a reserved widow, who hid from life in a backwater village. He couldn’t figure out why and didn’t care. If her reason for seclusion was because of something shocking or criminal, he’d polish up his armor and sweep the problem out of her path. He’d carry her away to a new life where he could pamper and spoil her to the end of their days and beyond. He sighed at the idyllic image of them gliding along a Venetian waterway in a rocking gondola.
But how would someone like Olivia, who had no interest in the ton or city life, react to the mess he’d left behind in London? What would she think about the persona and mockery he’d made of himself? When he fled, a manipulative girl was insisting that he’d jilted her. The entire town was in an uproar about an eight-foot statue of him naked. Well, almost naked. His modesty had been saved with a strategically placed scroll, but unfortunately, it did nothing to cover the back end. Thank all the powers in heaven that his dear Lizzie bought the thing. Providential, that, and so like his Lizzie.
The only way to protect Olivia would be to take her to the peace of Rolands, its sheep-dotted hills and cozy house in the valley. Yes, it would be best to stay out of London and retire somewhere far away—away from any connection with his sordid past.
Problem solved, he strolled to the window and braced the heels of his hands on the sill. Afternoon sun glared down from directly overhead. The view of the lane was partially blocked by the low-hanging ends of the pink-purple wisteria that graced the cottage walls. The tree-shaded road stretched out to the main thoroughfare. Another sultry, still-air day, but the house, closed up and under the trees, stayed comfortably cool.
A floorboard squeaked. He hoped she’d taken advantage of the opportunity to nap. He’d given the poor girl quite the energetic tumble. He hoped she felt as eager to be with him as he was to be with her—to share the making of a meal in the kitchen. Another childhood memory flitted through his head, of peeling potatoes and turnips, while watching his nurse knead a bulging mound of dough. She gave a lesson about the properties of yeast, its history and uses, the lack of it when the Hebrews left the land of Egypt. That story had gotten Harry interested in Scriptures.They so enthralled him that Perry had to take the Bible from him and drag him outside to play.
His present preoccupation with Olivia was much more intense. Was it fate or divine mystery that he’d found someone so like his mother? How soon could he get a special license? Should they go north first? He’d have to locate the closest chapel or church, but with a special license, they could marry anywhere. They could marry at Rolands in the back garden, hire a yacht to cross the channel and honeymoon in Paris or Venice. He’d always wanted to visit Tuscany.
Behind him, the parlour door creaked open. His heart did a happy flip, eager to see Olivia again and beg her to marry him. How could she not, after he’d stayed under her roof for days and especially after what they’d done that morning?
Happiness spread its warmth through his chest. Just thinking about her made him want to laugh, pick up a flute and play a gig, because the delightful thing about Olivia was that after they’d had something to eat, she wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the evening in bed. He had to be the luckiest man in England.
His facial muscles relaxed out of a smile when he saw a stranger paused on the threshold. Odd, that. He hadn’t seen or heard anyone come up the lane, but he’d been gone for a while, and earlier, he and Olivia had been focused on other things. He did his best not to grin at that recollection. But for now, he must stop acting the fool and transport his besotted mental state back to the present.
The visitor waiting to be acknowledged wasn’t a local. He epitomized the sort of ingrained nobility that typified a member of the first respectability. Erect posture, implacable hauteur and an impersonal stare that displayed the confidence of a man who knew his place in the world. The stark black of his clothing complimented his shiny silver hair tied back in an old-fashioned queue with a black ribbon. So much austerity. Brummell would approve. There was something about the gentleman, his air of dignity and superiority that made Harry feel inferior, somehow at fault.
Out of habit, Harry had carried down with him a pair of white gloves, the only clean item left in the portmanteau. This illustrated more about the extent of his love-befuddled mind. He had nothing left to wear that wasn’t stained or wrinkled, no valet to fit him out in a presentable manner. He’d not anticipated seeing anyone but Olivia and expected to spend the afternoon in the antiquated kitchen. Nevertheless, he could at least rely on his manners.
“Won’t you come in, sir? Mrs. St. Clair had not told me that she expected a caller.”
“Sir Harry, I presume?”
“Why, yes, sir. You have the advantage.”
“I most certainly do,” he replied. He made the slightest of bows before entering and gently closing the door.
A chill slid over Harry’s flesh. Something was terribly off. He felt in a dream as he moved forward. The visitor accepted Harry’s out-stretched hand in a clasp that was briefly gripped and dropped i
n a fashion that suggested contact with something repellant and summarily discarded.
The visitor’s ice-blue stare made a slow survey of his shabby state of dress, lingering briefly on the faded bloodstains. He raised high-arched, silver eyebrows in a way that had Harry suppressing an involuntary cringe. “How very good of you to welcome me so readily, Sir Harry, and into my own withdrawing room. Is this a new fashion in London?”
“I beg your pardon, but this is the home of Mrs. St. Clair.”
“No, this dwelling has been in the Mainstay family for over a century.”
Understanding flooded over Harry. He felt the blood drain from his face. That’s where he’d heard the name. The caller was Lord Alisdair, younger son of the Duke of Godolming, the Right Honorable Reverend Bishop Mainstay, Olivia’s father. She was the daughter and granddaughter of two of the most well-known martinets in England.
Another horrible thought invaded. He began to make feverish calculations. Had her father arrived while Harry had fulfilled his joking promise to make her howl? Thinking the house empty, they hadn’t been quiet nor reserved. And where was she? He hoped still sleeping. This debacle was bad enough without drawing her into the awkwardness.
As he grappled with so many thoughts, he realized that the straight line he’d been trying to maintain on his mouth wasn’t working. Would her father think the quivering of his lips was due to suppressed laughter?
Nervousness and an emotional noose constricted Harry’s throat. He had to swallow in order to speak—to somehow salvage this situation. “I’m sorry no one was here to greet you. The Hoskins are not well. Have you waited long?”
His stare glacial, Bishop Mainstay meaningfully replied, “Long enough.”
Harry’s heart sank. He heard himself babble, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll fetch Mrs. St. Clair.”
