WidowsWickedWish

by Lynne Barron

  “I’m thinking that I’ve finally got you just where I want you,” Jack replied with a grin.

  “Lower your voice, you are attracting undue attention.”

  Jack peered around and shared his grin with a woman who was unabashedly watching them. Her curious gaze dropped and she hurried on her way.

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Palmerton,” he said with an overly proper, overly solicitous bow, all the while grinning like a madman.

  “I’m warning you,” she hissed, “I am not a woman you want to trifle with today.”

  Jack rose immediately to peer down into her lovely face, surprised by the twin spots of color high on her cheeks. If looks could indeed kill, he imagined the ferocious glint in her eyes would have slain him right on the street.

  “No,” he murmured, fighting to wipe the smile from his lips. “You are a woman to be reckoned with.”

  She blinked in surprise, and Jack nearly let loose a laugh.

  “Just so,” she agreed primly before spinning about and continuing along the street.

  Jack fell into step beside her, contemplated offering her his arm before deciding he was likely to lose it.

  The Countess of Palmerton was in a temper. And beautiful with it, full of banked fire just waiting to burst into flame. Jack felt an unaccountable desire to strike a match.

  “What are you doing in Bedford Square?” he asked after half a block of silence.

  “Walking about,” she answered without looking at him.

  “Alone?”

  “I hardly need a chaperone,” she replied with a huff that spoke clearly of her battle to hold on to her temper.

  “In Bedford Square?” he asked.

  “It is a perfectly respectable neighborhood.”

  “But why are you here, and on foot?” he persisted. “Why aren’t you in your carriage?”

  “I’m getting to lay the land,” she answered, serving only to pull a chuckle from him.

  “You find that funny?” Olivia stopped and turned to face him, her hand once more raised to keep her hat atop her head.

  “I think you mean getting the lay of the land,” he explained.

  In answer she waved her other hand about, her reticule smacking his thigh.

  A portly woman huffed as she stepped around them where they’d stopped in the middle of the walkway.

  “Pardon me,” Olivia said to the woman before starting forward once more.

  “I’ve been to call on you three times,” Jack began after another long silence, a silence he used to study her profile, inordinately pleased to see her brow furrowed and her lips turned down in a pretty pout. “And three times you’ve refused to see me.”

  “When did you call on me?” she asked after a pause.

  “Sunday afternoon, Monday morning and Tuesday afternoon,” he answered, ticking off the days on his fingers in what he knew was a gesture sure to annoy.

  “Not yesterday?” she asked, her gaze on his fingers.

  “No, not yesterday,” he agreed.

  “That explains it,” she replied, peering at him from the corner of her eye.

  Jack quirked a brow.

  “I am at home on Wednesdays between eleven and two,” she answered his unspoken question.

  “Where are you the other one hundred and sixty-five hours of the week?”

  Olivia halted and spun around to face him, a look of bafflement on her pretty face.

  “If you are home only three hours each week…”

  “Two actually. No one with an ounce of Town polish would call upon a lady before noon.”

  A pair of young men, clerks by their dark, poorly fitting suits, sidled around Olivia. Jack didn’t miss the way both men eyed her.

  “And the other one hundred and sixty-six hours?” he asked while shooting daggers at the more blatant ogler.

  “When I am not at home I am otherwise engaged,” she replied with just enough starch to remind him of a governess he’d had as a boy, one he’d bedeviled into quitting her post within a fortnight.

  “So you expect me to wait until next Wednesday to call upon you, but only between twelve and two? Am I to sit in your parlor sipping tea with half of London looking on?” he asked.

  “My parlor would hardly hold half of London.” Olivia turned and took off down the street once more, her reticule bouncing against her leg.

  “But that is what you expect?” He lingered a step behind her just to watch the sway of her hips.

  “I expect no such thing.” She tossed the words over her shoulder without slowing her pace.

  “Then what the hell do you expect?” he growled, frustrated with her prompt reply and her refusal to slow her pace, to stop and talk to him.

  Again she spun about, this time nearly striking a gentleman in the belly with her swinging purse.

  “Did you just curse at me?” she demanded as the man sidled out of the way. “On the street for anyone to hear you?”

  Chagrined, but no less frustrated, Jack ran a hand through his hair, praying for patience.

  “I have no expectations whatsoever where you are concerned,” she informed him, bringing her hands to her hips.

  “Well I have expectations where you are concerned.

  “Your expectations are hardly my concern.”

  It occurred to him, rather belatedly, that he’d made more of a muck of things than he’d thought. Olivia was truly angry at him, enraged even. And all over a foolish comment he’d uttered about a damn gown.

  “Christ, Livy,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” she replied before looking off toward the park across the street.

  “I want to see you.” The words were inelegant he knew, but the sentiment was heartfelt.

  “And here I am.” She met his gaze and held it and Jack fancied he saw a shadow of laughter in her eyes, the whisper of a smile pulling at her lips.

  “In private,” he clarified.

  “You are free to call upon me…”

  “Wednesday between twelve and two,” he finished for her.

  A small huff of laughter tripped off her lips before she resolutely pulled them into a firm line once more.

  “Livy, about the other night,” he began.

  “The park is smaller than I remember,” she interrupted, her gaze straying that way again.

  “Shall we take a stroll?” he asked, thinking only that the park was closer to his house, closer to the privacy he needed to set things right between them.

  “And the roads here are busier than I thought they would be,” she continued without answering his invitation.

  “Walk in the park with me, Livy,” he cajoled with a grin.

  “Why?” she asked, tilting her head as if truly curious as to his motives.

  “Because I want to speak to you without every Tom, Dick and Gladys listening in,” he replied with a nod to a couple who were none too covertly listening to them while pretending a fascination with a window box of geraniums.

  Olivia followed his gaze, a flush creeping over her cheeks.

  “It only needed this,” she murmured.

  “You know them?” he asked, not in the least surprised. London was Olivia’s town and she was London’s Darling.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Oliver, how lovely to see you,” she called out to the pair who turned to bow and curtsy before scuttling away. “My mother’s milliner and her husband.”

  “Come home with me.”

  It was a toss-up as to which of them was more surprised by Jack’s words.

  “Certainly not,” Olivia answered, peering around them to ascertain who else might be lurking in the bustling square.

  “Wednesday between twelve and two it is,” he said with a wicked grin. “I’ll sit in your parlor with all of London looking on and reminisce of our time together at Idyllwild.”

  “You wouldn’t,” she replied, angling her jaw in the air.

  “Wouldn’t I?” he murmured as he leaned down until they were nearly nose
to nose.

  Olivia stepped back and glared at him.

  “If you don’t want me to create one hell of a scandal for Thursday morning’s papers, come home with me,” he whispered for her ears alone.

  “Fine” she replied with a huff, “give me your direction.”

  Jack pointed to the park and his house just beyond.

  “You live here?”

  “Temporarily.” He captured her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. “My man of business is searching for a house in Mayfair.”

  “But, whatever for?” she asked as he pulled her across the street. “Won’t you be returning to Sedgefield at the close of the Season?”

  “That all depends upon a certain lady.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” she replied, her brow furrowing.

  They crossed the park in silence, Jack praying she would not change her mind when they arrived at his door.

  But Olivia seemed lost in her own thoughts and docilely followed him up the short steps and into the dim interior.

  “Mr. Bentley, I would have opened the door for you,” Pendergrass, the relic of a butler who’d come with the house, admonished as he alighted from the front parlor.

  “No need, Pendergrass,” Jack assured him, careful to keep Olivia’s hand tucked close to him lest she come to her senses and bolt at the sight of the pompous servant.

  “Would you care for tea?” the butler asked, his gaze resolutely fixed on some point near the ceiling.

  “Tea won’t be necessary,” Olivia answered before Jack could accept the offer of refreshments.

  “Very good, Lady Palmerton,” Pendergrass replied without a flicker of his thoughts showing upon his pasty white face.

  “How does Mrs. Goode fair in Bath?” Olivia removed her hat and handed it to the man.

  “Madame finds the waters invigorating,” he answered.

  “I’m happy to hear it,” Olivia said warmly. “Please give her my regards when next you correspond with her.”

  “I’ll be certain to do so, my lady,” the butler replied before bowing and disappearing down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “Who is Mrs. Goode?” Jack ushered her into the front parlor, curious to learn what she thought of the large room that was rendered miniscule by an overabundance of gilded furniture and sentimental landscapes.

  “The lady from whom you lease this house,” she replied before stopping just beyond the threshold. “My goodness, I’d forgotten this room was so...”

  “Hideous,” Jack offered.

  “Interesting,” she corrected primly.

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “I attended school with Rachel Goode,” she explained as she began to wander about the room. “I often called upon her here before my marriage.”

  Jack watched her trail her hand along the edge of an ornate table and over the back of a spindly chair he’d never been brave enough to sit upon. “Is there no one of consequence you don’t know?”

  Olivia shrugged delicately in answer as she continued about the room, stopping to peer at a vase paying homage to some Chinese dynasty.

  “London’s Darling,” he murmured.

  Olivia shot a quick look over her shoulder, one Jack couldn’t begin to decipher. Surprise perhaps, maybe chagrin. Before he could place it she turned back to the vase, her hands gliding over the squat base and long neck. “I have it on the highest authority that I am nothing more than the daughter of an earl, the widow of same and the mother of yet another.”

  “Is that all?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “Funny, that was my question, as well,” she said as she turned to face him across a garish Turkish carpet in shades of purple and yellow. “Somehow I don’t think we meant the same thing by the question.”

  At a loss as to how to respond to her words, to the rather surly look upon her face, Jack chose to take the bull by the horns.

  “I want to apologize for the other night,” he began as he stepped onto the carpet, one step closer to where he wanted to be.

  “Whatever for?” she asked.

  “For that ridiculous remark I made about your gown.”

  “My gown?” she asked with a laugh that sounded anything but joyous. “You needn’t apologize for finding my gown lovely.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Jack ran a hand through his hair. It appeared the lady was not going to graciously accept his contrition.

  “How would I know what you meant? I hardly know you.”

  “You knew me well enough this winter.”

  She shrugged before resuming her promenade about the room.

  “I did not mean to imply that you didn’t look lovely,” he continued. “Of course you were lovely. You are always lovely.”

  “Lovely,” she murmured more to herself than him. “That’s it? I’m lovely?”

  “Beautiful,” he hurried to assure her, surprised that she seemed to want to be flattered. The Olivia he’d known at Idyllwild hadn’t given him to believe she needed to be praised and petted. Nor was he one to spout such blarney, but hell, if she needed pretty words, if she wanted to be courted with poetry and sweet talk, then he would do his best.

  “Your skin is like rose petals, your hair like…like the most luxurious silk.”

  She spun about and pinned him with a glare down her pretty little nose. If it weren’t for the pulse beating at her throat, and the rise and fall of her breasts with each rapid breath she took, he might have mistaken her renewed temper for haughty disdain.

  “That’s it?” she asked. “That’s all you’ve got?”

  Caught off guard by the cold fury radiating off her in waves, Jack floundered.

  “Go on,” she hissed.

  “Your breasts are two pillows,” he began, grimacing as the words tripped from his lips.

  “Where did you hear that? London’s Darling?” she interrupted.

  “What? Nowhere,” he muttered in confusion.

  Olivia advanced on him until she was close enough that he might have reached out and grabbed her.

  No sooner had Jack lifted his hands to do just that when she spun around and returned to wandering about the cramped parlor. Jack turned to follow her, to keep her in sight in case she made to stride from the room, from the house, from him.

  “This room really is dreadful,” she said after another charged silence, a silence during which Jack attempted to figure out what he’d done to set her against him. It couldn’t be his careless remark the night of her mother’s ball, not entirely.

  “Awful,” he replied carefully to her back.

  “I seem to remember Mrs. Dumfries having a knack for decorating,” she continued, peering up at a painting of two boys rolling a hoop in Hyde Park. “Likely Miss Dumfries inherited her mother’s talent. Perhaps you should ask her to help you with this room.”

  Jack let out a bark of laughter, relief and amazement mingling to make him almost lightheaded.

  “Is that what this is about, Livy?” he asked incredulously.

  “This what?” Olivia turned to face him, her chin lifted in the air.

  “You’re jealous.”

  “Of Miss Dumfries?” she asked with a sniff. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t trade places with that child for all the tea in England.”

  “It was just a harmless bit of flirtation,” he said as he stalked toward her.

  “It matters not a bit to me if you flirt with every woman in Town.” She stepped back from him until her hip grazed a statue of a blue elephant and she was trapped in the corner between the elephant and a carved wooden screen with butterflies painted in various shades of pink.

  “Livy—”

  “Although I must say it was rather déclassé to do your flirting in my brother’s house, at my mother’s annual ball!” Her voice rose with each word until she was screaming at him as she’d done in the snow all those months ago.

  At the time he’d found her behavior shocking, now he found it encouraging, hopeful.
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br />   “You’re absolutely right,” he agreed as he stepped into the corner with her. “I apologize. My behavior was beyond boorish.”

  “Boorish but effective.” She stepped to the left, clearly intent upon sidling around him.

  Jack shifted with her, effectively forcing her farther into the corner.

  Undaunted, Olivia tossed back her head. “Although I must admit, I am a bit confused as to why you called upon me day after day, why you accosted me on the street today.”

  “I wanted to see you,” he answered, not sure where she was going with this new tangent. Christ, keeping up with Olivia’s agile mind was a lot like following a conversation in Latin. Jack had never been much good with Latin.

  Olivia sucked in a breath, all the color leaving her face. “You don’t intend to offer me some bauble, do you?”

  “Bauble?” He’d purchased a ring but the large square-cut sapphire hardly classified as a bauble.

  “Isn’t that what men do? They give a mistress a piece of gaudy jewelry, something no lady would ever wear, something meant to be sold to hold her over until another man comes along?”

  “What are you talking about?” Jack growled as her meaning became clear. “You are not my mistress!”

  “Well, I don’t need your tacky jewels,” Olivia growled right back, giving him a shove to his shoulder that didn’t budge him. “Let me by!”

  “There won’t be another bloody man,” he snarled low in his throat.

  “Don’t you curse at me.” She grabbed him by the lapels of his coat as if to shake him. “I am not some cheap doxy you can curse at whenever you choose. And I am not London’s goddamn Darling!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Countess of Palmerton had finally reached the end of her tether. Seething with rage, burning with a lust so powerful she’d been forced to flit about the room in order to refrain from grabbing Jack Bentley and wrestling him to the ground, Olivia did the only thing a lady can do when backed into a corner.

  Tightening her hold on Jack’s lapels, she rose onto her toes until they were nearly eye to eye.

  “Either put your cock inside me this instant or get out of my way,” she demanded, her voice vibrating.