by Darcy Burke
Chapter Twenty
OLIVIA HAD never experienced a true need to hurt someone, however that was precisely how she felt about Gifford right now. All the times she’d seen her mother beaten, she’d hated it, but because it was violence against another—innocent—person. The same with Mrs. Reddy. But this feeling, this fury, was different. It filled her up and gave her warmth, even as it cast her into darkness. Is this how Jasper felt when he fought?
“You don’t mean that, but I appreciate your anger on my behalf.” He gave her a half-smile.
“I do mean it. I have this power, and I want to wield it to hurt Gifford. Is that what you feel like when you fight?”
His thumb traced her cheekbone, and she had to battle to keep herself from succumbing to his caress. “Somewhat, but my goal isn’t to inflict pain. I want to exert myself in a strategic manner. Fighting takes thought and skill. Too much emotion clouds your judgment. I’m afraid that’s why I didn’t fare too well tonight.”
Olivia thrilled to his words. “What do you mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Uncomfortable with his blistering stare, she directed her attention to his wound. She kneeled up and peeled the cravat away to check the bleeding. Slower now, but still flowing. She rotated the fabric to a fresh spot and pressed anew. He flinched and dropped his hand to his lap. She regretted the loss of his touch, but it was for the best.
There was no help for it—she was falling in love with him. And while he might feel something for her—had hinted at it just a moment before—they had no future together.
“Earlier, you said you trusted me.” His voice was low and rough.
She had. She did. When had that happened? She’d even told him about living with her mother. She’d never told anyone how isolated she’d felt. But she couldn’t hope for something she could never have. “I don’t trust anyone. Not really.” The words hurt her more to say than they could possibly have hurt him.
His lips hardened, giving him that cold, arrogant look she hadn’t seen of late. He gripped the side of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair. “I want you to trust me. I need you to trust me.” He pulled at her head, his fingers twisting her hair. “Tell me you do.”
How could she ignore the anguish in his voice? They’d both been alone for so long, without anyone to trust…or to love. She couldn’t deny him. “I do,” she whispered.
They hit a bumpy patch of road and her hand pressed into his shoulder. He sucked in a breath.
“Tell me again.” He pulled her head down.
She stared at him.
“Tell me.” His voice was ragged with desire.
“I trust y—”
He swallowed the rest of the word with a searing kiss, his lips drawing on hers in desperate need. She shouldn’t allow this. She should move away, but she needed to keep pressure on his shoulder…
“Your shoulder,” she said against his mouth.
“Can burn in hell.” He palmed the back of her head and licked at her mouth. Passionate, burning kisses meant to ignite and excite.
The coach hit another large bump, and she nearly fell from the seat. Against her better judgment—a judgment that was really quite absent at the moment—she straddled his lap. She stroked his chest, running her left hand up across the heated expanse of flesh.
He opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, seeking to own every part of her. She slanted her head and met him lick for lick and thrust for thrust. She ground down against him, relishing his hardness between her legs. The undulating movement of the carriage created friction between them, sending delicious sparks of pleasure through her thighs and belly.
He broke the kiss, but only for a moment. “Olivia,” another breathless kiss, “I need,” he tugged at her lips with his teeth, “you.” He moved his hand to her waist and pulled her down while he arched up. She gasped into his mouth, straining against him, using every muscle to appease the hunger growing at her core.
Frantically, his hands searched beneath her skirts, draping the silk around them like a curtain. He found her slick flesh and stroked her opening, never releasing her mouth from his. She rotated her hips against his hand, her knees pressing into the sides of his thighs, all the while never loosening her pressure on his shoulder. She gripped his uninjured shoulder as well, giving her balance as she rode his touch.
He moved his wounded arm, but she didn’t release the compress. With difficulty, he opened his breeches. She would’ve helped, but adding her hands to the tumble of skirts and his fingers—God, his fingers. He slid one deep inside of her and she cried out, her teeth grazing his.
“Yes,” he coaxed, his finger pumping in time with her hips.
“I need—” The wave crested higher, driving her onward. She felt him at her opening, the damp head of his shaft pressing into her. “Oh, yes.” She pushed down, sheathing herself on him until she was stretched and full and lights danced behind her eyelids.
His hands gripped her waist. She savored the pleasure of having him inside of her, but only for a moment. His fingers dug into her backside, urging her upward. She slid herself up and then he brought her down again. Up, down, while he drew on her tongue and suckled.
Nothing mattered but this act between them. This giving and taking, this primitive need to both vanquish and surrender. Her pleasure built to a white-hot frenzy. She gripped his shoulders, heedless of his wound. The cravat slipped, but she was too close to euphoria to care.
He drove their movements, sensing the loss of her control. Faster, with rapid precision, his hips rose to meet her as she began to dissolve. He thrust deeper, grinding her down against him, the sound of their bodies filling the small, hot coach. She felt him stiffen and allowed herself to let go. Her limbs quivered in ecstasy. She cast her head back, emitting a series of ragged breaths and a low groan she was sure couldn’t belong to her.
He buried his face in her neck, his lips moving against her skin in crazed utterances of half-words and cries of joy.
Moments, or perhaps hours, later she slumped against him. He twitched, and she straightened. “Your shoulder!” She plucked up the cravat and quickly found a non-saturated stretch of fabric to press on the seeping wound. “That was, perhaps, ill-advised.”
He arched a brow at her. “I disagree.”
She pulled her leg back, releasing him from her body. The wetness on his sex rubbed against her thigh, and she dabbed at it with her skirts. “We should be arriving shortly.”
He nodded, refastening his breeches while she situated her skirts. They rode in silence, the musky scent of the coach and still-rapid beat of their hearts leaving no doubt as to what they had just done. Olivia ought to be shocked, at least by her own behavior. However, the truth was she’d wanted this, even if she hadn’t expected it.
The coach slowed. Olivia ran a hand over her hair.
“You barely look ravished. Not at all like that first time.”
She recalled the mess of her hair that afternoon and blushed.
The coach halted. She pulled the cravat away when the door opened and gathered up Jasper’s discarded clothing. She couldn’t look at the coachman as he helped her down. Next, he aided Jasper, saying nothing of his torn shirt or giving any inclination of what had occurred. Olivia led them into the house, hoping the doctor would arrive shortly.
She informed the butler of Jasper’s injury. The staff bustled to prepare his room and provide the implements necessary to treating his wound.
Jasper sat propped up in bed, his shirt gone from his torso. The wound had finally stopped bleeding.
Olivia stared at his bare chest and arms, dusted with pale blond hair. He was muscular and fit, his broad chest tapering to lean hips. She would have looked farther, but the coverlet obscured her inspection.
She raised her eyes to his. His mouth quirked, then his lids drooped in silent invitation. Her body quickened, answering his seductive call.
A maid arranged a basin and bandages on the table next to the bed. A footma
n brought steaming water while another positioned lamps around the room to provide ample illumination for the doctor.
Olivia inspected the wound under proper lighting. It was a neat slice. He ought not suffer any ill effects, provided it didn’t fester.
He turned to the footman arranging lamps. “Whiskey, if you please.”
“Of course, my lord.” He left the room.
The maid also departed and the second footman had gone to get more water.
Alone with him, the air in the room thickened. How could she desire him again with even more ferocity than half an hour ago?
Bernard entered, as unflappable as ever. One would think he was announcing tea instead of caring for a wounded gentleman. “Your footman sent word that Dr. Marsden is not available. He will call upon you as soon as possible.”
Jasper pinned her with a hard stare. “You’ll have to do it. Fetch your needle.”
Olivia’s pulse raced as anxiety tripped along her nerve endings. “I can’t do that.”
“You can. Your skill is unparalleled. Pretend I’m just another piece of embroidery.”
She flushed and her hands shook. “I can’t.”
He grabbed her hand and looked into her eyes. “You can. I trust you.”
Her heart squeezed. If he was willing to trust her, she couldn’t turn him down. She forced herself to relax and nodded.
The other footman arrived with a tray bearing a glass and a bottle of whiskey. He placed it next to the basin, now full of steaming water.
Olivia turned to him. “Will you please fetch my sewing basket? It’s in the Rose Room.”
“Yes, miss.” The footman hurried to complete the errand.
To busy her quaking hands, she poured Jasper a glass of whiskey. The decanter clanked against the glass, and she shot him a sheepish look.
“You’ll do fine,” he assured her as he accepted the whiskey. He promptly drained it and handed the glass back for a refill. Olivia obliged, filling it a second time. She would not begrudge him spirits. In fact, she wondered if a swallow might do her some good.
The footman entered bearing her sewing basket and handed it to Olivia. She set it on a chair set aside from the bed and extracted a needle and thread. Her fingers quivered, which made the simple task of threading the needle quite difficult. Relax, she told herself, and took a deep breath.
At last, she pushed the thread through the tiny hole. When she turned to face her patient, a chill washed over her. She must’ve reflected her anxiety because Jasper reached out and touched her hand.
“Don’t doubt your skill, Olivia. You’ll stitch me as well or better than Marsden.”
That wasn’t likely, but she didn’t say so. The bed’s height was perfect so that she could stand at his shoulder and sew the wound together. Blood had welled again. She dipped a cloth into the hot water and cleaned the torn flesh as well as she could. Jasper didn’t make a sound.
She took a deep breath and set the needle in place. Jasper’s suggestion sounded in her brain: pretend this is your finest piece of embroidery.
She pushed the needle through his flesh.
Louisa bustled into the room. “Good heavens, Jasper!”
Olivia jerked, pulling the needle with less care than she would’ve liked. Jasper flinched.
Louisa rushed to stand beside Olivia. “What happened? Lord Sevrin said you’d been stabbed.”
“And so I was, Aunt.” He looked at Olivia. “Please continue. I’d prefer you finished quickly.”
“Yes, of course.” Olivia set another stitch, thinking eight or ten ought to do the trick.
“Louisa, pour me another whiskey if you would.” He gritted his teeth as Olivia pulled another stitch tight.
Louisa handed him a rather full glass, which he gripped so tightly, Olivia feared he might break it. “Why is Olivia suturing your wound? Where’s the doctor?”
“Unavailable,” Olivia said. “Jasper insisted I could do just as well.”
“An excellent notion.” Louisa peered over her shoulder.
Olivia pierced his flesh again. She had to admit it wasn’t as bad as she thought. If things didn’t work out with Louisa, perhaps she could reinvent herself as a surgeon. What nonsense, of course things would work out. Jasper had ensured that all of her secrets would remain buried.
Louisa shook her head. “I can scarcely credit you being stabbed at Vauxhall.”
Jasper drank half the whiskey. “Footpads are everywhere, I’m afraid.” He gave Olivia a look that clearly stated it was best if they didn’t tell Louisa the truth. He was probably right, but oh, how she hated lying.
Olivia set the last stitch and tied off the thread. “Done.”
Louisa handed Olivia a small pot of lumpy paste from the tray. “It’s good you came here. Cook’s remedy will keep the infection away. Noxious stuff, but Bernard swears it works wonders. He employed it for some blisters a while back.”
Olivia dolloped the poultice on his shoulder and spread it atop the sutures. The tray also bore small pieces of fabric, one of which Olivia draped over the wound. Then she took a length of linen and wound it around his shoulder and under his arm several times. She bound it tightly, but not so much that he couldn’t move his arm.
Louisa studied Olivia’s handiwork. “Well done, dear. Now we must add healing to your repertoire of talents. You will make some lucky gentleman a splendid wife.”
Olivia glanced at Jasper. His blue eyes were vivid in the brightness cast by the numerous lamps. Vivid, but inscrutable.
Jasper finished his whiskey and handed the empty glass to Louisa. He twitched his shoulder, testing the bandage. “Louisa’s right. You could have a future as a healer.”
“No, I said she’d be a brilliant wife.” She smiled and took Olivia’s arm. “Come, let us allow Jasper his rest. The servants can tend to his needs.”
Olivia reluctantly left, but not without a backward glance. His gaze was intense, but he said nothing. Three times now they’d surrendered to temptation, but what did it mean? He had no intentions toward her and neither did she expect any. As far as she knew, he still planned to marry…and soon.
Then she and Louisa would journey to York while Jasper lived the life he was meant to, without her.
OLIVIA stole along the softly lit corridor, two flickering sconces at either end providing just enough illumination to find her way. It was half-two in the morning and the house was dead quiet, which was a good thing. She didn’t need anyone asking why she was visiting Jasper’s bedchamber in the middle of the night. She paused outside his door, her ears straining for the slightest sound within. Hearing nothing, she turned the handle and stepped across the threshold.
A male hand clamped over her mouth. The man pulled her inside and pushed her back against the wall while he closed the door. He brought his finger to his lips. He tipped his head in silent question. She nodded in response.
Slowly, he lowered his hand. “Sorry.”
Olivia straightened her wrapper, her heart thudding wildly. She’d never been introduced to him, but of course she recognized Lord Sevrin after his rescue tonight. “Who were you expecting?”
“No one, which is why I reacted that way. I was asleep. I suppose I forgot where I was.” He gave her a sardonic smile.
“Goodness, where do you normally sleep?”
His smile deepened. “Nowhere as nice as this.” Before she could question that enigmatic comment, he continued. “You’re here to visit him?” He gestured toward the bed.
Ruby-colored hangings were pulled closed around the four-poster, obscuring Jasper from her sight. So much for checking on her patient.
“Is he asleep?”
Lord Sevrin rubbed the back of his neck, drawing her attention to his open collar and the general disarray of his appearance. He was quite handsome, but Olivia wasn’t tempted by him, as she knew many other women to be, including Lady Lydia. “Something like that. More like unconscious. He overimbibed with the whiskey, I’m afraid.”
Sh
e nodded, quashing her disappointment. What had she hoped for—another bout of lovemaking? She was a fool for expecting anything.
Lord Sevrin stepped back and offered a slight bow. “I regret we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Sevrin.”
“Of course, I know who you are.”
He inclined his head. “Dare I hope you recognized me because Saxton pointed me out, or are you aware of my more, ah, notorious nature?”
“I’m afraid it’s the latter.”
“Please don’t hold it against me. Would you care to sit for a moment? I’d hate for you to have come for nothing.”
Was he propositioning her? A man of his reputation…
He chuckled softly. “Please, Miss West, my interest doesn’t go beyond our shared concern for Saxton. You’re quite safe with me.”
Despite everything she’d heard, she relaxed. She’d met plenty of scandalous men when she’d lived with her mother, and she didn’t sense any danger from the viscount.
She took one of the two chairs set near the fireplace. Glowing coals cast a scant bit of light, which was fortified by twin lamps burning on the mantelpiece.
Lord Sevrin sat beneath one of the lamps. A faint tinge of yellow ringing his left eye became visible. She scanned his features for another injury.
He gave a discreet cough. Olivia had been caught staring.
Quickly, she said, “I’m surprised to find you here at this hour.”
Sevrin stretched his legs out and leaned back in the chair, assuming a position a gentleman never would in the company of a lady. She considered being affronted, but didn’t think Sevrin meant any offense. “I imagine so,” he drawled. “Although my presence is far more acceptable than yours. I came to speak with Saxton about Gifford.”
She felt like an ingrate for not thanking Sevrin immediately. “Thank you for coming to Jasper’s, er, Saxton’s rescue. What happened with Mr. Gifford?”
“I dragged him to the magistrate. I believe he’s the newest inhabitant of Newgate.”
Olivia couldn’t find the charity to be sorry for his imprisonment. He’d stabbed Jasper. “I still can’t believe he attacked Saxton like that.”
