by Julia Quinn
His hands were back in her hair, and her back was to the wall, and he was kissing her. Madly, passionately, bone-meltingly kissing her.
“Harry!” she gasped, when his lips left hers to nibble on her ear.
“I can’t help it,” he said, his words ticklish against her skin. She could hear the smile in his voice. He sounded happy.
She felt happy. And more.
“You were there,” he said, one of his hands moving down her side, around her back. “You were there, and I had to kiss you, and that’s all there was to it.”
Forget the flowery words of Miss Butterworth’s mad baron. That was the most romantic thing Olivia had ever heard.
“You exist,” he said, his voice deepening with desire. “Ergo, I need you.”
No, that was the most romantic thing.
And then he whispered something in her ear. Something about lips and hands, and the heat of her body, and she had to wonder if maybe that was the most romantic of all.
She had been desired by men before. Some had even claimed they loved her. But this—this was different. There was an urgency in his body, in his breath, in the pulse of his blood under his skin. He wanted her. He needed her. It went beyond words, beyond anything he might try to explain. But it was something she understood, something she felt deep within.
It made her feel deliciously powerful. And at the same time powerless, because whatever it was that was racing through him, it was spreading to her as well, causing a quickness inside in her veins, an inability to draw breath. It felt as if her entire body were rushing through her, moving from the inside out until she could do nothing but touch him. She had to grab him, squeeze him. She needed him close, and so she reached around with her hands, entwining herself around his neck.
“Harry,” she whispered, and she heard the delight in her voice. This moment, this kiss—it was everything she’d been waiting for.
It was everything she wanted.
And a million things more.
His hands slid down her back, pulling her from the wall, and they turned and swirled across the carpet until they both fell over the arm of the sofa. He landed atop her, the warm, solid weight of his body pinning her to the cushions. It should have been the strangest sensation. It should have been terrifying—her body compressed, her movement diminished. But instead it just felt like the most normal, natural thing in the world, that she would be on her back, and this man on top of her, hot, powerful, and hers.
“Olivia,” he whispered, his mouth trailing fire down the side of her neck. She arched beneath him, her pulse jumping when his lips found the thin, sensitive skin over her collarbone. He was moving lower, lower, to the wispy, lacy edge of her bodice. And at the same time his hands were moving higher, sliding along her side, catching her in the cradle of his thumb and forefinger until he reached her breast.
She gasped with shock. His hand had slid around to her front, and now he was cupping her through the thin muslin of her dress. She moaned his name, and then she moaned something else, something unintelligible and completely without thought or meaning.
“You’re so…good,” he groaned. He squeezed her gently, closing his eyes as his entire body shook with desire. “So good.”
She grinned. Right there in the middle of her seduction, she grinned. She loved that he didn’t call her beautiful or pretty or radiant. She loved that he was so out of his mind for her that “good” was the most complicated word he could manage.
“I want to touch you,” he whispered, his lips moving against her cheek as he spoke. “I want to feel you…on my skin…in my hand.” His fingers stole upward until they reached the edge of her dress, and he pulled, tugged gently, and then not so gently, until the fabric slid over her shoulder, and then down—down more—until she was bared to him.
She didn’t feel wanton. She didn’t feel wicked. She just felt right. Like herself.
His breath—hard and fast—was the only sound. The air around them seemed to crackle with urgency, and then she didn’t just hear his breath, she felt it on her skin, cool at first, and then hot, as his mouth grew closer.
And then he was kissing her. She nearly screamed—from the shock of it, then from the fire of it, and the curls of pleasure it brought forth from within. “Harry,” she gasped, and now she did feel wanton. She felt wicked, utterly and thoroughly. His head was at her breast, and all she could seem to do was sink her fingers into his hair, not sure whether she was trying to pull him away or bind him to her forever.
His hand moved to her leg, squeezing, stroking, moving higher, and then—
“What was that?” Olivia shot up into a sitting position, knocking Harry right off her. There had been a tremendous crash. It had sounded like wood splintering and glass breaking, and there had definitely been a scream.
Harry sat on the floor, trying to catch his breath. He looked at her, his eyes still hot, and she realized her dress was awry. She yanked it up, quickly, and crossed her arms protectively over her, each hand clutching the opposite shoulder. It wasn’t that she feared him, but after that noise she was terrified that anyone might come running in.
“What happened?” she asked.
He was shaking his head as he rose to his feet. “It came from the drawing room.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded, and her first thought was relief, although she had no idea why. Her second thought went in quite the opposite direction. If she’d heard the crash, then other people in the house would have heard it, too. And if this other person happened to be upstairs, as her mother was, she might come running down to investigate. And if she did that, she might enter the wrong room.
Finding her daughter in a state of considerable dishabille.
But in truth her mother would probably head first to the drawing room. The door would be open, and it was the first room one came across at the bottom of the stairs. But if she did that, she would find three gentlemen, a hulking bodyguard, the butler, three housemaids…
And no Olivia.
She jumped to her feet, immediately awash in panic. “My hair!”
“—is remarkably intact,” he finished for her.
She looked at him with patent disbelief.
“No, really,” he said, looking somewhat astonished himself. “It’s really almost”—he moved his hands near his head as if to indicate…something—“the same.”
She hurried over to the mirror over the fireplace and stood on her tiptoes. “Oh my goodness,” she said. Sally had outdone herself. Barely a lock was out of place, and she could have sworn that Harry had pulled the whole mass of it down.
Olivia pulled two hairpins out, repositioned and fastened them, then stood back to inspect her reflection. Aside from her flushed cheeks, she looked entirely respectable. And really, any number of things could have caused that. Plague, even, although she probably needed to start coming up with a new excuse.
She looked over at Harry. “Do I look presentable?”
He nodded. But then he said, “Sebastian will know.”
Her mouth opened in shock. “What? How?”
Harry gave a one shouldered shrug. There was something elementally male about the gesture, as if to say—a woman might answer your question in exhaustive detail, but this will do for me.
“How will he know?” Olivia repeated.
He gave her another one of those looks. “He just will. But don’t worry, he won’t say anything.”
Olivia looked down at herself. “Do you think the prince will know?”
“What does it matter if the prince knows?” Harry returned, a little snappishly.
“I have my—” She had been about to say that she had her reputation to consider. “Are you jealous?”
He looked at her as if she was slightly deranged. “Of course I’m jealous.”
Her legs started to feel rather liquid, and she sighed. “Really?”
He shook his head, clearly impatient with her sudden dreaminess. “Tell everyone I’ve gone home.”
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She blinked, unsure of what he was talking about.
“You don’t want everyone to know what we’ve been doing in here, do you?”
“Er, no.” Said perhaps a little haltingly, since it wasn’t as if she was ashamed. Because she wasn’t. But she did wish for her activities to remain private.
He walked over to the window. “Tell them you saw me off ten minutes ago. You can say that I had matters to attend to at home.”
“You’re going out the window?”
He already had one leg over the sill. “Do you have any better ideas?”
She might, if he gave her a few moments to think about it. “There’s a drop,” she pointed out. “It’s—”
“Don’t forget to shut the window after me.” And he was gone, hopping right out of sight. Olivia rushed over and peered out. Actually, there hadn’t been much of a drop at all. Certainly no more than Priscilla Butterworth had had to deal with when she’d hung out the ground-floor window, and heaven knew Olivia had mocked her for her silliness.
She started to ask Harry if he was all right, but he was already making his way up and over the wall that separated their properties, clearly uninjured by the drop.
And besides, Olivia didn’t have time for any more conversation. She could hear someone coming down the stairs, so she hurried out, just in time to reach the front of the hall at the same time as her mother.
“Did someone scream?” Lady Rudland asked. “What is going on?”
“I have no idea,” Olivia replied. “I was in the washroom. There is a bit of a performance—”
“A performance?”
“In the drawing room.”
“What on earth are you talking about? And why”—her mother reached out and plucked something from her hair—“is there a feather in your hair?”
“I cannot explain,” Olivia said, taking the feather in her hands for later disposal. It must have popped out through the upholstery on one of the pillows. They were all stuffed with feathers, although Olivia had always thought that the quills were removed first.
She was saved from further comment by Huntley, who had come into the hall, looking terribly embarrassed. “My lady,” he said, bowing toward Olivia’s mother. “There has been an accident.”
Olivia scooted around Huntley, hurrying into the drawing room. Sebastian was on the floor, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle. Behind him a vase appeared to have tipped over, leaving shattered glass, cut flowers, and water all over the floor.
“Oh my heavens!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”
“I think he broke his arm,” Edward Valentine told her.
“Where’s Harry?” Sebastian gasped. His teeth were grit together, and he was sweating from the pain.
“He went home,” Olivia told him. “What happened?”
“It was part of the performance,” Edward explained. “Miss Butterworth was on a cliff, and—”
“Who is Miss Butterworth?” Olivia’s mother asked from the doorway.
“I’ll explain later,” Olivia promised. That idiotic novel was going to be the death of someone. She turned back to Sebastian. “Mr. Grey, I think we should call for a surgeon.”
“Vladimir will fix it,” Prince Alexei announced.
Sebastian looked up at Olivia, eyes wide with alarm.
“Mother,” Olivia called out, motioning her to come over. “I think we need the surgeon.”
“Vladimir!” the prince barked, letting loose a stream of Russian.
“Don’t let him touch me,” Sebastian hissed.
“Do not think that you shall go to bed tonight without explaining every last detail,” Lady Rudland murmured in Olivia’s ear.
Olivia gave a nod, grateful that she’d have a bit of time to come up with a plausible explanation. She had a feeling that nothing could top the truth, however. Or at least the truth with a few carefully selected deletions. She was very grateful that Huntley had got caught up in the drama of the afternoon; that, at least, would explain why Lady Rudland had not been informed of her daughter’s many visitors.
“Get Harry,” Sebastian said to Edward. “Now.”
The young man excused himself and ran off with alacrity.
“This is what Vladimir does,” Prince Alexei said, shoving his way close. Vladimir was right next to him, looking down at Sebastian with narrowed, assessing eyes.
“He mends broken arms?” Olivia asked, looking over at him with considerable doubt.
“He does many things,” Alexei replied.
“Your Highness,” Lady Rudland murmured, bobbing a quick curtsy. He was, after all, royalty, and protocol must be observed, regardless of twisted limbs.
“Pereloma ruki u nevo nyet,” Vladimir said.
“He says the arm is not broken,” Alexei said, grabbing hold of Sebastian’s shoulder. Sebastian yelled out with such force that Olivia flinched.
Vladimir said something more, to which Alexei murmured a response that was clearly a question. Vladimir gave a nod, and then, before anyone had a chance to react, both men caught hold of Sebastian, Alexei around his middle and Vladimir at his arm, a bit above the elbow. Vladimir gave a pull and a twist—or maybe it was a twist and a pull. There was a horrific sound of bone on—good Lord, Olivia didn’t know what the bone was on, but it must have been something hideous, because Sebastian let out a blood-curdling cry.
Olivia thought she might be sick.
“Better?” Prince Alexei asked, looking down on his shuddering patient.
Sebastian looked too stunned to speak.
“He is better,” Alexei said confidently. He then said to Sebastian, “It will hurt for several days. Maybe longer. You…ah…how do you say it?”
“Dislocated,” Sebastian whimpered, tentatively moving his fingers.
“Da. The shoulder.”
Olivia shifted her weight to get a better look past Vladimir, who was blocking her view. Sebastian looked awful. His entire body was shaking, he seemed to be breathing too rapidly, and his skin…
“Do you think he looks a bit green?” she asked, of no one in particular.
Beside her, Alexei nodded. Her mother stepped forward, too, saying, “Perhaps we should—oh!”
Sebastian’s eyes had rolled back, and the next thunk they heard was his head hitting the carpet.
Harry was at the bottom of Rudland House’s front steps when he heard the scream. It was cry of pain, that he knew instantly, and it sounded like a woman.
Olivia.
His heart leaped with terror, and without a word to Edward, he charged up the steps and into the front hall. He didn’t knock, he didn’t even stop running until he skidded into the drawing room, barely able to breathe.
“What the hell happened here?” he gasped. Olivia looked fine. In perfect health, actually. She was standing next to the prince, who was speaking in Russian to Vladimir, who was on his knees, tending to…Sebastian?
Harry looked at his cousin with some concern. He was sitting up, propped against the leg of a chair. His skin was pasty and he was clutching his arm.
The butler was fanning him with the splayed-open copy of Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron.
“Seb?” Harry asked.
Sebastian held up a hand, shaking his head, which Harry took to mean, Don’t mind me.
So he didn’t. “Are you all right?” he asked Olivia. His heart was still racing with terror that she’d been hurt. “I heard a woman scream.”
“Ah, that would have been me,” Sebastian said.
Harry looked down on his cousin, face frozen in disbelief. “You made that noise?”
“It hurt,” Sebastian bit off.
Harry fought not to laugh. “You scream like a leettle girl.”
Sebastian glared at him. “Is there any reason you’re saying that with a German accent?”
“None whatsoever,” Harry replied, little snorts of barely suppressed laughter popping from his mouth.
“Er, Sir Harry,” came Olivia’s voice behind him.
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br /> He turned, took one look at her and burst out laughing. For no reason except that he’d been holding it in, and when he saw her he simply couldn’t do it any longer. She seemed to have that effect on many of his emotions lately. And Harry was coming to realize this wasn’t a bad thing at all.
Olivia, however, was not laughing. “May I introduce my mother,” she said weakly, motioning to the older woman next to her.
He sobered instantly. “I’m so sorry, Lady Rudland. I did not see you there.”
“It was quite a scream,” she said dryly. Harry had only seen her up to now from across a room, but up close he could see that she did indeed look quite like her daughter. Her hair had some silver in it, and there were faint lines on her face, but the features were remarkably similar. If Lady Rudland was any indication, Olivia’s beauty would not dim.
“Mother,” Olivia said, “this is Sir Harry Valentine. He has let the house to the south.”
“Yes, I’d heard,” Lady Rudland said. “I am pleased to finally meet you.”
Harry could not tell if he heard a warning in her voice. I know you have been cavorting with my daughter? Or perhaps: Don’t think we will ever let you near her again.
Or maybe he was imagining the whole thing.
“What happened to Sebastian?” Harry asked.
“He dislocated his shoulder,” Olivia explained. “Vladimir fixed it.”
Harry didn’t know whether to be worried or impressed. “Vladimir?”
“Da,” Vladimir said proudly.
“It was…really…quite…” Olivia searched for words. “Remarkable,” she finally decided.
“I might have described it differently,” Sebastian put in.
“You were very brave,” she said, giving him a motherly nod.
“He has done this many times,” Alexei said, motioning to Vladimir. He looked down at Sebastian, who was still sitting on the floor, and said, “You will need—” He made a motion with his hand, then looked at Olivia. “It is for the pain.”
“Laudanum?”
“Yes. That is it.”
