He dragged his hot, burning body up along hers again, and this time her slender hands slid curiously along his arms. “Oh my,” she whispered.
The breathy sound fanned the fire of his passion. Then she pressed a kiss against his chest, very near to his nipple, and Neville groaned out loud. He let his full weight down, pressing her into the mattress, then slid down, letting her feel the full heat and weight of his arousal. As he did, she kissed her way up along him, shoulder, throat, chin, and jaw, then caught his face between her hands and kissed him fully upon the mouth.
When her tongue stole between his lips, it destroyed the last remnants of his control. He kicked out of his undergarments and tore her chemise roughly over her head. In the scant second before he came down on her again, he had a glimpse of pale smooth flesh, of sweet curves of light and shadow. Her breasts, full and soft, were tipped with dusky nipples that he meant to lavish his attention upon—but later. He covered her with his body, his burning hot skin upon her cool, delicious flesh, and caught her face between his hands. If he did not make love to her now, he would die from the torture.
“It may hurt a bit,” he said, his voice hoarse with passion. “I’ll try to be easy.”
She smiled up at him then, and it was the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen. It warmed him and soothed him and filled him with a feeling he could not describe. “I know you will,” she whispered as he positioned his arousal in the warm vee between her legs. “I love you, Neville. Oh—”
Her warm, throaty admission caught him by surprise, but Neville covered his shock with the physical act of possessing her. He thrust into her, then, when he met her virgin’s barrier, thrust deeper still.
Beneath him she lay very still, not even breathing, but only trembling ever so slightly. He was trembling too, but not merely from the power of a mighty passion held now on the brink of release. She’d said she loved him. Did she mean it? Did she understand what she’d just said? Did she have any idea?
“Neville …” She took a quick breath that seemed to release them both from this state of suspended passion.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice tight with strain.
Her eyes were so wide, so huge, that even in the dangerous night shadows of his bedroom, all her emotions lay wide open to his view. Wonder. Passion.
Love.
He closed his eyes and, without waiting for her reply, began the slow rhythm that would bring him the relief he sought—and her as well. But he did not want to stare into those warm, loving eyes.
He could bring her physical completion, but he did not want her to love him, not when he knew how undeserving he was of that love. From the very first he’d set out to seduce her. He’d convinced himself she could ease his pain and so had ignored any qualm of conscience as he’d pursued her.
He was a selfish bastard, but knowing that changed nothing. He wanted her; he had to have her. But he knew he did not deserve her love. Nor could he ever return it. He’d lost that ability long ago. But give her pleasure? That much he could do for her.
So he bent himself to the task at hand, the welcome task he’d pursued since the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. He would rouse her and give her a pleasure beyond anything she’d ever imagined, and in the process he would find the release he so desperately needed.
As Neville began to move over her, Olivia felt the tightness begin to ease. She’d felt too full at first. Shocked by the intrusion, overwhelmed by the excruciating intimacy. But now with the slow pattern of withdraw and thrust, of heat and friction, her shock turned to wonder and then to eagerness. So this was the wonderful, mysterious, whispered-about secret of men and women together. Her entire body seemed to swell and throb and join with the rhythm he created.
Why had she resisted him for so long? To have him move over her, his powerful body focused so wholly upon her … There was nothing Olivia could compare it to.
Her hands moved restlessly over his back and shoulders, sliding upon the taut muscles with their sheen of dampness. At once his movements quickened from careful to demanding. “Oh, Neville,” she moaned, unaware of her words. The feelings were so strong, increasing like a fire stoked and stoked, and stoked again, so that it burned ever hotter, ever higher.
“Neville, Neville,” she panted with his every stroke. And with every chant of his name he responded until they were racing together, body to body. Olivia was on fire. She felt too full for her own skin, as if she were about to burst right out of it and emerge an altogether different creature than before. The astounding thing was, she wanted that to happen. She wanted him never to stop. Never.
“Neville, Neville. Oh, my love. Oh—”
She felt, more than heard, his answer. He strained over her, every muscle in his powerful body centered on her, then pushed her over the edge. Olivia let out a helpless cry of utter capitulation and felt the explosion take her. It filled her, burst out of her, and enveloped him also. For he stiffened and let out a huge cry, then plunged deep inside her with a prolonged shudder.
In the heated aftermath of that shattering moment, that glorious tumult, they lay together. Collapsed together. So this was making love, Olivia mused in the foggy recesses of her completely sated mind.
Sated mind. Sated body. The very concept was foreign, and yet it was also exactly right. She sighed, and so did Neville, sinking them both deeper into the thick mattress.
“I love you,” she murmured, reveling in the intimate press of his hard, heavy body on hers. It was a huge admission and yet she knew it for the truth. “I love you, Neville.”
Slowly he rose up and propped himself to the side. “Are you all right?”
Olivia smiled up at him. “Yes. Oh, yes.” How could everything not be right after what they’d just shared?
But Neville did not smile back. Instead he rolled to his side and pulled her close, tucking her head beneath his chin. Though she could not see the expression on his face, she could feel the uneasiness in his body. She knew instinctively that this should be a moment of perfect peacefulness. But there was a tension between them, a tension emanating from Neville.
Had she done something wrong?
“Neville,” she began.
“Shh. Listen to me, Olivia. Listen to me. We have to plan. Tomorrow you will inform your mother that we are to wed. I’ll speak to James. He will be angry with me for what has passed between us, but in the main I believe he will be relieved.”
“But Neville.” She struggled to rise on one elbow. “You are right, but—” She broke off when she met his wary gaze. Why should he feel wary now?
But Olivia knew why. Ever since she’d confessed her feelings for him he’d been uneasy. From her very first admission of love.
The damp skin on her arms and shoulders prickled in the cool night air. She’d said she loved him, but he had made no similar reply. Could he wish to marry her and yet not love her?
Though Olivia knew that was the way of most marriages, after what they’d just shared, she did not want to believe it possible for them. No matter that she’d always been the pragmatist in matters of marriage, she could not be pragmatic now. She loved him and she needed him to love her in return.
“I love you,” she stated, thrusting the words at him like a challenge. The words were out; the gauntlet was thrown; and in his eyes Olivia saw him retreat from her.
Like a cold wind, the truth of that retreat settled over her, and she shivered.
At once he pulled her closer and tried to cover her with the tangled bed linens. “You love me? After all the times I’ve made you angry you love me?” he said, adopting a teasing tone. He rolled her over so that he lay between her legs once more. “You love me? Or is it this you love?” Then he began to kiss her and caress her and rouse her as he had before.
His lips were so clever and his hands so adept that had she not understood his motives, Olivia would have succumbed to the drowning pleasure of it all. He meant to bring her back to that high peak of excitement, that culmination of
desire and love and forever—except that he brought no love to it. She did but he did not, and so she struggled against the seductive pull of desire.
“Don’t do that. Look at me.” She caught his head between her hands and forced him to face her. “Listen to me.”
“No.” Neville thrust Olivia’s hands aside, capturing them above her head. She’d caught him by surprise with her words of love, and for a moment he’d been overwhelmed by panic. But he’d recovered now. He’d recovered and he’d regained control. “No, Olivia. You listen to me. I know what you want from me. What you want me to say. But those are only words. Meaningless words. What matters is that we are so well matched—in temperament, in interests, in attitudes. And we desire one another.” He moved his body over hers in a long, voluptuous stroke. “We are well matched, you and I.” And he proceeded to prove it to her.
It was not hard to rouse her to desire. She was a woman of strong passions, his Olivia. His Hazel. Careful and analytical, yet brave and bold of spirit.
She will need every bit of that bravery to deal with you.
That ugly truth raised beads of sweat on Neville’s brow. But it only goaded him on. He plundered her mouth with his and felt her resistance slacken. He moved his lips and tongue to the attention of her breasts, lovely and soft with their dark tips peaked in perfect arousal.
He pulled one deep in his mouth and felt her groan of pleasure. She was alive with passion, quivering beneath him with it, and he quivered in response.
Couldn’t she see that he’d never cared so much for any other woman’s satisfaction? Couldn’t she understand that her pleasure magnified his own? Just the knowledge that he could make her writhe beneath him made him instantly hard. The fact that he could make her pant and cry out, brought him nearly to completion. She made him feel like a green lad, randy and utterly consumed with her.
Couldn’t that be enough for her?
He vowed to make it enough.
He might be unable to love her as she wanted to be loved. His emotions had been too scarred by the past for that. But he could love her body and provide for her and keep her safe.
So he bent himself to loving her body. He found every secret, erotic place. The inner corner of her elbow, the tender flesh beneath her ear. He counted each rib with kisses and marked every hollow and curve of her waist and belly and hips. Down the smooth, warm legs, skirting her thrusting hips, ignoring her frantic pleas for him to join with her.
He trained his horses with patience and care. How much more patience and care would he shower on this woman. With enough time and enough practice she would learn to find that ultimate satisfaction from only his kisses.
And that would be enough for her. She would not need those three overused words which meant less than the air used to expel them.
Chapter 26
Olivia awakened alone in Neville’s bed. She was not confused by her strange surroundings. She knew at once where she was.
But where was Neville?
A cool breeze ruffled the partially drawn draperies. Summer was done. Fall was in the air. Though the solitary candle had long guttered out, a half-moon pierced the storm clouds and lent a silver glow to the room, enough to reveal a chamber simply furnished and with little indication of its owner’s complex personality.
Olivia sat up and looked around, frowning. Perhaps the room’s spareness told a story in itself—or a part of it. Though in some ways a man open and blunt, he nonetheless was a man of many secrets. He would share his life and his properties with her, but he could not share anything of his true self. Hadn’t he just made love to her? Yet he’d not been able to say he loved her. Hadn’t he brought her to his private chamber? Yet he’d not remained to sleep beside her.
Had he no emotions at all? Was he so devoid of any feelings, save those of physical desire?
Though she knew in her heart that was not entirely true, at the moment Olivia was hard-pressed to feel any charity for Neville. He’d made love to her—in truth, that last time he had seduced her. Then he’d abandoned her. From the moment she’d revealed her love for him he had seemed almost to panic. His lovemaking had become frantic, desperate, as if he must prove something to her, Or perhaps to himself.
A cloud moved across the moon, casting the room into deeper shadow. She pushed her tangled hair away from her face. Where was he? She’d forgotten that he did not seem ever to sleep at night. So what did he do? Where did he go?
Suddenly, a host of powerful emotions rushed over her and hot tears rose unbidden in Olivia’s eyes. Why could he not love her? What was so terrible about her that he could not feel as deeply for her as she had come to feel about him?
She shifted, and the rumpled bed linens gave off the lingering scent of their union, increasing Olivia’s misery tenfold. It was not fair!
And if she could not bear his remoteness now, how could she bear a lifetime of loving him and not receiving his love in return? Could she be like her mother, loving a man she could never fully possess?
With a corner of the sheet Olivia dabbed away her tears. The truth was, she could not do it. No matter what had passed between them this night, for them to wed would guarantee her nothing but endless heartache. She had but to think of her mother and father to know that.
Moving with unaccustomed stiffness she slid off the bed. Her skirt and bodice lay in a pale heap on the floor; her petticoat draped like a ghost across a chair. She found her shoes and one of her stockings, and managed to dress herself. She was conscious, however, of the changes wrought in her body, the soreness, the new fullness.
But she had one thought only in her mind: she must find Neville and tell him they could not wed. Nor could she remain in his home any longer, for it was too painful.
She knew, though, that running away from him would not bring her any real relief. He had somehow become a part of her in a way no other man had ever done. They were connected on some plane that defied explanation. And they always would be.
She stood on shaky legs and smoothed her skirts around her. She loved him and she had made love with him. But now she must go.
And if she should find herself with child by him?
That gave her pause. But she recovered well enough, beating down any glimmer of joy at such a thought. She would face that problem when and if it presented itself. For now she must deal with a man unable—or unwilling—to love like a normal man.
After a silent, nape-tickling search of the somber old house, Olivia found Neville in his study. He’d built a fire in the hearth, a huge leaping blaze at odds with the pleasantly cool night. The logs popped and crackled, and the flames sent strange, mocking shadows across the room.
Neville sat in a heavy leather chair with its back to her, facing the open windows, much as he had sat on that first night they’d met. He was sprawled back, his legs stretched out and one hand dangling over the arm of the chair. A half-emptied decanter of some pale liquor perched on the table beside him. An empty tumbler sat alongside it.
Olivia pressed her fingers to her mouth. He was drinking again. Sitting up all night alone, getting drunk.
An ineffable sadness settled over her. Though she’d searched him out in order to sever their fledgling betrothal, she did not wish him ill. Certainly she would never wish for him all the miseries that went along with his drinking. Of late it seemed he’d been doing better on that score. So why had he reverted to his old ways tonight? Why had he left her alone in his bed to come down here and drink? Was it something about her? Or perhaps it was what she’d said about loving him.
Heartsore, she stared at him, not certain what she ought to do. Then he said something, mumbled words she did not understand, and her heart sank further still. He sounded completely drunk.
Angry, upset, and inexplicably sad, Olivia crept further into the room and around the chair until she saw him. His head was tilted to one side and his hair fell in rumpled disarray across his brow. But there was no odor of liquor about him, she realized.
She cocked h
er head, staring at him. Was he merely sleeping? Her heart began a hopeful rhythm as her gaze darted from him to the glass—the dry glass which held no remnants of liquor in it.
He was not drunk at all. He’d only fallen asleep in his chair.
His dark lashes shuttered his eyes and though he was every inch a virile man, in that moment there was an innocence about him, as endearing as it was unsettling. For a long moment Olivia simply studied him, recalling another time when she’d watched him sleep. He’d looked peaceful then, and so much younger. Not a man beset by demons of the night, but a man strong and vulnerable, all at one time. A man who had entranced her.
Was it on that day in the carriage that she’d first begun to love him?
In the silence of his study it took every bit of Olivia’s resolve not to take him by the hand, kiss him awake, and lead him back to bed.
But that way would lead her only to heartbreak, for he did not love her. No matter how much she loved him, she couldn’t force him to love her in return. Her mother’s experience with Cameron Byrde was proof of that.
“But your heart is going to break anyway.” She whispered the words out loud. “It’s breaking right now.”
As if he heard her, Neville frowned, then shifted in the chair. Olivia shrank away from him. She should leave now while she still had the strength. At least she should go to Sarah and wait out this long night with her.
She started for the door. But just as she reached for the handle Neville mumbled again, words she could hardly understand. At first.
“… so tired. Don’t … Be careful. Don’t sleep. Don’t fall’sleep …”
Olivia turned, frowning, to look back at him. Was he dreaming?
“Watch out. No!” He jerked upright in the chair so violently that Olivia flinched back against the door leaf.
The Matchmaker Page 30