Deeper Than Desire

by Cheryl Holt

  Edward hadn't been able to manage the aftermath of his failed wedding. He'd been as distraught as everyone else, so Phillip had dealt with the servants, fielded the questions, and given the orders.

  Phillip had soothed Vicar Summers, had arranged for the immediate marriage of Mr. Blaine and Lady Penelope, which would occur as soon as a messenger could ride to London and return with a special license. He'd locked the disgraced, ruined girl in her bedchamber so that she couldn't instigate more mischief, and he'd escorted a bruised and battered Freddy Blaine off the premises. He'd even intervened with that old bat, Margaret Hopkins, had supervised her subjugation and restraint, and he'd received an incredible amount of pleasure from seeing her brought low.

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  After the misery she'd caused to so many, it had been a delight to witness her downfall.

  The one person he hadn't run into all day was Olivia, though he didn't know why he'd supposed he would. In his mind, he'd irrationally conjectured that, by racing to the country with Winnie and the girls, he had been riding to her rescue. By escorting Helen to safety, he'd been showing Olivia how much he loved her, how much she could trust and rely on him.

  He'd presumed that his actions would work a miracle, that he would paint a different image of himself. He'd deemed that she would view him in a new light, as a fighter, a champion, an ally upon whom she could depend, and that his conduct would confer the impetus she needed to overlook their disparate stations.

  Sadly, his behavior had had no effect, and he had to accept the fact that he could do nothing to alter her opinion. Standards and principles had been drilled into her—by Margaret and others just like her—that people of diverse antecedents couldn't be together.

  He couldn't count the number of proposals she'd rejected. Four? Five? He'd begged her to marry, to elope, to favor him instead of another, but to no avail. How many times did he need to hear her say no?

  A vain man, he wasn't about to suffer through any further rebuff. She was the type who would debase herself in a brief fling, but that was as far as she could go. No matter how fervently he wished it weren't so, or how rigorously he sought to orchestrate another ending, it wasn't meant to be.

  Sighing, he stared across the groomed lawn of the estate, studying the windows of the manor. Some of them had candlelight gleaming through.

  Many exhilarating nights, he had waited for her in this exact spot, watching as she'd sneaked across the

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  grass, and he caught himself wondering where she was, what she was doing, which bedchamber was hers.

  Disgusted, he whirled away. Would he never learn?

  He had to stop ruminating over her!

  If he'd had any doubts about their affair's being over, he needed only think back to the dreadful family scene where Margaret had hurled so many insults.

  In front of his father and the assembled company, he'd tried to profess his feelings for her, but Olivia had cut off any declaration, claiming his timing was poor. Which it was.

  With Edward and Olivia draped in their matrimonial finery, and the guests mingling on the verandah, it hadn't been the most opportune moment to shout out his undying devotion. But there had been no chance for him to announce anything later, either.

  With Margaret having gone mad as a hatter, he'd been detained for hours. As he'd carried out his various tasks, he'd kept glancing over his shoulder, anticipating that she would be there, but she'd been markedly absent.

  She'd been too busy to so much as utter a thank you for his recovery of Helen.

  The ingrate!

  Ignoring him, she had sequestered herself upstairs with Helen in her private quarters, concealing herself from all but the most senior servants. He could scarcely condemn her for fretting over Helen's condition, or wanting to be with her, but he was irked that she'd picked Helen over himself.

  How pathetic! He was jealous of a three-year-old child!

  The inevitable conclusion was that perhaps, despite her protestations to the contrary, she loved Edward, or at least liked and respected him, and had truly wanted him for her husband. Their nuptials might proceed, and

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  Phillip had to acknowledge that reality if he was to have a continuing relationship with Edward.

  As they'd flitted from one disaster to the next throughout the arduous day, he and Edward had had several scattered conversations about the future. Edward's sincere desire was to have Freddy and Penelope relocated as far from Salisbury as possible. After their egress, he intended to purchase Freddy's property from Freddy's brother.

  With its lush meadows and bubbling streams, Edward thought it would make a splendid horse farm, a decision with which Phillip enthusiastically concurred. Edward had inquired if Phillip would be interested in directing such an enterprise, and he'd hinted that it could become a wedding gift should Phillip ever decide to settle down.

  Phillip wasn't certain what the sly old dog was intimating, but he wasn't about to repudiate the stake he'd dreamed of acquiring.

  Pride be damned! Some things were too rich to pass up.

  He'd invest his unflagging energy in the idea and the endeavor, and if in the interim, Olivia married Edward, he'd grit his teeth and be a cordial neighbor. Difficult as it would be to feign apathy, he could do it. For his father. For Olivia. And for himself.

  What a foolish, wayward heart he had! He hadn't realized that he had such a penchant for ardor and romance, that he was so desperate for affection. At having been tossed over by her, he was so despairing that he felt he might break down and cry like a baby.

  Spinning the knob, he went inside. He hadn't been gone long enough for Edward to have removed his possessions, or to have offered the house to another, so his belongings were still in place. The familiarity provided a solace that, considering his disordered, ragged emotional state, was greatly appreciated.

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  He'd expected the air to be stuffy, for the rooms to have a deserted ambiance, but someone had been in to tidy up. The windows were open, a cool breeze blowing in, the curtains rustling. To welcome him home, a lamp had been lit, and there were fresh flowers in a vase.

  Setting his portmanteau on the table, he shucked off his coat and loosened his cravat, freeing the buttons on his shirt and rolling up the cuffs of the sleeves. He lifted the flap on the traveling bag, and much to his chagrin, the first item he encountered was the drawing Olivia had made of him during their final assignation. He wasn't sure why he'd kept it, or why he'd taken it to London, when he should have pitched it into the fireplace.

  It was embarrassing to peruse it now, to observe himself naked and vulnerable. His yearning for her was accurately captured in his expression and his posture.

  In the corner, he saw where she'd signed her name, and the salutation she'd written.

  " 'Love always,'" he read aloud, and he shook his head. "Well, that lasted about fifteen minutes."

  Casting the sketch aside, he vowed to dispose of it in the morning, though why he didn't rip it to shreds that very second was a mystery he declined to ponder.

  A noise sounded behind him, and he froze, listening. He peered around. The door to his bedroom was ajar, a lamp lit there, too. There was someone inside. Who?

  The sole person he could conceive of was the maid who'd cleaned before his arrival, but she'd have come quite a bit earlier.

  He walked to the door, pushed at it. It swung back and...

  There was Olivia, stretched out on his bed. Scantily attired, she looked like a blasted harem concubine. With her blond hair down, the lengthy ends were curled across his pillows. Her upper torso was naked, her

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  breasts exposed, her pouty nipples pointed and alluring, and it appeared as if she'd reddened them with a cosmetic to accentuate their shape and size.

  The lower half of her face was masked with a flimsy pink scarf, her crimson lips visible beneath the fabric, and the veil emphasized her magnificent blue eyes. They were large and round, and she was gazing at him
with stunning force.

  Her legs were sheathed by a peculiar pair of pants, fashioned out of the same material as the kerchief on her face. The trousers fell to her knees, and outlined the curve of her ass, the slope of her thighs.

  His cock swelled and tented the front of his trousers and, appalled by his reaction, he was frantic to hide it from her.

  What was she trying to accomplish? What did she plan?

  She couldn't assume they would tryst. Could she be that daft? That insensitive?

  How dare she visit! How dare she infer that he would want to philander with her!

  After his recent trials and tribulations, he couldn't abide another nasty scene. It killed him to have her flaunting herself, teasing him with what he wanted but could never have.

  He'd let her go, had bid her farewell, had allowed her to humiliate him over and over, had let her stab in the knife and twist it. He couldn't endure more anguish!

  Have mercy on me! he longed to wail. Please! Have mercy!

  Anger overtook him. At her. At all that she was and all that she represented. He was prepared to relinquish her, to deny that they'd rolhcked with such abandon, yet she showed up anyway, taunting and tormenting him.

  "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

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  "Waiting for you."

  Like a lazy cat, she arched her back, thrusting her breasts up and out, just in case he hadn't noticed them. As if he hadn't! The vixen!

  Next to her lay the accursed book of erotic illustrations, A Feast for the Senses, that had originally brought them together. Obviously, she'd retrieved it from the library and lugged it to the cottage, though he couldn't fathom why she would.

  Rotating onto her side, she rested her hand on a page, seductively rubbing her fingers across a depiction of seminude women who were dressed very much as she was, with nude bosoms and skimpily clad bottoms. It was the Arabian illustration, with the sheik in the middle who resembled himself.

  He glared at her, brooding over her character. While he'd thought she was an individual of high morals and integrity, apparently he knew very little about her.

  With scarcely any reflection, she'd surrendered her virginity to him, then she'd discarded him and become engaged to his father. Very likely, she still was. Not once had he heard anyone pronounce that the wedding was permanently called off.

  So what was she up to? Was she here to practice more of her perfidy on Edward? Well, he wasn't about to join in her scheme.

  She'd made her choice, and it was his father. He didn't like it, but so what? He was resolved to get over it, to tolerate Edward's marriage to her. If he had to suffer so terribly, he wasn't about to sugarcoat matters, or delude himself into believing they shared an affinity. They didn't, and she needed to be in the main house, in her own bed, and out of his.

  "I adore this picture," she claimed. "It's very naughty.

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  It makes me want to do all sorts of things I oughtn't" She wet her lips. "Why do you suppose that is?"

  "I haven't the foggiest," he lied. The likenesses were meant to beguile and provoke; that's why the artist had created them. She was aware of it as well as he, and he wasn't about to indulge her whim. "A whore might enjoy them," he crudely stated, wanting to hurt her, to goad her into departing, "but why they'd affect you, I haven't a clue."

  "Yes, you're correct. A disreputable female would be stimulated. So what does that say about me?" She grinned, a conniving, tempting grin that had him contemplating things he shouldn't. "My disposition is much more debauched than I ever imagined. Wouldn't you agree?"

  "Absolutely," he concurred. "You have the unmitigated soul of a harlot."

  The wench laughed! A sultry sound that tickled his nerve endings. "I never used to be this way. I'm blaming it all on you."

  "On me?"

  "Yes. I was such an ethical, incorruptible girl before I met you." Commencing at her shoulder, she ran her fingers down her anatomy, and they slithered across her breast, her tummy, her hip and flank. "And now look at me."

  His eyes couldn't help but follow the risqué' trail of her hand, and he felt like a rutting beast, primed for mating.

  Despite her deceptions and disloyalty, he was ready and eager to copulate. He was so weak! So lacking in principle and honor!

  "Get out of here, Olivia."

  "No. I want to frolic. Let's pretend I'm a concubine

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  from this drawing—and you're my sheik." She wiggled her brows. "Won't that be fun?"

  "I can't think of anything more unpleasant."

  "Really? That's not what your body seems to imply." Her torrid attention crept down, meandering across his chest, his stomach, his groin. She analyzed his erection, and under her blatant assessment, his phallus expanded further.

  He fought the strongest urge to cross his arms over his crotch, but concealing his situation was pointless. She excited him beyond his limits, and nothing had changed about their physical attraction. Nothing ever would. The horrid truth was that, after all the distress she'd caused, he still wanted her.

  "I'm not immune to titillation," he told her. "Any lewd conduct arouses me. Even yours."

  "Is your cockstand painful?" she queried. "Would you like me to tend it for you?"

  "No."

  "You'll feel better. Why don't I?"

  Rising up, she slinked off the bed, advancing on him, her appealing hips swaying as she walked, then she knelt down. Rigid as a marble statue, he stood, watching her, wondering how far she'd go, how willing she was to debase herself.

  She tugged the hem of his shirt from the waistband of his trousers and pushed the lapels aside, stroking her palms up his chest She removed her scarf, and brushed it across his belly, inducing his abdominal muscles to clench, his balls to wrench with lust, then she threw it away, and it fluttered to the rug.

  She went to the placard of his pants, the buttons dropping away, and he did nothing to dissuade her, keeping his emotions shielded.

  His trousers were loosened, and as she reached inside,

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  his mounting temper and increasing desire warred with each other. He was hard, aching, his body demanding satiation, and as she licked the oozing tip, as she sucked at him, he couldn't tamp down a hiss of bream.

  Other than that minor lapse, he was able to block any response, for he wouldn't let her discern how unsettled he was.

  Her mouth was hot, slippery, and within seconds, he was at the edge. It would serve her right if he proceeded, if he spilled himself in her throat. If she was determined to act the whore, why not treat her like one?

  He thrust. Thrust again, but he was too close to climax, and he grabbed her by the neck, viciously pitching her away. With a soft cry of alarm, she toppled over.

  Stomping off, his back to her, he straightened his clothes, himself. For an agonized minute, he stared at the wall, calming his passion, his fury, then he whipped around. "What do you want from me?"

  She was on her knees, and massaging a wrist that had smacked the floor when he'd shoved her, but he wouldn't feel any sympathy. After what she'd put him through, whatever happened to her was justified.

  She tottered to her feet. "Can't you guess?"

  "No. I haven't any bloody idea."

  "I want you."

  "Oh, stop it," he scoffed. "You're humiliating yourself."

  "I do want you," she protested, appearing hurt and confused. Beseeching him, she held out her hand, took a step toward him, then another. "You're all I've ever wanted."

  "You have an intriguing way of showing it." His fingers shaky, he refastened his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. "What do you intend? A romp for old time's sake? Another pathetic cuckolding of my father? Well, I'm sorry, but I can't oblige you."

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  "Whyever not? There's no one to say what we can or cannot do."

  Was she purposely taunting him? Playing dumb? Why would she? Didn't she grasp that her very presence was torture? "Shouldn't you be up at the manor,
getting your beauty rest so that you're prepared for the resumption of your wedding ceremony?"

  "Oh, didn't anyone tell you?"

  "Tell me what?"

  Coyly, she went to his bed and started to climb onto the mattress.

  On seeing what she was about, his ire spiraled, and he rushed to her and yanked her away. He did not want her on his bed ever again!

  "Tell me what?" he shouted, clutching her by the shoulders and whirling her around.

  "I'm not marrying Edward."

  He didn't want to ask why; he didn't want to know the reason. He didn't care about her. Yet before he could prevent it, the question flew out. "Why not?"

  "Because I've decided to marry someone else."

  Disgusted, wounded anew, he scathingly evaluated her. "Aren't you amazing?" Sickened, he lurched away, wondering how he could have thought he knew or understood her. "What kind of person are you? You take me as your lover, then you agree to marry Edward— when you swore to me you wouldn't."

  Resigned, she sighed. "Yes, well, it turns out I can't wed Edward."

  "Has he tossed your over?"

  "Actually, yes. He's advised me that he's in love with another."

  "Who?" As if he had no inkling! In the two stressful days he'd spent with Winnie, locating the children and

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  delivering the three of them to Salisbury, he'd come to treasure her. How lucky his father was!

  "Winnie," she confirmed. "I assume he's proposing to her even as we speak."

  "So you dashed out here to fornicate, the moment he rejected you?"

  "Yes. And I can't figure out why you won't participate." Boldly, she examined his crotch. "It's not as if you don't want to."

  "You can't comprehend why I'd spurn you? How about the fact that, in a smattering of weeks, you plowed through me and my father, and now you're off to someone else. What is wrong with you? Do you have so many men falling at your feet that you can't pick a favorite? Or are you simply fickle beyond imagining?"