by Lily Maxton
She was too far away to read his expression clearly. Was he angry with her?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cross,” she whispered, shattering the silence. “I thought you were the ghost. I mean, that’s not why I came down—I wanted to get a book. But I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
He shrugged, as if stammering women in dishabille stumbled across him all the time. And maybe they did. It was an unpleasant thought. As if she’d just remembered something she’d forgotten and didn’t have time to go back for.
“Call me William—Mr. Cross sounds too proper for our current state. And I should like to call you Olivia.”
She licked her lips, and then, though it wasn’t quite a question, she nodded.
“Did you see him?” he asked.
“Who?”
His teeth flashed white as he smiled. “The ghost.”
“No. Do you think he’s real?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts. Not that kind, at least.”
She moved forward hesitantly. As she did, he pushed the stack of parchment under a book, hiding it from view. She halted, offended. “I wasn’t going to read it.”
“So, not enough female authors,” he mused, ignoring her comment.
“It doesn’t really matter,” she said quickly.
“It matters to you, doesn’t it?” She was about to say no, but before she could, he said reprovingly, “Hiding again?”
She glared at him. “You just shoved your writing out of sight because I might catch a glimpse of a line. You deflect attention from yourself. You, sir, are a deflector.”
“I’m not familiar with the term,” he said smoothly.
“I don’t think we’re very different at all. You simply hide yourself in plain view. You ooze charm and—”
“I sound like an infected wound,” he remarked.
“You’re so busy chatting with people about vapid things and admiring women and making them fancy they’re in love that they probably don’t even realize they don’t know you.”
“Of course they know me.”
“No, they don’t. You didn’t even like it when Lord Ashworth mentioned that you used to write at Eton.”
“It’s none of his business. Or yours.”
“Then my opinion of the library is no business of yours!” she declared.
Mr. Cross was silent. He leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out. “It’s so easy with everyone else,” he muttered, sounding bemused. “With you, I keep saying the wrong things.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, uncertain of how to respond.
He laughed. “Don’t apologize.” He tilted his head. “What if you tell me what authors you would add to the library, and I’ll answer a question about myself?”
She peered at him through the darkness. “But not about your writing?”
He shook his head.
“I shouldn’t even be here,” she said. “If someone were to find us like this, I would be ruined. It would be just like what happened with my sister. Well, except the earl was already in love with her and they were doing something worthy of ruination…” She trailed off.
“Is that wistfulness, Olivia?” he asked, grinning. “Do you want to be ruined?”
“Of course not,” she said, but it sounded weak, even to her ears. When he didn’t respond, she filled the silence. “What I meant was, if I were to be ruined, I’d hope it wasn’t simply for talking to a man.” She stopped, then grumbled, “Forget I said anything.”
“Too late.” He waved her forward with a flick of his hand. It was an arrogant gesture, but oddly, she found her feet moving, carrying her toward him, without much consent from her mind. “Don’t worry—if I hear footsteps in the hall, I’ll start to ravish you.”
“I didn’t say I wanted it to be you,” she said, a bit put off by his flippancy.
“You’re cruel. Keep it up and I’ll be tempted to change your mind.”
She shouldn’t say it. That was a clear challenge. But she said it anyway. He was too arrogant; someone needed to knock him down a peg or two. “Are you certain you could change my mind?”
He opened his mouth, closed it again. Then said, “Come here.”
“I don’t think I should,” she answered warily.
“I want to kiss you.”
Her heart thrashed in her chest. Her skin seemed to come alive to every whisper of sensation. He wanted to kiss her. She tried to imagine it—his wide, soft mouth on hers. “Why?” Her voice squeaked.
“If I can’t charm you with words, I’ll find another way.”
Unfortunately, she wanted to let him try. She wasn’t given to impulse, but it seemed a shame to miss this opportunity when it was right in front of her face. She wasn’t exactly sought after in society. Regardless of her mother’s hopes for another title in the family, a future as a spinster was the more likely scenario. If through some twist of fate she did marry, she had no doubt it would be to a man her mother had pushed her toward, not someone of her own choosing.
Was it really so wrong to want to experience something else before she committed herself to a lifetime that might be devoid of love and passion?
She wasn’t Anne—she wasn’t impetuous. But right now, more than at any other time in her life, she wanted to be. She moved closer. When she was within reach, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulling her forward, between his knees. He tugged at her arm. She realized, belatedly, he wanted her to kneel. He wanted her to surrender.
And even as her mind rebelled at the notion, her body obeyed his silent command—in this, at least, she accepted his control. She lowered her knees to the floor. To do so, she had to rest her hands on his thighs. His thighs! That was unprecedented in itself. Her breath snagged, and under her palms his legs felt warm and muscled through the fine fabric of his trousers.
“This covers too much of you,” he said gently, pushing the dressing gown down her shoulders, leaving her in just her thin night rail. When the robe was pooled on the floor, he placed his hands on her bare arms, and a shiver went through her at the unfamiliar sensation.
And then—she was too dazed to be quite sure how it all happened or in what order—he lowered his head and she tilted hers up and her eyes shut and their lips met. She felt a little shock of heat from the softness of his lips against hers, the way his breath smelled a bit like cloves. His mouth wasn’t closed. It was slightly open, slightly parted, so she mimicked him and felt another sweet shock when their breaths mingled.
The grip on her arms tightened. She leaned forward. Now she could feel the heat of his thighs against her ribcage, just under her unbound breasts.
His tongue breached her lips, touched her own, but before she could get used to it, was gone.
She wanted to feel it again.
One hand moved up her arm, following her shoulder and the curve of her neck and then settling on her jaw, strong and warm. He held her firmly and deepened the kiss.
Her own hands slipped up his legs. She didn’t mean to do it, but they itched to touch every part of him. As they traveled the length of his thighs, his tongue danced with hers again, and she leaned into him, intrigued by the moist heat.
Her hand brushed the firm ridge hidden under his trousers. They both froze.
Then he gently set her away from him, and her face flooded with embarrassed heat.
“It was an accident,” she began.
“You don’t need to apologize. I would ask you to do it again, but that would take things further than they should go.” His lips were dark from their kisses. And she was looking right at them, so she didn’t miss their sudden curve. “You have ink on your cheek,” he noted softly.
She glanced at his dirty hands. “That’s your fault. I hope it washes off.”
“It should.” He stared at her as though trying to puzzle her out. “When I was first introduced to you last Season, I thought you were the picture of the wilting wallflower. But you’re not, are you?”
“I thought I was,” she said, nearly as puzzled
as he was.
“But not with me?”
“Not with you,” she agreed.
“Probably because I’m so unimpressive.”
“Most likely,” she said.
And after a heartbeat, they smiled at the same time. And Olivia had the ridiculous thought that she could stay there the whole night, kneeling by his feet and simply talking to him, letting his voice drift over and through her. Although, she wouldn’t be opposed to kissing, either.
But she didn’t know if she would want to stop at just kissing.
“I think I should leave,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
She stood up shakily, and he stood with her. He spoke again. “You never answered my question about the authors.”
“Oh!” she chewed her bottom lip while she thought. “Everything by Fanny Burney to start out with. Now I may ask you a question?”
He nodded.
There were too many possibilities. She didn’t know where to start. So she asked one of the first that came to mind, one she truly wanted to know, which would also be easy for him to answer. “What is your favorite color?”
“Gray, I think,” he said, automatically, and then his forehead wrinkled as though he was displeased, or surprised, by his own answer.
“Gray,” she repeated softly, a strange warmth flooding her chest. “Not silver?”
He stared at her, unfathomable in the shifting half-light. Eventually, he said, “Not silver. Gray is a nice color on its own. Better than silver, in some ways.”
When he fell silent, she nodded, turned, and forced herself to move to the door before she found herself sitting down and staying there for hours. But she didn’t know if she would sleep. The imprint of his mouth still burned her lips, and likely would for a long time.
…
William stayed in the library after Olivia left, staring blankly at the parchment in front of him. The words he’d written blurred before his eyes. All he could remember was that kiss. That tentative, arousing, fumbling, consuming kiss.
A rash thing to do, obviously. He wasn’t in the business of ruining virgins. But she’d looked soft in the candlelight with her hair tied in a loose braid. Inviting. Her eyes actually had appeared more silver than gray in that instant.
He smiled sardonically and wondered what she would think of that. She would probably laugh at him again.
He wasn’t used to being laughed at, but he didn’t think he minded when it was Olivia Middleton. There was nothing malicious in her amusement, just good-natured teasing. And her eyes crinkled at the corners when she laughed, which he liked. Or when she smiled, which he liked almost as well.
He was dangerously close to being smitten. He could at least be honest enough with himself to admit that.
There’d been plenty of women in his life, mostly the women he flirted with and danced with and sometimes broke the hearts of—allegedly—and a few in a strictly sexual capacity. He liked all of them, enjoyed all of them, but hadn’t felt anything more than mild affection.
That he was becoming infatuated so quickly with Olivia worried him. He wasn’t in control of this relationship. He couldn’t misguide her with flattery or direct the conversation the way he wanted it to go.
There was something terrifying about losing that control.
During the last London Season, one of the matrons had asked him when he planned to marry, and his answer had been when he made a love match—simply because he didn’t expect it to happen. His whole life, he’d never felt anything close to love, and he was thankful for that. He’d seen what caring about someone too much had done to his father, and he wasn’t interested in making the same mistake.
But he was his mother’s son, too.
And a part of him didn’t know if he was capable of love at all.
Chapter Four
“She’s so…odd,” Lady Sarah said to William from behind her fan.
“Of whom are we speaking?” he asked, but he’d already guessed. She had taken an instant dislike to Miss Middleton. Probably a combination of the fact that Olivia was a bit unusual and that Lady Sarah hadn’t liked it when she wasn’t the center of attention during their card game—particularly when she lost that title to someone she thought beneath her.
“Miss Middleton, who else? Just look at her.”
He looked. He had to admit he had no difficulty doing so; he’d wanted to look at her for the past hour.
He nearly smiled. Miss Middleton had managed to sneak a book down with her. She had it resting in her lap, her head bowed low. Anyone who was at a different angle might think she was very focused on listening to the song Miss Ashworth played on the pianoforte.
He wondered if it was still The Monk or if she’d started something new.
But Lady Sarah was watching him as he watched Olivia, so he didn’t smile. “She likes to read,” he said wryly. “It’s not a crime, is it?”
“No,” she admitted. “But there’s a time and place. If she were more personable, I would allow her more liberties. One would think she’s a duchess, how little she deigns to speak to everyone.”
“Or perhaps she’s just shy,” he commented, keeping his voice mild.
“Shy,” she echoed, as though she’d never heard the word before. “I don’t know about that. She is plain, though. If I were her, I would not be so quick to separate myself. Her sisters are scandalous. She has no beauty, no talent. She’ll never receive a good offer if she doesn’t make herself amiable.”
Was Olivia plain?
William studied her as surreptitiously as he could. A tendril of brown hair had fallen from its pin, brushing the back of her neck like a lover’s caress. And her hair wasn’t simply brown; he noticed glints of blond in it, as though a painter had touched it with gold. Nothing about her face particularly stood out—her nose was a bit long, but other than that, her features were feminine and symmetrical.
And her lips… His groin tightened as he remembered their kiss. Her lips were pink and curved down slightly, as though she were perpetually concentrating on one thing or another. But, most of all, they were soft and fit perfectly against his own.
Not beautiful, maybe. But he wouldn’t make the oversight of calling her “plain.”
He decided to change topics before Lady Sarah said something that angered him to the point where he wouldn’t be able to hide his reaction. So he did what he did best, and what he knew would distract Lady Sarah from her target.
“I’ve heard enough about Miss Middleton,” he said. “I’d prefer to talk about you.”
…
Olivia glanced up and then back down, perturbed. Mr. Cross and Lady Sarah were whispering about something. She could only guess what. But Lady Sarah smiled at the man next to her as if he were the only person in the world who mattered. And her fan wouldn’t stop moving. She kept fluttering it around and resting it against her cleavage like a big obscene arrow.
Olivia couldn’t tell from this angle if Mr. Cross’s eyes followed the motion of the fan or not.
It wasn’t of consequence. He could look at any woman’s bosom if he desired. But really, it was a bit tasteless to do so while they listened to Miss Ashworth play, wasn’t it?
She sniffed and bent her head even lower, trying to shut them out.
A few minutes later she was forced to look up because her book was ripped from her hands. The music had stopped, and the other guests had risen from their chairs and were now broken off into little chatting clusters.
“Stop this at once!” her mother said, the vein on her forehead twitching. “You are wasting a perfectly good opportunity.”
Olivia sighed and stood up. She started, with reluctant footsteps, toward the group containing Mr. Cross, Lord Ashworth, and, unfortunately, Lady Sarah. The woman was never too far from either of them.
“And speak to Lord Ashworth,” her mother whispered loudly behind her. Her mother had never seemed to grasp the point of whispering. “Not the other one.”
Olivia halted a
wkwardly just outside of the small circle, directly behind Lord Ashworth. No one noticed her sudden appearance. She glanced back at her mother, who was glaring and twitching.
She sighed again, and was about ready to clear her throat or utter some banality like, “Hello, everyone,” so they might break apart and include her, when Mr. Cross glanced in her direction.
He must have heard the sigh. His eyes fell on her lips first, before darkening and lifting. Warmth flooded her as she remembered their kiss.
“Miss Middleton,” he greeted.
Lord Ashworth’s head swiveled as he tried to find her. She stepped out from behind him, resisting the urge to lift her hands and say, “Here I am!”
“Ah, there you are,” he said with a smile. “We were just discussing going for a ride. I recall you enjoy riding?”
“Oh… Yes… I did say that.”
Mr. Cross glanced at her, his mouth curving. She knew exactly what he was thinking. He was rather insufferable. She didn’t know why she’d let him kiss her.
Except, she’d thoroughly enjoyed herself and would probably let him do it again.
But then she looked between him and Lady Sarah. Did he bestow his kisses as indiscriminately as he flirted? If that was the case, she didn’t want to be just one woman in a long line, indistinguishable from the one before and the one after.
“Will you come with us?” Lord Ashworth asked.
She didn’t like horses. Not at all.
She glanced back at her mother, who hadn’t yet been distracted by gossip. She still held Olivia under a fierce hawk-like glare.
“I’d be delighted.”
…
It was unnatural to sit on a beast that could crush its rider like a fly if it decided to roll over. Olivia had always thought this, since the first time she’d been forced through riding lessons at the tender age of seven. Her initial fear of the creatures had only decreased slightly in the last twelve years.
So, it was with great trepidation that she stood on the mounting block and allowed Lord Ashworth to assist her onto a gray mare.
The mare shifted a bit, and Olivia squeaked, holding on tight to the pommel.