Some of the bleakness fled his expression and one edge of his mouth kicked upward in a brief smile. He pressed his cheek into her hand and closed his eyes. “I never said that.”
In spite of everything, she smiled back. She shouldn’t touch him like this, but it was strangely sweet. She left her hand where it was. “Apart from the obvious.”
He opened his eyes and looked direct into hers. “Which is very obvious. Devil take you, I’ve never had anyone affect me the way you do. When I’m with you, I hardly know who I am. When I’m away from you, I can’t think of anything else. And believe me, there are things I should be thinking about.”
She couldn’t doubt his sincerity. The difficult confession—and she knew he spoke the words as reluctantly as she heard them—was probably the purest compliment any man had paid her.
She frowned and withdrew her hand. Her palm tingled with the warmth of his skin. “If you took me, you might find I’m less of an obsession.”
He grimaced with a wry amusement she found charming, much as she wished she didn’t. Passion was a weapon he used against her with no effect. Humor left her defenseless as a newly hatched chick facing a hungry fox.
“I’ve never met a woman who nags me to have sex with her as much as you do. Especially when she doesn’t enjoy it.” He rolled onto his back and pushed up into a sitting position. His voice deepened into sincerity. “I’m sorry, Olivia.”
She didn’t bother hiding her own sadness. “I’m sorry too.”
He leaned over her slowly. For a moment she lay still and quiescent, waiting for him to touch her breast or her face or even her sex. It took a few fatal seconds to realize he meant to kiss her. By the time she flinched away, his mouth was almost on hers. His lips landed clumsily on her cheek.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
“Oh, Olivia. You’re so frightened,” he whispered back, and glanced a tiny kiss across each of her fluttering eyelids before he stood up. “Come, my beautiful mistress. Supper awaits.”
He extended his hand and smiled. Fleetingly, something in Olivia’s heart opened like a flower to the sun. Then she remembered what she was and what she’d done, and the flower shriveled into a parched brown husk.
Early the next morning, Erith rode toward York Street with a smile hovering around his lips. His gray thoroughbred danced along the cobbles, and the sharp, cheerful sound of hooves striking the road echoed his eager expectation.
Odd to be so blithe when he’d received even less satisfaction last night than he had the previous one. Those humiliating moments when he’d spilled himself onto the sheets had been wretched and angry.
But when he left Olivia, he was convinced he’d coax a genuine response from her. Odd that amidst all the regret and frustration and anguish, he’d found hope.
Last night he had glimpsed something beyond the gorgeous shell that protected Olivia Raines. He’d seen painful emotion. He’d seen vulnerability. Sweetest of all, he’d seen tenderness. The moment when she touched his cheek still rang pure as a silver bell in his heart.
His pride was obdurately engaged in the quest to discover the woman under the courtesan. No matter how Olivia lured him to abandon his intent, he wasn’t going to surrender.
No lover had given her pleasure. Until him.
The glory of that prize made any hardship on the way worthwhile.
Today he intended to spend the day with her, stay into the night. His daughter was busy with fittings for her trousseau, and the troublesome females who plagued him at home danced attendance.
And tonight he would achieve splendid victory. Tonight, Olivia would cede him the sweet passion she’d never ceded to another.
He knew she had passion locked within her. He could smell it the way he could smell the morning air with its sour tang of coal dust and the river. He’d never been wrong about a woman, and he wasn’t wrong about Olivia Raines. She was the essence of desire. It would be a crime against the world if she never discovered that for herself.
With every street closer to the house, his optimism rose. His horse whinnied and curveted as if to express Erith’s extreme satisfaction with his world on this bright morning.
He’d come direct from a long canter in Hyde Park. He’d woken early. Ridiculous, given how little sleep he’d managed. He’d stayed late at Olivia’s. Talking.
When was the last time he’d lost sleep through conversation with a woman? Probably the early days of his marriage. Certainly not since then.
He turned the corner near the house and jerked to a sudden halt. Shock kept him rigid in the saddle.
A fancy rig waited in front of the house. Four magnificent black horses that wouldn’t disgrace his own stable stood in harness. Wooden panels obscured any arms on the closed carriage, and the coachman wore a smart and completely unmarked livery.
In one appalling instant, Erith’s self-satisfaction evaporated. The day darkened even though the sun shone as brilliantly as it had a few seconds ago.
The jade had promised complete fidelity for the span of their liaison. She certainly hadn’t said anything about choosing another lover last night.
Good God, he’d only left her a couple of hours ago.
He drew his mount into the shadow of the nearest building and watched, hoping something, anything, would prove his sickening suspicions false.
Why would she take another lover? She couldn’t satisfy the one she had. Then he thought of her clever mouth on his straining cock and his heart slammed against his chest.
Oh, yes, she could satisfy a man. Especially a man not too fussy about his partner’s enjoyment.
Most men.
The house’s shiny black door opened and Olivia emerged, wearing a dress he hadn’t bought her. He’d had enormous pleasure selecting her wardrobe from the best modiste in London. The modiste, incidentally, who currently measured his daughter for her wedding gown.
He’d found a primitive satisfaction in knowing this strong, independent woman wore only what he’d paid for, from underclothing out. But this dashing bottle green traveling ensemble, while infernally becoming, was unfamiliar.
He expected to see a parade of servants bearing baggage. If she abandoned him, he imagined she’d want her belongings. But nobody followed, not even a maid to offer a semblance of propriety.
Acrid fury stewing in his belly, Erith watched her step into the carriage and the footman close the door.
He tried to tell himself her outing could be innocent. A call on a female friend or a shopping expedition. If one discounted the presence of that incriminating, unmarked carriage. If one discounted his every screaming instinct.
The coachman flicked the reins and the vehicle rolled away. Erith’s hands tightened, making his horse snort and dance in protest.
“Sorry, boy,” he whispered, and leaned forward to pat the gelding’s glossy gray neck. The horse quieted even as Erith’s hand formed a hard fist against the gleaming hide.
Damn it, he should let her go. He should return to Erith House and send her a contemptuous note informing her their arrangement ended. She could keep whatever spoils she’d gained so far, but she’d never glean another penny from his pocket. He’d been a dupe but he was a dupe no longer.
He wished her unknown lover joy; she’d prove as faithless to him.
Let the jade rot. He didn’t care. There were plenty more fish in the sea. Fish that were less trouble to catch and tasted just as sweet.
Confound the faithless slut.
He’d never chased a woman in his life. He had no intention of starting now.
He was the Earl of Erith. Good women, bad women, young women, old women vied to catch his eye. Dear God, he could hardly take a step outside his front door without tripping over strumpets fighting for the right to wriggle into his bed.
Her new lover was welcome to Olivia Raines. Let her…
“Oh, Devil take it,” he muttered. He dug his heels into his horse’s sides and pursued the elegant carriage as it disappeared around the corner.
With some difficulty, Erith trailed the coach through the heavy traffic. He’d assumed she went somewhere in town, so was surprised when she took the Dover road out of London.
Clearly, the lovers meant to enjoy a bucolic interlude amidst the apple blossoms and bluebells. Erith gritted his teeth against another blinding wave of rage.
Damn her, how had she fooled him? From the beginning he’d thought her an honest whore. Those steady sherry-colored eyes hadn’t seemed to lie.
Yet lie they had.
Did she respond to her lover?
Did she offer him the bone-deep passion that Erith sensed in her but was yet to uncover?
Did she?
Strangely, in spite of the fortune he’d spent and the way she’d deceived him with false promises of fidelity, that was what settled in his gut with the weight of a huge stone. That she gave some other fellow, some lucky fellow, what she’d never given Erith.
With every mile, Olivia’s treason ate deeper into the disturbingly fragile fabric of his sangfroid. He loathed feeling like this. Needy. Lost. Angry.
After his wife died, he’d banished such chaotic, difficult emotions. He’d thought himself forever immune from their onslaught. Mixed with his fury was dismayed surprise that he was clearly as much a dunderhead as any other man caught in a woman’s coils.
How the hell had she whipped him into this state?
They’d headed far enough out of London for him to wonder if they would travel all the way to Dover—perhaps she was running away to the Continent—when the carriage turned down a dusty track marked with a faded signpost.
Erith didn’t know this part of the country. His family properties were in Oxfordshire or the North. So when he read WOOD END on the signpost, it meant nothing.
As the roads emptied, he’d pulled back from his quarry. He didn’t want his perfidious mistress to know he followed. Now he spurred his horse after the conveyance, noting the dust that covered its shiny black. He supposed he looked similarly travel-worn. What did it matter? He didn’t intend to impress her with his sartorial splendor.
If truth be told, he wasn’t sure what he intended. He never wrangled over females. Not for the first time, he wondered why in God’s name he set out on this wild goose chase. If she betrayed him, the liaison finished.
He hoped Olivia would rue the loss of her generous protector and repent her faithlessness. Although he had a gloomy suspicion she’d just shrug, smile, and go back to Lord Peregrine Montjoy, where she’d soon choose another fat-headed booby to make a fool of.
Just as she’d made a fool of the Earl of Erith.
Nobody made a fool of the Earl of Erith.
For the sake of his reputation as a cold-hearted, ruthless rake, he should return to London and begin arrangements to turf the trollop onto the streets. Serve her right if she returned from her rural idyll to find herself out on her elegant rump.
He cursed under his breath, clicked his tongue to his mount and chased the carriage into a thick wood.
Erith waited concealed in the shade of the trees and observed the unpretentious stone house Olivia had disappeared into an hour ago. The boredom of standing out here holding his horse almost quenched the scorching heat of his anger. Almost.
It was a sultry day and he was parched and hungry. He’d planned to share a lavish breakfast in the charming downstairs parlor in York Street. Instead he’d come all this way without so much as a flask of water, and he’d wager he’d swallowed every speck of dust between here and London.
He stroked the gray’s velvety nose. “Not much longer, Bey. A bucket of water and some oats for you—and for me, a tankard of ale to wash down sirloin and potatoes.”
The horse’s ears flickered. Erith hoped without optimism that he wasn’t lying. When the coach had pulled up at this unimpressive dwelling, his every muscle had clenched as if he prepared for war. With violence coiling like an angry cobra in his gut, he’d waited to confront his rival.
But a woman in her forties and a man about ten years older had greeted Olivia with hugs and smiles and laughter. Even more surprising, the man was obviously a vicar. The significance of the church spire rising above the trees a short distance away had belatedly struck Erith
The knowledge that he acted like an utter blockhead left a nasty taste in his mouth. But still, stubbornly, he waited. Even though there had been no activity around the vicarage since Olivia and the couple went inside.
His horse’s head drooped and Erith wasn’t in much better state when the door to the house opened. Stiffening like a hound scenting a fox, he jerked into alertness. He inadvertently tugged on the reins twisted around one gloved hand. His mount snorted in protest, but the two people who left the vicarage were deep in conversation and didn’t react to the noise.
At Olivia’s side was a tall young man with black hair. Erith couldn’t see the rapscallion’s face because of the distance and the angle. But the youth wasn’t dressed as a servant, and there was an obvious physical ease between him and his companion. She took his arm and laughed up at him, the delightful, traitorous sound drifting to where Erith seethed in the shadows.
Olivia carried the fiendishly complicated bonnet she’d worn leaving town, and she moved with a confidence that indicated complete relaxation. Even her walk was different. In London she sauntered with a self-conscious sway of the hips, as if she knew every man’s eye was on her. Of course, every man’s eye was on her, curse the jade’s justified conceit.
Here she moved with the long easy stride of the born countrywoman. He’d always assumed she’d risen from London’s gutters and gained her brilliant social polish on the way. Now he wondered if she originally came from a setting as rural as this. She wouldn’t be the first country maiden brought to ruin amidst the whirl of the decadent capital. Somehow, though, it was hard to picture her as a foolish milkmaid or naive farmhand.
He dismissed the fleeting puzzle of her origins. What mattered was that she’d lied to the Earl of Erith, and he intended to exact recompense.
And try not to feel more of a bloody fool than he did already.
The woman and the youth walked around the side of the vicarage. Which was lucky because if either had looked up, they’d see Erith. He’d been too furious to consider concealing himself.
Without thinking what he’d do when he caught up with the lovers—for surely that’s what they were—he surged in pursuit, tugging the horse after him.
The confounded rogue was noticeably younger than Olivia—perhaps she had a taste for fresher meat than her protectors. While the boy was as tall as a grown man, it was clear he had yet to develop into maturity. The shoulders were broad but the body was gangly, and his limbs had the awkward thinness of a half-grown stripling.
Perhaps she was this scoundrel’s keeper, just as he himself was hers.
He ground his teeth as he watched that long back in its plain black coat move away. What was she doing with this damned blackguard? She needed a man to satisfy her, not a calfling. There was too much woman in Olivia for a mere boy to match.
His free hand clenched into a fist as he imagined beating the youth into a pulp. He didn’t have the faintest desire to hit Olivia. Instead, he wanted to fling her down on the ground, shove up her elegant skirts, and show her what she missed by holding out on the Earl of Erith.
A low feral growl emerged from his throat as he watched her reach up and place a quick kiss on the boy’s cheek. He would have given her every ruby in Burma for one tenth of the genuine affection she showed that milksop.
Blast her to hell and back.
For lying to him. And for making him feel this way.
There was a pond behind the house where a few ducks swam without enthusiasm. More ducks snoozed on the bank. The youth led Olivia toward a weatherworn wooden bench. Erith growled again. The setting’s pastoral perfection only increased his fury.
He hadn’t fought a duel in years, had never challenged another man even in duels he had fought. But something in him howle
d for this young man’s blood. Because he stole Olivia, and Olivia belonged to Erith.
The savage possessive hunger he’d felt the first time he saw Olivia Raines blasted him anew and jammed the breath in his throat. Through a red haze, he watched them sit down. The couple held hands and the innocent sweetness made him want to puke.
One last vestige of reason urged him to leave, to delay this confrontation until he was sure of control.
His horse had other ideas. The smell of water was too much to resist. The animal snorted and tossed its head to escape the restraint of the reins.
“Hell,” he muttered through his teeth as Olivia turned and caught him spying.
He felt like a beggar child outside a sweet shop. The pathetic image only stirred the roiling mixture of shame and anger in his gut. He sucked in a deep breath, which did nothing to calm his fury, and caught the troublesome nag’s bridle, silently cursing the beast. With what he hoped was his usual assurance, he stepped forward.
“Olivia.” The word was a snarl.
The sun was in his eyes so it took him a few moments to register that, as she rose, she looked pale and frightened.
“Lord Erith, what are you doing here?” Her voice shook and she twined her hands together at her waist with an open nervousness he’d never seen in her before.
She should be nervous, the baggage. Let her see how nervous she felt when he called out her youthful lover and put a bullet in his skinny chest.
“It seemed the perfect day for a ride in the country,” he said silkily. He so obviously had the advantage, he could almost enjoy himself if not for the dogs of jealousy and disappointment howling inside him.
“You followed me.”
Her glare accused him of betrayal. What right had she to look at him like that? Treacherous slut.
“Yes.”
“You had no right.”
“I claim the right.” He moved closer to see the light in her lying eyes. He ignored his horse’s stubborn yearning toward the pond.
“We had an arrangement.”
“We certainly did,” he snapped, looming over her. “Now if you please, we’ll return to London and discuss the future of that…arrangement.”
Tempt the Devil Page 10