by Cara Elliott
Several long strides brought him within arm’s reach of her. “Confound it, Miss Sloane, stop and listen,” he called, lunging for her sleeve.
As his fingers seized the fabric, his boot snagged on a twist of morning glory. Pitched off-balance, he stumbled and fell, taking her with him. Tangled together, they hit the ground hard, their momentum rolling them into a patch of pachysandra.
“Ooof!” Olivia’s flailing kick caught him square in the shin.
Flat on his back, John got a momentary glimpse of Olivia’s irrepressible curls dancing in the breeze before another half turn landed him on his stomach. Burning with embarrassment, he tried to right himself, only to find that she was sprawled across his…posterior.
Bloody hell, he had never felt like a bigger arse in all his life.
They both started wriggling at the same time. He managed to twist face-up just as she slipped on the glossy leaves and fell back down atop him.
“Miss Sloane,” he gasped.
“Lord Wrexham,” wheezed Olivia, an odd little burr roughening her already throaty voice.
For an instant, he feared she was going to burst into tears.
Instead, she began to laugh.
And laugh.
Scottie was right. It was a delightful sound, its top notes shaded with a rich, sensual echo that seemed to stroke over his skin like a moon-dappled midnight breeze.
A twitch tugged at his lips. His dignity—as well as his coat—was in tatters, his pride was bruised, and though he should not find it at all funny, John felt a rumble vibrate deep in his throat.
Olivia tried to get up again, but her limbs were too weak with mirth. “Good Lord, what a ridiculous picture we must make!” she wheezed in between burbles of laughter.
“Here, let me help you.” Levering to his feet, John lifted her up and as she seemed a bit shaky, he kept his hands on her waist.
“Well, it’s not every day I take a tumble in the hay with an earl,” she quipped.
“Please don’t think that I make a habit of ruining a young lady’s reputation,” he answered.
Her cheeks, already pink from the breeze, turned a lusher shade of red as she looked up and wet her lips.
John felt his body clench. His legendary sang froid began to bubble…His steely self-control went up in smoke…
Olivia flinched as his mouth possessed hers. She was like summer rain against his tongue. So soft, so sweet.
Her hands came up around his neck.
Hell, it would serve him right if she throttled him on the spot.
But then, all of a sudden, she was kissing him back.
In a daze, John twisted around and braced her back against the ivy-covered wall, the glossy leaves crackling under the crush of silk. He was dimly aware of a roaring like cannonfire in his ears, and as his hands slid down to cup her breasts he realized it was the pounding of his own heart.
Knocking all reason to flinders.
A gust of air ruffled his hair, stirring wild, wicked thoughts of her waltzing naked through the trees. In response, his own privy parts began dancing to their own drummer. Thump. Thump. Thump. His pulse was pounding a military tattoo, commanding all soldiers to stand erect.
And Dear God, his Major Organ was responding with unabashed enthusiasm.
Olivia didn’t seem disgusted by his display of primitive lust. With a tiny moan, she tightened her hold and hitched her hips into him.
Lud, it felt good. No, better than good.
Exquisite.
He thrust himself against her thighs, reveling in the softness of her skin-warmed silks against his growing arousal. With a rough groan, he deepened his kisses, mindless of his crushed cravat and the fact that his shirttail had somehow pulled free of his trousers.
Olivia swayed as heat licked through her limbs. Her body felt so strange, as if it belonged to someone else. And perhaps it did, she thought hazily. She certainly didn’t recognize the woman who had taken possession of her skin. The real Olivia Sloane was a spinster bluestocking, not a wanton jade.
And yet, the Earl of Wrexham didn’t seem to be experiencing any reservations.
Nor was she.
His kisses had ignited a sudden spark of longing somewhere deep inside her. And while its flame burned hot, she meant to seize the chance to experience passion.
God only knew when it would come again.
Emboldened, she let her hands explore his big body. Slabbed shoulders, chiseled ribs, a hard torso tapering to a lean waist. His contours were utterly foreign.
Utterly fascinating. No gently rounded curves or feminine softness. He was all hard angles and unyielding muscle.
And his scent. He smelled of bay rum and burnished leather. It was earthy—dark and distinctly masculine. Burying her nose in his loosened cravat, Olivia sucked in a deep, deep breath, filling her lungs with the intoxicating fragrance.
“Miss Sloane,” said John raggedly, his whisper hot on her skin as he broke off a torrid kiss. “Forgive me. I—I cannot explain my egregious lapse of gentlemanly honor.”
“Then don’t,” she replied, nibbling at his lower lip. Oh, he tasted delicious. Faintly sweet, with some mysterious hint of spice that she couldn’t quite put a name to.
“Don’t,” he echoed.
She froze.
“Don’t stop,” rasped John, his mouth covering hers again in a hard and hungry kiss.
Melting into his embrace, Olivia slid her hands down the side of his hips. Casting caution to the wind, she let them creep around, tracing the shape of his bum. Beneath the fine tailoring of his trousers, she could feel the taut thrum of flesh. There was something very primitive and powerful in his body. He reminded her of a sleek predator, all coiled strength and lethal grace.
Dangerous.
The word slowly seeped through the heated vapor clouding her brain.
Dangerous.
The echo reverberated against her skull, cooling her wild ardor.
What madness has possessed me?
“Dear God,” she whispered. “You must forgive me, Lord Wrexham. The effort of finishing an essay stirs a certain fire inside. It—it takes a bit of time for it to burn itself out.”
“Is that why you come here?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I find that ranting at the roses and rhododendrons helps release all the pent-up emotion.” Her gaze strayed to the tangle of dark leaves and silvery vines. “And Hurley’s garden never hurls back an unkind word.”
“I know what you mean. My blood is still boiling from an encounter last night with two pompous, narrowed-minded gentlemen.” A wry smile tugged at his lips. “I suppose that explains what just happened here. Fire is a very volatile substance.”
“Very,” agreed Olivia, grateful for his trying to soften the sheer stupidity of her actions. “You, at least, can have the physical satisfaction of punching someone in the nose. My only weapons are my words.”
“And powerful weapons they are,” he said. “You have an extraordinary skill, Miss Sloane, and believe passionately in the need for social reform. So why have you avoided me?”
“Why do you think, sir?”
John made a face. “Right. An idiotic question.”
“Writing as The Beacon, I can reach a great number of people,” she explained. “Hurley goes along with it because I make money for him. But you, sir…” She plucked a furled rose from one of the bushes and slowly peeled back the velvety petals. “Revealing my true identity was too great a risk. If word got out that The Beacon was a female, no essay of mine would ever again see the light of day.”
The earl ran a palm along the line of his jaw. He had, she noted, beautiful hands, strong and capable. The sight of his long, tapered fingers sent a queer little shiver through her limbs.
“You can trust me with your secret,” he said.
Olivia couldn’t help wondering just what he would say if he knew she was also the infamous “Lady Loose Screw.”
On second thought, she decided that she didn’t want
to know.
Ever.
“I don’t really have a choice but to count on your honor, sir.”
A slight flush crept to his face at the word “honor.” “I can hardly betray your identity without exposing myself to censure.” One of his dark brows quirked up. “If it makes you feel any better, one word from you about what happened here would put me in a very awkward position.”
She felt her jaw drop. “Surely…surely you don’t think…Good God, the very last thing in the world I would wish to do is put you in that sort of awkward position.”
The brow arched a touch higher. “Ah. I’m that unappealing?”
Flustered, Olivia quickly added, “It’s not you in particular, sir. It’s the concept.”
“Of coercion?” A hint of humor glinted in his dark eyes. “Or of matrimony?”
“As far as I am concerned, they are one in the same,” she muttered. “Women have no rights in a marriage. It’s terribly unfair.”
“I happen to agree with you,” he said softly. “The Beacon ought to attack that issue, too.” He paused. “However, having some experience in warfare, I would advise you that it would be best to fight one battle at a time.”
“I know, I know.” Frowning, she crossed her arms. “So what are you suggesting, sir?”
“That we become allies,” he replied. “I would like for you to look at the rough draft of my speech and give me your suggestions. I need help in polishing both the ideas and the language.”
“I have already promised you Hingham’s book.”
“I want more than Hingham. I want you.”
Olivia tried to steady the erratic thump of her heart.
“Together we can beat these selfish, narrow-minded prigs who stand in the way of progress,” finished Wrexham.
“You do not appear lacking in eloquence, sir,” she said softly.
“With your help, I can do better,” he said.
The idea was oh-so tempting. She cared passionately about the passage of this bill, and here she was, being offered a chance to shape a speech to the House of Lords.
How could she, in good conscience, refuse?
“Well…oh, blast—very well, Lord Wrexham. Send me your scribbles and I’ll have a look at them.”
“Thank you.” He walked over to retrieve his hat.
“However, there are certain conditions,” added Olivia.
His expression as he looked up was unreadable. “Which are?”
“This won’t happen again.” Repressing a shiver, she looked away. “I am The Beacon, a respected thinker, and you are the earl, a distinguished aristocrat…who happens to be engaged to the Steel Corset.”
John carefully smoothed a hand over the bent brim. “I am not engaged,” he corrected.
“Perhaps not literally,” she said. “But be that as it may, it would be unwise for any number of reasons. And I should like to think that neither of us is lacking a brain.”
“Fine. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of at the moment.”
“Excellent.” He set his hat back on his head. “Then we have an agreement, Miss Sloane.”
“We do, sir. But let us hope that neither of us comes to regret it,” murmured Olivia.
Chapter Thirteen
This was not entirely my fault. You two bear part of the blame,” Olivia carefully untwined a tiny twist of ivy from the cuff of her gown, praying there were no other telltale bits of the garden clinging to her clothing. “But seeing I ought to practice what I preach, I accept full responsibility for my fall from sanity.”
Her sisters did not look terribly repentant. Indeed, Caro was doing a very poor job at repressing a fit of giggles.
“I am trying to picture exactly how this all happened,” said Anna, slowly sketching a diagram of odd little loops in the air. “You…him…a tumble into the greenery…Could you kindly describe it again?”
“Put that pen down,” snapped Olivia. “And no, I would rather not run through my egregious lapse in judgment.”
More chortling from her youngest sister, which she silenced with a glare. “I am usually very careful about locking the garden gate.”
“In Anna’s version, Count Alessandro will no doubt strip off all of Emmalina’s clothing,” said Caro. “And then his own, whereupon he would make passionate love to her in the garden.”
“What do you know about making passionate love?” demanded Anna. “I hope you have not been snooping through my reference books again—”
“Not much, I trust,” interjected Olivia, before the discussion could take a dangerous turn. Caro was already too knowledgeable about…a great many things.
“Not as much as I would like,” countered her youngest sister. “I’m nearly eighteen, and it’s time you two stopped treating me like a child.”
Anna and Olivia exchanged uncomfortable looks.
“Of course I’ve read your novels, and know from Papa’s lectures the basics of, er, how men and women join together.”
True, their father had been a firm believer that ladies ought not be ignorant in the ways of the world, much to the dismay of their mother. Such unconventional ideas had been a sore point between them. As had the subject of money. So, mused Olivia, Lady Trumbull’s obsession with propriety and marrying at least one of her daughters off to a man with a plump purse was understandable.
“But as for the specific details, I am a little fuzzy on certain things,” continued Caro. “For example, you said that you could feel the earl was, um, fully aroused when he pressed up against you, Livvie. What, exactly, did you mean by that?”
Drat. Olivia instantly rued letting her tongue have free rein. In her own defense, she had been somewhat agitated when she had recounted the details of the garden confrontation.
“Well, er,…” she stammered, unsure how to go on.
“Oh, Caro is right,” announced Anna. “As she pointed out, she already knows the basics about male anatomy from Papa and the sketches in his scientific notebooks. We might as well explain more fully what happens when carnal desire starts to heat a man’s blood.”
“Very well.” Olivia drew a deep breath. “Er, perhaps you ought to do it. After all, you have the most expertise in describing how men and women arouse each other’s passions.”
“If you wish.” Anna set down her pen. “Now pay attention, Caro. What Olivia meant was that the earl’s pizzle had become larger. It expands when a man becomes sexually aroused, so she was aware of it pressing against her.”
“Could you be more explicit?” asked Caro.
Anna rolled her eyes. “Let me put it this way—his manhood was like a length of hard steel beneath his clothing.”
“That doesn’t sound very comfortable.”
“I don’t think it is,” said Anna. “That’s why men are always in such a hurry to unbutton their breeches when they are in that particular condition.”
Caro frowned. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
“I’m not sure you should,” murmured Olivia. “But do go on, Anna.”
Anna looked around and spotted a branch of unlit candles. “Allow me to demonstrate.” She took one of them in hand and placed it tip up flat against her belly. “As a man’s organ swells, it rises, rather like hot air balloon. The flap of his breeches hold it in position like so.”
Caro scratched a few notes in the margin of the poetry book she had been reading.
“When a man undoes the fastenings of his trousers or breeches, his shaft springs free, like so.” The candle dropped to jut straight out.
Olivia raised a brow. “Perhaps we could make extra pin money by putting on a private show for prospective brides in one of the dressing rooms of Madame Tessin’s dressmaking shop. We could call it ‘The Wedding Night—A Primer to Pizzles and Other Monstrosities.’”
Before Anna could elaborate any further on the mysteries of sex, Lady Trumbull interrupted the lecture by throwing open the study door. “Now girls, it’s extremely unladylike to giggle. I trust y
ou will not indulge in…” As she looked around the room, her gaze came to rest on Anna. “What are you doing with that candle?”
“Oh, I was just explaining how to make the wick last longer,” replied Anna without batting an eye. “A lady should know all the ins and outs of managing domestic affairs.”
Lady Trumbull hesitated, and then nodded sagely. “Quite right, my dear, quite right. A firm hand on housekeeping is very important. Men appreciate such attention to the tiny details.”
“Olivia has also been giving some very helpful hints on how to make the flame burn brighter,” piped up Caro.
Olivia made a warning face. Her youngest sister had a tendency to allow exuberant emotion to overrule common sense. And while it was laudable quality for a poet to have, it often landed her in trouble at home.
Their mother gave an audible sniff, as if scenting that something was amiss. But as Anna flashed her most innocent smile, she seemed mollified. “Listen to your sister, and mayhap the two of you will learn enough to attract your share of highborn suitors.” Wagging a finger, she added, “Do remember that we are attending Mrs. Shelborne’s musical recital tonight, Anna. Lord Chittenden is very fond of the pianoforte and is sure to be there.”
“Yes Mama,” responded Anna.
“Olivia, you need not come tonight,” went on Lady Trumbull. “It’s an informal gathering, so protocol does not require your presence. And seeing as you make no effort to engage an eligible gentleman, it is not as if anyone will notice your absence.”
Such comments had long since lost their sting. But Olivia saw Anna’s nostrils flare in anger.
“Actually, Mama, Olivia has been attracting her share of notice these days. The Earl of Wrexham has been particularly interested in discussing politics with her.”
Their mother turned so fast that she nearly snagged a slipper in the carpet fringe. “Wrexham! Well, I declare…” Raising her quizzing glass, she peered in surprise at her eldest daughter.
As if she were a botanist who had just stumbled upon some new and exotic species of mushroom, thought Olivia wryly.