Scandalously Yours

by Cara Elliott

  “I’m well aware of that,” replied Olivia, taking care to avoid the reflection of her sister’s gaze in the looking glass. “Trust me, I am being exceedingly cautious with my own moves. In another two weeks this will all be over…”

  Over, over, over.

  “And Lord Wrexham and I will go our separate ways. So the worst of the danger has passed.”

  Their carefully choreographed strategy for entering and leaving the walled garden on their own had worked without a hitch. We work well together, she mused. Strangely enough, despite all our differences, our strengths seem to complement one another.

  “Trust me, we are both extremely cautious. Unlike you two, the earl and I are ruled by cold logic, not fiery emotion.”

  “And yet, you can’t deny that you’ve plenty of passion burning inside your breast,” murmured Anna.

  “That’s different,” replied Olivia quickly. “The fact is, it burns inside my head, not my breast—or any other part of my anatomy.”

  “Ha! Some hero will light a flame in your heart,” said Caro. “After all, love is the most elemental of human emotions.”

  Anna choked down a burble of mirth.

  “You’ve been reading too many of Anna’s books.” After spearing a last hairpin into place, Olivia glanced at the mantel clock. “Time to be off.”

  The long walk helped her gather her thoughts—for some reason they seemed to be straying far off the beaten path today. Using her key to unlock the garden gate, she slipped into the coolness of the shaded enclave and slid the bolt back in place. The fragrance of lavender and the grassy scents of the leafy foliage helped further calm her nerves.

  Save for the twitter of a linnet, no sounds disturbed the stillness. Winding her way along the narrow pathway, she eased through an opening in the rhododendron bushes and entered the small cottage.

  It had been the earl’s turn to arrive early. He was seated at the desk in the far corner of the main sitting room and was already at work. Sunlight from the bank of diamond-paned leaded windows behind him played over his bent head. She could hear the scratch-scratch of his pen and the rustle of foolscap.

  He had removed his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves, for early on, they had agreed to shed the formal restrictions of Polite Society during these sessions. As Olivia unknotted her bonnet strings, she watched the rippling of his back muscles beneath the stretch of linen. Oddly enough, he seemed even bigger and broader…

  With a small cough, she set her headcovering and gloves on the entrance table, followed by her shawl.

  John turned around. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” A smudge of ink streaked his forehead just above his left eyebrow and several clumps of dark hair were standing up in spiky tufts.

  Repressing a smile, Olivia replied, “Your concentration was on your work, which is all for the good.”

  Concentrate, concentrate.

  He had also removed his cravat and unfastened the top two buttons beneath his collar. Swallowing hard, she forced herself not to look at the intriguing “V” of bronzed flesh peppered with coarse curls.

  “How is the new section coming?” she asked brusquely.

  “Slowly,” he replied, raking impatient fingers through his hair. “I can’t seem to get it right.”

  Moving to the work table in the middle of the room, Olivia perched a hip on the corner and began perusing one of the reference books that lay open on the blotter. “Have you looked at Jefferson’s collection of essays?”

  “Yes, and I have to say that I disagree with some of his points. And that’s what’s bedeviling me. I feel I should change my reasoning on several of the secondary issues. Let me explain why…”

  The earl was growing more confident, she noted as they debated the merits of the American thinker’s ideas.

  “You have convinced me, Wrexham,” she finally acknowledged. “I believe that all things considered, your point of view is better than the one I originally suggested.”

  “You do?” John looked a little surprised. “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  A boyish smile bloomed on his lips. “That is high praise indeed, seeing as The Beacon is an unwavering flame of Truth and Honesty.

  Truth. Honesty.

  Olivia felt her insides give a sickening lurch. I must tell him about the Other Secret.

  “You, of all people, never prevaricate.”

  Oh, but not now. After the speech, she promised herself. She would confess to being Lady Loose Screw after their work was done. No doubt he would despise her, but by then it wouldn’t matter.

  For now, however, her own scruples must be sacrificed for the Higher Good.

  “Never mind about me,” she muttered. “We must focus on your speech. Read that last section aloud. It has to be perfect.”

  John did so.

  “You’re right about the concepts, but it needs to be stronger.”

  “How so?” he asked.

  “It needs…” Olivia began to pace. “…More punch.” Fisting her hands, she tapped them together. “The words must be tough, but lyrical.”

  He blew out his breath. “I’m afraid that lyrical doesn’t come naturally to me.”

  “It’s a matter of practice. You’re very skilled with words, Wrexham, you just need more practice. Practice makes perfect.”

  Her steps quickened over the threadbare rug. “Lyrical, lyrical,” she muttered.

  Tap, tap. Her knuckles kept rapping a steady tattoo, as if the sound might conjure up inspiration from thin air.

  As she reached the far end of the room, she suddenly pivoted on her heel and rattled off a few sentences.

  John snatched up a pen and started writing.

  “Lift your thoughts from self-interest! Raise your eyes from your estate ledgers and see the Higher Good…” The ideas were flowing fast and furious now.

  “Blast!” exclaimed John as the pen point snagged in the paper. “Wait—I cannot copy that down quickly enough.”

  Expelling an impatient huff, Olivia made a face. “I shall try to slow down, but words sometimes race out of reach if I don’t keep up with them.”

  “Then keep going, keep going,” he urged, grabbing a newly sharpened quill and a fresh sheet of paper. “I’ll scribble as fast as I can. We can always go back and make corrections later.”

  Olivia was already rattling off a new sentence. For the next quarter hour, she criss-crossed the floor, shaping her ideas into heartfelt speech. When at last she was satisfied with her efforts, she paused and circled back to the work table, where John was just finishing the task of writing out the final words.

  “Better?” she murmured, trying to read over his shoulder.

  “It’s brilliant,” he answered. “Absolutely brilliant. The Beacon has never shone so brightly.”

  “You give me far too much credit, Wrexham,” protested Olivia. “The core idea was yours, and without it the speech would fall flat, no matter how flowery the language.”

  “Hardly,” he said, though she could see that her praise stirred a swirl of topaz-colored sparks in the chocolate-dark depths of his eyes. “Without your guidance I could never have done it. You’ve taught me to challenge myself, to question my assumptions, and to try to see things from more than one perspective.”

  She, too, felt a heady rush of exhilaration at his words of admiration.

  “We make a good team,” added John. “Though it is a pity you cannot receive the credit you deserve.”

  “That’s not important. What matters is that the speech is a strong one,” said Olivia. “It will sway the undecided votes.”

  “You think so?”

  “I am sure of it!” she exclaimed. “With these words as your warriors, you will checkmate the opposition.”

  “As I said, I never could have done it without your inspiration,” he replied warmly.

  Feeling a tingling of heat spread over her cheeks, Olivia dropped her eyes. “Here, let me read over your notes, to see if I see any problems. I know there were spot
s where I was talking awfully fast.”

  He handed over the papers.

  “Not, bad, not bad,” she murmured, half to herself. “Only here, in last few lines, I think we should change “ask” to “demand” and “rights” to “inalienable rights.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Much better.”

  She crossed out the originals and wrote out the new words. “There! I’m sure there will be a few other minor changes when you write out the final copy. But in essence, it’s done!”

  Smiling broadly, John rose and carefully tucked the papers inside his portfolio case, along with the drafts of the other sections.

  “You should feel very proud of yourself, Wrexham. Most war heroes would be content to bask in the glow of their medals. That you care about fighting new battles is admirable.” On impulse, Olivia circled her arms around his big shoulders and gave him a fierce hug. “More than admirable, in fact.”

  Taken by surprise, John couldn’t react for a moment. Every muscle in his body felt as if it was held in thrall by some strange force.

  Save for his heart, which was hammering helter-pelter against his ribs.

  He inhaled slowly, filling his nostrils with the uniquely sensuous fragrance of her skin, her hair. Verbena, neroli, and wild thyme—slightly sweet, slightly salty, slightly exotic, it reminded him of sun-drenched Spanish hills and the Mediterranean Sea.

  “Sorry,” murmured Olivia.

  “Don’t be,” he said.

  She tipped up her chin, an uncertain smile quivering at the corners of her mouth. “As you know, the passion of words seems to release some primal, primitive emotion inside me. Society is right to call me the Hellion of High Street.” She pulled back, the warmth of her body giving way to a lick of chill air. “So, you know yet another of my sordid little secrets.”

  “Your secrets,” he replied slowly, “are safe with me.”

  “Yes—I don’t doubt that I can trust you, sir.” Her tone took on an odd note. “You are, after all, the Perfect Hero.”

  The hold on his body suddenly gave way to a different force as John felt himself seized by a fierce longing he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t control.

  “Damnation—to the Devil with Perfection!” Impelled by the momentary madness, John caught hold of her shoulders, aware of the slide of silk against his calloused palms. “At this instant I’m not feeling very perfect.” The fabric was soft. Sensuous. “Or very heroic.”

  Her eyes widened, and a blade of sunlight caught the swirling, spinning currents beneath the jade green hue.

  “Damnation,” he repeated, his voice dropping to hoarse whisper. “I want…I want there to be no secrets between us.” He leaned in a little closer, and suddenly he was plummeting, plummeting down into their depths.

  Drowning. Unable to breath.

  “God help me,” he rasped as his lips touched hers. His hands tightened, feeling the soft contour of her flesh, the firm slope of her shoulders. Hard and soft—a contrasting conundrum of textures and nuances.

  Infinitely alluring, dangerously intriguing.

  Retreat! The military part of his brain was commanding him to withdraw. But in the heat of battle, the word was naught but a fuzzed boom, echoing far, far away.

  “Wrexham…” Olivia wrenched her mouth free. “Wrexham, th-this is madness.”

  His fingers brushed through the downy wisps of hair at the nape of her neck…found the fastenings of her gown…

  Pulled the ties loose.

  Heat thrummed against his skin as the finespun silk fabric slid down her arms.

  Madness.

  I am perfectly rational, perfectly honorable…and, apparently, perfectly mad.

  “Is it?” His voice sounded drugged. Deranged. Whatever exotic substance was bubbling through his blood, it was potent as sin.

  Olivia’s laugh tickled against his cheek, light as a zephyr. “Utter madness,” she whispered. And then kissed him full on the mouth.

  The feel, the taste, the texture of her satin-soft lips on his snapped the last shred of sanity. His arms circled her waist and crushed her close, the rustle of lace petticoats entangling with the whisper of wool.

  Her thighs touched his trouser front, her slow, swirling sway igniting a jolt of fire in his groin. He came to instant arousal, a groan rumbling deep in his throat.

  “Miss Sloane—Olivia,” he rasped.

  In answer, she hitched her hips hard against him. And rubbed herself slowly against his steeled shaft.

  John gasped, and with a wordless growl, lifted her into his arms.

  Bed. There was a small bedchamber just off the main sitting room. Half-staggering, half-spinning, he somehow managed to navigate the short corridor. One of his hands twined in her silky tresses—he heard the ping of falling pins mark their progress along the rough-planked floor. The other was doing things no honorable gentleman ought to be doing to a respectable lady.

  “Oh, please…” said Olivia in a fluttery whisper.

  He stopped short in the doorway, suddenly, thoroughly, achingly ashamed of himself.

  “…don’t stop, Wrexham.”

  “It would be wrong of me to take advantage of the situation,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I—”

  “I ask you to rise above the petty prejudices and traditions of the past,” she intoned, quoting a passage from the speech they had just created. “It’s time to forge a new set of laws—a just set of laws—instead of letting ourselves be chained to the old way of thinking!”

  Her eloquence was…erotic. The passionate words teased over his skin like a lover’s caress.

  “Make our own rules?”

  “Yes, why not?” An errant curl brushed against his cheek as Olivia shifted and the scent of her sent another rush of heat through his body.

  Its thrum was fast drowning out the argument from the Voice of Honor in the back of his head.

  “I don’t, as you know, feel bound by Society’s rigid rules,” she went on. “So…”

  All thought of rules unraveled as Olivia pressed her palm against the top fastening of his shirt.

  So, yes—to the Devil with rules! To the Devil with regulations and all the orderly thoughts that regimented his life.

  “Then let us,” he rasped, “cast them to the wind.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Olivia felt herself falling, falling, weightless and wondrous with the feel of his big, muscled body molding to hers. The bed shivered as their twined limbs thudded with an eager sigh atop the down coverlet. Fumbling, tugging, pulling—impatient hands sought ties and fastenings.

  Yes. Yes. She arched upward, allowing John to strip off her gown.

  Propelled by her palms, his trousers slithered down his thighs.

  Her corset strings quickly yielded to his nimble fingers.

  A boot thudded against the floor, then another.

  “Yes. Yes.” The words broke free from her lips as he cupped her breasts. And then speech was impossible as his mouth captured hers in a deep, delving kiss.

  More clothing came away, baring their bodies. Flesh against heated flesh. Now the only thing between them was the thin scrim of her lacy cotton drawers.

  Olivia was a little shocked by the sensations sizzling through her core. Never had a man ignited such fire inside her. Not even that one time…

  “Olivia,” he rasped. “I shouldn’t—”

  “I’m not a virgin, John,” she whispered, savoring the sound of his name on her tongue. “You are not stealing my virtue.”

  That had been lost several years ago, while on an expedition with her father to the isle of Crete. A handsome Frenchman had been part of the Royal Society’s team of expert scholars. He had been interesting—no, fascinating was perhaps a more accurate word. By the end of the first month he had convinced her to agree to a secret engagement. In order, he said, not to cause any distraction or dissent within the group. By the end of the following week he had seduced her into anticipating the marriage vows.

  Ah, yes, silv
er-tongued Pierre. He had talked of undying love, only to decide a short while later that the idea of a permanent legshackle did not appeal to his sense of free-spirited adventure. He lost little time in taking his leave of the expedition, shrugging off the affair with casual nonchalance.

  Angry at herself for being so naïve, Olivia had never told her father the truth of what had happened.

  Not even her sisters knew. Some things were simply too private, too painful to speak of.

  Tightening her hold on John’s sun-kissed body, she added, “If I wish to give myself to you, that should be my choice.”

  In answer, he gave a rough growl. “If you are sure…”

  I should not sin again, she thought. But something of her father’s radical ideas must have rubbed off on her after all, because somehow her body was responding to some primitive need pulsing deep within rather than listening to the Voice of Reason.

  With a choked moan, she opened herself to his kiss. “I have never been more sure of anything.”

  Her words seemed to unravel the last shred of John’s gentlemanly restraint. His palms slid up her thighs and eased them open.

  Yes, yes. Then his long, lithe body, all hard muscle and heat-sparked desire, covered hers. Flesh on flesh—his weight and warmth felt unbearably wonderful. And yet, she wanted more.

  More.

  Arching up, Olivia wrapped her arms around his neck, tangled her hands in his hair. Its texture was like slubbed silk, rough and smooth, like John himself.

  “John.” The intimate whisper of his name felt so right on her lips. She said it again.

  John’s whole body shuddered in response, and the thudding of his heart quickened against her sweat-slickened skin.

  “Olivia.” Their zephyr-soft voices entangled, entwined like physical caresses.

  She felt his hand slip between their bodies, felt his fingertips glide through her downy curls and probe deeper. She arched again, purring with pleasure as he found her hidden pearl and began a gentle stroking.

  “Yes, yes.” Urging him on with words, with touch, Olivia rocked her hips up, seeking more.

  More.