by Cara Elliott
As was he. A growl, deeply rough, deeply masculine, reverberated in her ear as John shifted and his arousal thrust into the honeyed slickness of her feminine folds. She heard herself cry out—a wordless plea that spoke clearly of her wanting, of her need.
John raised himself and thrust again. The head of his cock teased up against the entrance to her passageway. With a muffled groan, he eased back and then in one swift stroke he was inside her.
A pinch of pain. Her body clenched, taking a moment to adjust to him.
John went very still. “Am I hurting you?”
“No, no, it’s good,” replied Olivia. “It’s glorious.”
He kissed her slowly and softly, his lips feathering over hers as his hips resumed moving. Back and forth—ebb and flow—like the elemental rhythm of the oceans and the tides.
Olivia found herself submerged in a sea of indescribable sensations. His textures, his sounds, his scent swirled around her. Drowning, drowning, she gasped for breath, filling her lungs with a rush of cooling air. The rest of her was on fire, heat licking like a flame between her legs.
She clutched at his shoulders, palms sliding down the hard slope of contoured muscle. His hands were roving over the swell of her hips, the curve of her derriere. There was nothing languid or leisurely about their touching. A volatile eagerness seemed to have taken possession of them. A frenzied need.
“I want…I want…” The words broke free of their own volition. She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted. All she knew was that a strange wave was cresting inside her, demanding release.
“I know what you want, sweetheart.” John’s voice was a little muzzy, as if he, too, were caught in some powerful current. “And the Devil take me, I want it as well.” Quickening his strokes, he sheathed himself in her warm wetness again and again.
And again.
A cry—was it really hers?—shattered the surrounding stillness of the room as a brief burst of brilliant sparks outshone the sunlight. Olivia felt herself spinning, spinning in a shower of gold-flecked flickers of fire before floating back down to earth.
John covered her cry with his lips, the tremoring sound resonating down to his very core. Everything about Olivia seemed to thrum with passion—her eloquent words, her inspiring ideas, her beautiful body. Even her creamy soft skin seemed to radiate sparks.
Sparks that ignited some elemental longing.
She was exquisitely exciting. Exhilarating.
The mere scent of her, a beguiling mix of neroli and spice, had his emotions tumbling and turning topsy-turvy. And at that moment it seemed impossible to imagine being content with a coolly correct relationship. An arrangement of faultless manners, of easy expectations.
Being with Olivia was a constant challenge. She pushed him, prodded him, made him lose control. That was dangerous.
Dangerous. And a little frightening. But it also made him feel elementally alive.
He held her tightly as she came undone in his arms, her shudders sending a spurt of joy through his being. So sweet, so sweet. His own need was rising fast and faster, its fire burning through his blood.
His pulse was racing, his heart was pounding, his grip on self-control was perilously close to snapping. By sheer force of will, he caught himself and withdrew just as his body convulsed.
With a ragged groan, John fell back upon the bed and pulled her close, their limbs tangling together in the rumpled sheets.
For a moment, he lay still, eyes closed, listening to the tandem echo of their breathing.
Two as one.
It was the last coherent thought he had before drifting into a dreamlike sleep.
Olivia was drowsily aware of floating in and out of wakefulness. How long, she wondered, had she been lingering in sweet oblivion? Time seemed awfully fuzzy, in contrast to her heightened perceptions of the physical surroundings. The patterns of light on the whitewashed walls, the ruffling of a breeze through the garden hedge, the winsome melody of a linnet’s song.
They were matched by her own acute awareness of her own body. Languid limbs, pleasurable sense of peace…
She felt John shift in a whisper of linen and prop himself up on one elbow. Turning slowly, Olivia gazed at him with a sleepy smile.
He smiled back, but she saw an odd sort of seriousness lurking at the corners of his mouth.
“You look pensive,” she murmured.
“Do I?” His lips twitched slightly, which seemed to dispel the momentary illusion.
It must have been a mere quirk of the slanting light.
“I suppose,” John went on, “that’s because I have been thinking.”
“Of what?” she asked, watching as a tiny gust from the open window set a lock of his dark hair to dancing along the curve of his jaw. It was, she decided, a very nice sight.
“Of what date we should set,” replied John.
“But I thought the date of the speech was set weeks ago, when debate on the issue first began,” murmured Olivia, still distracted by the beautiful shape and textures of his profile. “I can’t imagine they will allow you to change the schedule at the last minute.”
“Not the speech,” he answered. “The wedding.”
“What wedding?” He wasn’t making any sense.
“Our wedding.”
His words took a moment to sink in. And then…
She sat bolt upright. For just an instant, a pinch of pure, girlish longing squeezed at her heart, but she quickly slapped it away. “Don’t be daft!” Practical, pragmatic—Olivia ruthlessly reminded herself that she was The Beacon, not some bacon-brained romantic schoolgirl. “You don’t want to marry me.”
“That is beside the point,” he said softly. “There are rules governing Society. An honorable man must abide by them.”
“For God’s sake, Wrexham!” She no longer felt comfortable calling him John. “No one knows of this interlude. Nor will they.”
“I know,” he replied. “And I can’t deny that knowledge.”
Her chest felt as if an iron band were tightening around her ribs. “And neither can you deny that you are meant to marry the Steel Corset.”
His face went rigid.
“She’ll make a far better countess than I will,” argued Olivia, ignoring the painful squeeze. “I’d only embarrass you, sir. I’m outspoken, opinionated. And I don’t take orders well.” She forced a grim smile in hopes of defusing the tension between them. “You have to admit, that’s not a good quality for the wife of a military officer or a member of the House of Lords.”
John raked a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “After this, I can’t, in good conscience, marry the Steel—Lady Serena Wells.”
“Well you can’t marry me, either,” retorted Olivia. “Because my answer is no!”
“I’ve compromised you, Miss Sloane. I’ve ruined your chances of ever making a respectable match.”
“That is a moot point, sir, for I’ve told you from the beginning that I don’t ever plan to marry.”
A martial glint came to his eyes. “But honor demands—”
“Honor be damned!” she said hotly. “Men make women play by different rules, but in this case I absolutely refuse to jump through the hoops of conformity.”
“You are being stubborn, Miss Sloane.”
“And you are being tyrannical.”
His teeth clenched—in another instant she fully expected to hear the molars crack.
“I told you I wasn’t a virgin when we crossed the threshold of this room, if that’s what you are worried about.” She traced a fingertip along the hard line of his jaw. “My father had very radical notions about women and the fact that they ought to enjoy the same freedoms as men. So I was…”
She hesitated. “…More adventurous than I should have been.” Her hand stilled. “So unlike you, I am not perfect in any sense of the word. Which may repel you.”
“Nobody is perfect,” he growled. “Least of all me. However, I’m trying mightily to behave as a proper gentleman.”
“Well, since I
’m not a proper lady, there’s no need to conform to the strictures of proper behavior.”
Their eyes locked for an instant.
“And what of the cursed man who compromised you?” The sudden change in subject caught her by surprise. “Whoever the fellow might be, he’s a damnable blackguard.”
“He was French,” replied Olivia, trying to make her voice light. “And we all know the Frogs have a different view of amour.”
If anything, his expression turned darker.
“It happened in Crete, long enough ago that it really doesn’t matter.” She decided a certain amount of explanation might help ease his conscience. “My father had asked me to accompany his expedition and serve as his secretary. I was young, and giddy with excitement at being part of such a grand adventure. Pierre was one of the French scholars from the Académie d’Histoire who were invited to join the group for the summer. He was suave, sophisticated, and oozing with Gallic charm.”
When he didn’t react, she went on, “What happened is an age-old story. He courted me—in secret, which I suppose was part of the allure. In a fit of passion, I agreed to his plea that we not wait for our marriage vows to consummate our love.”
John finally spoke. A muttered oath. In French.
She shrugged. “But once Pierre had gotten what he wanted, he suddenly saw no reason to be legshackled to a wife. We were both free spirits, he took pains to point out. So why, he asked, should we conform to the petty tyranny of Society. I could hardly complain—it would have been a little like the pot calling the kettle black.” A pause. “A week later, he left the island. I never saw him again.”
“What did your father have to say about it?” he asked softly.
“He never knew about it.”
“Miss Sloane—”
“It’s ancient history, Wrexham,” she quickly interjected. “What matters now is the present. And when you analyze the situation, it’s really quite simple. You feel compelled to offer marriage for your honor. I feel compelled to say no for my independence. We both come away happy.”
“I—”
She cut him off again. “You have offered, Wrexham. So honor is satisfied. Think of it as a duel—you gentlemen are often all afire to kill each other over some silly slight to your honor. And yet there is always a way to save face, is there not, if both parties are reasonable?”
He gave a curt nod.
“There, you see. No need to pull the trigger and kill off all chances of your future happiness.”
Clutching the coverlet to cover her nakedness, she slid off the bed and hurriedly began gathering her garments. Behind her, she heard John’s bare feet touch the floor, followed by the rustle of clothing.
“And you, Olivia?” he asked after several long moments.
The sound of her given name on his lips stirred an unwilling, unwanted longing. Emotion was all very well for romantics like Anna and Caro. But she was much happier with abstract ideas.
“What is it you have saved?”
“My sense of self, my independence,” Olivia answered quickly. “I’ve fought so hard to win them, Wrexham, and at times the cost of battle has been very dear. You, as a soldier should understand what I mean.” She looked away to the shuttered window and the tiny blades of sunlight slicing in through the slatted wood. “I won’t give them up.”
She heard his breath release in a tightly measured sigh. “If that is what you wish…”
“It is,” she said emphatically. Now dressed, Olivia turned to face him. “Good Heavens,” she added in a low voice, “According my father, many cultures consider virginity vastly overrated.”
John carefully brushed a wrinkle from his coat. “But London Society is not one of them.”
“Be that as it may, it is hard to respect any so-called code of honor made by people who, for the most part, are ruled by self-interest.”
Silence.
“I refuse to be bound by their silly strictures.”
He fixed her with a hooded gaze, his features unyielding, his expression unfathomable. “Very well. I cannot force your hand. So I shall have to accept your word on this.”
She couldn’t discern whether it was anger or relief in his tone.
“Thank you.” Olivia ignored the new pinch of pain in her chest. “Now, let us put aside petty, personal concerns and get back to the far more important matter—the speech.”
“Yes, the speech,” he said slowly. “What do you have in mind, Miss Sloane?” He turned his back. “I was under the impression that you were quite satisfied with our efforts.”
For an instant, Olivia felt a hot, humiliating prickle against the back of her eyelids. Blinking back tears, she drew a steadying breath. “I am. But it is not simply the words, but how you say them that matters. So I think we ought to meet again for one last rehearsal.”
“Here?”
“I see no other option. But I believe we can control our…passion for justice enough to ensure that there will be no further lapses in judgment.”
“Your suggestion has merit.” His voice was devoid of any emotion. “We must not overlook any detail that might give us an advantage over our opponents.”
“It’s just for one more time,” she pointed out. “Then we both will move on. You will return to Shropshire, and I—I will find a new cause.”
“An eloquent summation, as always.”
Was he being sarcastic? Impossible to tell.
“Shall we set a time for tomorrow?” he went on.
Olivia shook her head. “I cannot. I have prior obligations. Indeed, the coming week is difficult. The only time I have free is the day after tomorrow. Shall we say in the late morning, around eleven o’clock?”
He hesitated for a fraction, and then gave a curt nod. “Fine. I will see you then.”
Chapter Eighteen
No.
The word was still like a demon’s red-hot pitchfork, its hellfire prongs jabbing at his consciousness no matter how many times over the last two days he had tried to banish it from his brain.
Frowning, John looked up from studying the notes for his speech and pinched at the bridge of his nose. The Beacon—that eloquent Master of Eloquent Rhetoric—had not bothered to embellish the sentiment when she had refused the offer of his hand.
She had given him naught but a single syllable.
No.
He should, by all accounts, be relieved. That a moment of madness would not chain him to an unmeditated marriage ought to be cause for rejoicing. And yet, his emotions were far from elated.
The truth was, he was feeling rather melancholy.
Miss Sloane—Olivia—had gotten under his skin in ways he had never imagined. She was intelligent, she was witty, she was sensual, she was…
She was, in a word, exhilarating to be with.
“Exhilarating,” he muttered aloud, with a grimace of self-disgust. “I sound like a puling schoolboy, not a battle-hardened soldier.”
And that was the trouble—duty was at war with desire, and he wasn’t quite sure which side he was on.
Did duty demand his allegiance to Lady Serena? He had made no formal offer, and while she was cordial and seemed to enjoy his company, there had been no sign that her affections were truly engaged.
Which was, John reminded himself, exactly as it should be among members of the ton. Most matches were made for practical reasons. Money, position, power—God perish the thought that such a mercurial emotion as love might swirl in like a North Sea gale and blow all such careful consideration to flinders.
“But who the devil said anything about love?” he growled, turning to a new page of his notes.
Olivia was most certainly not in love—she had made that clear as crystal. Nor did marriage hold any appeal. He could understand her intellectual opposition, for he was in agreement that as the laws were presently written, women had painfully few rights.
Yet he sensed that her fear was of a more personal nature. She had been seduced—oh, how his fingers itched to pou
nd the slimy Frog to a pulp—and then jilted by a cad. Though she hid it well, he had caught a telltale glimpse in her eye and in her mannerisms that she felt herself unworthy.
Unattractive. Unwanted.
The damnable dilemma is that I see her worth…
“But she said no,” John reminded himself. “So in fact, it’s no dilemma at all.”
Scowling, John forced his attention back to the notes.
Shuffling through the pages, he decided to recopy the section with Olivia’s last corrections written in the margins. The rehearsal earlier that morning had gone well enough, though the tension between them had been thick enough to cut with a knife.
“Blast, where is my pen?” he grumbled, shifting a pile of old letters. The top one floated free and fell face up on the blotter.
“Hmmph.” John picked it up and made a face. It was the note Lady Loose Screw had sent to Prescott, giving directions to the garden meeting where she had failed to show up.
Thank God that embarrassment has disappeared from my life.
He was about to crumple the paper and toss it in the fire when the looping shape of an “S” caught his eye. A closer look, a quick comparison of the two examples of penmanship—and then, all at once, he felt his stomach tighten and twist into a knot.
“S” for her secrets.
“S” for his stupidity.
Balling a fist, John slammed it against the desktop, once, twice…
And then a third time.
Punctuating the last thwock with a fierce oath, he leaned back and rubbed his bruised knuckles. If ever he needed a reminder that reason ought to rule his life…
“Be damned with reason!” he roared.
Abandoning any pretense of cool, calm command, John rose and grabbed up his coat. “She bloody well owes me an explanation.”
He shouldered open the study door and marched across the entrance hall, his boots beating a staccato tattoo on black and while marble tiles.
Chess—they reminded him of chess and their first encounter, where Olivia had blithely referred to chess as a metaphor for war.
“Oh, you want to cross swords, Miss Sloane?” John muttered, his mood growing more dangerous by the moment. “Well, be advised that you shall get your wish.”