by Cara Elliott
“It’s perfect,” said Olivia.
“Nothing’s perfect, he said wryly.
A wink of emerald flashed over the amber hues. “You are,” she whispered.
The words were too muddled by the cracking coals in the hearth for him to be sure of what she had just said. Too cowardly to ask her to repeat them, John slipped into one of the facing chairs.
“Shall we give them a baptism of fire, so to speak?”
Olivia took the other seat. John had chosen to play the amber side, and as he squared the pawns into precise military alignment, she ran a fingertip along the contours of her ivory queen. Black and white, dark and light. And yet, like life, the essence of the game was rarely defined in such starkly simple terms.
Chess is so bloody complicated, Caro had once complained.
“Your move,” murmured John.
Choosing a safe opening sortie, she nudged a pawn forward.
“What, no bold moves, no unexpected attacks?” he murmured.
The gentle teasing stirred the echo of Caro’s admonition. Sometimes you must take a risk to make a wish come true. Did she dare play with her heart and not her head?
As John contemplated his response, Olivia watched his hands hovering over his pieces, the sun-bronzed fingers seeming to capture the sparks of light reflected up from the faceted amber. Capable, caring—now more than ever, she was aware of their strength, their grace, their gentleness.
Tears suddenly welled up against her lids. Oh, how she would miss his touch. The idea that she might never again feel him holding her was unbearably awful.
Ducking her head, Olivia drew in a steadying breath, feeling her courage flag, despite all the words of encouragement from her sisters. Perhaps it was better to feign indifference rather than risk outright rejection.
Or, even worse than rejection, she feared any hint that she was regretting her earlier refusal might result in an offer merely based on his sense of honorable obligation.
She didn’t want his pity. She wanted his love.
There was a bond between them, to be sure. Camaraderie, perhaps, or something even deeper, twined in their shared passion for words—but he had never said “love” aloud.
Unsure of herself, Olivia maintained a stoic silence.
John shifted, and she sensed him watching her through the undulating flicker of the candle flame. The light danced over the opposing armies and his tapered fingers as he made his move.
She countered without uttering a word.
On they played, no sounds between them save for the faint click of the ivory and amber against the checkered tiles. One by one, the soldiers surrendered to the subtle play of attack and counterattack until there were only a few pieces left on the board.
“It appears we have a stalemate,” said John finally, after surveying the positions.
“So it does.” She reached out to shift her king back to its staring square but all of a sudden his fingers encircled her wrist.
“A moment, Olivia.”
“W-we must not indulge in such intimacies as given names anymore, Wrexham.”
“Why not?” he pressed.
Because. The warmth of him against her skin sent a shuddering pulse of need spiraling to the most intimate spot of all. “Because.”
“Because isn’t an answer,” said John. “It is a shield.”
Then why do I feel so achingly vulnerable?
“You’ve allowed me to share your passions—your words, your ideas, your sensuality,” he pressed. “But as to your true feelings, those you keep well guarded.”
Olivia found her tongue too tied in knots to answer.
“What is it you fear? The chance that you might be hurt again by love?”
“I wasn’t in love.” Somehow, she managed to maintain some semblance of steadiness to her voice. “I was infatuated. There is a big difference.”
“True,” agreed John. He released his grip, and the sudden curl of chill air against her skin stirred a pebbling of gooseflesh. “Are you in love now?”
“I—I thought the game of thrust and parry was over.”
John leaned in, a glitter she had never seen before lightening his brown eyes to swirling shades of molten amber. Olivia felt a little like one of the primordial flies that could often be seen, trapped for eternity, within the ancient resin.
“There are still a few moves left to be played.” His palm slowly slid up her forearm.
“That’s cheating,” she rasped. “None of the chess pieces are allowed to move in such a way.”
His laugh was low and husky. “I’ve made up a new variation. In this match, the goal is to checkmate the queen. And the pawns…” He tickled his fingers over the crook of her elbow and up to her shoulder “…are allowed to move in a less regimented direction than straight or diagonal lines.”
“Wrexham—”
“John,” he corrected. His hand was now lightly twined in her hair. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“No wonder you have a sackful of medals for prowess on the battle field,” said Olivia, trying not to inhale the spicy essence of his scent. “You are utterly relentless—and ruthless—in your attack.”
“Am I?” Rising, he pulled her up out of her chair and drew her close. So close that she could feel the beat of his heart stir the hair’s breadth of air between them. “In this particular campaign, I feel I’ve been utterly inept.”
“You,” she whispered, “could never be called inept.”
“Yet I’ve done nothing but trip over my boots in my attempt to cut through the opposing army and capture my queen.”
The tickle of his warm breath on her cheek stirred a lick of need between her legs. “I’m not a queen. I’m an idiot.” A rueful grimace tugged at her mouth. “A cretin, a—”
His lips silenced the litany.
She held herself very still, all thoughts given way to simply savoring his taste, his feel, his scent.
John.
JOHN.
His essence had her dizzy with longing—had she said his name aloud? She was only dimly aware of a sound slipping free as she opened herself to his kiss.
An answering growl reverberated in his throat as their tongues touched and twined in a dancing, delving lover’s embrace. There was nothing gentlemanly about John’s response—the rumble of raw, masculine need sent shivers skating up and down her spine.
“Marry me, Olivia.” It wasn’t a request, it was a demand.
Olivia felt as if every bone in her body had suddenly puddled into a pool of liquid desire. Clutching at the broad slope of his shoulders, she leaned in against his length, acutely aware of solid, chiseled muscle and aroused male.
His mouth broke free and was now tracing a hot, wet trail along the line of her jaw. “Marry me,” he repeated.
“But…” But I hardly dare hope for such joy. “…But I’ll never be a conventional countess,” she cautioned.
“Which makes you the perfect countess for me.” John slowly slid his hands up to frame her face, the touch of his palms deliciously warm against her skin. “I’ve no intention of being an indolent earl who fritters away my existence in frivolous pleasures and drunken debaucheries. I want to use what talents I have to serve a higher good.”
Good. At heart, he was such a good man.
“Admit it, Olivia, we match up well,” he went on. “Like chess, our life together will play out in infinitely intriguing variations of two equals challenging each other, inspiring each other.” He pressed a light kiss to the tip of her nose. “I love your intelligence, I love your passions.” For an instant, his eyes darkened with a swirl of primal lust. “And I love your body.”
That look make her hot all over. “I won’t temper my tongue, you know.”
“Did I neglect to mention that I love your tongue?
“Even if I shock you at some times?” she asked, thinking back to their first smoke-shrouded encounter.
“I should be greatly disappointed if you didn’t.” His smile turned
a little crooked. “One should never become complacent, and you shall…” His mouth quirked. “…How did Cecilia phrase it?—rattle my cage enough to keep me from becoming too self-satisfied.”
Olivia felt her throat tighten. It was oh-so tempting. But despite all his eloquence, she still hadn’t heard the one sentiment she yearned for.
“It seems that a number of my physical and mental attributes meet with your approval. But…”
“Ah.” John’s eyes took on a more intense glitter. “But the sum of the parts does not quite equal your expectations?”
“I’m not overly interested in mathematics,” she mumbled.
“No, of course not. Language is your field of expertise. And you wish to hear me express my feelings in proper English.”
“That would be nice,” responded Olivia.
“Nice?” One of his divinely deft hands closed over her right breast, and through the layers of silk and cotton, his thumb found the sensitive nubbin and began slow, sensual stroking.
“More than nice,” she gasped as the air slowly leached from her lungs.
“Ah. Does that mean if I do this”—her left was suddenly afire—“it would be twice as nice?”
“You do have a way with words,” she replied, arching into his touch.
“I’ve a good deal more to say on the subject,” he murmured, his voice growing a little ragged, as if he had imbibed a bottle of brandy in one gulp. “However, I think for now I shall keep it short and simple.”
No, no, no. She wanted it to go on forever.
“I love you, Olivia,” said John.
She met his gaze and in that instant, she knew it was true. His dark eyes were alight with molten fire.
Joy swelled inside her until she feared she might burst apart into a thousand little pieces.
“Have I rendered The Beacon speechless?”
“I’m not The Beacon with you,” she said. “No fancy rhetoric, no fiery monikers—I am just Olivia.
“Who is, my love, wondrous beyond words.”
Olivia let out a squeak, but only because he suddenly spun her around and thrust her up against one of the carved bookshelves lining the alcove.
“I don’t think—” she began.
“That’s right. Don’t think.” He nudged his knee between her legs. “Just feel.”
She gasped as John propped a booted foot on the acanthus leaf rail, lifting her off the parquet floor in a frothing of skirts. She was now sitting astride his thigh, with the heat of him pressing against her most feminine spot. His hard possessive kiss rocked her back. Her own eager response slid her forward.
Oh. Oh. Oh. The sensations pulsing through her body were unbearably wonderful.
He laughed, a low, rough-edged rumble redolent of smoke and shared secrets. A wicked gleam danced in his eyes.
Looking down, Olivia saw her skirts were now ruched up over her knees.
“We shouldn’t—we mustn’t—be doing this,” she protested feebly. “It’s against every rule of civilized behavior.”
“To the Devil with rules. From the very beginning there has been nothing remotely conventional about our relationship. Why change now?”
Why, indeed?
John’s kisses now seemed to be everywhere at once—on her jaw, on her throat, on the “V” of flesh dipping down between her breasts. “There is something to be said for giving in to primal urges from time to time.”
Hitching closer, she found the fastenings of his shirt and slipped her hand inside, her fingers slowly tickling through the course curls peppering his chest. She heard his breath catch in his throat and smiled. That she could bring such a look of desire to his face was as heady as drinking a goblet of the finest champagne.
Excitement bubbled through her blood.
He nipped her earlobe. “You make me want to cast caution and common sense to the wind. It’s…”
“Exquisitely exciting,” she murmured. “Enticingly erotic.” She paused for breath reveling in the male textures of his body. “But that may be because I’m not thinking very clearly.”
“Yes, I’m finding it hard to think, too. Especially when I am touching you here.” A rustle of silk. “And here.”
Olivia was finding it difficult too. Pleasure was pulsing through her veins, tingling over her skin, hazing her brain. “This,” she heard herself say, “is really very naughty of us.” Her lips found his again. “Your sister would be shocked if she knew.”
A whisper of mirth quivered against her mouth. “I have an inkling my sister knows exactly what is going on in here. And heartily approves. So…” A delicious warmth was now sliding up the inside of her thighs. “…Don’t stop what you are doing.”
“Oh, well, in that case…” Emboldened by the note of need in John’s voice, Olivia let her hands rove from the slabbed planes of his chest down over his ribs and around to the long, lean line of muscles surrounding his spine. She wanted to know every fiber and sinew, every subtle shape and contour of his beautiful body and how they responded to her.
“I love touching you,” she confided.
Love. Strange how love could transcend mere words. Never, ever had she dreamed of finding a man with whom she felt so elementally entangled in mind, in body, in spirit.
“And I you.” John’s demonstration snapped her out of her reveries. “Which reminds me—you haven’t said yes yet.”
“Haven’t I?”
“Definitely not. I would remember it.”
She traced a fingertip along his jaw. “How do you spell ‘yes’?”
“You don’t spell it,” he growled. “You feel it. Here, and here.”
She let out a little purr.
“And here.”
The sound was now more of a moan. “That’s very wicked.” And very wonderful. “I—I think you had better stop, before our tentative tip-toeing down the Road to Perdition turns into a runaway gallop.”
“Then say it,” demanded John.
Deciding that her teasing had gone on long enough, Olivia hitched closer and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Yes.”
“Louder.”
“Ye gods, if you are going to revert to being the Perfect Military Officer and bellow orders at me, I may have to reconsider.”
“It wasn’t precisely an order.” He smiled. “It was more of a request.”
“Well, in that case…” A resounding “yes” filled the alcove, its echo mellowed by the carved wood and leather bindings.
“Excellent. That means we—”
A much louder sound suddenly intruded on their intimate interlude.
Rap, rap. It came again. “John? John? That’s enough chess for one evening. It’s time to return to the drawing room. Henry has brought up a special bottle of port from the cellar.”
John let out a martyred sigh. “You know, much as I adore my sister, she has an unfortunate habit of interrupting us just when things are getting interesting.”
“And Scottie and Lucy are eager to join in the celebration,” added Cecilia. “Cook has made them a pitcher of festive fruit punch.”
He eased Olivia down off his knee and helped her fluff her skirts back into place. “But I suppose in this case we had better bow to convention and put off our wild urges until later.”
The loss of his big, warm body drew an exhale from Olivia as well. “True. I imagine that by this time Cecilia and Henry are wondering what sort of game we are playing in here.”
He chuckled. “No they’re not.”
She straightened his collar and retied his cravat. “I hope they won’t mind having the Hellion of High Street as part of their family.”
“I think they are nearly as happy as I am.” He blew out another breath. “Speaking of which, three weeks of reading the banns of marriage is a deucedly long time to wait before we can become man and wife. However, much as I would prefer to obtain a special license and have the ceremony tomorrow, it’s probably best to be patient, so as not to stir any whispers of scandal in Society.”
&n
bsp; “My sisters would find it highly romantic if we were to do something shockingly scandalous,” said Olivia dryly. “However, my mother would not. And seeing as she’s suffered enough worry on my account, I ought to allow her to enjoy the moment she thought would never come.”
Flashing a roguish grin, John drew a slim book out from one of the bookshelves. “I shall present her with this gift when I pay her a formal engagement visit.” He angled the gilt-stamped title into the candlelight.
All’s Well That Ends Well.
A spark of joy, sweeter than summer sunlight, lit inside her. She still had her secrets, but the shadows were gone. “I couldn’t have penned a better summation myself.”
“And now, my love, let us go announce our betrothal.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Huzzah!” exclaimed Prescott on hearing the happy news. His voice rose in excitement, along with his glass of punch. “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!”
John refrained from remarking on the berry-red slosh of liquid that was now dribbling down his son’s shirtfront. Olivia wouldn’t bat an eye at strawberry jam in the hair or a frog in the pocket. The thought made him smile.
“Yes, huzzah,” added Lucy after a tiny hesitation. “I admit that you were right, Scottie, and I was wrong. Writing the letter was an excellent idea.”
“Thank you, Lucy,” murmured Olivia.
“You are welcome, Miss Sloane,” replied the little girl with equal formality. “Will you show me how to shoot with a sling?”
“We had to return Lord Davenport’s weapon, but I daresay we can contrive to make something similar on our own. And the back lawns of Wrexham Manor offer all sorts of interesting objects for target practice.”
“Huzzah!” chorused Lucy.
“I told you that taking pen in hand was worth the risk of getting a birching from Wilkins the Wasp,” said Prescott rather smugly.
“A knack for putting words on paper seems to run in the family,” said John quickly before Lucy could retort. He winked at Olivia. “It seems we owe a debt of gratitude to Mr. Hurley’s newspaper for bringing us together. I shall be sure to send him a case of champagne from Berry Brothers.”