by Isobel Carr
“I thought a bit of air would do her good,” Henry said as he handed her muff to a waiting footman and shrugged out of his greatcoat. His intention to put Devere in his place was unmistakable. “And as you can see, I was right.”
Livy bit back a groan. Devere’s gaze slid past her and settled on Henry. Devere’s eyes glinted with sudden amusement, but his smile had a hard edge to it. He was clearly relishing the opportunity to take his annoyance out on someone, even if it wasn’t her.
Devere circled behind her, quiet, waiting, towering over Henry. In response, Henry pulled himself up to his full height, which was still a good four to five inches less than Devere’s. Livy stifled an unkind giggle. Poor Henry was like a bantam facing off with a fighting cock. Or like Apollo standing beside Ares. Fair, handsome, romantic, but utterly eclipsed.
“So, Mr. Carlow,” Devere said, his tone lazy and dismissive, designed to enrage, “you’ve adopted the role of nursemaid? Will we see you in skirts soon, like an actor ready for a production of Romeo and Juliet?”
Henry sputtered, his response nearly choking him. His face turned an unbecoming shade of puce and his eyes bulged. Livy took Devere by the arm and propelled him into the drawing room. He came along without the slightest protest, merely quizzing her with dark, dancing eyes that invited her to join the fun.
“Stop,” she hissed under her breath. “My cousin was merely—bah! You’re at my beck and call for the Season, not the other way round. So you’d best swallow your pride and learn to run in harness.”
For a moment, she thought she’d gone too far, but then Devere burst into laughter. He bowed before her, leg extended and hat sweeping the floor. “Yes, my queen.”
CHAPTER 12
Mare tails were all that was left of the morning cloud cover by the time Roland spied Lady Olivia descending the Westminster Bridge stairs. He’d been on his family’s shallop since first light, making sure everything was ready for the race and their day on the Thames.
A loud and raucous crowd had formed on and above the steps and stretched along the Thames for as far as Roland could see. And though the race was due to start shortly, the royal barge had yet to arrive. Until the king was there to see them all off, nothing could happen.
Margo waved cheerfully as Arlington shouldered his way through the throng and helped Olivia into one of the waiting wherries. Roland nodded back at his sister, unsurprised to see that she’d accompanied the earl to see his daughter off. Gossip had already begun to swirl about the two of them, as it was wont to do whenever Margo set up a new flirt. The fact that she was barely six months into her mourning period only added fuel to the fire. And the fact that his own name was being linked with that of Arlington’s daughter added just the right touch of scandal.
The earl gave the small boat a push with his foot to help it move clear from the steps, and the waterman heaved mightily against the current as he rowed Olivia out to the Moubray shallop.
When Roland glanced up from the swiftly approaching wherry, Margo and Arlington had already disappeared from sight. The calls of street hawkers offering hot meat pies and nosegays and gin punctured the dull murmur of the crowd and mingled with the music floating over the Thames from a large barge anchored some distance away. The Duke of Devonshire had hired it so that he and his friends might enjoy following the race and arrive at the festivities at Ranelagh without the inconveniences of traveling there by coach. Inconveniences Roland rather suspected his sister was looking forward to.
As the wherry approached, Olivia looked rather as if she were being rowed to the Tower for an appointment with the executioner: chin up, back stiff, hands folded in her lap, one clutching the other. The breeze kicked up, pulling hard at her cloak, and Olivia snatched at it, dragging it down and wrapping it securely around her.
She met his gaze across the water, and her eyes appeared to widen with apprehension. As well they should. They’d left the battle only half fought the day before, interrupted by Henry and the arrival of tea and a plate of warm-from-the-oven rout cakes.
Roland smiled back at Olivia, well aware that she’d already learned to mistrust what others might interpret as a friendly gesture. She wasn’t stupid. In fact, she was proving to be an entertaining and skilled combatant. Just when he thought capitulation was at hand, she’d slip from his grasp. When he expected apologies or excuses, she went on the attack.
She was more than merely intriguing. She was a worthy opponent, which made her something dangerously close to fascinating.
The waterman’s wherry bumped up against the side of the shallop, and Roland stepped forward to assist Olivia as she attempted the dangerous crossing from one boat to the other. She put her hands up, her cloak flapping out behind her like a set of wings. The wherry rocked as Roland half lifted her into the shallop, and the waterman grinned at the flash of legs and the tangle of skirts. A cheer went up from the Devonshire barge as Roland set her on her feet and gave them all a bow.
One of Roland’s oarsmen gave the wherry a shove with his oar, setting it spinning away. Devere tossed the retreating waterman a coin. The man snatched it from the air with one hand, barely missing a stroke.
The shallop swayed slightly as he stepped back from Olivia. She threw out one hand for balance and looked wildly about.
“Never been on a shallop?” Roland led her carefully toward the low canopy erected between the coxswain’s position and the oarsmen’s benches.
Olivia shook her head and ducked under the rippling fabric, taking her hand from his as she did so. She lifted her petticoats as she stepped inside and settled down among the pillows he’d piled deep all around the inside of the small structure. Roland had gone to great lengths to see that Olivia would travel ensconced in comfort.
“No,” she said as she unclasped her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders. “I’ve only ever ridden on some of the larger pleasure barges, such as the one the Devonshires are on today.”
“There aren’t too many families that still maintain shallops.” Roland looped one arm over the finial of a support post and studied their competition. “Seems like there’s fewer every year. When I was a boy, there must have been fifty or sixty of them out here for the race. Last year there were only twenty-two. Today I count only seventeen. Eighteen, including ours.”
The river seemed almost empty compared to what he remembered when he was a boy, though the shallops and barges were no less beautiful today than they had been then. Brightly painted, some with gilded details, almost all with colorful canopies and a crew of liveried oarsmen, the shallops were something special, something utterly different from the mean wherries of the watermen and the large pleasure barges such as the king used. They were a gentleman’s conveyance. London’s answer to the gondolas of Venice.
“So your family’s seat is on the water?” Olivia said, leaning forward so she could see his face, giving him a rather expansive show of bosom as she did so.
Roland nodded, dragging his attention from Olivia’s charms to the wider view of the river. “It’s up near Syon Park.” He sucked in a lungful of brackish air. Today was one of his favorite days of the year, and this rendition of the traditional race between the families owning estates along the Thames was set to be particularly memorable. He’d have Olivia alone for the better part of the afternoon. Well, as alone as you could be on an open boat with a crew of nine. “Too far to comfortably use as a base when Parliament is in session but close enough for country house parties to be a reasonable part of entertaining during the Season. In fact, my grandmother’s—” Roland broke off as the sound of trumpets announced the arrival of the king. No doubt Margo would see to it that Olivia and her father were invited to the house party his parents were planning for the next Parliamentary recess.
The music on the Devonshires’ pleasure barge likewise came to an abrupt halt and all heads turned to watch the royal barge as it moved ponderously up the river. King George looked a bit hipped, but the queen was wreathed in smiles. She nodded to Roland as the M
oubray shallop bobbed unsteadily in the wake left by the larger boat’s passing. Roland bowed in return, feet braced carefully to keep himself upright.
“What happens next?” Olivia asked sotto voce as she leaned past him so she could see the royal barge.
“The king will give a short speech, and then at his signal, we’ll be off. I need to stand at the bow and appear attentive. You’re welcome to join me.”
Olivia responded with a wide, open smile that somehow felt like a caress. Roland helped her to her feet and carefully shepherded her up the narrow walkway, past the oarsmen who were busy keeping them from drifting, to the small, open area at the shallop’s bow.
She gripped the rail, giving him her back. The breeze lifted her hair, sending curls tumbling about her shoulders. Roland tugged on one, wrapping it about his finger. In the sunlight, her hair was nothing short of amazing. Not just blond, but burnished gold, like that of a princess in the fairy tales Margo had read to him when he was young. It blazed, molten, against the blue of her gown and the deep blue-gray of the water. Roland let the curl go and put his hand on Olivia’s waist to steady her. At her sharp intake of breath, something sinful unfurled in his chest.
The crowd on the banks cheered as the king rose from his throne. Snatches of his speech drifted over the water, but most of it was lost to the hubbub on shore and the lapping of the water. Olivia leaned back, pressing against Roland’s chest. His heartbeat lurched, blood flowing past his ears so loudly that he barely heard her as she asked over her shoulder, “Can you hear him?”
“No,” Roland said softly, as all around them oarsmen dropped their long oars into the water in anticipation. “But it’s much the same every year: honor, what-what. A noble race, what-what. Striving against the unconquerable river, what-what. You know how he sounds.”
Olivia laughed softly as she nodded in response and returned her gaze to the king. “Your impression is almost unkind.”
“What’s unkind is half the world adding that dismal punctuation to their own speech. Sycophantic lapdogs.” The last came out with more of a growl than he intended, but the king’s oft-repeated phrase had spread to half the ton and infected every mushroom in England with social ambitions.
Olivia’s head fell forward as she clapped her hand over her mouth, stifling a giggle. Unable to stop himself, Roland dropped a kiss on her exposed nape. She smelled of lemons today. Lemons and the barest hint of rosemary.
She turned to give him a haughty, appraising look. Roland wrinkled his nose at her, refusing to pretend to be chastised or repentant when he was neither, when he had plans to do far worse today than merely kiss her bare neck.
When he finished his proclamation, the king reached into a gilded cage held by one of the young princesses and tossed a small dove into the sky. As the bird darted away, the coxswains’ shouts filled the air and across the river the oarsmen collectively put their backs into the race.
The first few strokes made the boat lurch and shiver as though it might fly apart. Olivia swayed and laughed as she clung to the bulwark. After a moment, the oarsmen found their rhythm and the boat steadied, moving forward with a slightly undulating swiftness.
“Shall we sit?” Roland waved one hand toward the canopy.
Olivia didn’t respond. She simply stood and watched as all around them the shallops jockeyed for position and the coxswains hurtled insults at each other with the same foul talent employed by the fishwives of Billingsgate.
Lord Brownlow watched with narrowed eyes as his shallop pulled past them, chasing the lead boat. He dabbed at his jaw with a large handkerchief before stuffing it up the sleeve of his coat with an impatient gesture. Brownlow had won the last three years in a row, and several times before that. He and his father both had eschewed a place in town in favor of their main estate and made frequent use of the river as they came and went from town. They had, perhaps, the most practiced team on the water.
“My lady?” Roland stepped back from Olivia, and she turned about as though surprised to suddenly find herself unsupported.
“Sorry, yes,” she said, one hand still holding fast to the bulwark while the other attempted to keep her hair out of her eyes. After a moment, she shook her head ruefully and tottered carefully toward the canopy, her petticoats brushing the oarsmen’s elbows when her step occasionally faltered. Roland marched swiftly after her, catching her as she nearly fell.
“No sea legs,” he said, settling her down among the pillows once again.
“You try it in heels and skirts,” she shot back, her brows pinched with indignation.
“Touché.” Roland crouched down and flipped open the hamper he’d had cook prepare and pack for them. “Would you like a glass of wine?” he said as he pulled a bottle of claret from the basket and attacked the wax seal with a penknife.
“By all means.” Olivia arranged herself more comfortably among the pillows and bolsters, draping herself over one of them, one knee drawn up and the other stretched out, the lacquered heel of her shoe glinting in the sunlight.
Roland grinned at her and pulled the cork from the bottle with a satisfying pop. “You look like an odalisque in a seraglio.”
“I was thinking granddame of Venice.”
“Not courtesan?” he said, pouring her a glass of wine and leaning forward on one knee to offer it to her.
“No,” Olivia said with a superior little smirk as she took the glass. “Not courtesan.”
Roland shrugged, filled his own glass, and sprawled out beside her on the carpeted platform. “Courtesan certainly sounds more enticing than granddame, don’t you think?”
Olivia took a sip of wine and sank farther into the pillows. “To a man like you? Certainly.”
“A man like me? You mean one who’s breathing?”
She shook her head, but one side of her mouth was quirked up with amusement. “Very well,” she said after taking another sip. “I look like a courtesan in a gondola in Venice. You do remind me a bit of Casanova.”
“You’ve met Casanova?” Roland slid closer to her as his question hung in the air. He worked his free hand out of its glove and eased it stealthily under the hem of her petticoats.
Olivia, still oblivious to his maneuver, shot him a look brimming with mischief. “When I was very little girl, he came to England. He called himself the Chevalier de Seingalt at the time, but the maids couldn’t help whispering about who he really was. They were giddy with it. I should like to see Venice,” she added with a somewhat mournful sigh.
“Why don’t you?” Roland said as his fingers grazed the back of her knee, trailed over the silk of her stocking, and traced the line of her garter. Olivia’s eyes widened and she nudged him away with her foot.
“Maybe someday I shall,” Olivia said in the same tone one might say maybe someday I’ll see a unicorn.
“No, really?” Roland scooted a tad closer, the movement of his hand on her thigh hidden from the busy oarsmen by her skirts and the pillows and the angle at which they lay. “As you told me yourself, you’re a woman of independent means. You’re of age. There’s nothing to stop you going.”
“I’ve never been farther afield than Yorkshire,” Olivia said. She froze, like a grouse about to take flight, as his hand crept higher, skimming along the silken skin of her inner thigh. “I’ve never even crossed the channel. I wouldn’t know the first thing about orchestrating a trip to Venice.”
“Then you’d certainly end up being taken prisoner by Barbary pirates off Gibraltar and would live out your days in some Mohammedan pasha’s harem.”
“With my luck? Yes.” Olivia glared at him as he grazed her skin with his nails. She drained her cup in one long, decisive draught. “Would you please pour me another glass?”
Roland smiled, thoroughly enjoying her flustered response and the heightened color creeping up her cheeks. “Take mine,” he said as his hand reached the apex of her thighs, and she inhaled sharply.
“They can see us,” she hissed, gesturing with her chin toward the oa
rsmen who were hewing hard to their labor.
“Then best not make a fuss and attract their attention.” Roland took one last sip from his glass and held it out to her. The dark liquid sloshed with the gentle rocking of the boat. “If we were in Venice,” he said, “there’d only be the gondolier, standing where the coxswain is now. Think of the possibilities.”
Olivia took the glass from him and tossed half of it back with a defiant air. “You are not invited to Venice.”
“No? What a shame.” Roland slid his thumb along slick, soft folds. His middle finger found the swollen peak concealed within them and circled slowly. “For I’m quite skillful with the gondoliers.” He pushed his thumb inside her, and Olivia shuddered slightly, her thighs clamping down on his hand. “You might find me useful.”
Olivia took another sip of his wine and stared steadfastly at some distant point out on the water, as though ignoring him would change the location of his hand or her body’s reaction to his touch. She was hot as a furnace and wet as a woodland spring. Bedding her was going to be magnificent.
“I’m not some whore who’ll lift her skirts simply because you desire her to do so,” Olivia said softly, still refusing to look at him.
Roland crooked his finger around her clitoris so that each contraction of his hand milked the tiny bud and pushed his thumb deeper within her. “I’d rather you lifted them because you desire to, because you desire me.”
Olivia took a long, shaky breath, right on the edge of her release. She turned her head to look at him finally, pupils wide, nothing but a ring of aqua left to show their color. “I really should like that drink now,” she said, her voice as wavering and unsteady as the hand that held out his now-empty glass.
“Then tell me outright to stop.”
“Stop.”
Roland obligingly slid his hand away, and Olivia made a small, involuntary sound of protest. Chuckling, Roland reached for the bottle and refilled both their glasses.