by Candace Camp
Oliver was standing at the foot of the stairs, waiting for her, and she saw the slight, appreciative widening of his eyes as she walked down the steps. She smiled, drawing on her gloves as she came.
“You must be a man of great faith not to sit down in the drawing room to wait for me. Everyone will tell you I am rarely on time.”
He smiled back at her, coming forward to give her his hand down the last two steps. “Ah, but we are going somewhere you are eager to visit. That makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”
Vivian saw no point in telling him that the difference was that she was eager to see him. She was aware of an urge to reach out and caress his cheek, but that was unthinkable with the footman standing by the door, waiting to open it for them. Instead she turned to the mirror and put on her hat, taking an extra moment to tie the bow and let her emotions settle. Then she slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his arm, and though it was a poor substitute for caressing his face, it made her heart beat a little faster anyway.
Outside, Oliver took her hand to help her up into the carriage, and his hand lingered on hers longer than was necessary—just as it had when he’d reached out to her on the stairs earlier. He was, she thought, as eager to touch her as she had been to touch him. The desire that simmered not far below the surface turned such courtesies into a titillating taste of the full repast they wanted—and aroused that hunger more than it fed it.
Vivian settled into the carriage, and Oliver took the seat across from her. The look in his eyes was enough to take her breath away. She wondered what would happen if she moved across the carriage and sat beside him. Would he pull her into his arms and kiss her? She imagined him knocking her bonnet askew, sinking his hands into her hair, his mouth taking hers deeply, hungrily . . .
Oliver cleared his throat and turned his head to look out the window, shifting slightly in his seat. “Um . . . I received a report from the Bow Street Runner this morning.”
“Indeed?” Vivian had little interest at the moment in the Runner or the jewel thief, but she tried to turn her thoughts along that path. “Has he discovered something?”
“Possibly. He told me when I hired him that he was aware of the number of thefts lately. His suspicion was that it was the work of a ring of thieves. He has been looking into it the past few days, and he’s convinced that it is indeed more than one thief who is operating in the city.”
“So he is looking for several men?”
“Yes, but he also believes that there is one man in charge—guiding their operations, supplying the thieves with information, targeting the victims. Unfortunately, he has not been able to come up with even a whisper of the identity of the leader, and without that, it is of little use to capture some of the thieves who are doing the legwork. The operation will continue with other people.”
“What does he intend to do?”
“He thinks that the ring is operating out of a particular tavern.”
“Not a gambling club?”
“No. A tavern with a much less savory reputation than the club we went to. Of course, that does not exclude the possibility of one or more of the thieves operating out of gambling dens. Or even the possibility of our friend Mr. O’Neal being the leader of the ring. He would not want to connect his business to the thefts.”
“What is the name of the tavern?”
“The Dancing Bear. The Runner went there, but he was unable to learn anything of value. It seems that he has become too well-known to the criminal community to pass undetected.”
“Ah.” Vivian’s eyes sparkled.
“No,” Oliver said quickly.
“You haven’t even heard what I was going to say,” Vivian protested.
“I didn’t need to hear it. I knew from the look in your eyes that you were about to suggest something wild and totally improper, like going to that tavern yourself.”
“Why, Oliver, what a wonderful idea!”
He grimaced. “Please. Don’t pretend that I was the one who came up with it.”
“I would not deny that the thought occurred to me, as it did to you. I think it goes to show that our minds must run alike.” Vivian let out a little laugh. “You needn’t look so horrified.”
“Vivian, be serious for once. You cannot go to the tavern. It’s impossible. The place isn’t fit for anyone, let alone a lady. It is, quite literally if Mr. Furness is correct, a den of thieves. And, I am sure, a number of other equally unsavory characters.”
“I won’t go there as a lady. I shall wear a disguise. I’ll dress as a man.”
“Don’t be absurd. No one would believe you are a man.”
She looked thoughtful. “Then perhaps I should dress as a lady of the evening.”
“What!” He straightened, his eyes bulging so comically that Vivian burst into laughter. “Vivian! My God! You can’t be serious! Have you run mad?”
“No. I’m sorry.” Vivian reached out to pat his arm. “Poor Oliver. I should not tease you that way. I will not dress up like Haymarket ware.” She let out a little sigh. “Though I must admit, it would be rather fun.”
“It would not be fun,” he told her firmly.
“Just dressing that way, I mean.” She cast him a teasing glance. “Would you not enjoy it if I dressed that way?”
“No.” But the sudden heat that flared in his eyes belied his denial.
Vivian leaned forward, a provocative smile curving up her lips. “Really? I think you’re lying. What if I had come down the stairs today wearing, let’s see . . . a bright red gown, taffeta, I think, because it would rustle so nicely when I walked, with the neck cut down to here.” She drew a fingernail slowly in a line across the bosom of her dress, watching Oliver’s eyes following the movement. “What would you have done?”
His eyes glittered, but he said only, “I’d have sent you straight back upstairs to change.”
“Would you?” Her laugh was low and throaty. “I think you’d have followed me up there.”
“Perhaps I would have.” His mouth softened sensually. “To make sure.”
“Of course.” The look on his face set up a heated thrumming deep in her abdomen. She could feel her insides softening, like wax in the afternoon sun, opening, yearning. “I would want you to make sure.”
“Vivian . . . you are starting something we cannot finish.”
“No? But it’s fun, isn’t it? Just to talk?”
“It would be a great deal more fun to do more than talk.”
Vivian grinned, leaning forward. “You mean here? Now?”
Flames leapt up in his eyes. His fingers curled around the edges of the seat as he stared at her. It was so quiet she could hear the rasp of his breath in his throat. It took them both another moment to realize that the silence meant that the carriage had halted.
“We’re here,” Vivian said weakly, and turned to look out the window. Her man of business trotted down the steps of the house and made for the carriage. Across from her, Oliver bit back an oath.
“My lady!” Mr. Barnes opened the carriage door, bowing to her. “It is an honor. So good of you to come personally to see the house.”
“I could hardly expect you to bring it to me, now, could I?” Vivian gave the man her hand and stepped out of the carriage.
Oliver followed, giving a businesslike nod as Vivian introduced him to the agent. Mr. Barnes bowed and assured Stewkesbury that he was honored to meet him. Vivian could see the trace of curiosity on the man’s face, much as he strove to conceal it with polite blankness. Her man of business was aware, of course, how rarely Vivian needed anyone’s advice. Barnes would be bound to wonder why she suddenly needed Stewkesbury’s counsel.
Of course, she didn’t need it, she knew. It was just that . . . well, it was more enjoyable to have Oliver with her. And she could not help but feel that the house was bound up in him. She had first broached the subject to him as much as a jest as anything. Now it had become something that she wanted because of him, where she could have the freedom to be w
ith him.
Vivian studied the narrow three-story house of white stone. Far smaller than Carlyle Hall, it had none of that manor’s grandeur, but its address was excellent, and the trim, graceful lines appealed to Vivian. Most of all, the house would require few staff, and she could live alone there with only her quiet and obliging cousin as chaperone. There would be no father, no brother, no servants who had known her from childhood.
Mr. Barnes showed them through the house, though he would have skipped the cellar, kitchen, and servants’ quarters had Vivian not insisted upon examining them. Oliver followed Vivian, saying little, and though she glanced back at him now and then, she could tell nothing from his expression. She had trouble concentrating on the house and her business agent’s words. She was too aware of Oliver behind her and of the low hum of arousal vibrating through her. Walking through the bedchambers on the second floor was curiously intimate. Even though there was no furniture, it was easy to imagine the beds. It was difficult, in fact, not to picture a bed dominating each room.
She could not glance around the large front bedroom, considering it for her own chamber, without thinking of Oliver there . . . kissing her, touching her, lying with her throughout the night. A shiver ran through her, and she cast a quick look back at Oliver, wondering if he had seen it. She found his gray eyes on her, and she could not help but wonder if he was thinking the same things she was.
Vivian turned toward Mr. Barnes and gave him a politely dismissive smile and nod. “Thank you, Barnes. I will let you know what I think. But right now I would like to walk through the house again by myself. Just to make sure how I feel about it.”
“Of course, my lady.” If her statement surprised him, he covered it well, bowing in acquiescence. His gaze did not even flicker toward Oliver. “I shall wait for you downstairs, then.”
“No, please, don’t bother. I’ll take the key and send it round to you later.”
“Of course.” Barnes handed her the key, bowed, and murmured a good-bye.
Vivian wandered over to the window, gazing out at the houses along the street. Barnes’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, followed by the sound of a door closing. She watched for a moment as Barnes strode off down the street. Turning to Oliver, she untied her bonnet and set it aside on the window seat.
“Well?” she asked, strolling toward him. “What do you think of it?”
“It is a pleasant house.” Oliver moved forward, stopping a few feet from her. “Though it hardly seems a grand enough stage for you.”
“You think I require something magnificent?”
“It matches you more nearly.” He came closer. “As your jewels do.” He reached out and lightly touched the gold-and-amber earring that dangled from her ear. His hand dropped down to graze the puffed upper sleeve of her dress as he went on, “Your clothes.”
Vivian’s pulse throbbed in her throat. She was intensely aware of his hand on her arm, the weight and warmth. “This house is practical.”
“That alone should tell you it doesn’t suit you.” Oliver smiled. His hand remained on her arm, but curved gently around it.
“It will suit my purposes.” Vivian moved in closer to him and grasped the lapels of his jacket, tilting her head back to look up at him.
He swallowed. “We should not be here like this. You should not have told Barnes to leave.”
“I wanted him to leave.”
“What if he gossips? He knows the two of us are in here alone together.”
“He knows better than to gossip about me or my business. He wouldn’t handle my money if he did.”
“I should have stepped outside with him. Let you look at the house alone.”
A dimple winked in Vivian’s cheek as she smiled flirtatiously. “But if you had done that, how could I do this?”
She went up on tiptoe and kissed him. Stewkesbury froze for an instant, too startled by her action, too stunned by the raw lust sweeping through him, to even move. Then his arms wrapped around her, crushing her body into his, and he kissed her, his mouth hot and hungry, devouring hers. Vivian clung to him, passion rushing up in her like a wave. The kiss was intoxicating. Consuming. Addictive. She pressed against him, wanting more. Wanting it now.
It didn’t matter that her businessman and the coachman knew she was in here alone. It didn’t matter that Barnes could turn back to ask her something or that her servant might take it into his head to come looking for her. The front door was unlocked. She was tempting fate. But Vivian could not bring herself to care. All she could think of right now was Oliver and the desire that pulsed through her body, hot and driving.
“We shouldn’t. This is madness,” Oliver murmured as he kissed his way down the column of her throat.
The front of her dress was fastened in large brass buttons, and he undid them, his fingers clumsy with haste. He slipped his hand inside her dress and beneath her chemise, curling around her breast. His lips moved down over the white expanse of her chest and onto the soft tops of her breasts. Vivian sucked in her breath, her hands coming up to dig into his hair. Her fingers clenched as his mouth found the hard, pointing center of her nipple.
Her head fell back, her breath coming in short, hard pants as he teased at her nipple, using lips and teeth and tongue, arousing her in sharp, hard bursts of pleasure. One of his arms was hard around her back, holding her up, and with the other hand he grasped her skirt, clenching and unclenching to work it up her leg. At last his fingers touched the silk of her stocking. His breath shuddered out, and he raised his head to take her mouth in another deep, possessive kiss.
His fingers trailed up over her stocking, their heat searing her though the filmy material, and skimmed over the garter that held the stocking. He slid his hand higher onto her bare flesh, then stopped abruptly. Raising his head, he stared down into her face, astonishment mingling with fierce arousal.
“You’re not wearing anything beneath—?” His voice rasped to a halt, as if he could get out nothing else.
Vivian shook her head, her eyes gleaming with seductive mischief. “I thought it would be easier that way.”
“You planned this?” His eyes widened.
She smiled slowly. “I thought I should be open to the possibility.”
His face flushed, and his hand was suddenly fiery against her skin. Slowly, deliberately, not moving his gaze from her face, he slid his hand up her leg. Curving it around her hip and onto the swell of her buttocks, he caressed her naked flesh. Moving his hand downward, he slipped it between her legs, moving them apart. Then he circled back over her hip and onto the plain of her stomach, gliding downward in slow, teasing increments.
Vivian’s breath was ragged in her throat, and everything in her was afire. She could feel the dampness pooling between her legs, the throbbing ache that blossomed there. His fingers found her, and she shuddered as he separated the slick folds of flesh, exploring, teasing, sending bright cords of longing deep into her.
He watched her, his eyes bright with hunger, hard with purpose, as his fingers moved, gentle and insistent, stoking her pleasure. He saw desire flicker across her face, heightened with every movement of his hand. He watched it build and gather, pushing her ever higher onto that taut, high peak until she was poised, trembling, above the precipice. He saw her slide over that edge, shuddering with the intensity of her passion.
He bent then and took her mouth with his, drinking in her pleasure, her need. Vivian flung her arms around his neck, straining up against him, and he lifted her, his hands digging into her buttocks. Wrapping her legs around him, she pressed herself against him, longing to feel him inside her, filling her, losing himself in her.
Oliver moved forward blindly, unwilling to release her or move his mouth from hers, and they came up hard against a wall. Bracing her against it, he unbuttoned his breeches and shifted, and Vivian could feel him, hard and prodding, against the most intimate part of her. She moved, taking him into her, and he thrust deep inside. A thin exhalation of satisfaction escaped her, an
d she arched back against the wall, moving with him in a deep, primal rhythm as he drove into her again and again. She could feel the storm building in her all over again. Everything about the moment was almost unbearably arousing—the low guttural noise he made as he buried his face in her neck, the heated scent of him, the touch of his lips upon her sensitive skin, the spice of recklessness, even the feel of his jacket beneath her hands, reminding her that they were both still clothed.
He plunged deep inside her, shuddering in a paroxysm of pleasure, and Vivian let out a choked cry as she, too, hurtled into that deep abyss.
They remained that way for a long moment, too stunned and depleted to move or speak. Oliver kissed her neck gently and breathed out her name. Finally he moved, letting her slide back down to put her feet on the floor, but still he stood curved around her for another long moment. Then he turned away, adjusting his clothing as he gave her time to set herself to rights. Vivian felt far too languid to move, but she made herself shake out her skirts and rebutton her bodice.
Oliver turned back to her. His face was still loose and warm with pleasure, but gravity was returning to his eyes. He shook his head. “God, just looking at you—” He looked away, setting his jaw. “You must be mad to take such risks. Someone could have walked in on us at any moment.”
“I am not the only one who took the risk. I have never done such a thing before, so if I am mad, it is clearly you who has made me that way.” Vivian gave him her provocative little smile and started to walk away.
He followed her, grabbing her arm and pulling her back around. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to him and holding her tightly.
Vivian let out a little laugh, startled. “Oliver! Surely you cannot want me again already.”
“I want you all the time.” His voice was thick. “Dear God, I am the one who is mad. I cannot keep from thinking about you. Remembering your smile, your laugh, the way you cast that sideways glance at me that leaves me feeling I am either a fool or a king.”
Vivian chuckled again, warmed by his words, and she wrapped her arms around him, nestling into his chest. “Perhaps you are both.”