by Sara Bennett
“We’re going to Castle Lacey first. You can change your clothing there.”
“Thank you. I am grateful.”
“I’ll wager you are, you minx. How on earth did you manage to get to the demimonde ball in the first place without Mrs. Monteith finding out what you were up to?”
“I told her I’d been invited to one of my friend’s homes outside London, to celebrate her birthday. My friend—her name is Marissa—agreed to help me and arranged for a coach to collect me and take me to the ball.”
“So you and your friend are both complicit in the lie. Who is this Marissa and why should she help you to ruin yourself?”
“Marissa is…never mind.” Olivia pulled a face. “Yes, you’re right, I did lie. But it was either that or be locked in my room and married off immediately to Mr. Garsed.”
“Perhaps being married off to Mr. Garsed would be the best thing for you, Olivia.”
“You were warning me against him before!”
“Yes, but I’ve had a chance to reconsider the matter. If you married Theodore you’d certainly have far more freedom than you have now.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Freedom?”
“Yes. The man’s besotted with you. If you were so inclined you could twist him around your little finger.”
Olivia shook her head at him pityingly. “Is that all you think I want? A man I can run rings around by pretending an affection I don’t feel? I don’t think either of us would be very happy in those circumstances, do you?”
Nic shrugged, assuming a bored expression. “Is marriage meant to be happy? Perhaps you’ve wasted your time reading too many romantic novels.”
“Perhaps you haven’t read enough,” she snapped.
Despite himself, Nic grinned. “I have read quite a few warm books, do they count?”
“You’re avoiding the question. You’ve decided it would be best if I marry Mr. Garsed so that you won’t have to bother about me anymore. That’s it, isn’t it, Nic? You want to go back to your cozy life where you don’t have to care about anyone, and if you start to care, well, you can just pay them off.”
Nic felt a tingle of shock as her words sank in. Was that true, was he such a cold and heartless bastard? He tightened his mouth. Well, even if it was true, she had no right to judge him.
“I refuse to be miserable just so that you can lead an easy life.” She folded her arms and stared from the window, refusing to look at him.
“Am I spoiling your rosy dreams of love?” he mocked. “Better you learn the cold realities now than be disappointed later. In my experience love is merely a fantasy, a biological trick to lead naïve couples into the sort of illogical behavior that usually ends in disaster.”
Now she was looking at him, her blue eyes narrowed as if she was seeing inside him and didn’t like what she saw. “What a horribly bleak way of looking at things!”
He shrugged. He supposed it was a bleak outlook, but he’d been shaped by his past, and he wasn’t going to change his mind now. If Olivia was seeking a husband with bright and shiny dreams of a future together, then it was just as well for her sake, and his, that Nic had not the slightest intention of marrying her.
“You didn’t used to talk like this.”
“Perhaps I didn’t want to spoil your childish dreams.”
“And then I grew so boring you dropped me.”
He met her quizzical gaze and forced a bland smile. “Exactly.”
“Nic, if you’d only let me, I could—”
“No!” He took a deep breath, moderating his tone. “Olivia, please. Enough. Let’s just get this over with as painlessly as possible. Then you can go home and I can go to bed, and we can forget this ever happened.”
She gave him one last glare and turned back to the window.
They were still not speaking—and Nic thanked God for it—when they trundled up the driveway to Castle Lacey. His mother’s house was in darkness, and there were no lights from the castle. Although the dawn light was creeping across the park and gardens, reflecting in the mullioned windows, the buildings themselves looked forbidding. Not the cheeriest of homecomings, especially when he’d left so recently believing he wouldn’t be back for several months.
It wasn’t always like this. Nic had to admit that when his father was alive and his mother was speaking to him, the atmosphere had been different. His childhood hadn’t been unpleasant, not at all. As an only child he’d been spoiled, and he knew at school he’d caused his parents quite a bit of worry and despair, but they’d sorted through that. The day he saved the child Olivia from drowning he’d realized what a fool he was being, and he’d made a vow to do better. Eventually he would have grown into the man they expected him to be and everything would have been all right. If only…
“Nic?”
Olivia’s voice startled him out of his gloomy thoughts. She was watching him, a worried crease between her brows.
“Hmm?”
“Won’t Lady Lacey be wondering who is arriving so early?”
“My mother occupies the gatehouse these days. She doesn’t interfere in my life, nor I in hers. Don’t fret, Olivia, she won’t come poking her nose in where it isn’t wanted.”
“Is it true—” she began, but whatever she meant to ask was never finished. The coach drew to a halt before the castle, and the next moment Abbot was busy opening the door. Olivia gave him a smile as she was assisted out into the chilly morning.
“I’ll get rid of any of the servants who may be up,” Abbot said to his master. “Then Miss Monteith can be comfortable.”
“By all means let’s make sure that Miss Monteith is comfortable,” Nic replied dryly.
“It may take me some little while,” Abbot went on, pointedly ignoring his tone. “I suggest you take your time, my lord. Admire the roses. I have been told they are at their best in the dawn dew.”
Nic groaned, but Olivia was already smiling and declaring, “What a good idea, Abbot!”
It wasn’t until Abbot had gone and they were alone that she seemed to recall his lame leg. He blamed himself for stumbling, slightly, as he opened the gate into the walled garden. Olivia opened her mouth, met his gaze, and closed it again. He was grateful she had the wit to realize he wouldn’t appreciate her drawing attention to his status as a cripple.
But Olivia could never be kept down for long. Now, smiling, she took his arm in hers, surreptitiously supporting him. “Isn’t this lovely,” she murmured, breathing deeply of the cold, clear air. “So—so bracing.”
Knowing very well what she was about, Nic shot her a mocking glance. “Extremely bracing,” he added. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so braced.”
Her smile wavered. “I am trying to be polite,” she said quietly. “I know it is difficult, considering it is barely light, we are hiding from the servants, you are in a foul mood, and my feet hurt from dancing most of the night. But I am trying.”
Blast it! Nic wished she wouldn’t do that—make him feel like a cruel monster. Now he would have to make it up to her, he thought, as they made their way into the rose garden.
“I call this one Mildred’s Rose,” he said, pausing by a particularly enormous bloom. “The scent reminds me of an old aunt who has long since died. She reeked of a perfume just like this.”
Olivia bent and breathed in the scent. “Oh. It is a little peculiar.”
“She was a peculiar woman.”
She smiled uncertainly, and they moved on, and he pointed out another rose, smaller and darker, with yellow stamens.
“This one makes me think of a woman I met in Brighton. I don’t know why.”
“Or you won’t tell me,” she retorted.
“Probably,” he said, with a twitch of his lips.
But Olivia had found something more to her taste, and she exclaimed over the full and exquisite bloom, before burying her nose in the huge cup of purple-pink petals. “Oh, heavenly,” she sighed. “So romantic.”
When she lifted her head Nic n
oticed she had some pollen on the tip of her nose.
“Do you know the name of this one?” she said, glancing at him cautiously as he continued to stare. “Nic?”
“No. I’m sorry, but I don’t. My mother will know. I’ll see if I can find out.”
“You’ll ask her for me?” There was something in the question that made him think she wanted him to confide in her, and when he didn’t immediately answer, she answered it herself. “It’s true, isn’t it, what the gossips in the village say? You and your mother don’t speak, do you?”
Nic gave her a sideways glance. “Yes, it’s true. My mother and I do not speak. We have not spoken for a very long time.”
“I wish I knew why, Nic.”
He could see her thoughts in her eyes. What had he done that was so terrible that his mother no longer had contact with him? What was the dark and desperate secret of Castle Lacey? He wondered what would happen if he told her the truth, but he didn’t really have to wonder. He knew.
“Nic?”
Instead of answering her, Nic reached out and brushed his fingertip down her nose, holding it up for her to see the smear of bright yellow pollen.
“Oh.” She blushed. “Thank you.”
He smiled down at her, and their gazes met and tangled, and at that moment he knew he was going to kiss her. He was saved from making another mistake by the sound of a voice drifting from the direction of the castle.
“Is that Abbot?” Olivia said, turning to look.
It was indeed Abbot, waving at them from the steps on the terrace.
“Come on,” Nic said, sounding relieved. They made their way back through the rose garden to the gate, and he strove to walk without limping as they hurried toward the terrace. His leg still hadn’t mended from his fall and the cold air wasn’t helping, but he was eager to get Olivia home.
Nic didn’t trust himself, and it was getting more and more difficult to remember why he couldn’t have her.
Olivia followed Abbot as he led them to a small room off the salon, where a fire was warming the room, and two chairs were drawn up before it. Nic moved to hold his hands out to the flames, leaning against the mantelpiece, so that he could ease the weight on his painful leg. Olivia slipped off her cloak and sat down, surreptitiously checking to see whether her dress was decent.
A moment later Abbot returned with a tray of food, bits and pieces from the pantry, and a jug of red wine and two goblets. Nic splashed the liquid carelessly into the goblets and swallowed down his own.
“You may as well go to bed, Abbot,” he said, refilling his goblet.
Abbot looked at Olivia, an uneasy expression in his eyes. “What about Miss Monteith?” he protested.
Nic met his gaze and held it. “Don’t you trust me to deal with Miss Monteith, Abbot?” he said lightly, but there was an underlying note of something more serious in his voice.
“I thought you might prefer to go to bed and let me deal with Miss Monteith, my lord. Your leg has not yet healed and—”
“I am not quite a cripple yet, thank you, Abbot. I will do what is necessary to see Miss Monteith is safe.”
Abbot hovered in the room, clearly not wanting to obey, but Nic was having none of it.
“Go, Abbot. Unless you don’t trust me. Is that it? Don’t you trust me to behave like a gentleman?”
Abbot knew when he was beaten. “Nothing of the kind, sir. Good night.” His manservant bowed low, and closed the door carefully behind him.
There was an awkward silence.
Nic rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Blast it,” he muttered. “Why does he have to put my back up? He should know by now what is and isn’t acceptable in a servant. In my servant.”
“He was only trying to be thoughtful,” Olivia replied soothingly.
“So was I,” he retorted. He took another swallow of the wine and nodded at the platter. “Are you hungry?”
In truth, Olivia felt light-headed from the late night and now the red wine she was sipping. She took a piece of cold meat and popped it into her mouth, adding a slice of cheese and a crust of bread. There was nothing sophisticated about the meal—Theodore Garsed would be appalled—but she thought it tasted delicious. It was a moment before she noticed that Nic wasn’t eating, although he’d poured himself yet another goblet of wine.
His face was wearing that dark, brooding expression that never seemed to bode well.
Not that she was afraid of him, she told herself. How could she be afraid of Lord Lacey when she had set her heart on making him her husband? Anxiously she slid another piece of food from the platter into her mouth, only realizing as she bit down that she’d inadvertently taken a pickled onion.
The vinegary taste took her breath away. Olivia coughed, trying to stifle it, but that only made things worse. She coughed again, and then as the stinging fumes reached her nose and eyes, sneezed violently. A large handkerchief appeared in front of her and she took it gratefully. When she finished mopping her face, she cleared her throat and tried for a calm smile.
Nic was watching her with concern. “Olivia?”
Her calm smile trembled at the edges. “Pickled onion,” she whispered shakily.
He glanced at the tray, then glanced at her, and his expression cleared. He began to laugh. Olivia found herself joining in. It wasn’t really funny, but it gave them the chance to release the tension, and she was delighted to see the brooding, haunted look had vanished from Nic’s face. He took one of the onions himself, pulling a face as he crunched into it.
“Cook has overdone herself with these,” he admitted.
“You should try the cheese,” she suggested.
He did, and suddenly he seemed to realize he was hungry, wolfing down meat and bread as well.
“I am quite certain Mr. Garsed doesn’t offer his guests pickled onions,” she said, sipping her wine.
“You’re probably right. I apologize for my lack of taste.”
“I can honestly say that if it came to a choice I’d much rather be sitting here with you than at a banquet with him.”
He began to answer, and then his gaze slid down and he froze. Olivia froze, too, because she knew what he was looking at. Her sneezing had caused her wretched dress to slip again.
“Olivia,” he said, although it was more of a groan.
Instinctively she reached to tug up her dress, but something far more fundamental made her stop. The heat in his eyes had lit an answering fire in her, and already she could feel it burning deep inside. “Nic,” she whispered.
He seemed to be struggling with himself, but either he didn’t struggle very hard or his need to do what he wanted was too powerful to be stopped. A heartbeat later he was kneeling on the patterned rug before her, his mouth on hers.
Chapter 13
Nic forgot his resolutions. He forgot his latest plan, to place her safely in Theodore’s hands, before setting off for Paris. He even forgot the abominable ache in his leg, although it did give a nasty twinge when he dropped to his knees before her chair. All he cared about was the touch, the feel, the scent of Olivia Monteith. His world was full of her and only her, and as her soft mouth clung to his, his practiced fingers were busy un-hooking her dress and letting it fall to her waist, so that he could release her glorious breasts into his hands.
Olivia clutched his shoulders, then her arms slid around his neck, clinging to him as if she thought she might fall. Gently he began to taste her, his tongue laving the curves and circling the peaks. While he worked on one breast with his mouth, he held the other in his hand, his thumb brushing back and forth over her turgid nipple. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and she made little sounds of enjoyment.
Nic glanced up at her through his lashes. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, and her mouth reddened from his kisses. She wanted him as much as he wanted her, and this time he wasn’t going to let some foolish idea of gentlemanly conduct or past history stop him. She was his for the taking and he’d bloody well take her.
He plan
ned to lift her down onto the rug beside him, but as he began to ease her from the chair, she seemed to know what he was about, and slid down herself, so quickly that she landed on the floor with a bump. Nic caught her in his arms, and they tumbled to one side, landing amid a tangle of legs and a flurry of her skirts. Her face was resting so close to his he could see the faint sprinkling of freckles on her nose, and the thick frame of her dark lashes about her bright blue eyes.
Olivia smiled.
Nic, the hardened rake, who thought he could never be emotionally touched by a woman, knew he’d been wrong.
Reaching out, he cupped her cheek and leaned forward to kiss her, tilting his head so that he could make the most of her lush mouth. She responded eagerly, without a hint of coyness or doubt, wrapping her arms about his neck and wriggling against him. He slid his tongue between her teeth, teasing her. He was aware that his cock was painfully hard, but he was trying to hang on to some vestige of his famous technique, when all he wanted to do was plunder her.
Physical pleasure, he reminded himself feverishly, trying to focus, was a matter of balancing control with passion, using technique to increase excitement by stepping back from the brink, over and over again, so as to intensify the final climax. There was a certain pragmatic quality about making love, and usually he had no trouble in remembering that.
Olivia gave a little groan, throwing her foot over his legs, sliding her calf along his thigh, as if she wanted to climb inside his flesh. He rolled over onto his back and pulled her along with him, so that she sprawled across him, all soft curves and heated womanhood. Her hair, hanging from its pins in loose strands, tickled his nose. He nuzzled against her arched throat, working his way up to her mouth, and then nipping at her lips.
She squeaked. He felt her breath in his ear, and her fingers tugging at his starched and ironed neck cloth. Abbot would be appalled at such cavalier treatment of his creation, but neither of them cared. She pulled the crisp linen away and pressed her nose into the hollow of his throat. He drew up her skirts, feeling her stockings and her garters, and then the warm, bare flesh of her thighs. She gave a gasp and wriggled against him, eager for more contact. Nic was happy to oblige.