“Shhhhh,” he whispered. Rubbing her back in small, soothing circles didn’t quiet her tears. “Miss Goldsleigh. Olivia,” he murmured, and changed strategies to stroking her hair. “Everything will be fine.”
The tears didn’t stop, however. He scooped her up in his arms—a movement that was becoming all too familiar. It was three short strides to the long, leather sofa where he settled her in his lap with every intention of consoling her until she ceased crying. The kiss on the top of her head and then on the temple were nothing more than he would have given one of his sisters in the same situation. Although not even his youngest sister would he have settled so cozily in his lap, nor would he have noticed the intoxicating aroma of his sister’s hair. He breathed in Olivia’s scent while crooning senseless words to comfort her.
Delicate, becalming kisses found their way from her forehead to her cheeks and then, ultimately, despite his noble intentions, his lips found hers in a kiss that was anything but calming.
Chapter Fifteen
Olivia couldn’t believe she’d caved into hysteria once again. She hardly recognized herself anymore, although to be fair, her previous life had not lent itself to hysteria-inducing situations.
She was embarrassed to have been caught snooping in Lord Dalton’s study, but it was hardly for the nefarious purposes he’d accused her of. Of course, none of that was any reason to get hysterical.
Reginald. Reginald was a perfect reason to get hysterical. What if the man Lord Dalton spoke of was with the magistrate? That was the only answer that made any sense. They had finally found her and Warren. To make matters worse, Lord Dalton was making inquiries. She had absolutely no idea where to run this time. She had no funds and nothing left to sell and wouldn’t unless Lord Dalton was able to achieve what she wasn’t able to with the solicitor. And now she had the added stress of a brother with a serious injury. Who knew what harm could come to him from traveling in the harsh conditions they would be forced to endure.
She was ashamed to admit she was overwhelmed. She’d accepted the overly generous help offered to her by Lord Dalton and his family and already, in a few short days, she’d come to enjoy the comforts they’d provided. How could she go back to sleeping in the park or—and this was where she’d started to come loose from her moorings—not sleeping in the park. Worse was begging for food and fending off lecherous and repugnant advances from the likes of London’s most loathsome males.
Lord Dalton provided a strong shoulder, and she was too tired from trying to figure out everything on her own to push him away when he hugged her to him. So consumed with her tears, Olivia barely realized he’d scooped her up and cuddled her in his lap until his fingers stroked through her hair and massaged her neck. His whiskered cheek brushed against hers when he feathered a kiss to her temple. She lifted her face to his when he kissed away her tears. Finally, when his lips found hers, she was every bit as much a willing participant as he.
She didn’t know when her gasping breaths ceased being due to her sobbing and instead came from her arousal, but the change was seamless. His kiss was everything the groping, grasping Reginald’s was not. Lord Dalton’s kiss ripened slowly in heat and intensity, born from a sweet compassion, a desire to comfort, and growing into fiery passion meant to incite. Soft, his lips drifted across hers, then again before settling at the center of her bottom lip. His mouth covered hers, dear and gentle, kissing her over and over until her lips parted and moved with his. By the time his tongue stroked hers, she was lost.
How long had she wanted him to kiss her? From the first when she thought he was an angel? When she revised her opinion and thought his physique more like that of a god? Or was it during their dance this evening with his flattering insinuations of beauty? Perhaps all of those times, but certainly now, when he towered over her trying to intimidate her with his height, she wanted to kiss him back. She didn’t understand it then and had pushed the idea away as insane, but it was obvious now.
She wanted comfort.
Her hands stroked up the column of his neck, and her fingers threaded through his hair, giving him the invitation to deepen the kiss. He slanted his mouth over hers, and his tongue caressed the tender inside of her mouth. Deep, slow, languid kisses that roused her in ways she’d never experienced before. Lord Dalton kissed with a finesse sorely lacking in the fumbling country boys who’d tried before him and certainly more than the sadistic would-be rapists of her most recent acquaintance.
The hand caressing her hair alighted on her waist. His huge palm spanned her rib cage, his thumb stroking just under her breast. Her skin tingled and grew heated under the thin layer of cotton that made up her nightdress. His kiss trailed across her jaw to a sensitive place under her ear. Olivia gasped a deep breath that ended on a sigh.
Lord Dalton murmured something against her flesh, and the sensation shivered over her. It was marvelous, and she wanted more of it. She stretched against his hand and was rewarded when his caress traveled to her breast. The heat from his palm and the gentle kneading from his fingers brought a heaviness, an awareness, which caused her nipple to pebble. The flimsy material was a weak barrier to his touch.
He shifted, and she was lowered so her back rested against the padded arm of the sofa. The hand that had supported her back now spanned the nape of her neck, adjusting the angle of her head, and a thumb nudged up her chin to give him better access to her throat. His mouth, lips and tongue continued their sensual perusal of her jawline and neck. The hand teasing her breast brought her sweet frustration.
Down, slowly down, Lord Dalton nibbled along the column of her neck, little bites interspersed with kisses and tantalizing flicks of his tongue. Her head lolled back against the cushions while she mindlessly enjoyed his attentions, her hands unthinkingly stroking his arms and shoulders in a desire to touch him as well. When his ministrations met the barrier of her nightdress, the pink ribbon cutting off further access to her skin, he uttered a frustrated groan, and Olivia understood completely.
The sane thing would be to put an end to this craziness now.
But she didn’t want to, for so many reasons, not the least of which was how wonderful he made her feel. Like any country girl, she knew the mechanics of lovemaking, and until recently she’d always thought it would be wonderful to engage in with her husband some day, whoever that might be. Her time in London had soured her on the whole idea. It was hard to imagine the pinching fingers and slapping palms, the grabbing and molesting hands she’d endured, was the same act she was experiencing with Lord Dalton’s caressing, petting and kissing.
The biggest reason, however, was because for the first time in months she’d let someone make decisions for her. Olivia was tired, and weary, and if what he’d told her was any indication, she would be back to making hard decisions again tomorrow. Tonight, well at least for a little longer, she wanted to feel better. She longed to know she wasn’t alone. She wanted to let go. She wanted to believe she was worthy of lovemaking and not rutting in a filthy room.
Lord Dalton raised his head and peered at the ribbon in frustration. From lash-shadowed eyes she watched him stare at the confounding ribbon. Coming to a decision, Olivia grasped either end of the bow and pulled the strings until it unraveled and revealed more skin. He inhaled through his teeth and his gaze met hers.
“It didn’t seem as if you were going to do it,” Olivia explained in a whisper. Dalton didn’t speak. A kiss served as his reply. Only this kiss wasn’t gentle and sweet and…oh, it was magnificent.
This time he wasn’t content with a simple, soft stroke of his tongue. This kiss ravished her mouth, and her arousal climbed from sensual awakening to a hunger that drove her to kiss him back with élan. She bravely flicked her tongue along his top teeth. Lord Dalton groaned, and the hand on her breast slid down her ribs, past her waist and rounded her bottom where he squeezed and pressed her further into his lap. He broke the kiss, leaving her gasping for breath and tingling from head to toe.
She opened her eyes,
stared at the ceiling, and enjoyed the sensations that followed in the wake of Dalton’s mouth. He nibbled her throat and laved the sensitive indention at the base. His tongue traced the triangle of skin exposed by untying the ribbon, and he placed a kiss there.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered against her neck. Taking her lead, Dalton unbuttoned the top pearl button and the next one, and the next one, revealing more skin and kissing each inch as it was revealed. Olivia fidgeted in the man’s lap, earning her another moan from Lord Dalton.
“Hold still,” Dalton groaned even as his hips lifted to meet hers. Buttons slid out of their holes, one at a time, as his tongue and lips laved her skin. As much as she wanted to obey Lord Dalton, his command was impossible. As embarrassed as she was, she simply couldn’t stop wiggling.
“I’m sorry,” Olivia whispered back and strained against her body’s desire to move in his lap. Then another button slipped its mooring, and his hand drew back her nightdress to expose her breast. The warmth of his mouth on her nipple brought a gasping moan to her lips, and all pretense of controlling herself against his ministrations was abandoned. Her fingers entwined with his hair, grasping handfuls of the silky, wheaten strands to press him next to her bosom. She arched in response to the pull of his mouth, the rasp of his tongue, the gentle scrape of his teeth.
She cried out when his mouth lifted and exposed her heated skin to the air of his exhalation, causing her flesh to tighten, furling her nipple into a firm, sensitive bud. He moved the thin cotton away from her other breast, cupped it in his hand and scraped its peak against his teeth, before taking it into his mouth with a low growl of need.
Her long moan ended in a ragged sigh. She thought she should say something, but words escaped her. What does one say when one’s being ravished? “My lord.” It was the height of wit apparently.
“Henry,” he said against her skin.
“I’m sorry?”
He lifted his head from her chest, his thumb and forefinger rubbing her nipple, pinching it slightly, while he spoke to her. “Henry. Call me Henry.”
“I don’t… I don’t think I can, that I should.”
The fingers on her bottom squeezed, and his palm pressed down on her hip while he bore against her with his groin. “Yes, you should. Say it.” The blue of his eyes held fire regardless of the icy color, the handsome lines of his face taut with desire.
Olivia didn’t answer him. She didn’t repeat his name. She stared at him in confusion. She was not his equal as a baron’s daughter. She would never be invited to call him by his Christian name in a normal social situation, and calling him by it now made her uncomfortable. What difference does a name make, Olivia? You’re half undressed with his mouth on your breasts. Nevertheless, she couldn’t make the word form on her tongue. She wanted to say it. Henry. She said it in her head. Henry. “Why is it so important?” She struggled to sit up, but he put light pressure on her chest.
“Because I want to hear it.” His thumb pressed the inside of her thigh, and he kissed her fiercely again. She felt dampness in her most private area and was mortified at how badly she wanted him to touch her there. If she said his name, would he do it? Would he put his hands on her there and ease the mounting ache he was building?
“Say it, Olivia.”
She sighed and panted out aroused breaths. His saying her name—it was so intimate. How could it be more intimate than his mouth on her breasts, she had no idea, but it was. It was hard to think when he kissed and lightly pinched and stroked her with such knowing hands.
She owed him everything, and suddenly, in his debt while nearly naked in his lap wasn’t a place she wanted to be. She felt fragile, delicate. How badly would it hurt her to give herself to this man and leave him tomorrow? That’s what he was asking for, after all. Olivia had kept her dignity and self-respect through every single lowering encounter during her time in London’s stews. She couldn’t imagine a scenario where she would be invited to call Lord Dalton by his Christian name that didn’t involve his hand up her skirt.
“Tell me why it’s so important to you.” She didn’t ask him in the soft voice of lovers this time.
“I want to hear it. You owe me.” His mouth came down to kiss her again, but she moved her head and shoved his hand from between her knees in one fluid movement.
“I owe you?” she repeated incredulously.
“That’s not what I meant.” His face was stricken.
“What could you possibly mean? You belittle me when you catch me trying to find the bills so I can know the amount to repay you. You don’t want my money, is that it?” Olivia struggled off his lap and stood with her hands on her hips. She knew she must look like a pale imitation of his earlier stance, and the ridiculousness was not lost on her.
He spoke to her with exaggerated calmness. “I didn’t intend to belittle you. Olivia, that’s not what I meant.”
Her name on his lips was awful. She was damned to feel his hands on her still. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m sorry. What I meant was you owed me because I said your name.” Dalton reached for her, but she took a step back. “Admit it feels good to hear it.” She let a glare be her reply. She could see him struggling with himself, deciding what to say. “I want to hear you say it because it makes me feel like you know me.”
“Know you?”
“I want to know you.”
“You came quite close to knowing me very well indeed.” She spat the words back at him.
“I should never have let that happen. Things got out of hand.” He rose to his feet and approached her, but she held her ground. “Look, I can’t argue with you or explain myself with your gown open like that.”
Olivia glanced down and realized, while she stared him down in all her self-righteous glory, her nightdress gaped open wildly to her navel, her breasts completely exposed.
“Oh sweet Lord!” She fumbled with the buttons. “There is nothing to explain, Lord Dalton. You want me to sleep with you in exchange for your hospitality. I was given the same offer in Seven Dials, though I dare say the bed wouldn’t have been as comfortable.”
“Now you’re insulting me,” Dalton protested. “I assure you that is most definitely not what I was offering.” He took a deep breath and exhaled it. “I acted like a fool and a cad, and I apologize wholeheartedly. You’ve had a very rough time of it, and I fear I took advantage of you when you were least capable of thinking with a clear head. I got caught up in the moment and said something that, under the circumstances, was easily misinterpreted.”
Olivia finished doing up the buttons. She tried to hold on to her indignation, but much of her anger was deflated by what sounded like his sincere apology.
He continued, “Please know I hold you in the highest regard. Your invitation to stay here and the assistance that my family and I have provided are not subject to repayment of any kind.”
The marquess may have explained away her anger, but his well-chosen words did nothing to lessen her confusion. “Why did you kiss me that way?” Her hand crept up to her mouth and touched her swollen lips.
“You’re extremely kissable, Olivia.” He looked like he wanted to do it again if she’d let him. She wavered. Dignity be damned, she wanted that feeling back. He reached for her, and she inhaled in anticipation, but he only took the ends of the loose pink ribbon and tied them in a bow at her throat. “Go to bed, my sweet. Forget all the nonsense about the invoices and sleep.”
“Oh.” How dare she be disappointed? What did it say about her that she could fluctuate between mindless kisses to fury and then wanton frustration? Her time in London had changed her, and Olivia didn’t think it was for the better. She accepted her robe when he handed it to her, sliding her arms inside and securely tying the sash around her waist.
“I promise I’ll kiss you again tomorrow.” His voice was low and husky as she passed by him towards the door.
She ignored the thrill that ran straight down her spine and pooled between her legs. She was
confident he didn’t notice the hitch in her step or the quick intake of breath as she marched out the door.
Not likely. I’ll be gone before you have another chance.
Chapter Sixteen
What a monumental, first-class idiot!
“Good morning to you, my lord.” Dalton’s valet set a tray with an urn of coffee on a marble table and opened the curtains farthest from the bed, letting in what London considered sunshine.
Dalton grunted. He had been awake for hours, if indeed he’d ever slept. His mind was occupied all night, circling around the scores of questions left to him when Miss Goldsleigh—Olivia—stormed off. She may not be willing to call him by his first name, but he’d damn well not run around calling her Miss anything after last night’s heated exchange.
Dalton groaned, folded away the blankets, and swung his feet to the floor. He stretched all six-plus feet of him, then took the dressing gown Marbry extended and covered his nakedness.
What the hell was wrong with him? Dalton liked to think he knew women better than most men did, what with him being surrounded by them all the time. How could he have said such a stupid, asinine thing as, you owe me? Even if he didn’t mean it the way it came out, he ought to know a woman would take it the wrong way. He hoped he’d apologized sufficiently, but one never knew. As much as he knew women, and genuinely liked many of them, he still thought they were mildly loony and certainly thought irrationally most of the time. He had ample evidence, not that any of them ever appreciated him pointing it out.
Dalton drank down half a cup of black coffee in one big swig, scalding his tongue in the process. The burn was somewhat of a relief after a night spent with an aching cock.
Whether or not she was a little balmy had nothing to do with how sorry he was that his ill-thought-out comment ended the whole thing. The whole thing, he snorted. He was a grown man, not some seventeen-year-old lusting after a maid, but you wouldn’t know it the way he’d been walking around with an oak tree in his pants for the last several days. Confound it, but everything about the chit distracted him. He thought the ride in the park had tried his self-control, but that was nothing compared to the waltz with the winsome beauty. She made him stupid.
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