Brenda Joyce

by The Rival

  The truth. The truth was that she was different from everyone else, and no amount of wishing would ever change it, and that the gift was, at times, a curse. And soon De Vere would know. Olivia had no doubt.

  She lost the last of her control and retched over the stone balustrade, but her heaves were mostly dry. She clawed the pale gray stone, gulping air, until her stomach finally began to settle. Hannah had the gift, too. It was Olivia’s greatest fear that not just Arlen but the entire world would learn of it one day, and she would suffer loneliness and scorn her entire life, as Olivia had.

  It was her greatest fear that mother and daughter would share the same destiny.

  Olivia closed her eyes, trembling, but not with cold. It was a pleasant summer night, she did not need a wrap, and the moon was a bright sliver in the sky, surrounded by thousands of winking stars. She must regain her composure. She straightened and glanced around, but no one was paying any attention, and for that she was relieved. There was a water fountain in the center of the terrace, and she went to it and used her handkerchief to clean her face and take a few sips of water. She was calmer, but a tension continued to afflict her.

  She was grim. The evening had turned into a disaster for her personally, but she knew better than to let Elizabeth fling her barbs so accurately. She must never allow her defenses to be down again that way.

  One thing was clear, though. Her interest in De Vere was obvious, and she must not cause any more tongues to wag.

  She had Hannah to think about. Hannah to protect. Nothing else mattered, certainly not her fascination for a total stranger.

  Olivia realized now that she stood alone by the fountain in the center of the terrace and that several gentlemen were eyeing her. She had no desire to return to the party inside the house or to be accosted by amorous suitors, so she walked swiftly down the brick steps to the lawn, leaving behind the terrace and house. A feeling of relief settled over her. There was no denying it. She found no charm in the social whirl; town held no allure for her.

  Olivia strolled over to a small stagnant pond rimmed with glistening white stones and topped with floating water lilies. The pounding in her temples, which she had lived with all evening, had decreased. She settled herself on a small stone bench mostly concealed by high hedges, and carefully arranged her silver brocade skirts, despising the wide panniers she wore. She wondered if she could stay outside until the party was over.

  It was an absurd thought. It was not even midnight. Supper had not been served yet, and a breakfast would later follow. An event like this would go until four in the morning, at least.

  She actually entertained the thought of staying outside for the rest of the evening or else stealing into the house and joining Hannah upstairs in her bed.

  A long, dark shadow fell across her, cast by the moon and the stars.

  Olivia tensed, the hair on her nape and arms standing upright, while her heart plummeted with the speed of a boulder thrown off a cliff, knowing it was him even before he moved directly in front of her.

  De Vere stared down at her.

  Olivia stared up and rose slowly to her feet.

  “You are missing the soirée,” he said wryly.

  She had to wet her lips in order to speak. “I am not inclined toward parties.” Her pulse was racing wildly.

  “How odd. Every woman I have ever met is inclined toward parties.”

  She hesitated. “I am different.”

  His gaze held hers. “Yes. You are very different … Olivia.” There was not even a hint of mockery in his words.

  She froze. His intimate form of address sent warning bells off inside her mind. “I must go,” she cried.

  But he stepped in front of her so she had nowhere to go. “Are you ill?” he asked.

  Surely he had not been spying upon her earlier. “No. Not at all. I am merely … fatigued.” It was hardly a lie.

  He stared at her, searching her face, and for an instant Olivia was certain he had seen her retching over the stone railing. “Are you cold?” he asked, his tone suddenly gentle.

  “No,” she said, now wary. “My lord, it is an exceedingly pleasant night.”

  “That is too bad,” he said, again wry, “or I might wrap my frock coat around you.”

  She did not move. The warnings again filled her mind. And for one instant the night became absolutely still around them—even the cicadas ceased their midnight song—and then, in the next instant, Olivia’s heart was thundering in her ears, its beat deafening.

  He smiled at her.

  It was taut and rigid, and Olivia did not, could not, smile back. She knew she must leave the lawns.

  “Why are you so kind to Miss Layton?”

  The question took her by surprise, but then, everything about him was unpredictable. She hesitated. “I am a woman of compassion.”

  “That is obvious.”

  She stared up at him, wondering if she had heard admiration in his tone. “I must go in.”

  “You are afraid of me.”

  Her feet slowed. She had taken only two steps back toward the house. “And why would I be afraid of you, my lord?” she asked, trying to sound confident, thinking that she failed. Her tone was so utterly breathless in her own ears.

  He stared. “Clearly you have heard all of the gossip. If you did not hear it years ago, you have heard it all tonight.”

  Her pulse continued to drum, thickly. “I do not attend gossips, my lord.”

  “I did not, in truth, think so. For I have reflected upon our last encounter, upon you.” He let his words hang.

  She could only gape. He had been thinking about her—as she had been thinking about him? “I truly must go. I must sit down for a while.”

  His teeth flashed, but briefly. “The bench is right here. No. You are afraid, Olivia, you are afraid of me, and it has nothing to do with ancient rumors. And we both know why, do we not?” he said softly—much too softly for comfort.

  Olivia had not moved, in spite of her better intentions. She could not seem to walk away. Her gaze had found his mouth, which was full and intriguing.

  “You are beautiful,” he whispered.

  No man had ever told her that she was beautiful before. His words uplifted her heart, against her better judgment. She searched his face, wishing he meant it, unsure if he did. It felt as if he did, but she could not help being reminded of Elizabeth then. Yet his tone had been thick with something she was not familiar with, something she knew intuitively to be desire. Her body had become taut. Abruptly Olivia walked away from him.

  “Elizabeth is beautiful,” she said, head down, her cheeks unusually warm. “I am common.” Her footsteps increased in pace.

  He followed, falling into step beside her. “You are the least common woman I have ever met, and there is far more to beauty than what meets the eye. Except when one is fifteen years old.” Again, he was wry. “Do not go,” he said, his hip brushing her skirts. “Do not run away. Do not be afraid. Not of me.”

  She halted and turned, clasping her hands in a vain attempt to still their trembling. “Is this a coincidence?” she demanded, this time testing him.

  But again, she did not have to complete her thoughts for him to understand her. “No. I followed you outside.” Their gazes locked.

  She had assumed as much. She swallowed, drier than before, and far too acutely aware of the man standing inches away from her. Moonlight illuminated his face, highlighting his striking cheekbones and straight nose. She found him devastatingly attractive, but any woman would.

  “Why were you ill?” he asked abruptly.

  “I … I was upset.”

  “Why?”

  She had averted her eyes, but now she met his unwavering regard. The urge to confide in him was overwhelming, but she must not give in to it. “I do not like London, or parties like this.”

  “Moi aussi,” he said with a small smile. “And perhaps your husband also falls in that category?”

  She wet her lips. “They will talk abo
ut us. This is not a good idea, for us to linger here in view of all those upon the terrace.”

  He stared grimly. “I am used to it. But of course, you wish no such thing upon yourself.” Then he gripped her arm, his teeth startlingly bright in the darkness. “The bench is not in view of the terrace,” he said quietly.

  She inhaled as he guided her back to the stone bench, closing her eyes, torn and confused as never before. She wanted to tell him that she, too, was accustomed to whispers and stares, she wanted to reach out and touch him, comfort him. But she did not dare. She could imagine far too well the strength of his arm, the warmth of his skin, the feel of muscle, flesh, and bone. Oh, God. She did not just, want to comfort him. She wanted his kiss. Could even imagine what his lips tasted like.

  What was wrong with her! Arlen might loathe her, but he would never condone her having an affair, and if he threw her out of his house, he would separate her from Hannah. Not because he loved his daughter, but because he was cruel and perverse and would wish only to hurt and punish his wife.

  “My lord, we must not do this,” she said huskily.

  Manicured hedges blocked their view of the terrace and house now as they stood by the bench. His hands settled on her shoulders, his grip firm and uncompromising. There was a steely look in his eyes. “We must not do what, Olivia?” His tone was raw silk.

  “We must not be here, together, alone,” she said, faltering. His stare was so intense, it was mesmerizing.

  He began to smile. “I beg to disagree,” he said very softly.

  Before Olivia could reply, his lips were on her throat, nibbling the extremely sensitive skin there. She could not form a single word, as wet heat flooded over her.

  There was laughter in his tone. “Olivia? What is it you wish to say?”

  His wickedly skilled mouth was moving to her ear. Chills swept over every inch of her body as she opened her mouth to reply—and tell him to stop. But then his tongue slid into her ear.

  All words failed her.

  His tongue began a rhythmic penetration. Hard and strong, again and again. It was shocking. It could make her think of, and want, only one thing. There was no mistaking what he was doing, what he was suggesting. Her knees buckled.

  “Olivia,” he whispered, finally licking her lobe, “what is it?”

  “We must,” she finally began, but then he kissed her cheek, hard. It was almost a bite, and the raw, suddenly unleashed power of it made her legs give way—she clung to his arms now to stand upright. And his arms were as hard as boulders, the muscles there as big.

  He kissed her jaw the same way, with frightening intensity, almost but not quite hurting her, and then he laughed like the devil and slid his tongue over her lips, just briefly slipping the tip between them. And his mouth was on her ear again. “This is meant to be, Olivia,” he said as he licked and sucked her ear. “You and I, together, this way.”

  She could not even whisper no. Her mind was dazed, her body racked with a feverish longing, which she now understood. She had hated Arlen’s passion. But she wanted this man in her bed. She wanted his body on top of hers, his manhood inside of her, and she wanted it now.

  Olivia did not recognize herself.

  Soft whimpers seemed to be escaping her throat.

  He thrust his tongue into her ear again and again and again. The way he would, she knew, thrust himself inside of her—soon. Olivia felt faint. Dizzy. Longing overcame her, she could not think. “God,” she heard herself cry. “Oh, God!”

  His arms were around her, crushing her. “God what?” he demanded.

  “Please,” she cried, looking up at him. And to her amazement, she nipped his jaw, the demand female and timeless.

  He caught her face in his huge, powerful hands and seized her mouth with his. He did not hold back. His mouth opened hers, his tongue thrust inside, strong and hard, his teeth grated on her own. Their mouths ground, melded. Olivia found herself kissing him back frantically, found her striking at his tongue with her own.

  “I want you,” he said, and Olivia found herself on the bench as he continued to kiss her. “I want you, now,” he rasped, and he bit her neck.

  She realized she was tearing at his hair—his queue having long since come undone. She could not say yes. But neither could she say no, and Olivia nipped his jaw, again and again, insisting on what should never be. Then their mouths came together again, hot and hard, savagely.

  He was on his knees, fumbling with her skirts. “I hate hoops,” he said between kisses that began at her lips and ended at her silk-clad breasts.

  “We shouldn’t,” Olivia panted, but he cut her off. His mouth took hers again in another thrusting kiss, while his palm slid up beneath her petticoat on her bare inner thighs. Olivia cried out. His fingers had halted just inches from her sex.

  “Tell me you will deny us,” he demanded, palming her hard.

  The breath escaped her; she could not speak if her life depended on it. No one had ever touched her this way before, and she did not want him to stop—when she damn well knew the consequences. She moaned.

  “Tell me,” he said more gently, licking her neck, her collarbone, and finally, the flesh just above the low neckline of her gown. “You are wet, Olivia,” he whispered, “and we both know why.” He was stroking her now, uncovering every fold.

  “Please,” Olivia heard herself cry. “Oh, please, Garrick.”

  His fingers slid over her, between lush folds, and stroked up against the apex until Olivia was shaking uncontrollably, whimpering far too loudly, yet incapable of restraint—until she knew she would soon die. She gasped, panted, opened her eyes and saw the star-filled sky.

  “Do you want me?” he said.

  “Yes,” she whispered, and it was close to a sob.

  “I want you. I want you so badly I do not know how I can wait.”

  Olivia knew she could not wait, either. “De Vere,” she cried.

  “Die for me, Olivia,” he commanded, his fingers rubbing now.

  But Olivia really did not hear him. An intense pressure the likes of which she had never felt before was building inside of her, and she gasped, her entire body stiffening. For one blazing instant she met his eyes. He was watching her, she realized, but she was on the edge of a precipice. And then it happened: she no longer saw De Vere, as an explosion racked her body. Olivia cried out.

  The sound was smothered by his lips. When she floated ever so gently back to reality, the brilliant bursting stars fading from her mind, she realized that he held her in a grip of iron. She blinked, trembling, her thoughts becoming coherent again. But before she could truly comprehend what had just happened, he reclaimed her mouth. It was another endless and demanding kiss.

  De Vere broke it off. He suddenly wrapped his arms around her tightly, burying his face between her neck and shoulder, his entire body taut. Olivia blinked, found herself gazing up at the stars, her breasts crushed against his chest. She had never been this relaxed in her entire life and was acutely aware of his tension. She could feel his thundering heartbeat against her breasts.

  Her mind, unfortunately, had begun to function once more.

  This should not have happened. Whatever was she thinking of? But that was just it: she had not been thinking. He had seduced her—and she had been more than willing! She must leave the pond, leave the gardens, leave him before they were seen together like this. Dear God. If Arlen ever learned what had happened this night, her entire life would be in jeopardy. In that single instant Olivia knew it with the certainty given her by her gift of sight—and she was terrified.

  But as he held her, she found her hands in his long dark hair, and she felt something far greater than desire, something far more profound—and far more dangerous. She refused then to entertain any other emotions—she must not. But for one last moment she would savor his hard, trembling body as he held her, determined that it be for the very last time.

  Desire. She had not known that it was like this.

  Desire, but nothing
more. For it must never be anything more.

  Suddenly he set her aside, his gaze heated, his jaw flexed so hard it looked painful. “When?” he demanded. “When can we rendezvous?”

  Olivia, no longer breathless but overcome now by sorrow, stood up. It was a moment before she could speak, and when she did, she was thinking about so many people—De Vere, his fiancée, Arlen, Elizabeth, and her own precious daughter. “We must not rendezvous.”

  He stood and caught her arm. “Do not play the ingenue with me.” He was at once incredulous and angry. There was a warning in his tone. “We are both adults, Olivia. I know you are not fond of your husband. Surely you do not intend to deny us now. After this night.” His eyes blazed.

  She shook her head. “This is insane, this is a mistake.”

  “God damn it!” he shouted. Suddenly he towered over her. “I will not remain long in this country, Lady Ashburn, of that I can assure you. I suggest we take what little time the fates are giving us.”

  He was leaving? She was aghast—when she should be thrilled. “The fates?” Olivia struggled to think. “You are betrothed to my dear friend and I …” She stopped. And what? Oh, God. She had never met anyone like him before, had never been touched or held or kissed with such consuming passion, and she wanted him—dear God, she did—and if she dared to admit it, she had other, deeper feelings for him. It did not matter that she hardly knew him, for they were so alike, two lost, scorned, and deeply scarred souls. And Arlen had his affairs, as most married men and women did. But other wives did not have a blind daughter to protect.

  “What, Olivia? What is it that you wish to say? What excuse do you wish to make? Or do you have a habit of teasing men? Perhaps it amuses you?” He was cool.

  She gasped. “You know that is not true!”

  “Then return to Ashburnham tomorrow. I will meet you there.” He smiled slightly, his jaw flexed, the muscles twitching.

  Olivia inhaled. His words—a command and a challenge—echoed inside her mind. She could not agree, of course she could not. Her instincts, her morals, her gift, told her that. But neither could she form a denial. No negative escaped her lips.