Lady Be Reckless

by Megan Frampton

  Her expression got both piqued and angry, and he watched as she tried to figure out what to say in reply.

  He wished it would be Well then, kiss me again, you idiot, but he strongly suspected it would not.

  “But why?”

  He hadn’t expected her to sound so—so lost. As though she were truly going to miss him.

  “I—have to,” he began, and then heard the words rush out of him, as though he wasn’t in control of speaking them at all. “I have to take care of my father. He’s—he’s been given some news about his health, and he has said he will return home so we can see his usual doctor. I can’t let him stay here in London just because . . .”

  “Because he wants you to succeed?” she finished in a soft voice. “He is a good father—he only wants the best for you. I don’t understand why so many people have a problem with a father wanting the best for his son.”

  Her voice was returning to its normal fierce tone, for which he was grateful. A comforting, soft-voiced Lady Olivia would be so out of his experience he might just break down and sob in her arms, which wouldn’t do either of them any good. Especially with his leaving.

  “I am sorry to hear your father is not in the best of health.” She bit her lip. “It makes sense that you would want to leave town as soon as possible. You are a good son for making sure he takes care of himself,” she said. “I appreciate your living up to your part of the challenge. I have no doubt that if you were to stay for the full month, I would succeed, however.” She lifted her chin as she spoke, and it was as though he could feel her confidence in his own body.

  It was breathtaking. It was likely a good thing he was leaving, if he thought about it. He was too intrigued by her, too intent on watching the expressions play over her face, wanting to feel the warmth of her sparkle. Everywhere.

  “I have no doubt that you believe that, Lady Olivia.” He couldn’t keep the skepticism out of his voice; after all, she was one lady, albeit a fierce one, and he was standing among all the politely born ladies and gentlemen whose only experience with situations like his were to hold their noses and cross to the other side of the well-bred street.

  “You are maddening,” she said, but it didn’t sound as though she were maddened by him. Or not entirely maddened by him, that is; she was looking at him with a slight smile on her mouth, as though she also found him amusing.

  “But at least I was able to persuade you I am a decent enough gentleman,” he said, allowing himself to step closer to her so he could look straight into her eyes, gauge her feelings by how she was regarding him. “And for that, Lady Olivia, I am eternally grateful.”

  “Oh, damn you,” she replied, then slid her arms around his neck and drew his mouth down to hers.

  She was kissing him again. And this time, she didn’t have any excuse except that she wanted to. He froze for a moment, and she had a sudden anxious feeling that he would draw away, an embarrassed expression on his face, and inform her that kissing her was not what he actually wanted to do. That he’d done it the other evening because he’d felt sympathy for her.

  But then she felt his hands grasp her waist firmly, and he drew her to him just as firmly so their bodies were pressed up against one another. And he was kissing her passionately, ruthlessly, as though she were a woman who was able to withstand the force of him.

  And she was. What was more, she inhaled the force of him, wanting to participate just as fully in this kiss as he was. Learning the taste of his mouth with her tongue, sliding her hands over his shoulders and down his back, flexing her fingers so she could make out his impressive musculature.

  Even his back was strong. That shouldn’t surprise her, but it did.

  Eventually, her hands returned to the front of his body, and she found her palms running over his chest, wishing she could reach underneath his clothing to touch his skin. Nice though his clothing felt, she imagined he would feel even nicer.

  His hands were still at her waist, but his fingers had tightened, and she wondered if he was struggling with the urge to touch her as she was touching him. If she weren’t so intent on kissing him so thoroughly, she’d draw back for a moment and tell him, Yes, please, do touch me in those places that suddenly seem to be clamoring for your fingers. But she wouldn’t, because if she withdrew, he would stop kissing her, and what was more important, she would stop kissing him, and she didn’t want that. Not at all.

  The fact that he was leaving shouldn’t make her feel so alone. But it did. And kissing him helped, at least for right now, at this moment.

  Then she heard a noise and leapt back from him, glancing around guiltily, hoping nobody had seen them.

  “I—” he began, then took one of the hands that had been at her waist and pushed the curls off his forehead. “I did not mean to allow that to happen again.”

  “You did not mean for this to happen again?” She rolled her eyes at him, wondering how she’d missed that he was such a dolt. A handsome, curly-haired dolt, but a dolt nonetheless.

  “You are not the one who did all this,” she said, gesturing to the space between them. “Let me tell you once and forever, Mr. Wolcott,” she continued, emphasizing his name with a raise of her eyebrow, “there is no one who is in control of me. I chose to kiss you, not the other way around. And may I say, I regret my action, if you were going to claim responsibility for it. But it was my action, not yours.” She drew herself up to her full height, which was still, unfortunately for her, many inches shorter than his, and planted her hands on her hips. Her mother would be appalled at how common Olivia appeared right now, but that didn’t matter. Not when he thought that he had bestowed a kiss on her, as though she were some pitiful supplicant. Was that how he saw her?

  “I see I’ve annoyed you, Olivia.” His voice was amused, and of course that irked her further. “I merely wished to draw the blame onto myself, since I know you do not truly wish to kiss me. Because you wish—” And he stopped, a pained expression on his face.

  Because you wish you were kissing Bennett, her mind supplied. Even though Bennett—Lord Carson—hadn’t crossed her mind once, and she would need to examine that more thoroughly later. But meanwhile . . . “Draw the blame onto yourself?” She stepped forward, raising one hand to point a finger at his chest. The chest that had been so intriguing to her just a few minutes ago. “As though I am not responsible for what I do? As though someone might accuse me of something untoward, and you would have to take the blame because of who you are? A man?”

  She accompanied the last word with a poke to his body, making him stumble back, likely from surprise since the poke wasn’t that hard.

  “A bastard.” He spoke in a quiet tone, and she felt the whoosh of shame flow through her on hearing his words. Hearing the pain and guilt, yes, of his acknowledging what he was—in his own eyes, as well as Society’s.

  She dropped her hand as though she had been touching a red-hot poker, twisting her hands together in front of her so she wouldn’t do anything more foolish like touch him comfortingly or, God forbid, kiss him again.

  “You are not that,” she said in a furious whisper. “You should not and will not be defined by your birth. And your saying something like that just deflects from what it is that you were saying in the first place—that I was not responsible for my actions because I was not in control. Let me assure you, Mr. Wolcott—Edward—that I am entirely in control.”

  “Are you?” he asked, a dangerous tone in his voice. A tone that nonetheless made her shudder in an entirely good way.

  “Are you in control when I do this?” and he accompanied his words by drawing her forward back into his arms, and she couldn’t help herself—she raised her arms and wrapped her hands around his neck, stepping closer to him still.

  “Or when I do this?” he said in a whisper, his breath on her cheek, his mouth lowering to hers.

  “Or this?” he finished as he pressed his lips against hers in a firm, intense, and yes, completely controlling manner.

  Dear
lord, she might swoon. Or be discovered.

  Or lose control.

  She wished she were horrified at any of the ideas. But she was absolutely not.

  Chapter 13

  Follow your heart, or the body part that seems as though it is in the most need.

  Lady Olivia’s Particular Guide to Being Reckless

  Edward had wanted to show her how she could lose control as thoroughly as he, but it didn’t manifest itself that way.

  She was probably still irritated by his words, since she kissed him ruthlessly, sliding her tongue into his mouth, holding his upper arms in a furious grip.

  As though to battle him in who could make the other lose control first.

  It might be me, a voice said in his head.

  He stood there, returning her savage kisses with his own. Running his hand down to the small of her back, and lower still, to cup the soft curve of her arse, to pull her up against him, his cock rising up in his trousers to press against her body.

  She was magnificent, and he wanted to devour her. Or let her devour him, he didn’t care which. He was egalitarian in that way; as long as complete and total ravishment happened, he was fine with it.

  He drew his other hand behind her as well and yanked his gloves off, dropping them to the ground. Then he returned his hand to her curves, but brought his other hand to her neck, sliding his fingers down to touch her collarbone, her upper chest, until he was able to cup her breast in his palm.

  He felt her shudder at his touch, and he wanted to grin at how reactive she was. If she hadn’t wanted this, she would have made it absolutely and totally clear—her fury at his attempt to own what had happened between them showed him that. So he didn’t hesitate, running his fingertip up at the edge of her evening gown, dipping it into her bodice to touch the warm softness of her breast. To reach two fingers in now to touch her nipple, its hard point a testament to what she was feeling now. What she wanted now.

  Dear God, he wanted to fuck her. Or no, he wanted to make love to her, long, slow, and thoroughly. He wouldn’t be satisfied with a mere fuck, a moment where he could explode and have it all be done with. He wanted to savor her, run his tongue over each and every part of her, learn what made her sigh and quiver and scream his name.

  She broke the kiss, leaning back to look up at him, a dazed expression in her eyes. Likely the same one was in his.

  “What is happening here?” she asked. “I—my God, I’ve never,” and then she shook her head as though to clear it. His fingers still in her gown, his cock no doubt tenting his trousers. Surely she must feel it pressed against her?

  “What is happening, Olivia, is something that cannot happen again.” Edward sighed and leaned his forehead against hers, removing his fingers from her bodice and his hand from her arse. Putting his hands gently at her waist. “I am leaving. We likely won’t see one another again.” He placed a kiss on her forehead. “It has been a pleasure. Far more than I can, or should, say.”

  He stepped back, and gestured toward the ballroom. “You should probably precede me, since I am in no state to enter polite society at the moment.” Which was a discreet way to mention his erection, and hopefully she would understand.

  She darted a glance down—well, then, she did understand—and bit her lip. “Yes, of course. If you’ll excuse me,” she said, as though they had just parted from a waltz, not the most passionate and intense interlude he’d ever had. She squared her shoulders, gave him one last rueful smile, and returned to the ballroom, not once looking back at him.

  Leaving him bereft, with a massive cockstand, and a heart full of ache and longing.

  “We’re supposed to deliver the shifts today. Or had you forgotten?”

  Pearl’s voice roused Olivia out of an uncharacteristic bout of introspection. Normally she thought about the things she was aware of and was trying to solve.

  But now she was also thinking about the man she knew about and absolutely could not solve, and she suspected she would be thinking on that topic for a good long time.

  And she would never see him again.

  “Olivia?” Now Pearl sounded concerned.

  “Yes, of course,” Olivia replied, trying to return to her usual efficient tone. “We can deliver the shifts and we can also stop in to see the children.”

  “We’ve been too busy with all these parties,” Pearl said, making it sound as though she would rank parties just below stubbing one’s toe or drinking cold tea. Though for Pearl they were; she was too shy, too restless, to want to sit in a room filled with people she barely knew and likely wouldn’t want to.

  If only Society had more energetic events, possibly held outside, Pearl would be a lot happier. But until the best families decided Mayday poles and dances held in fields were the most appropriate way for them to show their being at the top of the social world, that likely wouldn’t happen.

  Though the thought of some of those ridiculous lords in over-snug trousers trying to waltz among bales of hay was rather amusing.

  “We should never be too busy to take care of people who need it,” Olivia replied. Feeling her chin lift in her usual stance of combat.

  It was only Pearl, but she couldn’t allow her skills to diminish. She never knew when some misguided man would tell her that children much preferred to work than have to go to school, and she would have to show him—in explicit and excruciating detail—why he was wrong.

  “Of course not,” Pearl replied drily. “Oh no, look!”

  She held up the topmost shift on the pile, which was now shredded at the neck with a few cat hairs indicating what had happened. “I thought I reminded you to put those in a box so the kittens couldn’t get to them.” She turned to look at Olivia. “You’re not normally this careless. Is something going on? Something I should know about?”

  “Uh,” Olivia began, only to stop when Pearl’s face lit up and she flung the shift back on the pile to run over to Olivia’s bed and hug her.

  “Something did happen! What happened? Did you finally realize you don’t really love Lord Carson? Was it when you were spending time with Mr. Wolcott? Did you fall in love with Mr. Wolcott? I have to say, I prefer him to Lord Carson. Lord Carson is always so serious and preoccupied. If you ask him a question like ‘Do you want sugar in your tea?’ you get the feeling you’ve just interrupted the course of progressive history. With Mr. Wolcott, he always seems as though he is grateful you’ve asked him about how he takes his tea.”

  Olivia bit her lip at Pearl’s statement; obviously Mr. Wolcott was grateful because so few people treated him with courtesy. Or the kind of discourtesy with which she had shown him last night. She couldn’t keep herself from wincing at the memory of it.

  “There was something.” Pearl narrowed her eyes at her sister. “You have to tell me. Or I’ll ask Ida to pretend we’re in chancery, and she can be the magistrate. You know you can’t withstand Ida asking questions.”

  The thought made Olivia flinch. No, she did not want her most analytical sister asking questions that would reveal that Olivia had basically thrown herself at Mr. Wolcott. Well, thrown her lips at his lips, to be more accurate.

  She leaned over to look under her bed, locating two of the four kittens and scooping them up into her lap—they protested with ridiculously cute meows.

  One of them, Snapper, began to knead her gown, his tiny claws getting stuck in the embroidery of her day gown. She kept extracting him from it, and he didn’t seem to be ruining anything—yet—and the joy of having two little furballs of love on her lap was worth a slight disarray of her gown, which was the one she kept for visits to the lesser neighborhoods she visited anyway.

  The other kitten curled up into a ball on her thigh and promptly fell asleep, Olivia scratching its head.

  “Yes, they are very sweet, but you cannot evade the questions through the use of feline subterfuge.”

  Olivia looked at Pearl in surprise. “Have you been spending more time with Ida lately? ‘Feline subterfuge’ sounds like somet
hing she would say in court, actually.”

  Pearl laughed. “No, I was just reading The Mystery of the Urn, or one of those kinds of books, and I thought I’d try speaking that way in real life.” Her expression became haughty. “Do you surmise I would be sufficiently able to persuade those persons of lesser intelligence and education of my undeniable ability to counteract any such attempt by another cat or cat-like animal to ravage ladies’ unmentionables?”

  “You mean convince people you can keep the cats away from the rest of the shifts?” Olivia replied, laughing at Pearl’s absurdity. “I think so. Have at it, sister.”

  Pearl got off the bed to take the shifts out of the cats’ way, and then returned to the bed, crossing her arms over her chest. “And now you have to tell me.”

  She did. She would have to. It often felt as though something hadn’t truly happened unless she could tell her twin all about it.

  They would have to discuss that in the future if or when one of them got married. But meanwhile, Olivia could tell her twin most of this.

  “I kissed him.”

  Pearl nodded slowly, encouraging Olivia to continue. “You kissed Mr. Wolcott, to be clear. You did not kiss Lord Carson.”

  “No. Not yet.” And maybe not ever, if what Pearl was suggesting and Olivia herself had wondered was true. Had she fallen out of love with Bennett? Had she ever been in love with him at all?

  “What kind of kiss was it? The kind that says, ‘Thank you for the dance, I’ve had one glass too many of champagne, and there’s your cheek’?” But judging by the way Pearl said it, she knew perfectly well it wasn’t that kind of kiss.

  “How would you know anything about any kisses at all?” Olivia glared at her sister, whose expression did not change.