THE RAKE AND THE BISHOP'S DAUGHTER (The Friendship Series Book 3)

by Julia Donner

  The men bowed, but before they could move to obey, Olivia swept away from the two combatants, heading for the hallway. Both men rushed to follow her out.

  Lady Asterly glanced around the room. The coterie of friends, who had been watching the impending social disaster from a safe distance, exchanged looks at each other, then as a group, hurried to the hallway.

  Chapter 22

  Olivia didn’t know where she was going, she only knew that she had to get away from Harry and Quentin before she brained them with the closest object. Lady Asterly’s vases looked terribly valuable.

  Guests had relinquished the pretense of politely ignoring the argument between Harry and Quentin and had finally given in to outright gaping at the snarling match. She supposed part of their shock might be due to the fact that Handsome Harry never showed his volatile side in public. They received a good dose of it when Harry stuck his nose in Quentin’s face and threatened to tear Quentin’s head off.

  A hand grasped her arm. She was in enough of a temper herself to tighten a fist but a rational corner of her mind stopped her from taking a swing.

  Harry pulled her around to face him. “Olivia, stop! Forgive me. That was an inexcusable scene and at Lizzie’s party for us.”

  Shuddering under the strain of humiliation and outrage, she pointed at the room they’d vacated. “How many ways can I tell you how dreadful that was? My father saw you acting like a child arguing over a toy. Lady Asterly’s friends and guests were treated to that ridiculous display. And father, he left! He actually left without saying anything to anyone.”

  Harry ignored the onlookers collecting in the hallway but keeping their distance. Contrite and in a low voice, he soothed, “He wouldn’t depart without taking his leave from Lizzie and Perry, and everyone here tonight is either someone who cares enough to understand or be considerate enough to forgive. Please, come back inside.”

  She started to soften, for who could resist Harry, when Quentin grabbed her arm and snarled, “Let her be, fop. You’ve made a hash of it and shown everyone what a coward you are. Come, Olivia. I’ll find your father and escort you back to Lord Godolming.”

  Harry said through his teeth, “Take your hand off her.”

  Quentin pinched her arm tighter and crowded closer. Caught between them, Olivia looked up at two bombs about to explode and lost all patience. She shoved at them with her elbows but couldn’t budge them. She felt like a fool caught in a farce and sent a visual plea to Harry’s friends gathered in the hallway. Lady Ravenswold and Alfred Bates looked amused. Lady Asterly’s frown deepened Olivia’s mortification, especially when Lady Asterly gave her husband a shove and Ravenswold a severe glare. The two men reluctantly obeyed.

  Asterly inserted an arm between Olivia and Harry and pressed it against his brother’s chest, herding him back a few steps. Harry glowered but didn’t fight his brother.

  Rave merely stood over Quentin and glared down. Quentin immediately relented but continued to bristle, his face red with suppressed passion.

  Olivia put a hand to her brow and struggled to gain objectivity. Harry and Quentin had made a farce of their engagement party and announcement. Behind her, she heard someone titter and mutter something about the pair being forever known as the Fighting Collyns. Her father had departed in disgust. She could only hope he’d left the room and not the house. If he followed through with one of his many threats to throw her out, she had nowhere to go. Harry revealed the temper Asterly had warned her about, and worst of all, this fiasco would attach itself to Lord and Lady Asterly.

  She had thought there could be no sinking lower. Then Quentin, who had shown some sense by standing well out of Ravenswold’s shadow, loudly said, “I demand satisfaction. Are you a gentleman or not, Collyns?”

  Olivia softly groaned. This could not be happening. There had been a small chance that this evening’s contretemps might be set down as yet another one of Handsome Harry’s comical exhibitions. A public challenge to duel where ladies were present was not an incident that could be kept quiet. There was also the matter of the law.

  Harry, grimly amused, answered, “At your convenience, you pathetic twit. Name your weapons.”

  Horrified at such stupidity, and the blatant announcement of the breaking of the law, Olivia cried, “You’re both idiots. Quentin, leave. There will be no dueling.”

  Harry jerked from his brother’s hold, took a step closer, and over her head demanded, “Where and when?”

  Quentin’s face split into a nasty grin of satisfaction. “Pistols.”

  Icy terror clutched her from head to foot. Olivia heard Lady Asterly cry out, “Harry, stop this. You can’t see well enough.”

  Quentin’s smile broadened. Olivia’s fear switched to fury and she turned on Quentin. “You cad. You know about his poor eyesight and expected him to retract. Have you no common sense inside that dense head of yours? This is the sort of pitiable scene that will destroy any hope you have of winning an election.”

  “Have a care how you speak to me, Olivia. Out of respect for the duke, I’ve not told the yellow sheets the truth of it between you and this coward.”

  The hands she’d fisted in anger uncurled to claws, but before she could attack, Bates happily called out, “I’ll kill him for you, Harry!”

  That erased the smirk from Quentin’s face, and he muttered, “Not surprised the fop lacks the bollocks to fight.”

  Harry lunged to one side and yanked an epee from a pair mounted on the wall. Olivia cried a protest and grabbed Harry’s sleeve with both hands, but he set her aside with a startling gentleness in contrast to his murderous grin of anticipation and would have skewered Quentin if not for his brother.

  Asterly tackled Harry to the floor, shouting, “Somebody get that out of his hand!”

  Ravenswold leaned over and pinched Harry’s wrist in a way that his grip released enough for the blade to be twisted free. Asterly stood, hauled a glowering Harry to his feet, and kept a restraining arm over Harry’s chest.

  Then Quentin made the ultimate mistake of not counting himself lucky to be alive. With a sneer, he taunted, “Good thing you have your friends to protect you, Collyns, and to make it official, I give you leave to keep that one. I’ll get enough support without that slut’s help.”

  Onlookers gasped. Harry stilled, a deadly calm. Olivia closed her eyes. She had thought nothing could make this horrible evening worse.

  Asterly dropped his arm, and in the silence said, “Have at him.”

  A long stride swept Harry toward Quentin, who reflexively raised his fists, but too late. Harry dealt him a swift jab in the face then a brutal blow to the temple. Quentin went down and didn’t move. Everyone in the passageway, and peering in from the hall, gaped.

  Impressed, Bates muttered, “Blast it, Harry. That was a nasty cuff.”

  Harry said, “He’s damned fortunate I didn’t do worse. I’m dying to kick him into oblivion.”

  Lady Asterly came to stand over the fallen guest. She patted Olivia’s arm and murmured, “At least it serves to keep him quiet. The fellow’s bad form has quite overset us all. Harry, are you quite finished?”

  Olivia resisted the urge to step back when Harry directed a glittering gaze at her and whispered, “Not yet.”

  She didn’t care for his tone, but was still angry enough to engage in a fight.

  Chapter 23

  Elizabeth Asterly had exhausted her store of social remedies for all situations. She had no solution for the present state of a battleground in the hallway outside the blue withdrawing room. She looked at the couple who had recently announced their engagement, not more than three hours ago, at her dinner table. Harry had doted on his intended, like the playful scamp he was, with no care for his display of prurient interest or her obvious discomfort.

  At present, they both looked as tightly strung as piano wires ready to snap. There was no sign of Harry’s carefree good humor. The dignified reserve that Mrs. St. Clair used to mask her startling sensuality had been b
lown away by outrage. Not the best way to start off a new marriage.

  Recalling the rocky beginning she and Peregrine had had to overcome, Elizabeth studied the pair with pity, reminded of the old adage that warned about constantly good-natured people. They appeared as kind and malleable as heated wax, but often hid a large store of explosive temper when provoked. Harry and Olivia looked to be a prime example of that axiom.

  With a gaze Elizabeth didn’t wish to decipher fixed on his bride, Harry said, “Lizzie, point me to the nearest empty room.”

  “Ah, privacy to settle your differences. An excellent idea.” Elizabeth peered down the partially lit hallway. “The nearest is the ballroom, but it’s unlit.”

  “A bit large for my purpose, but lit or not, it will do. Perry, see that no one goes down this passage or comes inside the ballroom.” He called over his shoulder as he tugged a sputtering Olivia down the passage, “My thanks, Lizzie.”

  With her head tilted to one side, Elizabeth frowned down at the problem of an unconscious man sprawled in the passageway. She nudged his arm with the tip of her slipper. “Peregrine, do you think it’s dead?”

  Her husband didn’t answer. He watched his brother tow his intended down the hallway. She tugged for freedom, digging at the fingers clamped around her wrist, and issuing hissing threats.

  “What did you say, Elizabeth?”

  “Nothing important.” She winced when the ballroom door slammed shut.

  Peregrine casually asked, “Should I offer Mrs. St. Clair assistance?”

  “No. Even though she appears violently opposed, I believe it’s merely the token resistance necessary to give the illusion of feminine modesty. I’m more concerned about the trouble Harry will be in if he’s killed someone.”

  After a cursory glance at Goodfall, Peregrine murmured, “Doubt it, m’dear. The world couldn’t end up so fortunate as to be shed of such an idiot. And if Harry had wanted him dead, he would’ve kept beating on the lout. Had he said such a vicious thing about you, I’d have done so.”

  She stared at her husband for a moment then looked down the now empty corridor. “Now that I give it some thought, do you think Mrs. St. Clair will be all right? I don’t recall ever seeing Harry that upset.”

  He leveled a meaningful stare at her. “I doubt he plans to hurt her, Elizabeth.”

  She looked back, absorbing the content of his speaking gaze, then said, “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Peregrine dryly repeated.

  “Perhaps while they are…otherwise engaged, I should send for Crimm. He’ll know how to discard this fellow. I’m not sure I like the high-handed manner of the bishop to invite him along. I’ve never heard of a Quentin Goodfall before this evening.”

  “From an overheard word, I believe he has political aspirations. Do fetch Crimm. I should stay here, though, as Harry asked. On guard, I suppose one could say, for privacy’s sake.”

  “Whatever for? It’s not as if Goodfall is going to wake up anytime soon.”

  Peregrine again gave his wife a speaking look. She frowned then glanced down the hallway. She inhaled a quick breath when understanding came. “Ah. I see. Yes, it would be a good idea for you to keep watch. I suppose there’s no need to comment on the fact that she’s already in an interesting state.”

  He smirked. “Interesting. Yes, that would be Harry’s way of doing things. Bloody cock-up, if you ask me.”

  “Asterly!” Elizabeth scolded. “Such language, and here in the passage where anyone might hear.“ She stood on tiptoe for a quick kiss on his mouth, and while there whispered, “Save that sort of talk for my bedchamber. I must see to our guests.”

  Grinning, he propped his back against the wall and said, “Get rid of them before dawn and I’ll teach you the naughty ones I learned on the Calais docks.”

  Chapter 24

  When she couldn’t pry Harry’s fingers from her wrist, Olivia leaned back, using her weight to resist. His grip didn’t hurt, but did make her angry. She planted her slippers flat so he had to tow her across the parquet floor. Lamplight from the street cast elongated shadows on the polished wood. The tang of lemon oil and the sweet perfume of beeswax tapers filled the echoing, empty space. Her skidding soles made squeaky noises as she worked at his fingers to free her wrist, which did nothing to halt the momentum of his dragging her in his wake to a slanted rectangle of gaslight from the streetlamp.

  Not sure why, she felt compelled to whisper, “For heaven’s sake, Harry. What are we doing here?” When he refused to answer, she muttered, “You’re acting pig-headed. Let go. You’re ruining my glove.”

  Inner turmoil lowered and roughened his soothing baritone to a growl. “I’ll buy you another pair.”

  “Why are we here?” The instant the question came out, she knew the answer.

  “You know why. I’m done with waiting.”

  When they reached the window’s light, he swung her around to face him. Her chest bumped against his. It felt like colliding with a wall. The glint in his eyes silenced her with a streak of leg-weakening excitement.

  “It’s been months, Olivia. Endless weeks. Contracts and settlements are signed. There’s a cleric of some kind here. I say let’s get married tonight. Now. In this room for all I care.”

  She started to say something about a special license but was cut off by his mouth taking hers. Every nerve and fiber sizzled to life. A rush of desperate hunger matched his. She clutched his jacket lapels, then his shoulders, and stretched up on tiptoe.

  Breaking off the wild kiss, he pulled her toward a bank of chairs by the window. He rejected the narrow seats with a glance and pressed her to the wall. His lips created a burning trail across the exposed tops of her breasts pressed up from the tight bodice. A nip through the material sent desire tearing through her, saturating her with the need to laugh with relief, and wail for more.

  Every touch painfully heightened the next. Memories of what they’d done together at Beechgate Cottage flooded through her mind as his fingers encircled her waist. His hips pushed her backward into the drapes. Flourishing designs in the stiff material scratched the bared skin of her upper back and shoulders. The wet heat of his mouth and scrape of his teeth slid down the side of her neck. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t get enough of him.

  When he grabbed a handful of her skirts and knelt, she didn’t know how to control the sobbing need. She reached down to sink her hands into his hair but he seized her wrist, allowing no interference. Dazed, she heard an incoherent voice, her own, begging him not to stop, weeping with urgency.

  He released her wrist and made her hold the skirt and shift, shoved up to her waist. He used his teeth to yank off a glove. Excitement shivered down her legs when he slid his warm palm under her knee to lift and place slipper on a nearby chair seat. Cool air brushed across her exposed hips and thighs. She clenched the gown tighter to her waist. Her free hand groped for and found the edge of the drapes as his fingers slid inside the emptiness, found and circled a spot, the exact place he’d found before. When she pushed against the pressure, he rubbed harder and gently bit into her thigh to hold her still.

  Pleasure’s sting spiraled down her legs and across her hips. He said something. She shook her head, too deep in pleasure to understand, caught in the delicious ache that flared outward. Fierce tension coiled in her abdomen, burning down low, where it twisted into a vise of strained expectation.

  Somewhere she heard voices. Her eyes flew open. Fear of discovery warred with reckless excitement and the craving for relief. She sank back into the delicious ache that only Harry could create. There was no resisting his fierce eagerness to give her everything. Her body’s greedy acceptance stole all will to resist. She writhed with the rhythm of his guidance, helpless to fight the pleasure’s burn. Every muscle went rigid at the edge of release. She let go of the drapes and bit into her gloved hand to muffle a shriek.

  Blinded by the sharp release, she blinked and gazed around the empty ballroom. Her panting breaths sounded lou
d in the dark. She looked down into the flash of satisfaction in impossibly blue eyes. He wasn’t finished, wasn’t going to relent, and proved it when he swiftly stood. He tugged her closer to the brighter light in the window well and used his entire body to imprison her against the wall. His voice sounded unrecognizable as he spoke into her mouth.

  “I’m going to watch your face this time. Hold up your dress again, Olivia. Bless all the gods that you haven’t accepted that ridiculous French fashion of drawers.”

  Too excited to protest, she gathered up the hem. Shivers of anticipation made her breathing erratic. His stare never left hers as he roughly undid front buttons. He hoisted her up as if she weighed nothing. “Put your legs around me, love. This way, you won’t be able to move but you’ll like it. No, don’t look away. I want to watch you.”

  She gasped from the suddenness of his entry. His fingers cupped her bottom, digging deep to direct and lift her into his thrusts. He punctuated every lunge with words and orders that excited her more than the elicit wonder of what they were doing, the terrible fright of being interrupted at any moment.

  Against her mouth, he said, “You’re mine, do you hear?”

  Stunned by his vehemence, she jerked a nod and glanced at the closed ballroom doors. “Don’t look away, Olivia. No interfering family or law can ever take you from me. Never again. Do you understand?”

  She could only gasp for air as his movements became more forceful. Her body responded to his ferocity, tensing until she couldn’t bear it. She clung to him with thighs and arms, urged him faster with her heels and shameless whimpers. She no longer cared that he watched her abandonment with fierce triumph. Caught in her own ruthless drive for completion, she clutched his thick hair and stared back, savoring their shared ragged breaths, until her body froze and broke. She wailed into the cloth covering his shoulder. He muffled the sound of his release by pressing his face into her hair.