Between the Devil and Desire

by Lorraine Heath

  Olivia was surprised by his words, because the same thought had crossed her mind.

  “I considered that, but it seems a flimsy reason. I’m not sure it really even matters anymore.”

  But Olivia couldn’t help but wonder if it did. It was something to ponder later. For now, she was well aware that she had Jack’s attention. He lifted his wineglass in a quiet salute and a promise that set her heart to racing.

  As much as she’d thought she wanted company, as much as she thought she would welcome a distraction from her isolated mourning, suddenly she was more than anxious for her guests to leave. She wanted a little time alone with Jack before he left for the club—which he would inevitably do. He always went to the club.

  Olivia felt wholly inadequate to entertain. In mourning, she’d been rather isolated and didn’t even have any gossip to share. Although she enjoyed the company and it was nice to visit with others for a change.

  She was more tired than she’d expected to be when Claybourne and Catherine took their leave. Jack was standing with her on the front steps, watching them drive away in their coach.

  “I can hardly believe I had the Devil Earl to dinner,” Olivia said, as Jack closed the door. He’d never been welcome in either her father’s or her brother’s homes.

  “The next thing you know, you’ll be inviting all of Feagan’s brood to dinner.”

  She doubted that, but she wasn’t going to be rude and admit it. After all, they were Jack’s friends.

  “None of you truly seems to give the impression you grew up on the streets.”

  “Claybourne’s grandfather hired tutors for us. He was determined we wouldn’t reflect our origins. It wouldn’t do for us to embarrass his grandson.”

  “You’ve had a rather unique upbringing.” They’d reached the stairs. She glanced upward, hesitant to retire.

  “Come have a little brandy,” Jack said quietly. “It’ll help you sleep.”

  “The last time I had brandy I woke up ill.”

  “Then I’ll pour you some whiskey.”

  Her breaths were becoming shallower as she anticipated that she might receive another kiss. She wanted it, wanted it desperately. She could do little more than nod.

  They walked to the library without touching. As soon as the footman closed the door in their wake, Jack had her in his arms, holding her close, as his mouth swooped down to claim hers. She wanted to laugh from the joy of his eagerness. She’d never felt desired, and with him, it was as though he was hungry, hungry for her alone.

  His mouth blazed a trail along her throat. “I was going mad sitting at that table making pleasant—and utterly boring—conversation, when all I could think about was how much I wanted to taste you instead of the chicken.”

  Perhaps not the most poetic of compliments, but she moaned and gave him easier access to her throat.

  “Come to my bed, Livy.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll kiss you from head to toe, I’ll kiss you in places I doubt Lovingdon ever did.”

  Heat poured through her, melting her bones until she was surprised she was still able to stand. Yes. Yes. Yes. “No.”

  She shoved the word up from the depths of her soul, a soul that refused to be compromised. Pushing away from him, she shook her head, deciding she needed more than the word to convince them both. “No. I can’t, Jack. I can’t.”

  His gaze slowly traveled over her. “And I can’t kiss you without wanting more.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Reaching out, he touched her cheek. “Don’t apologize, Livy. If I were a proper gentleman”—regret touched his eyes—“but I’m not. Will you at least take a walk about the garden with me?”

  “That would be lovely.” And just maybe she’d gather up the courage to forbid him once again to give her only a kiss.

  Olivia stood still and silent on the terrace while Jack had a footman go through the garden lighting the lanterns that would mark the path. A part of her regretted that she’d turned him away in the library. She was so tempted to give in to her desires, but a lifetime of moral upbringing could not be so easily set aside. She had to set an example for Henry, and maybe in a way, she wanted to set one for Jack. He seemed to believe a person was entitled to everything he wanted. But she knew if she gave in she’d lose his respect. She suspected he was only toying with her, seeking to add her to his long list of conquests.

  Not until the footman was finished and had retreated into the house did Jack extend his arm toward her. It was a lovely night. The fog had yet to arrive. She was not even bothered by the coolness of the air, because whenever Jack was near she always grew so incredibly warm, as though passion simmered just below the surface of her skin.

  “Of late, you’ve been asking me a lot of questions regarding the type of man I’d want for a husband,” she dared to begin.

  “Have you finally decided what you want? Or even better, which lord you prefer?”

  She fought back the disappointment that he still wished to be rid of her. Even though he claimed to want her in his bed, his words confirmed he was interested in nothing more than a dalliance.

  “No, actually, but I was curious regarding what you want in a wife.”

  “I have no plans to ever marry.”

  “Never?”

  “Why so shocked? Surely you of all people know the difficulty I’d have in finding a woman to take me as a husband.”

  “If you were to reform—”

  His low, dark laughter cut off her words, shimmered through her, and seemed to blend in with the shadows hovering at the edges of the path.

  “I have no interest in reforming.”

  “I can’t even begin to comprehend why you would willingly choose a lonely life of decadence over one that offered marriage and a family.”

  “Then allow me to demonstrate.”

  His arm snaked around her, drawing her up against his body, even as he maneuvered her off the path. His mouth claimed hers with a hunger that startled her. If at all possible, this kiss was more intimate, more demanding, more persuasive than the previous one they’d shared. It was all-consuming, encompassing every aspect of her being, until she was aware of nothing existing beyond them. One of his large hands cupped the back of her neck, his fingers playing a seductive tune along her spine. Her knees immediately weakened and she clutched his shoulders, reflexively pressing her body against his for support. With a groan, his mouth never leaving hers, he urged her farther into the shadows, until the brick of the wall cooled her back. But it couldn’t touch the fever rampaging through her.

  She was mad with desire as she cradled his face. It wasn’t enough. She wanted to feel more of his skin against her fingertips, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask for more—or to take that which she so craved. Surely he felt the want shimmering through her, just as she felt his yearning in the tautness of his muscles as he wedged his knee between her thighs.

  The pressure was heavenly even as it stoked the flames of passion. She’d never, never experienced such intense longing, had never felt the nerve endings whispering along her skin, begging for more, for something elusive, something she didn’t quite comprehend—but she knew it was waiting, knew he had the skills, the knowledge to bring it cresting toward fulfillment.

  She moaned as his mouth left hers to blaze a heated path along the underside of her chin. She tipped her head back in ecstasy, gave him leave to taste her.

  “Come to my bed,” he rasped.

  “I can’t.” Her words carried her profound disappointment.

  She’d expected him to stop then, to relieve her of this torment, but instead he took his mouth lower, his lips and tongue skimming along her collarbone, settling in the hollow at the base of her throat. How could so small a touch create such intense weakness in her limbs while ushering in such powerful pleasure?

  As he eased the bodice of her gown down, his low groan of triumph filled her with unbridled satisfaction, so intense that she couldn’t bring herself to chastise him
for the liberties he was taking. Then his mouth closed over her breast, and suddenly his thigh pressing against her wasn’t enough. She heard her mournful cry, was barely aware of her fingers slipping beneath his jacket to dig into his shoulders, and her hips squirming against him.

  “Shh, shh. Easy, sweetheart. All in good time,” he murmured.

  Good? There was nothing good about this. It was decadent and wicked, but she’d never felt more like a woman in her entire life. She’d lost all semblance of control. Sanity was a distant concept.

  She was vaguely aware of the rustling of her skirts a heartbeat before she felt his warm fingers gliding along her thighs. Whimpering, she cradled his jaw, urged his mouth back to hers, and thrust her tongue between his lips, muffling his dark chuckle. Was he feeling victorious over her? Or was he simply pleased beyond measure that she’d taken the initiative, that he’d stirred to life something over which she no longer had any control?

  His nimble fingers worked their way through her clothing until they were lost in her curls, skillfully enticing her to respond to his urgings. He was a thief, stealing from her any power to resist. Her body tightened and thrummed. Pleasure such as she’d never experienced hovered, taunting her with the whispers of something more.

  “Come to my bed,” he growled.

  “No.” She nearly wept with wanting what she knew he could give her, cursed her own strong-willed purpose.

  She was aware of movement at her hip, even as his fingers never stilled their dancing over her sensitive flesh. With his free hand, he threaded his fingers through hers, those digging into his shoulder and brought them down, down, wrapping them around his bulging and heated velvet shaft. Guiding her hand to touch him intimately, stroking him even as he stroked her, while her pleasure rioted beyond control.

  He slid a finger into her, then two, his thumb pressing against her swollen flesh, caressing intimately, creating incredibly sweet sensations—

  As the cataclysm rocked her, he turned his face into her shoulder, his mouth pressed against her neck. His body bucked, his harsh growl echoing around him, his hot seed surging into and over her hand. Breathing harshly, he collapsed against her.

  Tremors cascaded through her while she slowly became aware of her surroundings. Recognizing what had transpired here in the garden, shame swamped her. Shame for her lack of control. Anger at him for doing this to her. Fury at herself for letting him, for encouraging him, for pressing against him instead of moving away.

  “Oh, God.” Finally, at long last, she found the wherewithal to push him aside.

  He staggered. “Livy—”

  “No, no.” Then she was running toward the house, tugging up her bodice, ignoring the remnants of the delicious release, swiping at the tears that threatened to blind her.

  Grief nearly overwhelmed her. While married she’d never experienced anything closely resembling the heights of passion she’d just achieved. Jack Dodger had certainly earned his reputation. He was indeed the devil. Tonight he’d carried her to heaven.

  Now she’d languish in hell.

  Chapter 17

  Sitting on the bench in the garden, Jack knew he should have gone after her. That she’d recovered enough to run, while he could barely stagger, had made an immediate pursuit impossible. He’d considered going to her when he was more in control, but what good would that do? He’d heard her sobs. Did she expect him to apologize? He had no regrets. If he was honest, that wasn’t exactly true. It bothered him that she was upset. As for himself, he was bloody-well terrified.

  He’d never reacted to a woman like that. He’d never wanted to bring one pleasure that exceeded his. And now he felt so damned vulnerable. He wanted to crawl into her bed, fold himself around her, and have her hold him.

  What the hell was the matter with him?

  His business was sex. It was all about satisfying physical urges and then moving on to the next source of pleasure.

  But she wasn’t his business, and God help him, what had transpired between them hadn’t been only sex.

  He should go to his club, return in the morning, and pretend tonight hadn’t happened.

  Or he could get drunk, go to bed, get up in the morning with a staggering headache, and pretend tonight never happened.

  But it had happened, and he wasn’t likely to ever forget it.

  With her head buried beneath the pillow, Olivia awoke to gritty eyes, a stuffed nose, and a woozy head. If she didn’t know better she’d think she was getting ill again. But she did know better. Just as she had when she was a little girl and her dog had died, she’d cried herself to sleep. How had she let Jack take those liberties with her? Although she was plagued by a more important question: How had she wanted him to? And she had. He’d effectively stolen her willpower. Now she was going to have to go down to breakfast and face him. How could she meet his gaze without remembering every wickedly wonderful thing he’d done to her body?

  Rolling over, she screeched at the sight of Jack standing at the foot of the bed. Scrambling up, she pressed her back to the mound of pillows. “You promised never to come to my bed.”

  “I’ve kept my promise. I’m at least two inches away.”

  His voice held none of its usual teasing. He was completely dressed, yet he left her unsettled. Perhaps it was the way he held her gaze as though he had nothing of which to be ashamed, or the fact that he was familiar with not only her body but its reaction to his touch. She lowered her gaze and began tugging on a thread on the counterpane. “Why are you here?”

  “Look at me, Livy.”

  It was so very hard, but she refused to be cowed. Defiantly she glared at him, surprised to discover his eyes held not a speck of triumph. She’d expected him to lord her shameful behavior over her. Instead, the arrogant, self-assured, confident Jack Dodger appeared—dare she even think it—remorseful.

  “I’m not in the habit of losing control when I’m with a woman.” She lowered her gaze to that wondrous mouth he’d pressed to her throat, his hot breath heating her skin as he—

  “I want you, Livy. I want you as I’ve never wanted any woman, and that’s not an easy thing for me to admit. I’m certain my behavior is not what you’re accustomed to.”

  She thought that could possibly be the understatement of the century.

  “But I won’t apologize for it,” he continued. “I can promise you that it won’t happen again.”

  With that he spun on his heel and left the room. She wasn’t quite sure it was a promise she wanted him to keep.

  They studiously avoided each other for the next two days—or perhaps it was only Olivia who was finding so many excuses to be in other portions of the residence whenever she thought Jack was on the prowl. Breakfast was not too terribly thorny because Henry was always there, serving as a buffer. Olivia would sit at the foot of the table and surreptitiously watch Jack as he patiently answered the thousands of questions that Henry seemed to have—all of which began with why.

  Dinner was a bit more challenging. The night before, they’d actually discussed the weather, which had almost made Olivia weep. They’d become such polite strangers. He no longer teased her or challenged her or flirted with her.

  And she missed him terribly.

  Standing in the window in one of the upstairs bedchambers, she watched as Jack darted over the lawn, trying to catch Henry in their regular afternoon game. Henry was doing his usual crowing and Jack was laughing. It was amazing how well they got along. It was almost like watching two boys at play—

  But Jack was not a boy. While she suspected life was more carefree for him now than it had been when he’d grown up on the streets, she also thought he carried a good deal more responsibility.

  She knew him only from his life here. But he had another one that was very different. She wanted to see it.

  Jack had his carriage brought around earlier than usual. He could hardly stand to be in the house any longer. Dinners shared with Livy had turned unbearably awkward.

  She’d tak
en to once again studying him as though he should be on display somewhere. They discussed the perfection of the food they were eating—if they spoke at all. Most of the time, he avoided looking at her because he didn’t want her to see how very much he yearned to have her.

  After dinner, she retreated to her room and he went to the library. He was at his desk drowning his desires in whiskey when Brittles came into the room.

  “Your carriage is ready, sir.”

  He nodded and finished off his whiskey. As he passed the stairs, he considered going up them, going to Livy’s room, and breaking his promise not to go to her bed. But when he gave his word, he meant it. It was the only honorable trait to which he could still lay claim.

  A footman opened the door. Jack strode on, determined to do whatever was required to get her off his mind. Use Pru if necessary, even though the option left him with a hollow ache. Hurrying down the steps, he ignored the light mist falling. It suited his mood.

  A footman opened the carriage door. “Sir.”

  Jack acknowledged him with a nod, placed his foot on the step, vaulted up, became aware of a familiar scent—

  “Going to your club?”

  At the unexpected feminine voice, one that haunted him, he jerked upward and banged his head. “Dammit!”

  He swung inside and dropped onto the bench. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  Olivia had not expected to take him so completely by surprise. Served him right, though, for that first night when he’d given her such a fright. “I want to go with you.”

  “Don’t be silly. The only women allowed in my club are those willing to provide services to men. Is that what you’re entertaining? If so I can accommodate you here.”

  She should have known he’d not make this easy, but she’d not be dissuaded.

  “As you’re the owner, surely you can make an exception.”

  He settled back into the corner of the carriage. She could feel his intense gaze on her. “Why?”

  “I know you’re a fair guardian to Henry. I know you’re very astute when it comes to acquiring money. I’d like to see your business firsthand.”