by Darcy Burke
“Do you want that?”
Shame threatened her pleasure, but if she desired something, she should claim it for herself. For all the lonely nights that stretched ahead.
“Yes. Please,” she added, lest he continue to taunt her.
He slid his middle finger inside her again. She was slick and his entry was easy. Shivers of ecstasy radiated from her core. She tipped up into him. He moved, slipping the finger out once more. She pushed forward, pleading for its return. He responded with a quick thrust. Olivia cast her head back.
He moved his finger in and out, slowly, gently at first. Then faster, pumping until her hips rose to meet him.
She gripped the coverlet with her fists and forced her eyes open so she could watch him. Watch him watch her. He stared intently at her face while his finger worked inside of her. The connection between them went beyond the visual and the tactile. And then he broke the moment, pulling his finger away. Olivia cried out. She reached for his hand.
He coaxed her back along the bed, leaning down between her legs. And put his mouth where his fingers had been. Just as when he’d kissed her, he didn’t seek to coddle her or gently arouse her senses. He demanded total response, sucking hard on the sensitive bead at the top of her opening. Olivia closed her eyes, could barely withstand the pressure down there. Then he licked. The wetness of his mouth combined with her dew until she didn’t know where she ended and he began.
Olivia’s breath came in sharp pants. So close now. If he didn’t release her from this torment soon, she would die.
Then his fingers pressed that delicious part of her that most craved his attention. He worked her flesh to a frenzy. She bucked off the bed, reaching out…yes.
She’d been alone so long. His touch, his care, his devotion, even if it was only to her body, filled her with joy. The world opened, and anything seemed possible.
He backed away from her and removed his boots. The setting sun basked the chamber in a warm, golden glow. She stared at his bare chest, riveted while he removed his stockings. He was magnificently built. Darkened nipples crowned perfectly formed muscles. Her fingers itched to touch him. And after what he’d just given her…she couldn’t simply lie there.
She kneeled up and ran her hands over his chest. He was hot. She found a small patch of fine hair in the center, but the rest of him was as smooth and hard as carved stone. He tensed, but she thought it was from pleasure.
“My breeches.” His voice was dark, rough, dangerous.
Olivia dipped her fingers down to the top of his breeches. Here she encountered another trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. She unbuttoned the fall and traced the blond path, savoring the labored sounds of his breathing.
“Take them off.” There was desperation in his tone.
She understood how he felt and smiled to herself. Her knuckles brushed against the part of him he’d pressed between her legs. The part he would soon put inside of her. A new wave of moisture rushed to her center.
His hips thrust forward. She touched him again, this time with purpose. She grazed her fingers along the tip straining against his drawers. He pushed his garments down, but in his haste, the drawers and breeches tangled together. Olivia put her hands over his and pulled the breeches down first. Once they reached his thighs, he tore them from his body. Then she tugged his drawers over his hips. His sex sprang from the linen. She swallowed.
While he stripped the undergarment away, she continued to stare at him. Hair surrounded his erection. And two tight sacs of flesh hung beneath. Curious as to their texture, she touched one. They tensed. Emboldened, she ran her finger up the length of his shaft. The flesh was surprisingly silky, but hard, like his chest. Puzzling how he could feel so soft and so hard at once. Men, it would seem, were made of two distinct opposites.
She reached the tip. Moisture gathered there as it did between her thighs. Could she taste him as he’d tasted her? His hand closed over hers. He circled her fingers around him, guided her palm down to the base and back again. He repeated the motion but with greater urgency. He wanted her to pump him with the same tempo he’d used on her.
Happily, she obliged, and his hand fell away. His eyes were closed, his head tipped back. The dimming light allowed her a dusky view of his masculine features. The rough planes were broken only by the curl of his golden lashes against his cheeks. She pressed her lips to his, wanting to steal the anguish hiding in the lines of his face. He opened his mouth, kissing her with savage intensity.
She worked her hand harder. He stabbed forward with tongue and shaft, sliding into her mouth and fist. With her other hand, she pulled at his hip, guiding him toward her.
With a loud groan, he wrapped his arms around her and pressed her back onto the bed. He followed her, dipping the mattress with his powerful frame, and settled between her legs. He positioned the tip of his shaft at her opening. She rocked her hips up, and he surged forward. She stretched to accommodate his invasion, but there was a burning discomfort as her muscles pulled in a new way. She gasped and tried to retreat. He set his hands on her hips and pushed inside of her.
He froze over her. “I didn’t know… You wanted to continue… God, what have I done?” He hadn’t expected her to be a virgin.
Olivia cringed at the regret in his voice. She touched his face. “Don’t. I did want you. I still do.”
He bent down and whispered in her ear. “I’m sorry.” He didn’t move, just rested within her. Slowly, the discomfort receded. He sat up and put his finger between them, stroked her flesh until pleasure began to build once more.
She pulsed around him, rotated her pelvis up. Then he pulled out. No, come back.
He stroked forward then backward. The friction—God—was exquisite. His finger continued to work her while he plunged in and out. She wanted more, had to have him deep inside of her. She wrapped her legs around him. He clasped her hips with both hands and drove into her with blistering force. Yes. This was what she needed. His breathing grew ragged, his grip more harsh, his fingers biting into her flesh. Then he moved them up to her breasts and squeezed.
Olivia reached up and pulled his head down for a ravenous, penetrating kiss.
He groaned into her mouth. “Olivia. I have to—” Whatever he meant to say next was cut off by a rasp as he pulled out of her. Her pleasure had been intense, but his abrupt departure prevented her reaching the same peak. He cried out, arching his neck back and then fell beside her.
She was cold without his weight pressing her into the bed. She became aware of moisture on her cheek. She wasn’t crying. Had he? No, she couldn’t imagine a man like him—any man really—shedding tears. His skin was heated, slick with perspiration. That had to be the cause.
He shifted, pulling her back against him. Their breathing regulated. She relaxed in his embrace. Later she would get up and put herself to rights. For now, she allowed herself to feel protected. Cherished.
A knock on the door jolted both of them up.
“Olivia, are you awake, dear?”
Ruined.
Chapter Fourteen
JASPER SCRAMBLED off the bed. Had he really just ruined his second virgin? Bloody hell.
Olivia also left the bed, her tattered shift still hanging from her shoulders. She picked up her discarded garments as she hurried toward her dressing chamber. “Yes, just give me a moment, Louisa,” she called.
He grabbed his clothing and trailed her into the dressing chamber.
Her eyes widened. “What are you going to do?” She pulled on a dressing robe, covering her lush curves.
“I’m going to get dressed.”
Her gaze raked his nude body. Lust poured through him.
She turned her head but not before he saw her cheeks redden. “You’re not going to tell Louisa?”
“God, no.” He pulled on his breeches.
She nodded and left, closing the door behind her.
He drew his shirt over his head. She’d been a virgin. He never would have done it if he’d k
nown. But then, he hadn’t asked. His hands fisted.
After a moment during which he couldn’t form coherent thought, Jasper pressed his ear to the wood. Olivia had admitted Louisa. Their conversation was too muffled. He eased open the door to reveal a thin strip of the bedchamber. He didn’t want to see, just to hear.
“How was your outing, dear?”
“Pleasant. I’ll tell you about it at dinner. Your ankle must be feeling better.”
“Indeed, I think we can return to London tomorrow. I understand Jasper arrived. Perhaps he’ll dine with us.”
He couldn’t have dinner with them. Not after what he’d just done.
He sank onto a cushioned bench. Slowly he pulled on a stocking. Christ above! His boots were still out there.
Jasper sprang to his feet and began an apprehensive circuit around the small room. He was a defiler of virgins. Again. Yes, they’d both been as eager as he, but damn it, he was no better than his father alleged.
At last he knew the truth about her bait and switch scheme. Her virginity wasn’t the proof, but her vulnerability. He knew her regret was real, recognized it in himself. And if she hadn’t lied about that… Could he trust her? Could she be Merry’s daughter? Louisa evidently thought so. And if she wanted to trust Olivia, perhaps he should too.
But there were still so many lies. Louisa needed to know Olivia was Fiona’s daughter. She was bound to find out, and it would be best if she heard it from Olivia. It made no sense, however, to ever let her know about his and Olivia’s prior acquaintance, and certainly not their current relationship.
Which was what? She couldn’t be his mistress. That would devastate Louisa. But neither could she be his wife. What the hell was he thinking? She was the bastard daughter of a notorious actress. The duke would get rid of her, just as he’d done with Abigail. That would also devastate Louisa. What a goddamned mess.
The dressing room door creaked open. He opened his eyes and tipped his head up. Olivia stood in the doorway with his boots in her hand.
Jasper cringed. “Did my aunt see them?”
She dropped them at his feet. “No, thank goodness.”
Quietly, he pulled on his other stocking and then his boots. “I didn’t know you were a virgin.”
She’d assumed a position on the opposite side of the room, near her dressing table. “I know. I should have told you.” She crossed her arms. “Would you have stopped?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m glad I didn’t tell you.” She straightened and gave him a defiant look. She would have been imposing if she wasn’t wearing a dressing robe and her hair didn’t appear as if she’d been totally and blissfully fucked.
“From now on, I want total honesty from you.” He stood. “About everything.”
She nodded. “What are you going to do now that you know the truth?”
“We have a problem. I’m afraid it’s going to be very easy for someone to link you to Fiona Scarlet. Your bastardy—sorry—can’t be discovered. Louisa would be a laughingstock, and my father would make your life miserable. If you think you were in dire straits before…” He could only imagine what the duke would do. He’d exported Abigail and her parents on a ship to America as if they’d been goods destined for market.
She sat down on the chair at the dressing table. “I should leave.”
He wanted to go to her, but knew it would be a mistake. He couldn’t touch her again. Ever. “Louisa wouldn’t want that. I’ll figure something out.”
“Are you going to stay for dinner?”
He allowed a wry smile. “I don’t think that would be wise.” He should see Louisa before he left, but her lack of faith in him hurt. He had to talk to her about it, but not now.
Jasper was already outside Olivia’s bedchamber before he realized she’d never told him about her errand. He’d ask her another day. He’d meant it when he’d said no more lies—because he’d wanted to protect Louisa. But now he had to protect Olivia too.
IF Olivia’s bed at Benfield hadn’t reminded her totally and painfully of Jasper, she’d have hidden in it all day. Instead, she spent the morning closeted in the library while her maid prepared for their return to London.
The words in the book she was vainly trying to read blurred together. Since she hadn’t turned a page in over a quarter hour, she dropped the novel onto a table beside her wing-backed chair. She picked up her sewing basket and removed the pieces of Jasper’s waistcoat. Last night when she couldn’t sleep, she’d gone ahead and selected a design and cut the fabric. Normally, stitching would soothe her anxiety, but even that sounded too difficult to accomplish at present.
In a fit of nervous energy, she set the waistcoat aside, jumped to her feet, and paced before the fireplace. She’d relived the events of the previous day over and over in her mind, and couldn’t stop herself from doing so again. Her encounter with Aunt Mildred had left her raw and vulnerable.
After such despair, Jasper had given her unimaginable joy. For a brief while, she’d forgotten that Merry probably wasn’t her father and that she ought to leave Louisa immediately.
Louisa. Not only might Olivia be perpetrating a lie by accepting her care, she’d behaved scandalously under Louisa’s very nose, and with her nephew, no less.
Olivia had also spent a good portion of her sleepless night trying in vain to find the pear-shaped birthmark on her head. Instead of a small pink mark, she’d only found one brownish discoloration at the back of her scalp. Her hair had made its shape impossible to discern. She could neither confirm nor deny Aunt Mildred’s matching birthmark theory, which meant she still couldn’t know which man was her father.
The library door opened, arresting Olivia’s pacing. The footman admitted Jasper’s parents. Dear heaven, this abysmal day only wanted this. Olivia summoned as complacent an expression as she could manage. “Your Graces.”
Jasper’s mother was coolly beautiful, with blue-gray eyes and blond hair. Her only detracting feature was the lines around her mouth indicating she likely frowned more often than not. Even now, her lips were pressed together in an expression of distaste or disapproval. Or likely both.
The duke handed his wife into a chair away from the fireplace where Olivia had been pacing. “We’ve come to join Louisa for luncheon. We understand she had a bit of an accident.”
Olivia couldn’t help but note it took them two days to come when Benfield was only a short ride from Town. He’d also pointedly said they’d come to join Louisa, not Louisa and Olivia. “How kind of you. Yes, she turned her ankle but is feeling much better. In fact, we’re to return to London shortly.”
The duke’s mouth pulled into a thin specter of a smile. “After luncheon, I presume. I daresay I’d be disappointed to have come all this way for nothing.”
Her Grace studied Olivia as if she were a curious object. No, that was too benign. Perhaps an old pair of shoes she’d forgotten she possessed—and didn’t particularly care for. “What are your plans, Miss West, now that you’ve Louisa’s…assistance?”
Like their son, they doubted the veracity of her relationship to Louisa. Why did none of these people accept the word of Louisa, a member of their own family? As much as Olivia loved Louisa, she was glad she needn’t claim these people as relations.
“Yes,” the duke said, “do tell us what you plan.”
Olivia glanced at the door, willing Louisa to arrive. “It’s enough for me to enjoy Louisa’s company.”
The duchess peered down her long, thin nose. “Surely you have grander designs than that.”
Was Olivia so different because she didn’t possess their brand of ambition? She could never explain to these people that until a fortnight ago, she would’ve been quite content to someday own a tiny embroidery shop. “No, not really.”
The duchess’ eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “You are doing well in the role of companion. We’ve been suggesting such an arrangement to Louisa for years, lonely as she is.”
The duke continued to stand
behind his wife’s chair, his gloved fingers intermittently drumming against the top, just above the duchess’s head. “And where is it you hail from again?”
“Devon.”
He nodded once. “Presumably you’ve been decently educated.” He glanced at the book Olivia had discarded. “You were just reading?”
Olivia bit back a sarcastic retort in which she said she’d tried but had stopped upon reaching the word insufferable. “Yes, Your Grace. I was raised in a vicarage.”
The duchess turned and looked up at her husband. “A vicarage? I don’t recall Merriweather being related to a vicar.”
Olivia inwardly cringed. Jasper was right. She couldn’t keep the truth from being discovered.
The duke returned his wife’s gaze. “To my knowledge, Merriweather didn’t have an impoverished branch to his family, vicar or otherwise.” Slowly, he turned his attention back to Olivia. “We assume you were without financial support since you journeyed all this way to search for family. How fortuitous you found my sister.”
Olivia didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.
The duchess settled back against the chair and pinned Olivia with another withering stare. “No doubt you could take on work as a governess should you decide you don’t like being a companion, or after Louisa passes on.”
They speculated about Louisa’s death? Olivia gritted her teeth. “I like living with Louisa as family. I truly have no other aspirations.”
“Not even marriage?” Her Grace lifted a shoulder. “It’s not impossible you might draw the interest of a decent young man. You are rather pretty, despite the red in your hair.”
Olivia prayed Louisa would arrive soon and that she was ready to leave for London immediately. Dash the duke and duchess and their plans for luncheon.
“Mmm, you’re quite right, my dear,” he said. “Still, I don’t think Louisa need expend effort husband-hunting, especially if Miss West isn’t particularly interested. She may, however, change her mind.” He gave Olivia a pointed look that clearly said he didn’t believe her lack of ambition, and that he would be watching.