A Gentleman Never Tells

by Eloisa James

  “So Troutt had no lead in his pencil, hmmm?” Oliver’s voice had a thread of pure wicked laughter running through it.

  She frowned and then nodded, figuring out the reference. “Yes, that was the problem.”

  Oliver took a drink of his cognac. “I expect he carried too much weight.” He turned toward her and before she jerked her eyes away, she caught sight of his powerful thighs, outlined by his silk pantaloons. There was no reason why that should cause a deep glow in her belly, but it did.

  “What did you say?” she asked.

  “Troutt was too fat, which was likely why he had a hanging Johnny, as we used to call it.”

  Fat? What did that have to do with it?

  “That’s not what he said.” Lizzie really, truly, didn’t want to repeat the things that Adrian had said to her. But she had to make one thing clear. “I won’t do any of those things he requested,” she stated. “Not to him or anyone.”

  Oliver grinned. “Let me guess. He wanted you to caress him or kiss him until he could manage a cockstand?”

  Her mind reeled, putting together “up” and “stand” with “cock” and “hanging.”

  Finally she nodded. “Something like that.”

  “I’m glad Troutt was incapable,” Oliver said flatly.

  “He wasn’t always incapable. Only with me.” It had to be said. “Obviously, he wasn’t incapable with Sadie. She has—­I gather she has a very large bosom.”

  Oliver muttered something profane that made the sting of Adrian’s explanation ease away as if it had never been. “A man isn’t incapable with a woman because of the size of her breasts, sweetheart,” he said. “Especially one whose breasts are as beautiful as yours.”

  She was starting to feel foolish. She should have realized that. Her governess had often said that men were lascivious, with no reference to the size of one’s bosom.

  “I expect that Troutt blamed his problem on you because it’s a humiliating thing for a man to be unable to consummate his own marriage,” Oliver continued.

  “Clearly, he could do it with Sadie. He had a child by her, a son.”

  Oliver made a humphing sound.

  “Do you have any illegitimate sons?” she asked.

  “Absolutely not.”

  That gave Lizzie such a sparkling jolt of happiness that she made a clean breast of it. “Sadie gave their child to an orphanage after Adrian died. What sort of mother does that? I disliked Adrian—­there were times when I hated him—­but I couldn’t allow his son to grow up in an orphanage.” She raised her glass and took a burning gulp of brandy.

  “What did you do for the child?” Oliver asked. “I must admit that I find myself reluctant to raise Troutt’s by-­blow by way of Shady Sadie, but I will reconcile myself if the boy is part of your household.”

  Lizzie wrinkled her nose. “That would be going too far. I sold all of Adrian’s property that wasn’t entailed and set up a fund for him. The child now lives with a nice woman in the country.”

  “Troutt left no provision for his son?”

  “I believe he thought that Sadie would raise the child out of affection.”

  Oliver was silent for a moment, thinking. Then he shook his head. “Actually, I don’t think the boy was his child. My guess is that he needed Sadie to mask his incapacity.”

  Lizzie’s mouth fell open. “Why on earth would you think that?”

  “For all his idiocy, Troutt was a gentleman.”

  No gentleman would behave the way Adrian had.

  “Gentleman by birth,” Oliver clarified. “Troutt would have made provision for the child, had it been his. But more than that, he never consummated your marriage, Lizzie.”

  “I am quite aware,” she said, keeping her chin high.

  “If he could have managed it, he would have,” Oliver said. His hands slipped down her back and he drew her against his chest, risking Cat’s wrath. Then he bent his head and whispered, “There’s no man on God’s earth who wouldn’t leap at the chance to make love to you.”

  LIZZIE WAS SMILING at Oliver, giving him a wide, beautiful smile, when the drawing room door burst open.

  “The Earl of Mayne,” Bartleby shouted, his chest puffed up importantly. “The Countess of Mayne, and Miss Cecily Langham.”

  Oliver didn’t even turn in that direction. “May I seduce you, as a prelude to marrying you, my dearest Lizzie?”

  She should tell him that she never meant to get married. But there was something about his eyes—­so intent and honorable. “Seduction,” she whispered. “Not marriage.”

  Oliver gave her a swift kiss, and stood up. “Shall we greet your sister’s guests?”

  Lizzie looked at his outstretched hand and shook her head. She needed to sit alone for a moment and think about their conversation. Oliver’s surmise about Adrian changed everything she had believed about her marriage.

  About herself.

  She watched Oliver stride over to greet the earl and countess. It made sense that Adrian had lashed out at her to mask his own failures.

  For a moment, she wondered about what sort of agreement her husband had had with Shady Sadie, and then she dismissed the thought. That wasn’t her business. If Adrian had truly been a gentleman, he would have provided for the child, whether it was his or no. After all, the world thought it was his, and he’d shared a house with the boy for over a year.

  But Adrian had been no gentleman. For the first time, instead of a blinding rage when she thought of her former husband, she felt nothing but withering contempt, along with a healthy dose of acceptance.

  She should get up and greet her sister’s guests, but instead she watched the earl talking to Joshua, as Oliver walked Lady Mayne over to the side of the room, his dark head bent as he spoke to her.

  Making amends, Lizzie thought. He was a good man. Many ­people didn’t care how they hurt other ­people.

  She would allow herself be seduced by Oliver. Then she would go back to her house and all her books. It would wash away memory of Adrian’s squinty eyes as he told her that her bosom wasn’t enough for him.

  The truth was the reverse.

  He hadn’t been enough for her. Any more than Shady Sadie had been, apparently.

  She would no longer allow Adrian’s loathing to define her. Obviously, Josie hadn’t allowed the nickname “Scottish Sausage” to shape her life, any more than Cat had bothered about being called the Wooly Breeder.

  Adrian’s behavior was his, and it didn’t reflect on her.

  Lady Mayne was laughing at whatever Oliver was saying. She was very pretty, with lush curves and vivid, sparkling eyes.

  She seemed to think that Oliver was funny; she was patting his cheek. As Lizzie watched, the earl appeared at his wife’s shoulder, looking quite unfriendly.

  Perhaps Lord Mayne disliked meeting one of the men who had caused his wife unhappiness. He pulled his countess back against his long body and gave Oliver a cold look.

  Oliver must have known just how to diffuse the tension, because a few moments later the earl was also laughing. Only then did Lizzie realize that Mayne had responded to the fact his wife had touched Oliver’s arm. Now that Lady Mayne was leaning back in her husband’s arms, the earl stopped looking ferocious and seemed perfectly genial.

  She kept watching as the earl turned in response to a tug on his trousers. A governess stood beside him, holding hands with a beautiful little girl.

  The earl instantly bent down and scooped the child into his arms. Mayne’s daughter—­Cecily, wasn’t she?—­leaned her head against her father’s shoulder and began sucking her thumb.

  Cecily had soft dark curls that rumpled against her father’s shoulder as he held her tight, one hand making reassuring circles on her back. It was the kind of caress that made a little girl’s eyes droop, because she felt safe and loved in her daddy’s arms
.

  Lizzie felt tears prick her eyes, but they weren’t the bitter tears she’d shed during the years of her marriage. She could remember her father’s strong arms around her. He had made a terrible mistake, marrying her to Adrian and not supporting her when she pleaded for an annulment.

  It was time to forgive him. She didn’t feel like visiting him just yet, but she could write him a letter.

  As she watched, Joshua and Sarah joined the group, Hattie tagging along. Neither Mayne nor Joshua would ever be unfaithful. Anyone could see that in the way they looked at their wives with fierce adoration and possessiveness. And a touch of reverence.

  Well, perhaps that was going too far in the case of Joshua. No one could revere her older sister. Cat was too daft for that.

  A hand tucked under her arm. “Come along, goose,” Cat said fondly. “I want to introduce you to Josie. She’s right there, so you can have no excuses.”

  “All right,” Lizzie said, madly wishing that she had had time to brush her hair. The countess was so incredibly lovely, with glowing skin and a ruby mouth.

  Cat tugged her forward. “I know what you’re thinking,” she whispered. “Everyone feels that way when they first meet Josie. You simply have to remember that she’s the funniest, sweetest person you’ll ever meet, and she hasn’t the slightest idea of the effect she has on ­people.”

  Lizzie didn’t want to know if Oliver was looking at Josie with desire in his eyes. “How can she not know?”

  “She only notices her husband. Mayne told me that he had to marry her by special license in order to hold off all the men lusting after her.”

  “She’s so lucky,” Lizzie said with longing.

  “Yes, she is,” her sister said. “So am I. And Lizzie”—­a distinctly mischievous note came into her voice—­“I rather think that if you looked about you, you would discover that you could be that lucky as well.”

  Chapter Twelve

  AFTER SHE RETIRED for the night, Lizzie took a bath and put on a delicate lawn nightgown that Cat had brought her from Paris. Then she sat down by the fire. Her hair was so curly that she had to finger-­comb the strands to dry them.

  How did an illicit rendezvous take place? Oliver had raised her hand to his lips when she said goodnight, and then asked quietly, eyes very bright, “Tonight, my lady?”

  And she—­risking the possibility of ending up in a “bad place” with butter-­loving ants—­had nodded.

  Nodded!

  She, Lizzie Troutt, was about to do something illicit. Disobedient. Cat had done naughty things when they were children, but Lizzie always looked to their father for reassurance and love, too timid to be disobedient.

  Too afraid that she wouldn’t be loved, if truth be told.

  How would Oliver locate her bedchamber? Surely she wasn’t supposed to go to his? She hadn’t the faintest idea where his chamber was.

  She could hardly ask Cat. Her sister might have mischievously suggested that she should have had an affaire while married to Adrian, but she would be horrified to think that Lizzie would actually contemplate something so scandalous.

  That made Lizzie grin.

  By inviting a man to her bedchamber, she was being more wicked than Cat ever had. The very idea that Oliver might walk into her room any moment made a hot feeling spring up in her stomach again and—­if she were honest—­in her most private parts as well.

  But the clock ticked on and after a while her hair was dry, hanging like a shining curtain between herself and the rest of the room.

  Just when she was about to give up, braid her hair, and go to bed, the door silently opened and Oliver slipped through.

  Lizzie sprang to her feet.

  He had his hand on the door, as if he were about to close it. But when he saw her, he froze in place, a look on his face that was something like pain.

  “Good evening,” she managed, knowing it was an absurd thing to say.

  Slowly, slowly, he closed the door behind him and leaned back against it. He cleared his throat. “Jesus. You’re exquisite, Lizzie.”

  Her mouth wobbled into a smile. Oliver swallowed so hard that she could see his throat move, and that made her feel beautiful.

  She also felt awkward, shy, and incredibly embarrassed.

  “Mayne was in a talkative mood,” he said, not moving. “His stables and his wife. His wife and his stables. I thought he’d never shut up. I actually thought about knocking him out. Quick mallet to the head and he’d be sleeping like a baby.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” she managed.

  He began walking toward her with controlled grace, the stride that signaled his prowess at croquet and likely all other kinds of sports as well.

  She could feel herself getting even redder as she took that thought to its obvious conclusion.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be good at this,” she blurted out, when he was almost close enough to touch her.

  His eyes drifted down her body and it suddenly occurred to Lizzie that she was standing in front of the fire and likely the thin lawn of her nightgown had left her every curve exposed.

  “I think you’re going to be a natural,” Oliver said, stopping just before her and bending his head to kiss her. His eyes had gone darker, cobalt blue now.

  There was something about kissing Oliver that made all her nervousness and fear melt away. She didn’t even pretend to feel maidenly hesitation. His mouth touched hers, her lips opened, and her tongue met his. A quake of fire went through her body.

  Kissing wasn’t at all what she’d imagined. She’d seen men and women press their lips together in a salutation that looked pleasant but unhygienic.

  This was raw and sensual, and at the same time, familiar. Necessary. Kissing Oliver was like water and food.

  With a half-­sob, half-­moan, she fell into his arms. He held her tightly, his tongue gliding deep into her mouth, making her whole being throw off sparks as if she were a Chinese sparkler, one of the ones that she’d seen in London on Guy Fawkes Day.

  So she wound her arms around his neck and held on, her mind going blank and silent even as her body registered the strength of his arms, the hard planes of his body against the melting softness of hers, the little growl that came from his throat when she pressed closer.

  That safe feeling she had around Oliver doubled and redoubled as they kissed, one kiss blending into the next, separated only by a whispered word or two, a quick breath. His lips skimmed her cheeks, pressed a kiss on her eyelid, but their mouths kept coming back together.

  Some kisses began chastely, like a warm reassurance. They gave her time to collect herself, because needy, hard kisses made her tremble so hard that she was frightened by her own reaction. The sting between her legs, the heat and throb of her feelings, sent qualms of terror through her.

  As if Oliver knew, somehow, when she was overbalancing into fear, his kisses would turn warm but respectful, letting her set the pace.

  After a while, she would gather courage and press closer, opening her mouth wider, her tongue meeting his. Oliver would give a muffled sound, a curse, a groan, and their kiss would build to a wildfire again.

  Still his hands never strayed lower than her back, though she felt an edgy, sharp awareness that she wanted him to touch her there . . . everywhere.

  When he didn’t move his hands, it allowed her to be bold. She let her hands stray down his wide back. He was wearing only a shirt, waistcoat, and breeches, and she could feel thick cords of muscles under her fingertips.

  She felt as much as heard a growl deep in his throat as she caressed him. She ran her fingers up the bunched strength of his stomach muscles, her fingers splaying wide on his chest, her hands crushed between their bodies as he pulled her even closer, ravishing her mouth, licking and sucking and even biting at her.

  There was a hot brand pressing against her stomach, an unmist
akable sign that Oliver wanted her. No: that he was desperate for her. She shook at the realization, a whimper breaking from her lips.

  He wanted her so much that his breathing was labored. His fingers trembled on her back. His big male body was poised over her, around her, like a cocked pistol—­and yet he kept still for her. So as not to frighten her.

  Blindly she sought his mouth again, sliding her tongue between his lips like a woman who knew what she wanted, at the same moment her body melted against his hot shaft, cradling his hard thigh between her legs, pushing at him with an unspoken demand.

  Instantly, he pulled away, cradling her face in his hands. “Lizzie,” he breathed.

  “Yes?” Her voice was a siren’s whisper that couldn’t belong to her.

  “I don’t want to seduce you.”

  The words went down her body like a shock of cold water, a sickening shock of dismay and misgiving. She pulled back, swallowed. Why had he been kissing her? Why was he in her room?

  Her mind reeled: was he put off by the way she kissed? Or the way she pressed against his body? She had been too insistent. It wasn’t ladylike. Or—­

  He tipped up her chin and the look in his eyes made the windmill shudder to a halt. “Whatever it is that you’re thinking, stop. You can’t think that I don’t want you.”

  “Well,” she said with a little gasp, “Well, then . . .”

  “I don’t want to seduce you like this, secretly, behind ­people’s backs.”

  “Why not?” At this precise moment, she wouldn’t care if half the county knew he was in her room.

  “It’s not right.”

  “I can’t be ruined,” she pointed out. “I’m a widow. And you said that—­you promised that you would seduce me.”

  “I don’t want an affaire.”

  She shook her head, not believing him. “You don’t?”

  He clutched her, his big hands warm on her shoulders. “I didn’t say that right. God, I want you so badly that I might lose control for the first time since I was fourteen.”