Chapter 14 #2
Her father knew his poem would lead her to The Burnished Jade. That Gabriel would be there, and her love of poetry would draw his notice. That a man who had been wounded would seek a woman who understood the nature of betrayal.
There was only one way he could have known Gabriel’s story. He must have heard it from Justin Lovelace. He’d known to include white heather, a symbol of faith and a sign of hope.
Gabriel had never felt more hopeful than when Olivia approached the dining room, dressed in a midnight-blue gown that hugged her figure to perfection.
“A new dress?” he said, his throat tight, scarcely able to look away. In grey, her strength of character shone through. In this, she exuded a soft, feminine allure that made him wonder how easy it was to remove.
“The countess sent a chest of clothes. I can keep them until I have a proper wardrobe of my own.”
“She certainly knows what suits you.” His stomach growled, not from a longing for turtle soup, but from the ache of wanting his wife. It promised to be another long, excruciating night. How long before they found him dead, scratch marks on the door?
“Then you approve?” Her smile could have lit the stars. “I thought you might think she was interfering.”
Approve? One slip in his restraint and he’d be drooling. “On the contrary, I can see you appreciate the gesture. We’ll invite her to dine with us when our troubles are over.”
“Dine here? In this house?”
“I’m more than willing to accommodate trusted friends,” he said, leading her into the dining room. Their meal was already laid, and not a footman in sight. “We’ll serve ourselves tonight. I’ve no appetite for servants who sell their souls for a few shillings.”
“Did you discuss the problem with Mrs Boswell?” she asked as he pulled out her chair.
He let his gaze drift over her nape, where fine wisps of copper hair trailed against her skin. “Yes, but it will take time to lure the fox from its den. Gossip passes so freely, it’s hard to trace the source.”
“Mr Daventry says it’s always the person you least expect.”
“It’s not Mrs Boswell.” His tone brooked no argument. He took his seat at the head of the table, steadfast in his conviction.
“I’ve never heard you speak about anyone with such certainty. Though Mrs Boswell is the last person I would suspect, too.”
He poured the wine and served her first. The simple act was strangely intimate, as though every movement declared what he could not say aloud. He’d underestimated how it felt to care for a woman, to serve and yet feel masterful, to find peace in her contentment.
“Tell me a secret you’ve never shared.” She leaned back, the rim of her glass touching her lips, mischief lighting her eyes.
Her playful tone made it impossible to refuse her. “Recently, I tossed a halfpenny into a pond and made a wish. You’ll be the first to know if it comes true.”
“That doesn’t qualify unless you tell me what you wished for.”
“If I do, it may not come true.” Nothing was more important than that one wish now.
“Then let me give you another.” He paused, wanting to share something honest. “You make this house feel like a home. I need you to chase the ghosts from every room.” He raised his glass in salute. “Your turn, Olivia.”
She didn’t sit trawling through memories but seemed to know exactly what she would say. “When my father died, I swore I’d never depend on a man again. It’s a vow I’m slowly breaking.”
He drew a deep breath, her quiet faith hitting him square in the chest.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said.
“That if we’d been intimate many times, I’d sit you on the table and show you how dependable I am.”
Colour rose in her cheeks as her fingers toyed with the edge of her neckline. “I suppose the first time shouldn’t be a hurried coupling on the dining table.”
Hellfire. The image alone was enough to make him hard. “No, it should be somewhere comfortable, where you can relax.” In bed, he could take his time with her, learn her responses, pleasure her until she forgot her own name. “These things can’t be rushed.”
He savoured those final words like a rare vintage. Heaven knew how he would sleep tonight. It was absurd. The man who prided himself on control, undone by his own wife.
“Before this conversation strays beyond redemption, perhaps we should discuss something that doesn’t involve me removing your new dress.”
She nodded, tried to hide a smile. “We’ve made some progress today. We know Mrs Hodge is acting strangely, and that the rectory lies west of the mausoleum.”
“Daventry’s man reported she goes nowhere but home, the rectory and church. Perhaps we should attend Sunday service at St Luke’s.”
“She visits the market most mornings,” Olivia added.
“Perhaps she’s in cahoots with the fishmonger. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if half of London were part of the conspiracy. I’d wager a crate of mackerel she has no intention of checking the burial records.”
“We can call at St Luke’s and check them ourselves. We need something constructive to do tomorrow.”
Tomorrow? Surviving the night would be challenge enough.
They continued eating, though he was a man with a fever, delirious enough to watch every morsel that passed her lips. For two hours, they spoke of Kincaid’s Scottish heritage, the families in the parish, his grandmother’s sensory garden, about everything but the slow burn of desire between them.
They retired to his private drawing room, drank wine and debated whether the poets should focus on traditional faith or question it. The intelligent conversation was nowhere near as satisfying as the curve of her smile when he conceded a point.
“I’ll walk you to your room.” He rose, not quite ready to say goodnight.
Along the way, he paused before various paintings, naming ancestors and recounting family tales. At one portrait, he smiled. “Cecil wore his doublet so tight people wondered how he drew breath.”
He ignored the likeness of his mother. He’d need to be three sheets to the wind to pass comment.
They stopped outside the Peacock Room.
Invite me in, Olivia.
But it wasn’t what they’d agreed.
“I’ve had a lovely evening. Thank you for explaining your family history, though I doubt I’ll remember all the names.” She hesitated, the moment turning faintly awkward. “Good night, Gabriel.”
She rose on her toes, her mouth an inch from his.
One more breath, and he would stop pretending he could resist her. He saw the invitation in her eyes, felt his restraint snap, bent his head and kissed her.
The kiss was urgent, desperate, all heat and hunger, too fierce to retract. He wanted her now, tonight, of that there was no doubt. He’d be fit for Bedlam if he waited another hour, let alone a day.
But a gentleman never went back on his word.
He broke the kiss, the devil on his shoulder prodding him with its pitchfork, begging him to crush her to his chest and feast like a beast.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean for—”
Her finger touched his lips. “I’m your wife. No apology is needed. We both crave companionship. But I shall abide by your request and come to you when I’m ready. How will we ever trust each other if we cannot keep our word?”
He stepped back. The distance failed to dampen his ardour. How could it, when he’d tasted heaven and longed to wallow in it?
“Good night, Olivia. I trust you’ll sleep well.”
He’d spend the night pacing like a caged lion.
“Good night, Gabriel.”
“Lock your door.”
Her hand was already on the handle. “I will.”
Refusing to linger like a love-sick buck, he strode away, scanning the shadows for the servant with a tongue as loose as a bawd’s drawers. If only this were Fortune’s Den and he hosted boxing bouts in his cellar. A good fight might be the only cure for such restless energy.
As he undressed, he reminded his valet what it meant to betray his master. “What happens in this house stays in this house. There’s nothing more despicable than a man who sells secrets.” Other than a father who endures his wife’s infidelity and tups the maid in revenge.
He’d been in bed an hour, reading the same damn page of morbid poetry, when a light knock sounded at the door. He lowered the book and peered around the burgundy hangings.
“Enter.”
He held his breath. Time stilled. The faintest hope stirred. If it was the valet, he’d hurl the book at his head.
But it wasn’t his valet.
It was his wife.
She opened the door a fraction. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” Merciful Lord. His blood was already pooling low, and all she’d done was close the door. “You need never ask.”
She stepped closer to the bed, the firelight painting her in amber, its glow tracing the soft lines beneath her silk nightgown. A gift from the countess, no doubt. Not that it mattered. It would soon be a pile on the floor.
“Have you come to borrow a book?”
He watched the pulse at her throat, the way it worked as she drew a breath, her gaze brushing his bare chest, lingering a beat too long.
“No. I couldn’t sleep and wondered if I might lie beside you.”
Heat gathered beneath his skin. He forced his hands to stay still, though every instinct urged him to reach for her. “I’m naked, Olivia. You’re welcome to stay, though I can’t promise to behave.”
“What can you promise?”
Her hair glowed like burnished copper, loose about her shoulders and tumbling down her back. The courage it took to come to his chamber, intent on seduction, was perhaps the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed.
“I can promise hours of untold pleasure,” he said, almost humming at the prospect. “And that the warmth of my body will chase away the chill. I can promise you won’t regret a single moment.”
She worried her lower lip. “Even though I’m afraid?”
“Never be afraid of me.” The next words surprised even him. “I’ll wear nightclothes. We don’t need to do anything. I’d be glad of your company.” He shrugged a shoulder, though his heart hammered. “I can read to you.”
He wasn’t sure what he’d said to make her draw that deep breath, what word had her unbuttoning the pearl fastenings of her nightgown, what impulse made her lift the hem and pull the garment over her head.
As he drank her in—the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips—thought deserted him.
“Make love to me, Gabriel.”
Those words would be etched into his mind until the end of days.
He pulled back the sheets, letting her see what he’d kept hidden beneath the towel, giving her a moment, just one, to change her mind.
She didn’t.
She climbed into bed, her hand trembling only slightly as she brushed a lock of hair from his brow. “You’re the only man I’d want to share this moment with.”