Chapter Eight
Oliver always thought of himself as a man who could handle any situation with tact and decorum. Now he knew better, and it was not better, it was worse, so much worse than he could ever have anticipated.
Women, he decided, were the most infuriating creatures. The Countess of Blackhurst the most infuriating of all.
Rollands, Lady Blackhurst’s butler, had kept every card that had ever entered her house if the collection which had been scattered across the dining room table earlier this evening was anything to go by.
Quite a useful hoarder was Rollands. However, seeing his brother’s card among the pile made Oliver realize Henry was only one of many who’d been deceived by the Earl of Blackhurst. Sir John Selbourne was one such gentleman.
His card had aroused suspicion due to its cryptic note on the back—a hefty amount followed by the words, I’m interested.
“Tell me again why you have dragged me from the ball below and lured me into Sir John’s bedchamber?” Oliver said from under an ornate writing desk in said bedchamber.
“To find evidence, of course.”
“You do not seriously think I will find something under his desk, do you?
“If we do not look, we will not know if there is anything to find, will we?”
Oliver frowned. How contradictory of you, Countess.
Her jibe about the un-findable last night, still fresh in his mind.
There was no way he would ever admit to her he had searched high and low for those damned non-existent speculation papers.
What a desperate fool he was and yet, he’d had to try.
Like she just said, if one does not look how will one find, or not find, what one is looking for?
Pity his frantic search had produced nothing.
He knew Henry had taken out the massive bank loan for something, the speculation presumably, but there was no proof he used it for that specific purpose, and that purpose only.
The countess put her hand on his shoulder. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” He was still searching for a hidden panel or a key or some small scrap of parchment which said, “Yes, it was I who killed Nathaniel Carslake, with a pistol, in the study, because he was a dirty rotten scoundrel—Sir John,” knowing all the time he would never find it. Another un-findable to add to the list.
“I think I hear voices,” she whispered in his ear.
Oliver closed his eyes. He liked her husky, sultry voice vibrating into his ear. “Why does this not surprise me?” he drawled as he straightened up.
She gave him a slightly confused expression then looked around her before saying, “Quick, in here.”
Before he could protest, he found himself stuffed into a large armoire.
They stood then, chest to chest, in the darkness surrounded by men’s jackets, breathing louder than a pair of postal horses who had just done the London to Dover run.
“Ah, now this is cozy, wouldn’t you say?” he said through the arm of a jacket, wanting more than anything for their heavy breathing to be the product of some rather more inspired recreation. Like kissing. He wanted to kiss her very much indeed.
He found himself obsessed by her lips. Her shapely top lip. Her full bottom lip. The dents at the corners of her mouth that hinted at the marvel of a smile. Yes, her lips were consuming a lot of his gray matter these days. It was not a habit which was good for one’s wellbeing, he was sure.
He knew what Ashton would tell him. “Stop looking at her damn lips and get the information.” He would be right, and that fact only made things worse.
He had done his duty to Ashton by sending him a missive about the nonexistent legal papers and the countess’s willingness to pay the investors if they could produce evidence of their investment.
He knew it would not appease Ashton, nor his client, for it had not satisfied him either.
Her unique fragrance filled the small space around them, and he groaned. Was it not bad enough he had to be in her presence every night and not be able to do more than have her hand on his sleeve or help her down from a carriage?
“Shh!” The countess turned away from him, elbowing some more room at the same time, and peered through the keyhole.
“I think it’s safe but I can’t be sure,” she said.
Safe? Not for him and certainly not for her if she didn’t get out soon.
“We had better stay here then, until you are sure, of course. There is nothing quite like an unsure woman to ruin a perfectly good hiding spot.”
“Bellamy, kindly shut up.” She peered through the keyhole again. “I can only see the edge of the writing desk,” she whispered.
Oliver smiled in the dimness of the armoire where he could just make out her outline.
For all her squirming, her lovely little derriere was now conveniently placed in front of him, and he had to resist the urge to reach out and touch her waist and pull her hips closer to him.
He’d been aching to hold her, kiss her, and convince her he was not as repugnant as she seemed to think him.
He wanted her to look at him like she had last night when she’d been upset, like she had when she had granted him the boon of a dance.
He wanted her to smile at him. He didn’t really know why, he just… did.
He decided he needed to test whether or not she was truly immune to him. If it failed, he would be in the same position as he was now, only hopefully not in an armoire.
“You smell nice,” he said through the darkness.
“What?”
“Like a spring meadow, just before it rains,” he announced.
“Do not be ridiculous. I smell of no such thing,” she retorted, moving so he was pushed farther to the side of the wardrobe.
“Ah, but you do.” Torture me.
“Bellamy—” Her tone held more than a little annoyance.
“I know, but you see your hair is tickling my nose and the heat of your skin is making my skin heat, therefore, my body is reacting in the most… amusing manner.”
Lisbeth rolled her eyes and attempted to count to ten. His body was reacting? Oh, Lord! Thankfully, it was dark in the armoire for she did not want him to see how his words were affecting her.
“When a man’s body reacts,” he was saying now, “there is often a need to—”
“Bellamy!”
“Yes, Countess?”
If there were enough room, she would have tried to slap his hand away from her hip. “If you do not desist with your ranting, the only thing your body will need is a doctor,” she hissed.
He gave a soft little chuckle. “Promises, promises.”
Fuming and face burning, she turned towards him, well, as much as she could with all these infernal jackets in the way. She tried to push him farther away from her but he stood fast. He laughed again.
“Shhh!”
He seemed intent on ignoring her as he continued, “I’d wager, had I a lamp, you would be blushing most becomingly.”
“Had I a lamp, I would find a cravat and gag you with it.”
“My, my there is no need to be nasty.” He reached out, touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. “You are blushing!”
“I am not! And kindly keep your hands to yourself, if you please.”
“Yes, definitely have you all hot and bothered, don’t I?
Perhaps we should have jumped into an armoire earlier.
I have a particularly large one, you know.
” When she snorted he qualified, “And an armoire, too. It would accommodate two people a lot better than this old thing. I’d even toss out all my clothes to make more room.
My valet would make a fuss, but I’d do it for you. What do you say, Countess?”
She pushed against his chest, knowing it would do no good but wanting to wipe the, no doubt, smug grin off his face.
“I’d say, regardless of how big you think your armoire is it will never be large enough to tempt me.” She put her ear to the door, trying desperately to ignore his disturbing presence beside her. “Do you hear anything?”
“I believe that sound is my heart breaking.”
Scoffing, she turned towards him and replied, “Men don’t have hearts to break, though they do spend a great deal of their time trying to break ours.”
“Not true,” he whispered seductively in her ear. He grasped her hand and placed it over his heart, keeping it there, despite her efforts to remove it. She could feel the warmth of his body and the steady rhythm of his heart beneath her palm.
“You see? Just like yours,” he said.
Lisbeth’s whole arm tingled, just like last night during their dance.
Her fingers flexed, glided over the woolen fabric of his jacket.
She wanted to explore under the fine lawn of his shirt to the hard planes of his chest, but this was Bellamy.
Despite the strange things he made her feel, the extremes in emotions she felt when he was around, the fact was he was a man who was only to be in her life for a short time.
A man who would pocket as much as the foolish gentlemen of the ton would hand him and disappear from her life.
What would be the use of letting herself like him, desire him—fall under his spell?
He placed his other hand on her left breast. “Your heart has considerably more padding, which is just as it should be.”
“Bellamy!” She swatted his hand away.
“I know, I know, but, Countess, would it be such a terrible thing? You and I in an armoire, giving each other pleasure?”
His fingers were tracing their way up her rib cage towards her breast again and she realized her other hand was still on his chest. The heated tingling sensation was spiraling through her body and doing strange things to the thumping of her heart.
If she hadn’t been blushing before, she was now.
Her breasts were already swelling. Her nipples were painfully erect and straining against the tight corset.
Her body may be reacting but not in an amusing way.