Chapter Four
Olivia—
My most fervent apologies. I have enclosed a green ribbon and I hope it is to your satisfaction. I understand such things are a grave matter among ladies and, having four sisters myself, I know not to trifle about a ribbon or its color.
Augustus
*
Olivia—
I have received no reply about the green ribbon, which I take to mean it is adequate to its office.
Augustus
*
Montaigne had gambledflirting with the girl, it was true.
But for his plan to work, he needed Olivia Watson to come to him—and, if he wasn’t mistaken about her character, she would. She would have affection for Miss Mapperton, given how familiarly she was situated in the household. He had been sure he could use her protective instincts to his advantage.
In that regard, he may have overplayed his hand. Indeed, he had been nearly castrated with scalding tea.
Worse, now he was unsure if Olivia would emerge from the townhouse to run him down. After all, she had already scared him off quite effectively. He had underestimated, it appeared, just how protective she was prepared to be when it came to the Mappertons.
Unsurprisingly, Mrs. Mapperton had not displayed the compunction that a hostess usually evinced on such an occasion.
Percy, at least, had been concerned. But once Montaigne assured his brother that, indeed, he still had the function of all his body parts and the skin had not melted from any part of his anatomy, Percy had gone back to discussing poetry with Miss Mapperton. Montaigne himself had had no option but to play the incident off as nothing.
Olivia, of course, had murmured some words of contrition, but the little smile playing on her lips made plain that she delighted in her victory.
Soon after, he and Percy left the townhouse. He told his brother that he did not want to wait until they returned home to change his buckskins and that he would stop at Leith’s, nearby, for a change of clothes. When he had handed over to Percy the reins of his curricle, a vehicle that the boy had been hitherto banned from driving, his brother had disappeared posthaste.
Which left him standing in the middle of Bloomsbury with wet trousers, trying to look as though he wasn’t waiting for the very woman that he hoped, with all of his heart, would soon come running after him.
Montaigne had stalked the street twice already. His crotch was growing quite frigid in the winter air.
He prayed that Olivia thought the scalding insufficient for his indelicate overtures to Miss Mapperton. Unlike Olivia, Percy, bless him, hadn’t seemed to notice his rather shameless attempts at flirting with the girl. He could hardly blame Percy for his inattention. His attentions had never fallen on a less receptive target—the girl obviously could only see his brother.
His breath caught.
She had come.
Olivia Watson met his eye from across the street.
He ran through his options. He would rather not speak with her in the street, but it seemed he would have no choice. But he could give them a little privacy. Rather than walk towards her, he turned away and began to make his way down a narrow alley that led to a mews behind the row of townhouses.
“You!”
He closed his eyes in satisfaction. Thank god.
He kept walking.
“You! Stop!”
When he reached the alley, he turned.
And found himself, blessedly, face to face with Olivia. She looked quite becoming in that day dress, even though it had clearly been designed to be inconspicuous and inoffensive. The heavy swell of her bosom taunted him. He doubted there was a man with a taste for ladies in London who could ignore it. A tantalizing trail of freckles peaked out from the edge of her bodice, a slick made, he was sure, for his tongue to—
“How dare you!” the lady in question shouted at him, interrupting this train of thought, “How dare you come here again!”
“Yes, what a devil I am. Coming here and taking tea. I’m sure the papers will be full of it.”
“Oh, if you think—you—what do you think—”
He smiled at her frustration. He liked the image she made at this moment, sputtering, her brown eyes wide, at his mercy. It reminded him of more pleasurable moments in their acquaintance.
“And for this perfidious treatment, I suppose you could say that I have already been punished. Do not think for one second, Miss Watson, that I was fooled by your little show of clumsiness. If I am able to sire children after your teacup maneuver, the earldom will be very lucky indeed.”
“As if I care about your ability to sire children.”
“Once you did not think such capabilities on my part quite as beneath your notice as you seem to now.”
He watched her cheeks color at this retort. Perhaps, it was beneath him. But he couldn’t care. He wanted to remind her of the past.
“If you think such comments will distract me from that display in there, you are very mistaken. If you have designs on Natasha, know now that I will not allow it. Neither will her mother.”
“Perhaps the lady has preferences that conflict with that of her guardians,” he teased, fighting the smile that threatened to bend the corners of his mouth.
“Natasha might play the coquette, but she is a reasonable girl at heart. She will listen to her mother, believe me.”
They were facing each other, only inches apart. From the street, he knew, no one could see them in this narrow alley. He leaned in to her and she took a step back, finding herself against the brick wall of a townhome.
He took another step towards her, so that her skirts brushed his buckskins. This close to her, he could smell the tea and cake on her breath, how they mingled with her natural sweetness.
“And what if I have powers of persuasion that might overset even the most reasonable of girls?”
At the words, he felt her shiver. And it undid him. He couldn’t resist leaning in further, until her body was flush between him and the wall. In the February chill, her body felt like a warm hearth, and he drew nearer to her like a traveler who had been out in the wind. Her curves, the swell of her breasts and generous hips, were so soft and pliant against him that he felt himself harden.
She gasped. When their eyes met, he could see that hers were filled with mingled outrage and lust. At any moment, he expected her to push him back, but she didn’t.
Curious. He liked that.
“You’re a brute,” she finally managed, but she remained pressed against him. Surely, he thought, by now she could feel his erection. He was threatening to pop a seam, his mind filling with all the ways he could take her mouth and more against this Bloomsbury wall.
“Once again, Miss Watson, there was a time when you did not seem to mind my brutish qualities.”
Their lips were near to brushing. All he would have to do was lean down a few inches and cover her pink lips with his mouth. The temptation to do so was overwhelming.
“I was a fool then. And much younger than I am now.”
“And yet you respond to me still. I can see it.” With those words, he pressed himself into her. He was hot and hard and aching for her. The feel of her against him, even through their clothes, threatened ruin.
She gasped afresh. And he saw there, once more, that pure desire he had seen the other night. He imagined, no, knew, how wet she would be for him beneath her skirts. The crude motion he had just made, he knew, was exactly what she would expect of him. Yet he couldn’t care now, even though later he was sure he would cringe at himself. He couldn’t stand her denying what they had. What they had once had and what he was sure they could have once more.
The thought made his breath stutter in his throat.
Then he felt a harsh crack across his cheekbone and found himself pushed back so hard that he nearly stumbled.
“You’re disgusting,” she panted.
She had slapped him! He raised his hand to his cheek in surprise, shocked to find it smarting.
He regained the step he had lost, but he didn’t touch her.
Instead, he thrust his fingers into his pocket and pulled out the papers. He put them in her hand.
“What are these? I don’t want anything from you.”
“You can tell the lovely Miss Mapperton and her mother that this disgusting man has procured vouchers to Almack’s for the household.”
With that, he turned and strode out of the alleyway.
Yes, he thought as he walked away, his cock had nearly been scalded off, his buckskins were likely ruined, and his cheek was aching.
But today was a victory.
Olivia Watson still wanted him—and he wasn’t going to let her forget it.