A Gentleman Never Tells (7 page)

Joshua had Cat wrapped in his arms, supposedly so he could direct her croquet mallet, but Oliver didn't think they were concentrating on the game very much. For one thing, they were at least five strokes behind.

“This is the only way to tutor a player in the correct posture,” Oliver said. “Look down and put the ball directly in front of you.
Then
swing the mallet.”

He heard Lizzie's breath catch as he moved his body into full contact with hers, though likely she wasn't experiencing the monstrous wave of lust that he felt. He hadn't held a woman in his arms in months, not since before Hattie became part of his household.

He had already had a cockstand, but now he had become painfully stiff.

Lizzie was worrying her lush lower lip with small white teeth, which just made things worse.

“That's better,” he said, as she positioned herself directly above the ball. “Do you see the leg of that chair? If you aim at the right front chair leg, the ball will rebound from the chair and go through the hoop. The leg is at just the right angle.”

She leaned over peering at the hoop, which meant she pushed back against his body. Oliver stifled a groan because he was fairly sure she didn't mean to press her delectable rear end against him.

Lizzie seemed oblivious to what was happening to his body—­though she had to feel his tool against her rear. He still had his arms around her, and his hands loosely positioned over hers.

“Right,” she said, swinging the mallet and hitting the ball with a solid
thunk
.

It rolled forward, struck the leg, and rebounded straight through the hoop. For a moment they both stared silently.

Then Lizzie gave a yelp, broke from his arms, and screamed, “I did it!”

Oliver fell back a step. The pale widow was gone. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were shining.

“Hurrah!” her sister cried, hurrying over. “Oh, I set up that hoop. Wasn't it clever? You have to bounce it off a chair leg or it's impossible.”

“Yes, and just look what's happened to the chair,” her husband said, joining them. “I think that belonged to my great-­grandfather.”

“It will survive the game,” Cat said, obviously unperturbed. She flashed a look of deep approval at Oliver and then turned back to her sister. “I saw Mr. Berwick coaching you. That's not fair.”

“You have a coach, and I can hardly help it if you and Joshua are far behind,” Lizzie retorted, a distinct note of glee in her voice.

“We were only one stroke behind you,” Cat said. “That was a lucky shot. I've always been better than you at outdoor games.”

“No, you're haven't,” Lizzie protested. “Only at badminton.”

Cat laughed. “I love the way my baby sister always tries to keep up with me.”

Lizzie drew in a sharp breath. Oliver had fully intended to win the bet, but all of a sudden he changed his mind.

Fire had flared in Lizzie's eyes at her elder sister's challenge. Cat was deliberately needling her, trying to bring out her competitive side.

Oliver had the feeling it had worked. And he wanted Lizzie to win.

Cat had turned away and was lining up her next shot. With a wicked grin, Joshua wrapped himself around his wife again. Oliver understood precisely why Joshua didn't mind sacrificing the drawing room furniture to play croquet with his family.

He turned back to Lizzie. She was chewing her lip again and eyeing the next hoop, which was hammered in at a diagonal. “If I can make it so that you beat your sister, will you go riding with me?” he asked.

Her eyes sparkled. “Yes!”

“Right.” He raised his voice. “I'm going to drop out and devote myself to coaching Lady Troutt.”

“Coaching!” Cat scoffed, turning her head. “I thought you didn't know how to play, Oliver.”

“I don't,” he said innocently. “So no one can have the faintest objection if I put my own mallet to the side.” Without further ado, he wrapped himself around Lizzie, loving the moment when her soft body relaxed into his.

She smelled intoxicatingly good.

“The only way to make this hoop is by a long shot,” he said, eyeing the course while they waited for the girls to finish their turn. “We're going to have to skim the table leg just enough to change the direction of the ball, then slice it under that chair and through the hoop. We need a thirty-­degree angle.”

Lizzie turned inside his embrace. “Oliver, that's impossible,” she said urgently.

He smiled down at her, knowing that his face had to be plainly desirous and not giving a damn. She'd been a married woman. She would know desire when she saw it.

Her eyelashes fluttered and she lowered her eyes, her cheeks staining a beautiful raspberry.

“We can do it,” he said, realizing that his voice had gone husky. Hattie finished her turn with a loud whoop.

Lizzie seemed to have lost her courage. “Perhaps I should just try on my own.”

“You are going to let your sister beat you?” Oliver said, raising an eyebrow. The answer was in her face, so he spun her about and tucked her close to his body again. “Ball directly below us, now position the mallet just right so that it will strike off the table leg . . .”

They didn't get the precise angle he wanted, but close enough.

“We didn't make it,” Lizzie said, with disappointment.

Oliver just barely stopped himself from dropping a kiss on her nose. “We're only one stroke away. No one else has made it through that hoop in less than four turns.”

The smile spreading through her eyes was wonderful. And her utterly sensual mouth was curved in a genuine smile.

Someone tapped him on his shoulder, and he turned his head. Cat was standing beside him, a curious look in her eyes.

“Oh, Oliver!” she cooed.

Lizzie had moved away and she was bending over, investigating where the ball had come to rest.

“I've got her smiling,” he said wrenching his eyes away from Lizzie's magnificent rear end. “Very close to a laugh.”

“Excellent job,” Cat whispered. “I was going to remind you of your quest, but I see you have it well in hand.”

“Make Lizzie laugh,” Oliver said obediently. “Get her out of doors. She's promised to ride with me tomorrow morning.”

“With a groom, I hope,” Cat said.

“Of course.” Not that he had any intention of taking a chaperone.

Benjamin Jagger was arriving tomorrow. Ben was far more interested in railways than anything else. He would never play croquet with a ­couple of schoolgirls, and certainly not in a drawing room.

To be fair, Oliver didn't know anyone who played croquet in the drawing room.

But once Ben saw Lizzie, he would forget about railroads.

“You saw her smile, didn't you?” Oliver asked. “I'm almost there.”

Cat nodded. “I saw yours as well.” She gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Just don't tempt me to use this mallet on your head rather than the ball, hmmm?”

“Of course not,” Oliver said.

He had just been struck—­not by a mallet, but by a thought.

The Wooly Breeder business had been a cloud over his head, whether he realized it or not. Not only was it gone, but Cat had become a friend, for all she had her eyes narrowed as if she could shoot a few holes in him with mere willpower.

It felt as if the lifted weight left room inside him for something else. Something surprising.

Shocking, even.

Lizzie was crouched down, tipping her head to the side so she could visualize the possible path of the ball, just as he had taught her. She looked over her shoulder and caught him staring.

“I don't think we can do it,” she said, not noticing what was in his eyes. She seemed to be a very not-­noticing type of woman. Either that, or Troutt was a bigger idiot than he would have thought.

“Yes, we can,” he said, clearing his throat.

He dropped down beside her on the floor and pointed out exactly how they were going to stroke the ball, so gently that it would go through the hoop as sweetly as—­

He broke off.

Lizzie was looking at him intently, and a shiver went down his back from the pure erotic force of being this close to her.

The two of them were crouched down behind the wooden back of an old-­fashioned settee, out of sight. No one was paying them any attention; the other players had erupted into a quarrel about whether Hattie had cheated.

His niece had cheated; he was certain of it.

“Yes?” Lizzie prompted.

How could she have that buttercup hair with darker eyebrows? And how could she have that mouth without every man in the vicinity wanting to kiss her?

By every man, he meant Benjamin Jagger.

And himself.

There was only one answer.

Oliver leaned forward and brushed his lips over hers. She started, but when she didn't topple over backward trying to get away, he reached out and took her delicate shoulders in his hands, and kissed her again.

She let out her breath in a startled puff of air, so he took advantage and slipped his tongue inside her mouth.

She started again, for all the world as if she'd never been kissed. He didn't waste time wondering about it; he slid his fingers into her hair, tipped her head just so, and kissed her deeply.

He probably only had a minute before someone wondered where they were. Consequently, the kiss was fast, and hard, and slightly mad.

Intoxicating.

 

Chapter Eleven

A
FTER
O
LIVER KISSED
her behind the settee, Lizzie lost interest in the game. But Oliver didn't. There was no question but that he was ferociously competitive. He had dropped out of the game, and if he wasn't going to win, she was.

Obviously, winning wasn't his only goal.

He kept putting his arms around her, telling her that she was holding the mallet incorrectly. Every time their eyes met, it sent a thrill down her spine because the look in his eyes . . .

Adrian had been nearly as round as he was tall. But Oliver's body was hard and muscled, his stomach flat. When he put his arms around her, she felt protected, which made her realize that she hadn't felt safe since the moment her father walked her to the altar and left her there.

She had felt safe as a child. She and her friends at school had spent their free time reading novels and pining for the music master, who hadn't the faintest interest in any of them.

She'd always known that she would have no hand in choosing her husband. That was the way of it, when you were a merchant's daughter—­albeit a remarkably rich merchant's daughter—­whose father intended that his daughters would marry into the peerage.

Men would bid on her, and the highest bidder would win. When it became clear that Adrian Troutt was determined to win her hand, she had resigned herself to the fact.

Adrian had a nice twinkle in his eye, and she could have done worse. She had been a good girl, blindly certain that if she behaved obediently, she and her husband would come to love each other.

Even if they didn't, she would have children to think about.

A hand touched her cheek, a passing caress. “What's the matter?” Oliver asked.

“You shouldn't touch me like that!” she managed, every thought of Adrian flying from her mind. Every time she looked at Oliver, she couldn't breathe.

“I like touching you,” he said in a low voice.

“Oliver!”

His smile was pure wicked delight, spurring the irrepressible thought that Lizzie didn't have to
marry
a man in order to enjoy him. She was a widow, after all. There were all those ballads about lusty widows.

She could be one of those. A loose woman.

Heat surged up her neck and into her cheeks. His kisses . . . She hadn't known that kisses could be so intimate. She would like more of those kisses.

Oliver's eyes went heavy lidded, which meant he guessed what she was thinking about. His hand slid off the croquet mallet and onto her bare arm.

“Did you know,” he asked, in that deep voice of his, “that it's possible to play croquet in a bedchamber as well as a drawing room?”

She
never
giggled, but one flew from her lips. “Cat came up with the idea of indoor croquet. She's never mentioned the bedchamber.”

“You could play the game anywhere.” He drew closer, his body warming hers, his fingers drifting up the skin of her arm. “All you need is a mallet and a hoop.”

Lizzie felt her eyes go wide. Oliver's front was plastered against her back, and she suddenly realized that he definitely didn't share Adrian's problem. His mallet . . . well.

“You're driving me mad,” he said in rough whisper.

She twisted her head to see his face. She'd never seen desire like that, not for her, and it was heady stuff. It made her feel as if she'd drunk far too much wine. It was a fizzy feeling, like . . . like happiness.

“It's your turn, Lizzie,” Cat called. “If you and Oliver would please pay attention to the game, we could finish this before midnight!”

“We are coming,” Oliver called, his voice as smooth as could be. Then he said, “Do you still refuse to marry me?”

“What?” Lizzie squealed.

“If you remember, I as good as asked you yesterday. I was hoping you'd changed your mind.”

“I don't wish to marry anyone,” she said firmly. He was teasing. He had to be teasing.

“Would you mind being seduced by me?”

“Mind? Of course I'd mind!”

He moved so quickly that she couldn't stop him. He turned his back so she was shielded from the other players and then kissed her hard so that longing rose in her stomach like a storm, making her knees weak and her breath fast. He didn't stop until she was boneless, leaning against him like a hussy.

“I would not mind being seduced by you,” Oliver stated, his voice as dark and soft as velvet. “But my preference would be to marry you as well.”

He was a truth-­teller, she realized. He said what he was thinking, no matter how scandalous or improper.

She looked up, steadying herself with hands on his chest. There was a mixture of arrogance and burning longing in his eyes that she instinctively responded to.

“Do you consider me a woman of—­of ill repute?” she whispered. She meant to scold him by the question, but it came out a simple inquiry.

“Absolutely not.”

“You wouldn't tell anyone?”

“A gentleman never tells.” Oliver said that fiercely.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to insult you.”
Adrian
always told. Adrian had told the whole kingdom that he adored Sadie Sprinkle.

His eyes searched hers and he answered the questions she couldn't put in words. “I don't have a mistress. I haven't slept with a woman in months. I've never asked anyone to marry me before. I don't have any diseases. And I don't need your money.”

“Oh,” Lizzie breathed.

“I want to marry you,” he said, offering the sentence as if it were merely a clarification. “But I can understand that you might not be ready to marry someone you've known two days. I can give you time. A week, perhaps.”

“I hardly think that coaching needs to take this long,” Cat called.

Oliver turned and jerked his head at Joshua in some sort of silent male exchange.

“They're forfeiting a turn,” Joshua said. “Look, darling, that puts us one stroke ahead of Lizzie.”

“We can't allow them to win,” Lizzie whispered, but she didn't really care.

Oliver's hungry smile had nothing to do with the game. “We can afford to give up a stroke or two.” He bent his head and kissed her again, kissed her until she felt stupid and slow, and fast and alive, all at the same time. Her pulse was galloping.

“Your turn again, Uncle Oliver,” Hattie shrieked, some time later.

There was laughter in the girl's voice; obviously, they'd all seen what was happening. It was monstrously improper . . . and in front of children!

This time when Lizzie turned away, Oliver allowed it. She felt as if her brain had fried, like a cracked egg left in the sun on a hot day. She couldn't think of anything other than the fact that her cheeks must be bright red.

But no one said anything. She took her turn, followed by Cat. The girls' ball had rolled into a corner and they lost four strokes trying to get it out. Joshua was hovering, watching like a hawk to make certain that Hattie didn't cheat again.

They began begging for help and in the end, Oliver strode over and played their ball.

The mallet hung loosely from his hand as he bent slightly, showing the girls the proper form to play a game that he'd never even tried before that evening. He was wearing dove gray trousers, fashionable without being overly tight.

They were extremely flattering when he bent over. Lizzie discovered that she was fascinated by his legs—­he had pushed a muscular thigh between her legs when they were kissing and the feeling . . .

Her pulse was thrumming in her throat, and she could tell that her hands were shaking, just slightly. She felt hot and restless, as if she wanted to throw the mallet to the floor.

When it was her turn again, Lizzie announced that she would play her turn alone. She was afraid that if Oliver wrapped himself around her, everyone would see her trembling.

There was a smile in the depths of Oliver's eyes that gave her a feeling of heating from the inside out. But he guided her through the next few strokes without touching her. They were within one stroke of winning and she was waiting for the girls to finish their turn when a horrid thought occurred to her.

Oliver knew she was a widow and of course he would think she was experienced in the bedroom. She swallowed hard, a familiar wash of shame coming over her like a warm blanket.

How could she explain that her husband had had no interest? That even when he attempted, he couldn't do the deed with her? What if—­what if the same thing happened with Oliver?

She would die of shame. In fact—­

A hand curled around her wrist and she jerked her head up.

“What's the matter?” Oliver asked in a low voice.

“I can't do it,” she blurted out.

“What?”

“
That
.”

He took her mallet and leaned it against a chair. Then he called over to Joshua, “We're forfeiting the game.”

Joshua let out a howl of laughter.

“We're winning,” Lizzie protested.

Oliver's hand slid down her wrist and his fingers laced between hers.

“You won't leave the room with my sister,” Cat said, appearing suddenly. “Because that would be most improper.”

Lizzie opened her mouth to offer a protest, since she had no need for a chaperone, but Oliver simply said, “We're merely going to sit down and watch you play. Lady Troutt is tired.”

Cat turned, and Lizzie knew all her exhausted, ashamed feelings were evident in her eyes.

Her sister's expression immediately changed. “Oh, Lizzie, you told me how exhausted you were, and I didn't listen. Do sit down, and I'll order some tea. Or would you prefer hot milk?”

“Neither,” Lizzie said faintly. “Thank you.”

She was going to have to tell Oliver the truth, no matter how humiliating it was. He wasn't a liar, and she refused to make up a falsehood, even if it spared her embarrassment. She would tell him the truth about her marriage.

Not only had Adrian not fallen in love with her, as her father had confidently predicted, he couldn't even perform in her presence.

“A glass of brandy,” Oliver was saying. “Actually, two.”

Lizzie meant to say that she didn't drink spirits, but she was trying to figure out how to make the most embarrassing confession of her life. Before she knew it, she and Oliver were tucked in a settee at the side of the room, sipping glasses of something that tasted like liquid fire while Cat bustled back to the game.

Unfortunately, it seemed that the girls had taken advantage of the interruption in play and nudged their ball into a better position.

“I feel I should apologize for my niece,” Oliver said, after they sat for a moment in silence. “She's very young to be so criminally minded. I blame my sister's incessant Bible study.”

Lizzie could feel anxiety beating in her bloodstream. “Your seduction,” she said, and stopped.

Oliver was looking down at her. “I truly want to marry you,” he said conversationally.

“No,” she said with a gasp. “The only question is whether I would allow you to seduce me and I feel that I have to tell you that I may not suit you in bed.”

He burst into laughter. It was the first time she'd heard Oliver laugh from his belly, a deep, rolling humor that made his face light up. It was the most sensual thing she'd ever seen.

Still.

“I mean it,” she persisted.

“Why would you think such an absurdity?” he asked, managing to control his amusement.

“My marriage with Adrian was not consummated,” she said, fidgeting with a fold of her gown.

She looked up just in time to see a bolt of pure joy cross Oliver's face.

Oh.

She hadn't thought about it from a man's point of view.

“At this point, little I can learn about your late husband would shock me. Still, that is most surprising. Why?”

“He was incapable with me,” Lizzie said flatly. “I didn't have the kind of figure he admired, and I refused to do what he requested.” Panic reared over her like an ocean wave. “I can't imagine why we're having this conversation. I must have been temporarily out of my mind to entertain the thought, Mr. Berwick.”

“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.”