A Gentleman Never Tells (8 page)

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.”

L
IZZIE 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

A
FTER 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 unmistakable 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.”

Lizzie wasn't sure what he meant, but a smile trembled on her lips.

He let go and dragged a hand through his hair. “I can't make love to you like this, in secret. Damn it, I want you to be my bride!”

The truth that she had honed and polished in her mind over the miserable years of her marriage slipped out of her mouth. “I don't plan to marry, ever again.”

His hands slid down her arms. “Why not?”

“A wife is no more than a possession, a thing. She has no rights, she has no money, she has nothing. She
is
nothing.”

Oliver brought her right hand up to his mouth and pressed a warm kiss onto her palm. “You would never be nothing to me. Never. You're everything to me.”

“I would be your possession, legally and otherwise.” Lizzie bit her lip. “I want to be free. I like you. I truly do.”

She stopped because something painful flashed through his eyes.

“I believe I feel something more than that for you,” he said, his tone oddly courteous, like that of a medieval knight. “I seem to have fallen in love with you, Lizzie Troutt.”

She blinked up at him. “That's impossible.”

A corner of his mouth tipped upward. “Why?”

“You scarcely know me.”

He cocked his head. “I feel as if I've known you my entire life. I have never asked another woman to marry me; I've never even considered it. Yet I saw you, Lizzie, and within a day, I wanted to put a ring on your finger.”

Lizzie realized she was gaping, and snapped her mouth shut. “That's impossible.”

“You're beautiful. No, you're more than beautiful. You're exquisite. You're intelligent, wry, and funny; you like to read; you don't like fancy balls, but you like to ride, even though I haven't seen you on a horse yet; you have an incredible waist; your hips are even better; your mouth drives me crazy; your eyes are beautiful; I want to make you laugh.”

“Oh,” she breathed.

“I want to make you laugh, and I want to make sure you eat. I want to see you limp and sweaty and pleasured on my bed. If you don't want howling plums in the house, that's fine, but I would love a little girl with your mouth and all that hair. It was all I could think about when I watched Mayne holding his baby girl. I want you, Lizzie, in my life, and in my bed, and anywhere else you'll have me.”

Her eyes searched his face. He was a man who said what he thought, directly. You could trust him to tell the truth.

“You don't ever take advantage of ­people, do you?” she asked.

A look of distaste cross his face. “No.”

“Your sister is doing so.” It hadn't escaped her that Adrian had dumped her on his mother because he needed a caretaker, and Oliver's sister had done the same with her own daughter.

“My sister is my family. And I love Hattie. She's a royal pain, but I still love her.” His large hands caressed her back, tempting her to sink forward into his arms again.

Lizzie swallowed hard. Oliver was such a good man, and it was so ironic that they met because he came to apologize for doing something unkind.

If she married him, he would never be unkind. She knew it in her bones.

“I don't have any money,” she said, her eyes fixed on his so she could see if there was even a trace of disappointment. “I gave it all to Sadie's son, and my jointure was very small.”

No disappointment.

“I have no need for money. I only need you.” His voice was achingly honest.

Lizzie stepped back so his hands fell to his sides. She couldn't think when he was touching her. Oliver's hair tumbled over his brow; he would never bother with an elegant hairstyle.

“Do you have a valet?” she asked.

“No.”

He didn't apologize or explain. He just waited for her to make a decision, his dark blue eyes steady, seeming to realize that she had to think it out.

“I don't like eating six courses, and I read too many books, and I am easily bored.”

He nodded. “All right.”

“Perhaps this would be a good idea, and perhaps it wouldn't.”

“Why wouldn't it?”

“We may not suit, on coming to know each other better.”

“You suit me,” he said simply. “I know it. I will do my best to suit you.”

There was something about his bluntness that made her heart sing. It made her knees weak, even more so when Oliver began to deftly untie his neck cloth, exposing the strong neck that she had ogled earlier in the day.

Lizzie pulled her mind back to the topic at hand. Never mind the fact that he had unbuttoned one of his cuffs, and was working on the other.

Just as if—­well, as if they were married. As if he'd come to her chamber after supper with family, and an impromptu game of croquet, and . . .

He was pulling off his waistcoat.

“Are you undressing?” she said weakly.

“I am,” he said, taking off his boots and then his stockings. Lizzie discovered that she was fascinated by his feet. They were so long, and powerful looking, and yet somehow graceful.

Something flashed in the corner of her eye, and she looked up. His shirt was gone. She let her eyes drop from the powerful column of Oliver's throat down to his shoulders, down further to the wide arc of his chest. His body narrowed to a waist that rippled with muscle, a light furring leading to the top of his pantaloons.

Her heart was beating in her chest with a ferocity driven by lust. She wanted to touch him, caress him.
Lick
him.

She gulped, a small sound in the quiet room. His eyes were raw with desire and yet tender as well.

“I suppose I could try marriage again,” she said shakily. Her eyes darted over his body.

He was laughing again, not as loudly as before, but joyfully. “I would be very grateful to seduce you—­and to wed you. I've had a cockstand since about five minutes after I met you. It's starting to hurt.”