Six Degrees of Scandal (2 page)

Jamie was there as well, although less frequently as they all grew older. He wasn't sent away to school as most boys were but had a series of tutors and instructors. Mr. Weston traveled frequently on business and often he took his son with him. Olivia thought that sounded dull, but Jamie said he enjoyed it immensely.

“It's far better than sitting at home learning Latin verbs,” he told her. “I'd much rather visit
shipyards and manufactories and see how things are really
done
. Even visiting the bankers is more intriguing than any mathematics exercise.”

She had to smile. “When you put it that way, perhaps I agree.”

He laughed. “It's all in the way I put it! You're much too easy to persuade, Livie. You'd let yourself be tempted into all kinds of bad behavior, wouldn't you?”

Only by you
, she thought. He'd been able to lead her astray since that first morning in church. “I don't know what you mean,” she told him. “I'm a very respectable girl.”

“And yet I like you anyway,” he replied gravely.

She put out her tongue at him and he pulled one of her loose curls, just like any brother and sister.

W
hen Olivia was fourteen and Jamie seventeen, he went off to Cambridge. By then she was spending more time at Haverstock House than at home. Finances had grown tight at Kellan Hall, and Sir Alfred was only too happy to let Olivia take French and dancing lessons with the Weston girls. That way Mr. Weston paid for her lessons, and when she returned home she was expected to teach Daphne. Her sister complained bitterly about having no dancing master of her own, and Lady Herbert consoled her by buying her finer new dresses than Olivia, despite Sir Alfred's warnings about economy.

In time the Westons noticed. More than once Mrs. Weston gave Olivia a bonnet or a dress, declaring that she had ordered it but then changed her mind or gained too much weight for it to fit. She begged Olivia to take them off her hands. From the triumphant smiles Abigail and Penelope wore whenever she accepted, Olivia guessed that it was a conspiracy. Still, as her dresses from home got tighter and shorter, and her bonnets shabbier, she was grateful. It was obvious that the gifts were
well within Mrs. Weston's means. Haverstock House, as grand as it was to begin with, had been transformed into the most elegant and modern house in all of Sussex. Abigail said her parents were talking of moving to London permanently, if they could find a suitable house. Olivia instinctively knew this didn't mean a modest house they could afford; it meant a house fine enough to tempt Mr. Weston, who was now—if one could believe the rumors—one of the wealthiest men in southern England.

She quailed at the thought of losing her friends. The Herberts were not going to London, even though Olivia would soon be old enough for a Season. Lady Herbert had spoken of it for years, planning first Olivia's and then Daphne's debut into the best society, where they would naturally collect a number of eligible suitors and make fine matches. From time to time Sir Alfred rumbled a protest, but Lady Herbert was set on it, and Lady Herbert's will generally ran roughshod over her husband's. The only problem this time was that there really truly was no money.

The summer Olivia turned seventeen, the hints of impending disaster grew ominous. Creditors came to Kellan Hall and demanded to see Sir Alfred, who spent more and more time in his study, the door stoutly barred. Lady Herbert stopped going into town to shop, and instead spent that time sighing over fashion periodicals. One by one servants left or were sacked, and the house grew threadbare. All Daphne's pleas for new dresses were brusquely refused. And every day Olivia quietly slipped away to Haverstock House, where
Jamie had come back from university, now tall and filled out and more handsome than before.

However, he was no less discerning and direct. “What's wrong at home, Livie?” he asked one day as they walked into town, where Mrs. Weston had sent her son on an errand. Abigail and Penelope had been squabbling all day and were confined to their rooms to compose essays on familial affection, so Olivia decided to walk with him. Except for brief visits home, Jamie had been gone for three years. As much as she loved Abigail and Penelope, she'd missed him a great deal. It felt right to walk with him again.

“Why would you think something is wrong?” Olivia affected astonishment. The Westons had never asked, and she had never spoken, about the circumstances at Kellan Hall. She didn't want anyone to know how her family was sinking. It must be clear to anyone who looked closely, but that didn't make it less mortifying.

“I heard things.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “How bad is it?”

“Now where would you hear things, James Weston?” she asked in exasperation. “You've only been back in Sussex a fortnight!”

He vaulted over a fence and held out his hand to help her climb the stile. “It's no secret that Sir Alfred has abused his credit with every merchant in town. My parents are worried about you.”

“Oh? I hadn't heard.”

He gave a
tsk
and shook his head. “You're not a good liar.”

“I'm not rude enough to call someone a liar to her face.”

He didn't laugh, as she'd expected. “I hope you won't lie to me.”

His tone gave her pause. The truth was, she didn't lie to him. It was impossible anyway, for he could always tell when she tried. “I don't,” she said softly. “I can't. So I wish you wouldn't ask me about home.”

He studied her face a moment. “It's that bad?”

Olivia closed her eyes and nodded.

“Well.” He seized her hand. “We ought to have some fun.”

“But your errand!” she protested as he pulled her off the path into the woods.

He waved it off. “This is more important.”

Through the woods he led her, past the waterfall, along the stream to the pond in the meadow where they all used to fish and swim before he went away. But today they had no poles or bait. “What now?” she asked, shading her eyes against the glare off the water.

He pulled off a boot. “Let's go swimming.”

“No!”

“Why not?” His other boot came off and he shucked his coat. “We've swum here for years.”

“That was long ago!” Olivia watched in shock as he took off his waistcoat and began untying his neck cloth. What he said was true, and yet . . . It was different when they were young. Obviously they'd all grown up—but as he stripped, she became exquisitely conscious of how much
he
had grown.

“Have you forgotten how to swim?” He pulled his shirt over his head.

Olivia took a step backward. Heaven help her,
she wanted to go swimming with him, but she also felt the wickedest urge to throw her arms around him. She couldn't tear her eyes off his bare chest, and her lungs seemed to be squeezed in a giant fist. Jamie had been a handsome lad, and was now a devilishly attractive young man. “No.”

“Coward?”

“I am not,” she retorted by instinct. One learned quickly that being a coward was not permissible with the Westons.

“Then into the water with you, dressed or not!”

She shrieked and danced away from his grasp, then took off her dress and stays. She hung them on a nearby tree for safekeeping and peeled off her stockings and shoes. Jamie had already removed his trousers and dove headlong into the pond, wearing only his drawers. Olivia waded in and soon found herself dunked, splashed, and goaded deeper into the water. They laughed and swam, until Olivia tried to put a lily pad on his head. Jamie vowed revenge and took chase, vowing to throw her into the deep end of the pond.

He finally caught her and trapped her, her back against his chest. Olivia shrieked and flailed. He yelled as she splashed them both, and lashed his other arm around her. “I got you!” he crowed. “I win!”

She was laughing so hard tears streamed down her face. “You cheated!” She writhed once more, knowing it was hopeless, and when he tried to grab her tighter, his hand slid over her breast.

They both went still, panting heavily from the skirmish. Tentatively his fingers moved, swirling
over her flesh. Under his thumb her nipple rose firm and eager. Olivia shivered.

“Livie,” he whispered, his voice somehow deeper than usual, and then he kissed her nape.

Her breath caught. Who would have guessed that a boy's lips on the back of her neck could feel so exciting? Her back bowed and her head fell forward. She shut out the little voice in her head warning that this was unbecoming behavior for a baronet's daughter, and gave herself over to the thrill of being worshipped.

His lips moved over her skin. “I shouldn't kiss you,” he whispered next to her ear. “I know it, but I don't want to stop, Livie . . .”

She twisted in his embrace. “Don't stop.” She wound her arms around his neck and exulted as his mouth claimed hers almost before she finished speaking. It was everything a girl's first kiss should be: gentle and sweet and given by the boy she loved.

His arms shifted, lifting her higher. She giggled until he kissed her again. Buoyed by the water, her legs rose and curled around his waist. His shoulders heaved, and his hands went to her hips, pulling her tightly against him, and Olivia felt the contact with some astonishment. She broke the kiss and raised her head. Jamie met her gaze, his own eyes wide and clear. His mouth was set in a firm white line and he seemed to be having trouble controlling his breathing.

“I'm going to walk out of the pond,” he said in that too-deep voice.

If they got out of the water, her soaked chemise would cling transparently to her body. Already
she could feel his skin through the thin linen. He was warm and solid and still held her as if he feared to let go. This was truly unbecoming—even immodest—behavior, but without a word she nodded.

He sloshed out of the water with long, careful strides. Olivia's heart skipped a beat as the breeze blew across her wet skin and made her shiver. Jamie noticed, but he didn't laugh or tease her. As soon as he reached the thick tall grasses a few feet from the water, he lowered himself to his knees, still holding her wrapped around him. “Livie,” he said, his hazel eyes boring into hers, “if you want to put your dress on, you should run and fetch it.”

“If I don't?” she whispered.

He swallowed. “Then I'll kiss you again and again.”

A smile broke across her face. “I want you to.” He blinked, and she blushed. “Please.”

So he did. They tumbled into the sun-warmed grass and explored each other with gentle touches and caresses that grew increasingly bold. He made her giggle and she made him squirm. In the warmth of the day their undergarments dried quickly, which caused her chemise to ride up until his hand landed on her bare knee.

“Livie.” He seemed mesmerized by the feel of her skin. He traced the shape of her knee, his fingertips swirling over it. “Livie, do you know about making love?”

“Ah—oh,” she said awkwardly. Elizabeth Miller, who was only a year older than Olivia but already married, had regaled a number of young ladies in town about the secrets of wedded life.
“A—a little. Have you . . . Have you done it?” Her face grew hot just asking the question.

Jamie blushed, too, all the way down his neck. “No.” He drew a delicate line along her thigh, nudging the chemise higher. “I think of doing it with you, though, all the time. You've grown up so beautiful.”

Her heart seemed to swell with happiness. No one at her house thought she was beautiful; that was Daphne, the golden child. And this wasn't just anyone telling her she was beautiful, it was
Jamie
, whom she'd loved since she was ten years old. “I love you, Jamie,” she blurted.

He looked at her, not astonished but pleased. “And I love you. Have forever.”

She gasped, then gave a laugh of pure delight. “You do?”

“You didn't know?” He sounded wounded.

“You never said!”

He grinned, his hazel eyes sparkling at her from underneath the wild tangle of his still-drying hair. “I just did.” The grin faded. “And I can't stop thinking of you. All the time I was gone, Livie. I missed you.”

“I thought making love was something only married people did,” she said nervously. Elizabeth's stories of great pleasure and shocking delights echoed in her mind. It was tempting—so very tempting—but also daunting.

He didn't seem frightened in the slightest. “I always knew I'd marry you someday. You're the best girl in England, Livie.”

Olivia's mouth fell open. “You—you want to marry me?”

Jamie winked. “Of course I do!” She scowled, and he tried to subdue his cocksure grin. “I should have asked with more dash. Or with poetry. Girls like poetry, don't they? ‘If only you will marry me, how very happy we will be.'” Olivia snorted with laughter. He gathered her closer. “‘If you decide to answer yes, I would then take off your dress.'
” His fingers ran up her thigh again as she gasped in exaggerated indignation—and a deep and primitive pulsing excitement. “‘You have the finest bosom in Britain, and I would like to kiss your skin.'”

“That's horrid!” Olivia was laughing so hard she could hardly speak.

“I hope you mean the poetry and not the sentiment.” He caught her as she tried to squirm away, holding her against him. The motion sent his hand sliding up her leg, higher and higher until Olivia abruptly froze. Her heartbeat roared in her ears. His fingers were right there, brushing a very private place, and for a moment the tantalizing touch made her breath catch.

Jamie had also gone still. Slowly, gently, he ran his fingertips over her skin, gliding up the inside of her thigh but stopping short. Olivia's whole body twitched as those fingers trailed back down. He started to tug her chemise hem down. “I'm sorry, Livie—” he began, his voice hoarse and strained.

“No.” She twisted to face him. “I want to marry you, too.” She placed her hand against his bare chest. “I do, Jamie.
Yes
.”

He threw back his head and gave a whoop before snatching her against him, even as she laughed. He held her close and kissed her neck
and face profusely until she beat on his shoulders with her fists. “Stop,” she gasped between peals of laughter. “Stop!” He did, and she caught her breath. He was so handsome like this, tousled and bare-chested, and she'd never felt so happy. “Make love to me.”

His gaze sharpened. “Truly?”

She nodded, her heart bursting with love. Her father would give permission—the Weston wealth would ensure that, if nothing else—and then she would be a Weston, with Jamie to make her laugh and kiss her senseless and satisfy this new craving of her body. “I want you to make love to me.”

“Far be it from me to refuse a lady.” He pulled the drawstring on her chemise. “The fellows at university said it takes practice to do this properly.”

“If you don't know how it's done,” she began, but he cut her off, sliding over her and pressing a kiss on her mouth. The feel of his body on top of hers stopped any other protest.