Six Degrees of Scandal (26 page)

He gasped as she flicked her tongue over the head of his cock. She smiled and braced herself more comfortably. Slowly she closed her lips around him, marveling at the response of his body. She had heard of this act before
50 Ways to Sin
featured it in one issue, but never before had she realized the intimacy of it. Even though she was on her knees pleasuring him, it was obvious that Jamie's entire being was focused on her; his muscles trembled with rigidity and his breath hissed between his teeth with every stroke of her tongue.

With a sudden movement, he yanked on her hand, dragging her on top of him. His kiss was dark and desperate, and Olivia reveled in it. He broke it off and sat up, turning her around until she sat on his lap, her back against his chest. Their bound hands pulled his arm around her, giving him leverage to pull her hard against him. With two hard shoves he pushed her twisted nightgown down and off, leaving her naked in his arms.

“No,” she panted. “I want to please you . . .”

His laugh was harsh. “You do, darling. Now open your legs and let us please each other.” Straddling the chaise, he draped one of her legs over his knee, exposing her quim, as Constance would call it. Olivia felt wicked just thinking the word; her eyelids fluttered open for a moment and she realized they were facing the mirror. She blushed deeply as she saw herself reflected there, her eyes glittering, her hair wild, Jamie's strong arm wrapped around her middle and his hand on her knee, urging her to spread her legs farther open . . . and his face, hard and fierce with want as he watched everything in the mirror over her shoulder.

“Jamie,” she squeaked, her voice melting to a sigh as his fingers stole up her thigh.

“Livie,” he breathed, his teeth playing at the delicate skin where her shoulder met her neck. “Be wicked with me.” His fingers swirled through the dark curls between her legs before plunging between the dark pink folds there.

Olivia moaned and writhed. He knew just how to touch her . . . But she wanted him to feel the same exquisite ache. She dug her toes into the
carpet and rolled her hips. With a whispered curse, Jamie moved, holding her tighter, and then he was inside her. His breath caught as he went still, and she realized he couldn't move.

She spread her knees wider and pushed. His fingers paused. Olivia watched his face in the mirror as she sank down. She felt him tremble. His grip on her hand, still bound to his, tightened until his knuckles went white. Olivia slid her free hand down her belly, insinuating her fingers among his. “I'm always wicked with you.”

“Show me.” He tugged his hand free and clasped her shoulder. His gaze remained fixed on her hand, but he seemed to stop breathing as she stroked herself.

Olivia knew quite well how to pleasure herself. For the last few years of her marriage to Henry, it had been her only way to climax, and her bed had been just as lonely after Henry died. But she had never touched herself so openly, so boldly, and certainly never with a man's cock deep inside her while he watched with a burning fascination.
Be wicked with me
. She focused on his face and circled her finger just so before finding the rhythm she knew would send her over the edge.

It built faster than ever, almost taking her off guard. When she felt it rise up and take hold of her, she barely had time to gasp before the floor seemed to fall away from beneath her feet. Jamie crossed his free arm over her chest and bowed his spine, forcing himself deeper inside her before he jerked in the throes of his own release.

For what seemed an eternity neither moved. Olivia opened her eyes a slit and marveled at the
decadent picture they presented, she sprawled wantonly across him with her hand still between her legs, Jamie with both arms wrapped around her and his forehead on her shoulder. A tiny satisfied smile tugged at her lips. Wickedness had never been so wonderful.

“Livie,” Jamie rasped, his breath hot against her neck. “Olivia, I love you. I'll love you till I die.”

The same emotion was flooding her, a tidal wave of love that swept everything else away. She kissed him, her heart too full for words. She knew he loved her, as surely as she knew that she loved him—and always would.

But he never said anything more. And later, when he slept next to her in bed, one ink-smudged arm thrown over her waist, Olivia couldn't help wondering if that omission meant something.

W
inter descended in force on London, gray and dismal and so cold Olivia could see her breath in all but the warmest rooms of the house. Jamie wrote and wrote. Every now and then he would put on his hat and coat to go for a walk, but otherwise he spent his days shut up in the house, hunched over his desk.

Although society was smaller at this time of year, there were still a few parties and public balls. Bathsheba went out as usual and reported back via penny post on what she heard. The first of Constance's stories involving Lord Clary caused barely a ripple, but as the issues came out, Bathsheba heard more and more whispering about the horrible man stalking Constance.

“It's working,” she wrote in one note, “although not as rapidly as one might like. At present people are not sure if he is a real threat or a future lover. I really think several more issues will be required . . .”

Jamie threw it on the desk. “More! That woman is determined to drive me mad.”

Olivia smiled. “You cannot fault her. They're
selling better than ever.” It was true. Every print shop and bookseller within fifteen miles of London was wild for copies, it seemed. Even more crucially, Daniel was meeting that demand. He'd persuaded Mr. Hicks to come from Gravesend to help, and somehow Jamie had engineered a partnership between Daniel and Liam MacGregor, who published the
London Intelligencer
newspaper. Olivia had been as startled as anyone to hear that, but at this point nothing Jamie did should surprise her. MacGregor took a third of the profits, and in return he enabled them to more than double production.

“Just these may drive me into a sickbed.” Jamie stretched his arms overhead.

“Take a rest,” she said, overcome with remorse. “I wish you would let me help. I sit here doing nothing, and you're going to go blind from writing.”

He held up one hand. “Not one word of that. You're providing a vital service.” He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “I'm in desperate need of inspiration . . .”

Olivia laughed and let him pull her into his lap for a searing kiss.

Her part, they both knew, would come. Every trap needed bait. Clary wanted the painting, but it would be easier to draw him out if he thought he could also catch Olivia unawares and alone.

Jamie didn't need to tell her this. She also didn't intend to let him keep her hidden away for protection. Clary had violated everything Olivia held dear: her freedom, her happiness, her friends, and her love. There was no doubt in her mind
that Clary viewed Jamie as an obstacle, the man who was keeping her from him. That made him a danger not just to Olivia herself but to Jamie. For both their sakes, Clary had to be dealt with—and Olivia knew she had to be the one to do it.

I
t took just over three weeks for Jamie to write, and Daniel to publish, eleven issues of
50 Ways to Sin.
As Jamie had planned, Lord Brarely grew more and more menacing. Constance grew more and more alarmed by his sinister hovering. Bathsheba reported that everything she heard indicated people were appalled by Brarely's intimidation and beginning to worry for Constance's safety. She wasn't privy to as much discussion of the stories as Olivia might have been, but Olivia hardly left Grosvenor Square. Jamie had suspicions that Clary was watching the house. In any event, MacGregor was able to monitor most gossip, thanks to his still-unknown columnist, and his word on this was most satisfactory: there were several open bets about Brarely's identity, and Clary was the runaway favorite.

But they knew it was time to spring the trap when Jamie came home from one of his walks late one frigid evening. “Clary's furious,” he told her as he brushed a light dusting of snow from his greatcoat. “He's finally told someone he thinks it's you blackening his name.”

“Where did you hear it?” Olivia had known it would happen if their plan worked, and yet her heart skipped a beat in apprehension anyway.

“A coffeehouse. I ran into a fellow I've done business with, and he said Clary was spewing slander about you.” Jamie handed his coat and hat to the waiting footman, who melted into the far recesses of the hall. “Are you worried?”

Yes. With Clary, she would always worry. But Olivia forced the thought down and gave a firm nod. They had a plan, and she wasn't about to shy away from doing her part.

He gave her a smile that was part reassurance, part promise of vengeance. “Good. I think it's time.”

Two nights later Olivia put on her old blue cloak and walked out into Grosvenor Square at twilight, late enough for the streetlamps to be lit but not yet dark. The footman hailed a hackney and directed the driver to Mrs. Harding's lodging house, then helped her inside. The bulky valise she carried held only a few items, but she held it close for comfort. Jamie had gone out several hours earlier to make final arrangements, and Olivia only now realized how accustomed she had become to his presence.

In Clarges Street she paid the driver and ran up the steps. Mrs. Harding popped out of the back of the hall as she came in. “Oh! Mrs. Townsend.”

“Yes.” She started up the stairs.

Mrs. Harding followed, a worried frown on her face. “I am not pleased by this. You can't come and go as you please—I don't keep that sort of house—and the gentlemen! There are to be no gentlemen upstairs, Mrs. Townsend!”

Olivia stopped at the top of the stairs. “Mrs. Harding,” she said firmly but quietly, “I shall be quitting my rooms after tonight. I suspect
you know why.” After her last visit here, she had formed the idea that Mrs. Harding, or perhaps one of the servants, was reporting to Lord Clary when she came and went. It was too striking a coincidence that the viscount would have been so close at hand the one time she returned to Clarges Street.

Mrs. Harding flushed deep red. “I'm sure I don't know what you mean, but I've half a mind to call the constable about this. I do not approve of the way you comport yourself!”

“Very well,” said Olivia, knowing the landlady would do no such thing. “Call the constable.” She turned and opened her door.

The rooms looked the same, undisturbed and waiting. She went into her bedroom to be sure all was prepared, then returned to the sitting room and lit the lamps. She unpacked the valise, setting the box on the table and the painting on the floor by the cold hearth, just out of sight behind the worn armchair. St. George seemed to be gazing right at her, approvingly.
Protect us all
, she told him silently.

The tap at the door made her jump. Telling herself it could be Mrs. Harding, but knowing it probably was not, she opened the door.

“There you are.” Clary shoved at the door as she instinctively tried to push it shut.

Olivia backed up, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. She had planned to lure him here, but now that he was in the room, there was no chance to reconsider anything. “Please leave, Lord Clary.”

“Not yet. We have some unfinished business to attend to, you and I.”

“No, we do not,” she exclaimed, her voice rising.

He closed the door behind him, turning the key in the lock. Watching her, smiling grimly when she took another step backward, he slid the key into his pocket.

“Where is my landlady?” Olivia demanded. “I am not receiving guests—”

“I didn't ask the old besom's blessing. Nor do I need your permission!” snarled the viscount. As he came forward into the lamplight, Olivia saw signs of strain in his face and figure. There were shadowy circles under his eyes, his black hair was mussed out of its normal smoothness, and his clothes bore signs of inadequate laundering.

Good.

They weren't glaring signs of ruin, but to Olivia, who knew how precise and demanding Clary normally was about everything, including his person, they revealed a man whose grasp on his world was slipping. That was exactly what she and Jamie had set out to do, but it also made the viscount even more dangerous.

“Once I asked,” Clary went on, recovering his quiet, deadly voice after the moment of anger. “Once I begged you, my dear. But you were troublesome and obstinate. I'm not a man to be refused, yet you did so . . . several times.” He took off his greatcoat and set it aside. “Not again, Olivia.”

She wet her lips. “I do not want to have an affair with you, sir,” she said, making sure her voice was firm and strong.

Clary's smile was terrifying, and even though he stood on the opposite side of the room, it made
her pulse leap with anxiety. “Did I not make myself clear? I'm not asking this time.” He paused and Olivia inhaled a shuddering breath. “First, tell me where the painting is. I'll be gentle if you tell me. If I have to search for it . . . you will not enjoy what comes next.”

“Why?” Her voice shook. “Why do you want me? It's unnatural . . .”

A look of surprise crossed his face. “Why? I don't completely know, my dear. The usual reason, of course. You took my fancy. Not strongly enough to warrant upsetting my arrangement with Henry, but once he was gone, there was no reason I shouldn't enjoy you.” He shook his head and clicked his tongue sadly. “But you were so cool and polite. Such a challenge! I knew it wasn't grief—no one mourned Henry that much, especially not the wife his father bought for him.” He stopped at Olivia's flinch of shock. “Oh yes, everyone knew. His father kept a tight leash on him, and the only way to loosen it was by accepting a wife's gentle influence. How fortunate for Henry you had no interest in settling him! He did appreciate that. It made his later activities so much easier.” Clary closed the distance between them as Olivia stood rigid with humiliation. Henry had told everyone he married her only to placate his father. She wasn't surprised that he'd felt that way, but the revelation that he had told all his elegant friends . . . that took her off guard. Even her belief that her husband was gentleman enough to keep the truth of their marriage discreetly secret was false.

“Speaking of those activities, tell me where it
is.” Clary's dark eyes burned. “I know you have it.”

Olivia shook her head.

“Tell me.” His voice sharpened. “All the way to Thanet and back. Henry kept that side of things to himself—at times I thought he must not trust me. But I know the cargo came ashore off Ramsgate, and you fled directly there. Such daring, Olivia. As much as I appreciate your desire to find the last shipment for me, your choice of accomplice was poorly made. As if taking another man to your bed would make me less determined to have you.” With a sudden movement he pushed her. Olivia gave a startled yelp. “I haven't got all night to indulge you. Tell me where the painting is, and this will be a pleasant experience for both of us.” He shed his jacket and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“There.” Olivia backed up and pointed a shaky finger. “There it is. Take it and leave me alone.”

At her words Clary spun on his heel, searching. The painting was on the floor, slightly hidden by the wingback chair next to the hearth, but he saw it. His breath hissed, and he crossed the room in three strides to lift it. For a few moments he studied it, even flipping it over to see the back. “My God.” There was a pulse of excitement in his hushed whisper. “My God, he got it . . .”

“You can have it,” Olivia said again. “Just take it and go.”

Slowly he raised his head and turned to look at her. The familiar cold smile appeared. “Not yet. You've wrought too much mischief lately, and you're going to pay for it.” He set the painting
down on the chair, carefully propping it up. The dragon snarled, coiled to attack. Its scales shone in the lamplight.

“No.”

“No?” He flexed his fingers. Olivia knew he didn't want her to acquiesce. He wanted to force her. “You've said no to me one too many times.” He started toward her.

Olivia raised the pistol. While Clary had gone to the painting, she had sidled to the box on the table, screened by her valise, which held two loaded and primed pistols. These were smaller pistols than Jamie's, but no less accurate at close distance. Jamie had bought them just for her, and she had followed his advice to keep them both ready. “Stop, sir.”

He laughed. “You aren't going to shoot me.” He took another step, and Olivia pulled the trigger.

Clary howled and clapped one hand to his chest. With an expression of disbelief he shoved back his waistcoat to reveal a sticky smear of blood near his shoulder. He turned on her with murder in his eyes. “That seals your fate.” He charged toward her.

Olivia ran, the second pistol clutched in both hands. Clary caught her skirt but she wrenched loose. Frantically she twisted the doorknob, but he had locked it. She pressed her back to the door and aimed her gun.

Clary froze. For the first time something like fear flickered in his face. “Don't!”

Olivia kept the pistol trained on the painting. “You need it, don't you? I heard your wife has left you and her father has cut off her funds. That was
most of your income, wasn't it? Now that Henry isn't paying you to help him sell smuggled artworks.”

“Put down the pistol,” Clary ordered.

“You're ruined in London,” she went on, trying to keep her voice from shaking and her words from running together. “You need that painting so you can flee London and sell it overseas, to someone who doesn't know it's stolen. Don't you?”

“Olivia,” said Clary with a voice like steel, “put down the pistol. You might accidentally fire, for God's sake!”

“That painting is your salvation,” she accused, “but you won't just take it and leave! You want me for no other reason than that I refused your advances. You've chased me and assaulted me and you tried to kill my friend Penelope—”

“The lying little whore should have been more accommodating,” he snarled. “Just as you should. I will not ask again, Olivia. Give me the pistol!” On the last word he lunged at her, and Olivia pulled the trigger.