“I want to see,” she said softly.
He opened his eyes and met her blue gaze. “You could command me to jump…” He sucked in a breath as she slid her hand downward once more, her fingertips skimming over his ballocks. “… jump off a cliff right now… and I’d gladly go.”
She grinned. “Is this how to control a man?”
“Not… ‘a man,’ ” he corrected. “Me. And hell, Olivia. All you really needed to do was… ahhh—” He let out a strangled groan as she pulled back upward, squeezing. He
felt the tightness in his lower back—the sign that always told him when his release was imminent.
“What?” she whispered. “What did I need to do?”
“Just smile at me. That’s… ah… all you had to do. One smile and I was… lost.”
She tugged on his cock one more time, seeming to pull the release straight from him. “No,” he ground out. “Not yet.”
He removed her hand from him, then murmured, “Go onto your hands and knees, sweetheart.”
Her eyes widened, but she nodded. He took a moment to gaze at the curtains of hair falling down the sides of her face, the smoothness of her spine and back, and the tight roundness of her behind. He trailed his fingers along her pale, even skin from her neck down to her bottom, cupping one smooth cheek in his palm.
“You’re perfect,” he murmured. He lowered his fingers between her legs, feeling the subtle tremble of her skin beneath him. “Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. “This will feel good.” His worries were allayed when he found her wet and ready for him.
He stroked her until she was panting and thrusting her body back against his fingers, then he aligned himself with her entrance and slowly pushed himself in.
God, it was heaven. She was so warm, so tight, clasping him like a hot, wet glove. “I’m not going to last, Olivia.”
Her only response was a push against him, seating him all the way inside her. He held there for a moment, his eyes closed in pleasure at the feel of her velvet clasp over him.
He held her hips and pulled out and then in, a rhythm as slow and old as time. But after only a few strokes, that
feeling welled from the base of his spine, and he knew he couldn’t control it this time. His thrusts became harder, frantic. Release pooled low in his cock, and then—
Still gripping her hips tightly, he pulled out of her and pressed himself against her behind as his orgasm tore out of him. She pushed back, exerting just the right amount of pressure to make him groan. It seemed to go on forever. He thought he’d given everything last night, but this morning he came and came until he was spent. When it stopped, he collapsed to the side of her, pulling her against him, feeling the slickness of his release between them.
He bent down to kiss her head. “Thank you.”
“Mmm,” was all she said in response.
He lay for a few minutes, gathering his strength. Then he rose, yanked on his trousers, and stumbled to the basin. He wet a towel and, warming it between his hands, he returned to her.
She jumped a little when he pressed it against her back. “Shh,” he said. “Just lie there, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”
Carefully, he swiped the cloth over her skin and between her legs, cleaning her gently and thoroughly. When he finished, he fetched her nightgown and helped her put it on, tying it at the neck in a bow like she’d had it last night.
She glanced down then back up at him. “Thank you for last night,” she said quietly. “Thank you for this morning.”
He nodded, suddenly not able to find words to answer her. And then, as he watched her leave him, something strange lurched in his chest.
He didn’t like watching her walk away.
O
livia went to Max’s bed every night for a week, but then her courses arrived, and for the next few nights, when she went to his room they only held each other. And talked. They talked for hours on end—about their pasts, their hopes, their beliefs, and their dreams for the future.
Autumn had given way to the short, cold days of winter. Olivia ignored the cold as much as she could, and she continued to take her walks whenever the weather came close to permitting it, and Max often joined her.
On their walk the day before yesterday, Max finally told her exactly why he never intended to marry. He explained how he’d always been terrified that if he married, he’d become just like his father.
“But why?” she had asked. “Do you think you won’t be faithful?”
He shrugged. “I’ve never felt any compulsion to be faithful to a woman, until now.”
The offhand admission had surprised him, and he’d
stared at her for a long moment, the expression in his eyes undecipherable. It hadn’t surprised her. Even though they hadn’t really been with other women besides her sisters and Beatrice, his focus had been entirely on her. And she could say with some measure of confidence that he hadn’t thought of anyone else since he’d arrived in Sussex.
“And you would never abuse a woman like your father did,” she added.
“Never,” he said through gritted teeth.
“So what have you to worry about, then?” she asked, although a part of her wondered why she was pursuing this line of questioning—why would she encourage him to marry when it was obvious he could never marry her?
He looked away from her, his gaze seeming to search through the trees. “There’s a violence in me, Olivia. A rage I sometimes cannot control. I could never expose an innocent woman to that. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”
She glanced at him, surprised. She’d never seen him angry. Dismayed and frustrated, perhaps, but never in a rage. “I don’t understand,” she said softly. “That’s not you, Max.”
“But it is me. A part of me I pray you’ll never see.”
Something in her chest had tightened into a knot.
Today was blustery and cold, but sunny enough. Olivia had spent most of the night with Max, and she’d slept in this morning. Her maid, Smithson, told her that Serena, Phoebe, and Jessica had all gone to Lady Fenwicke’s house for a visit, and the men were off hunting. But when she came down to breakfast, Max was reading the newspaper at the breakfast table, a cup of steaming coffee in front of him.
He rose when she entered the room. “Miss Donovan.” He smiled at her, his green eyes twinkling.
“Good morning, my lord.”
She sat, feeling suddenly shy. It felt so awkward to speak to him outside of the privacy of his room or their walks. She must pretend he was simply a friend, and it made her uncomfortable. A silly, wanton part of her wanted to sit in his lap and smack a kiss on his cheek. But a servant or someone else could walk in at any time, and she just couldn’t allow herself that level of unseemliness. Not in her brother-in-law’s house.
Max’s low, silky voice washed over her. “So you slept late this morning, too?”
Turning from the sidebar, she raised her brows at him. “I did. I was told the men had already gone off hunting.”
“They did. I woke too late and discovered they’d gone without me.”
She gathered her plate and sat across from him, nodding at the footman who came to offer her chocolate. “And my sisters went to Lady Fenwicke’s house.”
Max folded his paper and looked at her. The corners of his mouth lifted upward in a smile. “It’s just you and me, then.”
Oh, there was so much sin buried within that seemingly innocuous statement that a delicious shiver rushed through her.
She cocked her head. “Perhaps I can interest you in a walk after breakfast, my lord?”
He chuckled low and nodded, as if to say,
I’d had other plans—wicked plans—but I suppose a walk will do.
She returned his smile, and they simply sat for a long moment, grinning at each other. Anyone who walked into
the room at this moment could see very well what besotted loons they’d become.
She broke the look first, conscious of the servant who’d just walked into the room to bring her chocolate and to refresh the dishes at the sideboard. She gazed down at her cup, circling its rim with her fingertip. Finally, she looked up at him.
“Tell me, my lord, where in England did you grow up?”
“Not too far from here. In Hampshire. My uncle’s seat, Forest Corner, is located there.”
“So you spent your childhood there?”
“After my mother died, my father spent most of his time at my uncle’s house. My cousins lived there, too. During my years at Eton, it was where I returned during school holidays.”
“A place to go,” she murmured, “but not home.”
“Not home,” he agreed softly. He took a contemplative sip of his coffee. “Forest Corner is a vast, cold place. It’s scrubbed until it shines daily. It was entirely different from the house my mother kept. Entirely different from this house, for that matter. Every carefully rendered detail is for aesthetics rather than comfort.”
“I understand. It does sound cold. And yet it will belong to you someday, won’t it?”
“I suppose it will.”
“But you said you had cousins. Are they all girls?”
“No. My uncle fathered one daughter and two sons, and all three died of influenza one year. The eldest of them was twelve, the youngest was six. Their mother caught it too. I’d been gone at Eton that autumn, and when I arrived at Forest Corner for the winter holiday, they were all… gone.”
“Oh,” Olivia murmured, “how horrible.”
“Yes.” There was a hint of desolation in Max’s expression as he gazed down at his coffee cup. He grasped it between both palms. “It was a long time ago… but my cousins were my closest companions during my childhood. I miss them.”
“I’m so sorry, Max. I can’t imagine.” A part of her felt hollow inside, thinking about how much loss this man had suffered. At least he still had one family member remaining. “What about your uncle? Did he take you under his wing after that happened?”
Max pressed his lips together and shook his head grimly. “Not at all. He never believed I could be as good a Duke of Wakefield as Charles or Henry.” He took a slow breath, then looked up at her. “He told me once that he wished it was me who’d died rather than his sons.”
She flinched, but he shrugged. “I cannot blame him, really. He lost two sons, a daughter, a wife… I never wanted a dukedom, and I wasn’t raised to be a duke. But Charles and Henry were his heir and spare—both born and raised to perform the job.”
Olivia nodded.
“My uncle was in London when they became ill. He was in Town with my father and their mistress.”
“Their mistress?” Olivia repeated, her eyes widening.
He nodded, then swallowed the rest of his coffee. “Yes.” His voice lowered. “I told you they shared almost everything, didn’t I?”
Olivia couldn’t do anything but stare at him, completely aghast.
“When I was nineteen,” Max said softly, “I called my uncle to task for that and for his many other crimes
against his family while they were alive. We haven’t spoken since then.”
“Oh Max. I’m so sorry. That is a horribly tragic story….” With a horribly tragic ending.
“It was a long time ago. Most of it happened almost twenty years ago. The years since haven’t been all bad.”
“Well, I think the years have treated you quite well,” she said before she could think to recall the words. Her face went instantly hot, and she realized that she’d called him by his first name, too. And in the presence of a footman standing near the door.
“Care to explain what you mean by that?” Max drawled.
She sent a quick glance to the footman, who stared straight ahead. Then she narrowed her eyes, ever so subtly, at Max and said, “Well, you’ve told me you spent many happy years in London doing…” Doing what? She gave an offhand flick of her wrist. “Whatever it is that men do.”
“Mmm, yes, very true, Miss Donovan.”
She looked down at her empty plate. The toast she’d buttered at the sideboard was long since gone. She placed her napkin on the table and rose. Max’s chair scraped against the floor as he rose along with her.
“Please excuse me, my lord. I’ll go upstairs and prepare for our walk.” She’d asked Smithson to ready her bath while she was having breakfast. She’d be quick about that, then change into her walking clothes so she didn’t keep him waiting too long.
“Please,” he said with utter straight-faced politeness, “allow me to escort you upstairs.”
The mere idea that he’d “escort her upstairs” to her bedchamber made her blush deepen. He walked around
the table and held out his arm for her. When she took it, he pulled her against his body—a touch more tightly than was strictly polite—and she felt him shaking with laughter. As they exited from the breakfast room, she sent a glare up to him that promised retribution.
When they were out in the corridor, he lost the battle with his twitching lips and broke into a broad grin. He bent his head down and whispered into her ear, “You’re adorable, Olivia.”
“And you’re wicked,” she said primly. But she was fighting a smile herself.
“Hm… and what, pray, did you really mean when you said the years have treated me well?”
“You know very well what I meant,” she hissed as they turned the corner to mount the curving staircase. “I meant you’re enormously, impossibly handsome, of course.”
“I’m glad you think so.” His expression was smug, and she couldn’t help it. She had to physically restrain herself from pressing her lips to those deep, delectable dimples of his and kissing that expression off his face. Turn it into one of desire. Of need.
She shuddered. She’d thought she’d hidden it, but he tensed against her. “What is it, sweetheart?”
“Max,” she groaned softly as they reached the top of the stairs. “Please. We can’t talk this way. Not anywhere but in your—” She broke off.
He raised a brow. “In my bedchamber?”
“Yes.”
And they were approaching
her
bedchamber. She slowed her step, drawing her arm from his. “Thank you for walking me up here.”
Max looked pointedly at the door, and she leaned on
her tiptoes and whispered, “You
cannot
come inside. My maid is in there!”
Max sighed. “Unfortunate,” he murmured. Then he bowed. “I’ll see you downstairs, then?”
“Yes. In an hour?”
“Of course.”
He bowed, and when she opened the door he gave her a nod and turned away. As she walked inside, clicking the door shut, she saw a final glimpse of his tall, broad form retreating down the corridor.