A Compromised Innocent (5 page)

Lizzie shivered, chills racing her spine as she stared at Oliver. His mother turned the door key to ensure the privacy her son required.

What must he think of her, to be compromised in such a way?

She still couldn't believe what had happened. No sooner had she realized that Mr. Layton had slipped into the sitting room than he'd pounced and pulled her toward the couch, grasping at her flesh with rough hands.

She'd managed to push him away quickly enough, but her luck—or lack thereof—had returned. The moment she tried to stand, her slipper caught in her hem and the tension caused the seam at her sleeve to tear. In the moment it took her to disentangle, Mr. Layton had reapproached, making the type of shushing sounds one would use with a wild animal. Or a child.

Well, didn't that just seal her opinion of the dolt?

When the door to the sitting room opened, and her aunt stood on the threshold with a triumphant expression and a witness, Lizzie felt betrayed. Alone and cornered and forced into something she didn't want.

Lady Stinton sputtered in outrage while Roberta insisted Mr. Layton do the proper thing, which he, of course, agreed with alacrity. It was as if she wasn't there. When she tried to interject, all she received was a glare of warning from her aunt.

And then, when she thought things couldn't get any worse, there he was. Oliver.

Standing tall and painfully handsome, he observed the proceedings with the inimitable eye of a judge about to render a verdict.

God, that he should see her like this, caught in the arms of another man. How could he help but to think her inconstant in her affections?

Her heart squeezed till she thought it must shatter. She'd never told him of her feelings, had never dared. Had thought to save herself from further heartbreak if she didn't allow herself to love him.

Oh, but she did. And now she stood trapped, pulled apart by her aunt with all of the vicious enthusiasm of a rabid fox.

Oliver's eyes glinted as she met his gaze, and she silently implored him not to think ill of her, not to believe the hateful words her aunt gave him.

“Do you wish to marry Mr. Layton, Miss Talbot?” he asked in a deceptively soft voice.

“No, sir.” She shook her head so vigorously that her head spun. She'd rather live as a fallen woman.

“You'd best do so, missy, or you'll never be able hold your head up in polite society again.” Lady Stinton looked delighted at the prospect of
that
tale.

“And how would that be, Lady Stinton, if naught of us speak of it?”

The lady huffed. “I couldn't in good conscience do that, Your Grace. Folks need to know so they can keep their own daughters away from the taint of such a promiscuous gel.”

“I didn't… I'm not! He accosted me!”

Oliver's narrowed gaze lit on Mr. Layton like a hawk to its prey. “Is that so, Layton? Do you make a habit of assaulting innocent young women at parties? Perhaps you're the one that fine upstanding members of the ton need to be warned of.”

Mr. Layton bristled. “I do no such thing, Your Grace. Lady Alderfield suggested Miss Talbot was being coy and arranged for a private moment where I might
persuade—
”

Oliver stepped forward with hands clenched, his voice a primal growl. “And your method of
persuasion
consists of tearing a woman's gown?”

“No!” Mr. Layton moved away from the growing threat, his attention bouncing like an India rubber ball between Oliver and Lizzie. “Miss Talbot! Please tell him I
didn't—
”

“It's true, Your Grace. I tore the gown myself when I trod upon the hem. You know of my clumsiness.” Lizzie was startled by the menace that poured from Oliver, overshadowing the ingrained breeding and courtesy.

“You're certain?”

Oliver was now close enough to touch, and she trembled with the need to do so. She wanted him to hold her until the ugliness faded away.

“Regardless, it still stands that Lizzie has been compromised by Mr. Layton and he'll have to marry her,” Roberta said.

“Nonsense,” snapped Oliver. “I won't have my fiancée besmirched because her aunt plays vicious tricks.”

The parlor grew deathly silent. Lizzie stared at Oliver, shock lending an unreal pallor to the moment. Oliver glared from one person to the next, silently daring anyone to contradict him.

“You cannot be serious, Wainsborough!” Roberta's eyes bulged.

“Indeed, I am, Lady Alderfield, though I can understand your confusion. I've offered for Miss Talbot's hand in the moment, and haven't yet had the opportunity to approach Lord Alderfield with the particulars, however, I trust we'll be able to work the contracts out to everyone's satisfaction. Don't you?”

Oliver carefully avoided Lizzie's eye. She wanted to cry, she wanted to cheer. She was utterly dumbfounded that he would announce something so preposterous to protect her. Incredibly honorable man.

No doubt he'd want her to cry off after a suitable amount of time. The prospective bride could do such a thing without censure, but a prospective groom could not.

“Mother? You'll want to be the first to congratulate us, yes?”

The duchess hesitated only a moment, then stepped forward and hugged Lizzie formally.

“My dear, sweet child. I've waited so long for Wainsborough to make his choice.”

Lizzie endured the awkward embrace, watching Oliver. She wished that she could be the right duchess for him, but she'd enjoy their “engagement” for as long as it endured. She'd take every moment she could get with him.

“If anyone breathes a word of this nastiness outside of this room, you'll answer to me. Understood?” Heads nodded. “You!” Oliver jabbed a finger in Mr. Layton's direction. “If I ever catch you within twenty yards of my duchess, I'll have you gelded.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Mr. Layton murmured, then bowed his way across the room and fumbled with the key before he managed to escape.

“You!” Lady Stinton shot to attention. “If you utter a word, if you insinuate a thing, if you so much as dream about this incident, I'll call due every single vowel I hold of your husband's and send you back to Devon as beggars. Do I make myself clear?”

Lady Stinton paled and swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Grace,” she whispered then scuttled out.

“And, you,” Oliver said to Roberta.

“Don't you dare to threaten me, Your Grace.” If Roberta's nose tilted any higher, she'd tip over.

Oliver sighed, a drawn-out exhalation of breath that seemed to come from deep within. “No, Roberta, to you I owe a long overdue apology.”

That brought her head down, as she eyed him warily. “I beg your pardon?”

“It has occurred to me that this enmity is the result of rather poor behavior on my behalf. I rejected your father's offer of your hand many years ago, but I never considered how you might feel. I never thought to inquire. I cannot change the past, Roberta, but I do believe we would have made each other interminably miserable. Please accept my apology for the inconsiderate young man that I was. Pax. Let your niece and I find what happiness with each other that we can.”

Tears swamped Lizzie's vision.

After a long, tense moment with Roberta assessing him with distrust, she finally cleared her throat and said, “Very well, Your Grace. Peace.”

He bowed slightly in acknowledgment then seemed to relax as if all of the tension had drained out of him. “I would have you and Lord Alderfield escort Lizzie to Wainsborough House at noontide tomorrow. We'll complete the arrangements then.”

With a brief kiss pressed to Lizzie's hand, Oliver bowed and escorted his mother out, leaving Lizzie to the dubious mercies of her aunt.

“His Grace has asked for Miss Talbot to join him in the study.”

Lizzie left her aunt and uncle behind and followed the butler to where Oliver stood at the window, waiting. Shafts of sunlight threaded through his brown hair, giving him unearthly highlights. She longed to run her hands through it, to feel the sun-kissed locks on her fingertips.

When the door shut and they were alone, Oliver moved with surprising speed. He clasped her hands in his, only her thin kidskin gloves separating them.

“How are you, Lizzie?”

“F-fine.”

He frowned, no doubt sensing her lie. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“Oh, Oliver. What are we to do?”

He brushed a curl back from her forehead. “About what, starling?”

“This. Us. You were wonderful to put a stop to that scandal yesterday, but however shall we end this sham engagement?”

Oliver pulled back and watched her carefully, his expression somber. “You want to end it?”

“You…don't?”

“Not a chance, love.” His large hands slid to her cheeks, bracketing her face, and Lizzie's heart accelerated. “I want you for my wife, and with all due haste.”

“But…I can't be a duchess. I'm too gauche.”

“A duchess conforms to no standards but the ones she sets. Others will emulate you.”

“I have no grace.”

“You're the charm and laughter of my heart.”

“I'll embarrass you.”

“Never.” Oliver pulled her into a tight embrace, and then kissed her with such passion that every protest that had been building was seared from her mind.

In his arms she never felt any of those things. She and Oliver moved together with fluidity, a harmony that made her feel truly lissome, his strength and assurance bolstered her.

His need reflected in his kiss, setting off an echo of response deep within her. As their lips melded and tongues stroked, passion fueled between them until Lizzie was certain she would climb his torso to get closer.

Heavens, this man could turn her insides to porridge.

Then the kiss softened, the fires banked, and Lizzie was able to regather her thoughts.

“I love you, Lizzie,” Oliver said between the gentle kisses he pressed into the long line of her neck. “Be my duchess. Be my wife.”

Lizzie jerked back, stumbled on one of his boots, and would have ended up in a glorious heap on the carpet had he not caught her with ease. He was doing that again, saving her from embarrassment. If the satisfied smile on his face were suitable indication, he enjoyed doing it, too.

“Wha—what did you say?”

“I love you, Lizzie Talbot. Marry me and bring joy into my life.”

With a shout of joy, she leaped into him and wrapped her arms about his neck, then peppered his face with kisses. “Oh! I love you, too, Oliver!”

“Is that a ‘yes'?”

“Yes!”

Oliver moved backward, pulling her along, until he was propped against his large mahogany desk, and Lizzie stood between his legs. Without breaking eye contact, he fumbled behind him until he caught what he was after and brought it forward. A small, hinged box, which opened to reveal the most beautiful emerald Lizzie had ever seen.

“Remove your gloves,” he said quietly.

With a wicked smile, she raised her hand to her lips and proceeded to tug them off, inch by inch with her teeth, mimicking her brazen behavior in the carriage. His eyes flickered and his nostrils flared.

“Keep that up and see if you don't get more than you bargain for, lover.”

Pulling the last bit free, she tossed the gloves carelessly over her shoulder and leaned into him, rocking against the hard ridge of his arousal. “I'm ready for anything with you, Oliver. Show me.”

Oliver slid the emerald on her finger then kissed the spot where it rested on her hand.

“Every day of my life, starling.”

Oliver Fortney, sixth Duke of Wainsborough and newly married man, stood before the closed portal of his bedroom, as disquieted as an untried youth.

Somehow, he'd managed to keep the worst of his attentions from Lizzie over the three excruciating months of their engagement. He hadn't been able to completely keep his hands from her, of course, but he'd managed to keep
himself
in his trousers. Barely.

It hadn't been easy, but he would not risk Lizzie to an untenable situation, should anything happen to him before they were wed. Even though his older sister, Charlotte, had long since forgiven him, Oliver would never be able to forgive himself. And he would never be the cause of another suffering for his selfishness again.

Oh, but he burned. He lusted for his new bride with an unfathomable need. Just to watch her at the mundanity of a supper party was enthralling, as she smiled and glowed in the candlelight.

And now she was his. In this room. Waiting for him.

So, why did he still stand in the hallway and stare dumbly at his bedroom door?

The door swung open on silent hinges, but the blood roared in his veins as he closed it behind him. His heart was pounding as if he'd run the distance from the dining room where they'd finished their early supper. He hadn't an appetite for food, just for Lizzie.

And perhaps he had run
most
of the long way through the rambling halls of Wainsborough manor, his mind consumed with thoughts of his prize.

Now there she was, shyly smiling from the center of the ancient tester bed, mountains of pillows propped behind her. Though her look was bashful, her demeanor wasn't. The dark blue coverlet was folded neatly at the foot of the bed and the gold bed linens were tucked at her hips.

Lizzie didn't hide or even fidget. Not his Lizzie. His Lizzie reached over and pulled back the linens in invitation.

Oliver hesitated no longer. Eyes transfixed on the long line of her body clad in the sheerest shift he'd ever seen, Oliver tugged and fumbled with his cravat and waistcoat.

Why the devil hadn't he taken the time to let his valet undress him?

Because he'd been too damn impatient. Thankfully, he hadn't boots with his wedding togs, or he'd have to beat a retreat and seek aid after all.

When he was halfway through unbuttoning his trousers, he hesitated on a thought. “Shall I put out the lights?”

Lizzy blinked. “Whatever for?”

Indeed. Oliver smiled and made quick work of his trousers and small clothes.