Between the Devil and Desire (15 page)

“Since you won't tell me who you fancy, tell me what qualities you prefer in a man and I'll scout around, see what I can find,” he said.

Olivia couldn't help it. She giggled. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Isn't it?” He ran the pad of his thumb up the center of her sole, causing her toes to curl. “What qualities do you want in your next husband?”

She shook her head. She didn't want to discuss these things. She didn't want him to know—

“Come on, Olivia,” he said in that soft, raspy voice that did strange things to her insides. “What is it you want from your next husband?”

Closing her eyes, she let more brandy slide down her throat. The heat of it seemed to rise through her head, urging her to confess. It made her feel daring, bold, and not so ashamed of what she wanted. Running her tongue over her lips, she gathered up the last remnants of brandy. She opened her eyes to discover that Jack had moved nearer, near enough that he could tuck behind her ear strands of hair that had escaped her braid.

“Tell me, Olivia.”

“I don't want him to cast me aside once he has his heir.” She held her snifter with both hands and looked into the glass as though it held images from the past. “Lovingdon did that. He never touched me again once he realized I was with child.”

It took every ounce of courage she possessed to lift her gaze to his. She didn't expect sympathy from a man like Jack Dodger, and he didn't disappoint her in that regard. She wasn't quite sure what his thoughts were, but based on the hardness of his jaw, she suspected it might be a good thing that Lovingdon was dead.

“I thought it was because I was
with
child and he feared intimacy might cause me to lose it,” she tried to explain. “I thought after Henry was born everything would return to the way it had been. But it didn't.”

He trailed his finger along her cheek. “The man was a fool.”

“I was the fool. I went to his bedchamber once, thinking to seduce him.” She'd felt so silly then, had
never thought to tell anyone, but tonight in the shadows with the brandy coursing through her veins, embarrassment was a distant memory. “He rebuffed me. He tried to be kind. He told me there was a girl in his youth, and when she left him his heart went with her. That he'd betrayed her and could not keep betraying her. I truly didn't know what he was talking about. I was so mortified, I didn't really listen.”

He swept his thumb across the sensitive flesh of her throat. “Who was she?”

“I don't know. It's often that way among the aristocracy. Political alliances or financial gains hold more sway than matters of the heart.” She shook her head. “I was married to Lovingdon for six years and I hardly knew him at all. It seems as though I should miss him more, that there should be a gaping hole. All I feel is a sense of emptiness, that something's missing, but I think it was missing long before he died.”

The brandy made her daring. She eased toward him slightly and whispered, “I'm not even certain I've actually truly been kissed.”

It was uncanny how still he suddenly became, still and tense, his gaze intensifying as it held hers. “I've told you before I'm not a man who settles for only a kiss.”

He'd also warned her never to challenge him because it would only make him do it. She was five and twenty and she'd only ever received a kiss while standing at the altar. Lovingdon had not been cruel, but neither had he been passionate. He'd treated her with kindness, but he'd never stirred her emotions as Jack Dodger did. Jack infuriated her. He mesmerized her. He terrified her. He made her curious.

Licking her lips to steal the remnants of brandy, she saw his eyes darken. His reaction shored up her courage.

“I forbid you to
only
kiss me.”

“I've warned you not to forbid me,” he growled.

Before her next heartbeat, he'd slid his hand around her neck, holding her still, as he slashed his mouth across hers. He was not gentle or polite. He was almost savage with his desire to deliver what she'd requested. She relaxed into him, offered up no objections when his tongue urged her lips to part and slid smoothly into her mouth. Heat spiraled through her, melting her bones as though they were little more than tallow. He touched her with nothing except that one hand and his mouth, yet it seemed as though he caressed her everywhere, inside and out, shallow and deep. How could a kiss be this powerful, elicit such yearnings?

His hand clutched the back of her head as though he would hold her there forever while his mouth ravaged hers. She wondered if he tasted the brandy on her tongue that she tasted on his. It was suddenly a richer flavor, more intense, more enjoyable. She wanted to lap it up, become drunk on it.

She'd always been so good about exhibiting proper behavior, and suddenly she was relishing the forbidden, understanding its appeal. His bristly beard abraded her skin, but it only served to enhance her enjoyment. Intense pleasure swirled through her. Oh, she'd never felt anything like this before. She wanted to curl around him, hold him close. She scraped her fingers along his scalp, the thick tendrils of his hair soft against her skin.

She heard a low moan, barely realizing that it came from her. Her entire body seemed to be awakened, as though all these years she'd been unaware that it had been asleep. If at all possible, he deepened the kiss as though he couldn't have enough of her. As though he desired her.

The notorious Jack Dodger wanting her? It was a thought almost too heady to bear. Her husband had kissed her at the altar because duty required it. Even though she'd challenged Jack, she felt no sense of duty in his reaction to her. She felt only an overwhelming power, barely leashed. Her own reaction to his greedy demands shocked her. She didn't want him to stop. She never wanted him to—

Suddenly he broke away and heaved himself to his feet, leaving her bereft, reaching for him before she even realized what she was doing.

Breathing heavily, his back to her, he said, “I'll prepare a proposal for you, outlining what I intend to do with your money. You can discuss it with Beckwith in order to be assured your best interests will be served.”

Gaping, she stared at him in stunned disbelief. The kiss that had left her trembling from head to toe meant nothing to him. He could play his mouth wildly over hers and then get up and calmly discuss her finances? What a fool she'd been to give in to temptation, only to have it thrown in her face. Tears stung her eyes as she fought desperately for composure and some hint as to how to make a graceful departure from his presence.

Abruptly he spun around and was leaning over her, his arms braced on the couch, hemming her in, his eyes smoldering with passion barely controlled. “I cautioned
you that I was not a man who would settle for only a kiss, so be forewarned, I will collect what I am owed. I'll hold to my promise and not go to your bed, but by God, you will come to mine. I'll leave the choosing of the moment up to you, but choose a moment you will.”

With a force that tipped the couch, he shoved away and headed for the door. “I'm going to my club,” he threw out, as though she'd asked about his intentions.

But she hadn't the strength to form words. She could barely stay sitting upright. Her entire body felt weak. Tremors cascaded through her as she gasped for breath. All she'd wanted was a kiss and he'd delivered a great deal more.

She squeezed her eyes shut, his velvety threat echoing through her mind. Oh, the arrogance of the man. She'd never go to his bed.
Never
.

But even as she thought the words, she feared they were a lie.

 

Jack stormed into his club, a man with a purpose. He'd thought leaving the duchess would be enough to tamp his desire. He'd been wrong. Even now, it was roaring through him with an ungodly vengeance, refusing to be ignored.

For the first time in his life, he wanted more than he'd ever had. He wanted to hear a woman's cries as she gave herself over to pleasure. He wanted to be the one who brought the cries rising out of her throat. He wanted to touch her in ways that pleased her. He wanted to taste her. Start with her mouth and work his way down to her toes.

He made his way to the room where the girls worked. Standing in the doorway, he scanned the crowd until he caught sight of Prudence lounging on a man's lap.

He knew how intense his gaze could be, how he could force a person to feel it and gain his attention. Finally, she looked over at him. He jerked his head in the direction of the offices. She gave him a quick nod before turning back to her customer to smooth any feathers that might be ruffled by her unexpected departure.

Jack barreled through his establishment, ignoring those around him. Something in his face must have shown that he wanted them to disregard him as well, because no one approached or vied for his attention.

Jack shoved open the door that led to the offices, walked by Frannie's without peering in, and strode into his own, closing and locking the door in his wake. He went to the wall and took down an oil painting of a woman sitting beneath a tree. Removing a key from his waistcoat pocket, he inserted it into the lock and opened his safe. He gathered the required coins and dropped them into a velvet pouch. After closing the safe door, removing the key, and returning the painting to its place, he unlocked his office door.

Tossing the pouch onto a desk corner for easy reach, he sat, opened a drawer, removed a condom, and slipped it into his pocket. Tonight he just needed a quick romp. His desk would suffice. He'd have Pru back to her customer before she was truly missed. Reaching behind him, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey, poured some into a glass, and downed it in one long swallow.

He'd never felt the need this badly. It was almost barbaric. He couldn't seem to get the vision of Olivia out of his mind. The innocence in her request:
I forbid you to only kiss me.

Yet there had been no innocence in her response.

What had possessed him to accept her challenge? It would have been far better to have rebuffed her, to have walked away, to have not tasted her, to have not known the sweet echo of her sighs and moans as pleasure took hold. It had required every ounce of willpower he possessed to go no further than a kiss. He'd desperately wanted to loosen her buttons and remove that hideous nightgown. He'd wanted to bare her skin to his hands and his mouth. He'd wanted to pull her beneath him, grind himself against her—

It was lust—just lust, and nothing more.
But even as he thought the words, he feared they were a lie.

He stood, grabbed the pouch, and walked out into the hallway, to the door that led outside. They would go to his room, his bed, for a longer, more satisfying encounter. He'd bury himself so deeply within her—

The footsteps he heard were not the ones that of late caused his heart to pick up its tempo. He watched as Pru approached in her sensual attire. But she didn't entice him as Olivia did in her ghastly black dresses.

Pru slipped her arm through his and pressed her breast—much larger than Olivia's—suggestively against his arm. “'ello, love. It's been a long while since ye called for me. Are we goin' to your room?”

He'd always felt nothing with her. With every woman he'd paid for, he'd always felt nothing beyond the physical. He'd always though the was incapable of feeling
more, that something inside him was broken and held his emotions imprisoned at a distance. But suddenly what she could give him was not enough.

“Jack?”

He touched her cheek with regret. “Sorry, Pru. It seems I'm not in the mood after all.”

He handed her the pouch. “That's for the trouble.”

“Jack, I can't take yer money for not doin' nothin'.”

“You came to me. That was enough.”

“Is everythin' all right? Ye don't seem yerself.”

“Couldn't be better. Go see to your customers.”

She gave a hapless shrug. “All right.”

She wasn't devastated because he'd turned her away. Just as Prudence was business for Jack, so Jack was business for her. Nothing more.

His entire life had never involved anything more.

O
livia rolled over in bed and shielded her eyes from the sunlight creeping in through a part in the draperies. She remembered how unhappy her brother would be when he finally tumbled out of bed after a night at Dodger's. Was this the curse of brandy? To leave her with an agonizing headache, a raw throat, and thoughts that swirled through her mind with the wispiness of fog?

With great effort, she turned her head to the side and looked at the clock ticking on her bedside table. The little cherubs decorating it greeted her as they always did each morning, causing her to smile. It was almost nine. She'd overslept. She was surprised Jack hadn't come knocking on her door seeking company during breakfast. Perhaps he'd not yet returned from his nightly prowling.

Jack. The memories of his mouth having its way with hers assailed her. How would she face him? But face him she would. Last night was an aberration, the brandy loosening her morals. She'd avoid spirits in the future, and she'd make it perfectly clear that she'd avoid his bed. He was owed nothing. He'd accepted the dare
of receiving only a kiss, and he would just have to live with it. She was certain he'd have no trouble whatsoever finding solace elsewhere. Why did that thought cause an ache near her heart?

Would he go to Frannie? Would she welcome him with open arms, give to him what Olivia was afraid to offer? Would Frannie know the delight of greeting the morning nestled within his arms?

With a lethargic sigh at her stupidity for tormenting herself, Olivia eased out of bed. The floor felt cool against the soles of her feet. Perhaps today she wouldn't bother with shoes. She giggled at the thought of a duchess without shoes. Or she thought she giggled. She hadn't heard any sound. What was wrong with her?

She staggered toward the door that led to the dressing room. Someone had moved the blasted thing. It seemed so far away of a sudden. Halfway there, she realized she'd forgotten to pull the bell for her maid. How could she get ready for the day without Maggie? Perhaps she'd go back to bed, sleep a bit more, and start the day over.

Instead, she opened the door to the dressing room. Steamy warmth greeted and comforted her, even though she was hot.

And growing hotter with embarrassment, shame, and awareness.

Standing in front of the mirror, lather on a portion of his face and a razor in his hand, was a man. Images darted in and out of her mind: slender back, broad shoulders. His buttocks—pale and rounded and firm. Long legs. Solid thighs. She was fascinated, watching his muscles ripple with his movements just before he
stilled. She'd never seen anything quite so exquisite before.

He was naked—completely naked. Droplets had gathered on his back as though he'd toweled off but been unable to reach those few. She had an insane urge to pick up a towel and glide it over his skin, absorb the remnants of his bath.

“You bathed
yesterday
,” she rasped, the words sounding as though they came from a great distance.

Holding her gaze in the mirror, he said, “I bathe every morning.”

Apparently the man had no shame. Why was she not surprised? With a challenge in those dark eyes and a come-hither grin, he turned to face her. She was familiar with the shape of a man's anatomy even though her husband had bedded her with propriety. He'd always worn a nightshirt. She'd felt, but never seen…and even if she'd seen, she didn't think her husband had been quite that…enticing. It was the only word she could think of to describe what Jack Dodger so proudly displayed. Every facet of his being was little more than an invitation to indulge in wickedness.

“Oh, my word,” escaped from her mouth on a shaky breath.

Suddenly the room was spinning, black edges rushing toward the center of her vision, until she saw nothing at all.

 

“Damnation!”

His razor clattering in the bowl as he released it, Jack lunged for Olivia, somehow managing to grab her before she hit the floor. How was it that a woman once
married could be so squeamish at the sight of a naked man?

But as he shifted her into his arms and her head lolled against his bare shoulder, he realized something else entirely might have been responsible for her swooning. “Good God, you're burning up.”

Not weighted down by anything except her cotton nightgown, she was lighter than she'd been the first time he'd carried her.

He laid her on her bed. Reaching for the bellpull, he hesitated. How was he going to explain his lack of clothing if her maid responded quickly to the summons?

Grabbing a towel as he went through the dressing room and wiping the lather from his face, he hurried to his room. Jerking on his trousers and slipping into a shirt, he wondered if she'd been fighting an illness from the beginning. He didn't like thinking he might have made a sick woman's life miserable—or that he might even have been responsible for bringing on the illness. Last night she'd seemed fevered only by passion; surely he'd have noticed if she was ill.

Buttoned and tucked, he decided the rest could wait. He could explain being partially dressed much more easily than he could explain nakedness.

In long strides, he returned to her bedchamber and yanked on the bellpull. She was still dead to the world, but not dead. He patted her cheek. “Livy? Come on now, sweetheart.”

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “So sorry.”

“As well you should be, barging in on me like that.” For one glorious moment he'd thought she'd made the
decision to come to his bed. His body, damn its weakness, had immediately responded.

His gentle pats weren't stirring Olivia. Was that a rattle in her chest? Lowering his ear to her bosom, he heard a rasping sound, but it didn't sound ominous. More disturbing was that through the thin material he was suddenly very much aware of the softness of her breasts against his cheek. The intimacy made his mouth go dry. Her breasts were smaller than Pru's, but damn if they didn't incite his desire into rebellion, nearly shattering his control.

The door opened, and Jack sprung back guiltily, shaping his features into a wall of uncaring.

The maid gasped. “What are you doing, Mr. Dodger?”

“She fainted. I've been trying to revive her. We need to send for my physician.”

“She has her own.” The maid rushed over and began tapping her fingers against Olivia's cheeks.

“I've tried that already,” he told her.

“She's on fire.” She looked up at him, and he realized until that moment she'd believed he'd done something to make her mistress faint. Or perhaps she was holding him responsible for her fever. He was blamed for so many things, what did one more matter?

“Stay with her.” He began striding from the room. “I'll fetch a physician.”

She might have her own, but he wouldn't send for him. Jack wanted someone he trusted. He didn't care to explore the sudden terror ripping through him at the thought of her possibly dying.

 

Olivia awoke to the sight of an angel hovering over her bed. His blond curling hair formed a halo around his face. In some distant part of her mind, she realized she should be frightened that a stranger was in her bedchamber, and yet his smile was so kind, so reassuring, that all she could do was offer a weak smile in return.

“Hello,” he said softly.

“Who—”

“I'm Dr. Graves. Mr. Dodger sent for me. How do you feel?”

She remembered now, remembered what she'd seen. “He was naked.”

“Was he?”

She heard a harsh sound—someone clearing his throat?

“I suspect you were probably dreaming,” the doctor said.

She fought to shake her head. “No. I'd never dream him looking as magnificent as
that
.”

She thought he looked as though struggling not to laugh.

“Yes, well, we have more pressing concerns. Do you hurt anywhere?”

“Everywhere. So tired.”

“I suspect you are. How long have you been feeling unwell?”

“Forever. But not so hot.”

“So mayhaps the fever just came upon you.”

She nodded, or thought she nodded.

“Why don't you go back to sleep now?” he said.

Sighing, she closed her eyes. “Henry—”

“He's fine.”

The man was wonderful. He knew the answers to the questions before she asked them. And his hands were incredibly gentle as he prodded here and there. So gentle.

Lovingdon had never really been tender. Bedding her had always been more about getting down to business. He'd spoken no sweet words before and whispered none in the dark afterward. Sometimes she'd had the impression that he was apologizing for inflicting himself on her. He'd always come into her room, slipped into bed, slipped into her, and then slipped out, leaving her with an aching loneliness. Always so lonely…

 

“Well,” Jack snapped as soon as Graves finished his prodding.

“I suspect something akin to influenza.”

Jack felt his stomach drop as the maid gasped. She was sitting in a nearby chair for the sake of propriety to provide witness that nothing untoward was happening. Originally, she'd objected to Jack's presence, but it had only taken reminding her that he now paid her salary to silence her. Ah, yes, with the dispensing of coins came power and a tendency for people to look the other way.

“Will she die?” Jack asked.

Graves looked at him. “She's young. I can't attest to her strength because she's so thin. Aristocratic women tend to eat little. They have the means to buy food and they don't take advantage of it. They think an appetite is vulgar.”

“So we need to feed her?”

“I doubt she'll feel like eating, but yes, she does need nourishment when she awakens. I've given her some laudanum so she'll sleep for a while in comfort. I'll
leave a poultice to help draw out the fever. Cool baths might also help, but then you have to take care that she doesn't get chilled.”

“How can she not get chilled in a cool bath?”

“You see the dilemma. The best thing is probably just to let it run its course.”

Jack felt the anger and frustration building. “I called for you because you're supposed to be so damned good at administering to the sick—and the best you can offer is, Let's see how it goes?”

“As much as I wish it were otherwise, no remedies exist for what we're dealing with here. I'm sorry.”

“It's summer, for God's sake. I thought people got ill in winter.”

“More people are usually sick in winter, but illness doesn't take a holiday. When conditions are ripe, people get ill. She's in mourning. Probably not eating, not sleeping. Grief takes a toll.”

Only if love was involved. Did that mean she'd loved her husband, her husband who'd left her a mere two thousand pounds a year? Her husband who'd never properly kissed her? What caused people to love? How did that emotion come about? Jack had loved his mother, but he'd be hard-pressed to think of anyone he'd loved since. He had a tender regard for Frannie, but it was not love.

“I'll see to her needs,” her maid said.

“You can't do it twenty-four hours a day,” Jack snapped. “We'll hire a nurse.”

“The good news is that it should pass rather quickly. The fever should break in two or three days,” Graves said.

If it's going to break at all
was left unsaid.

“I'll return to check on her tomorrow.” Graves picked up his ominous black bag.

“Come back tonight,” Jack ordered.

“I have a lot of patients—”

“I'm going to build you a damned hospital.”

“Because you lost a wager. It doesn't make me owe you.”

The hell of it was that Jack knew if Luke asked, Graves would not only come back, he'd never leave. Every one of Feagan's children was more loyal to Luke than to Jack. They'd been jealous of Jack's relationship with Feagan. He was the son Feagan had never had, the one he confided in if something needed confiding. They all worried that Jack knew their deepest, darkest secrets.

Unfortunately for them, he did. But he'd never lorded it over them, never threatened them with exposing what they wished to remain hidden. As much as he was tempted, he wouldn't use what he knew now, either. For the sake of the boy who had already lost his father, Jack swallowed his pride. “Please.”

“I'll try. That's the best I can promise. But really, I can do little for her and so much more for others.”

Jack nodded, studying Olivia's still form, preferring her marching around the residence, chastising him for one thing or another. “Do you ever feel like you're playing God, picking and choosing who gets your attention?”

“I won't dignify that question with an answer.”

“I'm sorry. I know I'm being difficult.”

“Most people are when someone they care about is ill.”

Jack snapped his gaze to Graves. He was on the verge of denying the charge, but the man had a speculative gleam in his eye. It was as though he had the uncanny ability to see deeply into a person—without medical instruments of any kind.

“I barely know her,” Jack grumbled.

“Doesn't mean you don't care.” Graves held up his hand. “I know. I know. You care only about Jack Dodger. I'll find a way to come by this evening.” Heading toward the door, he stopped beside Jack and whispered, low, “You might want to button your trousers.”

With a groan, Jack strode to his bedchamber. He needed to finish getting dressed anyway. He wasn't certain the maid believed his story that he was dressing when he heard a loud thud coming from the duchess's room. He supposed it didn't really matter what anyone believed. All that mattered was that she got better.

 

Sitting at his desk in the library, Jack was quite content with the day's achievements. To keep his mind from wandering to Olivia, he'd undertaken a great many tasks. He hired a nurse, a lady named Colleen, to watch Olivia during the night. Her lady's maid insisted she would stand vigil during the day. While he interviewed nurses, he also interviewed nannies. The young lady he hired to watch over Henry was named Ida. She was short, the top of her head possibly reaching the middle of Jack's chest—and that was with shoes on. Her black hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense bun, but her blue eyes sparkled with merriment, even when she was answering Jack's tough questions regarding her attitude about punishment. She didn't believe in striking children.