Between the Devil and Desire (22 page)

While no one seemed uncomfortable with the absence of discourse—in truth, Claybourne and Catherine seemed amused by it—Olivia was well aware that a good hostess didn't let silence reign.

“I met Frannie recently. She seemed lovely.” Jack gave her a dark grin and she wished she hadn't traveled down this path.

“I like her as well,” Catherine said, as though aware of the sudden tension. “She's built an orphanage, and hopes soon to open the doors.”

“She's just waiting for the furniture,” Claybourne added. “I suspect you'll lose all your boys then, Jack.”

Olivia was aware of shock rippling through her. Had Frannie been his lover once? Did he have bastard children? She swallowed hard to force back the lump of unease that had formed in her throat. “What boys are those?”

Jack scowled at Claybourne as though he'd revealed some dark secret. “Just boys.”

“Your sons?” Had she truly asked? The voice didn't sound like hers.

He gave her a wry smile. “No, I take great pains not to populate London any further. They're street urchins, orphans.”

“You keep orphans at your establishment?” She didn't know whether to applaud him for his benevolence or be appalled that he'd allow children into those environs.

“I don't
keep
them, as though they're possessions. They earn their place. As you may recall, I strongly believe that a person must earn the roof over his head or the food in his belly. So I take them in and give them a job. It prevents them from being recruited by mobsters and ending up in gaol. It's nothing, really. I have chores that need doing and they're capable of doing them.”

He spoke as though burdened by the need to explain, but she was grateful he had, because it helped her to see him yet again in another light. He was a continual kaleidoscope. And his actions weren't nothing. It was far more trouble than she went to for orphaned children. She felt quite humbled. She also thought his care of other boys helped to explain his rapport with Henry, had perhaps prepared him for his role as guardian.

“Is that where you got the clothes?” she asked.

He lifted his glass to toast her. “Indeed.”

Olivia realized she was leaving her guests out of the conversation. What an atrocious hostess she'd become. “Jack brought some clothes for Henry to play in.”

“You, as well,” he said, seemingly very pleased with himself. He looked at his guests. “We went to the Great Exhibition, with Livy and Henry dressed as boys.”

“Really?” Catherine didn't look at all appalled. “What was it like to wear trousers in public?”

“Quite…liberating, actually.”

“I daresay, I think we wear far too many layers of clothes.”

“I agree,” both men said at once.

Olivia and Catherine giggled like young girls.

“You know,” Claybourne said, lifting his wineglass and studying its dark red contents, “it's possible Lovingdon chose you to be guardian because of the protection you give the lads who work for you.”

Olivia was surprised by his words, because the same thought had crossed her mind.

“I considered that, but it seems a flimsy reason. I'm not sure it really even matters anymore.”

But Olivia couldn't help but wonder if it did. It was something to ponder later. For now, she was well aware that she had Jack's attention. He lifted his wineglass in a quiet salute and a promise that set her heart to racing.

As much as she'd thought she wanted company, as much as she thought she would welcome a distraction from her isolated mourning, suddenly she was more than anxious for her guests to leave. She wanted a little time alone with Jack before he left for the club—which he would inevitably do. He always went to the club.

Olivia felt wholly inadequate to entertain. In mourning, she'd been rather isolated and didn't even have any
gossip to share. Although she enjoyed the company and it was nice to visit with others for a change.

She was more tired than she'd expected to be when Claybourne and Catherine took their leave. Jack was standing with her on the front steps, watching them drive away in their coach.

“I can hardly believe I had the Devil Earl to dinner,” Olivia said, as Jack closed the door. He'd never been welcome in either her father's or her brother's homes.

“The next thing you know, you'll be inviting all of Feagan's brood to dinner.”

She doubted that, but she wasn't going to be rude and admit it. After all, they were Jack's friends.

“None of you truly seems to give the impression you grew up on the streets.”

“Claybourne's grandfather hired tutors for us. He was determined we wouldn't reflect our origins. It wouldn't do for us to embarrass his grandson.”

“You've had a rather unique upbringing.” They'd reached the stairs. She glanced upward, hesitant to retire.

“Come have a little brandy,” Jack said quietly. “It'll help you sleep.”

“The last time I had brandy I woke up ill.”

“Then I'll pour you some whiskey.”

Her breaths were becoming shallower as she anticipated that she might receive another kiss. She wanted it, wanted it desperately. She could do little more than nod.

They walked to the library without touching. As soon as the footman closed the door in their wake, Jack had her in his arms, holding her close, as his mouth swooped down to claim hers. She wanted to laugh from
the joy of his eagerness. She'd never felt desired, and with him, it was as though he was hungry, hungry for her alone.

His mouth blazed a trail along her throat. “I was going mad sitting at that table making pleasant—and utterly boring—conversation, when all I could think about was how much I wanted to taste you instead of the chicken.”

Perhaps not the most poetic of compliments, but she moaned and gave him easier access to her throat.

“Come to my bed, Livy.”

“No.”

“I'll kiss you from head to toe, I'll kiss you in places I doubt Lovingdon ever did.”

Heat poured through her, melting her bones until she was surprised she was still able to stand.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
“No.”

She shoved the word up from the depths of her soul, a soul that refused to be compromised. Pushing away from him, she shook her head, deciding she needed more than the word to convince them both. “No. I can't, Jack. I can't.”

His gaze slowly traveled over her. “And I can't kiss you without wanting more.”

“I'm sorry.”

Reaching out, he touched her cheek. “Don't apologize, Livy. If I were a proper gentleman”—regret touched his eyes—“but I'm not. Will you at least take a walk about the garden with me?”

“That would be lovely.” And just maybe she'd gather up the courage to forbid him once again to give her only a kiss.

Olivia stood still and silent on the terrace while Jack had a footman go through the garden lighting the lanterns that would mark the path. A part of her regretted that she'd turned him away in the library. She was so tempted to give in to her desires, but a lifetime of moral upbringing could not be so easily set aside. She had to set an example for Henry, and maybe in a way, she wanted to set one for Jack. He seemed to believe a person was entitled to everything he wanted. But she knew if she gave in she'd lose his respect. She suspected he was only toying with her, seeking to add her to his long list of conquests.

Not until the footman was finished and had retreated into the house did Jack extend his arm toward her. It was a lovely night. The fog had yet to arrive. She was not even bothered by the coolness of the air, because whenever Jack was near she always grew so incredibly warm, as though passion simmered just below the surface of her skin.

“Of late, you've been asking me a lot of questions regarding the type of man I'd want for a husband,” she dared to begin.

“Have you finally decided what you want? Or even better, which lord you prefer?”

She fought back the disappointment that he still wished to be rid of her. Even though he claimed to want her in his bed, his words confirmed he was interested in nothing more than a dalliance.

“No, actually, but I was curious regarding what you want in a wife.”

“I have no plans to ever marry.”

“Never?”

“Why so shocked? Surely you of all people know the difficulty I'd have in finding a woman to take me as a husband.”

“If you were to reform—”

His low, dark laughter cut off her words, shimmered through her, and seemed to blend in with the shadows hovering at the edges of the path.

“I have no interest in reforming.”

“I can't even begin to comprehend why you would willingly choose a lonely life of decadence over one that offered marriage and a family.”

“Then allow me to demonstrate.”

His arm snaked around her, drawing her up against his body, even as he maneuvered her off the path. His mouth claimed hers with a hunger that startled her. If at all possible, this kiss was more intimate, more demanding, more persuasive than the previous one they'd shared. It was all-consuming, encompassing every aspect of her being, until she was aware of nothing existing beyond them. One of his large hands cupped the back of her neck, his fingers playing a seductive tune along her spine. Her knees immediately weakened and she clutched his shoulders, reflexively pressing her body against his for support. With a groan, his mouth never leaving hers, he urged her farther into the shadows, until the brick of the wall cooled her back. But it couldn't touch the fever rampaging through her.

She was mad with desire as she cradled his face. It wasn't enough. She wanted to feel more of his skin against her fingertips, but she couldn't bring herself to ask for more—or to take that which she so craved. Surely he felt the want shimmering through her, just as
she felt his yearning in the tautness of his muscles as he wedged his knee between her thighs.

The pressure was heavenly even as it stoked the flames of passion. She'd never, never experienced such intense longing, had never felt the nerve endings whispering along her skin, begging for more, for something elusive, something she didn't quite comprehend—but she knew it was waiting, knew he had the skills, the knowledge to bring it cresting toward fulfillment.

She moaned as his mouth left hers to blaze a heated path along the underside of her chin. She tipped her head back in ecstasy, gave him leave to taste her.

“Come to my bed,” he rasped.

“I can't.” Her words carried her profound disappointment.

She'd expected him to stop then, to relieve her of this torment, but instead he took his mouth lower, his lips and tongue skimming along her collarbone, settling in the hollow at the base of her throat. How could so small a touch create such intense weakness in her limbs while ushering in such powerful pleasure?

As he eased the bodice of her gown down, his low groan of triumph filled her with unbridled satisfaction, so intense that she couldn't bring herself to chastise him for the liberties he was taking. Then his mouth closed over her breast, and suddenly his thigh pressing against her wasn't enough. She heard her mournful cry, was barely aware of her fingers slipping beneath his jacket to dig into his shoulders, and her hips squirming against him.

“Shh, shh. Easy, sweetheart. All in good time,” he murmured.

Good?
There was nothing good about this. It was decadent and wicked, but she'd never felt more like a woman in her entire life. She'd lost all semblance of control. Sanity was a distant concept.

She was vaguely aware of the rustling of her skirts a heartbeat before she felt his warm fingers gliding along her thighs. Whimpering, she cradled his jaw, urged his mouth back to hers, and thrust her tongue between his lips, muffling his dark chuckle. Was he feeling victorious over her? Or was he simply pleased beyond measure that she'd taken the initiative, that he'd stirred to life something over which she no longer had any control?

His nimble fingers worked their way through her clothing until they were lost in her curls, skillfully enticing her to respond to his urgings. He was a thief, stealing from her any power to resist. Her body tightened and thrummed. Pleasure such as she'd never experienced hovered, taunting her with the whispers of something more.

“Come to my bed,” he growled.

“No.” She nearly wept with wanting what she knew he could give her, cursed her own strong-willed purpose.

She was aware of movement at her hip, even as his fingers never stilled their dancing over her sensitive flesh. With his free hand, he threaded his fingers through hers, those digging into his shoulder and brought them down, down, wrapping them around his bulging and heated velvet shaft. Guiding her hand to touch him intimately, stroking him even as he stroked her, while her pleasure rioted beyond control.

He slid a finger into her, then two, his thumb pressing
against her swollen flesh, caressing intimately, creating incredibly sweet sensations—

As the cataclysm rocked her, he turned his face into her shoulder, his mouth pressed against her neck. His body bucked, his harsh growl echoing around him, his hot seed surging into and over her hand. Breathing harshly, he collapsed against her.

Tremors cascaded through her while she slowly became aware of her surroundings. Recognizing what had transpired here in the garden, shame swamped her. Shame for her lack of control. Anger at him for doing this to her. Fury at herself for letting him, for encouraging him, for pressing against him instead of moving away.

“Oh, God.” Finally, at long last, she found the wherewithal to push him aside.

He staggered. “Livy—”

“No, no.” Then she was running toward the house, tugging up her bodice, ignoring the remnants of the delicious release, swiping at the tears that threatened to blind her.

Grief nearly overwhelmed her. While married she'd never experienced anything closely resembling the heights of passion she'd just achieved. Jack Dodger had certainly earned his reputation. He was indeed the devil. Tonight he'd carried her to heaven.