Cheryl Holt (25 page)

Where were the sketches? Did Penny have them?

Of course she does!

The glaring response rang through her mind. What else could have happened to them?

Oh, why had she drawn them? What was she hoping to achieve?

Yes, she was fascinated by nudity, by erotica and the novel impressions one experienced while perusing it, just as she was captivated by Phillip, by his shape, his masculinity. Her busy fingers had recorded every detail she could recall from their furtive assignations. There was no portion of him unexplored, no antic undepicted.

What would Margaret say? What would she do? Margaret was neither her mother, nor her guardian. Not even her friend, really. But Olivia showed her great respect out of deference to her deceased father. Margaret had never been the most agreeable person, but she and Olivia had shared the same home for years, and Olivia would never intentionally offend the older woman, for any slight would tarnish her father’s memory.

She’d been such a selfish fool! Margaret had worked so hard to find a route out of their financial conundrum, but Olivia hadn’t done her part. Through her impetuous actions, she’d ruined any chance she might have had to wed Edward. She’d let down her family, had forsaken her responsibilities to them. For what?

For her love of a man whom she could never marry.

From the first moment they’d met, she’d been bewitched, but she’d recognized, without a doubt, that they had no future. Yet she’d pursued him, had lured and cajoled and pleaded with him to dally. He had, but to what end?

Margaret would insist on proceeding to London, locating another suitor, aspiring to arrange another immediate marriage to stave off catastrophe. In the interim, what
would become of Phillip? If Edward learned of the debacle, would Phillip lose his job, as well as his residence?

How had their immense affection brought them to this horrid juncture?

She shouldn’t be going to him, but she couldn’t stay away. She had to talk with him and confess her fears, had to be with him once more before the consequences began to rain down.

Suddenly desperate, she picked up her skirt and flitted across the remaining patch of lawn. As though fleeing from the devil, himself, she rounded a hedge and raced toward him. He was watching from the stoop, impatient and eager, and he whisked her inside, locking the door behind.

“I’d about given up on you.” He plucked at her cloak, yanking it away and tossing it on the floor.

“Oh, Phillip . . .” Relieved, finally able to catch her breath, she felt her trepidation and apprehension lessen merely by being in his presence.

He hugged her, running his hands up and down her back. “What is it?” he queried. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” she murmured, “and nothing at all.”

“You’re trembling.”

“From the cold,” she lied. She was afraid and worried. After encountering Penny in what could be characterized as a deranged condition, Olivia couldn’t predict what doom was pending. She only knew for certain that it was approaching, and it would be dreadful.

“Would you like me to start a fire?”

“No. Just hold me. Then I’ll be fine.”

“An easy request to honor, Lady O.” Swooping her up, he carried her to his bed, laying her down and joining her. Warming her, he adjusted a blanket over them, then cuddled her to him.

As they snuggled, her breasts and tummy were pressed to his, legs tangled, and his superb scent soothed her. She could imagine no more spectacular spot to linger, and she wished she could nestle there in perpetuity. No problem could ever be too weighty to handle when she was in his arms.

“Tell me,” he urged, after her shivering had abated.

She was glad she was burrowed tight, that she didn’t have to look at him. “We can’t rendezvous again.”

He exhaled. “We knew we couldn’t keep on forever. Are you returning to London?”

“Soon. You see, my sister, Penelope—”

“The red-haired hellion?”

“The very one.” His description was extremely apt! “She found some of my pictures.”

“Of what?”

“Of . . . of . . .” She’d never confided in him about her sketching. How mortifying to admit what she’d done!

“Spit it out,” he coaxed when she couldn’t finish. “It can’t be that bad.”

“I’ve been making portraits of you. And me.” Her recounting was too coy, so she added, “We’re . . .
together
, if you can understand.”

He froze, shifted away so that he could gaze at her. “You’ve been drawing . . . erotica? Of us?”

He didn’t need to kindle a fire. Her cheeks flushed such a hot pink that she was heating the room as efficiently as any brazier. She gulped. “Do you think I’ll go to hell for it?”

“Livvie, you sexy minx!” He rolled onto his stomach, laughing merrily.

“This isn’t funny.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed, but he continued to chortle, mirth sweeping him away, and his jollity irritated her.

“You’re not being very helpful.”

“I know, but this is too rich.” He rotated onto his side, petting a comforting hand along her shoulder. “Am I displayed in the buff? Balls and all hanging out?”

“Yes, but more often, we’re . . . we’re . . .”

“So there’s no question that it’s me and you?”

“None. I’m not the most talented artist—”

“You’re terrific.”

“—but I can draft a distinguishable face.”

“And a
distinguishable
body part?”

She punched him in the ribs. “Stop it.”

“All right, all right.” He ceased his teasing, shook his head, sighed. “What a tangle.”

“Yes.”

“How can you be positive she saw them?”

“She had several of them in her possession,” Olivia explained. “I kept them in a portfolio under my pillow, and somehow, she discovered them. Now, the entire satchel is missing, and I’m sure she took it.”

“Why?”

“Last night, when I was sneaking back to the manor, I caught her out in the yard. She’d been in the gazebo with your father’s neighbor, Mr. Blaine.”

“Freddy Blaine? What was
he
up to?”

“Mischief. Her hair was down, and her dress was askew. She was intoxicated.”

“How old is she?”

“Sixteen.”

“I’m surprised,” he mused. “She’s much more mature than he generally likes his partners to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some men are titillated by . . . by . . .” It was his turn to blush and stammer.

“By what?”

“Let’s drop it.”

“No!”

“By . . . by . . . children.”

“They’re sexually aroused?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s perverted.”

“It definitely is.”

“Mr. Blaine is one of these people?”

He nodded.

“How do you know?”

“Livvie,” he admonished, exasperated by her curiosity, but she couldn’t desist.

What sort of insane reprobate would be stimulated by children? She shuddered at the notion, and he nestled her closer.

“Is this dangerous for her?”

“Probably.”

“Oh, I can’t decide what I should do.”

“About what?”

“She threatened me.”

He was startled, alarmed by the news. “She what?”

“She claimed that if I told anyone about her and Mr. Blaine, she’d give the sketches to Margaret.”

“The girl’s crazy.”

“I concur. But her behavior is reckless and stupid. How can I be silent?”

“Would she follow through with her blackmail?”

“If you’d asked me that yesterday, I’d have said ‘absolutely not.’ But after seeing how out of control she was, I couldn’t begin to guess what she might do.”

“Would you like me to speak with her? I’ve had a few go-arounds with her when she’s been lurking behind the stables. I seem to intimidate her. Perhaps I could scare her off.”

“Lord, no.” That was all she needed, for Phillip and Penny to have a quarrel. “She’s very sly, Phillip.”

“Yes, she is.”

“If you talked to her, it would be obvious I’d rushed to you straightaway. She’d be certain of how attached we are. I’d rather have her wondering.”

He mulled this over, his eyes searching hers. “If she shows them to your stepmother, will the countess insist that I marry you?” Tentatively, he smiled. “I would. In a heartbeat.”

“Oh, Phillip . . .” His offer was so sweet, the idea of being his wife so thrilling, but it could never be, and she had to focus on that reality. She couldn’t allow flights of fancy to take wing. “We’ve been through this before. A marriage to me has to include all of us.”

“People have survived on less,” he muttered, a tad bitterly, which made her angry.

Could he envision the five of them, living with him in the small cottage? Had he truly considered how ridiculous the concept was?

How would he afford their food? Their clothing? Penny had to make her debut, and they had dozens of retainers who required severance or pensions. That was for starters. There were so many expenses involved in selling the properties, in paying off the debts.

If she married him, the arrearages wouldn’t evaporate. From where would the funds come to square the deficit?

It was unfair of him to chastise her, to act as though she were frivolously spurning him. He couldn’t comprehend the pressure under which she labored, the strain she felt with regard to the females in her life. So much was riding on her shoulders, and he couldn’t assume her load, or fix the dilemma for her.

Brutal as it sounded, money was the cure, the remedy she sought. He didn’t have any, so he couldn’t be the one. He was poor. The situation was no more elemental or complicated than that.

“Don’t let’s fight,” she chided.

“We’re not.” He brushed a kiss across her lips.

“I’ve tried to figure out what Margaret will do.” She shifted the conversation away from his finances—or lack of them. “I believe she’ll have me go to London, to commence anew with another suitor. She won’t want any scandal that might affect my reputation, and she wouldn’t hazard having your father learn of our affair.”

“So you’ll be leaving soon.”

“Maybe tomorrow.” She rested her palm on his cheek. “Even if it’s not tomorrow, I don’t dare visit you again. It’s too risky now.”

They gazed at each other, and Olivia prayed he could read the sentiment she was concealing inside. She ached to confess how much felicity he’d brought to her, how much delight and gladness. He was like a ray of sunshine, and he had changed her, had furnished her with a fuller understanding of herself as a woman.

With every fiber of her being, she wanted to proclaim how much he meant to her, how much she loved him, but she kept quiet, hoping he could discern the secret for himself.

What good would it do to declare her emotions? Though he tried to hide it, he was chivalrous, had noble intentions. If she but asked, he would do anything for her. But it was grossly inequitable to request his assistance, or hint that she would embrace his aid, when she could never reimburse him for his loyalty and devotion with any long-term commitment.

If he realized how much she cared for him, he would feel compelled to obligate himself in whatever fashion she would permit, but their paths were on diverse trajectories, and they were shooting toward different universes. She wanted to spare him any repercussions caused by her
rash conduct. She couldn’t abide having him hurt or persecuted for what she’d wrought. He was valorous, and he might attempt to take the blame, to pretend their relationship had been at his instigation, which she could never countenance.

It was better to have him presume that he’d been a fleeting caprice. Let him suppose her esteem was heightened, genuine, but not overwhelming. It would be easier for both of them.

As for herself, she couldn’t predict what would become of her. It was best that this folly be ended quickly and peacefully, for she couldn’t wed Edward after having loved Phillip. But could she accept another suitor as her plight would demand? Could she marry another? Could she welcome him into her bed?

The answers to those questions were beyond her, too painful to contemplate, too depressing to ponder.

“I want to make love to you,” he said.

“I’d like that.”

“So you’ll always remember what it was like.”

As if she’d ever forget! Did he think she would? The blasted man.

This brief interlude had been the most exciting, exhilarating period of her life, and she would hold it to her heart, would never let it go. Should she be lucky enough to live to a ripe old age, she’d recall each and every detail with vivid clarity.

Such distinct, intense euphoria could never fade.

She pulled him into an ardent kiss, and with great relish, he reciprocated. He moved onto her, giving her his weight, and she hugged him close, cherishing the sensation of his large body pushing her down.

After her departure, he would have other women. But how many? Would they find such pleasure and bliss?

Oh, how the thought wounded her!

More terrible still, she imagined the day she would ascertain—in some unexpected way—that he’d wed. Maybe she’d see Edward in town, and he’d mention the estate. She’d hear Phillip’s name in passing, that the newlyweds enjoyed a simple existence, that his bride had been elated to share his cottage, to birth him a gaggle of cheerful, boisterous children.

She shut her eyes and could visualize him laughing and content.

At that moment, she came nearer than she ever would to relenting, to forsaking her family. Was it so wrong to want this glorious man? To do whatever she could to make her dream come true?

Even as the greedy supposition presented itself, she shoved it away. She could never cast off the shackles that bound her. Selfishness had never been an aspect of her character, and her personal happiness would perpetually be secondary.

If she broke down and married, she wouldn’t encounter this type of ecstasy, this negligent, burning passion that he inspired solely by looking at her. She wanted to experience every facet of his ardor, to saturate herself with the feel and smell of him, to bind herself so deeply and so completely that neither time, nor distance, nor altered circumstances could tear asunder the connection they’d forged.

He was fumbling with her dress, slipping the buttons through the holes, revealing her breasts. She went to work, too, opening his shirt, jerking down the sleeves.