Rexanne Becnel (29 page)
Authors: The Matchmaker-1
It was not hard to rouse her to desire. She was a woman of strong passions, his Olivia. His Hazel. Careful and analytical, yet brave and bold of spirit.
She will need every bit of that bravery to deal with you.
That ugly truth raised beads of sweat on Neville’s brow. But it only goaded him on. He plundered her mouth with his and felt her resistance slacken. He moved his lips and tongue to the attention of her breasts, lovely and soft with their dark tips peaked in perfect arousal.
He pulled one deep in his mouth and felt her groan of pleasure. She was alive with passion, quivering beneath him with it, and he quivered in response.
Couldn’t she see that he’d never cared so much for any other woman’s satisfaction? Couldn’t she understand that her pleasure magnified his own? Just the knowledge that he could make her writhe beneath him made him instantly hard. The fact that he could make her pant and cry out, brought him nearly to completion. She made him feel like a green lad, randy and utterly consumed with her.
Couldn’t that be enough for her?
He vowed to make it enough.
He might be unable to love her as she wanted to be loved. His emotions had been too scarred by the past for that. But he could love her body and provide for her and keep her safe.
So he bent himself to loving her body. He found every secret, erotic place. The inner corner of her elbow, the tender flesh beneath her ear. He counted each rib with kisses and marked every hollow and curve of her waist and belly and hips. Down the smooth, warm legs, skirting her thrusting hips, ignoring her frantic pleas for him to join with her.
He trained his horses with patience and care. How much more patience and care would he shower on this woman. With
enough time and enough practice she would learn to find that ultimate satisfaction from only his kisses.
enough time and enough practice she would learn to find that ultimate satisfaction from only his kisses.
And that would be enough for her. She would not need those three overused words which meant less than the air used to expel them.
OLIVIA awakened alone in Neville’s bed. She was not confused by her strange surroundings. She knew at once where she was.
But where was Neville?
A cool breeze ruffled the partially drawn draperies. Summer was done. Fall was in the air. Though the solitary candle had long guttered out, a half-moon pierced the storm clouds and lent a silver glow to the room, enough to reveal a chamber simply furnished and with little indication of its owner’s complex personality.
Olivia sat up and looked around, frowning. Perhaps the room’s spareness told a story in itself—or a part of it. Though in some ways a man open and blunt, he nonetheless was a man of many secrets. He would share his life and his properties with her, but he could not share anything of his true self. Hadn’t he just made love to her? Yet he’d not been able to say he loved her. Hadn’t he brought her to his private chamber? Yet he’d not remained to sleep beside her.
Had he no emotions at all? Was he so devoid of any feelings, save those of physical desire?
Though she knew in her heart that was not entirely true, at the moment Olivia was hard-pressed to feel any charity for Neville. He’d made love to her—in truth, that last time he had seduced her. Then he’d abandoned her. From the moment she’d revealed her love for him he had seemed almost to panic. His lovemaking had become frantic, desperate, as if he must prove something to her. Or perhaps to himself.
A cloud moved across the moon, casting the room into
deeper shadow. She pushed her tangled hair away from her face. Where was he? She’d forgotten that he did not seem ever to sleep at night. So what did he do? Where did he go?
deeper shadow. She pushed her tangled hair away from her face. Where was he? She’d forgotten that he did not seem ever to sleep at night. So what did he do? Where did he go?
Suddenly, a host of powerful emotions rushed over her and hot tears rose unbidden in Olivia’s eyes. Why could he not love her? What was so terrible about her that he could not feel as deeply for her as she had come to feel about him?
She shifted, and the rumpled bed linens gave off the lingering scent of their union, increasing Olivia’s misery tenfold. It was not fair!
And if she could not bear his remoteness now, how could she bear a lifetime of loving him and not receiving his love in return? Could she be like her mother, loving a man she could never fully possess?
With a corner of the sheet Olivia dabbed away her tears. The truth was, she could not do it. No matter what had passed between them this night, for them to wed would guarantee her nothing but endless heartache. She had but to think of her mother and father to know that.
Moving with unaccustomed stiffness she slid off the bed. Her skirt and bodice lay in a pale heap on the floor; her petticoat draped like a ghost across a chair. She found her shoes and one of her stockings, and managed to dress herself. She was conscious, however, of the changes wrought in her body, the soreness, the new fullness.
But she had one thought only in her mind: she must find Neville and tell him they could not wed. Nor could she remain in his home any longer, for it was too painful.
She knew, though, that running away from him would not bring her any real relief. He had somehow become a part of her in a way no other man had ever done. They were connected on some plane that defied explanation. And they always would be.
She stood on shaky legs and smoothed her skirts around her. She loved him and she had made love with him. But now she must go.
And if she should find herself with child by him?
That gave her pause. But she recovered well enough, beating
down any glimmer of joy at such a thought. She would face that problem when and if it presented itself. For now she must deal with a man unable—or unwilling—to love like a normal man.
down any glimmer of joy at such a thought. She would face that problem when and if it presented itself. For now she must deal with a man unable—or unwilling—to love like a normal man.
After a silent, nape-tickling search of the somber old house, Olivia found Neville in his study. He’d built a fire in the hearth, a huge leaping blaze at odds with the pleasantly cool night. The logs popped and crackled, and the flames sent strange, mocking shadows across the room.
Neville sat in a heavy leather chair with its back to her, facing the open windows, much as he had sat on that first night they’d met. He was sprawled back, his legs stretched out and one hand dangling over the arm of the chair. A half-emptied decanter of some pale liquor perched on the table beside him. An empty tumbler sat alongside it.
Olivia pressed her fingers to her mouth. He was drinking again. Sitting up all night alone, getting drunk.
An ineffable sadness settled over her. Though she’d searched him out in order to sever their fledgling betrothal, she did not wish him ill. Certainly she would never wish for him all the miseries that went along with his drinking. Of late it seemed he’d been doing better on that score. So why had he reverted to his old ways tonight? Why had he left her alone in his bed to come down here and drink? Was it something about her? Or perhaps it was what she’d said about loving him.
Heartsore, she stared at him, not certain what she ought to do. Then he said something, mumbled words she did not understand, and her heart sank further still. He sounded completely drunk.
Angry, upset, and inexplicably sad, Olivia crept further into the room and around the chair until she saw him. His head was tilted to one side and his hair fell in rumpled disarray across his brow. But there was no odor of liquor about him, she realized.
She cocked her head, staring at him. Was he merely sleeping? Her heart began a hopeful rhythm as her gaze darted from
him to the glass—the dry glass which held no remnants of liquor in it.
him to the glass—the dry glass which held no remnants of liquor in it.
He was not drunk at all. He’d only fallen asleep in his chair.
His dark lashes shuttered his eyes and though he was every inch a virile man, in that moment there was an innocence about him, as endearing as it was unsettling. For a long moment Olivia simply studied him, recalling another time when she’d watched him sleep. He’d looked peaceful then, and so much younger. Not a man beset by demons of the night, but a man strong and vulnerable, all at one time. A man who had entranced her.
Was it on that day in the carriage that she’d first begun to love him?
In the silence of his study it took every bit of Olivia’s resolve not to take him by the hand, kiss him awake, and lead him back to bed.
But that way would lead her only to heartbreak, for he did not love her. No matter how much she loved him, she couldn’t force him to love her in return. Her mother’s experience with Cameron Byrde was proof of that.
“But your heart is going to break anyway.” She whispered the words out loud. “It’s breaking right now.”
As if he heard her, Neville frowned, then shifted in the chair. Olivia shrank away from him. She should leave now while she still had the strength. At least she should go to Sarah and wait out this long night with her.
She started for the door. But just as she reached for the handle Neville mumbled again, words she could hardly understand. At first.
“ … so tired. Don’t … Be careful. Don’t sleep. Don’t fall ’sleep …”
Olivia turned, frowning, to look back at him. Was he dreaming?
“Watch out. No!” He jerked upright in the chair so violently that Olivia flinched back against the door leaf.
“Macklin! Look out!” he cried in a voice laced with unspeakable pain. “Simpson! Behind you! No. No!”
This time he lurched to his feet. Olivia could see his body
trembling, as if he were terrified. Then he suddenly was wracked by an even more violent shudder, one that must have shaken him awake. Even though he faced away from her, toward the window and its view of the night, she sensed he no longer slept. With an anguished groan he bowed his head and just stood there, the heels of his hands pressed tight against his eyes.
trembling, as if he were terrified. Then he suddenly was wracked by an even more violent shudder, one that must have shaken him awake. Even though he faced away from her, toward the window and its view of the night, she sensed he no longer slept. With an anguished groan he bowed his head and just stood there, the heels of his hands pressed tight against his eyes.
“Oh, God,” he murmured, swaying slightly. “Oh, God. Make it stop.”
At that heartrending utterance, tears sprang into Olivia’s eyes. So this was why he feared to sleep. This was the nightmare that haunted him. His friends dying in a war while he survived. Did he blame himself?
She knew he did.
He stood silhouetted in the dark window, the very image of misery. She wanted to go to him and took the first step forward. But when he turned halfway around and, spying the decanter, reached for it, Olivia froze. He lifted the vessel up and slowly, slowly, removed the stopper.
Don’t,
Olivia wanted to cry.
Don’t!
But it was not her place; somehow she knew that. She could not doubt the depths of his misery, but she understood instinctively that how he dealt with it was his decision. Only his. If Neville chose the stupefaction of drink, no one could stop him. Especially not her, a woman he would not—or could not—love.
Olivia wanted to cry.
Don’t!
But it was not her place; somehow she knew that. She could not doubt the depths of his misery, but she understood instinctively that how he dealt with it was his decision. Only his. If Neville chose the stupefaction of drink, no one could stop him. Especially not her, a woman he would not—or could not—love.
But knowing that, Olivia still could not abandon the room. She watched as his swaying figure steadied. She watched as he raised the decanter to a level even with his face and stared at the amber liquor swirling behind its cut-crystal facade. The firelight glinted through the decanter, painting him with golden color. Like a sinister rainbow the gray shadows, the flickering firelight, and the golden allure of the liquor fell in bands across his unhappy face.
Olivia realized she was holding her breath. She pressed the knot of her fists against her mouth. Please,
Neville. You will never find happiness that way
. Hadn’t her father been proof enough of that?
Neville. You will never find happiness that way
. Hadn’t her father been proof enough of that?
Then he shuddered and, with a sudden jerky movement, heaved the crystal decanter at the hearth.
Olivia leapt at the shattering sound, then gasped when the liquor burst into bright flame. Like a living creature it licked up the face of the mantel and across the slate floor toward Neville’s booted feet.
Neville looked up at her gasp, belatedly discovering her presence. But he wasted no time. He snatched up a small carpet and threw it over the flames, then stomped on it until the fire was completely smothered.
In a matter of seconds it was over, all but the smoke and the reek of burnt alcohol and wool.
When he lifted his head, his face was so haggard Olivia wanted to weep. Was it the battle with the liquor or the nightmare? Or was it her?
“You saw it all, didn’t you?” His voice was low and hoarse.
She nodded. He did not want her to see him at his weakest moment, and in truth, she would not have chosen to do so. But now that she had …
Olivia blinked her eyes. She could not explain it, but now that she had seen him afraid and vulnerable, it made her all the more confident of his strength. Though paradoxical, the truth shone through clear as sunlight. He was so much stronger than he knew.
She took a deep breath, shaking off her fear. “Neville—”
“No.” He shook his head slowly. “You needn’t say it. You will want to renege now on our marriage agreement, and I will not fight you. You said from the first that I would make no one a good husband, least of all you. And now you have the proof.”
“But it’s not true,” she protested.
“Don’t!” He held his hands up as if to fend off her approach. “You don’t know me, Olivia. You don’t know what a wretched excuse for a man I am. In an attempt to find some sort of peace, I have ruined you. I … I thought making you mine—making love to you, marrying you—I thought it might bring an end to these … these nightmares that haunt me.”
His eyes closed and he gripped his head between his hands. “But it hasn’t. It hasn’t.”
He opened his eyes, and the misery Olivia saw there nearly broke her heart. “I don’t deserve you,” he went on in a low, tortured voice. “I cannot undo the wrong I have done you, Olivia. But I see now that making you my wife would be an even greater wrong. For you to marry me would be the biggest mistake of your life. You deserve better.”
It was awful to hear those words of his. Awful to hear them, but even worse to know that he believed them. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, but she did not turn away. For she knew with a bone-deep conviction that he needed her. He’d thought making love to her might cure him, and it plainly had not. But being loved by her, and loving her in return—that was where happiness lay. She was convinced of it. It was the only place either of them would ever find contentment.
But first he had to accept her love and trust her with the truth of his nightmares. To cleanse himself of whatever guilt he suffered.
“Nightmares or no,” she began, “I intend for us to be wed, Neville. Nothing that has occurred tonight has changed my mind on that score.”
He hunched his shoulders against her words, reminding her of a bear-baiting she had witnessed as a child. The great beast had understood its role and, though wounded by the first several dogs, had girded itself for more of the same. It had been a hideous spectacle and she had run away in tears.
But she would not run away this time. This time she would stay, for this was her wounded bear of a man, and she meant to help him patch the bleeding scars on both his heart and his soul.
“Do not try to warn me away,” she said, starting purposefully toward him. “For I am quite determined to have you for a husband.”
He stared at her through wary eyes. “I cannot let you do that. You don’t know what you are letting yourself in for, Livvie.”
“No. For the first time I do understand. In the beginning I thought you merely a charming ne’er-do-well. A man to whom I should feel no attraction but, unfortunately, did. But I have come to know you better, Neville. Slowly but steadily, and often against my will, I have come to know you.”
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