Scandalous Summer Nights (16 page)

Good Lord in heaven. She was right.

He bent his head, his wavy brown hair tickling the insides of her thighs. And since she couldn’t possibly just lie back while something so momentous was happening, she sat up and watched, committing every tender touch, every sweet sensation to memory. His fingers kneaded her bottom while his tongue brought her to new heights. And because it had felt very good when James had done it, she caressed her own breasts, increasing her pleasure even more.

He glanced up and watched, then moaned against her, creating vibrations that started a sweet, heady thrumming in her core. It hurtled toward her with a thundering intensity—almost as powerful as her love for James. And then she shattered into a million little blissful bits.

James sprawled on the bed beside Olivia and sprinkled her forehead with kisses, letting her catch her breath.

He needed time to catch his, too. She was everything a man could want in a lover—smart, funny, beautiful, and loyal. And she loved him.

She rolled toward him, her brown eyes shining with love, her cheeks flushed with passion. “I have always loved the way I feel when I’m with you—alive and free and safe—but this… this was something new.”

His chest swelled a little at that. “I’m honored I was the one to introduce you to pleasure.”

“It couldn’t have been anyone but you, James.”

Though flattered by her words, he felt the need to set the record straight. “Your body would have responded to the touch of any lover with a modicum of skill.”

“My heart wouldn’t have. There’s no one else I trust like you.”

Guilt nearly strangled him, but he managed to choke out, “Speaking of trust, there’s something you should know.” The timing wasn’t exactly fortuitous for a confession, but he couldn’t let her go on thinking he was some paragon of virtue.

But her wicked fingertips were trailing down his chest and over his belly, tracing the waistband of his trousers. “We can talk later,” she said. “For now, we must finish what we started.”

He closed his eyes against the temptation. “No. We have taken enough chances for today. Let’s get you dressed and presentable before Hildy returns.”

“She won’t return for another hour at least. And I think it very unfair that you would deny me the opportunity to give you pleasure.” The tips of her fingers dipped inside his waistband and brushed the head of his cock.

He groaned. What she was saying made sense, in a
twisted way. Or was he only choosing to believe that it did because her nimble fingers were now unbuttoning his trousers?

“You shouldn’t be doing that,” he warned. But they both knew his heart wasn’t in it.

“Try to stop me.” She rolled on top of him then, kissing the flat planes of his belly and drifting lower and lower until he realized she meant to take him in her mouth. And she did. With little preamble and no hesitation, she held the base of his cock and licked the tip, testing the taste and feel of him before guiding the shaft into her mouth.

Thought became impossible; light danced at the corner of his eyes. He moaned and called out Olivia’s name, but she was relentless—stroking and sucking until he thought he’d die from the exquisite torture of it. He denied himself release as long as he could—and then some. But when the unmistakable, unstoppable rush of pleasure began, he lifted Olivia up and they clung to each other like they had just washed up together on a beach, happy and exhausted.

Olivia nestled in the crook of his shoulder, sighing as though she was on the verge of sleep. When he excused himself for a moment, she grasped his arm, reluctant to give up her pillow for even a short time. However, she was grateful when he returned with a damp cloth for them to clean up with and the coverlet to keep her warm.

“We shouldn’t linger too long,” he said.

“I know. But it feels so heavenly lying here with you. Let’s enjoy a few minutes more before real life intrudes again.”

He rested his chin on the top of her head and inhaled
her citrusy, feminine scent. “I don’t suppose a few minutes would hurt.”

But the waning light and Olivia’s steady breathing lulled him into a trancelike state. His limbs grew pleasantly heavy and he drifted off to sleep, blissfully unaware of the ramifications of one brief, if not-so-innocent, nap.

A
ruckus in the corridor outside Olivia’s room roused her slightly, but she snuggled closer to James. He’d draped an arm across her hips in his sleep, and she found the weight and warmth of his body sweetly comforting. She glanced up at his full lips, slightly parted, and his dark lashes, wishing to preserve this moment in her mind forever.

But the commotion in the hallway grew louder till it seemed to be directly outside her door. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

“James,” she whispered urgently.

His eyes fluttered open and he gave her a lazy, heart-melting smile. “Yes, beautiful?”

“Do you hear that?”

Bam
.

Instantly alert, he sprang off the bed, pulled the coverlet up to Olivia’s chin, and grabbed his trousers. The pounding on the door continued, along with a great deal of grunting.

“Damn.” He shot her an apologetic look. “They’re going to break down the door if I don’t open it.”

Her stomach dropped. At least she was far from London. No one knew her here, save Hildy and Terrence. They must have returned early. She sat up, tucked the coverlet beneath her arms, and nodded bravely.

“Just stay there.” James had pulled on his trousers and was almost to the door when the wood around it began to splinter.

“Wait!” he shouted, but a second later the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a sickening thud. James moved in front of the doorway, shielding her from the intruder—at least momentarily. She caught a glimpse of broad shoulders and a dark head that were terrifyingly familiar.

“Huntford?” James’s voice was full of disbelief.

Oh no. Owen. Dread flooded her veins. Somehow her brother had tracked them down. And the look on his face said he was going to kill James.

“You scheming, devious bastard!” Owen threw a punch that collided with James’s jaw. He staggered back from the force of it, and Olivia’s gaze met her brother’s.

“Owen,” she said. “Stop, please! I’ll explain everything.”

Her brother’s face contorted with rage and his fists clenched as he looked around the room. He eyed the intimate dinner table, James’s discarded shirt, and her gown puddled on the floor. “No need to explain,” he spat. “I can put the pieces together. Averill, you’re a dead man.”

James stood tall and faced Owen squarely. “You have every right to be angry.”

“ ‘Angry’ doesn’t
begin
to describe my rage.”

“Let’s settle this elsewhere. You’re upsetting Olivia.”

“Don’t speak her name!” Owen threw James against the wall and landed a blow to his gut.

“No!” Olivia cried. James’s arms hung at his sides. He wasn’t even trying to defend himself, much less fight back. She wrapped the blanket around her torso and leaped out of the bed. When her foot hit the floor, blinding pain shot through her leg, but she ignored it, determined to end the madness.

James glanced sideways at her. “Your ankle. Stay back. I’ll be fine.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” Owen retorted, punching him once more in the ribs.

Olivia pulled at Owen’s arm, but he continued his assault and didn’t stop until James slumped to the floor, moaning and gasping for air. She understood why James didn’t want to hurt his best friend, but why hadn’t he even deflected the blows?

At last Owen stepped back and blinked at James, who had blood trickling from his nose. Her brother looked dazed, as if he’d been the one who’d been bludgeoned about the head. “Dear Jesus,” he said, sinking into a chair.

Olivia dropped to her knees beside James and took his face in her hands. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

“No.” He sat up, using the wall for support. “I deserved this—and more. Grab one of your gowns and, if you can manage it, go to my room to dress. Stay there until I’ve had a chance to talk with your brother.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with him.” There was no telling what Owen might do without a witness in the room.

Owen closed the door—or, more precisely, propped it up in front of the door frame—and dragged his chair over
to where James and Olivia sat. He didn’t look at her, but in a voice devoid of emotion said, “Put on your gown. I need to deal with him.”

“He didn’t know that I would follow him to the Lakes,” she said.

“But when he discovered that you had, he saw no harm in sharing a bed with you?”

Olivia winced at her brother’s cold and callous tone. But she knew it was only to mask the disappointment and hurt he felt. She’d lied to him and ignored every rule of propriety.

“I’ll do as you ask. But please listen to the whole story before you condemn James. He’s only here because he was trying to protect me.”

Owen snorted.

Her insides in knots, she picked up her gown and hobbled to the far corner of the room. Owen’s back was to her, but she listened carefully, hanging on every word.

“I trusted you,” Owen said simply.

“I know,” James replied. “I’m sorry.”

“Does she know about the letter?”

Letter?
Olivia froze, straining to hear James’s response.

“No, but—”

“Did you read it?”

“No!”

“I assume you know how this is going to end.”

“Of course. I will marry her.”

A lump the size of an egg settled in her throat.

“Because you got caught,” Owen spat. “I wanted better for my sister.”

“I know,” James said raggedly. “She deserves better.”

Regret and frustration swirled in her head. Her brother
and James sat there, discussing her future as though it were already decided. And she knew in her heart that it was. Fate—coupled with her poor judgment—had intervened to make her greatest wish come true.

Only she’d never,
ever
wished for it to happen this way.

She hastily tied the laces of her gown and limped toward her brother. “To what letter are you referring?”

“Why are you walking like that? What’s wrong with your leg?”

“What letter?” she repeated. To James, she said, “Is it the same one that keeps falling out of your jacket?”

“I wanted to tell you—” James began.

Owen cut him off. “It’s nothing. Never mind. You have bigger worries.”

“It’s from your father,” James said. “He wrote it to you.”

“Damn it, James!”

She felt as though the air had been sucked from her lungs. “Papa? But… how?”

Olivia had never been the swooning type, but now a low buzzing began in her ears and she swayed on her feet. James called out her name and stood, but Owen pinned him to the wall with one hand. Why didn’t Owen want her to have the letter? And why had James kept it hidden from her?

She staggered toward the foot of the bed where James’s jacket lay in an untidy ball and dug into his pocket. There it was. Her letter… from Papa.

One of the hardest things about losing him had been the suddenness of it. Countless times since his death, she’d wished for the chance to speak with him again, to hear his warm, gravelly voice and see the affection in his
eyes. No one had been closer to Papa than she, and no one had felt the loss more keenly.

But he’d written her a letter—a letter that Owen
and
James had withheld from her.

Oblivious to the pain in her ankle, she whirled toward the door.

“Stop,” Owen commanded.

But she yanked on the door, till the whole thing came crashing into the room, barely missing her brother’s head. She darted down the corridor into James’s room, slammed the door behind her, and locked it. She had to read the letter, and no one—not James nor Owen nor the devil himself—was going to stop her.

As she collapsed onto James’s bed, she tried not to dwell on the fact that he’d been keeping this secret from her. She tried not to think about their current dilemma and the humiliating way in which her fairy-tale evening had ended. And she especially tried not to think about the desolate look on James’s face when he’d said,
“I will marry her.”

Of course she’d dreamed of marrying James, but not like this. She’d wanted to be his heart’s desire—not an obligation.

Her eyes burned, her nose stung, and her ankle throbbed. A knock rattled the door in its frame.

“Olivia, let me in.” Owen’s muffled voice came from the hallway. More calmly, he added, “Please. You shouldn’t be alone when you read the letter.”

He was probably right. Papa hadn’t been well in the days leading up to his death—anything he’d written then could be disturbing. But she needed to read it without Owen hovering about.

“I don’t wish for company, thank you.” She needed time and space to absorb Papa’s message. And even though she would have dearly loved to have Rose or Anabelle or Daphne to lean on, this was something she had to do alone.

“Do you think you might wait a bit, then?” Owen asked. “You’re overwrought at the moment.”

She sniffled. “Perhaps I am. But I’m not as delicate as you seem to think.”

“I did what I thought was in your best interest. I shouldn’t have kept the letter from you.”

Yes, well, he was not the only one who’d made a bad decision. She’d made several in chasing James across England. “I was wrong, too,” she admitted. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused, but you don’t need to protect me anymore.”

“What if I want to?”

Her throat clogged with emotion. “It’s time for me to stand on my own.”

“Very well.” His voice was tinged with resignation—and perhaps respect. “But I shall be right here if you need me.”

Taking a deep breath, she turned the letter over; with trembling hands she broke the seal. Her eyes blurred at the sight of Papa’s familiar, uneven handwriting. She could almost hear his deep, gentle voice as she read the words.

Olivia stared at her father’s handwriting, looking for some clue—any inconsistency that might prove the letter was a cruel hoax—but found none. The letter had been written by Papa’s own hand.

She let it slip through her fingers and backed away from it, scooting toward the head of the bed. She wished she had never seen it, that she could turn back time and remain blissfully unaware of its existence. She pressed her back against the wooden headboard and glared warily at the paper.

“Olivia? Are you all right?” She’d forgotten Owen stood outside the door, and the concern in his voice only made it harder not to cry.

“Yes.” She didn’t trust herself to say any more than that. How dare Papa do this to her? Why did he have to burden her with this knowledge? He was supposed to be the ever-faithful, loving husband and gentleman. Not some libertine who took up with a random shopgirl.

“Will you let me in?”

“No.” She eyed the letter with disgust. How she’d enjoy shredding it to bits and tossing the pieces to the wind. She couldn’t let Owen read it. She didn’t want him to feel as awful as she did. Besides, she needed time to think about Papa’s revelation—without interference from her well-intentioned but overbearing brother.