Waking Up With a Rake (15 page)

Time
wounds
all
heels, my son.
His father had been partial to mangling a few proverbs back in the days when he was still speaking to Rhys.
When
you
choose
a
wife, remember that a fashionable face now may sport three chins and a wart or two before death parts you. Look for a woman with something special inside her, and you’ll spare yourself a lifetime of disappointment.

Rhys shrugged off that remembered advice. He wasn’t looking for a wife. Not ever.

“I’m frankly surprised that Miss Symon was thrown by this little mare. She looks too docile and too puny—the mare, I mean, of course.” Miss Pinkerton laughed, a musical twitter of the sort that grated on Rhys’s ears. It didn’t take much to imagine her with three chins and a wart.

“Miss Symon is a fine rider. Her equestrian skills are what truly kept her from harm,” Rhys said sternly. “A lesser rider might have been killed.”

“Oh, dear, I’ve upset you,” she said. “That was never my intention, I assure you. I was just thinking how fortunate Miss Symon was that you were there to save the day. Only imagine. One moment, she’s hurtling along toward certain destruction, and the next, she’s safe in your arms.” Miss Pinkerton gave a pudding-headed sigh. “It all sounds quite thrilling.”

“Actually, it happened far too quickly to be thrilling,” came a voice from the stable door. Rhys was more than a little relieved to find Olivia marching toward them. “The whole episode is a bit of a blur in my mind. And I was far too concerned for Molly at the time to even be aware of whose arms I was in. Besides, Lord Rhys comported himself like a perfect gentleman. I hope you didn’t mean to imply the incident was something worthy of a scandal sheet, Miss Pinkerton.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” Miss Pinkerton sputtered. “I only thought it was romantic.”

“Romantic? How can that be?” Olivia said. “Everyone knows Lord Rhys is only here on behalf of His Highness, the Duke of Clarence.”

“Oh, but that only makes it more romantic, don’t you see?” Miss Pinkerton said, her cheeks flushing rosily. “It’s rather like the tale of Tristan and Isolde. You remember the one. He was supposed to deliver her to another suitor too, but he fell madly in love with her instead.”

“If memory serves, that story ends rather badly for the lovers. They both end up dead. I assure you Miss Symon and I contemplate no such outcome,” Rhys said with an indulgent smile. “I rather think you’ve read too many romances, Miss Pinkerton.”

Olivia shot him a sharp look, then turned to Miss Pinkerton. “If you intend to ride, perhaps you should take Lord Rhys with you. That way if
you
feel the need to be swept from the back of a bolting horse, he’ll be there to oblige.”

“Very well,” Miss Pinkerton said with a sniff. “Would you care to ride, my lord? I promise I sit a horse well enough
not
to need rescuing.”

“Ordinarily, I would be honored to accompany you,” Rhys said, “but unfortunately, I am expecting a message from the duke this morning and need to be available to send a reply immediately.”

“Shall I ask Mr. Thatcher to show you over Barrowdell then?” Olivia suggested.

“No, that won’t be necessary. I don’t think I’ll ride after all. I believe the weather may turn. Good day to you both.” Miss Pinkerton gave Rhys a toothsome smile that tightened into a grimace when she looked at Olivia and then headed back to the manor.

Olivia ignored her, pushed open the stall door, and hurried to Molly’s side.

“How’s my brave girl this morning?”

“Full of apples,” Rhys said. “Mr. Thatcher says she’s eating well. It’s a good sign.”

Gently, Olivia ran a hand down the mare’s injured leg. The muscles under Molly’s thick coat shivered. “Still sore to the touch.”

“So are you,” he said, leaning against the side of the stall in order to stay out of Olivia’s way as she smoothed her hands over Molly’s withers and walked all the way around the mare to spread a blanket over her back and make sure it hung evenly on both sides. “You were rather sharp with your guest just now, you know.”

“The Pinkertons are my mother’s guests, not mine.” Olivia dropped a handful of oats into a feedbag and settled it over Molly’s nose. The mare’s appreciative munching filled the air. “Amanda is a very silly girl who only wants to stir up trouble and—how was I sharp?”

“You delivered quite a set down. Miss Pinkerton meant no harm.”

“Didn’t she? All that foolishness about how thrilling the accident must have been. It was frankly terrifying. There was nothing thrilling about it.” She picked up a currycomb and bent to give Molly’s neck and chest several vigorous strokes. “You said yourself she’d been reading too many romances. And what about that nonsense about our situation being like Tristan and Isolde?”

“If she could see us wrangling now she’d entertain no such notions.”

Her head popped up on the other side of the mare. “Quite right. You said it yourself. We contemplate no such outcome.”

“I only meant we don’t intend to end up dead as those lovers did.” He stepped in front of her as she came around to brush Molly’s other side so she had to stop. “If Miss Pinkerton had seen us last night in your chamber, she might feel completely vindicated.”

Olivia shot him a glare that ought to have singed off his eyebrows. “Step aside.”

“Not yet. I have a question for you first.” He took a step toward her and she gave ground. “I took pains to make sure that no one saw me enter or leave your chamber. Our behavior in public has been beyond reproach. So why do you suppose Miss Pinkerton likens us to a pair of thwarted lovers?”

“That sounds like a question you should put to Miss Pinkerton.” She ducked around Molly’s broad rear and peered over the mare’s back at him. “If you hurry, no doubt you can catch her.”

“I’d rather catch you.” He anticipated her dash for an escape and trapped her near the door between his arms and the side of the stall.

Olivia pressed her spine to the rough wood and held her arms tight to her sides lest he touch her. “Stop it, Rhys. You’ll upset Molly.”

At the sound of her name, the mare sidestepped and swiveled in her sling.

“No, I won’t. I just gave her an apple. She’s on my side, aren’t you, girl?”

As if to encourage him, Molly nudged his back with her nose, pushing him closer to Olivia.

“You see? Molly trusts me.”

“She doesn’t know you like I do. Now let me pass.”

“Not until you answer my question.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “How should I know why Miss Pinkerton has delusions of our romantic involvement?”

“I think she senses something you’re trying to deny.”

She studied the tips of his boots with absorption. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” He cupped her chin and tilted her head up so she had to meet his gaze. “There is a connection between us that’s undeniable. Miss Pinkerton obviously caught wind of something hovering between you and me. I’m attracted to you. I’ll not argue the point. And I’ll wager you’re not indifferent to me either.”

“Not another wager.” She clapped her hands over her ears. “The last one was responsible for last night.”

He laughed. “No, no more wagers. But while we’re on the subject of last night…you were adamant about knowing what being with you meant to me. But what did it mean to you?”

She dropped her gaze. “It meant that I am a rather easily led girl who let a rake fool her into an ill-considered adventure.”

“So you thought it an adventure. Good. I like that. It was an adventure for me too.”

She looked up sharply. “I find that hard to believe. An adventure implies something new, something previously unknown. You’ve been with countless silly women.”

“I hadn’t been with you before. And you’re not silly.” He palmed her cheek and traced her brow with his thumb. She trembled, but he knew it wasn’t from cold. “You’re brilliant and beautiful, Olivia. And passionate. And…you make me wish I hadn’t been with any other women before you.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “How can I believe that?”

He hadn’t meant to say it. In fact, he’d trade a year in paradise to unsay it, but the words had just tumbled out. And blast it all, they were true. She’d said once that when two people share themselves they give away a piece of their heart they never get back. If that was so, he was missing a good many pieces of his. When he looked into her guileless eyes, he wished he was whole.

“You should believe me because I promised not to lie to you,” he said.

“Oh, really? To whom did you make this promise?”

“To myself.” He leaned toward her. The fresh scent of alyssums tickled his nostrils and made him ache to kiss her. “The first day I met you.”

She peered up at him from under her lashes. If it had been any other girl but Olivia, he’d have called it a coquette’s trick. “And do you lie so frequently, you have to make such promises to yourself often?”

“No, but perhaps you’ll allow that sometimes a man is governed by expediencies that aren’t conducive to full truthfulness.”

He wanted to kiss her so badly, his soft palate arched as if from physical hunger. But she held herself so tight, so aloof; he didn’t want to force her.

“So you’re admitting you’ve not been fully truthful. Well, that’s mysterious,” she said. “You’re here as the duke’s agent. Is there something about His Royal Highness I should know?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Of course, he hadn’t promised to tell her everything. And he couldn’t very well tell her he’d come there to steal her maidenhead so she couldn’t marry the Duke of Clarence. He’d only decided never to lie to her directly. It meant slicing his conscience thinly as a piece of paper, but it was the only way he felt he could continue his mission and not totally despise himself.

“When I tell you something,” he said, “whether it’s about the duke or the price of tea in China or the way I find you absolutely irresistible, it will be the truth. You may believe me.”

Her eyes widened.

Was not speaking the whole truth the same as lying?

Probably. But before he could puzzle out the moral conundrum, Olivia did something that surprised the question right out of his head.

She relaxed, letting herself melt against his body, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him right on the mouth.

Chapter 14

She knew it was the wrong thing to do. If anyone caught them kissing in the stable, her mother’s dreams of a crown for her would sizzle away like morning fog. But all sense of propriety fled from her mind. In its place, one truth sang in her heart.

Rhys Warrington found her irresistible.

Her. Irresistible.

How could she not kiss the man after a declaration like that?

Oh, he was delicious. And he smelled of saddle leather and warm horse. His mouth was sure and firm. When he slanted it over hers and his lips parted, she slipped her tongue in as he’d done to her.

It didn’t matter whose tongue did the exploring. A French kiss was just as decadently wicked that way as the other. England had been at war with France on and off for more or less forever, certainly for the whole of Olivia’s young life. But for the moment, she decided French culture had at least one thing to commend it.

Heartily.

Their kiss was a whole world. A circle of two. A shared breath. Olivia felt certain their souls were mingling, all tangled up together, wandering from one body to the other, unsure which house of flesh they belonged in, but satisfied to share the space equally in both of them.

Rhys’s kisses moved along her jaw and then down. Ripples of pleasure undulated in his wake.

“We ought to stop,” she said, tipping her head to one side so he had full access to her neck. Propriety tried to rear its prim little head, but the heat gathering between her legs rendered her words breathy and unconvincing, even to her own ears. “We need to stop.”

“Mm-hmm,” he agreed between feather-light kisses, but he gave no sign he intended to stop.

“I mean it.” She smoothed her palms over him, reveling in the solid expanse of his broad back, the warmth of him emanating through his wool jacket.

“I mean it too,” he said as his fingers found the silver frogs that held her pelisse closed. Then suddenly his hands were on her breasts, kneading and caressing them through the sheer fabric of her column gown. Her nipples tightened, throbbing for him to touch and tease. His mouth dipped lower. For a moment, she wished she was wearing that new gown Jean-Pierre had designed for her with the built-in boning so she’d have two fewer layers separating them and a lower neckline that offered more of her décolletage.

“Rhys, please,” she gasped when he rucked up her skirt and found the slit in her pantaloons. She was wet and swollen and aching for him. “Oh, please.”

His questing fingers stopped, but he still held her. She pulsed into his palm, hot and needy. It wouldn’t take long. She was almost there. She couldn’t believe how quickly he’d driven her to that exquisite precipice, but there she was, teetering on the edge. He knew exactly what she liked, where her special spot was, and just how to stroke her. He could send her soul flying with another limb-bucking release. A flick or two of his talented fingers was all it would take.