Waking Up With a Rake (21 page)

To appease Mr. Alcock, nothing they did in secret could remain so. Olivia’s lack of chastity would have to be shouted from the rooftops in order to scotch the deal with the Duke of Clarence.

It didn’t matter. He had to go through with it. Otherwise Alcock would drag him into the well of the House of Lords and accuse him loudly of war crimes that had only been connected to him in whispers until now. His father wouldn’t be able to bear it.

Rhys started to slide into her by the slowest of degrees when the unthinkable happened.

His cock began to soften.

Concentrate
, he ordered himself.

He pushed forward but it was no use. He was flaccid as an eel on the riverbank. It was like bringing a rope to a sword fight. For the first time in his life, Rhys Warrington could not properly bed a woman who was ready and willing for him to swive her silly.

He rolled off her and clambered out of bed as if the hounds of hell were after him. He couldn’t bear for her to realize he was physically incapable of making love to her.

Even though he wanted to with all his heart.

Chapter 19

“Rhys, what’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Instead he strode across the room and retrieved his discarded trousers. Keeping his back to her, he stepped into them and tugged them up.

Olivia climbed out of bed, letting the hem of her nightrail billow to the floor. Her shaking fingers fumbling with the buttons, she did up the front of her shift as she followed after him. She might not have much sensual experience, but even she knew something had gone horribly wrong.

“What just happened?” she asked in bewilderment. One moment he was making the sweetest love to her and the next he was flying across the room trying to put as much distance as possible between them.

“What do you think happened?” He sat in one of the wing chairs and struggled to pull on his boots. “I saved you from a very stupid mistake. Honestly Olivia, if you hope to be a queen one day, you really ought to use better judgment.”

She flinched as though he’d slapped her. He hadn’t meant any of it. The whole thing was some elaborate test, which she’d obviously failed. “But I thought—”

“That this was something other than a lesson from a libertine?” He pulled on his shirt and fastened it up at a blistering pace. “Where the devil did that button you tore off get to?”

She stared at him in disbelief. Her world was imploding and he was looking for a benighted button.

“Ah!” He found the lost button near the hearth and pocketed it. As he retied his cravat, he cast her a cynical look. “Close your mouth, Olivia. It makes you look like a cod. Surely you’re not that surprised.”

She couldn’t have been more so if he’d told her he planned to sprout wings and fly out her window. Everything had felt so real.

“Haven’t you any idea how close you were to ruin? You really are a silly little twit, aren’t you? I confess I thought you brighter than that.”

The way her stomach roiled, she feared she might be sick. But that would only mean further mortification before a man who’d seen her soul-naked, who’d
used
her for his own twisted purposes and now laughed at her. She couldn’t bear more. She swallowed back the rising bile and straightened to her full height.

“Get out of my room.”

“I would do so with pleasure, Miss Symon,” he said as he retrieved his cufflinks from her vanity and reattached them at his wrists. “Nevertheless we have a small matter with which to contend. May I remind you there is still someone trying to do you harm?”

“More harm than you, you mean.”

“Yes, more harm than me,” he said testily, shrugging into his waistcoat and jacket.

“Since you think I’m a silly little twit, I have to wonder why should you care?”

“My dear girl, I am here at the behest of the Duke of Clarence. It would do my reputation with the royals no credit if something were to happen to you on my watch.”

Nothing. What they shared in her bed meant nothing to him. She glared at him, taking refuge behind rage to avoid nausea brought on by total embarrassment. “With a reputation like yours, what’s another stain more or less?”

He clasped a mocking hand to his chest as though she’d sent a dart into it. “There’s a sting. Good. I was afraid you might turn into a weepy little puddle. But however you might feel about me at present, remember there is someone out there who seeks to do you ill. Until we discover who that person is, you’re stuck with me in your bedchamber by night.”

“Not for long. I intend to ask my mother to rescind her invitation for you to join the house party.” She crossed her arms as if she might hold herself together with them. Her chest ached abominably, and this time the throbbing wasn’t the least pleasant. She’d heard the word “heartache” but always thought it melodramatic in the extreme. She never dreamed it referred to pain that was all too real. “This is the last night you’ll spend under Barrowdell’s roof if I have anything to say about it.”

“Fortunately, when it comes to your mother’s social decisions, you have very little to say.”

Drat
the
man.
He was right. There was nothing she could tell her mother, short of the truth, that would make her banish Lord Rhys Warrington. Even then, she wondered whose side her mother would be on. She whirled around and stomped back to the bed, trailing her dignity behind her like tattered wings.

“Stay away from me, Rhys Warrington.”

“As you wish, milady,” he said with false amiability as he settled into one of the wing chairs and propped his long legs up on the other.

She climbed into bed and pulled the covers to her chin. She bit back the sob that threatened to tear from her throat. She would not let the man hear her crying in the dark.

But that didn’t stop the tears from coursing silently down her cheeks. Her heart hurt, pounding erratically. She’d nearly been dashed to pieces in that ravine, but she hadn’t felt as close to death then as she did now, lying in the dark with her chest threatening to break open.

She replayed the interlude with Rhys in her mind, the intimate things he’d done with her, to her, the way she’d given herself over to him. How could he run so hot and then so cold? What had she done wrong?

Then she realized she hadn’t done anything.
He
was the one who failed to do something. Now that she thought about it, she realized in the final moments of their loving his glorious thing had suddenly become inexplicably much less glorious.

There’d been a stallion like that at Barrowdell once. Mr. Thatcher tried every trick he could to interest the horse in a mare that was in season, but for some unknown reason, the stallion wouldn’t mount. In the end, he was gelded and sold, and as far as Olivia knew, was still pulling a hackney cab around the cobbled streets of London.

She didn’t want Rhys gelded, but the thought of him hauling around a cab with a bit between his teeth made her stop crying for a bit.

But men were not stallions. Rhys simply must not have wanted her after all and couldn’t pretend he did for another second.

Shame burned her cheeks, and she buried her face in her pillow.

***

Deliver
me, O Lord, from weeping women
, Rhys prayed silently. Olivia tried to muffle it, but every other minute a hitched breath or small sob emanated from the bed. Each sound was a fresh lash to his conscience.

No wonder he couldn’t make love to her. His insides were tangled in a knot. Even though he understood the reason, the fact that his body failed him made him feel like shite.

Even if he could have taken her maidenhead, there was no way he could have avoided hurting her. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

If not for the very real threat from whoever had planted those thorns, he’d be long gone. New South Wales was supposed to be quite nice this time of year.

He laid his head back in the wing chair and stared at the heavily timbered ceiling. He was only fooling himself. He wouldn’t leave. Like it or not, he couldn’t abandon Olivia. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but somehow she’d attached herself to his heart as surely as her orchids were affixed to their hosts.

Rhys sighed and closed his eyes.

Against his expectations, he drifted into light sleep. When his head tipped forward, he jerked back to full wakefulness. He had no way to gauge how long he’d been asleep, but no sound came from Olivia’s bed.

She’s stopped crying, thank God.

The winter wind soughed outside the windows and drafted the chimney, stirring the banked fire into a small blaze. There was an occasional creak as the manor house settled on its foundations for the night. He could hear no other sound of human movement but the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. Even though sleep fled from him, the quiet was restful.

But then the quiet began to be oppressive. He was overwhelmed by the need to make sure Olivia was all right. He tugged off his boots again so his footsteps would be silent on the hardwood and stole over to her bedside.

Light from the three-quarter moon shafted through the window and silvered Olivia’s face, tinting the hollows of her lovely cheekbones in shades of gray. Her breathing had settled into a soft, regular rhythm. Her lips parted in the relaxation of deep sleep.

But as he watched, her brows drew together as if she were in pain.

She
must
be
dreaming.

Even though the anguished expression smoothed away almost immediately, his chest constricted at the sight.

He’d caused that pain.

He might be standing watch over her to keep her safe physically, but he’d hurt her heart. Badly. The stricken look on her face when he called her a silly little twit had made him want to punch his fist through the nearest wall and hope he broke his own knuckles.

But he’d had to say something that heinous simply to keep her at a distance. If she suspected his body had failed him and he
couldn’t
bed her, she’d no doubt think it was somehow her fault.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Olivia Symon wasn’t like any other woman he’d known. Of course, she was desirable, but not only for her delectable face and form. He was captivated by her wit. He respected her intelligence. He was amazed at the courage and athleticism she’d displayed when her horse bolted, a situation that might have made a grown man wet himself.

That bothersome lump in his chest ached afresh.

Damn.

She trembled in her sleep even though she was tucked under the covers. She was obviously cold.

Moving with stealth, he lifted the counterpane and slid into the bed with her. He couldn’t offer her much, but at least his body heat would keep her from shivering.

Still deeply asleep, she rolled toward him, nestled her head in the crook of his shoulder, and hitched her thigh over his. Her hand came to rest over his heart, her softness molded to his hard chest.

He breathed a sigh. He didn’t know what the morrow might bring, but for now, it was enough just to hold her.

His body disagreed. His cock roused to an aching stand.

Traitor
, he thought toward the offending member.
Where
were
you
when
I
needed
you?

Chapter 20

Even though sunlight stole over her, Olivia snuggled deeper into the linens. Her bed had never been so warm. The feather tick molded around her, holding her in a comforting embrace. She breathed in a deliciously masculine scent, a hint of leather mixed with citrusy bergamot. Then as she skimmed the surface of sleep, flirting with the idea of sinking once again into deep oblivion, she became vaguely aware that her hand was resting on a hard lump.

The lump moved ever so slightly and then swelled to a larger size. The surprising movement jerked her to full consciousness.

She opened her eyes and realized her head wasn’t on her pillow. It was resting on Rhys Warrington’s shoulder. The delicious smell was emanating from him, and the warmth streaming over her was from his regular breathing. More alarmingly, the lump under her palm was his male part. She jerked her hand away and sat up abruptly.

“What are you doing here?”

He stretched his arms to their full length and yawned hugely. “I
was
sleeping.”

“You know what I mean,” she hissed in exasperation. “You can’t be in my bed.”

“And yet, here I am,
ergo
I certainly can.” He plumped the pillows so he was half-sitting up. Then he laced his fingers behind his head. “For an intelligent young woman you have a remarkably tenuous grasp on logic.”

“I mean you
mustn’t
be in my bed.” Since he didn’t seem inclined to move, she climbed out and shrugged on her wrapper, knotting the belt firmly at her waist. “Make up your mind, Rhys. Which am I? Intelligent or a silly little twit?”