The Royal Rakes: Waking Up With A Rake Part 16

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 m.u.f.fle 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 s.h.i.te.

Even if he could have taken her maidenhead, there was no way he could have avoided hurting her. He was d.a.m.ned if he did and d.a.m.ned 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 G.o.d.

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.

d.a.m.n.

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 c.o.c.k 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?"

"In all honesty, I think you're brilliant." He had the grace to look chagrined. "Unfortunately, I sometimes say things I regret in the heat of an argument."

"And I sometimes do things I regret in the heat of..." Well, it wouldn't do to mention the sort of heat she'd been in last night, but she might as well let him believe she wished she hadn't allowed him the liberties he took with her.

If only her body wasn't still singing about it.

"Wait a moment," she said. "Was that bit about my being brilliant your version of an apology?"

"If you like."

A low growl rumbled in the back of her throat. The man was infuriating. "What I'd like is for you to be gone."

"Perhaps that would be the wisest course for now." He glanced at the window where the morning sun streamed in and then swung his legs out of bed. "How early does your abigail usually arrive?"

"Not until I call her this morning." Olivia skittered over to retrieve his boots near the fireplace and brought them to him. If he was set on going, she meant to help him on his way. The sooner Rhys Warrington was out of her bedchamber-and out of her life, for that matter-the better. "Since I expected you to turn up here last night to take advantage of the wager you won, I left instructions for her not to disturb me."

"That settles it once and for all." He tugged on his boots and stood, trying in vain to smooth out the wrinkles left in his jacket from sleeping in it. "You're definitely an intelligent young woman."

"An intelligent young woman who'll be ruined if you don't leave now," she hissed.

"Not until you let me truly apologize for last night."

She opened her door a crack and peered into the corridor. There was no one to be seen. "Apology accepted. Now go."

"But I haven't apologized yet."

She closed her door with a soft snick of the latch and leaned against it. Sunlight tracked rapidly across her floor. Olivia had struggled with the mathematics her tutors tried to teach her, but she didn't need an equation to realize every second of delay meant the likelihood of their being caught increased exponentially. "Very well, Rhys. Apologize, but be quick about it."

To her surprise, he pulled her into his arms. "I've always felt actions speak louder than words."

He bent to kiss her soundly. She stiffened but couldn't remain unmoved as his lips moved over hers. Her body remembered him, clamored for him, even though her heart was still wary. Before she knew it, she was answering the blasted man's kiss as if the hurts of last night had never happened.

When he released her mouth, he smiled down at her. "Now I feel forgiven."

She thumped his chest with the heel of her hand. She had no idea how she should feel. He made so many conflicting emotions dart about in her at once, and most of them didn't do her the least credit.

"Why did you...I mean, I still don't completely understand what happened last night," she said, unable to look him directly in the eye. The memory of his mouth on her and the way she'd come undone under him made her knees tremble.

Rhys slid a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. "I was a cad. That's what happened." He brushed her lips with his again in a soft sweet comma of a kiss, a delicious short pause before he went on. "But I needed to be one in order for you to greet the dawn still a virgin."

Against her better judgment, a grin lifted the corners of her mouth. "At least I'm now a knowledgeable virgin."

"Not quite yet." He c.o.c.ked a brow. "But you're definitely getting there."

"And you're not leaving and you need to," she said, turning him and giving him a little shove toward the door.

"See you at breakfast," he said. "I'll try not to let my hand drift to your knee under the table."

"It better not," she agreed, though part of her thought that would be better than extra clotted cream on her scone. What would it be like to try to sip her tea with her mother's guests all around while Rhys secretly caressed her in a spot much higher up than her knee?

Lord, what a wanton I'm becoming!

He kissed her once more and her body wept for him to stay.

"Go," she ordered in a whisper, proving however much her flesh might riot, her head was still in charge.

Rhys opened the door and nearly plowed into an imposing man with graying temples and a salt-and-pepper mustache. He was standing in the hallway with his fist poised to knock on Olivia's door. His face twisted into a fierce scowl that wouldn't have been out of place on an English mastiff.

"What the devil!" the man said.

"Father!" Olivia squeaked.

"Mr. Symon-" Rhys began.

"I know who I am, young man. Who in blue blazes are you, and what in the name of perdition are you doing in my daughter's bedchamber?" Horatio Symon roared, obviously not the least concerned over who else might hear him.

Several doors up and down the corridor opened slightly, and curious guests peeped out through the cracks.

"Papa, this isn't what it seems," Olivia said in a meek tone Rhys had never heard from her before.

"Ballocks!" Mr. Symon roared. "Whatever else it might be, what it seems is bad enough. In fact, that's all that matters. Olivia, put some clothes on and I'll be back to deal with you directly. And as for you!" He poked Rhys on the center of his chest. "Come with me, you hairy-legged honyock."

Mr. Symon turned and stomped down the hall, leaving Rhys no choice but to follow. He'd have sooner faced a French firing squad, but he was well and truly caught by Olivia's father and now he was going to have to pay.

Symon didn't speak another word, but Rhys sensed fury roiling off him in waves as he led the way down the long, curving staircase. He wondered if the old man would choose pistols or swords. Pistols, probably. Not many men of Horatio Symon's years kept up their sword arms well enough to take on someone half their age.

Firearms were a great equalizer.

Mr. Symon didn't stop until he reached a room Rhys hadn't seen before. He drew a key from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked the door. Then he banged through the portal, letting the heavy oak slam against the adjacent wall.

"Get in here," he said gruffly.

Rhys followed. The study was richly appointed with floor-to-ceiling mahogany shelves on one wall, a row of windows on another, and a marble fireplace on a third. A ma.s.sive burled walnut desk with ornately carved legs and corners occupied the central position in the lavish s.p.a.ce before the tall windows. A globe mounted on a tripod stood in one corner. A collection of hunting rifles were displayed, within alarmingly easy reach, above the fireplace mantel. The skin of a tiger had been turned into a rug and stretched menacingly across the polished marble floor. Mr. Symon took the seat behind the desk like an Eastern potentate mounting his throne.

So Daniel must have felt as he was about to enter the lion's den. Of course, Daniel was innocent and Rhys had been caught red-handed. He deserved whatever sort of mauling Mr. Symon chose to give him. Nevertheless, he strode forward and stopped before the desk, clasping his hands behind his back and standing tall.

"Sir, I want you to know-"

"And I want you to know I expect you to answer my questions and nothing more." He leaned back his chair and narrowed his eyes at Rhys. "Olivia is my little lark. She's always up early, so when I arrived home this morning and she wasn't out and about, I a.s.sumed she must be ill. The last thing I expected to find was a man in her chamber."

"I can explain-"

"Did I ask a question?" Mr. Symon interrupted with hand upraised. "Didn't think so. Keep your teeth together until I do. Now, what's your name?"

Rhys decided his courtesy t.i.tle would never be more useful. "Lord Rhys Warrington."

The man's nostrils flared as if he'd caught a whiff of raw sewage. "Son of the marquis?"

Rhys nodded. "His second son. As far as I know, my older brother is in the best of health, and I trust G.o.d will grant him the full three score and ten."

May as well let Symon know straight out that I have few prospects.

"A spare, eh? I know the breed, and let me tell you, you've run the wrong vixen to ground. I have no plans to let Olivia's future husband take control of her dowry. It'll all stay in trust for her use alone. If you thought you'd come to Barrowdell to find a rich wife-"

"No, sir." Even at the risk of angering him further, Rhys had to break in. "I came to help the Duke of Clarence find a rich wife."

Mr. Symon frowned. "Explain yourself."

Rhys ran through the same basic rationale for his presence that he'd given Olivia the first time they'd met. "So you see, my purpose for being here is to get to know His Highness's intended-"

"I doubt Clarence commissioned you to get to know her in the biblical sense," Mr. Symon said dryly.