The Royal Rakes: Waking Up With A Rake Part 9

"I should hope not." He covered her hand with his. A tightness formed in his chest. Surprisingly, he found the notion that some other man might see her in the glorious altogether unsettling. But if he kept in mind that once he'd ruined her she'd never have to submit to that old rogue, the Duke of Clarence, it might help him ease his conscience.

"And now what?" Olivia asked, her eyes enormous in the dim light. She moved her hand down and splayed her fingers over his chest, sliding a fingertip between two b.u.t.tons to tease his skin through only his small clothes. "I suspect there is a good deal more you could teach me."

h.e.l.l's bells, yes. There was an ocean of sensual experiences he'd love to give this neophyte. In fact, if he decided he wanted to finish Mr. Alc.o.c.k's commission and mount her this very night, he knew he could do it. All he'd have to do was kiss and tease and drive her to aching fury without release and she'd be begging him to take her.

But something checked within him.

It was the same subtle warning that told him to tread lightly on the hunt to keep from frightening away his quarry. It was the p.r.i.c.kles on the back of his neck that advised him to take a different route through the backstreets of London to avoid cutthroats and thieves. It was the inner sense that he ought to hold back his company of cavalry until the opportune moment when their concentrated charge would win the day.

He'd always wondered why his sixth sense hadn't warned him at Maubeuge that the entire company was walking into a trap. He hoped that meant the real traitor wasn't someone close enough to him he ought to have sensed duplicity. But Alc.o.c.k had said he had evidence to d.a.m.n him and both his friends, so Rhys couldn't be sure Nathaniel or Jonah were guiltless.

Looking down at Olivia's freshly satisfied form, he knew he certainly wasn't. There was probably a special chamber in h.e.l.l reserved for men like him who took without even letting their victims know they'd been robbed. A bit of Olivia's innocence was gone forever, but, for the moment at least, she didn't seem to miss it.

In fact, she was all but inviting him to continue educating her, but he'd never regretted listening to the small inner voice that urged him to reconsider a course of action. And now he had a bothersome sense that he'd done all he ought and more with Olivia Symon for one night.

His body fought against the restraint like a blooded hound tugging at the leash, but he forced himself not to bound forward. If he took her tonight, his commission would be done and he could report back to Alc.o.c.k. There'd be no more chances to instruct her in wickedness. She seemed to have an apt.i.tude for it. The longer he kept her virginal, the longer he could dally with her. It was a selfish reason not to despoil her completely, but it worked.

"There are many more lessons in the art of lovemaking," he said, rising from her side and tugging down the front of his waistcoat. Unfortunately, it was the cutaway sort and did nothing to disguise his aroused state. "That is enough for you to absorb now."

"You still see this as a lesson?" She sat up, bunching the sheet over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "But I thought..." The languid, satisfied expression she'd been wearing vanished. "Never mind. Turn around so I can put my nightrail back on."

He obeyed. "Not much point, you know. I've already seen you without a st.i.tch."

"Yes, well, in that case, you've had enough to absorb, haven't you?" Her voice sounded tight and testy. She had forgotten her own injunction against raising her voice. "If you're still determined to stay the night, you'll have to sleep in a chair."

Before he could warn her against speaking too loudly, he heard the rustle of linen and knew she'd climbed back into bed. As he settled back into one of the wing chairs, he also knew he'd been thoroughly dismissed.

He listened to her soft breathing and realized there was something he didn't know-what their encounter had meant to her. He'd been so intent on avoiding her question, he'd neglected to ask any of his own.

Now the moment when he might have asked and learned was gone.

He tried to get comfortable in the chair, but it was built for someone much smaller than he. He scooted its mate close enough for him to prop up his feet, but even that didn't bring him any closer to slipping into sleep.

Once he succ.u.mbed to slumber, nightmares of Maubeuge often invaded his dreams. He usually relied upon consuming sufficient quant.i.ties of liquor to keep them at bay, but he couldn't be an efficient watchdog if he were foxed beyond thinking.

So now since he wasn't going to sleep and hadn't consumed enough alcohol to obscure his brain, his long dormant conscience reared its pointed little head. He didn't regret goading Olivia into removing her clothing and discovering her own loveliness. She was beautiful and it was high time someone convinced her of it.

And he didn't regret giving her the first s.e.xual peak of her life. The way her brows had drawn together in need, the way her lips parted in a rictus of pleasurable agony, the way she glowed like a thousand candles when she came...no, he couldn't regret revealing that part of her to herself. And he rather liked the fact that he'd be indelibly linked in her mind with her first climax.

But he did regret that he'd touched her with an ulterior motive, with the threats and promises of Fortesque Alc.o.c.k urging him on like a dark angel on his shoulder.

She wanted it to mean something. What it meant was Rhys Warrington was worse than a dog.

Chapter 12.

"Mademoiselle," Babette's cheery voice roused Olivia from a sound sleep. "Are you well, cherie? If you do not make to rise soon, you will be missing the breakfast."

Babette drew back the heavy damask curtains to allow long shafts of sunlight to stream into the room.

Olivia pulled up the sheets over her head to shield her eyes. She didn't want to move. The linens were that perfect drowsy temperature they always a.s.sumed just before she had to leave them. She had sunken into the feather tick so deeply it curved around her in a warm embrace. And to make her bed even more enticing, her whole body still basked in an afterglow of the pleasure Rhys Warrington had introduced her to last- Heart suddenly pounding, Olivia sat bolt upright in bed. There was no sign of Lord Rhys. Relief washed over her. He'd even reset the wing chairs over the indented spots on the carpet so no one would ever guess he'd pa.s.sed the night in one of them. She suspected that awkward arrangement meant he didn't get much sleep. She, on the other hand, had slept so soundly, she'd not been aware of when he slipped out of her chamber and back to his own.

She supposed she ought to thank him for that. Clearly there was something about sensual release that allowed a body to sink into slumber so deep, it was near oblivion. And he'd guarded her reputation by taking care not be caught there. He'd been more careful than she.

Of the two of them, she'd been the wanton one. He'd remained fully clothed while she stripped bare as a peeled twig. She'd allowed him to look at her, touch her, all of her, for pity's sake! She'd let him take her to some dark, unfathomable place, a place that she never suspected existed inside her, and made her burst into glorious light.

How on earth had she outdone an admitted rake for scandalous behavior?

"And what shall mademoiselle wear this fine day?" Babette singsonged.

"I have my choice between black, black, or black," Olivia said. "I'm sad about Princess Charlotte and her son, of course, and the proprieties must be observed, but I'm mortally sick of nothing but black to wear. Some women look pale and interesting in mourning. Miss Pinkerton, for example, positively blooms in it."

"Oui, it is often the case with such dark hair and eyes," Babette said. "An exotic air, that one, and only more mysterious when she is draped in black."

Olivia would never be cla.s.sed as mysterious. Her mourning clothes washed her complexion of all color and made her look as if she'd taken too many of her mother's liver pills.

She shook her head to clear away these unaccustomed thoughts. Since when did she care so much how she looked?

"But mademoiselle does not have to choose black this day," Babette said. "Only this morning, word has come from London that the mourning for your poor princess, it is lifted. Alors, you may choose whatever your heart desires."

"Whatever my heart desires..." Rhys Warrington's handsome face rose unbidden in her mind. He'd certainly introduced her to some new and bewildering desires. She glanced guiltily at the looking gla.s.s. Had she truly stood there, bare as an egg before it, while Rhys Warrington played his wicked games with her body?

The whole episode was tinged with a fuzzy echo of unreality. It smacked of the same ephemeral mistiness that dreams take on in the cold light of day. Surely it didn't actually happen.

The disconcerting flutter in her belly confirmed that it actually had.

"Mademoiselle, does something vex you?"

Not something. Someone.

Everyone should have a safe inviolate place within themselves where their secret self dwells. Someplace to think outrageous thoughts without censure, to imagine things as one wished them to be without worrying about how things might turn out if they actually happened. Olivia used to have just such solitary place tucked away in her mind, but now that private enclave seemed to have a permanent resident besides her own vibrant imagination.

Rhys Warrington had insinuated himself into her secret life so deeply she doubted she'd ever be free of him.

"Mademoiselle Olivia."

She startled and looked back at her maid. Babette was still waiting for her orders about a gown.

"The honey-gold wool, I think," she said. "And lay out the green pelisse. I'll go to the stables to see how Molly fares after I break my fast."

"Alas, that will not be possible." Babette's rosebud mouth tightened into a brief moue of apology. "Your mother, she craves a word with you, tout de suite. She waits for you in her apartments."

Mrs. Symon's suite of rooms sprawled over the entire third floor of the north wing. In addition to a sumptuous boudoir that would probably put Princess Charlotte's to shame, Beatrice Symon possessed a private bath with a large copper tub. A lumber room held all her trunks packed full to bursting with out-of-season clothing, hats, shoes, parasols, fans, and a.s.sorted frippery. There was also an elegant salon where Olivia's mother frequently held court with her "intimate friends." To be invited to Beatrice Symon's apartments meant glittering entertainment for a chosen few, patronage for an artist or poet, and a healthy commission for a modiste or milliner.

For Olivia, it usually meant a tongue-lashing.

"Don't slouch so," her mother advised. "How shall Jean-Pierre fit you properly all slumped over like that?"

This time the tongue-lashing was accompanied by fittings with the French designer her mother had taken under her wing as soon as he landed on English soil. Jean-Pierre du Barry was an acknowledged genius in all things haute couture. In order to ensure his designs were available exclusively to the women of the Symon household, Jean-Pierre was in permanent residence at Barrowdell Manor with a half-dozen seamstresses at his command to bring his creations to life. In the Symon's London townhouse, he had his own studio s.p.a.ce, drawing and designing and ordering huge quant.i.ties of silks and lace to his heart's content.

Like all Beatrice Symon's fashion choices, this one was spot-on. Jean-Pierre du Barry was a terror with silk moire. He produced miracles with a bit of lace, a little judicious ruching, and the occasional flounce. He was an engaging gossip, always knowledgeable about what transpired in every great house on both sides of the Channel. He also quietly rejoiced in his notorious lineage, claiming to be the grandson of the French king's favorite mistress.

"Your mother is right, Miss Symon," Jean-Pierre said, p.r.o.nouncing her name as if it were "see-moan." His speech was only slightly garbled due to the handful of pins bristling from between his lips. "You spoil the line of the gown when you hunch your shoulders so."

"But the neckline is cut so low," she protested. Her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s rose like half-moons from the froth of scarlet lace that scarcely concealed her pink nipples.

"And that is why the gown has boning built into it. No need for stays, no need for a chemise. It is all-in-one," he said, removing the pins and securing a bit of extra fabric into another dart. "The fitting, it is oh-so-important. The gown should feel like a second skin. No one but you can wear it. And I doubt I need to warn you, ma'm'selle, but you must take care not to gain or lose any weight between now and the night of the ball," Jean-Pierre went on. "I cannot be held responsible for the consequences if you do."

"Ball? What ball?"

"Next month, when your father returns from London, we'll have a ball here at Barrowdell. Jean-Pierre has agreed to help me with the preparations," Mrs. Symon said, then turned her attention back to the designer. "Nothing too extravagant, now. Not more than one hundred people, you know. I want everything to be very high-in-the-instep. Very exclusive. It will be the event of the year. Of the decade, no, the century, I warrant."

Even given her mother's natural effusiveness, this seemed an excessive prediction, but Olivia knew better than to voice that opinion.

"After all," her mother said, waving her hand loftily, "how often does a royal duke announce his engagement?"

"The Duke of Clarence is coming here?" Olivia said.

"Why else would we be having a ball?"

"But...the agreement hasn't been formalized yet," she said, panic roiling her belly. "Has it?"

"No, not yet, but don't fret, darling. Your father's letters are very encouraging. And Lord Rhys is here to make sure all is well on this end. I'm sure the dear boy will send in glowing reports about you." Her artfully plucked brows drew together in a frown. "I do hope he neglects to mention your unfortunate equestrian accident, but one really can't blame him if he decides to take credit for saving the life of the future Queen of England."

Her mother clapped a hand over her mouth for a moment. Then she sighed and a satisfied smile spread over her features, turning up even the corners of her eyes in happiness.

"There. I actually said it. My little girl...the future queen!"

"Mother, that's not at all certain. Even if I wed the Duke of Clarence"-which seemed a more distasteful prospect each time she thought about it-"it does not signify that he will ascend to the throne. There's the small matter that his father still lives and his older brother..."

"The king's health is failing-G.o.d bless His Majesty, I'm sure-and as for the Prince Regent, he'll never get another legitimate heir. Clarence is next in line and his issue will a.s.suredly wear the crown! Oh, that I may live long enough to see it."

Olivia sighed. "Mother, you might be a veritable Methuselah and never see that."

"Hush, child." She put two fingers to Olivia's lips. "Don't say such things. Don't even think them. Do you want to tempt the devil? The crown is ours-I mean, yours-to lose."

"She will never lose the chance for a crown in this gown." Jean-Pierre finished turning and pinning the hem and rose to his feet. Then he floated across the room in his gliding stride and returned, carrying a long mirror. "Voil! I give you a royal d.u.c.h.ess if ever there was one."

He held the looking gla.s.s up with a flourish before Olivia, inviting her to admire his handiwork. She stared at her reflection.

The gown played to her greatest strengths, emphasizing her slender lines, while subtly enhancing her meager curves. Even though Olivia had been accustomed to fine fabrics and embellishments since she was in leading strings, the lace and subtly inset jewel adornments on this gown were far more intricate and elegant than anything she'd ever worn before.

It was a gown fit for a princess.

Amazingly enough, she did credit to it. The warm red color made her exposed skin glow like alabaster. The design of the gown swept the eye upward and focused all attention on her face where her eyes, which were often a non-descript hazel, had taken on a decidedly moss green tint.

The girl in the mirror stared back at her, calm and regal. This reflection was so different from the one Rhys Warrington had shown her. Stripped bare, she'd been a sensual creature, pa.s.sionate and adventurous.

The cool-eyed princess who looked back at her now was another being altogether. The young woman in this mirror would never let another see her secret soul, never bare her deepest longings in a wanton display.

Which one was the real Olivia?

Her mother expected her to be the elegant, unruffled young woman she seemed now, the one with a level head on her shoulders fit for a crown. The Duke of Clarence expected her to be his private bank and producer of royal children. And Rhys...

She didn't know what he expected. He said he'd come to her chamber in order to protect her, and yet their time together quickly degenerated into a lesson in lasciviousness. Her cheeks heated.

She was still a virgin, through no fault of her own. Rhys was the one who stopped matters. He'd had the opportunity to dally with her last night, and yet he'd halted the lesson before any lasting harm was done.

If the whole interlude was a test of character, she'd failed miserably. Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes, but she blinked them back.

"Oh, my dear, it's all right," her mother said, hugging her and laying a cool cheek alongside Olivia's hot one. "I'm so very happy too."

Chapter 13.

Rhys cut the apple into neat sections with his pocketknife. Holding his palm flat beneath Molly's soft lips, he offered small wedges of it to the mare. She whickered her appreciation between bites and moved as close to Rhys as the suspended sling allowed. He patted her s.h.a.ggy neck, heavy with her winter coat, and inhaled the homely smells of warm horseflesh and fresh straw.

Time spent with a horse was never time wasted. Rhys always found the quiet companionship gave a man a chance to think, and he had more than enough to think about. Who had tampered with Olivia's saddle? What sort of evidence did Alc.o.c.k really have that might exonerate him for the disaster at Maubeuge? And how in h.e.l.l had Olivia dropped off to sleep so quickly last night when he was up for hours willing his body to settle?

All these things and more tumbled in his head as he spoke softly to Molly and ran a currycomb over her s.h.a.ggy coat. There was another reason for his trip to the stable besides having a solitary think.

He knew if he waited there long enough, Olivia would come to see to the welfare of her mare. Since she had avoided him by not coming down to breakfast, this was the best way to be sure he'd encounter her on the rambling Symon estate.

She'd looked so delectable when the first rays of sunlight filtered through the slit in her curtains. Her mouth softly parted in the relaxation of sleep, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s rising and falling beneath the linens; it was all he could do not to climb under the sheets and wake her properly. Instead he'd slipped out of the chamber before the household roused and Olivia's maid had a chance to catch him there.

Some rake I am, he thought ruefully.

While he waited for Olivia to come out to the stable, Mr. Thatcher came in to muck out the stalls and lay fresh straw for bedding.

"'Morning, your lordship," he said. "D'ye want me to saddle your mount?"

"No, thank you. I'm only here to check on Molly's progress."

"Aren't ye the kind one? She'll be off her front hooves for another couple weeks, but the old girl isn't off her feed," Mr. Thatcher said with a satisfied chuckle. "I take that as a sign that she'll mend, though I doubt she'll ever be sound enough to jump again."

Rhys ran a hand down her foreleg to examine the injured fetlock, glad he hadn't put her down in the ravine. The little mare seemed a sweet sort. "I daresay your employer is wealthy enough, he could afford to keep a horse as a pet, a sort of glorified dog, even if it wasn't sound enough to be ridden."