True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 22

  "Why not?" he demanded, chin thrust forward. "You said plenty to me tonight, but you can't call me by my name?"

  "I said things I shouldn't. And no one is without fault."

  He raised his eyebrows and swayed back on his heels. "Is that an apology, Olivia?"

  "I leapt to conclusions about why you wanted me gone tonight. I am sorry for that."

  Slowly he nodded. "And I'm sorry I sent you off to spend an evening with my son. I should have known he'd charm the drawers off you."

  She sputtered, "He did no such thing."

  "Plied you with strong drink. Put ideas in your head. Sent you back her to rail at me and threaten me with a hot poker—"

  "He did nothing of the sort." She felt the anger leaving her, pushed out by the waves of warm gladness.

  True looked at the mantle again. "What's this?" He tipped his head toward the small, unframed painting.

  "Can't you tell, sir, with your infamous talents of perception?" Taking it from the mantle she looked at it for a moment and then handed it to him. "Tell me what you think it is, if you're so clever." She would test him, she thought. Let him show off and impress her if he could.

  He held it in both hands, considering the painting solemnly. "It's an amateur work, by someone with a heavy hand and not much artistic skill, although he thinks he has plenty. A picture of a childhood home, drawn by an impatient man who had no appreciation for its real beauty. "

  "You're so sure the artist was a man?"

  "Yes." He handed it back to her. "His name is Christopher."

  "How...how do you know?"

  With a sudden laugh he pointed to the back of the picture, where the black initials C.C. had been daubed in one corner. "You told me your stepbrother’s name so it was not hard to put the pieces together. See." He tapped his brow. "It's all up here. Not magic."

  Chagrinned, she ran a finger over the letters and then said, "But how did you know all the rest of it? The childhood home, for instance?"

  "Because there is a child's swing hanging from the branch of the tree and you already told me your stepbrother is not married, so he has no children yet. It was a calculated guess that this is the house in which he—or you— grew up. But he does not look at the house with fondness. He has covered the walls in a messy proliferation of color, blobs of paint with no definition, no pattern, no care. Here, you see, the color of the leaves where there are any suggests late autumn. So how could there truly be so many bright and blossoming flowers growing up the walls of the house? They were not there, but he thought flowers would make the picture prettier. He did not see how the old stone of the walls, the crooked, chipped shutters at the windows and the winding path have a beauty of their own, without the unnecessary embellishment of a fictional overabundance of flowers."

  "And his impatience?"

  "Look at the strokes of paint. No time was taken with detail. I suspect he grew tired of the project when it did not come along the way he wanted, so he finished it in haste. Probably would have thrown it away in a fit of temper."

  "Yes." Amazed she looked at him. "Yes, he did. I saved it from being burned in the fire." Slowly she set the picture back on the mantle. "I suppose now I must agree and say you are very clever. Very perceptive."

  Deverell was quiet, just watching her.

  "I had better sleep," she muttered.

  "You stayed out late tonight."

  "You told me to."

  He looked down at the fancy carpet. "I also told Storm he ought to marry you."

  Olivia gave in to a half yawn, half chuckle, and shook her head.

  He looked up again, his eyes suddenly uncertain. Boyish.

  She walked around him, away from the temptation she felt to touch his face. To kiss him on the lips.

  "Mr. Deverell, as you know, I was married three times before. While it was mostly pleasant, the experience did not impress me with a great sense of urgency to do it a fourth time. I did not come here to get another husband." The idea of another man dead because of her was unthinkable.

  "You don't like my son?"

  "I like Mr. Storm Deverell very much. He is amusing, easy company. But I am not going to marry him, and I doubt very much he would want me to."

  "He needs a wife. It's time he—"

  "Your son is enjoying his life just the way it is for now. And I can't say I blame him. He is happy and free to do just as he pleases."

  "He's twenty eight!"

  "Forgive me, sir, for being blunt, but when you were that age you didn't even want the wife you had." She paused, wrapping one arm around the nearest bed post, trying to appear less intoxicated than she felt. Trying to push away her desires. Something about his rumpled attire was shockingly alluring. But then he was equally handsome when he dressed neatly— as he did on the night of the harvest dance. And when he wore nothing at all.

  She's doing it again. Someone ought to stop her.

  Her palms were damp with sweat, but her mouth was dry.

  He finally spoke again. "I suppose you're right. I shouldn't meddle in romance since I know nothing about it."

  "Precisely. Stick to cards and dice."

  For another long moment they stared, gazes locked across the short distance.

  Olivia leaned her back against the bed post for the room had begun to reel. "Now, if we might be done with the subject, I think I'll go to my bed. Good night, sir."

  He hovered there. "You're staying then. With me."

  "Is that another one of your commands?"

  Deverell walked up to her, put his hands on her waist, tugged her away from the bed post and kissed her.

  She was on fire, could hear the flames crackling through her body, catching on the tips of her hair. His hands slid upward to her back and held her close, forcing her against his torso, crushing her in his strength. She didn't want it to end, to go back to standing on her own feet. But she must.

  When he released her she wilted against the carved bed post.

  "Yes," he said. "I command you. I came up here to tell you that. I decorated this room to make you stay. So tomorrow you will write to your stepbrother and tell him you expect to stay longer. I don't care what reason you give him. But you will stay."

  "I'm not your slave. I'll never be—"

  "One of my money-blinded minions?"

  She nodded.

  "But you are here for the money."

  "That is why I came, sir, but it's not entirely the reason why I've stayed," she confessed reluctantly.

  "And that is what makes it 'complicated'? Because you daren't admit you enjoy the company of a man like me? That you want to be with me."

  "I'm not afraid of you."

  He looked puzzled, leaned closer again and touched her lower lip with his finger. "That's not what I said, Olivia."

  Oh, she knew what he'd said, but she was not that intoxicated. She still had some wits about her and was regaining still more as the minutes passed. The tip of his finger ran slowly, painstakingly over her lips, down over her chin and followed the curve of her arching neck...down to the first button of her gown. "You showed me your fire tonight, Olivia. One evening you should let me show you mine. If you truly are fearless, as you claim."

  He had slipped the button free, leaving a little patch of skin just below the indent at the base of her throat. She was breathing hard, suddenly powerless to move.

  Until she closed her eyelids when his mouth touched her flesh.

  His warm lips caressed her flesh, and then a little of his unshaven cheek scraped over it as he pressed in closer, nuzzling the side of her neck, breathing her in. "You say you don't want another husband. So perhaps you need a lover this time. Is that why you came to me? You planned to seduce me."

  She shivered, clutched at the carved wood behind her. His hands reached around and covered hers, holding them to the bed post.

  "No, sir," she groaned.

  "Call me True," he whispered in her ear, his tongue flicking out to dampen her earlobe, toying with the dangling pe
arl.

  "I...no...I can't."

  His grip tightened on her hands so she could not get free. Even if she wanted to.

  Meanwhile his greedy mouth traveled back to the buttons down the bodice of her gown and began to ease them open, one by one. She knew he would hear and feel how hard her heart was beating. A strange sort of elation had flooded her body and a little voice, smoky and rich, whispered in her head, Now he notices you. Now he looks twice at Olivia Westcott.

  He would never step over her again.

  He soon had four buttons undone, showing supreme mastery of his tongue and lips. Now a partial vee of skin was exposed, including the upper swell of both breasts and the valley between.

  "Call me True," he repeated tersely.

  "No."

  He kissed the lace edge of her chemise and slid his tongue between the curves of her bosom where they rose up over the corset. Her skin reacted with goose bumps, which only heightened the effect when he licked across it again.

  "Call me True."

  "So much for your attempt at being a gentleman," she managed. "At behaving yourself."

  "Call me True and then I'll be good. I'll be very...very... good."

  He caught a little skin between his teeth and sucked gently. Olivia pressed her thighs together, swallowing a moan of sheer need. He sucked harder. Enough to drive a startled whimper out of her mouth. "I don't believe you."

  "That's not nice, Olivia. I've always been honest with you. Always been straightforward."

  His tongue swept down, determinedly pushing the wet lace chemise aside, sliding further under her corset.

  Catching her breath on a gasp, she closed her eyes. "Very well then...True. Tell me why you're doing this. What do you want from me?"

  A soft chuckle blew against her neck. "I want you to come to bed with me, Olivia."

  Her heart could not find a rhythm. She kept her eyes closed. "And... then what?"

  "I don't know. What would you like? Some jewelry? Some new gowns. Definitely some new walking boots."

  Olivia let her eyes drift open as he kissed her chin. "Your son said you've never lived this long with the same woman under your roof. That you always get bored and look for the next new, pretty thing."

  He lifted his lips from her skin. "Why should a man stagnate? Why should a woman? Change is the essence of life."

  Now she met his gaze steadily, despite her intemperate state. Perhaps the drink was wearing off. Or else it made her see everything with stark clarity. She was bold, ready to challenge this frustrating man who thought he could not love. "In my opinion, sir, you fear getting old, so you keep moving in the hope of preventing time from catching up with you."

  He stared, eyes full of hot sparks.

  "But you're going to die one day, just like everyone else," she added. "It's a certainty."

  "Well, aren't you a cheerful one. I suppose you know all about that with your record of dead husbands."

  "Yes, I have been unlucky. But at least I tried to find love. In the short time we have to live, the greatest gift we can give or receive is love."

  He lowered his lips to hers, but they barely touched— just the slightest caress as he spoke. "Even better than a priceless pair of diamond earrings that once belonged to Marie Antoinette, while she still had her head attached? They can be yours, if you want them."

  "What on earth would I want with diamond earrings?"

  "I'll fetch them from my vault in London."

  "Don't be foolish. I don't want diamonds!"

  His tongue swept over her cheek. "Then what? I can give you anything, Olivia."

  "Not what I want." She shivered and knew he would feel it, would know what he did to her. With her breasts pushed against his chest as he pinned her to the bed post, she was helpless, a sacrificial offering left there by the villagers to appease their pagan beast of a god.

  "Tell me what you want," he whispered.

  So he could mock her? "You know very well. And it is not in your power to give it to me, because it's something that cannot be bought. Not with all your rotten gains."

  "That's the wine talking." He kissed his way back down the side of her neck. "No sober woman would turn down my offer."

  "If I were sober, True Deverell, I wouldn't let you do this. I wouldn't be this weak!"

  "Good god, woman, I don't believe it's in your nature to be weak, even when my son has tried to pickle you in his wine. If anything, it's brought out the fiery taste of you. The real Olivia."

  He kissed her again, deeply, tongue plunging into her mouth. She felt her toes lifting off the plush carpet, his hard body pressed to hers, his fingers holding her wrists in that firm man-made cuff behind the bed post. Finally his lips released her. His eyes had turned smoky and she felt a fine mist of his heat dampening her body, under her gown.

  Now was the moment to stop him.

  Instead, she said nothing as he bent his head and kissed the little bit of lace chemisette over the peaked nipple he had so slyly teased out of hiding.

  * * * *

  "No sense of urgency to marry again, eh?" he murmured against her warm, soft, perfumed skin. "Must not have been so very pleasant after all, marriage with your kindly parson. Or the other two."

  He felt her trembling as the tip of his tongue found the taut pink bud beneath her lace undergarments. "I won't discuss them with you," she ground out between apparently clenched teeth.

  Her words ended on a hiccup and another gasp, as he drew her nipple between his lips.

  True was close to the point when he knew he would not be able to pull away. His body was afire with need for this woman, but to take her now would not be fair. He wanted her eyes open and clear, he wanted her fully aware of each sensation he could give her, not partially numbed by that potion Storm optimistically called "wine".

  So he backed away, slowly, reluctantly releasing her wrists. It took him every inch of self-control. Self-control he didn't know he had until then. Certainly it was something he'd never used to deny himself whatever he wanted.

  The supposedly innocent target of his desire remained standing against the carved post, hands behind her back, eyes drowsy, cheeks washed with a faint blush. The sort of delicate tint he'd seen on antique china roses. His truculent secretary was temptingly beautiful and very evidently aroused tonight. That brown nipple he had teased, poked through the lace, eager and erect. Wanting more.

  As he was himself.

  Her gaze tracked downward to the very evident sign of his arousal. Her lips parted and he felt another raw surge of need pulse through his veins. Every muscle and tendon was tense, coiled to spring. "Come to bed with me," he said, his voice low, charged with desire. "Not tonight. But soon."

  She did not reply, but licked her lips. He could hear her quickened breaths, his body attuned to every nerve and pulse within hers.

  He had better leave that room now, while he still could. Slowly he walked backward, away from her. "Good evening then, Olivia. I will leave you to ponder my offer."

  "An old pair of diamond earrings? You can have my answer now. No thank you."

  Ah, there she was, regaining her senses. He smiled. Trust her to speak so disdainfully of the most beautiful jewelry that had ever been made. The finest pieces in his priceless collection. "You know all that I could give you, Olivia."

  "And I know the limits of what you would give me."

  He paused, one hand on the door. "Yes."

  Her lower lip vanished beneath the upper. She nodded her head, still leaning against the carved Tudor-bedpost, making no move to close the buttons he'd chewed open.

  With a deep breath inhaled, he walked out and closed her door behind him. Only then did he feel his blood calm.

  It was no good. Tonight had proved he could not let her leave. He could not give her to his son either. Somehow he must come up with a way to make her stay. To keep her.

  He'd even let her talk him into writing to his daughter and making a damned apology of sorts. Madness.

  Abs
olute madness. But he felt like a young man again inside, where something else new was opening its shell and shaking itself, like a damp freshly hatched chick.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  True poured her a cup of coffee. When he set it down on the desk before her, the slight chink caused Olivia to wince, one hand pressed to her brow. In the dreary winter's morning light through his window her face was the color of sour milk. No amount of pinching could put pink back in those cheeks, he mused.

  "I shall have words with my son for giving you so much of that dreadful stuff he makes out of left over peapods and gooseberries. It ought to be a registered poison."

  She groaned, wincing again. "Oh, it was not your son's fault." Her voice broke on a hoarse note. "I was perfectly aware of what I did last night. I take full responsibility of my own actions. No one and nothing else is to blame."

  Once again she proved herself so unlike most women he'd known. It shouldn't really surprise him anymore.

  "I won't even blame the wine," she added. "I'm afraid it was all me. Well, mostly me. The wine simply... assisted my tongue in its...unraveling."

  Lowering to his own chair on the other side of the desk, True laughed gently. "That's remarkably honest for a woman, Olivia. One might even say, dangerously honest."

  "Is it?" She took a careful sip of coffee. "Perhaps I'm still suffering the effects then."

  "Perhaps." His fingers felt even more restless today, so he knitted them together and set his hands on the blotter, assuming his most business-like pose. Although it was damned difficult to be solemn when he was around this woman. "You do recall the conversation we had?"

  "Yes. The earrings." Another sip of coffee. He sincerely hoped she remembered more than earrings, but before he could say anything, she continued, "I must turn down the offer, sir. I cannot think when I would have the occasion to wear something so costly and luxurious."

  He frowned. "With me, of course."

  "With you?" Her cup rattled against her saucer as she set it down again.

  "I believe you know full well what I offered you and it went beyond earrings."

  "Yes, sir. I know." Her expression was earnest, but she hid her hands from him, setting them in her lap out of sight. "And I am cognizant of the honor. But you would be even more costly than the earrings."