Chapter 25

Chapter

Twenty-Five

O livia rose quietly from the bed, slipping her shawl about her naked body, her toes curling on the cold floor. It was early morning and the mist was rising from the river, drifting like smoke over the lawn toward the house. She stood at the window, enjoying the view.

Nic had slept well last night, only waking once. They'd made love quickly, silently, and she could not help but wonder if he even knew who she was. At least she did until he kissed her mouth, sleepily, and said, "Sweet Olivia. Olivia Lacey." Then, with a chuckle, he'd gone back to sleep.

Now she stood, lost in thought, not hearing him come up behind her until his arms slid around her waist, making her start, and she felt his warm, naked body pressed against hers. He reached inside her shawl and cupped her breasts, fingering her nipples until they were as hard as his cock, jutting against her rounded bottom.

"I thought you were asleep," she said breathlessly, trying to turn in his arms so that she could see him .

He held her where she was, against the sill. "How can I sleep with you standing in front of the light so that I can see every beautiful curve of your body."

"I didn't realize—"

"I know you didn't. That's part of your charm, Olivia. You didn't realize, you never do. I find that kind of innocence very erotic."

His fingers stroked the under curve of her breasts, then slid down over her ribs to the gentle swell of her stomach, and farther, to the curls between her thighs. As he probed the opening, teasing the bud, he felt her legs tremble.

"Nic," she gasped.

Olivia realized she could see their reflection in the old glass, wavy and smudged about the edges. Her body looked like alabaster, the shawl a red blur, and behind it his bigger form. His hand moved, touching her, slipping his fingers inside her. Her thighs fell open and she leaned back against him, watching as he bent and began to lap at the side of her neck. Seeing what he was doing increased the pleasure, and she groaned.

He squeezed her gently, rolling the bud, pushing her to the edge. When he knew she was about to reach her peak, he withdrew his hand and, clasping her hips, eased her back so that she could bend over with her hands still gripping the sill for support.

Olivia felt vulnerable, her body open to him, and yet she was excited, too. Nic's hand rested on her lower spine, and then he eased her thighs apart, and she felt his shaft against the slick flesh between them. He held her hips firmly and began to ease himself inside her, a little at a time.

In this position he seemed able to enter her farther than before. He filled her completely. The heat of his chest seemed to scald her back, his hair abrading her, while he thrust with increasing rhythm deep into her body.

He reached around to cup her breasts, and then his fingers slid into the cleft within her curls and began to tease the sensitive bud once more. A ripple of pleasure sped through her and she lifted her head, crying out, her knuckles white as she clung to the sill. Beyond the window the mist was leaving as the sun brightened.

Nic waited until her breath had steadied and then he began to move again. Olivia realized he wasn't done. A moment later she was glad of it. Her body began to ready itself for more pleasure, and she pushed back against him, eager for Nic to have his peak, too.

He kissed her nape, licking the salt from her skin, and she felt his hips shift slightly. Before she knew it, she was crying out, unable to stop herself, as he touched some spot deep inside her. He'd done this before, she remembered, and it seemed he'd committed that particular place to memory. He didn't even hesitate as he pressed again, harder and deeper, and this time she screamed. She couldn't help it. A pleasure so violent gripped her she would have fallen if he hadn't been holding her. As her body clenched and spasmed, Nic was pushed over the edge into his own completion.

The two of them staggered back to the bed and fell upon the mattress, bodies trembling and chests heaving, and slept until the sun was high in the sky.

Estelle pressed her ear to the door but there was no sound, so she made her way down again to Abbot, waiting in the downstairs servants' parlor. He looked up at her entrance.

"They're still asleep?"

"Yes."

"Lord Lacey is a very sensual man, my dear, and it seems he has found a perfect mate in his wife. Leave them to sleep and enjoy their time together. Once we reach London, things will be different."

"You mean they will have to rise before noon?" Estelle said dryly.

"Are you bored already?" Abbot pulled her down onto his lap.

"Of course not." She settled herself comfortably, smiling up at him. "I want to see London and all the sights—the Tower and Hyde Park. Do you think we will have time to visit them, Abbot?"

Abbot pursed his lips. "Hmm, perhaps. You will have much to do, Estelle. There will be dinners and balls and visits to the opera and the theater. Now that Lord Lacey is respectably married he will want to show off his new wife to London society. "

"So you don't think he will go back to his old ways?"

Abbot tucked her head beneath his chin, wrapping his arms about her plump body. "I hope not, for Lady Lacey's sake. I think he will do his utmost to be the gentleman he was brought up to be."

"And what of the other one?" Estelle asked quietly. "The woman and the child you told me about?"

Abbot gave her a squeeze. "Shhh. That is a secret, remember. And it's none of our business."

Estelle huffed out an impatient breath, but she let him have his way. She loved him, despite his oldfashioned manners and his failure to understand the ways of the world. Or perhaps she loved him because of it.

The Lacey town house was in Mayfair, and Olivia soon found it was very different from the informality of the Monteith house in Bassingthorpe. When she complained that there were servants everywhere and the housekeeper's favorite phrase was "Lady Lacey, we have a certain way of doing things here," Nic laughed at her.

"You'll win her over," he reassured her.

The last time she'd been in London was with her parents, and although they'd visited the theater and gone shopping, their tastes and outlook were very different from that of the Laceys. Nic seemed to expect the best of everything, and his name was enough to ensure that he got it, too .

He also seemed determined to take her everywhere.

The first night they went to the ballet and drank champagne in their box, while Olivia was ogled by swells from the stalls and Nic sat possessively close. The next day they rode through Hyde Park and visited the exclusive shops along Bond Street. Then Nic took her to an establishment tucked away nearby, which he said catered to the best-dressed women in London.

Olivia found the shop small and dingy, and it was only when they were shown upstairs that her impressions changed. Here the room was decorated lavishly, with small chairs with spindly legs and brocadecovered sofas, and mirrors. A great many mirrors. The heavy golden curtain at one end of the room was lifted aside and a middle-aged woman in a plain gown, which contrasted starkly with the decor, came to greet them.

"Lord Lacey!" The proprietress seemed to know him well. Her eyes were tired, as if she never had quite enough sleep, and as they fixed on Olivia, her mouth widened into a smile that wasn't quite genuine. "Ah, you have brought me your latest companion. What is it you are looking for, my lord? Something elegant and yet revealing for your nights in Paris?"

Olivia realized then that she'd been mistaken for a demimondaine. Such an error hadn't concerned her when she attended the demimonde ball, but today it did. Today it reminded her of all the other women Nic had known in his life .

"Nic, please," she murmured, leaning close, "let us go."

"Nonsense, my love." Nic frowned. "We've only just arrived. Madam Esmeralda has made a mistake, that is all. Esmeralda, this lady is my wife, Lady Lacey."

"Your wife . . . ?" The proprietress gasped. She steadied herself with one hand against a chair back, and then made a dainty curtsy. "Lady Lacey, I do apologize."

Nic ignored the awkwardness. "Madam Esmeralda, I have brought her here to you because you are the best modiste in London."

Esmeralda gave an uncomfortable laugh. "You are too kind, my lord."

Olivia, too, was uncomfortable. She could see now that this was not the sort of dressmaker that the respectable ladies of London patronized. The gaudy furnishings, the opulent mirrors, all bespoke a certain type of clientele. Her fingers tightened on Nic's arm, trying to gain his attention, but again he pretended not to notice.

"I want my wife to shine, Esmeralda," he said, making himself comfortable on a bloodred sofa. "I want all of London to see her shine brighter than the duchesses and the countesses, and all the rest. This is important to me."

Esmeralda looked as if she'd swallowed an egg, whole. "Yes, of course, Lord Lacey," she said, but it was an effort. She began a slow walk about Olivia, inspecting her figure and her coloring, making notes in a little book that was fastened about her neck with a narrow black ribbon. Olivia knew she should walk out, that was what her mother would do, and certainly what Nic's mother would have done, but for some reason she stayed.

Perhaps it was the dark shadows under Esmeralda's eyes, or Nic's pride in her and the fact that he wanted to share it with such important people as duchesses and countesses . . .

Madam Esmeralda had finished her inspection. "Your wife is very beautiful, Lord Lacey, but hers is the beauty of the moon. If you will permit me, I will make her shine like the sun."

Nic unfolded his lean body from the sofa, smiling his pleasure at her words. "Come to my house in Mayfair when you have something to show me, Esmeralda."

"I will, my lord." She curtsied again, a little lower this time, as if to ensure the sale. "My lady."

Olivia was glad to leave, hurrying down the dim stairs and through the shop, and out into the daylight. Their carriage was waiting farther down the narrow street, a group of urchins gathered around it, hoping for a generous toff to provide them with a few coppers.

"I don't know if I want to shine like the sun," Olivia said in a chilly voice, as Nic helped her up. "And I don't like your friend Esmeralda."

He gave her a lazy smile. "Esmeralda is the best modiste in London. Why would I not take you to the best?"

Olivia reached into her reticule and took out a handful of pennies, giving one to each child, and a smile to go with it. Nic watched her indulgently, and when the ragged crew had vanished back into the streets where they'd come, he helped her into the carriage.

They turned into the busier thoroughfare, moving slowly as the traffic grew heavier. Olivia smoothed a truant lock of hair back under her bonnet, wondering if Nic was really so obtuse or if he was just pretending, and was it for his own amusement or her embarrassment?

"Obviously you've taken other women to her. Your mistresses."

His dark eyes gleamed. "Are you jealous, Olivia?"

Of course she was jealous—she was sick with jealousy! But it occurred to Olivia that it might not be wise to show him how jealous of him she had become. A man like Nic, used to his freedom, might feel suffocated by such an emotion.

"No, Nic, I am not jealous," she said at last, with an indifferent shrug, and turned away. When she glanced at him again, he was resting back in his seat, still watching her, his eyes hooded. His gloved hand rested on his injured leg, his fingers kneading it without him seeming to notice.

Olivia opened her mouth to ask him if he was in pain, and closed it again. He would be irritated with her if she showed she'd noticed his leg was hurting. She'd had a victory the night she touched him and he allowed her to soothe him to sleep, but since then he'd refused to let her repeat it .

"I don't need an angel of mercy," he'd mocked, catching her hand in his, placing it on his groin instead. He'd used her fingers to make himself hard.

Remembering it now, Olivia felt herself blush. Some of the things they did together were intensely erotic. But Nic was a man who lived by his senses, a rake who had known many women, and would never be content with a prim and proper wife. It was just as well, Olivia thought, that she wasn't one.