The air left Maria’s lungs. Did he mean it? She was never sure with Oliver; he tended to say things just to shock her. Yesterday he’d succeeded, but she was rapidly coming to realize that it was his way of holding people off, keeping them from rejecting him first. If he swaggered about, proclaiming himself a devil before others could say it, then in his eyes he had won.
It was much the same way Papa had acted about his bastardy. He had never kept it a secret—he’d offered his pedigree to anyone who asked, as if daring them to look down on him for it. How odd that the two men were alike in that.
The difference was that Papa was always belligerent in his assertions, while Oliver delivered them in a coolly bored manner.
Except for now. He looked surprised by his words. Then his gaze steadied and started to smolder, igniting a heat within her, and she was suddenly aware of how very alone they were.
“Ah, but since I am deplorably virginal,” she said, striving to keep her tone as casual as his, “the point is moot.”
“Let’s say you weren’t,” he persisted, his voice a rough rasp. “Just for conjecture’s sake. You could stay here under my protection until we tired of each other, and then return to America. No one need know how you’d spent your time in England. Hypothetically speaking, of course.”
Something stirred low in her belly at the idea that he might seriously be making her an indecent proposition. No man had ever done that to her, especially one so sinfully attractive. How did he manage to make something insulting sound so flattering?
Careful, Maria, she cautioned herself. He came by his reputation honestly. “Hypothetically speaking, you’ve known me only a day—surely you need longer than that to choose a mistress.”
“I wanted you the first time I saw you.”
His look held such primitive hunger that she knew there was nothing hypothetical about this discussion.
Fighting to hide how badly his words had thrown her off guard, she quipped, “And what would I be . . . fifteenth in your long line of mistresses?”
His breathing seemed as unsteady as hers. “The first, actually.” The low rumble of his voice resonated in every nerve. “I’ve never had a mistress.”
She choked out a laugh. “As if I would believe that.”
“It’s true. I’ve always preferred less permanent connections with women.”
That shouldn’t surprise her, but it did. “Am I also supposed to believe that you’d alter that preference for me? Hypothetically, that is.”
The carriage felt too small to contain them both. He didn’t move from the seat opposite her, yet his very presence overpowered her. “Why not? People change.” His gaze darkened to a fathomless black as it scanned her face. “I would treat you very well. You’d want for nothing, I swear.”
She arched one eyebrow. “Except respectability.”
“To hell with respectability,” he ground out.
“That’s easy for you to say. You lose nothing. I, on the other hand, would lose everything.”
He looked ready to devour her whole. She shifted nervously on the seat.
“I’d make sure you were cared for,” he said, his voice ragged and deep. “That you had a roof over your head. After Gran gives up her mad scheme, she’ll return to supporting my siblings and I can live on my income. We wouldn’t need much—a cottage in Chelsea. You could use as little of your inheritance as you wanted once you came into it. At least you wouldn’t be bound to a bastard like Hyatt, who didn’t even have the courtesy to send a letter to you when he changed his address.”
That stung. “Perhaps he couldn’t,” she said, voicing the worst of her fears.
“He took his leave of London Maritime in person, according to Freddy. Freddy also told me that Hyatt’s rent at the lodging house was paid up. That doesn’t sound like a man who went missing after meeting with foul play.”
Curse Freddy for his loose tongue. No telling what other secrets he’d revealed while Oliver had been shuffling him off to a club.
“You don’t know Nathan. He wouldn’t . . . he couldn’t . . .”
“Abandon you without a word? Apparently he could, and did.”
His blunt words drove a stake through her heart. “I’ll have you know, Oliver, that I don’t need him or you. If he really is running away from marrying me, I’ll inherit Papa’s money and I can do as I please with it.”
“Once you get it. But until Hyatt shows up or can be declared dead, you’ll be in a sad state financially. It could take years to have your estate untangled.”
“I-I’m sure Papa made provisions for that.”
“Yes—like the one he made for buying you a husband.”
“He didn’t buy me a husband!” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He didn’t.”
The hurt in her voice seemed to spark something desperate in Oliver. He leaned forward, his eyes lit with an unholy fervor. “Even if he had made provisions and you got the money soon enough to beat the wolf from the door, what would it give you, except a life as a chaste and respectable spinster?”
“I could marry,” she protested.
“And you’d never know if the men courting you wanted you for yourself or your money.”
“That’s no worse than being wanted for my body alone.”
“It’s not just your body that I—” He broke off, clearly agitated by what he’d almost revealed. “You can’t imagine what it’s like to have a passionless marriage. My parents had one. The only emotion in their marriage was resentment. Between arguments, they barely breathed the same air.”
Slowly he peeled her gloves from her hands, his gaze immobilizing her. “And now I’m watching you head blithely for a marriage to some fellow who will set you up on a shelf with his other possessions, and take you down only when he has a use for you.” Tossing her gloves onto the seat, he took her hands in his, kneading the backs with his thumbs. “If you even see him again.”
The words struck at the very heart of her fears about Nathan—that he desired her only because of how she could serve his ambition. She didn’t want to hear it. She didn’t want Oliver so close, reminding her that he alone made her heart race and her blood rise, when Nathan should be the one to do so. She didn’t want him touching her, making her want things, making her yearn.
Jerking her hands from his, she slid over to the window to look out. “How far is this dress shop, anyway?” she choked out.
Oliver reached past her to yank the curtains closed, then moved to sit beside her. She stiffened, but didn’t resist as he looped one arm about her waist to pull her back against his hard body.
“You don’t even know what you’re giving up,” he rasped, “what it’s like to shatter beneath a man’s touch. If you knew, you wouldn’t be so eager to throw that away for the cold comfort of a respectable marriage.”
She closed her eyes against his words, but they were designed to tempt her, and tempt her they did. Last night had only roused her curiosity. Now, with the spicy scent of his cologne in her nostrils and his breath warming her cheek, she wanted to know more, feel more.
His voice lowered to a whisper. “Let me at least show you what you’d be missing.”
She felt rather than saw him shrug off his cloak, leaving him in his shirtsleeves. That sent a wayward thrill down her spine.
“Have you forgotten that I’m deplorably a virgin?” she said, attempting to regain control over the situation.
“No. And you’ll still be one when I’m done.” He pressed his lips against the bit of neck below her bonnet, making her shiver deliciously. Then he untied her bonnet and tossed it onto the opposite seat so he could press a kiss into her hair. “I only want to give you a taste of passion, sweetheart. Enough for you to see what it could be like between us.”
“Oliver . . .” she protested, turning toward him.
That proved a mistake, for he caught her head in his hands and kissed her. Boldly. Deeply.
And she couldn’t even bring herself to stop him. Mercy, how fiercely he kissed! He scarcely allowed her breath as his mouth plundered hers over and over, startling her pulse into a wild gallop. She curled her fingers into his shirt, not sure whether she was trying to hold him closer or push him away.
It didn’t matter. He had full command of her, and he knew it. His large hands held her still as his tongue tangled with hers, and his thumbs slid down to caress her throat with a tenderness at odds with the wild abandon of his kisses.
He reached back to close the other curtain, then tugged her onto his lap.
She tore her mouth free. “Oliver, you really shouldn’t—”
“Shh,” he murmured against her lips, then dragged his mouth along her jaw, kissing a path down to her neck. “Let me do this. I swear I won’t hurt you.”
Maybe not physically, but he had the capacity to hurt her far worse in other ways. Before she’d known the horrible scandal plaguing his family, she could dismiss him as a scoundrel. But now she saw the angry boy inside the man, railing at the world for taking his parents from him, daring people to gossip about him.
It broke her heart. It made her ache for him as she hadn’t ached before. And that was dangerous with a man who knew women only as vessels for his desire.
Yet even as he untied the ribbons of her redingote, she didn’t stop him. He did it with a reverence she wouldn’t have expected, his breath sweetly unsteady and his eyes haunted.
“It’s not as if I’m entirely ignorant of . . . what happens between a man and a woman,” she whispered to cover her embarrassment. “I do know a few things.”
“Do you?” he said as he finished unfastening her redingote. His features sharpened. “Things that Hyatt taught you?”
“No.” She spoke the word so quickly that Oliver’s eyes locked with hers, a curious triumph shining in them. “My aunt . . . told me a bit.”
“Ah.” Flashing her a faint smile, he pushed her redingote off her shoulders, then dispensed with the pelerine, baring her low-cut gown to his dark gaze. “And what did she tell you?”
“She told me that . . .” She trailed off as he bent his head to press a kiss to the upper swell of one breast. Her heart seemed to leap beneath his mouth, beating more furiously with every caress of his lips. “She said . . . men would want to . . . touch me in . . . places they shouldn’t.”
“Like this?” Raising his hand, he covered one of her breasts.
Great heavens. A blush heated her cheeks as he kneaded her breast, slowly, sensually. When he thumbed the nipple through her gown, she thought she might die if he stopped.
“Yes,” she breathed. “L-Like that.” She shouldn’t be letting him do this. But she yearned to know the things he meant to teach her. Besides, he’d promised not to take her innocence, and she trusted him. How odd was that?
His mouth moved lower now, down the slope of her other breast. “Did she tell you that a man might want to do more than touch?” he asked in a husky voice. He dragged down her bodice, then her corset cups.
She caught her breath as he untied her chemise.
“That he might want to do this?” he growled as he bared her breast. Then his mouth was covering her nipple, sucking it, teasing it.
Pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through her. Anything that felt this good had to be naughty. Yet when she closed her hands in his thick black hair to pull him away, she found herself holding him there instead, so his tongue could lick and flick over her nipple, and his teeth could tug at it in a most astonishing fashion.
No wonder women were always falling at rakehells’ feet. Heavens alive, his mouth was teasing her in ways she’d never even dreamed of.
“Oliver, are you sure you should be—”
“Do you like it?” he murmured against her breast.
“It’s . . . oh, mercy . . .”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He laid her back in his arms until she was sprawled shamelessly across his lap, her breasts lifted for his devilish hands, her throat bared to his questing lips. “I’ve never done this with a virgin, did you know that?” he whispered against her throat. “I’ve never wanted to until now.”
The words lodged in her heart, no matter how much she tried to block them. She drew his head back so she could stare into his eyes. They were slumberous, the lids heavy. He looked like a man just awakening from a deep sleep.
So why did it feel as if she were the one awakening?
“Why now?” she asked. “Why with me?”
His gaze turned a molten black. “I don’t know.” He kissed her again, ravenously, with a raw need that roused an answering need in her, especially when his fingers fondled her breast wantonly, smoothing the damp nipple, rolling it until he made her gasp.
Then his hand left her breast to slide down and lift her skirts.
She jerked her mouth from his. “What are you doing?”
“There are other places a man wishes to touch a woman.” He slipped his hand beneath her skirts. “I take it your aunt never told you that.”
“She told me. But she said only a husband should do so.”
“Or a prospective lover,” he said hoarsely. He cupped his hand between her legs, and she squeezed them together in shock. “Maria . . .” he breathed, her name like a prayer on his lips. “Open for me. Let me caress you, angel.”
Angel? Angels didn’t sit on the laps of wicked scoundrels—not unless they were the fallen kind.
“I just wish to caress you,” he choked out, “nothing more.”
A strangled laugh escaped her as she fought the sensual spell he was winding around her, the one that made her ache to have his hands wherever he wanted to put them. “I’d make you swear to that, except I know how little you can be trusted when you swear.”
He looked torn between protest and laughter. “I tell you what.” He drew his hand from between her legs and shifted her on his lap. Then he placed her own hand on the bulge in his tight trousers. “Since you clearly know how to make a man suffer, I give you leave to do what you must if I dare go further than caressing.”
As he curved her hand around his thinly clad flesh, his voice grew thick. “Of course, given the choice, I’d prefer that you caress me while I’m caressing you.”
“I don’t know how,” she whispered, fascinated by how his flesh seemed to leap beneath her hand.
“Just rub it.” He released her hand so he could delve beneath her skirts once more. “Up and down along the length.” When she did, he sucked in a harsh breath. “God, yes. Like that.”
Meanwhile, he’d found the slit in her drawers and had slipped his hand inside. But this time he didn’t only cup her, he rubbed her right on what her aunt had always called her “special place.” When she released a moan, his eyes blazed hot. “That’s it, angel. Open for me . . . let me feel your pleasure . . .”
Heavens alive, what he was doing to her . . . there were no words. He dipped his head to nuzzle her temple as his palm pressed her down there in a motion that made her want to squirm, then push against it.
“You like that, do you?” he rasped, moving his mouth over her hair in a series of feather-light kisses.
She buried her hot face in his shirt.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he whispered. “Women were made to have the same pleasures as men, no matter what the prudish in society say.” His clever fingers combed through her damp curls as if in search of a prize.
When had she become damp there? Aunt Rose had said naught about that, just that her “special place” would grow ready for a man, and then the man would put his “thing” inside her.
Only it wasn’t his thing that Oliver was putting there now. It was his finger, teasing, taunting, stroking her so silkily she wanted to cry. Who knew that a finger could feel so . . . very . . . amazing . . .
“My God, angel,” he murmured, “you’re like hot velvet to the touch.” His breath grew labored, and he thrust his flesh against her hand in much the same way as she undulated against his palm.
It reminded her that she’d meant to stroke him, too.
When she did, he seized her mouth in a fierce, heady kiss that sent her head spinning. Now there were two fingers thrusting inside her, and his thumb was pressing her in a way that made her absolutely insane. The strokes of his thumb grew rhythmic, insistent, pulling at her, dragging her from the heavens down toward the black waters that called to her from below, that had always called to her, always fascinated her.
Before she knew it, she was falling, spiraling, her wings riding the wind as her body swooped and twisted and rushed toward the dark, secretive water. And as she plunged into its churning depths, a wild joy like nothing she’d ever known shattered her apart.
She tore her mouth from his, gasping, straining against his hand, her knees shaking and her body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure rocked her.
“Oh, God, yes . . .” he murmured, “yes . . . keep doing that . . .”
Doing what? Oh. Right. She was still pressing the bulge in his trousers, except that for the last few minutes, she’d been using the same rhythmic motion he’d used on her. Suddenly a hoarse cry escaped his throat, and his flesh spasmed beneath her fingers. Within seconds the fabric grew wet, dampening her hand.
She jerked her hand away, not sure what she’d done. But when he threw his head back, a ragged sigh escaping him, she realized that it had pleased him. A smile hovered on his lips, and his features wore a look of utter bliss.
“Angel . . .” His eyes were heavy-lidded as he stared down at her. “You’re . . . amazing.”
I’m fallen, she thought.
Not literally. He hadn’t ruined her, but she’d still fallen. Because he’d been right. Now that she’d tasted passion, she didn’t know how she’d bear never tasting it again.
The coach abruptly halted, and the coachman above called out, “Mrs. Tweedy’s Fine Dresses, milord.”
Maria froze, then jerked upright in a panic. Heavens alive! Her bodice was undone, she was sprawled across his lap like some doxy, and the footman would be opening the door any moment!
“It’s all right,” he said soothingly as he helped her scramble from his lap. “There’s no need to rush. The footmen know not to open my carriage door if the curtains are closed.”
It took a second for the words to sink in, then her blood ran cold. He did this all the time—she was just one of many. The words he’d said about showing her passion, the offer to make her his mistress—they were calculated to soften her for his seduction. If not for their arrival at the dress shop, what might have happened?
He reached to help her with her bodice, and she pushed his hand away. “Don’t you dare! I can do it myself.”
A stricken look crossed his face, making her briefly doubt her conclusions. Then she saw the closed curtains, and any doubts fled.
“Maria,” he said in a low, aching voice, “what’s wrong?”
Tears sprang to her eyes and she ruthlessly squelched them. She might have behaved like a fool, but she wasn’t about to let him see her cry. Not here, not now . . . not ever. “Nothing’s wrong,” she lied.
Thank heavens her hair had stayed pinned. As she tied on her bonnet and looped the pelerine about her shoulders, she gave a silent thanks to Betty, who’d stuck enough pins in her hair to keep it in place for an eternity.
But when she tried to struggle into her redingote alone, Oliver cursed and grabbed it from her, insisting on helping her into it.
As she fumbled with the ties, he laid his hand over her fingers. “Come now, my angel, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Don’t call me that.” She shrugged off his hand so she could finish fastening her ties. “I’m not an angel. I’m certainly not your angel. Though I thank you for the lesson in passion, it isn’t something we should repeat.”
Turning the handle, she pushed open the door before he could stop her.
“Deuce take it, Maria—” he growled, but caught himself as the footman came running to put down the step.
Only then did she venture a glance at him. He was watching her with something dangerously feral in his eyes.
She forced herself to ignore the tiny swell of regret that rose in her. “I think it’s best if you go to fetch Freddy. By the time you’ve returned, I should be done shopping. It won’t take me long to select a few dresses, and you’ll find it boring.”
“I doubt that very much,” he bit out.
She had to get him out of here! She wouldn’t survive another tête-à-tête ride in the carriage with him. She forced an imploring note into her voice. “Please, my lord? If you stay, you’ll make me nervous.”
That seemed to give him pause. “It’s dangerous for a woman alone.”
“I’ll stay,” the footman surprised her by saying. When Oliver turned a scowl on him, he squeaked, “But only if you wish it, milord.”
Oliver shifted his gaze back to Maria, then sighed. “Very well, John,” he told the footman. “If that’s what she wants. Tell the shopkeeper I’ll pay for the gowns on my return.”
She stiffened. The closed curtains . . . gowns he bought for her . . . That might be acceptable for a fiancé in English good society, but he wouldn’t be her fiancé for long. If she kept letting him do these things, she’d be ruined in the eyes of the world by the time she could break off their engagement.
But she said nothing; right now, she just wanted him away.
“You’re sure you’ll be all right,” he said, concern in his voice.
“Yes.” She pasted a smile to her lips. “Really, my lord, there’s no reason for you to stay.”
The words “my lord” made him stiffen. “As you wish.” He called up to the coachman, “Return me to the Blue Swan posthaste.”
The coach drove off, and she released a breath. At least she’d escaped another ride alone with him, where he would tempt her into doing what she ought not.
She paused outside the shop to face the footman. “If you please, John, I’d rather you not mention the issue of payment to the shopkeeper. I want to deal with it myself.”
“But his lordship said—”
“I know what he said.” She steadied her shoulders. “This is what I want.”
John nodded, a strange expression crossing his face. “Very well. But I should warn you, this shop ain’t one of those low secondhand shops. Mrs. Tweedy prides herself on having clothing of the highest quality, so it might be costly.”
She hoped it wasn’t too costly.
The shop did look rather lofty. Jaunty bonnets of expensive satin and silk were perched on hat trees, while brocaded and heavily embroidered ball gowns were draped over bureaus and linen presses to show their fine qualities. The everyday attire sat folded neatly in open cupboards, and even the day dresses were made of fine muslin and wool. There were half-boots and dancing slippers, scarves and shifts—anything a woman might need to outfit herself for society. She’d seen nothing like that in Dartmouth, to be sure.
As she roamed the shop looking at the goods, the shopkeeper introduced herself. After a short chat in which Maria explained that she needed a few gowns, she added, “I happen to own some very fashionable mourning attire in a variety of fine designs and fabrics. Might you be interested in trading yours for mine?”
The woman looked at Maria’s well-made redingote and said, “If it’s good quality, miss, I certainly would. There’s always those ladies who need mourning clothes, and fashionable ones are harder to come by than most.”
Maria hated to part with them, but once this bargain with Oliver was done, she could dye the gowns she acquired here if she had to. She only had two more months of mourning—by the time she left England, she might not need mourning clothes anymore. And she still had the one gown she’d carried away with her from the brothel.
She made arrangements with the woman to have a clerk accompany John to the lodging house where she and Freddy had been staying, so the two young men could fetch her trunks. Before John left, she took him aside.
“I’d appreciate it very much if you’d keep quiet about my mourning gowns, especially with Mrs. Plumtree. I know his lordship would appreciate it as well. I have a ring I could offer you in payment—”
“No, miss, I won’t take aught from you for my discretion. That’s my job—to be discreet about his lordship’s coming and goings. And his fiancée’s as well.”
She cast him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
Working the brim of his hat furiously, he looked toward the shop front, then back to her. “Tell me, miss, did his lordship do aught to upset you in the coach?”
“No,” she lied.
John looked skeptical. “It ain’t like him to harm a young lady, but perhaps he got carried away, with you being his fiancée and all. I just want you to know that if you wish . . . if I could help you in any way—”
“That’s sweet of you,” she said, truly touched. “But you have no reason for concern. Your master has been very kind.”
“All right then.” With a quick bow, he went off to join the clerk and they left on their errand.
Oliver had been kind to her in many respects. He’d kept his word and hired Mr. Pinter. He’d offered to buy her gowns, and he’d treated Freddy with more indulgence than could be expected of any man.
But his actions in the carriage hadn’t been a kindness. Because now she knew exactly what she’d be missing if she married Nathan and settled for his mild kisses.
As she went about the shop selecting gowns, she told herself that maybe passion could develop between two people over time. Maybe once she was married to Nathan, it would come out all right in the end.
Deep inside, however, in the naughty part of her that had reveled in Oliver’s fervent kisses, she knew she was lying to herself. Because right now, the only man she ever wanted to kiss again was Oliver.