His hands tightened on her. “A sparrow falls every second, Olivia.” He gave her a kiss that was an erotic demand.
It took a moment, but Olivia managed to pull herself away from his kiss and out of his arms. “Your mother would be horrified by such a scandal. You remain here for at least a half hour. I’ll try to slip into the ballroom, and hopefully people will think that I was merely composing myself after having a conversation with your mother.”
“There is a footman in front of the door.”
“What?”
“My mother stationed him there after she left, to ensure our privacy. Look at the bottom of the door and you’ll see the shadow of his boots. My mother’s servants are trained to have their shoulders to the wall; if you open the door, you’ll strike him in the back, which will attract attention.”
Olivia bit her lip. “I had not planned to embark upon a life as an infamous woman with such speed.”
He walked to the back of the room, wrenched open the window, and beckoned to her. “It’s a good thing you’re a nimble climber.”
“Why? This is practically ground level.”
Quin swung a leg over the sill and dropped the foot or so to the ground. Then he held out his arms, grinning up at her, his eyes frankly lustful. “I just realized that there is no way to reach the bedchambers without going through the kitchen.”
Olivia pulled up her skirts as demurely as possible and managed to get a leg over the windowsill. It was harder than it looked, and she ended up toppling into Quin’s arms in a flutter of petticoats.
“So,” he said, holding her very tightly as he placed her feet on the ground, “we are not going back into the house. I think we’ll go climbing instead.”
“Climbing? Climbing where?” Olivia looked around. They were on the side of the house, around the corner from the ballroom. Except where yellow light spilled from the windows, the gardens were silver, cool with the light of a full moon. “Are you talking about a ladder reaching to your bedchamber? Because I absolutely refuse to climb a ladder. I am not a hapless fool, eloping in the moonlight.”
“Didn’t you tell me that I could only look at you like that if we were high in a tree?”
“I don’t want to climb any more trees, Quin! What if you fall again? You’re lucky not to have been killed.”
Quin just grinned. “Even at my advanced age, I can climb this tree.” He reached out a hand.
But Olivia hung back. “It’s chilly out here. I don’t know what you have in mind, but I’m sure it’s not proper.”
“It’s not proper at all. And don’t worry about the cold. I’ll grab a horse blanket or two from the stables.”
“You want to stay outside?”
Olivia was about to voice a whole string of objections, but Quin chose to counter her arguments by kissing her. The kiss was so successful that she found herself perched on the windowsill again, which put her breasts at a level that Quin obviously appreciated.
“It’s a good thing that door is closed,” Quin said sometime later, his voice rough with need.
Olivia gulped, and came to her senses. Her hairpins were long gone and her hair was around her shoulders. What’s more, her bodice had fallen almost to her waist. Skin—far too much skin—gleamed in the moonlight.
“Oh, oh!” she cried, yanking at her gown. “Oh, no.”
“Yes, yes,” Quin said, his hands catching hers, holding them wide so that he could admire her breasts. “I will never have enough of you, Olivia. You’re like a drug.” He dropped her hands and bent his head again.
Olivia stilled, hand on the black hair that fell like silk onto her breast as he kissed her, open, wet-mouthed kisses that sent stinging needles, a sweet kind of torment, down her legs.
“I’m not cold any longer,” she whispered, taking her courage in her hands. This was the right thing to do.
She was choosing her own duke.
“Where is your tree?”
She followed him. But in reality she followed the solemn laughter—and it was laughter—that bloomed in his eyes when she yanked her bodice up; the sweet heat of his mouth; the raw sound of his voice breathing her name.
She would follow him anywhere.
Twenty
The Lucky Lady from Peedle
The tree turned out to be behind the stables. And it wasn’t just a tree. It was a house in a tree.
Olivia stood at the base, looking up with stupefaction. “What on earth is it?”
“A tree house. Alfie’s tree house.”
“Alfie had a tree house?” That was a stupid question; after all, there it was, a tiny house, perched in a tree. It even had windows and a door.
“Alfie liked to ask questions,” Quin said, still holding her hand. “He had questions about everything: What was holding up the moon, why apples turn brown, and who made up the alphabet. One day he wanted to know why we live on the ground rather than in trees.”
Olivia leaned over, brushed a kiss on his mouth. “He was your little sparrow.”
“Yes.” But his voice wasn’t heavy with grief. In fact, it was joyous. “I had the tree house built for Alfie because I thought it was a particularly good question and merited experimentation. We lived there for two days.”
“And what did Alfie decide?”
“That the Dukes of Sconce live on the ground because it’s very difficult for footmen to climb the steps up the trunk with a supper tray, and Cleese couldn’t come at all. Alfie pointed out that Cleese is never happy unless he knows what everyone is doing, so it wasn’t very kind to him if the two of us decided to live in a tree forever.”
Olivia laughed aloud. “Reasoning that befits a future duke. Wait! Did I hear someone laughing beside myself?”
Quin pulled her against his hard body. “If you climb into that tree house with me, Olivia, there is no going back. I will never allow you to marry Rupert. And make no mistake—I allowed Evangeline to wander where she would, but I feel differently about you. If you even make eyes at a man, I’ll probably kill him.”
Olivia reached up on tiptoe, nipped at his chin. “That goes both ways. If I catch you ogling someone else’s breasts the way you do mine, I won’t kill her—I’ll go straight for you. Consider yourself warned.”
Quin laughed.
“That’s twice in one minute,” Olivia teased. “At this rate, you’ll horrify my mother by turning into a belly-laugher.”
“I was faithful to Evangeline,” he said, ignoring her funning. “And I feel twice for you what I felt for her. I suspect I’m not capable of being unfaithful to you.”
Olivia’s smile wavered, and she felt a lump in her throat. She took a deep breath and turned toward the tree trunk. “How does one get up there?”
“There are steps nailed to the trunk. Wait one moment.” He ducked into the stables, reappearing with two blankets flung over his shoulder. Olivia was in the house a moment later.
The tree house had windows on all four sides open to the moonlight, which poured in like fairy dust turned liquid silver. It was just tall enough for Olivia to stand up in; Quin had to bend his head. The floor was covered with matting, onto which Quin threw the blankets.
Olivia hesitated. It was all very well for Quin to talk about how much he loved her breasts. But there was no way to block these windows. She had thought they would make love in a bedchamber, in the dark.
Quin sat down, held out his hand.
She gave him a weak smile.
“Second thoughts not allowed,” he said cheerfully. He reached forward, grabbed her hand, and pulled her into his lap.
“It’s just that there are no curtains.”
“I know . . . and sound travels.”
“You needn’t sound so gleeful! I think I prefer the old Quin who never smiled.”
“Too late.” He nipped her ear, soothed the sting with a warm tongue. “I sent all the stablehands around to the kitchens except for two old men who are too deaf to hear you.”
“Hear me?” The comment was
not welcome. It made her seem as if she had no self-control.
In a swift roll, Quin toppled backward and positioned himself on top of her, settling between her legs. They fit together perfectly. Olivia felt as if her skin suddenly woke up. Perhaps she did have no self-control.
He propped himself on his elbows, staring down at her for a long moment. “ ’Til death us do part?”
The faintest shadow of heartbreaking anxiety was detectable in his eyes. Olivia swallowed a silent curse for his late wife . . . and nodded. “In sickness and in health.”
When the Duke of Sconce put his mind to something mechanical, its intricacies were generally fathomed instantly, and Olivia’s clothing was no exception. Faster than she would have believed possible, he divested her of slippers, gown, corset . . .
Kneeling at her side, his eyes fiery with desire, he reached for her chemise.
“No,” Olivia cried, grabbing his hand. As it was, her chemise was traitorously delicate. Why had she chosen to wear something that was as transparent as a windowpane? She cast one look down at her body and found her chemise caught beneath her hips so that it strained against her belly. Why had she eaten all those meat pies? Couldn’t she have pictured a moment like this one? She went rigid with mortification and regret.
If only she were Georgiana—someone with enough control that she wouldn’t have eaten so much.
It would be so much better for both of them if she had Georgie’s slender thighs. If she had her sister’s legs she would flaunt them, roll on her hip and know that his eyes couldn’t leave her.
She swallowed. “I will not do this unless I can keep my chemise on. I mean that.” The words were as resolute as she could make them, bitten-off and stern.
Quin’s brows drew together for a second, but he nodded. He looked like some sort of hawk, tamed to the hand but still wild. His skin glowed like honey in the moonlight. She sat up, pulling her chemise away from her skin so that it wasn’t quite so revealing.
What did a lady do in this situation? Dimly, in a small corner of her mind, Olivia realized that her mother’s duchification program had neglected this entire subject. It hardly needed be added that The Mirror of Compliments was focused on preserving chastity, rather than abandoning it.
“I’m not sure what to do next,” she admitted, hoping he wouldn’t ask for any details about her supposed experiences with Rupert.
The look in his eyes was pure arrogant male delight. “Luckily, I do.”
She waited.
“Take off my coat,” he whispered, so softly she could barely hear him. A smile trembled on her lips and she reached out and pushed the coat off his shoulders. Then she unbuttoned his waistcoat, tossed it to the side, and tugged his shirt free from his breeches. She moved to pull up the shirt, but was diverted by the skin she found at his waist. She came up on her knees too, and ran her hands around his tight abdomen to the swelling muscles of his back.
“How is it you are so fit? Most men are rather soft, I have found.”
He shrugged. “Physical exercise clearly has a positive effect on the human physiology. There seemed sufficient evidence to engage in it on a regular basis.”
His skin was smooth and hot under her fingers. She let her hands wander under his shirt: up his broad back to his shoulders, back down again, up his front. Apart from some small shivers, he let her do as she wished.
When she brushed her fingers over his nipples, a hoarse grunt broke from his lips. She glanced and saw that his eyes were shut.
“Keep your eyes closed,” she ordered, feeling a flash of courage. If his eyes remained closed the entire time, it would be as good as having curtains in a decently dark bedchamber.
He nodded obediently. She felt more confident when he wasn’t looking at her; she needn’t worry about how much that ridiculous chemise was revealing.
She managed to pull his shirt over his head, discovering that his torso was beautiful, with a narrow, taut waist. She caressed every bit of his chest and then—glancing again at his still-closed eyes—leaned in close and placed her mouth where her hands had been.
A low noise broke from his lips. “No opening your eyes,” she warned. His lips tightened, but he nodded.
She bent to him again, kissing him, tasting him, dusting little kisses over his entire chest. And she kept coming back to his nipples because every time she rubbed her lips across them he responded. It was like champagne, that little sound he made. It was power, and she was drunk on it.
She forgot to keep an eye on his face, reassuring herself that he wasn’t watching. Instead she came closer, squirming onto his lap so that she could rub more than her lips against him.
“Olivia.” His voice was soft, liquid with passion.
Startled, she looked up, to find those gray-green eyes gazing at her. The moonlight frosted his thick lashes and he looked otherworldly: a fairy king, not a mere mortal. “You were to keep your eyes closed,” she said, giving in to temptation and running a fingertip along his lashes. “You’re so beautiful, Quin. Too beautiful for me.”
He laughed at that. A third laugh, in the space of an hour.
She trailed her finger down, across his full bottom lip, leaned forward and carefully followed that line with her tongue.
“May I touch you now?” he murmured against her lips.
“Mmmm,” she whispered back, loving the taste of him.
Big hands came to her back and pulled her against his naked chest. Olivia gasped as her breasts were pressed against him; they felt plump and wildly sensitive.
One hand held her against him while another slid down her back, slow and sensuous. “Aren’t you going to remove the rest of my clothing?” He said it low and soft, like a dare he knew she couldn’t resist.
She almost tumbled off his lap, turned to face him. “My breeches have a placket,” he said, making no move to undo it himself.
Olivia leaned a little closer and found what he meant. She fumbled, her fingers trying to manipulate the buttons, aware that his breathing was fast and ragged. Once she saw how he trembled at her touch, she slowed down, caressing just inside the band of his breeches, loving his swift intake of breath as her fingers dipped lower.
Slowly, slowly, she eased the breeches over his lean hips, down powerful thighs. Once they were at his knees, he swiftly removed them and tossed them to the side. Now he wore nothing but smalls, which did very little to conceal what lay underneath.
No limp celery this—though Olivia instantly pushed away the thought as disloyal to Rupert. She may not be marrying him, but she would always be his true friend.
She was slow and careful working Quin free from his smalls, trying not to show awe at the size of him.
He threw the smalls after the breeches and came back to her, kneeling, hands quiet at his sides, but she could sense the leashed power in him, waiting to spring free. To spring on her.
A wave of anxiety flooded her again, sent her eyes skittering from him, from all that perfection, down to her thighs—only to find that blasted chemise had caught again and was emphasizing the fleshiness of her upper leg. Heat rushed into her cheeks as she plucked it free.
He said not a word. She looked up to see that he was regarding her with such a tender expression that she cringed. “Don’t you dare pity me,” she snapped.
Surprise flooded his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Olivia said. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood. Well . . .” To her dismay, she felt as if tears were threatening. Added quickly: “What do we do now?”
His face was serious again, the expression he had when he was thinking about light, or poetry.
“It’s just that I’m not sure what to do,” she said, her voice catching. Tears pushed at her eyes again.
“Dear heart,” he said, “what’s the matter?” He reached out and put his arms around her.
“Nothing,” she muttered, feeling ten times a fool. “Kiss me?”
“Good idea.” He kissed her slowly and sweetly, eyes closed—
she checked before she relaxed into the feeling of being near Quin.
Then, when she was kissed into a hazy state, he moved so that she found herself on her back, her hair flowing around her. It was almost too much: trying to take in the sensation of his body heavy against her side, naked, his arousal urgent against her. And the moon was pitiless, casting its cool silver light everywhere.
It was pretty; she had to admit that. The inside of the little house glimmered with light that looked magical. If only it weren’t so revealing. A little less magic, that was all she asked.
“There’s something wrong,” Quin said, raising himself on all fours and looking down at her.
Her lip quivered and then, no longer able to choke them back, a tear spilled—even as she told herself, Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
Quin reached out with a thumb, gently rubbed it away. “Help me, sweetheart. Emotions are not my strong point. I need you to tell me what’s the matter.”
She shook her head. “Nothing! I’m simply being foolish.”
His eyes searched hers and Olivia looked away, fast. He saw too much with those damnably intelligent eyes of his.
The next thing she knew her hands were caught and held above her head. “If you won’t tell, I’ll have to resort to logic. You’re not afraid of being with me. And you told me that you’re not a virgin, so you can’t be afraid of pain.”
Did she actually say that? He had inferred that she and Rupert had made love. And she couldn’t tell him otherwise without breaking her promise.
“Unless”—he hesitated—“am I considerably larger than Rupert?”
Her gaze lingered on him with pleasure, and he seemed to throb and grow under that gaze. “Yes,” she murmured, her voice throaty.
He laughed. “That is not fear that I hear in your voice.”
“Does it bother you that I’ve—I’ve seen Rupert before you?”
He frowned. “Why should it? You didn’t choose to lose your virginity to Rupert, any more than he chose the reverse. I feel a measure of contempt for Rupert’s father, but none for you.”
It was very like Quin: both logical and fair. She managed a wobbly smile. “All the same,” she began.