A Compromised Innocent (3 page)

They weren't very far into Hyde Park before Oliver realized the stroll had been a terrible idea.

When he'd made the spontaneous suggestion, it had seemed brilliant. Especially since he hadn't been able to determine a way to see Miss Talbot again. He was fairly certain that her aunt would not be inclined to receive him if he were so dim-witted as to call on her at the Alderfield town house. It seemed that Lady Alderfield, née Roberta Milligrew, had not forgiven him for refusing her father's offer of her hand in marriage after all these years.

So, standing at his sister's doorstep, he'd been desperate for a reason to keep the pretty Miss Talbot from leaving. A stroll through the park had seemed perfect.

Oh, not that he minded the time spent with her for a moment. He rather liked the feel of her hand on his arm and her fragrant body at his side. Did she ever stop smiling? It was almost contagious. He enjoyed her company immensely, had even placed his free hand atop hers to keep it in place as if, given the chance, she'd remove it and dash away.

No, it was the gossipmongers, those prattling meddlers who had nothing better to do than gape and whisper about them.

He'd forgotten for a moment that he was a duke. That every action was subject to scrutiny and remark. The duty and the consequence of the position had been drilled into him since he was old enough to walk. The duchy of Wainsborough was a high honor and, as with anything, there was a cost: loss of privacy.

His father had relished the power of the title. Wielding his influence and funds like a broadsword, he had ruined those who opposed his will and cut down anything that stood in his way. Not even his offspring had survived unscathed.

Charlotte, Oliver's older sister, had born the brunt of that power when their father had her lover impressed and deported to India for decades; the couple had only been reunited last year. Oliver still felt the guilt and remorse of his own role in the lovers' separation.

To this day, Oliver swore he would be a better steward of the title and holdings. He'd be a better man than his father, and never allow another to suffer because of him or his position.

Not ever again.

“What is it between you and my aunt, Your Grace?”

Oliver raised a brow at her use of the styling, but forbore remark.

“Lady Alderfield hasn't told you?”

Lizzie shook her head, and her bonnet ribbons swayed. “My aunt doesn't discuss such things.”

“I see. Does it matter?”

“Certainly not, especially if it's painful to discuss.” Lizzie's blue eyes glittered with concern, dimming the joy from her face but not her earnestness. They were just the color of the sky on a summer day.

He snorted. Regrettable, yes. Painful, no. At least once he'd been allowed to cry off.

“Your aunt and I were almost engaged,” he said and smiled wryly when her eyes widened in surprised. “Not for long, and quite a few years ago. By our fathers.”

“What happened?”

Oliver had begged and pleaded and eventually traded his sister's happiness for his own. To this day, he wished he had taken Miss Milligrew's hand in marriage and kept his own counsel about Charlotte's love affair. Surely being married to the shrewish Roberta could be no more miserable than living with the guilt for bartering away his sister's happiness?

“Let's just say that we didn't suit and leave it at that, shall we?”

They reached the Serpentine and paused to watch starlings chatter as they scavenged for insects and roosted in the tree boughs.

“Drab, noisy little creatures, aren't they?”

Lizzie tilted her head and considered him. “Do you think so?”

“They do seem to make a nuisance, picking at rubbish and making a mess where they roost. Pigeons at least seem to be more circumspect. And quiet.”

She stood so close to him that he could feel the air stir as she moved, and the faint scent of lavender tickled his nose. Such a simple, unaffected fragrance for a simple, straightforward miss. Miss Lizzie Talbot was like a balm for his disillusioned soul.

Was it genuine or a guise like the one his mother put on in society? How could Lizzie be so very different from her aunt, especially living in the same household?

Lizzie smiled up at him, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and Oliver felt as if he'd been hit in the stomach.

“Admittedly, they can create quite the fuss, but have you never seen them flock from a distance? They shift and meld as if they're of a single mind in flight. It's like watching black water boil across the sky. An amazing sight, especially at sunset.”

He wanted to kiss her again. That's all he could think of as he stood there looking into her pretty face and wide, guileless eyes.

He wanted to feel that sensation of passionate awe he'd felt when their kiss had deepened in the Delcourts' garden. Needed to make certain it was more than an overactive imagination turning it to something other than what it was.

“Such a shame that it's cloudy today. You can't make out the green and purple highlights they take in their plumage in summertime. Not as pretty as the gray wagtail with its bright yellow breast, but lovely in its own dark way.”

For a long moment, Oliver could only stare as he wrestled with the impulse to reach out and touch her. To tug her forward and wrap her in his embrace. Was it his imagination, or did she lean toward him ever so slightly, as if she, too, were drawn?

God help him, he was going to kiss her again and damn the gossips!

His hand rose to cup her cheek, to encourage her to meet him halfway. Closer, closer. He could just feel her breath on his chin.

And then she was gone, jerking back as if she'd been scalded. Her eyes widened in horror and her hands fumbled at her neck.

What—?

“Help!” she cried as she rose up on her tiptoes, feeling for something.

“Hold still!” A branch had caught in the adornments of her straw hat, pulling it back and creating a garrote of her bonnet ribbons.

A swift tug failed to loosen the knot and the branch's grip was tenacious, so he quickly cut through the satin strips with his pocketknife to free her. “All better?”

“Yes, thank you. I'm so sorry.”

“Why do you apologize for something that was an accident?”

Clutching her throat protectively, her cheeks were pink from the fright or embarrassment or both. “Because accidents always happen to me. I'm a lodestone for disaster. Haven't you noticed?”

“I've observed something of the sort.” And it was one of the most intriguing things about her. She didn't try to pretend that she was perfect. Her little mishaps were actually rather adorable. When they weren't threatening her life, that was.

What the lovely Miss Talbot needed was someone to protect her. Someone to lend a quick and steady hand. Someone who could bask in her lightheartedness.

And didn't that seem like an enviable place to be?

“We'd best go, then, before something untoward happens to
you
because of my ill luck.”

A long curl, dark as molasses, had escaped, and Oliver gently tucked it behind her ear then lingered to stroke the line of her jaw. How he wished that he could remove his glove to feel her bare skin with his fingertips.

“Why is that, little starling? Do you think my dignity cannot handle a thump or two? I assure you, it can.”

The light of laughter had returned to her face, and she actually leaned into his hand like a little tabby cat he'd had as a boy. Could he make her purr like one? His pulse leaped at the thought.

“Do you think you are immune to ridicule because you're a duke?”

“On the contrary. I'm
inured
to it because I'm a duke.” The first drop of rain plopped fat and cold on the bridge of his nose, and Lizzie tried to stifle a laugh. The more he heard that gay sound, the more he realized what he was missing. “And here's the rain coming. We'd best hurry.”

They made a hasty way across the park, but even with the umbrella he carried to shield them, the quickening rainfall dampened his trousers. By the time they made it to the waiting coachmen, Lizzie's muslin gown was wicking so much moisture that she had begun to shiver.

Oliver eyed the vehicle waiting for Lizzie and mentally cursed. It was a barouche, as suited the ever fashionable Lady Alderfield but was utterly
un
suited for the deluge. The short folding-hood was propped over the rear seat to break the worst of the rain, but Lizzie would be soaked and tempting a lung congestion if she were to ride home in it.

“You're not getting in that.”

Without breaking stride, Oliver hustled Lizzie to his own conveyance, a fully enclosed coach emblazoned with the Wainsborough coat of arms, and quickly settled her inside with a thick blanket draped across her lap.

After issuing instructions to her coachman, he joined her in the dark confines and boldly took the seat beside Lizzie, telling himself he was doing so only to stave off a chill. The curtains were drawn, so no one would know of his impertinence but the two of them, and, much to his delight, Lizzie issued no reprimand for his seat selection.

When the carriage set off with a lurch, he let his arm settle along the back of the bench seat. It didn't have anything to do with a desire to have Lizzie cuddled up beside him. That would be unseemly, even if he did really want it more than he'd admit to himself.

It wasn't long before the coach slowed to a crawl as the streets clogged with a surfeit of transportation, hackneys descending like vultures to pick up stranded pedestrians. Oliver tugged the curtains more securely into place after gauging the distance they had to travel.

“It'll be a spell until we're through this jumble. Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you. I appreciate your thoughtfulness. I'd be thoroughly drenched if I'd taken my aunt's carriage.” Pretty dimples appeared as she turned toward him. “My fortune appears much improved around you.”

Battling images of what Lizzie would look like with wet, transparent muslin clinging to her curves, Oliver's blood pounded. Her nipples would tighten from the cool rain… God, were they now? Would they be dainty rosebuds or lush distended tips? Were they pink or coral or a deep, dark red?

Oliver couldn't help himself. He had to look.

He did. And his peripheral vision dimmed until all he could focus on in the faint light was the swell of her breasts and what looked suspiciously like taut peaks jutting against the thin fabric. From the cold or begging for his touch?

He was barely able to stifle the impulse to take advantage of the sweet, soft bounty that was Miss Lizzie Talbot. The scent of warm lavender and woman filled his senses.

But he wasn't a libertine, some rake to take advantage of an innocent the first moment he could catch her unawares. He was a careful, deliberate man who was careful and deliberate about selecting lovers. And they never, ever included naive misses. He had never imagined taking a virginal young woman to bed, except when he thought about taking a wife.

Was that something he wanted with Miss Talbot?

Lizzie wanted nothing so much as another kiss from Oliver.

Oliver.
How could she be so bold as to think of him in such intimate terms? He'd given her permission to address him familiarly, but not to use his given name. A name that only a sibling or a spouse would use. Heat flamed in her cheeks at the boldness of her thoughts.

She had to stop this nonsense, or she'd shame herself and speak it aloud. To him.

But when he looked at her like that—with his eyes intense and
hungry—
she couldn't help but think of him in the most intimate of terms. Couldn't stop imagining his lips on hers again, her hands slipping under the lapels of his jacket.

Maybe she leaned toward him in invitation, maybe she just swayed in confusion, because he looked at her even more intently, a frown on his face. “Lizzie?”

The hoarse sound of her name carried a multitude of questions bundled into the one. And the answer to all of them was the same.

“Yes.”

He sank toward her and she closed her eyes, tilting up like a daisy toward the sun. His lips skimmed her cheek, and his breath was moist and hot upon her ear. “I'm going to steal another kiss from you, Lizzie.”

“You cannot steal what's given freely,” she said, her voice a shaky whisper.
Yes! Yes, yes, yes!

A tremor shook her as his lips enfolded her earlobe, drawing on the tender flesh there. Eliciting an echo of sensation in her stomach.

No, lower. That twinge of excitement was definitely lower. She squeezed her legs together, a desperate attempt to stifle the feeling as Oliver shifted closer, his mouth a fiery brand migrating down her neck. A laugh that sounded suspiciously like a hiccup escaped her. “I thought you wanted a kiss?”

He pulled away and said, “I do. I want to kiss you everywhere, starling.”

Starling. It was the second time he'd called her that, the sound of it almost an endearment. Almost…
darling.

“Then what are you waiting for?”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, then his lips were on hers, hot and demanding. Lizzie trembled and tilted her head to give him better access, then moved in to slip an arm around his neck, as if she could hold him there.

Yes! Yes, yes, yes!

It was everything that she remembered and more. Like before, her pulse thundered as if she'd competed in a foot race at the midsummer fair. And when he licked at her lips, she felt daring enough to return the gesture and discovered he tasted as mysterious and complex as the finest Chinese oolong. Oliver murmured something unintelligible in response to her foray, and his hands dug into her waist as if he wanted to pull her to him but had locked his arms against it.

This was hunger, a desperate need for more. Unable to stop herself, she nipped at his lips with her teeth once then paused, shocked by her actions and a little frightened about where the impulse had come from. What must Oliver think of her?

A moment later she found out as something like a growl of approval came from him, beginning as a low sound and then rising with the tension in his muscles. Then he pulled her, up and over, settling back into the leather squabs of the bench seat and shifting until she faced him, scandalously straddling his thighs. It might have been uncomfortable if the coach was moving at
any amount of speed, but it continued to creep along, the drone of rainfall isolating them, insulating them from the outside world.

Had Oliver tried to use his size to overwhelm her, she might have balked. He was certainly large enough to intimidate or persuade her to his will. But in this position, Lizzie felt like she had complete control of this…of him. That she could stop or continue as she chose, though his eyes glittered with encouragement.

It was perhaps the single most exciting moment of her life, to have such influence over a man. Not just any man.
This
man with his self-assurance, fine figure and that boyish lock that insisted on defying his valet's combing and tumbled over his brow.

Her heart squeezed. She could fall in love with him, she realized.

Perhaps she already was.

He reached up and urged her toward him, his bare palm warm against her cheek. Oliver had removed his glove at some point, and Lizzie wanted to do the same, to feel the texture of his skin on her own fingertips, the roughness that shadowed his jaw.

She pulled away slightly, and he let her, though he didn't look pleased about it if the frown between his eyebrows was any indication.

Something brazen stole over her as she watched him watching her, despite the awkwardness of her perch across his lap. She brought her hand up and began to tug the glove off with her teeth, one finger at a time. Oliver's eyes followed, and he swallowed hard.

He liked watching her lips? Or anticipated her bare touch?

The first glove pulled free and she let if fall, careless of where it landed. Then she removed the other, but slower to gauge his interest. His breathing roughened and, when she was done, she burrowed her hands into his hair, relishing the silky texture. He rubbed his thumb across her lower lip as if testing the plumpness, and his fingers curled around her chin.

“Oh, starling. I've had such dreams about your mouth.”

“More kissing?”

He smiled then urged her forward till she leaned over him, a breath away. “To begin with,” he said, and then proceeded to show her, his mouth hot and full upon hers.

The new position proved especially rousing as the kiss grew impossibly deep, all consuming. Not only did Lizzie feel more of that strange throbbing between her legs, she felt almost exposed with her thighs spread so intimately wide across Oliver's. It elevated her excitement, especially when his fingertips grazed a path down her neck, leaving flames in their wake.

With each passing moment, Lizzie felt more energized, awakened in a new way. Attuned to him elementally; his taste on her tongue, his musky essence filling her senses.

When his hand skimmed her collarbone and settled on her breast, her heart skipped a beat and she forgot to breathe. What a strange feeling, the warmth of his hand cupping her flesh and rubbing at the taut peak her nipple had become.

Shards of pleasure raced to her loins. Lizzie pulled back, wide-eyed, her breath shuddering in, then out of her chest. His hands stilled.

“It's all right, starling. I won't hurt you. I won't do anything that you don't desire.”

That was the problem. Lizzie wanted his touch so much that it frightened her. She was awash, adrift in such overwhelming sensation that she wondered if she'd ever be the same again. This was one of those moments where it seemed certain that the choice made would influence the course of her life, and Lizzie was almost paralyzed at the enormity of the decision he had left to her.

She wanted this moment with him, fleeting as it was bound to be. It was impossible to consider she might have something permanent with such a powerful and highly sought-after man.

But she could enjoy what time she had.

“May I?” he said, his voice a husky whisper that stroked her nerves like a bow on the strings of a viola. She nodded.

The pad of his thumb scraped the sensitive nipple and she trembled, shaking harder with each gentle stroke of that single digit.

Even moving as slow as a tortoise, the carriage lurched as one wheel rolled up and over an uneven cobble, the motion not enough to unseat her but sufficient to bounce her against Oliver, her breast pushing into his hand and her exposed core bumping against him. Against a very hard part of him.

Pure pleasure shot through her and she sighed. Oliver sucked in a ragged breath, and his free hand gripped her hip tight, but not so hard as to bruise. When the rear wheel bumped over the same cobble, Lizzie couldn't contain a groan at the sensation. And then she proceeded to lose all thought.

She returned for his kiss, but this time Lizzie set a frenzied pace while she ground against Oliver's pelvis, on that part of him that created such a rush of…lust? It was compulsive, intoxicating.

Oliver's hand slipped from hip to derriere, cupping one cheek as he showed her a new movement, a rocking motion that stole her breath. Showed her how to increase the rhythm, to feed the fire that threatened to consume her. And when she eagerly took to it, he moaned and squeezed her buttock in encouragement.

“Oh, yes, my little starling. Just like that,” he murmured, his words unraveled into a heated mumble.

Passion built then plateaued, leaving her whimpering into the starched folds of his cravat. Her hands fisted in the satin of his waistcoat.

Something wasn't quite right, wasn't…finished. The call of her raging blood left her hungering, empty despite the warmth of Oliver's arms. The friction she created was insufficient, couched by the layers of clothing between them.

“Here. Let me show you,” Oliver said as she began to slow, abandoning the fleeting feeling. He pinched her nipple, then rolled and tugged. Sensation whipped though her, straight to the damp, enflamed folds between her thighs, and his hips began to shift in counterpoint to hers.

It was enough to send her spiraling out of control, to send the flames high enough to consume her. To set her free in one giddy, rushing burst of ecstasy.

Lizzie collapsed atop Oliver, stunned and lethargic. Oliver's large hand stroked her back, soothing.

When she caught her breath, she pushed up and stared at Oliver who sported a crooked smile. His eyes glittered and he watched her like a hungry hawk.

The pace of the coach picked up, as the vehicle broke free of the congested snarl. It was as sudden as the passion that had taken her.

What must he think of her? Lizzie looked away, embarrassment scattering the euphoria, and she pulled from his arms to settle onto the far seat.

Oliver sat up slowly. “Are you all right?”

Her heart still thudded in her chest in time with the throbbing reminder between her legs. “I'm not entirely certain.”

He smiled, his hand warm and reassuring on her knee and his expression earnest. “That was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

“What?”

“You. Coming apart in my arms. Stunning.” He sounded sincere and she blinked back tears of relief. Heavens, she did not want to cry. Not because she was insecure, but it was a near thing, her feelings raw.

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” Oliver clasped her hand between his large ones, an echo of their earlier intimacy. He kissed the tip of her nose. “When can I see you again?”

“For…this?” Now he thought her a loose woman.

“Look at me, Lizzie.” He sat forward. “I want to see you again because I enjoy your company. I enjoy everything about you, not just
this,
as extraordinary as it was. Please. We're almost to your aunt's house. Tell me when I can see you again.”

The fear and uncertainty eased. “Aunt Roberta plans for us to attend the Clarington ball.”

His smile was wide, boyish. “Splendid. Save a waltz for me.”