Between the Devil and Desire (26 page)

Jack spotted the engineer waiting for them beside the locomotive. The man skimmed his fingers over his dark mustache as though to make certain he was tidy.

“Mr. Gurney, this is the Duke of Lovingdon.”

The man bowed slightly. “Your Grace, are you ready to drive my train?”

“Yes, sir.”

“His nanny, Ida, will be staying with him.”

He tipped his hat. “Miss.”

“Sir.”

Jack didn't think he'd ever seen Ida blush. “I'll come back for the lad at the next station.”

“Very good, sir,” Mr. Gurney said.

Jack stepped onto the locomotive, carrying Henry on board and watching his eyes widen. The expense of the railway car and paying for this extra privilege had seemed frivolous at the time, but now Jack thought it was well worth it.

As he walked back to his private railway car, he slipped a crown into a pocket here and there. Yes, nimble fingers had their uses. His only regret was that he wouldn't be near to see the delight on the faces when the people discovered the unexpected coin.

He opened the door to his car, stepped in, and grinned at the sight of Olivia sitting on the couch. “That's exactly where I pictured you when I took possession of the car.”

He tossed his jacket onto the chair, began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“What are you doing?” Livy asked.

“Taking advantage of the time we'll have alone before the next stop.”

“You can't be serious.”

“I've never been more serious in my life.” He tossed the cravat onto the chair, barely noticing when it slid to the carpeted floor.

The whistle sounded, and the train began to rock over the tracks.

“I suppose a kiss or two—” she began.

“I've told you before, Livy, I'm not a man who settles for only a kiss.”

“But to…here?”

“No one can see in. No one will hear us. It's our own little room. It's just on a railway track.”

“But it's all bumpy.”

“Which might make it all the more fun.” Chuckling, he moved in and began to nibble on her ear. “I don't know why you're arguing. You know you want to do it.”

“I do,” she sighed. “I do, but my clothing—”

His two favorite words in all the world. “No one will know.”

He couldn't believe he'd actually decided that first night that she had too many buttons to bother with. Considering the delectable body those buttons hid, they were well worth the trouble, and his nimble fingers were quick to get them all undone. He didn't plan to remove all her clothes, because he didn't think they had time for that. But there was time to loosen various ribbons so he could fill his hand with her breast, scraping his thumb over the dark nipple. He placed his mouth over hers, delighted by the eagerness with which her lips parted and her tongue parried with his.

As he urged her down on the couch, it occurred to him that her fingers had become almost as nimble as his. He'd not noticed his buttons coming undone until she was shoving his shirt back off his shoulders.

“We don't have time for everything to go, sweetheart,” he murmured, before sipping at her mouth once again. Easing his hand down, he worked up her skirt until it was bunched around her hips. He skimmed his
fingers along her thigh, relishing the velvety feel. He took his hand higher, to where the warmth waited for him.

Moaning, she writhed beneath him. He unbuttoned his trousers, freed himself with a groan, and eased himself closer to heaven.

His clothes were less of a deterrent for her, and he felt her hands skimming along his skin. No woman had ever touched him as she did—as though she appreciated every inch of him. One night she'd kissed him from his big, ugly feet to a scar on his cheek—the faint remnant of the morning she'd attacked him with a poker. No matter where she began kissing him, she always stopped there, and he wondered if it would always be her final destination, a reminder of a time when trust between them hadn't come easily—when he'd even discouraged it.

He couldn't remember now why he'd been so reluctant to encourage anything between them. In some ways, it seemed years ago, in others only a few hours ago. With all her ticking clocks, time should have been the one thing between them that remained steady, but everything seemed to want to change.

His opinion of her, his desire for her.

He wasn't normally an impatient man. He'd learned on the streets that more and greater rewards came with patience, but he'd hardly been able to wait until he could take Henry and Ida to the locomotive. Now he was with Livy, alone, and again the time was ticking away.

She was begging him to take her. His modest Livy, his proper Livy, was urging him toward completion.
There was barely room on this couch. He had to wrap her legs around his waist, place one foot on the floor to give himself leverage so he could get the angle he needed, then he was plunging inside her, feeling the hot, silky wetness of her surrounding him.

He rode her hard, the motion of the train whispering at the back of his mind, giving him a cadence that he matched. For some reason, he thought of the people in the open railway car. He covered Livy's mouth, absorbing her scream as her body tightened, pulsed, and throbbed around him. It was all he needed. His body bucked, the pleasure intense, almost painful. It was always more with her, more than he'd ever had, ever known.

Everything with her was different. Everything was better.

As he buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder, he heard the train whistle signaling they'd soon be arriving at the next stop. “Damn.”

Livy's hand rested against his cheek, limp as though all energy had been drained from her. “I'm not certain if this was a very good or a very bad idea.”

He lifted himself up, then dipped down to buss a quick kiss over her lips. “A good idea.”

 

Olivia sat on a blanket, watching as Henry—barefoot—darted into the sea up to his ankles and darted out again, with Ida keeping a close watch on him.

“We should have brought Pippin,” she said.

“We will next time,” Jack said. He was stretched out on his side, raised up on an elbow, enjoying a glass of wine. They'd finished their picnic earlier and he was
determined they not take any wine back home. “Why didn't you want him to have a dog?”

She picked at the blanket. “When I was a young girl, about ten, I had a puppy. I loved it so much. One morning I woke up and it was dead. I was inconsolable. I always suspected my brother had poisoned it.”

“Avendale?”

“Yes. Of course, he wasn't Avendale then. He was a bit of a bully, though. I can't say I was particularly sad when he died. Still I cried. I don't do well when things die.” She glanced over at him. “Since we're asking personal questions, why do you care so much for money?”

“Asking about your dog didn't seem as personal.”

“Money is everything to you,” she insisted.

“Not everything, otherwise, I wouldn't have the private car so we could get away for a bit.”

“But very, very important.”

“Absolutely. For those of us who grew up without it, it is very important indeed. It allows you to protect yourself from those who would do you harm.”

“Who would harm you?”

He swirled the wine in his glass. “No one anymore.” He glanced toward the sea where Henry was now trying to splash water on Ida, who merely laughed. “Did his father give him much attention?”

“Not really. Oh, he thanked me on the day he was born, for giving him an heir, but now I realize he was probably thanking me because he'd no longer have to come to my bed.”

He jerked his head around. “You don't mean that.”

“I think I do, yes. In retrospect, I can see that he was a very sad man.”

“I thought the same thing the first time I met him.”

She perked up at that bit of news. “At your club?”

Reaching out, he took her hand, pressed a kiss to her fingers. “No, years ago. I met him in the Earl of Claybourne's garden. I think they were friends and he was visiting.”

“I think he knew all the lords.”

“That's not uncommon, is it?”

“No, not really. What did you talk about?”

“I was thinking of leaving Claybourne's, striking out on my own. He convinced me not to.”

“Why were you thinking of leaving?”

“The old gent, Luke's grandfather, demanded perfection. He was a hard taskmaster, harder than Feagan ever was. I didn't appreciate what he was teaching me at the time. And I suspect Henry will not appreciate what I'm teaching him.”

She glanced toward her son. “To frolic and play?”

“To take from life what you can, while you can.”

She looked back at Jack and brushed the hair off his brow. “I think that's an admirable philosophy.”

“Now you find something about me admirable? I daresay hell will be naught but ice by the time I get there.”

She leaned toward him and whispered, “Will Henry be driving the train on the way back?”

He gave her a slow, sensual smile. “I imagine something can be arranged.”

“I
like this gown,” Jack said, nibbling on Livy's ear in the library. “Can hardly wait to divest you of it.”

As soon as they finished dinner, he would. It had been nearly a week since they'd traveled on the railway, and while she wore black during the day, each evening before dinner she surprised him with a different gown. While he always awaited her arrival with anticipation, he took additional pleasure in seeing her dressed in something other than mourning clothes. Tonight it was red. She was breathtaking in red. He was convinced that in the future, she should purchase clothing only in that shade. He trailed his mouth along the side of her throat. She moaned, a lingering sound that threatened to weaken his resolve to allow her to wear the gown at least through dinner.

“I think the servants are beginning to talk,” she murmured.

“I pay them enough that they won't utter a single word, not even to each other.” He'd have never before considered paying to keep wagging tongues silent, but a proper perception was so important to her. Amazing
how what was important to her was becoming increasingly important to him.

She leaned back. “We've not been very discreet.”

“I beg to differ. All they know is that in the evenings you don't parade around in black. I haven't been chasing you around the residence, though God knows that idea has merit. Maybe I won't go to the club tonight, and after the servants are asleep—”

She slapped his shoulder. “I'm serious, Jack. What began as one night of indiscretion has grown into something that consumes me. I'm hardly acting the widow.”

“In public you do. In private, it's no one's damned business.”

She glided her fingers lovingly over the faint scar on his cheek. “I suppose I just worry that Lovingdon deserves better from me in death.”

“And you deserved better from him in life. The man failed to appreciate you.” He ran his mouth along her bare shoulder. “You must admit that is not one of my failings.”

Her soft whimper urged him on. There was no hope for it. He couldn't last until after dinner. Lifting her, he sat her on the desk.

“What are you doing?” she asked breathily, her arms wrapped around his shoulders. “We'll be called in to dinner soon.”

“I have a hunger for something else,” he growled. “I think I'll inform Brittles we're not dining this evening. We shall eat in bed later. How does that sound?”

“Lovely. Absolutely—”

A rap sounded on the door. She released a tiny screech, shoved him so hard while sliding off the desk
that he nearly stumbled over his feet to land on his backside. He grabbed her waist to steady them both.

“Relax,” he ordered.

“Who can it be? It's too early for dinner.”

“I haven't a clue.” He released her, watching in amusement as she righted herself, but even righted she looked like a woman who had been in the midst of being ravished. He decided for her comfort not to mention that. How things had changed since that first night when he'd taken delight in unsettling her.

She licked her lips and angled her chin. “All right.”

Jack turned to the door. “Come in.”

Brittles opened the door. “Lord Briarwood—”

“I've been made to wait long enough,” the man roared as he barged into the room before Brittles could make the proper announcement.

Brittles appeared alarmed. Jack waved him off. With a nod, Brittles retreated, closing the door behind him.

Briarwood sneered at Olivia. “I should have known he'd turn you into his whore.”

Jack's fist landed on Briarwood's jaw with a satisfying thud that sent the man sprawling over the carpet. “I'd watch my tongue if I were you.”

Rubbing his jaw, Briarwood glared up at him. “Yes, I'm well aware of your reputation for guarding those who work for you.”

“You say that as though it's a fault,” Olivia snapped.

“He is a scoundrel, his morals questionable.” He staggered to his feet and barreled around Jack until he was standing directly in front of Olivia. “He seeks to bring everyone down to his level. Look at you. You are
in mourning, and you look as though you should be walking the streets.”

“You will stop those accusations now,” Jack demanded. “Or you'll feel the power of my fist again.”

“That's the way of it with you, isn't it?” Briarwood didn't attempt to hide his scorn. “Barbaric. You don't know the first thing about being civilized.”

“I believe the fact you still have your teeth is an indication that I do,” Jack ground out.

Briarwood turned back to Olivia. “Are you aware he keeps boys at his gaming club?”

“As a matter of fact I am. He provides them with employment and a safe haven. An admirable undertaking.”

“It's not natural for a man to have such interest in boys.”

“What are you saying?” Olivia asked.

“I'm concerned for Henry's welfare. Rumors abound that Dodger molests them.”

“Rumors, I have no doubt that can be laid at your door,” Jack said. “You should leave—”

“He's never harmed Henry,” Olivia cut in.

“Would you know if he did?”

She looked at Jack, and he felt the weight of doubt in her gaze, knew she was remembering how she'd not known that Helen had harmed her son.

She nodded jerkily. “Yes, I would know if he hurt him, and I know he would not.”

The conviction in her words eased the tightness around Jack's chest.

“You'll not turn her against me, Briarwood. Whatever you hope to accomplish with these false accusations—”

“The boy is not safe here. Stanford agrees with me.”

“Rupert Stanford?” Olivia asked.

“Yes. My cousin and I are appalled we're being investigated by Scotland Yard. The inspector will find nothing untoward regarding either of us. The same cannot be said of you, sir. The duchess here is proof.” He turned back to Olivia. “Look at what he has done to you.”

Jack grabbed Briarwood's arm. “You're leaving.”

Olivia held up her hand. “Wait. Let him have his say.”

“He has nothing of any importance—”

“Then let me hear it.”

Briarwood jerked free, straightened his jacket, while Jack struggled between insisting he leave and giving Livy an opportunity to prove…what? That she believed him over Briarwood? On the other hand, he needed to know what he was fighting.

“He has caused you to forget your place,” Briarwood said. “You are in mourning, yet you wear red. You are not married to him, yet I can see where his roughened jaw has abraded your skin. If he can turn you, a woman of such high morals, to his sinful ways, imagine what he'll do to an impressionable lad. All I care about is your son, that he be raised to be a proper lord. I can achieve that end for you. And if you will not support me in this endeavor, I will go to the courts, I will go to Parliament. By God, I will go to the queen. But I cannot in all good conscience stand by and allow this devil—”

“I don't think you have a choice,” Jack stated calmly.

Both Livy and Briarwood jerked their heads around to look at him.

“You can spout all the good intentions in the world and all your concerns for Henry's righteous upbringing that you want, Briarwood, but you and I both know at the heart of the matter rests finances. I will not be blackmailed.”

Briarwood straightened his shoulders. “I assure you, sir, I care only for the welfare of my cousin's son. You will see your good name ruined—”

“As you've pointed out on several occasions I have no good name. The name I have means less to me than my money. Make all the threats you want, I'll not pay you.”

Briarwood was losing his composure and Jack had little doubt he'd accurately guessed the man's reason in coming here.

“I shall go see Beckwith in the morning. If you should change your mind—”

“I won't,” Jack said.

Briarwood looked at Olivia. “Think on it. Together we can put matters to right.”

Without a further word, he lumbered out of the room.

“Is this blackmail? Is that what he's doing?” Olivia asked quietly.

Jack turned back to her. “Yes.”

“Why not pay him to stop these vicious rumors?”

“His accusations are false. If I pay him, I give credence to them, and then he'll only come back for more. It'll become a circle and we'll be left with no way out.”

“But what if he adds my indiscretions to his rumors?”

“We gain nothing by paying him.”

“We gain his silence.”

“I will not be blackmailed.”

“Briarwood thought you'd blackmailed Lovingdon. He thought that was the reason you were named guardian.”

“It seems Briarwood has an uncanny ability to be wrong.”

“You don't like him.”

“Not particularly.”

She studied him a moment before saying, “I know you'd never hurt Henry.”

“Good.” He moved toward her and she skirted around him. It seemed she'd been paying more attention than he realized when he'd been teaching Henry how to dodge.

“But…” she began and stopped.

“But?”

She turned to face him. “But regarding me: I am loath to admit it, but Briarwood is correct. My behavior has been abominable.”

“Livy—”

“No. I know you have the wherewithal to convince me otherwise. If you but touch me, kiss me, I will follow you wherever you lead. Look at me.” She spread her arms wide. “I'm barely a month into mourning and here I am wearing red. Lying in bed with a man to whom I'm not married. For God's sake—look what we did when traveling on a railway!”

“Livy, this is exactly what he wanted, to give you
doubts, to make you question me. It only serves to strengthen his standing.”

“Did you seduce me to strengthen yours?”

He spun on his heel, went to his table, and poured whiskey into a glass. “I'll not dignify that question with an answer.”

“Do I mean anything to you other than a bit of sport?”

“You're playing right into his hands.”

“I've played right into yours often enough, haven't I? What are we doing here, you and I?”

Did she really expect an answer to that question? Did she truly think he knew? Yes, she was a bit of sport, but she was more, and he didn't know how to define their relationship. He couldn't imagine his life without her in it. But neither could he imagine telling her that.

“Do you still intend to try to marry me off?”

Did he? The thought of another man touching her was enough to send riotous fury rushing through him. He'd never before had a problem sharing women. Why her? Why could he not stand the thought of her going to any other man?

“What then?” she asked, as though growing tired of waiting for him to form some sort of comprehendible answer to what should have been such a simple question. “Your mistress? I think not. I fear Briarwood was correct. I have forgotten myself.” He heard her swallow. “Jack, tomorrow I'd like to take Henry to the country,” she said quietly.

“No.”

“Please don't insist I go alone.”

Alone. She was leaving him, with or without Henry.
God, that she would want to be rid of him badly enough to go without Henry said everything. He looked over his shoulder at her. The sadness in her eyes almost brought him to his knees. The sadness and the regret. He'd taught her the enjoyment of immediate pleasures, encouraged her to taste them without giving thought to the hard price to be paid later. She was now paying a dearer price than he ever would.

“I'm going to the club.” He strode past her, stopped. “I want you and Henry gone before I return late tomorrow morning. And take the damn dog with you.”

He was almost to the door when he heard her first sob. It took every ounce of strength he possessed to continue on.

 

Henry wasn't nearly as excited at the prospect of going to the country as Olivia expected him to be. It was because Jack wasn't going with them. Henry adored the man.

Not that she could blame him. He could be charming when he wanted to be, and he certainly seemed to have a way with Henry. Was it because of all the boys at his club?

Sitting in a chair beside his bed, she read to Henry, her words flat, his interest flagging. Not because he was tired. She could see that he wasn't. Each creak of the residence had his gaze darting to the door as though he was expecting—hoping—Jack would come through it and tell him that he wouldn't be going to the country.

Had Henry loved his father even half as much as he seemed to love Jack?

Olivia closed the book. Henry gave her a guilty look.
She thought it unlikely that he was going to fall asleep anytime soon, which would make him grumpy in the morning when they began the journey.

“I'm thinking of going for a walk in the garden,” she said. It was dark but not terribly late. She wasn't in the mood for bed either, or for being alone. “Would you like to go with me?”

He nodded. “Can I take Pippin?”

She couldn't remember the last time he'd stammered. “Of course.” She turned to Ida. “Henry and I are going for a walk in the garden.”

“I'll get him ready for you, Your Grace.”

It was only a few minutes before she and Henry were strolling through the garden, the occasional lantern providing a shadowy path.

“I think Pippin will like the country, don't you?” Olivia asked.

She could see Henry nodding.

“Why isn't Jack coming?”

“He has business to see to here.” She crouched before him, turned him to face her. “Henry, you have to understand—”

A shadow stepped out of the darkness.