Fool Me Twice (18 page)

But
had
he? Sitting at his desk, she’d scrambled to feel him out. His questions were probing, incisive. She felt like a tennis player parrying desperately against an unexpectedly skilled opponent. Was his suspicion based on some credible cause? Had she betrayed herself somehow? Or was Amanda’s overblown reference the only cause for it?

Most unnerving of all was the growing sensation that she was not facing the same man whom she’d come to know during these past weeks. Somehow, in the journey downstairs, that wild, dark, desperate man had been replaced by a lord. He wore a well-tailored suit, his trimmed and tamed hair (Vickers must have fixed it) now framing his eyes, his face, in a manner that
accented the ruthless angles of his bone structure. And his every question bore the full force and the resurrected might of a man she had glimpsed only in flashes until now: landowner, politician, the scion of an unbroken line of aristocrats well accustomed to demanding obedience. It took every ounce of her wit to evade, resist, and rebuff him.

And then, with one line, he destroyed all her efforts:
You have cause to be proud,
he’d said, with no veil of cynicism or sarcasm to flavor it.

Perhaps he was right. He was downstairs because of her. She had helped effect this. That was cause for pride.

Yet shame, like a rush of acid in her throat, had choked her reply to him: for whatever triumph she might have otherwise gleaned from a duke’s resurrection, it was counterbalanced by what that resurrection made possible: a deceit and a theft that would destroy the startling, open respect she saw so plainly in his face.

This unhappiness weltered through her, dulling her wits; and so when he came around the table toward her, she did not glimpse his intentions until the very last moment—when he grabbed her waist and pulled her into a kiss.

His lips were hot. As masterful as his new manner. He opened her mouth with his and she tasted his tongue, and the shock was elemental; it started in her bones. Her startled breath filled her lungs with the scent of him, soap seasoned with bay leaves, the fresh lemon rinse with which he’d washed his hair. His skin. Salt and musk.

His grip at the small of her back, the flat of his palm, powerful, steadying, as her knees sagged.

Gasping, she turned her face aside—and then gasped
again as his lips found her ear, tonguing the rim, suckling her lobe. “Wait,” she said raggedly. “I don’t—this won’t work.” Not again. She had resolved it. His lips found a spot beneath her ear and it made her whole body shudder. She stiffened and struggled out of his grasp. “You don’t need to do this! I was leaving!”

He stood facing her, his full lips parted, his breath audible, his long, elegant hands flexing at his sides. Another hot wave rippled through her at that sight, at the knowledge—God help her—that those hands were flexing around the feel of
her.
“What do you mean?” he said slowly.

What was the point of this ruse? “You don’t need to run me off.” Her hands shook; she knotted them into her skirts. “
You
were the one who came in. I am going.” She turned on her heel.

His hand on her elbow hauled her back. “Run you off?” His smile looked disbelieving . . . and then delighted. “Is that what you think I’m trying to do?” He reached up and nudged her spectacles into place. “Look more closely,” he murmured. “Or perhaps you’re truly blind.”

He was pulling her into him. Millimeter by millimeter, he was drawing her close. And she let him do it, because there was something in his expression . . . Who had ever looked at her that way before? As though her face were a spell, a piece of hypnotism, to which he played the willing, fascinated victim. His eyes were oceans, and she was lost in them . . .

Their lips met again. She did not move. Did not breathe. Gently his mouth molded over hers. She did not understand. If he wasn’t trying to run her off, then . . .

He was kissing her simply because he wanted to.

Everything suddenly became clear and bright. Her eyes drifted closed. Her hand found the back of his head, the shorn hair, still so soft; the feel of his skull, solid and curving. His mouth opened, and so did hers. Their tongues met. He was perfectly tall; they aligned as though designed for each other. His hand stroked her waist, and it felt as though he had unlocked something; her hips loosened, became sinuous, as she pressed against him.

Like that moment when the off-key string finally came into tune and joined with the chord, and the air vibrated with purity: her lips belonged with his; her body came into tune with him. Only she hadn’t guessed until this moment, as the kiss lengthened and opened a world of new sensations, that rightness could sing through her, a pure and perfect completion, and reverberate through her blood, and make it leap.

This
was desire. Before it had manifested only in symptoms. But here was the full illness, and in his lips lay the cure. His mouth, his tongue, were wholesome to her, hot, exactly what her body craved . . . what it
needed . . .

“Oh!”

The shrill exclamation brought Olivia to her senses. She leapt back, whirled, and found Polly hastily closing the door.

“Oh!” She felt the word slip through her fingers, and only then did she realize she was covering her mouth. “Oh!” She looked back at him, appalled.

He gave her a roguish half smile. “Oh.”

Sanity pierced her like a needle. It drew her loose limbs back into tight, rigid alignment. She narrowed her eyes at him.

He leaned back against the desk, raffish and unashamed. “Find a new employer.” He shrugged. “Or, if I am so lucky, don’t.”

On a strangled hiss, she fled.

Once in the hallway, the door slammed shut behind her, she sank against the wall. Her legs felt weak. She stared blindly at the suit of armor standing guard opposite.
My God!
That had actually happened! He had kissed her. And she’d reacted like a wanton.

A strange smile seized her, stupid and amazed.
She
had behaved like a
wanton
. Who would have guessed it?

She made herself scowl. This was nothing to be proud of.

But Mama had always told her that passion could make one a fool, and she had never believed it . . . until now. For there came a sound from within the study, the creak as his footsteps approached the door, and all she wanted to do was remain right here, waiting for his exit, to see what he might do next . . . and what
she
might do, what
she
might learn of herself, that she had never before suspected.

Instead, she snatched up her skirts and hurried down the hall—and then skidded to a stop by the staircase. Polly stood leaning against the banister, arms crossed, brows raised.

Mortification flooded her. Good God! After all the stern lectures she had delivered on proper behavior, to be caught
frolicking
with Marwick—

“It’s your half day, ain’t it?” Polly smirked. “P’raps I might go out with you.”

Mutely she shook her head. She did not take half days. Why risk leaving the house to be spotted?

Polly made a little chiding click of her tongue. “I
heard Jones saying just this morning that he wanted you to fetch the fancy stuff from the market.”

You shouldn’t eavesdrop.
She folded her lips together. After what Polly had seen, how could she make such pronouncements? Oh, heavens—Polly would tell
everyone
.

It doesn’t matter,
she told herself. She would be out of this house within the week. He had left his rooms now, hadn’t he?
Less
than a week, then.

She wanted to sink through the floor.

“Well?” Polly’s devilish grin showed how much she was enjoying this—and how little she cared to disguise it.

Olivia cleared her throat. “Yes.” Her voice croaked. “That’s very true.” To ensure the kitchens suffered no additional thefts, Jones had proposed that
she
purchase all the expensive and rare supplies, and deliver them directly to Cook, whose knee prevented her from going to market herself. “But I didn’t think—”

Polly looked pointedly over her shoulder. “Oh, here comes His Grace. Interrupting again, am I? Is that why you can’t go?”

Olivia sucked in a breath. “All right, then.” Perhaps she could buy Polly’s silence with an ounce or two of saffron.

*  *  *

On a sunny afternoon, Piccadilly was a tangle of omnibuses, shouting cabmen, lady shoppers promenading beneath parasols, errand boys bearing packages, and impatient gentlemen who seemed to believe everyone should yield the road to their high-strung thoroughbreds. The entirety of the city seemed out to carouse, and the aisles of Swan & Edgar’s were crushed.

It took Olivia ten minutes, and a very sharp tone of voice, to flag the attention of a young female salesclerk. The girl seemed peculiarly ungratified to be making such a significant sale, a small fortune’s worth of spices: cardamom, Ceylon cinnamon, mace, saffron, and white pepper. As the goods were packaged, Olivia waited for Polly to say something—some sly remark to hint at what she required to keep quiet.

But Polly showed no interest in the proceedings. Her elbows on the counter, she faced out toward the crowds, looking with transparent curiosity at the grand dames and the harried bourgeois mothers, whose brawling broods quarreled and chased each other through a sea of skirts.

As they exited back into daylight, Olivia started for the cabstand, but Polly caught her elbow. “Why not a stroll?” she said. “We’ve the time for it, aye? And St. James ain’t a far walk.”

Olivia knew better than to trust her. They had crossed swords far too often for that. But out of doors, Polly looked different somehow—far younger, less sour. The natural light lent her olive skin a flushed, vigorous radiance that one more often saw on young children. And the light in her amber eyes did not seem greedy or calculating, only wistful.

Perhaps she saw Olivia’s indecision, for she said softly, “I don’t want to go back to the house just yet.”

And Olivia remembered suddenly how Vickers had pinned her up against the wall. “Is the valet still bothering you? I spoke to him, but—”

“It’s not that,” Polly said. “Only it’s so pretty out, and soon it won’t be. I don’t like the winter.”

Lingering outdoors was a risk, but surely a minor
one. With so many crowds on the pavement, and a netted hat on her head to disguise her hair, Olivia felt that a passerby in a coach would never take note of her.

With a shrug and a nod, she turned down Regent Street for the park.

In the meadow, the milkmaids were selling milk straight from the cow at a penny a pint. Olivia purchased two mugs seasoned with nutmeg and cinnamon. Polly rented a gingham cloth to whip across the grass. After a moment’s indecision, Olivia set down the packages and joined her on the ground.

She had not lolled on her bum since she’d first donned a corset. Mama, who had hailed from rural Kent, had been intent on raising Olivia to a finer standard—or what she had imagined to be finer.
London ladies don’t behave so:
it had been her favorite reproof. But Mama had never actually been to London. How it would have disappointed her now. For all around them, other girls were lolling on similar blankets, enjoying their afternoon away from work—and the grass, to Olivia’s surprised pleasure, was quite comfortable.

The silence, however, was not. As she sipped the milk, she felt herself on edge again, waiting for the penny to drop.

The wardrobe of passersby—some grand, some humble—at last furnished material for a halting discussion. “There’s a smart gown,” Polly said, pointing at a woman in bronze silk. “Bit flash for the afternoon, don’t you say?”

“A bit.” Olivia’s mind began to wander.
Find a new position,
he’d said. Was that code for
I will ravish you if you stay
? And why did the thought make her stomach flutter? She should be horrified.

“Look at the clouds,” Polly said.

Olivia glanced up. Overhead was no typical London display: the sky was clear and bright, the clouds fat puffs of blinding white.

“We could be in the tropics,” she said. But only if one did not note the crispness in the air—or look around the park, so English with its severely tamed trees.

Polly reclined on one elbow. After a moment, feeling very daring, Olivia mimicked her. She was practically
lying down
in public.

The slight chill was refreshing, the sun a pleasant balm on their faces. “I’m going to freckle,” Olivia muttered as she readjusted the netting on her hat.

Polly shaded her eyes to deliver a wry look. “Ma’am, that milk was spilt long ago.”

Startled, Olivia laughed. “True enough.”

The silence between them began to feel easier. Polly gazed up, lost in the show the heavens were putting on. Olivia shut her eyes. How long since she had allowed herself to loll about, doing nothing? She could remember such afternoons in Elizabeth’s employ, but they seemed distant, part of a long-ago dream.

He had
kissed
her. She had
liked
it. How could she feel so relaxed?

“Can I ask you something?”

Tensing, she opened her eyes. “Of course.”

Polly inched closer, so their shoulders brushed. “You got some special knowledge of His Grace? Before today, I mean?”

“Of course not! Why should you think so?”

Polly shrugged. “He’s different since you came. I thought maybe that was the reason he listened to you.”

“You’re wrong,” Olivia said. “I never—” She must be
red as a cherry. “He is simply on the mend,” she said sharply. “And a bit—disordered in his thinking, which explains what you saw. But that has never happened before.” Emphatically she added, “And it won’t happen again.”

Polly pulled a face. “Does he know that?”

Olivia sat up. She could not remain at such close range to that searching look. “Of course he does.”

Find a new employer . . . or, if I am so lucky, don’t.

She swallowed. His intentions were immaterial. Now he’d left his rooms, it was only a matter of days—perhaps even hours—until she found what she needed, and fled without notice.