Sara Bennett (13 page)

Her mouth was sweet, warm, and willing. She was heavy against him, and he realized that she had tumbled forward into his arms, and all he had to do was hold on to her as he moved back, and she would be in his lap. He burrowed his nose into her neck, breathing in the scent of her, feeling that pulse, and then gently tugged her earlobe with his teeth. She gave a little shriek, and then groaned as his mouth nibbled its way across her cheek to her mouth again. Her hands clung to his shoulders, gripping the dark cloth as if she would never let him go.

He slid his arm around the curve of her waist and cupped her breast in his palm, or what he could feel of her breast beneath her undergarments. Often he found the lacings and fastenings of such garments tantalizing and erotic, but not today. Today they were simply in the way of what he really wanted.

His skin against hers.

She wriggled against him, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thing as he. He paused a moment in his kisses to lean back and gaze into her face. Her mouth was reddened and swollen, her eyes glittering and half closed, and she was breathing quickly. Whatever game she had been playing with him a moment ago, he did not believe she was pretending now. There was true passion in Vivianna, and not just for her orphans. This was passion for the pleasure to be had between him and her.

He wanted to claim her, to possess her body with
his. But more than that—he wanted her heart and soul. He wanted the essence that was Vivianna Greentree, although he didn’t know what he would do once he had it. The realization was so strange and dangerous that a voice in his head spoke a warning.

Oliver knew he should stop—Anthony would have told him to stop. A true gentleman would stop. But, just as he had almost convinced himself that he was still a gentleman and here was his chance to show his better side, Vivianna spoiled it.

She licked her lips again.

With a groan, Oliver bent again to kiss her, pulling her against his chest so that as much of her was touching him as was possible. He didn’t care she might feel how aroused he was, the hard length of him straining against his trousers. He wanted her to know. Oliver reached down and caught the folds of her skirts, drawing them up until his hand touched her petticoats and then, blissfully, the stuff of her stocking. Fingers sliding up, he found ribbons, and then the plain calico of her drawers. He edged his fingers beneath the loose cloth and, at last, touched bare flesh. Soft and warm. Trembling, he caressed the curve of her knee.

In Oliver’s experience this was often the moment when women drew back. They might kiss and touch, but if a man put his hand beneath their skirts, on bare flesh, the game was up.

He waited for Vivianna to pull away.

She was combing her fingers through his hair. Her mouth was against his jaw, his throat, nibbling above his cravat.

His fingers slid higher, caressing, enjoying the tender flesh of her thigh. Now she would tell him to stop, he thought, panting. Now she would slap him, and berate him, and…

Vivianna gasped and her head dropped back, her throat stretched out to his mouth, as if her strength had deserted her. He made her a necklace of kisses, and then pressed his face into the swell of her breasts through the cloth of her bodice. She held his head and kept him there, her chest rising and falling violently, as if she couldn’t find enough air in the close confines of the coach, or her corset.

His hand stroked against her hip, beneath her skirts, and then he pressed his palm to her soft belly. She didn’t stop him, and his head was light as air. There was an opening running from the front to the back of the drawers, between her legs. Oliver took advantage of it now. His fingers slipped within and found warm, soft curls.

Vivianna went still.

Oh God, please don’t let her stop me now…not now….

Shaking, his fingers tentatively trailed through her silky hair, and found that warm, female opening. She was hot and moist—just like her mouth after all. He stroked her.

Vivianna moaned, a soft sound of absolute surprise and absolute pleasure. It was then that Oliver realized she wasn’t going to stop him. In fact, she had stilled because she was concentrating so hard on what he was doing to her. Lost in the touch and feel of him, as he was in her.

Boldly, lovingly, he stroked her again, trembling as much as she. She moved against him, opening to him. He felt her warm breath against his temple, and lifted his face blindly for her mouth. She found him, her tongue hot against his. Somehow his seduction of her had become something far more. He felt, almost, as if she were seducing him.

“Don’t stop,” she gasped.

He laughed.

“Is this what women are meant to feel?” she asked. “All women?”

“Yes. Although sometimes they deny it, or deny themselves….”

“You mean because they are respectable wives and daughters? I do not believe it is only courtesans who feel this way. All women are made equally, surely, and—”

He groaned, and kissed her to stop her damned talking. Her hands were fastened upon his shoulders, and she moved against his fingers, without shame, without embarrassment, completely lost in sensation. Oliver could feel her weeping against his hand, her body urging him on. He needed no urging. He had never felt anything more exquisite. Her breath was coming quickly now, and he stroked harder, leaning back so that he could watch her face. There was something very erotic in watching Vivianna come to her peak. Or perhaps it was the arrogant conquering male in him that made him want to celebrate his victory.

Her eyelids fluttered shut, her lips were slightly parted, her cheeks bloomed with the flush of sexual desire. She rocked against him, faster and faster, until finally she let out a sweet, soft cry. Her whole body arched, her braids tumbling down her back, her hands clutching at his jacket, and then she went limp in his arms.

Reluctantly Oliver withdrew his hand from beneath her skirts. His cock was hard and aching and he wanted nothing more than to push inside her and give himself release. But now was not the time. A quick glance toward the window showed him that they were well on their way to Candlewood. At any moment they would be turning through the ornate gateposts.

Gently, with particular care and attention, he rearranged her petticoats and skirts back over her stockinged legs and, shifting her into the crook of his arm, he smoothed and straightened the remainder of her clothing. She lay complacent against him, as trusting as a child. When he was done, he lifted her, both hands firm around her waist, and placed her back on to her seat on the opposite side of the coach.

Vivianna sat there and stared at him with an expression of growing and absolute horror.

Oliver was tempted to laugh, but he guessed she would not appreciate levity. Instead, he said, “We are nearly there. If we had half an hour more, Vivianna, I would not stop. I would take you right here, right now. And I
will
have you. I have just marked you as mine.”

His voice was so low and fierce, he thought he had frightened her, until he saw the flash of anger in her eyes.

“How can you say such a thing?” she managed. “Have you no sense of what is proper?”

He grinned.
Proper?
After what they had just done? “I have your scent,” he said. “You’re mine.”

She opened her mouth as if to retaliate, but it seemed she could find nothing to say, and she closed it again. She picked up her bonnet and put it on, tying the ribbons with fingers that trembled violently.

Oliver did his best not to remember the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her on his fingers, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut as his body throbbed and burned. But he promised himself that he
would
have her, and if he was any judge of women he did not think she would put up much resistance.

V
ivianna could not believe what had just happened.

After ignoring him seemed to have run its course, after he had put his warm mouth against her wrist and made her feel dizzy and strange, she had taken out Aphrodite’s letter and read the last part of it. The final instructions.

She
was in charge? Well, she had been for a time. As she smoothed her skirts and licked her lips, Vivianna
had found she was enjoying herself. It might be wicked, it might be shocking, but it was also the most exciting and daring thing she had ever done.

And, astoundingly, Oliver had responded, watching her as though she were the most fascinating creature in London. Were men really such simple creatures? she had asked herself with a new and growing awareness. She had him in her power. She really, really did.

And then it had gone wrong. Suddenly he was kissing her and touching her, and she had forgotten the instructions and everything else but the sensation of his hands on her body.

She had failed.

If she wasn’t so terribly embarrassed—and so terribly aware of him—she would have asked to be set down. She would rather have walked along the roadside like a journeyman than be seated here with him. Her body tingled and ached—especially the place he had touched and rubbed and plucked like a violin string, until…good Lord, he had made something happen to her! A great wave of heat and pleasure had rippled through her and she had cried out. Her skin felt as if the top layer had been taken off; so sensitive that even the still air in the coach abraided it.

Of course she knew she should have stopped. But she hadn’t been able to. She hadn’t
wanted
to, she corrected herself. She had been so caught up in the experience, in the pleasure, in being held in his arms like that, that she hadn’t wanted to stop at all. It was what she had wanted from the beginning—to experience physical passion with the man of her choice without ties. To place herself into the hands of an expert.

Did that make her a fallen woman? An immoral woman? Vivianna did not believe that. She did not accept that. She could not! But, sadly, however much she
had enjoyed herself, she was no closer to gaining her promise of Candlewood from Oliver Montegomery.

“Vivianna.”

She didn’t want to look at him. Not yet.

“Vivianna,” he said, his voice low and caressing. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to fear.”

“I am not ashamed, and I do not fear you,” she said in a jerky little voice she hardly recognized. No, she didn’t fear Oliver.

Vivianna feared herself.

She had completely forgotten all of Aphrodite’s instructions, and she had forgotten the shelter. How could she have forgotten the shelter? She had fallen into the arms of a rake and allowed him to pleasure her, and forgotten her real reason for being here.

“Vivianna?”

Slowly, unwillingly, she turned to him. She knew her face was scarlet, but she kept her eyes steady on his. He did not look like a monster. He did not look like a man who was about to wrestle her to the floor and have his way with her, although after what had just happened he probably thought she would welcome it. He looked like Oliver, and although his eyes were still dark with desire, and his mouth red from hers, there was a teaspoonful of doubt behind his usual indolent self-confidence.

“You enjoyed what we did, Vivianna. There’s no reason to feel guilty.”

She didn’t feel guilty in the way he imagined, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “I did enjoy it, but it wasn’t…that is, you didn’t put your…your…inside me…” The right words escaped her and her voice trailed off. The
Mr. and Mrs. England
instruction pamphlet was vivid in her mind, with its clear and rather crude illustrations.

“No, I didn’t come inside you,” he said softly, and
smiled his wicked smile. She felt her senses fizzing and popping like champagne. “I’m going to, though. Soon.”

Vivianna shivered.

The coach slowed and began to turn. She looked to the window and saw the crumbling gateposts of Candlewood, a worn lion atop each one, and the long driveway ahead. Vivianna didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, until she remembered that they still had to make the journey home.

Suddenly she couldn’t wait to be free of him.

Oliver felt the coach draw to a halt. In the center of the circular carriageway was an old fountain, long since run dry, flanked by an untidy but colorful flower garden. Before them loomed Candlewood, his grandfather’s monstrous obsession.

Thoughts of Vivianna and his lingering desire for her were put aside as Oliver remembered the morning he had come to find Anthony. It had been early, just after dawn. He had been supposed to collect his brother so that they could then travel on to the Derbyshire estate together, but in the awfulness of the scene of the night before he had almost forgotten that. Celia crying and Anthony’s white, shocked face…No, Oliver had come here to Candlewood that morning to explain. Explain! Now, there was a Herculean task. Actually, he had just wanted to apologize. To somehow turn those dreadful hours back and start again.

Instead he had found his brother dead.

Now, as then, Oliver felt himself begin to seize up with a combination of horror, grief, and guilt. But he had not come to Candlewood to wallow in the past. There would be time enough for that when he had
captured Anthony’s killer and exposed him for the savage and pitiless creature he was….

Oliver stepped briskly from the coach and turned to offer Vivianna his hand. She took it, but her fingers were unwilling and she quickly removed them, edging away from him as if she did not feel quite safe.

He gave her a proprietal glance.
Safe
was not a word he would use of himself, not when he was around Vivianna. He was like gunpowder, very unstable and likely to explode. At least he had regained control over his lust for her. For now. God help him on the journey home.

His thoughts scattered as a dozen or more children, wearing clothing made of all colors and patterns, like a flock of exotic birds, came running from the house and down the steps toward them. Behind the children, alternating between a quick trot and a sedate walk, were two dainty middle-aged women with fair ringlets.

“Miss Greentree!” the children cried, as if Vivianna had come to save them from some awful fate. “Miss Greentree!”

Oliver swore under his breath.

This was going to be worse than he had thought. Much worse.

Vivianna cast him a glance, but whether it was a look of warning to behave or to check whether or not he was about to pounce on her, he couldn’t tell. Then the children were upon them, circling them and chattering, clutching at Vivianna’s skirts and grinning up at her. In another moment the women had reached them, too, clapping their hands at the children as if they were ducklings to be shooed back to their pen.

“Give Miss Greentree a little room, children, please! That’s better. Now give her a curtsy, girls, and
a bow, boys. Excellent, Eddie and Jim! Beautiful, Ellen!”

Vivianna gave them all her brilliant smile. Despite what had happened in the coach, which must be deeply troubling to her, she had set aside her own concerns for the children. That smile was so real and unassumed—her entire heart was in it. Just as she put her heart into everything she did.

“I think you have met Lord Montegomery.” Vivianna was busy organizing them. “My lord, you know my friends Miss Susan Beatty and Miss Greta Beatty.”

“Yes, we have met. The last time you came to Candlewood you brought a carpenter.” Miss Susan Beatty gave him a cool smile.

“You kept the children waiting outside in the cold while you and your man inspected the house.” Miss Greta Beatty was also chilly.

Oliver hadn’t realized that at the time. All he had wanted to do was find his grandfather’s secret chamber, and discover what it was Anthony had hidden within it. He hadn’t found a thing, and he could still taste the disappointment.

“Better a sniffle than the roof falling down on them, surely, Miss Beatty?” he said offhandedly, playing his part.

Their looks were glacial. Vivianna cleared her throat and regained her hold on the situation. “Well, that’s in the past, and I am sure Lord Montegomery means to allow us all to stay inside today. We must make the most of his visit to Candlewood to show him what we have achieved here.”

The Beatty sisters exchanged glances and smiled, and then their gazes returned to Vivianna with expressions of total love and trust. Oliver hid his exasperation with difficulty—the woman was incredible.

“We do thank you for coming, Lord Montegomery. We appreciate it. The
children
appreciate it.” The two sisters were sincere—at least in their desire to please Vivianna.

“Do they?” Oliver raised his eyebrows and looked at the ring of curious faces that had gathered about him. One little boy with a freckled nose said, with all the confidence of the London streets, “Are they your ’orses, mister?”

“They are.”

“Did they cost an awful lot?”

“Yes, they cost a great deal.”

“Can I ride ’em?”

“What, all at once?”

The boy crowed in delight.

“You ever seen a lion, mister? A real one, I mean, not one o’ them stone ones.”

“I believe there is one in the zoo. Surely you don’t intend to ride a lion as well as my horses?”

“Naw! I can ride a stone one, though. There’s one inside Candlewood. I’ll show you if you like.”

“Thank you, but I prefer to ride horses. Very unadventurous of me, I know.”

The boy chuckled, his eyes dancing. “You’re funny, mister.”

“Eddie! Have you been visiting the forbidden part of the house? You know it is dangerous in there.”

Seeing the look of disapproval on the Beatty sisters’ faces, Eddie bowed his head. But Oliver noticed that his smile was still there, and he thought that was a good sign both for the character of the boy and the child-rearing skills of the Beattys. He had grown up without a great many restrictions, almost an orphan himself, although his rackety father had still been alive then. Aunt Marsh and his grandfather had been his
real parents, and Anthony the older brother, watching over him.

Who had been there to watch over Anthony, the night he died?

“Lord Montegomery, will you take tea?” Miss Susan was giving him an apprehensive smile.

Vivianna answered with, “Of course he will, won’t you, my lord?” She didn’t quite look him in the eye.

“Only if there is gingerbread with it,” he said, pretending not to notice how the children were hanging on his every word. Eddie in particular was standing very close to him, and Oliver resisted an urge to check to see if his pocket watch was still tucked safely into his waistcoat pocket. Some of the little boys and girls were as old as ten, and others no more than toddlers. One little girl of five or six clung to a rag doll and peered at him under her too-big mobcap. He smiled at her, and had the satisfaction of seeing a shy gleam in her eyes.

“That is Ellen,” Miss Susan murmured, nodding at the little girl with the shy eyes. She leaned closer, so that the child could not overhear. “Her mother sold her to a brothel. Some people believe that the use of an unsullied child will cure syphilis.”

Oliver blinked, and knew his face had gone pale. This was not new to him; he knew such things happened. But to see the girl before him…it made him uneasy. It made a difference.

“She is unhurt,” Miss Susan went on, as if she were discussing something quite normal to her world—Oliver supposed that such stories
were
normal to this respectable, middle-aged spinster. “One of the other girls in the brothel was kind enough to smuggle the child out to us. I have nothing against such places,
Lord Montegomery, if both parties wish to participate in them, but the selling of children…I cannot allow that.”

“What about the boy…Eddie?”

Miss Susan smiled. “He’s a scamp, isn’t he? Eddie’s father left him to be looked after by a lady friend. She treated him unkindly, and he ran away and lived on the streets, fending for himself. He’s a good little thief, is Eddie, but we’re hoping to find something more rewarding for him to do.”

Miss Greta was on his other side, and attached herself to his arm—to keep him from escaping?—as they walked toward the house.

“Did you know, Lord Montegomery, that there are no schools for the poor, other than those funded by the church or charity? The government does not consider it necessary to educate children like these.”

“Surely the 1834 Poor Law—”

“Yes, the Poor Law.” Miss Greta’s mouth pursed. “People without means were once supported in their own parishes. Now they are herded into workhouses, or else they starve. Families, my lord, are split asunder.”

“I did not realize—”

“Workhouses are machines, Lord Montegomery. They are factories. All the inmates wear the same clothing and eat at the same time every day. Their days are structured. There is no place for individuality. Here at the shelter we celebrate individuality!”

“So I see—”

“The children at our shelter learn reading, writing, arithmetic, and spelling; these subjects are all important. But we also aim to teach them more than the basics. There is music—we have a pianoforte and hope to purchase some other instruments—a little French,
and dancing. And of course cooking and needlework for the girls. We have found that some of the more respectable men in the village are willing to teach the boys the rudimentary skills of their trades. I do think boys benefit from a more masculine approach. It is a pity that we do not have horses here. I have heard there is a great demand for grooms, stable lads, coach drivers, and the like. Eddie, in particular, is very fond of horses.”