Surrender to a Wicked Spy (11 page)

Do I have your word, Olivia? Will you wait naked for me, with nothing but the candlelight touching your skin?

Ah, well, there you had it. He couldn't very well be the cause of her breaking her word, could he?

He threw back the covers and stood. His headache was easing, likely because all the throbbing had been diverted to other areas.

He pushed the footstool aside and entered her room, looking eagerly toward the fire. The tub was there, but the used toweling and the wetted floor meant he'd missed his chance.

"Dane? Is your head worse?"

Her concerned voice came from behind him and he heard a rustle as if she moved his way. He held up a hand to stop her without turning.

"Do you recall what you promised me this morning, Olivia?"

He heard her draw a breath. "Y—yes. But your head—"

"You gave me your word, Olivia."

A pause. "Yes, Dane," she said quietly. He heard a heavy rustle, the sound of damp toweling hitting the carpet.

He turned.

She stood there, bare and glowing from the heat of her bath and the blush beneath her skin. Her chin was high, but her gaze slid away from him and her fingers twitched nervously at her sides.

A pagan goddess indeed. Her heavy breasts rose and fell with each broken breath, her nipples crinkled with chill and… arousal? Dane moved toward her, desperately curious. She wouldn't look at him.

He reached out one hand and slowly drew his fingertip lightly up her belly and between her breasts. She shuddered spasmodically, her flesh twitching beneath his touch. He felt her breath on his chest where the dressing gown had parted slightly, a small, hot gust on his skin.

He drew his finger up between her collarbones and up her throat until he could tip her chin back and see her eyes. She shut them as her head tilted.

"Look at me." The words were soft, but he wasn't asking.

Her eyes fluttered open and his question was answered. Her gray eyes were dark and hot with excitement.

Dane thoughtfully stroked one thumb down her cheek. She was so many women in one, it seemed. Sometimes shy and diffident, sometimes confident, and sometimes, like now, she was a keg of gunpowder that begged to be ignited.

"Do you like this, sweet Olivia, this obedience to me in our bed play? Does it arouse you to be mastered?"

He felt her swallow, her throat convulsing against his hand. She nodded, a tiny movement.

"Do you trust me?"

She nodded again, her gaze never leaving his. She felt wordless and acquiescent before his virility and strength. She was under a spell, as if he held her will in the palm of his hand. It was his instrument, and she was merely the music it played.

"Lay on the bed then," he ordered softly.

She did so, aware that he watched her bend and crawl up onto the counterpane. Even her natural shyness could not compete with the thrilling command in his deep voice.

She lay down on her back. He moved to stand at the foot of the bed, a blond giant framed by the bed curtains. "I want to see you hold your breasts in your hands."

Olivia shivered, but she obeyed, covering her breasts with her hands.

"No." His voice was soft steel. "I want you to heft them, as if you are proud of them. Hold them high."

She hesitated.

He tilted his head. "Do you wish me to leave?"

She shook her head sharply. No, she wanted him to be here. She wanted him to stay. She lifted her full breasts in her hands, pressing them high until her rigid' nipples pointed proudly to the ceiling.

"Do you remember my mouth on them last night?" His husky tone proved that he certainly did. Olivia nodded, closing her eyes to recall the wet roughness of his tongue and the sharp pleasure of his teeth.

"Touch your sweet nipples. Pinch and roll them between your fingers, as if my mouth is on you."

With a quiver, she wondered dreamily how far this would go. He would never hurt her. That she believed with all her heart. This… play… was about pleasing them both, but she knew so little. The yawning void of her knowledge only served to titillate instead of frighten. He had much to teach her.

She couldn't wait.

She did as he commanded, rolling her hard nipples between her fingers. It felt pleasant, but it was the thought that he was watching her that sent hot jolts of fire deep into her belly. Her head fell back and she surrendered to his gaze, all shyness gone, excited beyond belief.

"Open your thighs, my lady," he said, his voice tight.

She parted her knees slightly.

She sensed him putting his weight on the foot of the bed and felt his large, hot hands on her inner thighs. "Open," he said.

Her eyes flew open. Did he mean for her to expose her sex, with the candles lighted and him leaning over her? He pressed her knees open wide until she felt the cool air on her dampness.

Evidently so. Mortification threatened to drown out her arousal and she clenched her eyes shut once more.

"You're beautiful, my lady. You're like the petals of a rose, still yet to bloom entirely." His hands slid up her thighs to caress those petals, leaving trails of warmth behind.

Olivia slowly released her embarrassment, realizing that he meant to stroke her there again, as he had the night before. How lovely. She'd been so hoping—

He lowered his mouth to her.

Hot shock rippled through her. Outrageous! Shocking—

Oh,
the pleasure
!

Sweet, liquid, fiery,
wicked
pleasure!

She forgot the candles. She forgot the shyness. She forgot the very world itself. Nothing existed but the wild, primal ecstasy provided by his hot mouth.

Her hands flew to the side and she gripped fistfuls of linens, seeking any handhold to keep her from flying into the night and losing herself in the stars.

His hands pressed her open, pinning her thighs, his fingertips still parting her for his sinuous invasion. She was grateful for that solid mooring as his lips, tongue, and teeth drove her higher.

Slick and probing, his tongue entered her, stabbing deep, then flicking up to where her sensitive nub awaited. He kept moving, lips and tongue on her nub, then below, then back, slippery with her wetness, all heat and sensation and delightful circling tongue until she thought she'd die of it—

Her body convulsed, the explosion dimming that of the night before. Pleasure swept in rollicking waves from the center of her body out to her fingertips, stealing her breath on its way.

On and on it went, rocketing through her until sheer exhaustion brought her sliding down from that high plane. She lay panting, slowly becoming aware of her surroundings once more.

Dane rose from her and leaned one shoulder on the bedpost, watching his lady wife come back from the most violent orgasm he'd ever witnessed.

How could it be that such a proper young woman was so responsive to his merest touch? Even now, she lay sprawled shamelessly on the bed, her thighs wide, her breasts heaving with her panting, her damp hair wild on the pillow.

She was an erotic picture to be sure and he couldn't deny some pride in making her thus. His own ignored arousal beat at the walls of his will like a caged beast, his erection twitching mightily beneath his dressing gown.

It would take the merest parting of the heavy silk to expose him. She was as ready as he could wish, plumped and slippery and waiting for—

For someone normal.

Slamming the iron bars on temptation, he rose from her bed. The maid had left out her gown on the foot. He lifted it, stroking the filmy stuff between his fingers.

"Put this on, Olivia," he said softly. "You need to cover yourself—"
so I won't ravage you senseless
. "For warmth."

She stretched, finally closing those tempting thighs. Blinking wearily, she gave him a soft smile.

"Did I do that right?"

The infinite Tightness of her could not be denied. He placed the gown into her hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I shall see you tomorrow, my lady. Sleep well."

It was a damned sure thing he would not.

"Dane."

He stopped automatically at the tone of command in her voice, obeying her much the way the other men had earlier tonight. Then he shook off that reaction and turned to face her. "Olivia, I would prefer that you use that only in emergency situations."

"Use what, pray tell?" She blinked innocently at him, her face still flushed from his lovemaking. She began to push back the covers. "I only wished to remind you that I intend to stay with you tonight."

"No." He held up a hand when she began to rise. If he spent one more moment with her thus, with the firelight flickering on her skin, his control would shatter. "You must rest as well. I shall have Proffit check in on me." He shook his head against her protest. "My lady, Proffit makes an obscene salary to look after me. Let him earn it. I beg of you, let me be tonight."

She nodded, obviously curious in a sleepy way, until he turned and left her chamber, blowing out the candle on the way.

«
^
»

When Olivia awoke the next morning, she rolled over with a smile on her face before she even opened her eyes. Things would be different today. She was sure that she and Dane had crossed a boundary the night before. He'd saved her life. She'd taken care of him.

He'd done that
thing
.

She bit her lip, her smile turning naughty, wondering if she could convince him to do that thing again.

At any rate, he would be properly glad to see her this morning. Perhaps he might even steal a quick kiss when the servants weren't looking.

She rose and dressed, too cheerful for even Petty's sour presence to oppress. She danced downstairs, feeling as though she could bear any number of Petty with Dane's presence to bolster her.

But Dane was nowhere to be found.

Instead, his study contained only Lord Dryden sitting behind Dane's massive oak desk. He looked very much at home in the deep green, masculine room. He smiled at her when she entered, although she noticed he slid the pages he was viewing beneath the blotter before he stood to greet her with a bow.

"Good morning, Lady Greenleigh. Did you rest well? No ill effects from last night's incident, I hope."

Last night
. The only ill effect Olivia felt was a slight weakness in the knees, but she didn't think that was what he meant.

She bobbed an absentminded curtsy. "I-am-very-well-thank-you. Have you seen his lordship?"

He smiled slightly. "Himself is out, I'm afraid. I believe he said he'd be back before lunch."

Olivia sat in the chair opposite the desk, her enthusiasm deflated. "Oh."

Lord Dryden sat as well, a grin creeping across his face. "I take it that there's nothing I can help you with in his stead?"

Olivia jerked her head up at his teasing tone. Yes, he did mean what she thought he'd meant. She ought to .be insulted. She ought to fling herself about in a fit of offense.

The look on his face was puckish and the gleam in his eyes was friendly, not lecherous.

She couldn't help it. She snickered.

His grin widened. "You're quite a surprise, I must say." He leaned back in his chair and regarded her. "I thought you'd be more of a Miss Hackerman sort."

Olivia rolled her eyes. "What, all style and no substance? Spare me the Misses Hackermans of the world, do please."

Lord Dryden made a moue. "Oh, I don't know. I like her well enough—"

"
In absentia
," they said together, and laughed.

Olivia regarded him with a smile. "I think you ought to call me by my given name. It ought to save hours out of your life, since you always seem to be here."

He bowed his head. "It would be my honor, Olivia. You must call me Marcus." He quirked one side of his mouth. "I do have a home of my own, you know." He shrugged. "Dane's cook is better."

She laughed again, shaking her head. "Men and their stomachs. My brother was just the same." She smiled fondly at Marcus. "You are very much like him."

Since it was intended to be nothing less than a compliment, she was surprised to see a flash of distaste cross his face.

She recalled last night, when Lord Reardon had much the same reaction to young Lord Wallingford—supposedly Walter's closest friend in London.

She gazed at Marcus with confusion. "Did you know my brother?"

He looked down at his hands. "I can't say that I did. We… ah, ran in different circles, you might say." His tone said he didn't approve of Walter's circle.

"What do you mean?"

Marcus looked away. "My apologies. One shouldn't speak ill of the dead."

She folded her arms and glared at him. "People only say that when they truly want to speak ill of the dead."

His gaze slid back toward her. "Ah. Well…"

She let her breath out in a sigh. "Marcus, I only want to know what happened to my brother. I loved him, but I realize that no one is perfect."

Marcus's gaze softened. "I never heard anything ill of your brother himself… only of the company he kept."

Olivia leaned forward. "What company was that?"

Marcus frowned. "They're a useless lot, all in all. A bunch of well-dressed ruffians living on their expectations. More stupid than dangerous most of the time, but they've been known to do harm to…" He hesitated.

"Do harm to whom?" Walt would never harm anyone—well, that wasn't entirely true. There was the time he'd caught the blacksmith's son torturing a stray dog with a freshly heated poker. A broken nose and some cracked ribs—yes, what had happened to the other, much larger boy might be termed harm.

Yet Olivia didn't think Marcus was talking about boyhood fights. "Do harm to whom?"

"The ringleader, young Lord Wallingford—well, suffice it to say that his family tends to go through housemaids rather quickly. And his second, Lord Ashby, is rumored to have raped his younger sister's governess, although the woman disappeared before any charges were brought. Lord Connor isn't as bad, although he won't lift a finger to halt the excesses of the others. Too drunk, most likely."

Olivia listened with growing horror. "No! Walt wasn't like that at all! He wouldn't consort with that sort of fellow, ever! He was honorable and fine and—"