Surrender to a Wicked Spy (14 page)

"Dane?"

It was too soon. If only he'd had a little more time he could have made sure of her passion for him. He could have gently broached the subject. He could have—

He'd never really had much of a plan, had he? He'd lied to himself as surely as he'd lied to her, letting her believe that someday the two of them would have a normal marriage. He'd only been stalling, staving off the night when he would have to tell her she'd married into a hopeless situation.

"I shouldn't have done this to you, Olivia." He couldn't look at her, at the way her sweet expression became alarmed. "You were my only hope, but now I—" Words failed him.

He turned away, feeling clumsy and out of place in her chamber. He was a freak of nature—and now he would have to explain to her that she was tied to a freak for the rest of her life.

He felt her come to him, felt her press herself to his back and wrap her arms about him.

"Dane? What is it? What distresses you so?"

There was only one answer. For a long, last moment he enjoyed her concerned affection. Then he took her hands from where they hugged his torso and gently pushed them down his body.

Even that simple touch spurred his starving senses. He began to grow even before her hands slid past his waistline. He felt her inhale sharply when he pressed her fingers over the ridge of his growing erection. Her fingers tightened involuntarily over him, only for an instant, but his body responded with all the hunger of long celibate years. He felt himself throb against her hands.

She began to pull away from him, but he held her hands where they were. She had to know, and the truth was not finished yet, not by a long shot. He continued to swell until her two hands didn't cover him any longer, and then yet more.

"Oh my god." Her voice was no more than a whisper. A whisper of horror? Of revulsion?

Her fingers began to move, sliding up and down the length of him and back and forth the width of him, blindly measuring him through his tightened trousers.

Dane threw his head back with a great gusting breath. Her tentative touch wasn't even the caress of a lover, yet he grew still more rigid beneath her exploration. He took his hands away from hers, releasing her at last to express her repugnance for his monstrosity, to flee him and his unnatural needs.

She didn't run.

Olivia stayed where she was, pressed to Dane's broad, hard back. Her eyes were closed as she took the measure of her man.

The thick—oh, dear god, was it even possible for him to be that thick?—rigid rod of Dane's… um… instrument filled her two hands, slanting from his groin to his hipbone. She spread her fingers wide upon him, then traced the outline of him with her fingertips. He pulsed against her touch. She let her fingers continue to stroke curiously while she pondered what this meant to them both.

She wasn't entirely ignorant of the proceedings, after all. She knew what went where, in a general mammalian sense. The trouble was, she didn't think
that
was going to go
there
. No. Not. Absolutely—

Dane's hands came down over hers once more. "I cannot allow you to continue that, I fear." His voice was tight with tension.

Olivia pulled her hands away, embarrassed. She'd been absently fondling him.

"Not that I don't enjoy your touch, my dear, but—"

"May I see it?"

The question surprised her as much as it apparently did him. He turned quickly to stare at her in surprise. Drat. She'd been brazen again. Ladies didn't ask to see a gentleman's member! She truly needed to paste her lips together these days!

She folded her arms defensively and looked away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

Dane turned from her and strode to the mantel. He braced himself there on both arms and gazed into the fire. "Olivia, I cannot tell you how sorry I am."

Sorry? He was sorry? There was something still quite wrong here, but she couldn't decipher it. She sank down on the chair near him and waited.

He continued to avoid her gaze for a long moment, then he took a deep breath and pushed away from the mantel to face her. "I lied to you."

"Oh." She waited a bit more, but he didn't continue. "Precisely which lie do you mean?"

"I mean I lied when I pretended to be a normal man—" He halted, blinking at her. "What do you mean, 'which lie'?"

"Ah… nothing. I misspoke." She waved a hand. "Please continue."

He took a breath. "I promised you a normal life as my lady. I should never have wed you without letting you know… I should never have tied you to me when you could have married someone… someone not flawed as I am."

"Oh." She waited some more. Nothing. Must she pull it from him with a pair of fire tongs? She took a few breaths of her own and reached for her patience. "Which particular flaw do you mean?"

This time he was quicker. "What do you mean, 'which flaw'?" he bellowed.

She smiled. "Oh, there you are. I'm glad you're back." She smoothed her wrapper over her knees and primly clasped her hands in her lap. "Now, would you care to speak plainly in the manner to which you have led me to be accustomed?"

He passed both hands over his face, then chuckled weakly. "My lady, you are entirely unexpected."

She nodded. "I do tend to hear that on occasion. Now, pray, explain—and try to lessen the dramatic pauses."

"Very well." He leaned one elbow on the mantel and gazed at her soberly. "You experienced my flaw yourself. You must see that a natural relationship—that we cannot—that it is impossible!"

Oh. She'd been so hoping he knew more than she did. "So you are saying that you never intend to consummate our marriage?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "That is precisely what I'm saying."

"I see." Her heart was beginning to feel the effects of all this plain speaking. Olivia gazed at her own clasped hands for a moment. "Are you quite positive about this?"

He nodded. "Yes. I allowed myself to hope, but deep down I knew there was none. I cannot do such a thing to you."

Olivia closed her eyes for a long moment. "Do you think that you might have brought this up sooner? Say,
before
our wedding day?" She heard him sigh.

"I avoided you so that I would not."

She opened her eyes and frowned up at him. "Were you afraid I would not marry you?"

He blinked. "Of course."

Despite her heartbreak, she had to laugh at him. "Turn you down? The mighty, wealthy, generous, handsome Lord Greenleigh?" She shook her head at him. "How many offers do you think I received that I should be so particular?"

"Oh." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I didn't see it like that."

Olivia closed her eyes for a long moment, then took a deep breath. "So what do we do now? Shall we go to bed?"

He hesitated. "Olivia…"

"No, we are not going to go to bed?"

His jaw tightened. "Is there any point?"

No point? What about being close? What about reassurance and touch and warmth?

He bowed briefly. "Good night, my dear." Then he turned and left her chamber as she gazed after him in surprise and loss.

What about not being alone?

«
^
»

The next morning dawned as gray as Olivia's mood. Although she took pains to rise earlier to breakfast with her husband, Dane merely nodded to her over his news sheet. Then he polished off his eggs and left her alone with another distant nod.

At least he left the news sheet for her. Sadly, she couldn't seem to focus on anything heavier than the gossip column.

Someone known as "The Voice of Society" was in fine form today.

"
Turn and turn again, Darling Readers, it is time for us all to quiet our ballrooms and our mews and return to the country. Here is a winsome thought to hold you all through the long winter
—
who will our dear Prinny choose to be his new lady-love? There are widows and wives abounding, but His Highness had better be quick about it, before all the plump grouse fly away to Scotland
!

What of London's most notorious hostess, Mrs. Blythe? Prinny noticed her fine feathers once upon a time. Is she in the running for Prinny's new caged bird? Wouldn't that put a bit of steam in the teakettle, your Voice asks with glee!"

Apparently, the entire world was being romanced, except for her.

Frustrated, Olivia poked at her own breakfast, stabbing at her eggs with great energy.

"I hope that isn't me on your plate."

She looked up to see Marcus lounging in the doorway to the breakfast room. She scowled at his conciliatory smile. "Perhaps it is and perhaps it isn't."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Meaning you can't decide who needs forking more, me or Dane."

"You're very perceptive… now."

He stepped closer and braced his hands on the back of the chair opposite her. "My lady, I apologize for our insensitivity last evening. But you must admit—dogs?" He shrugged. "This is an event of the ton, not a child's birthday celebration."

Olivia didn't answer him, for how could she explain that she had no idea how to hostess an "event of the ton"?
Mother, you've truly done it now
.

Unfortunately, Marcus was continuing his spate of uncharacteristic perceptiveness. "You've never done this before, have you?"

Olivia tossed her head with a smile. "Don't be silly. My mother is a renowned hostess." Of course, Olivia had been forgotten back in Cheltenham, unable to see her mother in action.

Marcus threw out his hands. "There you go, then! Call your mother in for a bit of assistance."

She shook her head. "My mother isn't… available to assist just now." However, an idea began to bloom from the seed of Marcus's suggestion.

Who was it who found her name in all the gossip sheets as a well-known hostess? Who was hinted at having entertained the Prince Regent himself?

Olivia smiled cheerfully at Marcus. She could kiss him for giving her such an idea! "I know precisely who to ask for help."

After all, who would know more about throwing a grand Hunt Ball than the most celebrated hostess in London, a certain Mrs. Blythe?

Olivia took Petty with her, counting on Petty's general reluctance to keep her sullenly in the carriage while Olivia tended to business. Olivia needed no more disrespect from the Greenleigh staff, and she knew they'd love to carry tales about how she had to get help to throw a simple ball.

True to nature, Petty slumped dispiritedly on her tufted velvet seat, not protesting when Olivia left her there, despite her duty to accompany her mistress.

The brass knocker of Mrs. Blythe's house was curiously shaped, but Olivia's business was far too urgent for her to ponder why the vaguely floral design seemed a bit disturbing. She rapped briskly, then waited with her gloved hands clasped before her.

The door was opened by stout lady in a housekeeper's white lace cap instead of the customary butler or footman. Olivia smiled at the woman and handed her one of her new engraved calling cards. "Good morning. Is Mrs. Blythe receiving callers today?"

The woman gazed at her curiously for a moment, then took the card. She peered closely at the florid script, then jerked her gaze back up to Olivia, her faded blue eyes wide. "My… my lady? You wish to call on Mrs. Blythe?"

Taken aback, Olivia cast another glance at the odd door knocker. Then she shook off such an unworthy thought and smiled to ease her discomfort. "Please, simply tell Mrs. Blythe that I would like to speak to her if she has the time."

The woman nodded faintly and stepped back, still staring at Olivia. When Olivia crossed the threshold, she was a little surprised to see how dark the interior of the house was.

"Come this way, my lady."

A man stood across the park, oblivious to the rain in his alarm. What was her ladyship doing in that house?

True, she was trying to win his lordship's affections—and it was certain she could learn a few things in the most notorious bordello in London—but a woman of Quality should not even know such a house existed or at least should pretend not to know!

Dismayed, the man slammed a lid on his worry. This was merely an unexpected development. He knew what to do.

Yes, she was where she most certainly didn't belong. Yes, if his lordship found out, he would likely reject her entirely.

What a marvelous idea.

Olivia found herself situated in a parlor where the overbearing theme seemed to be purple velvet. Everywhere.

After handing her hat and gloves to the housekeeper, Olivia sat on a violently violet sofa and gazed at the velvet-draped ceiling in bemusement. No wonder Mrs. Blythe kept the draperies drawn. When one preferred her colors so… opulent, one probably ought to consider the dangers of fading.

Olivia let her gaze roam the room. Was there anything here that wasn't deeply, severely purple, other than herself?

No. Even the mantel was carved of a purplish veined marble.

"Too much is never enough," she murmured as she gazed about the room. She was beginning to have the feeling that she didn't belong here.

"My sentiments exactly" came a low, melodious voice from the doorway.

Olivia turned to see a stately woman of middle years gowned in, of course, purple. Even her unnaturally black hair gleamed with a purple tint. Olivia stood. "Mrs. Blythe, I am Lady Greenleigh."

Mrs. Blythe sailed gracefully into the room and curtsied with just the proper hint of serene pride. Olivia decided to practice that particular flowing motion.

"My lady, I am honored by your visit," Mrs. Blythe said as she seated them both on the sofa. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Olivia smiled and tilted her head. "I am here to beg your assistance."

Mrs. Blythe blinked, obviously surprised. "I do not know that I can help you, my lady. I have never—ah, your husband, his lordship, is not a personal acquaintance, you see."

Olivia blinked. "But the Prince Regent is, is he not?"

Mrs. Blythe choked a bit. "Ah. Well." She cleared her throat. "My lady, perhaps you ought to explain how you require my help?"